Page 3 of Fated to Him

I wipe my damp palm on my jeans and cross the floor to investigate, my boots sticking from the night’s spilled drinks. On the way, I flash a smile at a man who waves an empty bottle at me. “I’m coming!”

I get to Malakhi’s table, set my tray on it, and pick up the folded napkin.

The word scrawled in pitch-black ink makes me forget to breathe.

Mine.

What is that supposed to mean? The table is his? The beer?

My stomach tightens.

Me?

I chew my lip as I frown at the exit. Clint told me Malakhi used to come to the bar once a month before I started working here. Now he’s here on a nightly basis.

Who the hell are you, Malakhi Gabriel? And why do I think the thing you’re trying to claim is me and not this table?

2

MALAKHI

She was stepping out of the Hellwood Brewery when I first saw her.

Mate.

It wasn’t just her large amber eyes that confirmed it. My wolf went wild, clawing at my insides to get to her. I was rock hard in under a second. I felt it in my bones, my soul, my heart. Anywhere and in every way a person could know something, I knew Delilah Stacey was mine.

I rolled down my window as I parked my truck outside the bank instead of crashing through it as I’d been about to, and I drew her scent deep into my lungs.

Wildflower and honey.

Her long black hair struck me next, the ends shading from pitch black to a dark gray and then to almost white at the tip.

Like a wolf's tail.

How the hell does a woman who smells human—incredible, but only human—have hair like that? I’d asked myself.

My wolf had snarled in my head, desperate to get out of me so he could bite her soft, creamy throat.

He wanted to claim her. Still does. So does the man.

Tonight was going to be the night I spoke to her.

I knew her name already and what time she’d finish. Not much happens in a small town that doesn’t spread in record time. But I want her to tell me. Not Della, the name she gives the locals with a smile that says, ‘keep your distance.’

Her real name.

Delilah Stacey. I want her to tell me in her soft, husky voice. And I need the smile she gives me to be real. Not the practiced one she flashes the bar patrons.

Jerry ruined all that.

I stay away from the Hellwood Brewery to avoid people like him. A woman—anyone, really—has the right to work without someone grabbing their ass ten times a night. I see shit like that, and I want to tear someone’s arms off.

But to see him reach for Delilah? Try to touch my mate?

I’d been pushing myself to my feet, ready to tear into him. Never mind that it’s a Friday night, and all the tables are full. Werewolves aren’t the stuff of myth and legend as everyone might think. I know because I shift into a wolf and run with my pack almost every night, the way I have since I turned eighteen ten years ago and became Alpha of Pack Arleigh.

I hadn’t needed to shift, which would’ve exposed my secret.

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