Chapter 4
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Wen
I spent the rest of the morning cleaning up evidence of the worst Halloween night in history.
Bloody towels went in the trash. The first aid kit went back under the register.
The spell book went in a drawer where I wouldn’t have to look at it and be reminded that I’d accidentally summoned a werewolf who claimed I was his soulmate.
By noon, the bookstore looked almost normal. You wouldn’t know that twelve hours ago, a naked, tattooed man had face-planted onto my floor after materializing from another dimension.
I flipped the sign to Open and waited for customers who probably wouldn’t come.
They didn’t.
By two in the afternoon, I’d had exactly three people walk through the door. One asked for directions to the diner. One used the bathroom and left. The third bought a bookmark that cost two dollars.
The bookstore had been bleeding money for months, and today wasn’t helping. My marketing degree was gathering dust while I watched my grandparents’ legacy circle the drain.
I pulled out a notebook and started brainstorming. Social media campaign? Book club events? Author readings? I needed to do something to bring people in. The bookstore couldn’t survive on nostalgia and my stubborn refusal to give up.
I was scribbling notes about Instagram promotions when I heard it.
A howl, long and mournful and way too close for comfort.
I froze, pen hovering over the page. It was the middle of the day. Sunny. Not exactly prime howling hours.
Another howl came from behind the bookstore. From the woods that backed up against the property.
My stomach dropped.
No. He wouldn’t. Would he?
I walked to the back window, pushing aside the curtain. The woods were dense back here, all trees and shadows and undergrowth. For a moment I saw nothing.
Then movement. A shape emerging from between the trees.
A wolf.
A massive black wolf with gray-tipped fur and eyes that glowed red even in daylight.
He was staring directly at me.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
We locked eyes. Him in the woods. Me in my bookstore. The pull in my chest yanked hard, trying to drag me toward the window, toward him, toward that bond I’d spent all morning trying to ignore.
The wolf sat down. Then, deliberately, he lay down on the ground. Rested his massive head on his paws. Those eerie red eyes never left me.
I frowned. Was he waiting for something? Waiting for me?
“Absolutely not,” I told the window. Then I yanked the curtain closed.
I went back to my notebook. Tried to focus on marketing strategies. Failed miserably because I could feel him out there. Watching. Waiting like some kind of devoted - no. Nope. Not going there.
This was fine. Everything was fine. I just had a werewolf camping out in the woods behind my bookstore. Totally normal Monday.
The next day, he was still there.
I’d hoped maybe he’d gotten bored and gone back to his dimension or whatever. But when I opened the curtain Tuesday morning, there he was. Closer this time. At the edge of the tree line instead of deep in the woods.
Staring. Waiting. Being the world’s most persistent stalker.
“This is not going to work,” I told him through the glass. He couldn’t hear me. Didn’t matter. “I’m not changing my mind. Go home.”
His head tilted. Then he lay down again, settling in for what looked like a very long wait.
Fantastic. I had a werewolf with the patience of a saint and the subtlety of a freight train.
Wednesday, he was even closer. Right at the edge of my property line. People walking past on the street were starting to notice. I heard two women talking about “that huge dog” behind the bookstore. One pulled out her phone to take a picture.
I should’ve been terrified, maybe call someone. Animal control. The cops. A priest. Instead, I was annoyed. Annoyed that he was so stubborn, that he clearly had no sense of boundaries, that every time I looked at him, my heart did this stupid flutter thing that I absolutely hated.
Also annoyed that he looked kind of pathetic out there. A massive killing machine curled up in the dirt like an abandoned puppy.
I was not going soft. I refused.
By Thursday, the rumors had started. I heard them from Mrs. Kerrington when she came in looking for a cookbook. “Did you hear about the beast? People say there’s a wolf haunting Woods & Pages. Saw it myself yesterday. Biggest dog I’ve ever seen. You should call animal control, dear.”
“It’s probably just a stray,” I said weakly. “I’m sure it’ll move on.”
Mrs. Kerrington looked doubtful. She bought her cookbook but left quickly, glancing nervously at the back windows.
My already terrible sales got worse. Who wanted to browse books when there was supposedly a dangerous animal lurking outside?
I was going to kill him. If I could figure out how to kill a werewolf. Did silver bullets actually work or was that just movies? Maybe I could just hit him with a hardcover encyclopedia. Those things were heavy.
Friday morning, I had actual customers. Four of them. At the same time. It was a miracle.
I was helping an older man find a mystery novel when I made the mistake of glancing out the window.
The wolf was right outside the back door. Curled up in a ball. Sleeping. His massive body rose and fell with each breath, and he looked for all the world like a very large, very deadly lap dog.
Of course. Because my life wasn’t weird enough already.
I shook my head. Unbelievable.
“Miss Woods?” The older man was waiting.
“Right. Sorry. The mystery section is this way.”
I’d just finished ringing him up when the bell above the door chimed. Another customer. A man in his thirties, wearing a suit that screamed finance bro. He had that look. The one that said he thought he was the smartest person in any room and everyone else was just background noise.
My favorite type of customer. Not.
“Can I help you find something?” I asked, putting on my customer service smile. The one that hurt my face.
“I need a book on corporate finance. Advanced tax strategies. You have that?”
I pulled up my inventory on the computer. We had exactly three finance books and none of them were what he wanted. “I don’t have that specific title, but I can order it for you. It would be here in about a week.”
His jaw tightened. “A week? I need it today.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have it in stock. The bookstore in Millbrook might-”
“This is ridiculous.” His voice was getting louder. The other customers glanced over. “What kind of bookstore doesn’t have basic business books?”
“Sir, we’re a small independent store. I can’t stock everything. But I’m happy to order-”
“This place is a joke. No wonder it’s empty. Look at this.” He gestured around at my bookstore, at my grandparents’ legacy, at everything I’d been killing myself trying to save. “Half these books are ancient. The organization is a mess. You’re running this place into the ground.”
My hands clenched into fists. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I’m not leaving until you help me find what I need.” He stepped closer to the counter, getting into my space. “Maybe if you actually knew how to run a business instead of playing bookstore owner, this place wouldn’t be such a disaster.”
“I said leave.”
“Pathetic excuse for a bookstore.” He was sneering now. “Should just shut down already and save everyone the trouble. Do the town a favor.”
A growl cut through the air.
Low. Deadly. Coming from behind me.
I froze.
The back door. The one that led to where he’d been sleeping. I hadn’t locked it.
Oh no.
“What the hell-” The finance bro spun around, and his face went white.
Malachar stood in the doorway, filling it completely. The blanket was wrapped around his waist, barely decent. His wounds were still visible across his chest and ribs, red and angry, not nearly as healed as they should be after five days. His hair was wild around his shoulders.
But it was his face that made my heart stop.
His eyes were glowing red. Fully red. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
And his hands - his nails were lengthening into claws even as I watched.
Fur rippled across his shoulders and down his back, disappearing under the blanket.
He was barely holding it together. Barely keeping the wolf at bay.
And he was staring at the finance bro with murder in his eyes.
Part of my brain was screaming. The rational part. The part that knew this was bad, that someone was about to die in my bookstore, that I should be calling 911.
The other part (the insane part that had apparently taken over my decision-making) was thinking that Malachar looked really good when he was protective and murdery. The scars. The muscles. The way his entire body had gone predator-mode because someone had insulted me.
Yeah, I needed therapy. So much therapy. If only I could afford it.
“What the fuck did you call her?” His voice was a snarl. Lower than I’d heard it before. More animal than man.
The finance bro stammered, backing up. “I - I didn’t - who are you?”
Malachar stalked forward. Each step was predatory, controlled and fucking terrifying. “You insulted her. In her own place of business. You called her pathetic.”
“I was just - look, man, I didn’t mean-”
“You will apologize.” Malachar’s accent was thicker now. His words clipped. Formal even through the rage. “Now.”
“This is insane. I’m not apologizing to-”
Fur rippled down Malachar’s tattooed arms. His claws extended another inch. A low rumble built in his chest that was definitely not human, and I realized with dawning horror that he was about to shift. Right here. In the middle of my bookstore on a Friday afternoon.
The finance bro looked ready to piss himself. The other customers had gone silent, pressed against the far wall.
I snapped out of my stupor. “Malachar. Stop.”
He didn’t look at me. Didn’t take his eyes off his prey. “He insulted you, little mate. Disrespected you. That cannot stand.”