Chapter 5 Aurora
Aurora
I don’t know why I let Eve drag me to the bar. She thrives in places like this. Everyone in the room practically drools when she walks by, and honestly, if she weren’t basically my sister, I’d be right there with them.
And then there’s me, drink in hand, quietly manifesting a reading nook while the entire bar loses their minds.
But by some weird twist of fate, the night throws me a bone. Thane, the manager—and only employee—of the bookshop I’m eager to visit, is here and invites us to join him.
Eve and Thane don’t really know each other, just small-town nods and an occasional hello. But there’s this connection between them that crackles beneath the surface, like static begging to spark.
Learning about the online bookstore Thane built from the ground up was the highlight of the evening. When I started questioning him about how he managed to put everything together, he offered to walk me through his process and business plan tomorrow afternoon.
Insert happy dance here!
Maybe I can convince Thane to show me around, too.
I keep telling myself it’s curiosity, that I just want to see the shop up close. But there’s something else pulling me toward it. Like I’ve been there before, somewhere in the space between waking and sleep. It’s ancient, star-sparked, and way too intimate for a place I’ve never stepped foot in.
I can’t get over the feeling that something unseen is waiting for me.
Watching me.
Wanting me.
And no matter how many jokes I crack or anime crushes I stack between me and that feeling, it’s still there, running its fingertips down my throat and whispering my name.
I pretend not to notice the way it lingers.
After a while, something shifts between Eve and Thane.
The smiles linger. The laughter slips into something softer, more personal. Their knees brush, and I brace for the inevitable frenzied make-out session.
The look they share confirms it. I’m officially the third wheel. Again. It happens every time we go out, so I let my mind drift.
The Cardinal radiates 1980s cigarette-mom energy—wood paneled walls, the lingering scent of Virginia Slims, and plastic covered cushions in shades of brown, mustard, and a red so faded it probably saw Reagan’s first term.
Decades of smoke and tar cling to every surface, and the vinyl seats stick to the backs of my legs, which somehow only adds to its backwoods charm.
The place is falling apart, but somehow it’s packed most nights. Then again, it’s the only bar in a twenty-mile radius that hasn’t exploded thanks to a meth lab in the basement.
So, you know. Loyalty.
A tiny, half-forgotten dive on the edge of nowhere, it’s the kind of place that doesn’t try to impress and somehow still keeps people coming back.
The floors are sticky. The lights are dim.
And there’s a jukebox in the corner that no one touches but everyone respects.
It plays whatever the hell it wants, and somehow, every song hits.
No one knows who, or what, decides the playlist. Eve told me people used to guess.
Now they just let it happen. Because if you try to mess with it, or dare to use it as intended, petty shit starts happening.
Milk sours. Credit cards stop working. Your ex texts you, “I miss us.”
No one’s made that mistake twice.
Tonight, “The Separation of Church and Skate” by NOFX tears through the speakers. It makes me want to smash things—preferably the patriarchy, but I’ll settle for a coaster.
What kind of bar unironically plays NOFX at this hour?
I glance around, waiting for someone to complain.
No one does.
Instead, the 75-year-old drunks nod along like they’ve been skating backyard pools since ‘83. Everyone—from the pot farmers to the Stevie Nicks-lookin’ gram-Wiccans—is weirdly into it. Whether the enjoyment is required or genuine is unclear.
While Eve and Thane flirt quietly at the end of the table, I indulge the curiosity gnawing at my brain.
Ezra Aster is an enigma, and the town’s conspiracy theorists eat that shit up.
Is he a disgraced cult leader in hiding?
An exiled Russian ballet dancer who moonlights as an elite assassin?
A shadow monster with a book addiction?
Lorewood has theories.
My personal favorite came from a guy who smelled like Skoal and Natty Ice: The reanimated corpse of D.B. Cooper, resurrected solely to sell rare books and ruin local men’s lives.
And honestly? I want to believe.
I tell myself he can’t be that bad. He owns a bookshop, not a sex club. Though honestly, that might somehow be less intimidating.
When I meet Thane tomorrow, I wonder if Mr. Aster will be there. He seems like the kind of man who’d chew lightbulbs before engaging in small talk, so if he knows I’m coming, I doubt he’ll show.
Still, I can’t ignore the pull I felt when Eve said his name.
Maybe I’ve just read too many stories to trust myself with reality anymore.
When I glance at my friend, I’m unsurprised to find Eve perched in Thane’s lap, kissing him like she’s trying to steal his soul. I could leave them to it, but she’s had more than a few drinks, and I want to make sure she gets home safely—wherever “home” ends up being tonight.
While I wait, I pull out my phone, hesitating as my thumb hovers over Safari.
Against my better judgment, I give in and type “Ezra Aster Lorewood” into the search bar.
My screen floods with historical records and census data spanning centuries.
His name must have been popular back in the day to get so many hits.
Weirdly, there’s nothing recent on him. No social media, no phone number, and much to my disappointment, no pictures.
With a sigh, I glance at Eve, now very much straddling Thane on a barstool, and decide to read until she’s ready to leave.
Even though I prefer fantasy, sci-fi, and horror, I read everything.
But tonight my Kindle holds something filthier—a spicy monster fantasy, complete with massive, animal-skulled beasts with brides as sweet-faced as they are savage.
I love a good dark romance, but occasionally a girl needs to be worshipped, wrecked, and rewritten by a void-spawned nightmare with a praise kink.
Am I addicted?
Maybe.
But if a towering beast with glowing eyes and a voice like the end of the world ever shows up to drag me into the abyss, I’m not asking questions.
I sink back into my story, sighing dreamily at the thought of being pinned beneath one of them.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Maybe I am waiting for a monster to find me, because at this point, I can’t imagine a man ever fulfilling me.
When I hit an especially filthy scene, heat pools between my thighs.
Of all the places to read this chapter, I picked a bar. Probably not my smartest choice, but I’ve got nothing else to do.
Leave it to me to get turned on in public.
Looks like another night, just me and my rose-shaped vibrator.
I shift in my chair, desperate for some friction, when something barely grazes my collarbone.
What the hell was that?
My back snaps straight, eyes darting around the bar, searching for the asshole who touched me.
But there’s no one.
And as furious as I should be … something in my stardust blood answers.
Like it spent lifetimes waiting for this moment.
Before I can shake the thought, the familiar scent of pine and cinnamon wraps around me, carving a constellation of spice, heat, and longing under my skin.
Fuck.
The bookshop.
My eyes flutter shut as I drink in the earthy, masculine scent, each breath feeding the pressure between my thighs. A soft, teasing touch ghosts against my ear, leaving behind the crackle of bang snaps against my skin.
I whip around, teeth bared, ready to tear into whoever’s fucking with me.
But there’s nothing.
Just shadows.
Just locals, drinking and laughing.
My breath shudders when another phantom touch grazes the side of my neck. My pulse jumps, and heat rolls up my spine, blurring the line between panic and something far more dangerous. My body arches on instinct, hips lifting off the stool, chasing the ache.
Fuck, it feels so good.
A soft moan catches in my throat, and—holy fuck—I need to get out of here before I humiliate myself on a barstool.
I’m white-knuckling the edge of my seat, trying not to fall apart in front of a bunch of retired coal miners who probably stared into the void until the void backed down and ran like a coward.
And yet, my body teeters on the edge of something dangerous.
Something inevitable.
The intoxicating scent of pine and cinnamon lingers in the air. Molten heat claws its way through me, sinking deep and dragging my pulse with it. My thighs clench on instinct, but it only tightens the ache already blooming inside me.
I should run. I want to.
But another part of me—one I don’t fully understand—wants to stay, wants to let this strange, invisible pull take me under.
Something brushes against my ear again.
My head snaps left, heart ricocheting inside my ribs.
The sound is faint, almost nonexistent.
And then, warm breath caresses my cheek. A dark, accented voice, like bittersweet blackstrap before the shoofly, murmurs, “I will see you soon, little lupine.”
My breath shatters.
Every muscle in my body seizes.
For a split second, everything around me stops—the music, the voices, the entire fucking planet.
Little lupine?
What the hell does that even mean?
And why the fuck am I entertaining the idea that some unseen presence just whispered in my ear like a lover while dragging me to the brink of orgasm?
My body knows something touched me. My brain insists nothing was there.
I’ve been through a lot these past few weeks. But I’ve never hallucinated before.
I must be exhausted.
Probably.
Maybe?
While I question my sanity, the charged, electric pull around me suddenly vanishes, snapping me back to reality.
I spin in my seat, scanning the bar, my neurons firing at a terrifying pace.
Nothing.
Just more shadows.
Just people drinking and laughing.
Except there’s a guy in flannel watching me like he’s reliving a hundred war stories, and I just became the next one.
The man beside him is draped casually over his chair, one arm slung around Flannel’s shoulders, whispering in his ear with a slow smile, his eyes never leaving mine.
Of course. It’s always right before a full-blown mental breakdown that men start taking an interest. I don’t have time to be anyone’s emotional support third.
I turn back to the table, dizzy, disoriented … and so freaking turned on.
“Hey! Earth to Aury! Girl, are you okay?” Eve’s voice filters through the noise, though it sounds muffled, like I’m underwater.
Okay, showtime.
I force a smile and turn toward her, praying I don’t look as fucked up as I feel.
“Sorry, guys. I’m not feeling great. I might head home if that’s okay.”
I keep my voice light and controlled, even though I can feel my pulse raging against my skin.
Eve frowns. “Your face is flushed, and you sound a little hoarse. I hope you aren’t getting sick. I can take you home once I pay the bill if you want.” Her offer sounds half-hearted.
I know she’s hoping for a wild night with Thane, and honestly? It looks like he could give her one. He’s tall and muscled, with rich brown skin, untamed curls, and emerald-green eyes that practically glow. The kind of dangerous-pretty that feels like trouble—the good kind.
Not my type, but still.
And Eve was right about his tattoo. There’s something about the inked chain wrapped around his neck that makes you want to trace it with your tongue.
Not that I would.
But damn.
“Nah, you don’t have to do that. You two have fun. Thane, just make sure she ends up in a bed, not on the floor … unless she’s into that.”
Eve flushes, and Thane chuckles. “You can count on me, Aurora. I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks. I think I’m just tired. See you both tomorrow.”
“Okay, but be careful. And text me when you get home, so I know you’re safe.” Eve rubs her hands on her thighs, something she does when she’s nervous.
“You got it, Mom,” I mutter, flashing her a crooked smile as I stand.
I don’t wait for a reply. I just need to move.