Page 34 of Craved By the Werewolf
Why was she running?
13
VALA
Mika idled the car at the drop-off curb, the headlights washing over the glass doors of Mystic Ridge Regional Airport. "So," she said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, "You haven't put your phone down the entire ride here. Still no word from Thorne?"
"Nothing," I said, tugging my carry-on from the back seat. "Not a call. Not a text."
Her brow furrowed. "That's weird, right?"
"It's..." I hesitated, trying not to let it sound as heavy as it felt. "Yeah. It's weird."
Mika glanced toward the terminal, then back at me. "Well, go crush your meeting. Call me after, and we'll dissect the mysterious case of the Silent Alpha."
I managed a smile. "Deal."
"Break a leg in LA." She gave a little wave.
I rolled my eyes, but it softened into a grin. "Thanks, Mika."
I pulled the handle on my carry-on and stepped inside.
The air was warmer here, touched with the faint shimmer of enchantment that was as much part of Mystic Ridge as the mountains outside. Floating signs glided overhead, shifting language depending on who looked at them. A few spelled out Departures in curling silver script, others simply projected glowing arrows toward the gates.
Security was quick—a polished archway flanked by two attendants in slate uniforms. I placed my palm flat against the glass plate; a wash of soft green light scanned from fingertips to wrist, followed by the faint click of authorization. My boarding pass blinked into existence on the translucent screen between us.
"Gate B2," the attendant said with a nod.
"Thanks," I murmured, stepping through.
The terminal curved like a crescent moon, windows looking out onto the dark runway where small lights danced like fireflies in the pre-dawn fog. My footsteps echoed against the tiled floor as I followed a floating arrow toward my gate, trying not to think about the fact that I still didn't know why Thorne hadn't called.
I reached Gate B2 with fifteen minutes to spare before boarding. The waiting area was mostly empty—just a couple of travelers sipping coffee that steamed in curling ribbons of aromatic enchantment, a goblin businessman muttering furiously into a crystal comm that flickered with each harsh syllable, and a pair of siren twins braiding each other's iridescent hair while their scaled tails shimmered faintly under glamour spells that couldn't quite hide the occasional flash of opalescence when they shifted positions.
A gate agent with pointed ears and fingertips that glittered with circuit-like markings gestured me forward. She passed a wand over my phone, causing the screen to illuminate with confirmation symbols.
"Welcome, Ms. Nightingale," she said with a warm smile, her eyes flicking to my profile information. "Enjoy your trip to Los Angeles. We're beginning priority boarding now and weather conditions are clear. Thank you for flying Mystic Air."
I thanked her and made my way down the jet bridge, which hummed with subtle containment wards designed to keep the more volatile magical energies from disrupting flight systems. The plane's interior greeted me with soft ambient lighting that adjusted to my mood signature—currently set to a muted lavender that betrayed my restlessness.
I tossed my carry-on in the overhead compartment and plopped down in my window seat, adjusting myself against the soft cushioning that supposedly adapted to body temperature. The glass was cool under my palm as I leaned forward, staring at the runway where fog swirled in ethereal patterns. Planes sat like sleeping beasts in the dim light, their wings tipped with faint blue glow runes that pulsed every few seconds, synchronized with the safety wards that encircled the tarmac. Through the misty darkness, I could see maintenance sprites darting between aircraft, their tiny lanterns bobbing like curious fireflies.
I should've been thinking about the LA meeting—the pitch deck, the talking points, the fact that the promotion I'd been chasing could be decided in a few hours. Instead, all I could see was Thorne's face, all I could feel was the weight of his hands on me, the way he'd said my name like it meant everything to him.
And he hadn't called.
It shouldn't matter—one night, no matter how good, didn't make anything official. He was the Alpha, with a pack to run and probably a hundred fires to put out. But my chest still ached in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
I thought of Haven House, of the kids who'd be counting on the fundraiser's success, and how the whole thing had started this mess in the first place. Mystic Ridge had a way of tangling you up—with its people, its causes, its monsters—until leaving felt harder than staying.
I had my phone in my hand, thumb hovering over the power button, when the screen lit with a new notification. A memory.
It was a photo from a few days ago, the kind the algorithm thought I might like to "relive." Me, Thorne, and the kids from Haven House, all crammed together for a group shot. I was laughing at something one of the girls had said, my hair a mess from the wind, and Thorne... Thorne was looking at me, not the camera. That intense, steady gaze like I was the only thing worth seeing.
The cabin noise faded. My chest went tight. I tried to swallow it down, but the knot only got bigger, pressing up into my throat.
What the hell was I doing? LA means nothing to me. Just another gleaming, hollow promise, a city of strangers and superficial connections. Everything I truly cared about was here, rooted in this strange little town with its secrets and shadows. The life I'd imagined in California suddenly seemed like a pale imitation of what I'd be leaving behind. My career could wait. My heart couldn't. I can't leave. I can't leave Mystic Ridge, can't abandon Haven House. Most of all, I can't leave Thorne—that infuriating, magnificent wolf with his dark eyes that saw throughevery wall I'd built, with his calloused hands that had traced fire across my skin. What we had was real, raw, and rare.
