13. Gabriella
Gabriella
Okay, apart from seeing my sweet son go off to enjoy his very first sleepover, tonight has been a total fucking shitshow.
And considering I spend most of my life waiting for a homicidal Wake of Bearded Vulture Shifters to find me, that’s really saying something.
It started with the keg.
Of course it did.
Not just any keg, either.
The keg for Dick’s most popular locally brewed IPA decided to stop working right in the middle of the Friday-night rush.
And Dick—the man himself, because yes, apparently there really is a Dick behind Dick’s—decided I was the perfect person to send into the basement to figure out why.
I bartend.
I waitress.
I pour drinks.
At no point during the hiring process did anyone ask whether I possessed advanced beer-delivery-system repair skills. But it was either do what Dick said or get sent home for the night, and I still had the bachelorette party to work.
An extra hundred dollars is an extra hundred dollars, so down to the basement I went.
Twenty frustrating minutes later, I managed to get the stupid thing working.
Mostly.
Unfortunately, I also managed to spray myself with enough warm beer to smell like I’d spent the evening wrestling a drunken frat boy.
So now the front of my black shirt is half damp, my hair has started frizzing around my face, and every time I move I get another delightful whiff of sour IPA.
Sexy.
Not.
I mean really Havoc Cross doesn't know what he’s missing. My stomach immediately clenches.
No. Absolutely not.
We are not thinking about him.
Especially since he hasn’t bothered showing his Viking-looking face around here all week.
Not that I’ve noticed.
Except I have.
Every single night. Every time the front door opens, my stupid heart gives this ridiculous little jump before I can stop it. And every time it isn’t him?
I hate the little sinking sensation that follows.
Which is pathetic.
He isn't mine. We aren't dating. We never kissed.
Nothing happened.
We spent one afternoon together.
Cookies.
Lunch.
An argument in the park where he looked at me with those incredible golden eyes and told me I felt like more.
That was it.
And yet I’ve spent all week wondering whether he’s safe. Whether he’s still fighting that same wildfire? If it’s contained yet. Whether he’s been hurt. Is he eating? Sleeping?
Whether—stop. I have enough problems tonight without adding Rowan fucking Cross to the list.
Problem number two?
The bachelorette party.
I should've known the guaranteed hundred bucks was too good to be true.
Because apparently an entire group of women missed the memo explaining that Mean Girls was a movie, not an instructional guide for adult behavior.
There are at least twelve of them in Dick’s back room.
Maybe more.
All dressed in various shades of pink except the bride, who’s wearing white so tight I can practically identify her internal organs.
They’re loud.
Drunk.
Entitled.
And apparently, every single one believes she’s starring in her own reality show.
Which leaves me half-soaked in stale beer while waiting hand and foot on a bunch of prima donnas who have spent the better part of two hours criticizing everything from the drinks to the music to my body.
Whatever.
I’ve survived worse. Much worse. This is a piece of cake.
I balance another tray against my hip and enter the back room. Immediately, the bride makes a face.
“Finally.”
I smile. My customer-service smile.
The one that says I hope you enjoy your evening while my brain says I hope you choke on an olive.
“Here you go, ladies.”
I start unloading glasses.
The bride—Lindsey, according to the obnoxious sash stretched across her chest—picks up the bottle of sparkling wine I brought and stares at the label like I’ve personally insulted her ancestors.
Her nose wrinkles.
“What is this?”
“The sparkling wine you ordered.”
“This is not champagne.”
“No. Like I explained earlier, we don't carry champagne.”
She looks at me like I've just announced indoor plumbing hasn't reached Montana.
“Look, I don’t care how they do things in the trailer park, but we requested bottle service, and this cheap-ass wine cooler is not what we ordered!”
My fingers tighten around the tray.
One.
Two.
Three.
Breathe, Gabriella.
I need this job. More importantly, I need the extra hundred dollars.
“I’m sorry, miss, but this is the best sparkling wine we have. If you’d like, you can try another brand, but like I told you before, we’re more of a beer bar than a champagne-service establishment.”
Her mouth drops open.
“Oh my God, you skank! How dare you talk to me like that! Do you even know who I am?”
No.
And I cannot adequately express how much I do not fucking care.
Before I can answer, the blonde sitting beside her reaches over and rubs Lindsey’s arm.
“Lindsey, Lindsey, look at me. She’s nobody. Don't get upset.”
My smile freezes.
Nobody.
“After all,” Blondie continues, shooting me a smug little look, “you’re getting married to the best-looking guy around in just two days!”
The women squeal.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Nobody.
I've been called worse.
Much worse.
These women can't touch me. They can't hurt me. They're just a bunch of spoiled assholes who've had too much to drink and apparently need to make another woman feel small in order to feel important themselves.
So why is the other part of me suddenly so restless?
I open my eyes. And I really look at them.
Something has been bothering me since they arrived.
Their scent.
Perfume dominates everything. Expensive perfume, hairspray, alcohol, body lotion. But underneath all of that?
Feathers.
My heart skips.
I inhale again. Subtly.
Fuck.
Definitely feathers.
My fingers curl around the edge of the tray. None of these women behave like Shifters. They don't move like them.
Don't smell strongly enough to be Aviary themselves.
Human. All of them. I'm almost sure.
But they’ve been around Aviary Shifters recently. A lot.
My hidden nature stirs beneath my skin.
Not now.
I force her down. The Suicide Cliff Wake isn't the only group of Aviary Shifters in the world.
Not even close.
There are Eagles. Hawks. Owls. Ravens. Vultures outside the Wake.
There are plenty of perfectly innocent reasons a group of human women might carry traces of Shifter scent.
Maybe one has a boyfriend. A relative. A coworker.
Maybe—stop.
I'm being paranoid.
That's what running does to you. Eventually, every shadow becomes a threat.
Every stranger looks suspicious. Every unfamiliar scent sends your heart into overdrive. And I refuse to live like that forever.
Especially here.
Ember Hollow is supposed to be different.
Home.
Matteo is next door right now at a birthday sleepover. He's in school. He has friends. I have friends.
Gia.
Mrs. Donnelly.
Maybe even—golden eyes flash through my mind.
Nope. Not thinking about him.
Still, I can't shake the sensation crawling along the back of my neck. Something is wrong. I feel it. The hidden creature beneath my skin feels it too.
“Hello?”
Fingers snap in front of my face. I jerk.
“What?”
Blondie rolls her eyes.
“Karaoke.”
I stare at her.
“I'm sorry?”
“We want karaoke.”
Of course you fucking do.
“We don't usually—”
“Dick said we could.”
I glance towards the bar. The bastard is studiously avoiding eye contact.
Traitor.
“Fine.”
Twenty minutes later, I'm hauling Dick’s ancient karaoke machine out of storage. It weighs approximately four hundred pounds.
Okay, probably forty.
But my back hurts, my feet hurt, I smell like fermented hops, and Lindsey has spent the last five minutes explaining that the microphone better not be “gross.”
I plug everything in. Check the speakers. Find the ancient binder containing the song list.
“Okay, ladies. You're all set.”
“Finally,” Lindsey mutters.
I ignore her. I pick up the microphone and turn toward them.
“Who wants to go first?”
One of the bridesmaids shoots her hand into the air.
“Me!”
“Great.”
I walk toward her.
That's when I see it.
Her foot.
It slides into my path.
Deliberately.
For one stunned second, I can't believe she's actually doing it. We're adults.
She seriously—my boot catches her ankle. The world tilts.
“Oh!”
The microphone flies from my hand. The floor rushes toward me.
Fuck.
I throw my hands out instinctively. My hidden nature surges.
Wings.
No.
I can't.
Not here.
Not in front of—strong hands clamp around my shoulders.
My body jerks to a stop. Instead of hitting the floor, I slam backward into something huge.
Hard.
Hot.
Familiar.
A growl rolls above my head. Not a human sound. Not even close.
Every hair on my body rises. My hidden nature goes utterly still.
Then explodes.
Mine.
My heart nearly stops.
No.
Mine.
He can't be.
“Careful, Honey Girl.”
That voice.
My entire body reacts before my brain catches up.
Heat rushes through me.
My pulse goes wild.
And suddenly I can smell him.
Smoke.
Pine.
Male.
Wolf.
Havoc.
I spin around so fast his hands slide from my shoulders to my waist.
And there he is.
My stupid heart leaps. Actually fucking leaps. Relief hits me first. So hard and so unexpectedly that my eyes sting.
He's alive.
He's here.
He's okay.
Except—no.
He's not okay.
“Havoc?”
He looks terrible.
Beautiful. But terrible.
His blond hair is still damp, like he showered in a hurry. Shadows darken the skin beneath those impossible golden eyes. There's a small burn along the side of his neck disappearing beneath his T-shirt, and the way he holds his left shoulder isn't quite right.
His face is drawn with exhaustion.
His T-shirt stretches across his chest, but something about his posture is too stiff.
Pain.
He's in pain.
All the petty hurt I’ve been nursing all week vanishes.
“What happened?”
My hands move without permission. One lands against his chest. The other reaches toward the burn on his neck.
Havoc catches my wrist before I touch it.
Not hard. Never hard.
His huge fingers wrap gently around me. His gaze drops to my hand against his chest. Something changes in his expression.
The feral intensity softens. Just a fraction.
“Nothing.”
I glare at him.
“Bullshit.”
His mouth twitches.
“You worried about me?”
“No.”