Chapter 9
YVAINE
Ashadow appeared behind the door, just under a sign bearing the cheery headline We don’t serve Dark Diamonds. The bell over the door jingled, and a little breeze swept into the shop—along with Tiziano.
“Did someone order a doctor in shining armor, or am I at the wrong coffee shop?” he announced under the oval lightbulb hanging from a rope, shaking two bags at us. Magnesium pills, aloe vera drinks, and seaweed snacks, judging by the smells.
“What sort of day have you had?”
“Terrible,” he huffed, sitting and handing the bags to us, his hair looking longer than usual. If he hadn’t had time for a haircut, then it must’ve been bad bad. “Three consecutive heart attacks followed by a six-hour aortic valve replacement.”
He was on track to be a rockstar cardiologist, and somehow he managed to balance his medical grind with an impressively active social life.
Last week, he’d gone on dates with two different guys and sat through a fourteen-hour surgery, yet he’d still managed to ace all his classes.
He was the chief surgeon’s son, which explained how he’d gotten into the field in the first place, but unlike me, who was knee-deep—or more like body-deep—in neurosurgery, Tiziano had always been more interested in hearts than brains.
He loved to remind me that the heart had its own little brain, complete with neurons, neurotransmitters, and supporting cells. It could act independently of the cranial brain and possessed extensive sensory capabilities—and he thought that made it way cooler than the actual brain.
Tiziano agreed with Plato that the heart, not the brain, was the true powerhouse.
Meh.
I wasn’t buying it.
Our never-ending debate about which one was more important would probably rage on until the end of time. Not a single day passed without us arguing over which deserved the anatomical crown.
“Missed you babies! Come here,” Tiziano cooed, swinging his arms around me and Makena, tugging us close. I got a face full of his shirt—Britney Spears was sticking out her tongue at me with her middle finger raised, and Oops, I did it again was embroidered on the collar line.
“Me too, Tizzy,” I lied.
“We saw you at breakfast.” Makena scowled. She’d been moody since the morning, and she’d said barely a word. Not that I could blame her.
“You both know how missable I can be!”
“Survival rate?” asked Amaia, referring to his patients.
“One in four. Told you. Terrible day.” Tiziano yawned; I covered his mouth with my hand. He dropped onto the wooden chair facing the café, his people-watching urges needing to be satisfied. “So, what’s new?”
“A new blood test could help doctors detect pancreatic cancer earlier,” Amaia informed us, typing with one hand and holding her cup of ginger lemon tea with the other—because why not be a little bit healthy while enjoying cake?
A half-eaten banh chung sat next to her elbow, not a single crumb on her keyboard.
“I can’t hear the C-word any more today,” I groaned, sipping my iced matcha latte.
Tiziano pulled on the end of my braid. “Bad day, babe?”
“I wish. Horrible day. One I want to erase from my long-term memory.”
Amaia, not happy with how her news had hit us, tried again. “A breakdancer developed a ‘headspin hole’—a bulge on his scalp—from doing head spins for years. The repeated pressure created a fluid-filled lump between the skin and skull that had to be surgically removed.”
“I meant in your day! What’s new in your day?”
“Oh, I forgot your need to go through the chit-chat phase, Tizzy.” Amaia huffed. “It’s exhausting sometimes.”
I chuckled. Even if my mood was crummy, I wasn’t going to waste my cake study session at the Pumpkin Hide. The washed-out red brick house, with its wide, arched windows and a stream of visitors trickling in and out of the doors, was our personal study hall every Wednesday.
We had our usual rectangular table under a window covered in Halloween decorations, little hanging ghosts and black cats that the owner never took down. The reservation tag “Tiziano x4” was always present on Wednesdays.
The café buzzed with late-afternoon life—a symphony of hushed conversations, the clinking of cups, and the hiss of the espresso machine. This was the kind of place where the world made sense, a quotidian routine that gave us comfort. No matter how bad things got, we’d meet here at Pumpkin Hide.
Hours passed. I lifted my head when my stomach reminded me it needed fuel to keep up with my demands, aka, my study marathon.
Tiziano, engrossed by the constant beep of his phone and varicose veins, was gulping his second mochaccino and digging into his second cinnamon bun, his fingers covered in frosting.
Makena lifted her gaze to me, making a noise when she sucked up the last remains of her iced chai latte. I mulled over my leftover matcha, swirling the green concoction around.
She nodded, still avoiding my gaze. Her face still looked a little puffy.
Making my decision, I stood, looped my arm through hers, and pulled her up to the counter.
“Which cheesecake should I try today?”
I scanned the pastry shop window, various towers of cakes on display, tempting us poor defenseless souls with sugar and butter masked behind pretty swirls of frosting.
Not that I needed help deciding. I was the kind of wolf person who would take forever mulling over the options only to end up ordering the same thing. Cookies and cream.
“Ivy, I—”
“Can I have a slice of cookies and cream cheesecake with an iced matcha latte, please? Oat milk.”
The boy scribbled down the order on his pad. “Sure, Yvaine. Coming right away.” His eyes rose to meet mine. “How’s the Highlander doing this week? Ready for the big game?”
All the games were big, but I didn’t specify that. “He’s on the field. Practice is more important than his lectures.”
To tell the truth, my twin was always so focused right before a game that it almost scared me.
Sometimes I wondered…how heavy must the pressure be?
Representing our pack, meeting everyone’s expectations?
It was a bulky backpack that he had to constantly carry on his overtrained shoulders.
It reminded me of Atlas, from Greek mythology, the titan condemned to hold the celestial skies atop his shoulders for eternity.
Since last night, I seemed to have developed a new, compulsive tic. I peered at my phone again, the bold notification indicating zero messages. Mocking me.
“Sorry about last night,” my friend whispered from behind me.
“Makena Odhiambo, you don’t owe me any explanation.”
She tugged on the strings of her hoodie, a panda dozing off on the front of it. “It’s so embarrassing.”
I opened my arms wide for her. Makena, stiff as an ironing board, accepted my hug by just stepping into me.
“To give so much time to someone else! I can’t respect myself anymore, I just can’t.” Her arms remained two rods at her sides as I massaged her back.
“You are feeling. You are experiencing.”
Her chin dropped to my shoulder. “I don’t want people to see me crying.”
“Why not? Crying’s smart. Shows you’re strong. Brave. After a good cry, you always feel better.”
“I didn’t.”
“You cry when you let yourself feel. Sometimes it’s okay to feel like poop, to accept defeat.
To recognize that feeling—grief, frustration, rage—and sit with it.
Let those emotions pass through you…” I trailed off.
Her black curls tickled my nose, so I adjusted my face.
“In the end, every emotion teaches something, even the crappy ones. And I don’t judge you or expect a speech, so I’m sorry if you wasted time preparing one.
” By then, her arms were squeezing me tightly.
“It’s so hard, Ivy,” she said, her voice muffled. “I hate men.”
“Good thing you have friends. The best ones. We’re all in a relationship, too!” I always considered my friendships like full relationships. “Maybe focus more on yourself and your friends. Use less energy on him.”
“I knew you were hanging out with the psychology people behind our backs!” she accused with a sniff, teasing me.
I huffed out a laugh. “I love you, and if you need me, you know where my room is.”
We freed each other, keeping our hands linked. A reminder we were there, always. She popped a quick kiss on my cheek and murmured a thank-you.
“One gluten-free carrot cake,” she then ordered, “with a vanilla iced chai latte.”
Her usuals.
Makena and Gaius were in a warlationship, and we had all learned to stay out of it.
Were they mates? Second-chance mates, those lucky souls who had been granted a second mate after losing or rejecting their first?
Theories swarmed abound. Plus, Makena had more walls than a castle.
And that was okay! I liked to think about my own business and leave other people’s business to, well, other people.
Back at the table, I glanced at my phone from time to time. Let’s add checking my phone to my list of unhealthy addictions, along with coffee, cookies and cream cheesecakes, and Zeus.
Absolutely disturbing.
I stabbed a chunk with extra violence and popped it in my mouth.
“But why do you need to get a Golden Furs dick? And why do I need to come with you?” Tiziano insisted, shielding his eyes from Makena’s very powerful, pleading gaze.
“I need the best wingbitch with me! Please, Tizzy! For me?”
It worked eight times out of ten.
“I smashed my bat against their captain’s head after the game! As much as I love to be hated there, I’d be a target if I went anywhere near the GF campus! Want me to risk my life just to make Gaius jealous?”
“Yes. Pretty please?”
“There’s no way! And that’s final.”
It felt like the entire coffee shop went silent in response.
Tiziano always hung out with the same crowd, at the same places, wereball-approved. The reason? To avoid meeting his mate. Not that he was against it, but he was in no rush to find his other half.
In the end, Tiziano agreed to go with Makena, but only after 8,374,312,730 “you owe me” remarks.