Chapter 11 Aurora
Aurora
Three days.
Three fucking days since Ezra, and I’m still just as pissed as I was that night.
There’s no denying the magnetism. The wildfire heat.
But how the hell am I supposed to forgive him?
My heart aches a little when I wonder why he didn’t go about this the right way and just ask me out on a fucking date.
Whatever. I have a date with Jameson tonight—the man who texted me into oblivion for three days straight. To his credit, though, he kept everything PG with only slight undertones of innuendo.
The woman in the mirror stares back as I drag the flatiron through her wild hair. She looks tired. A little sad. And pissed off enough to keep things interesting.
After the bookshop, Jameson feels almost boring.
He’s currently giving guided tours in the area for a friend of Eve’s.
Jameson seems kind and adventurous, loves animals, has a passing knowledge of local flora, and is totally handsome on top of that.
Which would normally be enough, if my mind weren’t still hooked on the shadowed bastard haunting my dreams.
Even if dream-me kicks him in the dick every damn time.
Over the past few days, nothing too strange has happened.
No eyes watching from the woods. No shiver down my spine.
And I’ve actually slept. Like, real sleep. Deep, peaceful, emotionally stable sleep.
Not at all haunted by the memory of teeth on my throat and a voice in my ear promising filth and blood.
See? Nothing weird at all. Totally normal.
Broody McDickface is obviously used to getting his way. But like I said—fuck him.
Have I gotten myself off thinking about the heat and scent of him in the bookshop or the way his lips scorched my skin?
Yes. Yes, I have.
But part of that is so I don’t jump into bed with Jameson tonight purely because I’m horny as hell.
Honestly, there’s only one strike against Jameson.
He doesn’t read. Well, he “doesn’t read a lot,” and in my experience, there’s not an audiobook, e-book, or paperback to be found when someone says that.
It’s fine, I guess, because we’ve found other things to talk about. Except I’ve always dreamed of curling up under a blanket, tangled with someone, talking about a book we both love until the sky starts to lighten.
But hey, opposites attract, so maybe it’s okay to have some differences. I guess that could make life a little more interesting.
Tonight, I decided to wear a loose sweater, jeans, and my high-top Vans. I’m in no mood to be uncomfortable, and Jameson told me not to get “dolled up.”
What am I, a fucking moll?
My hair falls loose around my shoulders in waves, almost glowing against the olive-green of my sweater. Makeup and I don’t get along, but a little blush, bronze eye shadow, and mascara make this date feel real.
When I glance in the mirror one last time, I realize I look fucking hot. God, I hope we run into Ezra. Just to see the storm roll behind those dangerous grey eyes, knowing he can’t do a damn thing about it.
Men are such simple creatures.
Throughout the week, Eve relentlessly asked how things were going with Jameson. I know she hopes we click, that there are sparks, all of it.
But as much as I enjoy talking to him, I don’t feel any attraction to him … yet.
I’m not sure I even want to feel attracted to him.
There just isn’t room. Not when a certain bookshop owner already takes up 73% of my brain and 99.99% of my hormones.
Even though I’ve been trying to focus on safe, normal things, that doesn’t mean my mind hasn’t been working overtime to process what happened the other night.
How could I have lost control like that?
Although, if I’m being honest, it felt like we were both caught in something neither of us understood. And when I snapped, he didn’t look smug or unbothered.
He looked … desperate. Confused. Like he didn’t expect to feel anything at all.
Except … there was something gnashing just under his skin. Something with teeth. Something brutal.
And it was directed at me—not in malice, but in hunger.
A fucking Aurora-sized snack he was ready to devour.
The man is violence in a pretty package, ferality barely disguised as control. I could taste it on his skin … and I still wanted more.
But what I can’t explain—where my brain hits a dead end—are the shadows.
I know what I saw.
Shifting, frolicking animals made of light and dark. A massive Irish wolfhound with antlers, like something pulled from a nightmare … or one of my favorite books.
And deep down, in the twisted little double helix that makes me who I am, I know it was real.
Which is exactly why I haven’t let myself think about it.
My anger was so overwhelming I couldn’t process what he did, what happened between us, and some supernatural bullshit.
And to be honest, I don’t want to.
I’ve washed my hands of the man. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday, and things have been blissfully normal. Boring, and definitely less sexy—no, wait. Definitely less infuriating. But normal.
I know my date with Jameson probably won’t be passionate or romantic, but maybe it’ll be fun. Jameson texted nonstop the past few days, confirming our date multiple times today.
Is that normal? I don’t know.
I suppose I can give Jameson points for enthusiasm. But it feels … excessive.
Ugh, why is this so hard? I’m terrified that our dinner will be super awkward because we spent so much time texting this week.
With a heavy sigh, I run my hand through my hair one last time, then head to the living room to wait for Jameson.
Before I forget, I open the front door and let Louie out. Who knows what the night will bring?
As I stand on the porch, I fix Louie with a stern gaze and say, “Please don’t run off this time and refuse to come back in like the other night. I just want to go on this date and come home.”
Oh, do I really feel that way? Well, that’s too damn bad! I’m going out, I’m going to have a great time, and I’m going to keep an open mind.
While I wait for Louie to return, I survey the edge of the woods and freeze when a figure that looks alarmingly like a goddamn wolfhound with deer antlers stalks out of the shadows.
But the moment I see it, it’s gone.
It’s just a trick of the light … or my mind.
Yeah, let’s go with that.
“Ezra?” I say quietly to no one.
He’s not here. I told him, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off. Now I’m even more determined to go on this date and have a wonderful time, if only to refocus on something other than the utterly strange and downright fucked up shit that’s been happening lately.
I whistle, and Louie bolts through the trees, skidding to a stop at my feet. I scratch behind her ears, my pulse still uneven.
“That’s my girl.”
As I grab Louie a bone to keep her occupied while I’m gone, headlights shine through the kitchen window.
With one last head pat, Louie takes her prize and curls up in front of the fireplace while I make my way to the front of the house, digging through my purse to make sure I have my keys and phone.
When I open the door, though, I run into a wall of muscle.
Oh, how chivalrous. Jameson actually got out of his car and came to my front door.
Not a bad start!
Louie abandons her bone and leaps to my side, a guttural growl already rumbling in her chest.
“Oh! Jameson, hi!” My voice is too bright. Too forced. “Didn’t think guys came to the door anymore.”
I fidget with my keychain, suddenly wishing I’d shotgunned that Black Cherry White Claw haunting the back of my fridge.
“Lou, it’s fine,” I murmur, but she doesn’t relax.
She growls again, the sound twisting tighter, harsher, like it’s dragging claws down the inside of her chest. Eventually, she retreats to the fireplace, never taking her eyes off him.
Huh. Louie loves everyone.
“Aurora, hi! I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t know if you saw me drive up, and I thought, since we have reservations, I’d come to the door,” he says with a nervous chuckle.
There’s a beat—a pause that stretches on just a little too long. Louie’s growl hums low in the background, daring him to blink.
“Um—wow! That’s some pup you got there. What is she, part wolf?”
If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that question, I could pay someone to stand next to me and answer it for the rest of my life.
“Heh, no, she’s just a mutt. German shepherd and husky, I believe. No one could ever tell us why she’s so big, but living out here, I’m glad I have her.”
Just kill me. This is so freaking awkward.
Jameson is tall and muscular in a bulky way. Like he never misses arm or chest day. The jury is still out on leg day. He has a well-kept beard, spacers in his ears, and a bright smile that radiates kindness.
He’s wearing a red-and-black flannel shirt and a corduroy sports coat—what I lovingly call the “Appalachian tuxedo.” Jameson looks like a lumberjack pulled directly from the cover of a ‘90s romance novel.
Leaner, nerdier guys are usually more my type, but I promised myself I’d keep an open mind.
Wait. Did he say …
“Reservations?” My stomach drops. “I thought we were just grabbing drinks at The Cardinal.”
Great. So much for a short date.
Jameson laughs, but it’s thinner now. “Right, yeah. I just … wanted to do something a little more thoughtful.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, even though he clearly thinks it should be something.
“It’s totally fine, though. We can do whatever you want. I just
figured … I don’t know, most girls probably would’ve appreciated the effort.”
Most girls?
I don’t respond. Just swallow the feeling and move on. I’ve been on enough bad dates to know when to lower my expectations.
But when Jameson’s hand slides to the small of my back, like muscle memory that shouldn’t exist, I go rigid.
I bend away from him as I close and lock the door, something I almost never do. Not in this town.
“Can’t be too careful, even with a guard dog.”
His hand on my back isn’t unwelcome, exactly. But it’s wrong. A puzzle piece forced into the wrong place.