Chapter 6 Wen
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Wen
I walked downstairs, already mentally cataloguing all the ways I could put a six-foot-nine werewolf to use.
That came out wrong. I meant for bookstore purposes. Obviously.
I grabbed my marketing notebook from behind the counter and flipped it open.
The pages were covered in half-formed ideas and desperate scribbles.
Social media campaigns. Author events. Book club promotions.
All good ideas in theory, but they wouldn’t matter if the store itself looked like it had been stuck in a time warp since 1985.
Which it had.
My grandparents had loved this place exactly as it was.
Every worn shelf, every creaky floorboard, every faded poster advertising books from two decades ago.
But nostalgia didn’t pay bills. I needed to bring Woods & Pages into the current century if I wanted to attract customers under the age of seventy.
I looked around the bookstore with fresh eyes. The walls were a dingy beige that had probably been white in 1990. The shelves were dark wood that made everything feel oppressive. The lighting was terrible. The whole place screamed “dusty antique shop” instead of “cozy independent bookstore.”
I could fix this. Fresh paint. Better lighting. Some plants maybe. Make it Instagram-worthy so people would actually want to come in and take pictures with their overpriced coffee.
Decision made, I grabbed a piece of cardboard and a marker. Scrawled “CLOSED UNTIL MONDAY FOR RENOVATIONS” in my messiest handwriting and taped it to the door.
Then I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
I jumped, spinning around. Malachar stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching me.
“Jesus! Make some noise when you move.”
“I did. You were too focused to hear.”
I turned around to look at him properly.
He was wearing my grandfather’s clothes.
Khakis that fit surprisingly well. A button-down shirt in pale blue that stretched across his shoulders.
A navy sweater over it that made his eyes look more gray than red.
He’d pulled his hair back in a messy bun, and the style made his cheekbones look even sharper.
He looked good. Too good. It was unfair.
“I’m going to buy supplies,” I said. “Paint. Decorations. Stuff to make this place look less like a funeral home.”
“I will accompany you.”
“No, you’ll stay here. I’ll be back in an hour.”
His expression darkened. “I will not stay.”
“Yes, you will. I gave you clothes and shelter. The least you can do is follow one simple instruction.”
“If you leave, I will shift and follow. I will not be separated from you.”
I stared at him. He stared back. Neither of us moved.
I could feel the headache forming behind my eyes. This was my life now. Arguing with a stubborn werewolf who had the personality of a particularly devoted guard dog.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “You can come. But you have to behave. No growling at people. No shifting. No calling me your mate in public.”
“As you wish, boss.”
The way he said “boss” should not have made my stomach flip. It absolutely should not.
I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. He followed close behind, so close I could feel the heat radiating off his body.
We reached my car. A tiny, beat-up Honda Civic that had seen better days. I unlocked it and opened the driver’s side door.
Malachar stopped dead. Stared at the car as if it were a poisonous viper ready to strike.
“What is that?” His voice had gone low. Wary.
“It’s a car. A vehicle. It takes us places faster than walking.”
“It is alive?”
“What? No. It’s a machine.”
He circled it slowly, keeping his distance. Reached out to touch the hood, then pulled back. “It is warm. And it makes noises.”
“That’s just the metal cooling down from sitting in the sun. It’s perfectly safe.”
He looked deeply skeptical. “You want me to get inside this beast?”
“It’s not a beast, it’s transportation. And yes, unless you want to walk five miles to the hardware store.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I do not trust it.”
“Oh my god.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It’s perfectly safe. Millions of people use them every day. Look, I’ll get in first, and you’ll see it’s fine.”
I slid into the driver’s seat. Waited. Malachar stood outside, glaring at my car as if it had personally insulted his mother.
“Malachar. Get in the car.”
“I do not wish to.”
“Too bad. Get in or I’m leaving you here.”
He growled. Actually growled at my car. But he yanked open the passenger door and folded himself into the seat.
It was ridiculous. He was way too big for my tiny car. His knees hit the dashboard. His head brushed the roof. He looked utterly absurd, crammed into a space meant for normal-sized humans.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
His head whipped toward me, eyes narrowed. “You find humor in my discomfort?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. You look like a Great Dane trying to fit in a cat carrier.”
“I do not know what those things are.”
“Trust me, it’s accurate.” I was still laughing, trying to catch my breath. God, when was the last time I’d laughed this hard?
He was staring at me. The intensity in his gaze made my laughter die in my throat. He wasn’t angry. He was watching me the way a wolf watched the moon. Hungry. Awed. Possessive.
“You should laugh more,” he said quietly. “It suits you.”
The car suddenly felt smaller. The air between us felt charged, electric in a way that made my skin prickle.
I squirmed in my seat, trying to look anywhere but at his eyes. Those gray-red eyes that seemed to see straight through me. My heart was racing. My palms felt sweaty against the steering wheel. Heat crawled up my neck, and I was very aware of how close he was in this tiny space.
“Right. Well. Let’s go.” I fumbled with the keys, jammed them in the ignition, turned.
The engine roared to life.
Malachar jumped so hard his head hit the roof. “What the fuck was that?”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing again. “That’s the engine. It makes the car move.”
“The beast awakens.”
“It’s not a beast!”
I pulled out of the parking spot, and Malachar grabbed the door handle with white knuckles. His eyes were wide, fixed on the world moving past the window.
“How are you doing this?” he breathed. “How are you controlling it?”
“Steering wheel. Pedals. It’s not magic, it’s mechanics.”
“This is incredible.” He leaned forward, examining the dashboard. “What do all these symbols mean?”
“That’s the speedometer. Shows how fast we’re going. That’s the fuel gauge. That one’s the temperature. And those are just warning lights that I’ve been ignoring for six months.”
“And this?” He poked at the radio.
Static blared through the speakers. I jumped, swatting his hand away. “Don’t touch that!”
“My apologies.” But he was grinning now. Actually grinning. The expression transformed his face, made him look younger. Less dangerous. “This world has many wonders. In Lytopia, we rely on horses. Carriages. Our technology is far more primitive.”
“No cars at all?”
“None. We have magic instead. Enchantments for light, for heat, for communication across distances. But nothing like this.”
“So you’re basically in the medieval era?”
“I do not know what that means.”
“Castles? Swords? Candles for light?”
“Yes. That is accurate.”
I tried to picture it. A whole world of werewolves living without electricity, without cars, without modern conveniences. It sounded both romantic and deeply inconvenient.
“Must be weird being here then,” I said. “Culture shock and all.”
“It is overwhelming.” He was still staring out the window, watching buildings pass by. “But also fascinating. Your world has accomplished much without magic. It is... impressive.”
We pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store. I parked, killed the engine. Malachar visibly relaxed when the car went quiet.
“The beast sleeps again,” he murmured.
“I’m going to stop correcting you.”
We got out. I grabbed a cart and headed inside. Malachar followed, and I immediately noticed the stares.
Women. A lot of women. All of them looking at Malachar.
I couldn’t blame them. He was objectively gorgeous. Tall, muscular, with that dangerous edge that probably featured heavily in their fantasies. Add in the messy man bun and the scars visible at his collar, and he looked every inch the romance novel hero come to life.
A blonde near the paint section did a double-take. Her friend whispered something, and they both giggled.
I was not jealous. I had no reason to be jealous. He wasn’t mine. This was a purely professional arrangement. He worked for me. That was it.
So why did I want to march over there and tell them to stop staring?
I grabbed paint cans with more force than necessary. Sage green for the walls. Warm cream for the trim. Some brushes. Rollers. Drop cloths.
Malachar was oblivious to the attention. He was too busy staring at everything else. The fluorescent lights overhead. The rows of merchandise. The price scanner at the checkout.
“How do you light all of this?” he asked, looking up at the ceiling. “There are no candles. No torches.”
“Electricity. It’s complicated.”
“Everything in your world is complicated.”
“You get used to it.”
We were heading toward the checkout when a familiar voice rang out. “Gwendolyn Woods! Is that you?”
I froze. Turned slowly.
Mrs. Santos was bearing down on us, a vision in purple velour and too much jewelry. She was one of my grandmother’s oldest friends. Nosy as hell. Gossiped more than a tabloid magazine.
“Hi, Mrs. Santos,” I said weakly.
“I haven’t seen you in ages, dear!” She was already eyeing Malachar with open curiosity. “And who is this handsome young man?”
“This is-”
“Malachar Ashborne,” he cut in smoothly. He actually bowed. A proper, formal bow that looked completely out of place in a hardware store. “It is an honor to meet a friend of my mate’s family.”
My face went nuclear. “He means-”
“Oh my!” Mrs. Santos clutched her chest. “I didn’t know you were in a relationship! How wonderful! Your grandmother would have been so pleased.” She beamed at Malachar. “You’re a lucky man. Gwendolyn is a treasure.”
“I am indeed lucky to have her.” Malachar moved closer, and I felt his hand settle on the small of my back. “She is strong, intelligent, kind. Everything I could have wished for in a mate. It is an honor to stand beside her.”
I was going to die. Right here in the hardware store. Death by embarrassment.
Mrs. Santos looked ready to cry. “Oh, you two! How romantic! You simply must come to dinner sometime. I want to hear everything about how you met.”
“That would be lovely,” Malachar said, while I tried to figure out how to sink through the floor.
“I’ll call you, dear!” Mrs. Santos patted my arm. “Don’t be a stranger!”
She swept away, already pulling out her phone. Probably to call every single person in her contact list.
I grabbed Malachar’s arm and dragged him toward the checkout. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?” He looked genuinely confused.
“‘It’s an honor to stand beside her’? ‘Everything I could have wished for in a mate’? You just told my neighbor we’re together!”
“We are together. You are my mate.”
“Platonically!”
“I never agreed to lie about the bond.”
“You didn’t have to announce it to the entire town!” I was hissing now, aware of more people staring. “By tomorrow morning, everyone will think we’re dating. Mrs. Santos gossips more than TMZ.”
“What is a TMZ?”
“Never mind.” I shoved the paint cans onto the checkout belt. “Just... just stop telling people I’m your mate.”
“I will not lie about what you are to me.”
“It’s not lying, it’s called having boundaries.”
“Boundaries are for people who are ashamed of their bonds.”
I whipped around to face him. “I’m not ashamed.”
“Then why do you wish me to hide it?”
Because it wasn’t real. Because we weren’t actually together. Because this was all temporary until I figured out how to send him home.
Because admitting it felt real and permanent in a way that terrified me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
I pulled it out. My group chat was exploding.
Krystin: bitch, what? [image attached]
I opened the image. It was me and Malachar in the paint aisle. He had his hand on my back. I was looking up at him. We looked... we looked like a couple.
Krystin: my cousin sent me this. apparently you’ve been holding out on us
Daphne: you, missy, have got a LOT to explain. book club Sunday. be there or be square
Bella: [shocked reaction gif]
I closed my eyes. “I’m going to kill her cousin.”
“Whose cousin?” Malachar asked.
“Krystin’s. Who apparently works at this hardware store and takes photos of people without permission.”
He frowned. “Your friends are upset?”
“No, they’re nosy. There’s a difference.” I paid for the supplies, grabbed the bags, and headed for the exit. “Come on. Let’s go home before anyone else sees us.”
“You say home.” He was right behind me, close enough that I could feel him. “Does that mean you are accepting me?”
“It means I have a headache and need coffee. Don’t read into it.”
But my traitorous heart was beating too fast. And the word “home” had come out too easily. And I was very aware of his hand hovering near my back, not quite touching but close enough to feel.
Sunday’s book club was going to be a nightmare. My friends were going to have questions. So many questions. I had no idea how to answer them.