8. Daniel
Daniel
The last screw slides into place with a satisfying click, and the espresso machine hums faintly, like it's sighing in relief.
I wipe my hands on a towel, staring at the row of clean mugs stacked neatly beside the sink.
The café is quiet now—the kind of silence that hums in your bones after a long day.
It smells faintly of coffee grounds, baked sugar, and something floral.
Light, careful footsteps sound from the stairs. I assume it's Tess coming down for water or maybe to grab something she forgot. "Hey, Tess—"
But it's not Tess.
It's Mara.
She freezes halfway down the steps when she sees me standing behind the counter, her hand tightening on the railing.
She's barefoot, wearing one of those oversized flannel sleep shirts that stops mid-thigh—pale gray, washed thin enough that the faintest outline of her body shows through when the light catches just right.
Her hair's twisted up in a messy bun, a few tendrils framing her flushed face.
She looks surprised—startled, even—like she expected the room to be empty.
"Oh," she says, voice small but steady. "You're still here."
"Yeah." I gesture toward the machine. "Just finishing up. It was leaking earlier, figured I'd fix it while I was at it."
"You didn't have to do that," she murmurs, descending the last few steps.
The collar slips off one shoulder before she tugs it back into place. Her bare legs catch my attention before I can stop myself—smooth skin, the soft gleam of warmth under café light—and then I see the faint peaks of her nipples pressing through the thin fabric.
I drag my gaze away, jaw tightening. Fucking hell.
"Old habit," I say, keeping my tone neutral. "Can't leave a job half-done."
There's a tension between us now, subtle but charged. The quiet stretches, filled with the hum of the machine and the faint sound of wind against the windows. She waits near the bottom step, fingers brushing the edge of the counter, eyes flicking from my hands to the tools I've laid out.
"I can't believe you cleaned up. That's my job."
"I didn't mind helping."
More awkward silence.
"How are you feeling?" I ask finally, because anything is better than silence.
She hesitates. "Better," she says softly. "The headache's mostly gone. Just a dull throb now."
I nod, rinsing my hands in the sink. "Did you take anything for it?"
"Just water."
I frown. "No fever?"
"I don't think so."
I turn toward her then, instinct overriding thought. The honeyed sweetness of her scent hits me—rich and soft, threaded with something that makes every muscle in my body tighten. My pulse jumps. I swallow hard.
"May I?" I ask, voice low.
She nods, almost imperceptibly.
I step closer, lifting my hand to her forehead. Her skin is warm, not feverish, but enough to make me notice. Then my fingers slide down, brushing lightly against the curve of her neck. She shivers.
"Your hand's cold," she whispers.
"Sorry," I murmur, drawing my hand back. My throat feels dry, the air too thick. I take a step back, forcing distance between us. "It doesn't seem like you have a fever. You should rest, though. If the headache's still there in the morning, we'll ask Gray to prescribe you something."
"Okay," she says softly.
Neither of us moves. I rub the back of my neck, trying to think of something else to say—something safe, normal. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
Her brows draw together. "What do you mean?"
"I thought…" I hesitate, then continue. "You were engaged to a pack, right? I assumed after Evercrest, you'd move in with your placement."
The color drains slightly from her face, then returns in a flush that creeps up her neck and into her cheeks. Her eyes—hazel, but deeper now, darker, green and gold threaded together like forest light—sharpen.
"There was an issue with the paperwork," she says tightly, after a pause. Then, more sharply, "Good night, Daniel."
She turns, but the word slips out before I can stop it. "Wait."
She stops. I don't know why I do it—maybe it's the look in her eyes or the way her scent lingers in the air like a lure—but I reach for her hand. The contact is brief, just enough to make her turn.
"I didn't mean to offend you," I say quietly. "I was just curious."
Her lashes lower. "It's complicated," she says. "And not something I want to get into."
"Okay," I murmur.
There's a small crease between her brows—the same one I remember from years ago, when she was just Tess's best friend, always rolling her eyes at my overprotective lectures. Without thinking, I lift my hand and smooth my thumb over it.
She startles slightly. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I say, brushing gently across her nose. My thumb grazes the corner of her mouth before I can stop it. Her breath catches.
The tension shifts, thickens. Her eyes lift to mine, pupils wide. The faintest tremor runs through her. I can smell her now—not the sweetness from before, but something richer, darker, unmistakably Omega. It slides under my skin like heat.
"Daniel," she whispers, my name catching in her throat.
I press my thumb gently against the pulse point at her neck. It's racing. My hand moves almost on its own, tracing down, stopping just above her collarbone.
Her breath shudders out.
And then my voice, low and unsteady: "Do you know that shirt of yours is kind of see-through?"
Her eyes widen. "No," she says softly.
There's a flicker of something in her expression—embarrassment, yes, but also something hungrier. Her scent spikes again, flooding the space between us. My restraint starts to crack.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath. My thumb moves to her right nipple before I can stop it, a slow back-and-forth motion that makes her tremble.
She bites down on a soft sound—a whimper, barely audible but enough to gut me. The air feels electric, like the whole room is holding its breath.
And then—footsteps upstairs. A door creaks open.
We jump apart, both breathing too hard.
"I have to go," I say quickly, my voice hoarse.
"Same," she whispers. Her hands twist in front of her, her cheeks still flushed.
I don't even wait for her to move. I grab my coat from the chair, mutter something that might be "good night," and head for the door.
The cold night air hits me like a slap. I don't stop walking until I'm halfway across the parking lot, hands braced on my knees, trying to steady my breathing.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?" I say out loud. My voice echoes against the snow. "She's Tess's best friend. For fuck's sake."
I run both hands through my hair, pacing. The image of her standing there—the thin gray fabric, the warmth of her skin under my fingers, the look in her eyes—won't leave my head. I feel unsteady, reckless, like something in me has been cracked open after years of keeping it locked tight.
Two years. It's been almost two years since I've been with anyone. Two years of focusing on work, on the firm, on keeping my life in straight, controllable lines. And one accidental touch from her—one look—and all of that discipline goes up in smoke.
"Jesus," I mutter, pulling out my phone. My hands are shaking as I type.
Group Chat: The Idiots' Den
Leo: You alive? Where are you?
Gray: Shots are waiting. Don't make us start without you.
That was almost forty-five minutes ago. Fuck!
Me: On my way to the Bluejay. Need a drink.
Gray: That bad?
Me: You have no idea.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and head for my truck. The night is freezing. The cold burns, but it doesn't do a damn thing to clear my head.
As I drive, the town blurs past in streaks of yellow light. I keep replaying the moment—her shiver, her voice, the sound of my name on her lips. The guilt sits heavy in my chest, tangled up with something else I don't want to name.
By the time I reach the Bluejay's parking lot, the neon sign is flickering blue against the snow, and the noise of laughter spills through the walls.
I kill the engine and sit there for a second, hands gripping the steering wheel.
"You're not doing this," I tell myself. "She's off-limits. She's always been off-limits."
But deep down, I know the truth. Something has already shifted. And no amount of denial is going to make it go away.
The Bluejay is quieter than I expected when I push through the door. The air smells faintly of hops, lime, and the faint tang of bleach—last-call cleanup already underway. Someone's put on a slow country track, one that plays like the last sigh of the night.
Leo and Gray are exactly where I should've guessed they'd be—perched at the bar, elbows wide, heads tilted over a game of cards. There's a pile of bottle caps near Leo's hand, his version of betting chips, and Gray's half-smiling, half-scowling in that way he does when he's trying not to lose.
"Hey," I say, lifting a hand.
"Hey!" Leo calls, grinning like he's just won something. His cheeks are flushed, his curls pushed back messily, his shirt half untucked. He's got that satisfied look that tells me he's either eaten something amazing or gotten laid.
Judging by the musk layered over his cologne, I'd bet on the latter.
Wes looks up from wiping the counter. "Evening, Daniel. Last call, but I can pour you one."
"Beer's good," I tell him, sliding onto the stool beside Gray. The wood is cool beneath my palms. "Whatever's coldest."
Wes grabs a bottle from the fridge, pops the cap, and sets it down. The first sip hits like something solid in my chest—bitter, grounding. Exactly what I need.
Another scent hits me.
Sweet. Feminine. Not Mara's honeyed warmth, but sharper—something citrus and sweat, mixed with alcohol. My brows lift before I can stop them.
I glance toward Leo. "Who did you fuck?"
He smirks like a cat that's found cream. "Nina. The waitress."
Gray chuckles low.
Leo shrugs, unrepentant. "She flirted first. I'm just polite."
I laugh, shaking my head. The tension in me eases, just a little. My pulse had been pounding since I left the café—since I'd run out like a coward before Mara could say anything else. Now, with these idiots here, the air feels breathable again.