Page 56 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
“Even if what you feel is your heart stopping from terror?” He looks genuinely perplexed.
“The terror is part of the thrill,” I explain. “There’s nothing like conquering your fear, pushing past your limits.”
“And here I thought my monthly book club was adventurous because we sometimes drink wine while discussing Jane Austen,” Thomas says with a self-deprecating smile.
“Each joy we taste, each moment of happiness, is merely a countdown to our inevitable demise,” Margo chimes in, suddenly appearing beside me. “The adrenaline rush just helps us forget the void that awaits us all.”
Thomas stares at her, momentarily speechless.
“Margo, stop traumatizing the customers,” Olivia calls from across the café. “Not everyone wants to contemplate mortality with their morning coffee.”
“Speak for yourself,” Dylan adds from his corner, not looking up from his textbook. “Some of us find comfort in the knowledge that eventually these midterms will kill us and put us out of our misery.”
I laugh as I slide Thomas’s scone across the counter to him. “Don’t mind them. They’re actually quite cheerful once you get to know them.”
“I can see that,” Thomas says, looking amused despite the subject matter. “Well, Fiona, if you ever want to try something a little less death-defying—like a movie or dinner—the offer stands.”
I smile but shake my head gently. “I appreciate it, Thomas, but I’m not really looking for anything like that right now.”
He accepts the rejection with grace, as he has before. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. But I’ll keep coming for the coffee—and the interesting morning conversations.”
“You’re always welcome,” I tell him, and I mean it. Thomas is kind and steady and normal in all the ways my life hasn’t been. In another world, perhaps I could feel something for him. But in this one, my heart remains stubbornly my own.
Hours later, as the day winds down and my employees head home, I begin the closing routine. Wiping down tables, restocking supplies, counting the register. The usual ritual that marks the end of another ordinary, wonderful day.
I take the trash bags out to the dumpster in the alley behind the café. The night air is cool against my skin, and stars are just beginning to appear in the twilit sky. As I heave the bags into the dumpster, a sound from the shadows makes me freeze.
A rustle. A soft thump.
My heart rate spikes, adrenaline flooding my system. I spin around, scanning the darkness, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am.
A pair of eyes gleam in the dim light, and I tense up, ready to run—until a small, black cat steps into view, regarding me with imperious disdain.
I exhale sharply, relief making my knees weak. “Just a cat,” I mutter to myself. “Get it together, Fiona.”
But as the cat slinks closer, a movement behind it catches my eye. A figure steps out of the deeper shadows—a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, rail-thin with hollow cheeks and cautiouseyes. His clothes are worn and dirty, his dark hair matted and too long. He flinches when he realizes I’ve seen him.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just—” He glances at the dumpster, then back at me, a flush of embarrassment coloring his pale cheeks. “Those muffins you were throwing out. Are they—Are they still good?”
The question pains me physically. I know that hunger. I know the desperation that drives someone to ask a stranger for discarded food.
“What’s your name?” I ask softly.
His eyes narrow with suspicion. “Does it matter?”
“I guess not,” I concede. “Where are your parents?”
“Don’t have any,” he says flatly. “Look, just forget it. The muffins—Can I have them or not?” His tone is harsh now, but I can hear the fear beneath it, the humiliation.
I recognize that, too—the defiance that masks vulnerability, the anger that hides fear.
“The ones in the trash are no longer fit for human consumption,” I say. “But I have better ones inside. Fresh. Come on.”
He hesitates, distrust clear in every line of his body. “Why would you do that?”
Because I see myself in you, I think but don’t say. Instead, I shrug. “Because I can. Because no one should be hungry when there’s food to spare.”
After a long moment, he follows me inside, the cat trailing behind him like a shadow. In the light of the kitchen, he looks even worse—too thin, with dark circles under his eyes and a wariness that no teenager should possess.
