Scarlett.
The morning sun streamed through the windows of our café, casting warm shadows across the freshly polished tables. Five years. Sometimes it felt like another lifetime since I’d fled the pack, and other mornings – like today – the memories rose fresh and raw in my mind.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” Alisha called from behind the counter, her dark hair now streaked with subtle caramel highlights – another small act of rebellion we’d both embraced in the human world. She’d traded her maid’s uniform for chef’s whites, and the confidence in her bearing made her unrecognizable from the timid wolf who’d once served the pack.
I smiled, watching the morning rush of humans queuing up for their breakfast pastries. Our pastries. Who would have thought a former Luna and her maid would end
