The Lion’s Haven (Golden Pride #5)

Chapter 1

Devin

Seven days working at the library café, and I finally have everyone's orders memorized.

Knox takes his coffee black, two sugars, in the largest cup we have.

Vaughn likes a cortado with an extra shot.

Ezra gets tea, loose leaf, whatever Robin has that day, always with a look of quiet superiority at the coffee drinkers.

Nico orders a flat white with an extra shot and nurses it for two hours while he works through case files in the corner booth.

Jason always gets whatever seasonal monstrosity Robin's created, extra whipped cream.

Toby brings his own tea bags and just needs hot water.

Robin doesn't order because he makes his own drinks while stress-testing new recipes on unsuspecting customers.

The morning rush is manageable now. My hands don't shake when I steam milk. I can make small talk about the weather without wanting to disappear into the storage closet. Robin calls it progress. I call it survival.

"You're doing amazing, Dev!" Robin calls from where he's arranging pastries in the display case. The whole café smells like butter and cardamom. He's been experimenting with a spiced pear galette all week, and the test batches keep getting better. "Seriously, best hire ever."

I duck my head, focusing on wiping down the already-clean counter. Compliments make my skin feel too tight, like everyone's suddenly looking at me. "Just doing my job."

"Your job that you're excellent at." Robin hip-checks me gently as he passes. "Oh, heads up, we might get some of the pride in today. Knox said something about everyone needing caffeine after their morning meeting."

The pride. That's what they call themselves, the lions who run the bar and garage on the edge of town.

They're nice. Intimidating as hell, but nice.

They tip well, don't complain when I fumble their orders, and Knox always asks how I'm settling in.

I've picked up enough from Robin's chatter and the way they move through the library, territorial but easy with each other, filling up doorways, tracking movement with those gold-flecked eyes, to know they're not the kind of people you ask too many questions about.

I've been here since six, even though my shift didn't start until noon. The library opens early for seniors on Thursdays, and Margaret lets me slip in with them. Five hours of reading before work, then I can usually manage another three or four after, depending on when security does their rounds.

It's better than going back to the shelter during the day.

Too noisy. Too many questions. Haven House is fine.

Better than fine, honestly. It's the most stable I've been since I was a kid.

Eight months of a real bed, regular meals, a door that locks.

Before that was two years of couches and floors and the backseats of cars when nobody had a couch to offer.

Before that was foster care, six homes between eight and eighteen, none of them permanent, all of them teaching me the same lesson: don't unpack. You won't be staying.

But Haven House has a clock on it. Twenty-one plus sixty days, that's the rule. I've got sixty days left before the grace period runs out and I need somewhere to go.

So I read, and I work, and I save every dollar I can.

The bell above the door chimes, and I look up automatically, customer service smile ready.

Then freeze.

It's him. The quiet one with the fantasy novels who sits in the back corner of the literature section.

The one whose reading speed matches mine, who handles books like they're precious, who always returns things exactly where he found them.

I've been watching him for months. Not in a creepy way, just..

. noticing. He reads the good stuff. The deep fantasy series that take commitment.

Not the bestseller-of-the-month crowd who pick something up because it has a pretty cover. He reads like it matters.

Silas. I learned his name two weeks ago when Knox called him from across the library.

He's never come to the café before.

"Hey, Silas!" Robin waves cheerfully. "Finally decided to check out my empire?"

"Vaughn said you had good coffee." Silas's voice is deeper than I expected, quiet like he doesn't use it much. "Thought I'd see."

He approaches the counter, and I realize I'm supposed to take his order. Right. That's my job. I can do this.

"What can I get you?" My voice only cracks slightly.

He studies the menu board, and I notice he's carrying a book.

Wizard's First Rule by Terry Goodkind. I've read the entire series twice.

The later books get weird, but the first three are solid fantasy.

If he likes those, he'd probably love McCaffrey's Pern series.

Same epic world-building but with better character development.

"Just a regular coffee," he says finally. "Large. Black."

"For here or to go?"

"Here." He holds up his book. "Thought I'd read for a bit."

I nod, turning to grab a mug, the real cups we use for people staying in, and notice Robin watching us with a weird expression. Like he's plotting something.

"I'll get some scones too," Silas adds. "Whatever's good."

"Blueberry lemon," Robin jumps in. "Made them this morning. Dev, give him three. The boys will steal them if he doesn't bring offerings."

I box up three scones, trying not to let my hands shake. Silas is right there, close enough that I can smell his warm skin. Not cologne, just him. He's got paint under his fingernails, just a speck of green.

The coffee's ready. I set it on the counter with the box, ring him up while Robin conspicuously disappears into the back room.

"Twelve fifty," I manage.

He hands me a twenty. As I make change, I glance at his book again.

God, I want to tell him about the Pern books.

About how the world-building is just as intricate but the dragons add this whole other layer.

About how the Harper Hall trilogy made me cry when I was fifteen, alone in a group home with nothing but library books for comfort.

But words are hard and he doesn't know me and why would he care what some random barista thinks about his reading choices?

I give him his change, and he drops it all in the tip jar. All seven fifty.

"Thanks," he says, picking up his coffee and scones.

He's turning to go find a seat when my hand moves without my brain's permission. I grab the pen by the register, tear off a piece of receipt paper, and scribble quickly:

Try Anne McCaffrey's Dragonflight - similar epic feel to Goodkind but with dragons :)

The smiley face is stupid. Why did I add a smiley face? But it's too late now. My hand is already moving, sliding the note into his box of scones while he's looking around for a table.

He settles in the corner booth where he can see both the door and the café counter. Safety position. I recognize it because I do the same thing.

Robin emerges from the back, sees where Silas is sitting, and grins at me. "He's single, you know."

"What?" My voice goes high. "I don't — that's not —"

"Mmhmm." Robin's grin widens. "He's here every day, usually in the library. Reads for hours. No girlfriend. No boyfriend. Just him and his books."

"Robin —"

"I'm just saying, if someone wanted to recommend books to him, maybe slip notes into his pastry boxes, that would be totally normal and not weird at all."

Oh god. He saw. Of course he saw.

"Please don't say anything," I whisper, glancing at where Silas is already absorbed in his book.

Robin's expression softens. "Hey, no, Dev. I wouldn't. But also? Not weird. Sweet, actually. He'll like it."

I want to believe him, but my stomach's full of butterflies. What if Silas thinks I'm hitting on him? What if he complains to Robin? What if —

The bell chimes again, and a group of teenagers floods in, loud and demanding complicated drinks. I've never been so grateful for annoying customers in my life.

For the next hour, I'm too busy to panic properly.

The teens want everything modified, extra this, no that, make it pretty for Instagram.

I focus on the familiar rhythm of pulling shots and steaming milk, letting the routine calm my racing thoughts.

The espresso machine hisses and I fall into it, the tamp, the pull, the swirl of milk against steel.

Robin works beside me boxing pastries, bumping my elbow when I need to move, anticipating orders before I call them.

We've only been working together a week but the rhythm is already there.

He hums while he works, something without a melody, and the café smells like fresh-ground coffee and the apricot frangipane tarts cooling on the rack behind us.

When I finally get a break, I risk a glance at the corner booth.

Silas is still there, coffee half-finished, completely absorbed in his book. The scone box is open beside him, one and a half scones already gone.

The note is nowhere to be seen.

Maybe he threw it away. Maybe he ate it accidentally. Maybe —

He looks up suddenly, catching me staring. I immediately busy myself with cleaning the steam wand, face burning.

"Dev?" Robin calls from the register where he's checking out a customer. "Can you do a coffee run to the children's section? Toby's doing story hour and Miss Glitterbomb needs her usual."

"The triple shot vanilla latte with extra foam and edible glitter?"

"That's the one."

I make the drink on autopilot, grateful for the excuse to leave. Miss Glitterbomb's coffee is legendary. She claims it's the only thing that gets her through reading to thirty sugar-high toddlers.

But to get to the children's section, I have to pass Silas's table.

I keep my eyes firmly forward, walking at a normal pace like a normal person who didn't just leave a weird note in someone's food. As I pass, I catch a glimpse of receipt paper sticking out of his book.

He kept it. He's using my stupid note with its stupid smiley face as a bookmark.

I nearly trip over my own feet.