Chapter 26 Pocket Full of Sunshine
Chapter Twenty Six
Pocket Full of Sunshine
— Silas —
The bell over the door jingles as I step into the convenience store—a little shack wedged between miles of cotton fields and thick pine forest. A crooked sign out front reads “Delta EZ-Mart,” the paint peeling like old skin.
I glance around, nostrils flaring as I catch the stale tang of coffee, motor oil, and something faintly musty. Not the kind of place I’d choose to linger. But the locals don’t like questions—and they like them even less from a “foreigner” like me.
The cashier, a wiry man in his sixties with a baseball cap clamped low over his gray-streaked hair, barely glances up as I approach the counter. When he does, his eyes flick up and down, taking in my dreads, the glint of my septum piercing, and the dragon ink curling up my neck. His lips press into a scowl—weary disdain barely masked by a thin attempt at politeness.
“Can I help you with somethin’?” His words are clipped, as if fewer syllables might make me leave faster.
I lean an arm on the counter, lowering myself to his eye level. My voice stays low, smooth.
“Maybe.” A pause, just enough to stretch the silence. “I’m looking for someone. Redhead, tall, big personality.”
His gaze narrows, suspicion brewing behind the faded irises. He sizes me up, every inch of his face a map of tired distrust.
“Her name’s Sunday.”
“Don’t know no Sunday.”
He looks down, hands suddenly busy straightening an already neat pile of receipts.
Liar.
I feel the shift in his pulse, the hint of unease in his scent as he avoids my gaze. As if his stubborn loyalty alone could protect her from me. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t “belong” here.
A bell jingles faintly behind me. Another customer—a middle-aged woman with a perm and a purse the size of a small animal carrier—sneaks a glance my way as she heads toward the back. Her fingers clutch the strap tighter, her eyes flicking between me and the exit. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My patience is already worn thin, and this place isn’t helping.
The cashier clears his throat, his gaze darting to the woman and back to me. His hand inches toward something under the counter—a panic button, a baseball bat, maybe both.
“We don’t get many strangers here,” he says, his voice stiff. I can practically hear the unspoken especially not your kind hanging in the air between us.
“Is that so?”
I let my dragon rise, just enough for gold to glint in my eyes under the harsh fluorescent light.
The cashier flinches. His fingers grip the counter too tight, knuckles going white. He tries not to look scared, but I can smell it on him—sharp sweat and that bitter scent of deep-seated resentment. It’s a stench I know too well. It clings to places like this.
“Look,” I say, keeping my voice steady… reasonable. “I don’t care about your town, your store, or anything else around here. I just need to find her. Then I’ll be gone.”
I hold his gaze, letting him see the edge of the blade beneath my calm.
“We don’t know her,” he says, slower this time, like he’s trying to make it stick.
I inhale slowly, pulling my dragon back. Its urge to lash out settles just beneath my skin, a molten threat waiting to break free.
Roxana’s waiting for answers, and my time here is slipping away. But it seems I’ll be leaving with as much information as I came with. Whether they know it or not, they’re protecting her—hiding her like some kind of treasure that needs guarding.
And fuck if that doesn’t piss off my dragon.
The cashier’s face freezes for a split second when the bell jingles again. His eyes dart to me, then back to the man stepping through the door, and his expression shifts—like he’s just been dealt a full house and doesn’t want to tip his hand.
I turn, tension coiling low in my spine.
The man tips his hat to me, his movements unhurried, deliberate. Mid-fifties, well-built, with the kind of face that inspires trust—a handsome blend of grit and sun-soaked charm, like a half-forgotten movie poster come to life. His blond hair is threaded with silver, and his piercing blue eyes seem to slice right through me.
My dragon stirs, restless and rattling in my chest. He reminds me of someone, but hell if I know who.
“Well… mornin’, Wade,” the cashier says, his voice suddenly a shade higher, a little too forced. He straightens up, as if Wade hasn’t just walked into the middle of a conversation he’s been stonewalling. “How’s the twins?”
His gaze flicks to me, then back to Wade, sweat beading along his hairline.
Wade gives a relaxed nod. “They’re keepin’ us busy, same as ever.” His tone is easy, but his gaze sweeps over me with an assessing calm that sets my dragon’s teeth on edge. The cashier’s smile falters, nerves creeping in like he’s itching to pull Wade aside, whisper something he doesn’t want to say in front of a stranger.
Wade adjusts the brim of his hat, and that’s when it hits me.
A scent—sharp and intoxicating—winds through my senses, sparking a possessive need I don’t understand. My dragon growls, low and hungry, every muscle in my body locking down against the urge to lunge, to close the distance and claim. It’s buried under sweat and motor oil, but unmistakable—honeyed sweetness laced with a salt-edged bite.
It’s the most alluring thing I’ve ever scented. I go instantly hard, my instincts flaring, hunting for the source.
This man, of all people—this sun-bleached, all-American human—carries a scent that calls to every primal fiber of my being.
A low growl curls up from my chest, and I barely stifle it, clamping down on my dragon’s instinct.
Him?
You have got to be kidding me.
My dragon slams into me like a battering ram, claws out, scrambling to get to… what he’s sure is his mate. I reel, vision blurring, as Wade continues exchanging easy greetings with all the gormless townsfolk.
“He’s got the twins all worn out,” Wade says, an easy smile on his face, completely oblivious to the chaos unraveling inside me. He’s only a few feet away, the scent stronger now, wrapping around me like a siren song, impossible to ignore.
It’s impossible. No human should provoke this reaction. Least of all this man.
I take another inhale. He’s not a shifter, a demon, or a witch. Just flesh, blood, and sun-drenched confidence. But my dragon doesn’t care. He’s thrashing, pulling me forward, and for one disorienting moment, I’m almost certain—
“Excuse me.”
The words scrape out, rough and strained. My eyes lock on Wade.
He glances over, an eyebrow lifting. His gaze flickers to the gold glinting in mine, the claws pressing at my fingertips. And then, he tilts his head, amused. Like I’m a curiosity, not a threat.
“Son, you look like you’re fixin’ to bust outta your skin,” he drawls, calm as a breeze. He turns back to the cashier, sliding some bills onto the counter. “Bobby, give me a sec here, would ya?”
The cashier shrugs, indifferent, and Wade sidesteps me with that easy, unbothered grace, gesturing for me to follow him outside.
I’m too caught off guard to argue. Every step makes the scent stronger, and my dragon is ready to tear this place apart to get at it. My eyes fix on his ass, and I shake my head, desperate to clear the fog.
Outside, the Mississippi heat wraps around us, thick and suffocating. The scent lingers, a humming note in the back of my mind, winding around my senses like barbed wire.
Wade strolls over to the fuel pumps, hands stuffed in his pockets, as if we’re about to chat about the weather. But my dragon’s claws press against my skin, a low, feral growl rising in my throat
“Alright, big guy.”
He looks me up and down, his face relaxed, but those piercing blue eyes are sharp. Too sharp.
“Seems like you got a case of the, uh… unexpected urges.”
He gives me a sideways glance, his mouth tugging into a half-smile. “Look, I’m flattered, son. Really.”
His gaze narrows.
“But you can’t go shifting in the EZ-Mart.” He chuckles, nodding toward the shop. “Bobby’s heart couldn’t take it.”
He pauses, his voice dipping lower, colder.
“And let’s be clear—I’m not that person for you.”
I clench my jaw, caught somewhere between relief and indignation, wrestling my dragon back under control.
Not that person.
The words settle into my bones, but they don’t ease the pull of the scent, or the tangled feeling that has my dragon prowling and restless. Wade scratches the back of his neck, his eyes distant for a moment, like he’s listening to something just out of my reach.
Then he sighs.
“Alright, alright,” he mutters, almost to himself. He turns back to me, those sharp blue eyes locking on, like he’s made a decision he doesn’t entirely like.
“I have a feelin’—a real strong one—that I’m supposed to introduce you to someone.”
He pulls a phone from his pocket, glances down at it, then holds it out to me.
“Gimme your number. Got a lot goin’ on tonight, but I’ll call you in a few days, bring you out to the farm. Name?”
I freeze, throat tight, my mind a tangled mess of instinct and confusion. Wade lifts an eyebrow, waiting, and the first name that pops into my head blurts out before I can stop it.
“Jeff.”
I wince. Jeff? Really? My dragon snarls in disgust.
Wade smirks, his gaze full of dry amusement, like he’s humoring a particularly dumb puppy.
“Alright, Jeff. ”
He hands me the phone, and I punch in my number, each tap feeling like I’m sealing a trap around myself.
I hand it back, my fingers brushing his just long enough for the scent to flare hot again, my dragon pushes at the edges of my mind.
Wade eyes the screen, then looks me over, that easy smile settling back onto his face like it’s never left.
“Well, maybe you’re supposed to meet my son,” he says with a chuckle.
Not your son, I think, a cold certainty settling in my gut. Because now, with the breeze thinning out the scent, I’m almost positive.
Sunday is this man’s daughter.
The encounter leaves me buzzing, rattled, the lure of that damn scent still tangled in my senses. Each step back to my car feels jagged, my frustration sharpening into something darker. Her name lingers on my tongue, bitter but addictive.
These people, this place—they’re just pieces on the board.
And one way or another, I’ll get through them, or around them.
But I will get to her.