Rejected and Pregnant Mate of the Lycan King (Possessive Small Town Alpha Kings #5)

Chapter 1

— · —

Lina

I should have known my life was about to go sideways when the espresso machine tried to kill me for the third time that week.

The ancient beast hissed and spat steam at my face while I wrestled with the portafilter. My hands knew the dance by heart after five years, but apparently the machine had decided Tuesday morning was the perfect time for rebellion.

“One day that thing’s going to explode and take half the shop with it,” Mika said from behind the counter, purple bangs covering one eye while she scrolled through her phone.

“And I’ll die doing what I love,” I shot back, finally getting the portafilter locked in place. “Caffeinating the good people of Pine Valley.”

The first shot pulled perfectly, because of course it did.

The machine only acted possessed when I was the one operating it.

I breathed in the smell of fresh espresso mixed with old books and felt my shoulders relax.

This was my world. Four walls of carefully organized chaos that smelled better than any perfume.

Winters’ Books & Brews had been my parents’ dream before it became my inheritance.

They’d thought running a bookstore in a small town surrounded by forest would be the perfect life.

Quiet mornings, eager readers, maybe the occasional bear sighting to keep things interesting.

They weren’t wrong, until that camping trip to the woods eight years ago that left me an orphan at fifteen.

I pushed the thought away and started on the next order. Some wounds you learned to work around, not through.

“Incoming,” Vivi called out, emerging from the kitchen with a tray balanced on one hand. She’d outdone herself today. Tiny pumpkins made of orange frosting sat on top of chocolate cupcakes, each one decorated with delicate vines and leaves.

“Those are almost too pretty to eat,” I said.

“Almost,” Vivi grinned. “Sarah called, by the way. She’s bringing her book club by later and wants to know if we have that new romance with the shirtless Viking.”

“Which one? That describes half our romance section.”

“The one where he apparently does very creative things with his battle axe.”

I snorted and made a mental note to check our inventory. At seventy-eight, my adoptive grandmother slash neighbor had a more active love life than I did. Granted, hers was entirely fictional and involved men with names like Thor Magnusson, but still.

The morning rush started right on schedule. Mr. Garrett shuffled in at nine-thirty, complaining about “kids these days” while bee-lining for the young adult fantasy section. He’d buy three paperbacks and claim they were for his granddaughter. We all knew he didn’t have a granddaughter.

Mrs. Callahan arrived at ten, voice carrying across the shop before the bell finished chiming.

“Lina, sweetheart! You look tired. Are you sleeping enough? My son David just broke up with that awful girl from the city. I should give him your number, you two could rest together, if you know what I mean.”

She wiggled her eyebrows and I heard a not-so-subtle snort coming from Mika’s direction. Kicking her under the counter, I turned to Mrs. Callahan.

“I’m good, Mrs. C,” I said, handing her the usual large vanilla latte with an extra shot. “Still working on myself, you know?”

She patted my hand with one of those looks that said she thought “working on myself” was code for “dying alone with cats”, which sounded like a damn good plan, actually. Though I’d inherited that particular look from half the town’s population of concerned mothers.

The construction crew rolled in around ten thirty, boots tracking dirt across my freshly mopped floors. They’d been “almost done” with the road work outside for three months. I was starting to think they just liked Vivi’s muffins.

“Morning, boys,” Mika drawled, already pulling shots for their usual orders. “How’s that road coming? Still finding reasons to tear it up?”

“Job security,” one of them winked.

By the time the lunch crowd thinned out, I’d made sixty-three drinks, sold twenty-two books, and stopped Mika from strangling a customer who’d asked if we had “that book with the blue cover about the thing.”

This was my life. Predictable, safe, exactly how I’d built it after Sarah took me in.

Every book had its place, every customer had their drink, and if I occasionally found myself staring too long at the tree line visible through the back windows, well.

That was between me and the therapist I kept meaning to call.

“You’re humming,” Mika observed around two o’clock. “You only hum when you’re stress-organizing.”

I looked down at the thriller section I’d been rearranging for the past twenty minutes. “I’m not stress-organizing, I’m regular organizing.”

“Sure. And I’m a natural blonde.”

“Maybe I just like alphabetical order.”

“You’ve moved that same book three times.”

I put the book down with more force than necessary.

Fine, maybe I was a little wound up. The anniversary was coming up next month, and October always made me twitchy.

All those local legends about beasts in the woods hit different when your parents had been mauled by what the police report called a “large predator, species unknown.”

***

The afternoon lull settled over the shop.

Vivi was in the back kitchen working on tomorrow’s pastries, Mika had claimed the window seat with a gothic romance novel, and I had the thriller section to reorganize properly this time.

No stress involved. Just me, my books, and the careful meditation of putting everything exactly where it belonged.

The bell chimed at exactly four o’clock.

I turned with my standard greeting ready and forgot every word of the English language.

He had to duck slightly to get through my doorway, which was saying a lot since I’d had it raised two years ago during renovations.

Broad shoulders filled out a leather jacket that looked butter-soft and probably cost more than I spent on coffee beans in a month.

Dark hair that had that artfully messy look men paid stupid money for, except his seemed natural.

His jaw could cut glass, and I immediately hated myself for even thinking that cliché.

But it was his eyes that made me forget I was holding an armful of psychological thrillers. Gray. Not blue-gray or green-gray but actual storm cloud gray, and they swept across my shop with an intensity that made me want to check if my insurance was up to date.

The books hit the floor in a cascade of paperback dominoes.

“Smooth,” Mika called out without looking up from her book. “Maybe we should put down some of those ‘Caution: Wet Floor’ signs whenever hot guys walk in.”

My face burned as I dropped to my knees, scrambling to collect the scattered novels. Of course this would happen. Of course the one time a man who looked carved by horny angels walked into my shop, I’d immediately prove that I had the coordination of a newborn giraffe.

His footsteps approached the counter with measured precision. Combat boots, I noticed from my spot on the floor. Who wore combat boots with a leather jacket? Men who wanted to ruin my life, apparently.

I cleared my throat, doing my best to smile at him and willing the blush to stay away from my cheeks. It didn’t work. I could still feel myself red as a damn tomato.

“Hello, welcome to Winters’ Books & Brews. What can I get you?” The words came out in a rush, and I cursed myself for not stopping to fucking breathe.

Earth, please swallow me.

“Iced Americano,” he said, and Christ, his voice. If whiskey could talk, it would sound jealous of that voice.

“In October?” Mika had finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. “What are you, too good for seasonal drinks? We have a lovely pumpkin spice-”

“Just the Americano.” He shook his head.

“Name,” I cleared my throat when my voice sounded too pathetic, “Name for the order?”

“Matthias.”

I nodded too fast, stars dancing in my vision. “An iced Americano coming right up!” I managed a smile and nodded at Mika. If I did his order, the machine would screw everything up.

“And a book recommendation, if you have one.” He added, making me freeze on my spot. He was looking right at me. Those gray eyes should have come with a warning label.

“Books? Yes! I mean, we have books. Many books. Who do you like - I mean, what kind of book do you like?”

Kill me. Kill me now. I sounded drunk.

“Thrillers,” he said, and I latched onto that single word with the desperation of a woman who’d just made an absolute fool of herself.

“Thrillers! Yes! I have thrillers. So many thrillers. This way.”

I practically vibrated as I led him to my carefully curated section. Books I could do. Books were safe. Books didn’t make me forget how to form coherent sentences.

“This one,” I pulled out a recent release, “has enough twists to give you whiplash. The narrator’s unreliable, everyone’s lying, and the ending will make you want to throw it across the room. In the best way, of course.”

He took the book, fingers almost brushing mine. “I’ll take it.”

By the time I rang him up and Mika finished his coffee, I’d managed three complete sentences without stuttering. Personal victory.

He paid in cash, took his book and coffee to the corner table. The one with its back to the wall and clear views of all exits and windows. He settled in with a type of stillness that made me think of predators waiting in tall grass for an unsuspecting bunny hop right in front of them.

“Well,” Vivi stage-whispered, poking her head out from the kitchen with flour in her dark hair, “that was the most adorable disaster I’ve seen all week.”

“I hate both of you,” I muttered, but my eyes kept drifting to his corner.

He read with intense focus, occasionally taking a sip of his Americano. He held the book carefully, like he actually gave a damn about keeping the spine intact. Every so often, his gaze would lift and scan the shop before returning to the page.

He sat there for two hours, and I spent every minute hyperaware of his presence. When he finally stood at exactly six o’clock, I pretended to be very invested in wiping down the already clean counter.

He gave me a tiny nod on his way out. That was it. A nod that shouldn’t have made my stomach flip but absolutely did.

“Twenty bucks says tall, dark and broody comes back tomorrow,” Mika said the second the door closed behind him.

“He’s not tall, dark and broody. He’s... just tall. And dark. And did you see his eyes?”

“He checked the shop and the windows every ten minutes. Maybe he’s a serial killer.”

“Mika!”

“What? I’m just saying, the hot ones are always trouble.”

I wanted to argue, but the truth was, Matthias whoever-he-was had danger written all over him. Unfortunately, it was the kind of danger that made smart women do very stupid things.

Good thing I was absolutely not going to be one of those women.

The bell chimed again, and Mrs. Patterson walked in asking about cat encyclopedias. I pushed all thoughts of gray eyes and leather jackets out of my mind.

I had a business to run, a life that made sense, and absolutely no room for mysterious men who looked at my shop’s exits with the kind of attention usually reserved for prison escapes.

But when I locked up that night, I found myself hoping Mika would win that twenty-dollar bet.