Page 80 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
But as I lock up the café—using the new, more secure system he installed today—I can’t quite convince myself of either lie.
Three days pass without Erik appearing at The Morning Brew. Three days of normal business, normal customers, normal life. No brooding presence in the corner, no intense green eyes tracking my movements, no unexpected gifts or grand gestures.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Peace. Normalcy. Freedom from the constant reminder of what I left behind.
So, why does the café feel emptier somehow? Why do I find myself glancing at his usual table, a strange hollowness settling in my chest when I see strangers sitting there?
“Missing your stalker?” Margo asks as I wipe down the counter for the third time in ten minutes.
“No,” I snap, too quickly.
She raises an eyebrow but says nothing, just continues refilling the napkin holders with that knowing smirk I’m starting to hate.
“I’m just wondering if he’s sick,” I mutter defensively. “It’s not like him to give up so easily.”
“Maybe he’s finally respecting your wishes,” Margo suggests.
The thought should please me. Instead, it sits like a stone in my stomach.
By afternoon, the café is quiet—just a few regulars tapping on laptops and a couple of college students sharing a slice of banana bread. Thomas hasn’t been by since Erik’s rude interruption. I tell myself I’m relieved about that, too.
“I’m going out for a bit,” I tell Margo, untying my apron. “Can you handle things here?”
“Sure.” She eyes me curiously. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I say, not meeting her gaze. “Just need some air.”
The truth is more complicated than I care to admit, even to myself. Erik told me where he is staying—the Pine Ridge Hotel on Maple Street—just in case I ever needed him. At the time, I rolled my eyes at his presumption. Now, I find myself walking in that direction, telling myself I’m just making sure he’s alive. Just confirming he hasn’t been attacked by those people who were watching me.
That’s all. Nothing more.
The Pine Ridge is nicer than I expected—a boutique hotel with a warm, brick exterior and tasteful landscaping. I hesitate outside, suddenly unsure of my next move. What am I doinghere? Am I really planning to knock on his door like some lovesick teenager?
I’m about to turn away when I spot him through the window of the hotel’s attached restaurant. My heart gives an absurd leap, then immediately plummets.
He’s not alone.
A woman sits across from him at a small table near the window—a strikingly beautiful woman with long, flowing black hair that catches the light when she moves. She’s elegant in a way I have never been, dressed in casual but beautiful clothing that somehow looks effortless yet perfect, her posture graceful and assured. As I watch, frozen on the sidewalk, she laughs at something Erik says, the sound clear enough to carry through the glass.
I should leave. This is none of my business. If Erik has moved on, found someone more suited to him, someone whole and unbroken and uncomplicated, that’s his right. That’s what I told him to do, isn’t it?
But my feet refuse to move, and my eyes refuse to look away.
Erik leans forward, his expression animated in a way I’ve rarely seen. He’s smiling—not the careful, measured smile he usually offers me, but something open and genuine. The woman says something that makes him laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, his guard completely down.
Then, in a gesture that steals my breath, he reaches across the table and takes her hand. Their fingers intertwine with easy familiarity, and the woman smiles at him with unmistakable affection.
Something twists brutally in my chest—a sharp, visceral pain that has no right to exist. I have no claim on Erik. I’ve made that abundantly clear. I rejected him, pushed him away at every turn, told him repeatedly that there could never be anything between us.
So, why does seeing him with someone else make me feel like I’m drowning?
I back away from the window, nearly colliding with a passerby. Mumbling an apology, I turn and walk quickly in the opposite direction, then break into a run when I’m sure I’m out of sight. My vision blurs, and my breath comes in short gasps. I tell myself it’s just from the exertion.
It’s not until I reach the alley behind the café that I realize my cheeks are wet. I swipe at them angrily, disgusted with myself. I have no right to these tears, no right to this hollow ache spreading through my chest.
I slip in through the back door, grateful that no one is in the storage room to witness my undignified return. Taking a moment to compose myself, I splash cold water on my face in the small bathroom and stare at my reflection in the spotted mirror.
“Pull yourself together,” I whisper fiercely. “This is what you wanted. This is better for everyone.”
