Page 53 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
“Order for Jessica!” I call out, sliding the completed drink across the counter with a smile.
“Thanks, Fiona.” The regular customer grabs her drink, returning my smile. “Love what you’ve done with your hair, by the way.”
I touch the ends of my dark hair, now long enough to reach halfway down my back. “Thank you. I needed a change.”
A year has passed since I left the palace. A year of building this small corner of the world that’s entirely mine. The Morning Brew isn’t fancy—exposed brick walls, mismatched vintage furniture, local art hanging in carefully curated clusters—but it belongs to me. Every decision, from the coffee beans we source to the music playing softly in the background, is mine to make.
“Fiona, we’re almost out of oat milk,” Margo announces, appearing beside me with her perpetually gloomy expression. “It’s a tragedy of epic proportions. The vegans will riot in the streets.”
I bite back a smile. “There’s more in the storage room.”
“Of course there is,” she sighs dramatically, tucking a strand of purple hair behind her ear. “I’ll brave the dust and spiders to retrieve it. If I don’t return in five minutes, tell my cat I loved her more than people.”
As Margo disappears into the back, I catch sight of Olivia balancing three plates while navigating through the tables. The single mother of two was my first employee; she has been with me since the beginning, and I’ve never seen anyone multitask quite like her.
“Those look amazing,” I tell her as she passes, nodding at the plates of avocado toast she’s carrying.
She winks. “My secret weapon—extra red pepper flakes. By the way, table five has been asking about you again.”
I glance over at the man in question—a regular who comes in three times a week, always sits at the same table by the window, and always leaves a generous tip. He’s handsome in a conventional way, with kind eyes and a smile that dimples his right cheek. He has asked me out twice. I’ve politely declined both times.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say, turning my attention to cleaning the espresso machine.
“Your loss,” Olivia singsongs. “He looks like he gives excellent back rubs.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should say yes next time. It has been a full year, after all. Twelve months of building this new life, of learning who I am without the shadow of captivity, without the burden of a wolf I never asked for. I’m different now, stronger in ways that have nothing to do with physical power.
The small tattoo on my inner wrist catches my eye as I work—a simple design of a bird breaking free from a cage. I got it about five months ago, a visual reminder of the freedom I’ve claimed.
“Hey boss, can I take my lunch break early?” Dylan asks. Our college student barista looks more frazzled than usual. “I have a midterm at two, and I need to cram.”
“Go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ve got this covered.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, already untying his apron. “I swear, Professor Atkins is trying to kill us with this Organic Chemistry exam.”
As Dylan retreats to a corner table with his textbook, I survey my small domain with quiet satisfaction. The morning rush is tapering off, leaving a comfortable buzz of customers typing on laptops or chatting quietly. Sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting the worn wooden floors and the collection of plants hanging from the ceiling.
This is my life now. Simple. Ordinary. Mine.
I like simple. I like ordinary. After twenty years of being held captive and experimented on, “ordinary” feels like a gift I unwrap every morning when I open my eyes.
The business classes I took were helpful, but it was my perfect memory that truly gave me an edge. One read through a business plan, a few sessions with a small business advisor, and I was ready. The initial money Maya arranged for me provided the startup capital, and I found this space—a former bookshop with an apartment upstairs—almost immediately.
I know she still deposits money into that account monthly. I check the balance sometimes, watching it grow, but I never touch it. I haven’t contacted her since I left. Clean breaks heal better, and I needed to prove—to myself, most of all—that I could stand on my own.
I still read voraciously, devouring books late into the night. Fiction, mostly—stories of people living lives so different frommine that they feel like glimpses into other universes. The apartment above the café has slowly filled with bookshelves, each one carefully organized by genre, then author.
The bell above the door chimes, and a cool breeze sweeps through the café as a new customer enters. I look up automatically, a welcoming smile already forming on my lips.
It freezes in place as a chill runs down my spine.
There’s nothing obviously threatening about the man who enters. Average height, nondescript clothing, forgettable features. But something about the way he scans the room—methodical, assessing—triggers an instinct I thought I’d buried along with my wolf.
I watch as he orders from Margo, who has returned from her mission to the storage room. His movements are too precise, too controlled. His eyes flick to each exit, to each person, finally landing on me with a focus that makes my skin crawl.
It happens sometimes—this feeling of being watched. Of being found. Each time, it’s nothing. Just paranoia, a ghost from my past life that occasionally haunts me.
I’ve installed security cameras throughout the café—six visible ones and three hidden. Another four monitor the exterior of the building. I check the footage every night before bed, scanning for faces that appear too often, for people who linger too long. So far, all I’ve caught are teenagers stealing flowers from my window boxes and the occasional drunk person mistaking my doorway for a bathroom.
