Chapter 9 Aurora
Aurora
The morning sun shines through my closed eyelids as I wake from a deep, peaceful sleep. Way deeper than I expected after such a weird night.
Lying on my back, I relish the slow unwind of my body as I stretch, each limb reaching, loosening, remembering what it feels like to rest.
Heat creeps into my cheeks when I remember the super-hot dream I had about the owner of that bookshop.
I don’t even know what he looks like. Thankfully, a girl doesn’t need a physical description to dream about a broody bookshop owner creeping into her bedroom, getting her off, and whispering filth in her ear like it’s his native tongue.
I wonder if he’s even half as good-looking as I imagined.
Fuck, I hope not. I’m barely surviving the fantasy version.
The dream must’ve been incredible because I came hard while I slept. My soaked sheets are proof of that.
Just another bizarre entry in my ever-growing list of unexplainable bullshit.
I stretch once more, turning my head to check the time, then freeze.
There’s stiffness along my neck.
No … not stiffness.
Bruising.
I scramble out of bed and rush to the bathroom.
In the mirror, I glide my fingers over my throat, expecting nothing. But when I press, my breath catches.
Not just discomfort. Tenderness. Faint pressure like a whisper against my nerves.
I stare at my reflection, swallowing around my rapidly tightening throat. If I had done this to myself, the soreness would be at the front. But the ache stretches to the back of my neck, wrapping like a hand.
That … was a dream, right?
The memory is so vivid, my entire body flushes with a hot chill that leaves me dizzy.
I can almost hear that deep, commanding voice in my ear—Be good for me, little vixen. Take every inch of my fingers and don’t come until I say so.
A shiver runs through me as I remember how he whispered “little lupine” against my neck while he got me off.
It was one hell of a dream. And maybe after last night, this is just my subconscious’s messed-up version of self-care.
Not bad, brain. You really went all out.
Throwing on my robe, I head to the front door to make sure Louie comes back inside before I leave for work. After one quick whistle, my big, furry girl bursts through the tree line and barrels inside, almost knocking me over.
“Well, excuse you,” I say as I shut the front door.
Turning around, I find Louie sitting by my reading chair.
Staring.
No—judging.
Her ears are flat, and her mismatched eyes narrow like she’s debating if she should just end my entire bloodline right here.
“You didn’t want to come in last night, remember?” I throw up my hands. “I called. You barked. Then disappeared. Not the first time you’ve stayed out all night, so can we not with the soul-piercing side-eye this morning? Or are you planning to report me to the SPCA?”
Shit, I’m talking to the dog again. I need to get a grip.
When I sigh, Louie pads over to me slowly, almost hesitantly, and licks my hand.
“I’m sorry, sweet girl. Things have been … strange since last night. I promise today will be better.”
Deep down, I know she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. But Louie seems oddly appeased by my words because she trots over to the fireplace and curls herself into a tight, furry ball. Her tail covers her snout, but that weird half-blue eye remains open and fixed on me.
With a cup of dark, steamy coffee warming my hands, I head to the bathroom to shower and get ready for my day. When I return to the living room, I yank on my shoes and grab my purse, assuming I’m already late.
But when I glance at the microwave clock, I realize I’m actually running ahead of schedule for once. So, I curl up in my reading chair and enjoy a few rare, lazy minutes to myself. As I settle in, Louie’s head pops up.
Is she looking at my neck?
Jesus, I’m fucking losing it. She’s a dog. She can’t see something that isn’t there.
I throw a “good girl” at Louie, and she restlessly curls back into a ball with a soft whine, her eyes never leaving me. Maybe she got into something while running around the woods last night. She seems fine, but I should probably call the vet this evening just to make sure.
I spend thirty unrushed minutes reading before I give Louie her treat and head out the door for work.
As soon as my feet hit the porch, I feel better.
The chilly autumn air fills my lungs, and the tree leaves rustle against one another, causing pops of red, orange, and yellow to float silently to the ground in front of me as I begin my short walk into town.
Today is going to be a good day. I can feel it.
The second I step into the lot, though, something feels … wrong.
Like I’ve entered a glitchy simulation, or the part in a ‘90s horror movie where the dumb bitch goes, “Huh, that’s weird,” and then dies.
And yeah, I’m the dumb bitch. Obviously.
Then I realize the problem.
Eve’s car isn’t in her usual spot.
Well, shit. I’m so early that the boss lady isn’t here yet.
Taking out the massive set of keys I received when she hired me, I begin the challenging task of opening the shop’s front door. I fumble with the key ring, trying key after key, until I accidentally drop the entire thing.
“Ugh!” I lean my head back, closing my eyes in frustration, fighting the very real urge to kick the door down. Instead, I bend over to retrieve the jangling ring of traitorous metal.
As I return to what should be a simple task, I suddenly hear the deep, slightly accented voice from my dream simply say, “Hello.”
No. It … can’t be him.
My back straightens, every muscle locking into place. A cold wave of disbelief washes through me, dragging goosebumps across my skin.
No.
No, it’s not possible.
But when I turn around? Holy fuck.
The same exact man.
The man from my dream.
The man who had his hand at my throat while he made me come so hard I woke up soaked.
Eve wasn’t wrong—he is sexy as fuck. But there’s something uncanny beneath it. Something unsettling and comforting all at once.
So, this is Ezra Aster.
He’s tall in the way fictional men are tall. The kind of tall that makes you reevaluate your stance on public indecency. Jet-black hair that’s long on top, short on the sides, and styled like he communes with the forgotten god of volume every morning.
And that suit? Definitely custom. Definitely a problem.
He’s got a leather messenger bag slung across his chest, like some dangerously hot professor who teaches Gothic literature by day and bodies you against the Norton Anthology by night.
And those unwavering grey eyes? They make me feel butt-ass naked in broad daylight.
Ezra cocks his head, mirth sparking behind his gaze. “Hello, miss? Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
His smile sharpens into something wicked, and that’s when I realize. Fuck. I’ve been silently staring at this god of a man for way too long.
“Um, hi,” I say, unable to tear myself away from his darkening grey eyes.
Finally, one brave brain cell drags me out of my horny paralysis and reminds me how to human.
“Uh, yeah, I’m okay, thank you. No ghosts here, just trying to find the right key so I can open the shop. Heh.”
So fucking smooth, Aurora.
I turn my back to him, but I’m so flustered that I can’t even concentrate on the shit-ton of keys in my hand. I just stand there like a fool staring at the lock.
“Would you like some help?” he asks, taking a step toward me.
Why does my heart feel like it’s trying to abandon my chest? Like it’s reaching desperately for him, clawing at the space between us like it knows exactly where it belongs.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. …”
I know exactly who he is. But his ego is probably big enough to tilt the Earth off its axis. I’m not about to feed it.
“How terribly rude of me! My name is Ezra. Ezra Aster. I own the bookshop just down the hill. I was on my way to work and saw you struggling. I think I can help …” he says and takes another step toward me.
I swear I only heard one step, but pressure creeps up my spine—not heat, not cold. Just … awareness.
Then a breath of chill air ghosts over my neck, and a quiet, muttered curse breaks the silence behind me.
When I turn around, though, he’s still standing on the sidewalk, looking like a misplaced runway model.
Before I can get lost in daydreams of those hands, something flickers at the edge of my vision. A ripple in the air. But gone before I can focus on it.
I blink, trying to shake the strange sensation blooming through my body.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Aster,” I say way too brightly for someone actively squishing through her own seams. “I’m Aurora. You can call me Aury if you want. Most of my friends do. Not that you have to. I mean, it’s just … shorter.”
Oh my god, shut up.
“I was actually talking to my friend Eve about you yesterday. We passed by your shop on our way to The Cardinal, and I may have peeked in the window when no one was around. But, like, not in a stalker way or anything. I mean, Eve was there too. Well, across the street. Um, anyway, I’m meeting Thane today to talk about your online store, so … yeah.”
My soul leaves my body. Just walks out. Fucking traitor.
“Aurora.” He says my name like he’s trying to memorize it with his mouth. Like he wants to bury it in his throat and keep it there forever. He takes yet another step toward me, thankfully ignoring my incoherent babbling.
How does this man’s presence make me want to unzip my entire body and disappear into the fucking void?
My hands won’t stop sweating, and my stomach is a churning mess of anxiety. The man from my dream last night now stands less than five feet away from me, wearing a knowing smirk while heat blazes in his unsettling grey eyes.
“Right, well, like I said, you can call me Aury. I appreciate the help, but I think I got it from here. It was very nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you at your shop this afternoon,” I say, trying not to sound too hopeful.