Chapter 1 Mira's Miserable Life Working At The Bar

• The bar reeked of spilled beer, sweat, and stale regret. Neon lights buzzed weakly against the cracked plaster ceiling, bathing the space in a ghostly blue hue. Mira Lane leaned over the sticky counter, the cheap polyester of her uniform clinging to her back with each movement. Her hands moved automatically, pouring shots for drunks who didn’t even bother to look her in the eye. This was her life—numb, forgettable, and drenched in the scent of hopelessness.
• "One more, sweetheart," a gruff voice slurred. The man’s breath stank of whiskey and nicotine as he shoved a crumpled bill across the counter. Mira didn’t flinch, but her stomach coiled.
• She poured him another. Smile. Nod. Walk away. Just like always.
• It was nearly 2 a.m., and the bar was thinning out, but the exhaustion in her bones stayed sharp. Her feet ached in her worn boots, and her throat was dry from shouting drink specials over the drone of bad music. Her long chestnut hair had been tied into a messy bun hours ago, but strands stuck to her neck with sweat. The back of her blouse was damp from the constant motion, and the black apron she wore was stained from a spilled margarita earlier that night.
• She hated this place. Hated the flashing lights. Hated the way customers treated her like furniture. Hated that her tips were getting smaller, and her bills kept getting bigger. But most of all, she hated the feeling that this was it—that her life had already been decided, carved into some invisible wall she’d never climb over.
• The only bright spot in her week was Tuesday nights, when her shift ended early and she walked home in the cool silence of pre-dawn. But tonight was Friday, and Fridays were the worst. More drunks. More creeps. More reminders that she was just another forgotten soul in a forgotten part of the city.
• “Hey, Mira,” called Frankie, the bartender she worked alongside. “Your break.”
• She nodded gratefully and slid out from behind the bar. The moment she stepped into the back alley behind the building, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all night. The alley was narrow and dimly lit, the single flickering bulb above the door casting long shadows. But it was quiet. Blessedly quiet.
• Leaning against the damp brick wall, Mira lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. She didn’t smoke often—couldn’t afford to—but sometimes, the ritual helped her feel human.
• The night breeze carried a faint chill, brushing against her skin like the fingers of something watching. She paused. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She turned sharply, scanning the shadows.
• Nothing.
• Just a cat rummaging through a trash bin. Her lips twisted in a tired smirk.
• “You’re losing it, Mira,” she muttered.
• But the feeling didn’t go away. If anything, it grew stronger—like someone was watching her from just beyond the reach of the streetlights.
• The cigarette trembled slightly in her fingers. She took a slow drag, trying to calm her racing heart. It’s just nerves. Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep.
• But then she saw him.
• A man. Standing at the mouth of the alley.
• He was tall—impossibly tall—with shoulders that seemed carved from marble. He wore a long black coat that fluttered slightly in the breeze, and his face was mostly hidden by the shadow of the streetlamp. But even in the dim light, Mira could feel the weight of his eyes.
• They weren’t just watching. They were consuming.
• She dropped her cigarette.
• He didn’t move.
• Her breath hitched as she took a step back, reaching behind her for the door.
• “Can I help you?” she asked, voice trembling more than she liked.
• Still, he said nothing.
• Something about his presence was magnetic, yet terrifying—like a predator playing with its prey. Mira’s pulse thundered in her ears. The door behind her creaked as she pushed it open.
• And then he was gone.
• Just like that. The alley was empty.
• Mira stood frozen for a moment, her chest heaving.
• “What the hell…” she whispered.
• Back inside, the music had stopped. Frankie looked at her as she walked in, brows raised. “You good?”
• She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Thought I saw… nothing. Never mind.”
• The rest of the night passed in a blur of half-empty glasses and blurred faces. But even after the last customer staggered out, even after the lights dimmed and the bar emptied, Mira couldn’t shake the feeling.
• Something had changed.
• At 3:07 a.m., Mira finally trudged home through the quiet city streets. Her apartment was only six blocks away, but each step felt like a mile. The silence wrapped around her like a blanket—until she felt it again.
• The watching.
• She spun around, but no one was there.
• Her heart raced. She started walking faster.
• She didn’t realize she was crying until she reached her building and wiped her face with her sleeve. Maybe she was going crazy.
• Her apartment was a shoebox—tiny kitchenette, secondhand couch, peeling paint. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it.
• Safe. For now.
• She kicked off her boots and pulled off her apron, wincing at the soreness in her shoulders. Her phone buzzed on the counter—another past-due notice. She didn’t bother reading the whole thing. What would it change?
• She stripped down to her tank top and underwear, crawled into the futon she called a bed, and curled up. But sleep didn’t come. Not for hours.
• Because every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.
• That man.
• Those eyes.
• They weren’t just watching.
• They knew her.
• Far above the city, perched on the rooftop of an abandoned cathedral, Cassian stared out across the sleeping streets. His black coat flared in the wind, dark hair tousled by the night air.
• He could still smell her.
• Mira.
• Her scent was fire and sugar, smoke and innocence. A scent he had searched centuries to find.
• He clenched his fists, knuckles white with restraint.
• Not yet.
• She wasn’t ready.
• But soon, she would be.
• His fated mate.