Chapter 2 - Layla
The morning after the celebration dawned clear and cold, the kind of northern light that made everything sharp-edged and beautiful, but had the capacity to freeze the blood.
The town bookshop’s windows caught it anyway, scattering it across the worn wooden floors and the neat rows of tables.
Dust drifted in the beams like lazy snow.
Layla Hawthorne stood on a stool by the window, wrestling with a stack of mismatched vases. Every Thursday was the same. Flowers, coffee, books.
Behind her, Maddie’s cheerful voice broke the quiet. “You know, normal people sleep in after skipping a party. Not insist on opening shop at six in the morning like a madwoman.”
Layla smirked over her shoulder. “Normal people don’t have to unpack the new box of Cressida Hart books. We’re going to have a line halfway down the street.”
Maddie, perched on the counter with a mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll, grinned. “True, but still. You missed a hell of a party, apparently. I walked past The Anchor around midnight. The noise could have raised the dead.”
“I heard,” Layla said dryly, climbing down from the stool, “half the town heard. Five years of Alpha Volkhov, and they celebrate like he personally hung the moon in the sky.”
Maddie laughed. “You always get snippy when I bring up the Volkhov. Especially Dominic Volkhov.”
Layla stopped fussing with the vases for half a beat too long. “I do not get snippy.”
“You so do.”
Layla rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No, you are,” Maddie hopped down from the counter, snagging another vase to help. “The man’s an absolute dreamboat. All dark menace and muscles and jawline. Brooding works for him.”
Layla made a face, arranging wildflowers into a small ceramic pot.
The flowers hung a bit limp, the cold of the Alaskan autumn wilting them too soon.
She whispered a word under her breath, careful to shield the vase from Maddie’s view.
Instantly, they perked up, vibrant color bleeding over the dull edges, the bright green leaves brimming and spilling over the sides.
She couldn’t help her small smile. “Brooding is just…bad communication. Also, he’s not a man. He’s a male.”
“So? What’s the difference?”
Layla sighed, “His manners, for one.”
“Come on, he can’t be that bad. Not when he looks so good.” Maddie giggled. “So why didn’t you go? The whole pack was there.”
Layla finally put the vase down and turned to look at her best friend. “How do you know? No offense, but you’re human. You shouldn’t even know about the pack. About shifters.”
Maddie shrugged. “You know, Dad keeps informed of this sort of stuff. He had extra police out on patrol just in case things got frisky like they did last winter. Ooh, those flowers look nice!”
“Thanks. And that wasn’t the Volkhov,” Layla said, “it was the Nordan.”
“Same difference.”
“No. It really isn’t.”
“Whatever,” Maddie said, “dodge my questions all you like.”
“I’m not…that’s not…look, it’s not that deep, Maddie.”
Maddie raised an eyebrow, and Layla exhaled, pushing her hair back from her face. “I just didn’t want to be around a bunch of obnoxious drunk alphas, alright?”
Maddie held her hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright. Just…” she paused, biting her lip as she searched for the right words, “just remember, I’m here, okay?
I know I might not fully understand this stuff, but…
I’m here for you. And whatever happened between you and the Volkhov,”—she held a hand up as Layla started to protest—“no, don’t argue, I know you too well, I know something happened.
I’m not going to pry. I just want you to be happy, Layla.
And it seems unhappy that you’re so distant from your pack. ”
Layla huffed out a bitter laugh. “Trust me, it’s the healthiest choice I’ve ever made.”
Deep in her chest, that old wound ached. She swallowed down the pain.
Maddie didn’t look convinced, but she seemed reluctant to push the point any further. Instead, she pulled Layla into a hug before brushing off her jeans. “Right! Cressida Hart! Where did you put the boxes? I’m about to make the most beautiful display you’ve ever seen in your life!”
Layla’s laughter came easy, and she was grateful for it.
The bookshop was her haven, a shelter she’d built for herself brick by brick.
Nobody criticized her here. Nobody insulted her for everything she wasn’t.
It was just quiet work, good books, and the hum of human normalcy around her.
Her little apartment lay up the creaky stairs at the back, covered in homemade blankets and photos and warmth.
It was a small life, by all accounts, but it was hers.
The bell over the door jingled softly as the first of the morning crowd trickled in, two elderly women who came every week to gossip under the pretense of buying a nonfiction book for the history club before inevitably drifting over to the romance section.
Layla greeted them with a smile, hiding her laugh as their hungry eyes tracked Maddie unpacking the Cressida Hart books.
For a while, it was almost easy to forget last night’s music, the laughter that had spilled down from The Anchor like thunder. The pack’s world felt far away here, muffled by walls of books and human chatter.
And then the door handle turned.
Layla’s heartbeat stumbled once, twice. The bell above the door gave a bright, deceptive chime.
The door opened.
A tall man stepped in from the cold, framed by a spill of pale light and frigid air. The world seemed to narrow around him, pausing as if holding its breath.
Julian Rook stepped inside.
He closed the door with unhurried precision, the sound too neat. His coat, black and travel-stained, carried a trace of rain and the metallic scent of the road. His eyes, dark, fathomless, swept the room once, taking in everything, then came to rest on Layla.
For a heartbeat, she forgot to breathe.
She knew who he was, of course. Everyone did.
And everyone had a different story. Bastard son of the Russian Tsar Pack Alpha, some said.
Exiled follower of Lunarion, others whispered.
His nose was slightly too big for his face, his fingers too long, his eyes too sharp.
Some called him a demon given shifter form, and said that one day, the devil would call back his most trusted servant.
She liked that one the least. After all, Rook had one master. And Dominic Volkhov sure would give the devil a run for his money.
“Miss Hawthorne.”
Her name in his voice made her skin prickle. Quiet. Courteous. Dangerous.
Layla’s hands were steady only because she forced them to be. “Mr. Rook.”
Behind her, Maddie straightened. “Oh, hey there, welcome to The—”
Layla spun around. “Maddie, why don’t you and the history club ladies go and make a round of coffee before the meeting starts?”
Maddie blinked. “The meeting doesn’t start for half an hour—”
“Then now’s definitely the time to make coffee,” Layla said, her tone just sharp enough to make Maddie hesitate, and then obey. She called to the two ladies, who glanced with blatant curiosity at Julian, before vanishing with them through the doorway.
Silence filled the shop again, sharp as a knife’s edge.
Julian’s eyes followed Maddie’s exit for a moment before returning to Layla. “Human friend?”
“Yes,” she said. “She’s harmless.”
He gave no indication he believed her one way or the other. “You run this place?”
“I manage it.”
He inclined his head, as though tucking the fact away. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
He walked toward the counter, his steps silent, even on the creaky floorboards. Every movement felt deliberate, economical, contained. The air changed with him, like the room itself knew better than to get in his way.
Layla’s pulse thudded in her throat. She’d handled difficult patrons before. Arrogant elders, boisterous teens, even the odd nosy pack female sniffing after information on her brother’s relationship status. But Julian Rook was different. And he would not be easy to get rid of.
He stopped a few feet away. “I’m looking for something,” he said, voice even, “I was told you might help.”
Layla forced herself to meet his gaze. “That depends on what it is.”
“Rare texts. Local folklore, ancient records. Anything pertaining to hybrid legends.”
Her mouth went dry. “Hybrids?”
“I’ll trust you to treat this intel with all due…discretion,” he said, “but I’m afraid the rumors circulating are all true. The hybrids are getting closer. Establishing nests. I need to know how far back their presence runs in the region. I need to find them.”
Layla gripped the edge of the counter to keep from swaying. Relief and fear tangled painfully in her chest. At least he wasn’t asking about magic. At least, not yet.
She nodded, forcing calm. “We have a few references. Historical accounts, mostly speculative. Nothing recent.”
“That’s fine.” His tone didn’t change. “Show me.”
She stepped out from behind the counter, acutely aware of the space between them, and how little of it there was. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing since he entered, and she hated that he could probably hear it. Wolves could.
She only hoped he’d chalk it up to nervousness from his strange presence in her little shop, rather than fear that he might suspect something.
Julian’s gaze seemed to skim everything as she led him through the neatly kept rows of shelves. She saw them as if for the first time through his eyes. The precise handwritten labels. The plants spilling bright leaves over aging spines. The odd note here and there with the bookseller recommends.
When she stopped at the reference section, she kept her tone level. “These are the oldest we have. Some mention hybrid sightings, but it’s mostly superstition. Tall tales from the Russian rule.”
He scanned the spines without touching them. “You’ve read them?”
“Most of them.”
“Of course.” He sounded faintly amused, but not unkind. “Theodore mentioned you were a curious one.”