STORY EXCERPT

Phineas

Late morning sunlight filtered through the windshield, warming my face as I sat in the parking lot behind Main Street. Every muscle ached from last night, a reminder that last night had happened, that it wasn’t just another nightmare.

Mrs. Pegged from HR had taken one look at me this morning and steered me into her office. “Honey, you look like death warmed over,” she’d said, pushing a box of tissues across her desk even though I wasn’t crying. “Take the rest of the day. Mental health is important.”

Mental health. Right. If that were the case, I needed to take the rest of my life off. Funny how people could see bruises but not prison bars.

In the rearview mirror, the bruise bloomed purple-green beneath layers of Maybelline's finest. Tomorrow I’d need to buy a different brand.

Add it to the list of things I’d never thought I’d become an expert in, along with walking silently, cooking perfect portions, and smiling through pain.

Easy to think. Harder to execute when Ben tracked my bank account, my phone, probably my damn heartbeat through that fitness app he’d insisted we both download.

That’s why I had “accidentally” left my phone stuffed inside a drawer in my desk at work. If I hadn’t, Ben would’ve blown it up by now, demanding I head straight home where he could watch me through the many cameras scattered throughout the house.

Scanning the street, I searched for that familiar silver BMW. Ben worked forty minutes away in some glass tower where he terrorized administrative assistants instead of boyfriends, but paranoia had become second nature. Nobody seemed to be watching. Still, habit made me check twice. Three times.

I need to get out.

Not just out of this car but out of everything. Away from Ben, away from that yellow house that had become a prison. Maybe disappear into mountains and let the forest swallow me whole. Dramatic? Sure. But at least trees wouldn't backhand you for leaving towels in the wrong place.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, I inhaled spring air tinged with pine and something sweet from the bakery two doors down. Main Street stretched before me, all quaint storefronts and hanging flower baskets, like something from a postcard nobody actually sent anymore.

This was all I’d wanted when I’d moved here, a quiet life in a small town. Coffee on Sunday mornings. Maybe a garden. Or a friend who’d laugh at my terrible jokes.

Instead, I’d gotten Ben.

But standing here wasn’t getting me any closer to freedom. Planning required caffeine, and I’d never tried the local coffee shop. Ben preferred the chain place near his office, which meant this small rebellion felt almost revolutionary.

After glancing around one more time, I headed inside the café. The rich aroma of coffee enveloped me, layered with vanilla and a hint of cinnamon. Two customers stood ahead at the counter, giving me time to study the menu board. Lavender latte? Maple bourbon cold brew? When had coffee gotten so complicated?

I noticed the chair against the wall that would give me a perfect view of the door. Or I could sit at the table far enough from the counter no one would ask if I wanted a refill.

Only three people occupied spaces, none of them paying me any attention. Two were on their laptops and one was scrolling through her phone, all oblivious to my presence.

Movement behind the counter caught my attention, and my brain stuttered to a complete stop. Sweet merciful gay gods.

Dark hair was combed back, the sides shorn, the beard thick enough to run your fingers through. He worked the espresso machine with expert ease. His shirt stretched across shoulders that belonged on someone who rescued people from burning buildings, not someone who made lattes.

When he turned to grab another cup, greenish-amber eyes caught the light like honey mixed with jade.

Look away before he catches you and thinks you’re interested.

I studied the menu board with sudden fascination. House blend. Safe. Boring. Perfect for someone who definitely wasn’t noticing how those forearms flexed when—

What in the hell is wrong with you?

“Next.”

That voice, warm as the lighting, pulled me forward. Up close, those eyes were even more unusual, green with flecks of amber that shifted in the light. The barista’s smile reached them, creating tiny lines at the corners that suggested he smiled often and meant it.

“First time here?” The barista leaned forward slightly.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked, fighting the need to scan the café again.

“Well, you’ve been studying our menu board like it’s written in ancient Sumerian so either you’re new or really passionate about font choices.”

A surprised laugh escaped me. The hell?

“Just moved to town a few months ago.” The lie came easily. It was safer than explaining I’d been too terrified to leave my routine.

“I’m Drift, local caffeine dealer.” He gestured to the shop around us. “Welcome to my humble establishment. Opened it a few months ago.”

“Phineas.” Why did it feel as if I was talking to an old friend? At work, I moved like a ghost between cubicles. Lunch invitations flowed around me like I wasn’t even there. My coworkers traded weekend stories across breakroom tables while I ate alone. No personal calls, no after-work drinks, no chance for questions about the bruises. I had built these walls myself, brick by careful brick, yet the emptiness they contained followed me everywhere.

“Like the inventor?” Drift’s grin turned playful. “Promise not to tie me to any railroad tracks?”

“Wrong Phineas. Mine was more into winning a wager than villainy.”

“Ah, Phineas Fogg. Around the World in Eighty Days.” Drift leaned against the counter. Even from this distance Drift was so much taller than me. I wanted to be brave enough to close the distance and discover our exact height difference. “Though I’d argue there's treasure to be found in good coffee too.”

“You’re thinking of Phileas Fogg.”

For a second time I laughed.

“I stand corrected. What’s your poison?” Drift asked.

Ben.

“And please don’t say house blend.” He gave me a playful stink-eye. “I’ll judge you.”

Something softly clicked open inside me, my old self cautiously peeking out. “I was absolutely going to say house blend.”

“Thank god I saved you from social ruin. Try the maple bourbon cold brew. It’s basically autumn in a cup, minus the part where you have to rake leaves.”

Third laugh, soft, yet desperate to be heard. “Sold. Medium, please.”

“Living dangerously with medium. I like it.” Drift grabbed a cup, marker poised, gaze steady and playful. “Phineas with a P-H?”

ADULT EXCERPT

I stared at him. He stared back, patient, waiting for whatever reaction I had left in me after the first one had already been spent.

“That’s insane,” I said, which felt like an understatement roughly the size of a planet. “You’re insane. I’m insane for being turned on by it, which I absolutely am, and we should probably discuss that later, but right now, I need you to explain the other thing.”

“Which thing?” He climbed back onto the bed, unbothered by his own nudity, which only made it harder for me to look anywhere else.

“You said your wolf chose me.” My fingers twisted into the sheet, anchoring myself to something solid. “What does that mean? Chose me for what? Adoption? A snack? I need context, Drift.”

Something in his face softened, the teasing edge falling away into something rawer, more careful. He reached out and took my hand from the sheet, pressing it flat against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart.

“It means you’re mine,” he said. “Not in a way that traps you. Not in a way that takes anything from you. It means the part of me that doesn’t lie, the part that can’t lie, looked at you and decided you were it. The one I’m supposed to spend my life with.”

Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before. Ben had said plenty of things over the months, promises and apologies and threats dressed up as concern, but never anything that sounded like this. Never anything that sounded like a choice made freely instead of an obligation extracted through fear.

“When?” My voice came out breathy.

“The morning we made croissants.” His thumb traced slow circles against the back of my hand, still pressed over his heart. “You laughed at something stupid I said, and my wolf just... knew. Been trying to figure out how to tell you ever since without sounding like a lunatic.”

“Mission only partially accomplished,” I said, but there wasn’t any bite in it.

He huffed, and the sound was so warm, so achingly fond, that it undid something in my chest I’d kept locked tight for longer than I could remember. Nobody looked at me like that. Nobody had ever looked at me like I was the answer to a question they’d been asking their whole life.

“You could’ve led with the wolf thing,” I said, needing to fill the silence before it swallowed me whole. “Skipped past all the mystery. Just walked up to the counter that first day and said, ‘hey, I’m a werewolf, my dog side thinks you’re neat, want a croissant?’”

“Would you have believed me?”

“No,” I admitted. “I would’ve called the police and possibly a priest. This way was better. Traumatizing, but better.”

His laugh rumbled low, and he leaned closer, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin, smell the clean warmth of him under the lingering scent of bacon grease and coffee. My pulse kicked up, awareness sliding through me, and every rational thought I’d been clinging to about processing wolf shifters, mates, and cosmic wolf-choice dissolved into something far more physical.

“Phineas.” His voice had dropped, rough at the edges, and the way he said my name made my toes curl. “Been thinking about you since that first morning. About your hands in that dough. About the way you bit your lip every time you got something right.”

Heat crawled over my face, spreading fast. “That’s... you noticed that?”

“Noticed everything.” His hand slid from where it rested over his heart to my jaw, tilting my face up toward his. “Noticed how you flush right here.” His thumb brushed the curve of my cheekbone. “Noticed how your breath catches when I get close. Noticed you looking at my hands like you wanted them somewhere specific.”

My lungs forgot how to work. The bed groaned under his weight as he crawled over me, knees bracketing my hips. His mouth hovered just above mine, close enough that I could taste the coffee on his breath.

“I did,” I said, the words rough as sandpaper. “Want them right fucking there.”

His pupils swallowed the greenish-amber of his irises whole. “Tell me where, kitten.”

The word slithered through me like a lit fuse. My cock jerked against my sweats, already leaking. I licked my lips. “You know exactly where.”

“Say it.” His voice was all gravel and smoke. “Beg me for it.”

The command unraveled something inside of me. I arched up, my hips stuttering against his. “Put your hands on me. Now.”

He moved before I finished speaking. Calloused fingers skimmed my chest, catching the hem of my shirt, dragging it up to expose my stomach.

His thumb circled my nipple, slow and rough, until it ached. Then lower—peeled off my sweats, leaving me bare beneath him, my cock leaking against my stomach.

“Fuck,” he breathed, settling between my thighs, his exhale hot against my balls. “Look at you. All spread out for me. Like a goddamn feast.”

His hands were rough, calloused—working hands, not the kind that hesitated. They gripped my hips then dragged up my sides like he was claiming territory.

He paused at the bruises but didn’t ask, just traced them with his thumbs before moving higher, pinching my nipples until I arched off the bed with a broken sound.

His mouth found the inside of my knee, teeth scraping just enough to make me twitch. Then higher, lips dragging wet and open-mouthed up my thigh, slow enough that I could feel every ridge of his tongue.

My cock leaked against my stomach, so hard it ached. When his breath ghosted over the head of my cock, I bucked, my hips jerking up without permission. “Drift.”

“Right here, kitten.” His hand wrapped around my dick, thumb smearing the pre-cum at the tip, and then his mouth was on me, wet, hot, and perfect. The first drag of his tongue over the slit had my fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer, deeper, until his throat fluttered around the tip of my cock and I saw stars.

My hands stayed buried in his hair, and I couldn’t decide whether I was holding on for balance or just because I needed proof he was real.

He pulled off slowly, dragging his lips up the length of my cock until only the head rested against his tongue, and then he glanced up at me.

That look nearly finished me on the spot. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his mouth wet, his beard scraping soft friction against my inner thigh, and he was watching my face like my reactions were the whole point. Like the sounds I made mattered more to him than anything happening below his chin.

“You taste better than I imagined,” he said, his voice wrecked and low. “And I imagined a lot, kitten.”

“That’s—” My brain misfired. Words scattered like startled birds. “That’s a sentence you just said. Out loud. To me.”

“Gonna say worse.” His tongue traced a slow line up the underside of my dick, from base to tip, and my hips jerked against the grip of his hand. “Gonna tell you everything I’ve been thinking since you walked into my café. How I wanted to bend you over that flour-dusted counter. How I jerked off in the shower thinking about these thighs.” His palm slid up the inside of one, his thumb pressing into the soft muscle there like he was memorizing it. “About this pretty cock. About the noises you’d make if someone finally took their time with you.”

Heat flooded my face so fast I felt dizzy with it. Somewhere in the back of my skull, a small panicked voice pointed out that I was naked in a wolf shifter’s bed, hungover, emotionally compromised, and about thirty seconds from crying over a compliment aimed at my genitals. My life had become a genre I didn’t have a shelf for.