Page 64 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
I remain seated for a couple minutes, watching her return to work, watching the careful way she rebuilds her composure with each step. I’ve shaken her, I know that much. Cracked the armor she has built up around herself. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
As I’m about to leave the café, I catch sight of Thomas watching Fiona from his table, a tentative look in his eyes.Our gazes meet briefly, and something passes between us—a masculine acknowledgment of competition, of disputed territory.
I offer him the barest hint of a smile, a predator’s grin, before heading out the door. He may have been here first, may have the advantage of familiarity, but he doesn’t have what I have.
The fated mate bond.
And whether Fiona wants to admit it or not, the bond between us is still there, dormant but not destroyed. I felt it in the way she reacted to my touch, saw it in the momentary softening of her eyes.
She may have carefully constructed walls around her heart, and she may have convinced herself she has fully moved on. But some connections can’t be severed so easily.
This is only the beginning of my campaign to win her back. And I’ve never lost a campaign in my life.
Chapter 11
Fiona
For two solid weeks, Erik has been appearing at my café, taking up space at the corner table, nursing a single cup of coffee for hours while watching me with those intense, green eyes. For two solid weeks, I’ve tried to ignore him, to be coldly polite when forced to interact, to pretend his presence doesn’t affect me.
It’s not working.
“Your stalker is back,” Margo announces cheerfully as she ties on her apron. “Table seven again. Brooding handsomely.”
I don’t need to look up to know she’s right. I felt him the moment he walked through the door—a strange prickling sensation along my spine that I’ve come to associate with his presence.
“He’s not my stalker,” I mutter, focusing intently on the espresso machine. “He’s just a persistent customer.”
“Right,” Margo drawls. “That’s why he stares at you like you’re the last cookie in the jar, and why he growls—actually growls—whenever Thomas comes in.”
I say nothing, though I’ve noticed it, too. Erik has been unfailingly polite to my staff and other customers, but there’sa tension that radiates from him whenever Thomas approaches the counter. It’s subtle—a slight stiffening of his shoulders, a hardening around his eyes—but it’s there.
What bothers me more, however, is what’s happening inside me. Ever since Erik found me, I’ve felt strange—restless in a way I haven’t been since I left the palace. The suppressant that Maya developed worked flawlessly for a year, keeping my wolf dormant, silent. But lately, I’ve felt stirrings. Nothing concrete, nothing like the presence I used to feel, but something moving beneath the surface of my consciousness.
It shouldn’t be possible. I’ve taken my weekly dose religiously, never missing a single treatment. The wolf should be completely suppressed, essentially non-existent within me.
Yet here I am, catching myself tracking movements with unnatural precision, noting scents that should be too faint for human detection. Small things, easily dismissed, but worrying nonetheless.
And it’s all because of him.
“You should call the cops,” Dylan suggests, coming up beside me with an empty coffeepot. “Get a restraining order or something.”
I shake my head. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s just...here.”
“Yeah, well, ‘just here’ every day for two weeks is getting creepy,” Dylan says with a frown. “And you’re clearly uncomfortable.”
Am I? Uncomfortable isn’t quite the right word. Unsettled, perhaps. Aware in a way that makes my skin feel too tight, too sensitive. But I’m not afraid. Never afraid, not of Erik.
“I can handle it,” I tell Dylan firmly. “Just ignore him.”
The day wears on, the café filling and emptying with the natural rhythm of a weekday. I keep myself busy working the register, making drinks, checking inventory—anything to avoidacknowledging the man in the corner who watches my every move with those unsettling eyes.
By closing time, I’m exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally. The constant effort of pretending Erik isn’t sitting over there, of tamping down the strange sensations his presence evokes, has left me drained.
“Go home,” I tell Margo and Dylan. “I’ll finish closing up.”
“You sure?” Margo asks, eyeing Erik, who shows no sign of leaving despite the “Closed” sign now hanging on the door.
“I’m sure,” I say firmly. “Alex is still here. We’ll be fine.”
