1. Gabriella
Gabriella
My skin itches.
Not normal dry-skin, forgot-to-moisturize-after-my-shower itching either.
Nope.
This is the kind that starts somewhere underneath my skin and works its way outward.
Hot.
Restless.
Wrong.
Shit.
I resist the urge to scratch the spot just beneath my collarbone for probably the fiftieth time and smile at the man glaring at me from the other side of the counter.
“Your fries will be right out, sir.”
“I ordered them twenty minutes ago.”
It’s been seven.
I know because I entered the order myself.
“I understand.”
“No, you obviously don’t.”
My smile tightens.
Okay.
Fantastic. It’s going to be one of those days.
Behind me, something crashes in the kitchen.
“Goddammit!” my boss, Frank, shouts.
Yep.
Definitely one of those days.
The Joint is packed for lunch, every vinyl-covered booth occupied and almost every stool at the counter taken. The smell of burgers, onions, grease, and barbecue sauce hangs thick in the air, and normally I love it.
Okay, love might be a strong word.
I appreciate it.
The Joint pays my bills.
Mostly.
It puts food on the table.
Mostly.
And the tips keep Matteo in sneakers because my six-year-old apparently has the feet of a rapidly growing Sasquatch.
So, yes, I appreciate my job.
But today?
Today, I want to burn the fucking place down.
Which is an unfortunate thought, considering the guys who usually sit in the corner booth are actual wildfire firefighters.
“Gabby!”
I close my eyes.
One.
Two.
Three.
“What, Frank?”
My boss shoves through the swinging kitchen doors, wiping his hands on the stained apron stretched across his considerable belly.
“Table six has been waiting.”
“I know. Because table six ordered twelve minutes ago.”
“Well, get them drinks.”
“They have drinks.”
“Refills, then.”
“I just refilled them, Frank.”
His eyes narrow.
Mine probably do too.
Frank isn’t normally this much of a dick.
Dickish? Oh, absolutely.
But usually within tolerable levels. But not today.
Today, Frank apparently woke up and decided to pursue excellence.
“Maybe if you spent less time talking and more time working—”
“Talking to the customers is part of working, Frank.”
His face reddens.
I immediately regret it.
Not because I’m wrong.
Because I need this job.
That’s the thing about being a single mother. You don’t get to dramatically rip off your apron, tell your boss to shove his cheeseburgers up his ass, and storm out while inspirational music plays in the background.
You smile.
You swallow it.
Then you pay the fucking electric bill.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m having a weird day.”
His expression softens approximately three percent.
“Just keep moving.”
“Always do.”
He disappears into the kitchen.
I exhale.
Then I scratch my collarbone.
Fuck. It’s getting worse.
The sensation has spread down my arms now.
I can feel it beneath my skin.
And that scares me because nobody can know what I keep hidden under there.
Nobody.
I’ve spent years making sure of that.
Years learning how to hold the secret tight enough that nobody looks twice at Gabriella Santos.
Human.
Waitress.
Single mom.
Nobody special.
That’s exactly how I like it. Because special gets you noticed. Different gets you hunted. And I have Matteo to protect.
My son comes before everything. Even the part of me that sometimes feels like it’s suffocating beneath the life I’ve built.
Especially that part.
I grab a pitcher of iced tea and head toward table six.
At least Matteo isn’t here today. Mrs. Donnelly, my landlady, has him for the afternoon. She’s seventy-two, opinionated as hell, and considers Matteo the grandson the universe forgot to give her.
Which works out pretty damn well for me.
I rent the little apartment above her garage, and she occasionally watches my kid when shifts change unexpectedly.
Like today.
“Mommy has to work” has become the unofficial motto of Matteo’s childhood. That thought hurts more than the itching.
I shove it away.
He’s loved.
He’s safe.
That counts for something. And lately, things have gotten better. We’ve actually made some friends.
Real ones.
Gia Anatoly somehow bulldozed her way into my life with the subtlety of a Jersey Turnpike pileup, and I fucking adore her for it.
She’s funny.
Loud.
Warm.
She never makes me feel like the struggling waitress she took pity on. She simply decided one day that we were friends.
Apparently, that’s how Jersey women operate. And I don’t hate it.
We spent yesterday afternoon working on one of the rental cabins for her sister, Valerie, who’s supposed to arrive soon.
Gia is pregnant, newly engaged, and apparently incapable of doing anything slowly, so I’ve appointed myself the person responsible for stopping her from lifting furniture.
Her man sure seems to appreciate that.
Grayson O’Connell.
Wreck.
Six-foot-a-million of muscle, mismatched eyes, scars, and perpetual growling.
That last part probably has something to do with the fact that he’s a Bear Shifter.
Of course, none of them knows I know that.
Or how I know.
And I intend to keep it that way.
That’s my secret to keep, and there’s sort of an unspoken agreement among supernaturals when it comes to shit like this.
Don’t ask.
Don’t tell.
Don’t expose someone else’s secrets unless you want yours dragged into the light too.
So Wreck doesn’t know that I know he can turn into a massive fucking Bear.
And I don’t plan on telling him.
The first few times I met him, I thought he might actually eat someone. Then he mated Gia.
Now? Big fucking teddy bear.
Well. With Gia, he is.
The other day, some guy at the market looked at her ass for approximately two seconds too long, and I watched Wreck’s eyes change while a growl rolled out of him that made three people abandon the produce section.
So maybe teddy bear is stretching it.
Psychotic teddy bear?
Yeah. That works.
I smile despite myself.
Gia loves him.
You can see it. More importantly? He loves her.
Not regular love either.
Not the kind I’ve known.
It’s consuming. Instinctive. Almost frightening in its intensity.
And God help me, there’s a part of me that’s jealous. I’ll never admit it out loud, though.
Wreck watches Gia like the world begins and ends wherever she happens to be standing.
I often catch myself wondering what that would feel like.
Then I remind myself I’m Gabriella Santos.
Thirty-something. Single mother. Waitress.
Owner of a bank account that occasionally dips low enough to give me heart palpitations.
And beneath my skin—no.
I shut that thought down immediately.
My skin prickles again.
“Stop,” I whisper.
The thing inside me quiets.
Barely.
I finish the refills and turn toward the kitchen. That’s when the bell over the front door jingles.
Every nerve in my body fires at once.
I stop.
No reason. None. Except suddenly the itching vanishes.
Completely.
The restless thing beneath my skin goes quiet.
My lungs fill with a scent that absolutely should not make it through a restaurant filled with grilled beef and barbecue smoke.
Pine.
Smoke.
Male.
Him.
Oh, fuck me.
I know who walked through that door before I even turn around.
A-Feral.
My favorite firefighters.
Three massive males come through the entrance like the doorway personally offended them by being too small.
Wreck enters first.
“Hey, Wreck,” I call.
His mismatched eyes find me immediately.
“Gabriella.”
Then his attention shifts toward the kitchen.
“Gia here?”
I laugh.
“See? This is why nobody invites you anywhere anymore.”
His brow furrows.
“What?”
“You don’t even say hello before asking where your mate is.”
“I said Gabriella.”
“That was my name, not hello.”
He considers that.
“Hello, Gabriella. Where’s Gia?”
I laugh despite myself.
“Not here.”
His expression darkens.
“Where is she?”
“She went back to the cabin.”
“Alone?”
“Oh my God.”
He’s already reaching for his phone.
“She’s pregnant.”
“I know, Wreck. She told me so herself. You were there.”
“She shouldn’t be alone.”
“She is a grown woman.”
His stare tells me he finds that completely irrelevant.
“She’s fine,” I add. “She said she was tired and wanted to lie down.”
That stops him.
“Fuck. She was tired?”
I bite my lip.
This giant terrifying male is ridiculous.
“Pregnant women get tired.”
“I should go.”
A hand catches the back of his shirt.
“Sit the fuck down, Yogi.”
And there he is.
Rowan Cross.
Havoc.
My entire body goes strangely still.
He’s beautiful.
Not pretty.
Nothing about that man is pretty.
Beautiful, like something ancient and dangerous.
Like a Viking king, somebody tattooed, pissed off, and dropped into Montana.
Blond hair falls around a face carved in hard lines. His shoulders stretch his dark A-Feral T-shirt, and ink disappears beneath both sleeves.
But his eyes are what get me.
Gold.
Not brown.
Not hazel.
Gold.
Predator eyes.
Wolf eyes.
And right now?
They’re staring directly at me.
My pulse skips.
Havoc stops moving.
So do I. For one weird second, the restaurant fades.
The noise. The orders. Frank cursing from the kitchen.
All of it.
Poof. Gone.
His nostrils flare.
Once. Then again.
Something moves behind those golden eyes.
Something hungry.
My skin prickles again, but differently this time.
Not itchy.
Aware.
The hidden thing inside me stretches toward him.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I pull my glamour tighter.
Havoc’s eyes narrow.
Could he tell?
Impossible.
He’s a Wolf Shifter, yes, but my secrets are mine.
I’ve kept them hidden this long.
He couldn’t possibly—
“Gabby?”
I jump.
Wreck is staring at me.
“Sorry. What?”
“Our table?”
“Oh! Right.”
I grab three menus even though these assholes know the menu better than I do.
“Usual booth.”
Justin Spark walks past me with a nod.
“Thanks, Gabriella.”
As for Justin?
He is also terrifying.
Dark.
Quiet.
Dragon Shifter.
But Justin is fair. He mostly treats me like he would anyone else.
Wreck treats me like Gia’s friend, which apparently makes me some sort of honorary protected citizen.
Havoc?
Havoc looks at me like he wants to figure out what I’m made of.
That makes me nervous.
Very fucking nervous.
I follow them toward the booth.
Bad idea.
Because Havoc walks in front of me.
And the man has an ass.
Good Lord.
Apparently fighting forest fires does wonderful things for the male posterior.
I jerk my gaze upward.
Behave, Gabriella.
I know better than this. That Wolf is not for me.
But still.
A girl can look and admire, can’t she? That’s all it is because I have no illusions about myself.
Men who look like Havoc Cross don’t look twice at women like me.
I mean, I know what I look like. But in case I forgot, I glance down at myself with a sigh.
Black yoga pants hugging hips wider than I prefer.
The Joint uniform t-shirt stretched across breasts that have never gotten the memo that gravity is the enemy.
Soft stomach.
Thick thighs.
Curves everywhere.
I’m not ugly. And I don’t need anyone’s pity. I am more than okay with my appearance.
So, no. It’s not that.
But Havoc?
Havoc looks like he belongs on the cover of some filthy Viking romance where the hero carries an axe and kidnaps the heroine before ravishing her against a—Jesus Christ, Gabriella.
I need to get laid.
Actually, no.
I do not need to get laid.
That’s how I got Matteo.
Best thing that ever happened to me?
Absolutely.
His father?
Not so much.
I set the menus down, but it’s just a formality. I know their orders by heart.
“What can I get you guys to drink?”
“Water,” Justin says.
“Coke,” Wreck answers distractedly while texting what I assume is his mate.
Then I look at Havoc. His gold eyes are already locked on me.
Of course, they are.
“Rowan?”
His jaw clenches.
I blink.
“What?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Oh.”
I immediately feel stupid.
“Sorry. Havoc? That work for you?”
Something flashes across his face.
Regret, maybe.
“No. Yeah. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have—”
We stop talking.
Wreck looks up from his phone.
Justin’s eyebrow rises.
Oh, fantastic.
Now we have an audience.
My skin itches beneath my shirt and pants. Havoc’s eyebrows furrow and he leans back in the booth.
“Water’ll be just fine, Gabby.”
My stomach flips at the sound of my nickname in that rough voice.
“Water. Got it.”
I turn around to go.
“Gabriella?”
I look over my shoulder. Havoc’s golden gaze moves slowly over my face.
“Are you okay?”
Three words. That’s all. But somehow they land somewhere tender.
“Yeah,” I reply too quickly.
His eyes narrow.
“You sure?”
No.
My boss is being an asshole. My skin has been crawling all day. My body feels like it wants to rip through the mask I’ve spent years perfecting.
I’m exhausted.
I miss my kid even though I’ll see him in a few hours.
I have about seventy dollars left in my bank account until payday.
And the most gorgeous male I’ve ever seen is looking at me like he knows I’m lying.
“I’m fine,” I say.
The Wolf inside his eyes doesn’t believe me. Neither does the man.
But still, he nods.
“Okay.”
I walk away quickly before I do something stupid.
Like crawl onto his lap.
Or tell him the truth.
Or ask why the hell being near him suddenly makes the thing beneath my skin settle.
I reach the drink station and exhale slowly.
Don’t look back.
I look back. Havoc is still watching me.
Of course he fucking is.
His expression isn’t soft.
Men like him probably don’t do soft.
It’s intense.
Confused.
Almost angry.
Like whatever is happening between us pisses him off as much as it scares me.
Good.
At least we have that in common.
Because what the hell could Rowan “Havoc” Cross possibly want with a chubby little nobody like me?
Nothing. That’s the answer. The only answer.
It has to be.
And if some secret, desperate part of me wishes differently?
Well, I’ve gotten very good at keeping secrets.