Page 2 of Claimed By the Bookstore Alpha
Each interaction reminded me why I preferred books to people. Books didn't make small talk. They didn't judge you for living alone above your shop or for not remembering their names even though they'd been coming in for months. Books sat quietly on their shelves, waiting for someone who actually wanted them.
But twenty minutes after the tourist left, when I was supposed to be updating my science fiction section, I found myself pulling Clark's book out of the drawer. Just to look at it again and see if the illustrations were as good as I remembered.
The dragon on the cover really did look serious. His scales were a deep green, almost black while his eyes were narrowed in what could be suspicion or just concentration. But the way he was curled around the books, protecting them, suggested the latter. And maybe he was a little lonely too.
I flipped through the pages and read the story instead of just checking the production quality. The dragon in the tale hoarded books instead of gold, preferring stories to treasure. When other dragons mocked him for his strange collection, he retreated deeper into his library cave, convinced he was better off alone.
The parallel wasn't subtle, but it wasn't insulting either. If anything, the story seemed to understand something about the appeal of solitude and how books could be better company than most people. The dragon wasn't portrayed as wrong for preferring stories to socializing, just incomplete.
By the end, the dragon learned to share his favorite tales with people in a small village, becoming their storyteller while still maintaining his precious library. It was a compromise rather than a complete transformation, which I appreciated. Too many stories demanded that loners become social butterflies, as if there was something fundamentally broken about preferring your own company.
I closed the book and looked at the back cover again. Clark's bio mentioned three other published titles, all with the same Sunnyside Press. The name was nauseating, but their production values were solid and Clark’s book had been thoroughly edited based on what I'd seen.
A quick scroll through his social media revealed more information than I wanted. Clark Branigan had a small but dedicated following, mostly among parents and elementary school teachers. His books consistently got good reviews, and several had won minor awards from library associations. He did frequent school visits and reading events, always with that same dazzling smile from his author photos.
There were also pictures from what looked like a book fair where Clark was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by a circle of children. He wore jeans and a sweater that had to be hand-knitted and his whole demeanor was relaxed and genuine. The kids were clearly eating up whatever story he was telling based on their eager faces.
I tried to imagine having that kind of easy connection with people and failed. I'd never been good with children or adults. My default setting was suspicious wariness, a holdover fromyears of keeping my wolf hidden. Most people sensed something different about me, even if they couldn't put their finger on what.
But Clark hadn't seemed put off. If anything, he'd leaned into my gruffness, treating it like an interesting challenge rather than a character flaw. The dragon comment had been perceptive in a way that made me uncomfortable, as though he had seen straight through my carefully maintained defenses.
My wolf whined with longing but I pushed him down. I'd learned long ago that getting attached to people only led to complications. Better to keep everyone at arm's length and maintain my quiet life above the bookstore where I didn't have to explain my strange hours or why I sometimes went missing during a full moon.
The bell chimed again. It was one of my regular customers. Martin was in his seventies and a retired English professor who came in every few weeks to browse the classic literature section. He was one of the few people I enjoyed talking to, mostly because he understood the value of comfortable silence.
"Afternoon, Flynn." Martin headed straight for his usual section. "How's business?"
"Same as always." I slipped Clark's book into the drawer. "Slow but steady."
"Good, good." He pulled a copy of Dickens from the shelf and examined the spine. "You know, I was talking to Janine at the library yesterday. She mentioned they're looking for local authors to participate in their summer reading program."
I grunted noncommittally. The library's programs were usually loud affairs that I avoided at all costs.
"Might be good for business" Martin was apparently oblivious to my lack of enthusiasm. “You should get some families in here and introduce them to the store. Janine specifically mentioned they're trying to find someone who writes children's books."
The timing felt like a cosmic joke. I glanced at the drawer where Clark's book lay hidden. "I don't really cater to families." Years of keeping my wolf tucked away— except when we shifted alone in the forest—and closing myself off from the world, had made me forget how to be around people.
"Maybe that's the problem." Martin looked up from his browsing with a knowing smile. "This place has good bones, but it feels like a tomb sometimes. A little life wouldn't kill you."
Before I could respond, he had moved on to another shelf, apparently done dispensing unsolicited advice. I watched him browse for a few more minutes before retreating to my office in the back, where I could pretend to do paperwork while avoiding any more uncomfortable observations about my life choices.
But Clark’s book called to me from the front counter, and Martin's words echoed in my head alongside Clark’s earlier comment about being selective. Maybe everyone was trying to tell me something, but I'd never been good at taking hints.
I went back to my spreadsheet, but Clark's words echoed in my head for the rest of the day. “... selective about who you share your enthusiasm with.” That was what he’d said.
It was a kinder way of saying what everyone else thought about me that I was antisocial, difficult and a person who scared away customers instead of welcoming them. But he had said it like it was a good thing, like being selective meant having standards instead of just being a jerk.
When Martin finally left with his Dickens, I was alone again with my books and my thoughts. The evening stretched ahead of me. I'd close the shop at six, heat up something frozen for dinner, and spend the night reading in my apartment upstairs. It was a routine that had served me well for years.
So why did it suddenly feel insufficient? At thirty-four, I'd perfected the art of being alone. It wasn't that I was naturally antisocial but I'd learned it was safer.
My wolf curled into my chest and thought about dragons and stories and how he’d like someone to read the book to him. I tried hard not to think about why that was.
TWO
CLARK
I'd been staring at the bookstore for ten minutes before working up the courage to go inside.
