Chapter 2 The Stranger

• The wind stung my face as I tore through the woods, paws thudding against the wet earth. I didn’t care where I was going—I just needed to run, to escape the crushing weight in my chest.
• Branches snapped underfoot. Trees blurred past. My wolf didn’t stop. Not until the pain dulled to a low throb, and even she was tired of being angry.
• By the time I shifted back, my skin was damp with rain and sweat. My hair clung to my face, and I was somewhere deep in the northern edge of Graybridge—far from the pack, far from home, if I could even call that place home anymore.
• I didn’t plan on going back. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
• In the distance, I spotted flickering neon lights—Blue Moon Tavern. Fitting.
• I walked barefoot toward it, mud caking my feet, still wearing the tattered remains of my shift clothes from under the wedding dress. A few people outside started, but I didn’t stop. I pushed the door open and was greeted with loud music, stale smoke, and the clink of glasses.
• The bartender blinked as I approached.
• “You alright there?” he asked, eyeing my torn dress and matted hair.
• “I need a drink,” I croaked. “Something strong.”
• He poured without another word. I downed the first shot, then the second, then three more. The burn didn’t bother me. I wanted it.
• I wanted to forget.
• “Rough night?” the bartender asked after a while.
• I slammed my sixth shot glass down. “You have no idea.”
• “Maybe a bed would be better than the bar.”
• “Maybe,” I muttered, swaying slightly. “You rent rooms?”
• “Upstairs. We’ve got a few for overnight travelers.”
• “I’ll take one.”
• He handed me a key. “Room twelve. Down the hall, second left, past the stairs.”
• “Got it.” I nodded… or tried to.
• I grabbed the key, slid off the stool like a newborn deer, and made my way toward the hallway. I forgot the number immediately.
• Was it ten? Or twenty? No—twelve.
• I squinted at the numbers on the doors, my vision dancing. I stopped at a door that looked vaguely right. 210? 201? 120? Who cares.
• The key fit.
• I turned it and stumbled in.
• Dim lights. A warm scent of cedar and something spicy.
• I yawned and dropped my purse, letting my dress fall from my shoulder.
• Then I heard the door to the bathroom open.
• “What the hell?” a deep voice rumbled.
• I froze, heart lurching.
• A man stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, hair wet, water dripping down his abs like a slow tease from the goddess herself.
• He stared at me, stunned. “Who are you?”
• I blinked. “This is my room.”
• “No. It’s not.”
• I looked down at the key still in my hand, confused. “Room twelve?”
• He raised a brow. “This is twenty-one.”
• Shit.
• “Oh,” I mumbled. “My bad.”
• He walked forward, still dripping, still towel-clad, and just—why did he look like that? The body of a warrior, but the face of a man who could ruin someone without saying a word.
• “I’ll leave,” I said quickly, trying to back up.
• But I stepped on the hem of my dress and slipped.
• “Whoa—!”
• He caught me before I hit the floor, one strong arm around my waist.
• And just like that, the room shifted.
• Our eyes locked.
• There it was. That damn electric snap. Like the universe had grabbed my spine and yanked.
• My hands were on his chest. His skin was hot. My head spun—but not from the alcohol anymore.
• “Don’t,” I whispered.
• “Don’t, what?” he murmured, his voice low, steady.
• I should’ve pulled away.
• I should’ve walked out.
• But I didn’t.
• Instead, I leaned in and kissed him.
• Hard. Desperate.
• He froze for half a second, then gripped my waist and kissed me back—deeper, rougher, like he’d been waiting for something to break him open too.
• My dress dropped to the floor.
• His towel hit the ground.
• There was no name, no promise, no future. Just breath and skin and pain and need.
• He pressed me to the wall, lips grazing my jaw. “What’s your name?”
• I closed my eyes. “Does it matter?”
• He paused. Then, “No. Not tonight.”
• That was all it took.
• He lifted me with ease, laid me on the bed, kissed every broken part of me like it could be stitched together by mouth and tongue and fire.
• It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
• It was raw.
• And somewhere between the gasps and the tangled sheets, I gave something I’d never given anyone else—my body, my heart, my firsts.
• My virginity.
• To a stranger.
• And I didn’t regret it.
• Not even a little.
• I woke up to sunlight slanting through the window and the weight of an arm draped across my hip.
• For a moment, I forgot where I was.
• Then I turned and saw him.
• God, he was even more beautiful in the light.
• His face was relaxed, lashes dark against his cheekbones, jaw rough with stubble. He looked peaceful. Untouchable.
• I slipped out of bed carefully, grabbing my dress from the floor and wincing at the soreness between my legs.
• Last night came back in pieces—drinks, heat, skin, his voice whispering something I didn’t understand in my ear as I collapsed on top of him.
• I didn’t even ask his name.
• And I still didn’t want it.
• Not yet.
• I needed the illusion—that just once, I’d done something reckless for myself. That just once, I wasn’t someone’s pawn.
• I scribbled a note on a hotel notepad:
• “Thanks for the rescue. No regrets. – Q.”
• I placed it on the bedside table and slipped out quietly.
• I didn’t even look back.
• Outside, the town was waking. I stood at the corner of the street, unsure where to go. No home to return to. No pack to belong to.
• But for the first time in years, I felt something close to free.
• Still hurt. Still pissed. Still burning.
• But free.
• My phone buzzed. I’d forgotten I even had it.
• Caller ID: Mom.