Promised to the Beta

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

The scent of tomato sauce and melting cheese fills the air, warm and inviting. I slide another pizza into the stone oven, the flames l*****g at the edges of the crust. Lucy’s laughter floats over from the front counter where she's flirting shamelessly with a pair of regulars. The pace is steady in the Ironfur-owned pizzeria, our little sanctuary in the midst of the city's bustle.

I wipe my hands on my apron, flour dusting the dark fabric like fresh snow. My skin prickles with the sensation of being watched. It isn’t the usual, comfortable awareness of my pack nearby. This is different. Sharper. I glance up.

He walks in.

Blonde hair that looks like it's stolen rays from the sun, eyes the clear blue of a cloudless sky. Human. There's something about him that snags my attention, holds it tight. My breath catches in my throat, an odd flutter in my chest I can't quite name.

"Table for one, please," he says, voice smooth as river stones.

My gaze follows him as Lucy leads him to a booth by the window. She shoots me a quick, knowing look that I pretend not to see. Heat creeps up my neck. I focus on the dough beneath my fingers, trying to shake off the strange magnetism pulling me towards him.

"Order up!" calls Marco, our burly chef who's more teddy bear than wolf despite his size.

"Got it," I reply, but my eyes betray me, flicking back to the human as I grab the plates.

He's settled now, menu in hand, oblivious to the world. Oblivious to me. He shouldn’t stand out – just another customer in a city full of strangers. But my werewolf senses are attuned to nuances most humans miss. His scent drifts across the room, a blend of pine and something distinctly his own. It whispers secrets to my animal instincts, secrets I'm not sure I want to know.

"Earth to Mia," Lucy teases, her elbow nudging my side. "You gonna take that to table six or are you waiting for it to grow legs?"

"Right, sorry." I shake my head, trying to dislodge the unwelcome fascination. I carry the plates over, avoiding the blonde's table, though I feel his presence like a second skin.

"Here you go, enjoy your meal," I tell the family at table six, all smiles and professionalism. They thank me, but their voices sound distant, muted. All I can think about is the man sitting alone, bathed in sunlight, looking like some sort of celestial being dropped into my mundane world.

"Hey, new guy," Lucy chirps, returning to the booth. "What can I get you?"

"Uh, I'll try the special, thanks," he replies.

The special. That's my creation. My recipe. A surge of pride rushes through me followed quickly by nerves. What if he doesn't like it?

"Sure thing," Lucy chirps again, scribbling on her notepad. "It'll be right up."

"Thanks," he says, offering a smile that makes Lucy's step falter for a split second.

I duck back into the kitchen, pretending to be absorbed in prepping the next order. But I’m hyper-aware of every move he makes, every shift in his chair, every time he runs a hand through that golden hair. Why does this human affect me so? It’s like there’s a string tied around my heart, tugging me toward him with each beat.

"Special for the gentleman by the window," Marco announces, sliding the topped dough onto a paddle.

"Got it," I manage to say, voice barely above a whisper. I slide it into the oven, watching as the edges begin to crisp. I’ve done this a thousand times, but today, it feels like a ritual, an offering to an unknown god.

And I can’t help but wonder, what will happen when he tastes it?

The next thirty minutes fly by. Too soon, he’s standing and leaving.

The bell above the door jangles as he exits, his presence lingering like the warmth of the sun long after it dips below the horizon. I exhale slowly, not realizing I’d been holding my breath. The air leaves my lungs in a shaky stream, my heart still thumping against my ribcage, wild and unrestrained.

"Earth to Mia," Lucy teases from across the counter, her eyebrows arched playfully. "You planning on joining us back in reality anytime soon?"

I blink, snapping my gaze to her, cheeks burning with a heat that rivals the ovens behind me. "I have no idea what you're talking about," I mumble, turning away to hide the obvious flush in my cheeks. But Lucy's not buying it. She never does.

"Sure, sure," she drawls, leaning against the counter with an impish grin. "Because gazing dreamily at a customer is totally part of the job description."

I roll my eyes, trying to muster annoyance that refuses to come. It's useless to argue. Lucy knows me too well. Instead, I grab a cloth and wipe down the already spotless counter with more vigor than necessary. The mundane task helps ground me, the rough texture of the fabric beneath my fingertips a stark contrast to the ethereal pull I felt moments ago.

"Come on, admit it," she prods, nudging my side gently. "He was cute. And you were definitely into it."

"Was not," I shoot back reflexively, even though my heart betrays me, fluttering like a caged bird at the mere memory of him.

"Uh-huh." Lucy's chuckle is light, teasing. "And I'm the Queen of England. Seriously, Mia, you had that look."

"What look?" I ask, feigning ignorance while I busily rearrange condiments on the table nearby.

"The 'he's-my-mate-and-I-just-know-it' look," she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if the very walls might be listening. "You know, all wide-eyed and wonderstruck."

"Lucy," I warn, my voice low, a reminder that such talk is dangerous, even here among our own. Words carry weight, and in our world, some words can tip the balance of fate.

"Relax," she says, waving a dismissive hand. "No one's around. Besides, it's not like it's impossible. We've all heard the stories."

"Stories are just that—stories," I counter with a sharpness that surprises us both. I don't want to think about the implications, the ancient tales of wolves finding their destined partners in the least likely of places. My life is complicated enough without entertaining fairytales.

"Okay, okay," Lucy relents, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "No need to get your tail in a twist. Just saying... it could happen."

"Could doesn't mean will," I snap, softer this time, my defenses crumbling like the edges of a well-worn pizza crust.

"True," she concedes, but there's a twinkle in her eye that suggests she believes otherwise. "But it'd make for one heck of a story, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe," I allow, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite my efforts. Maybe Lucy's right. Maybe there's a sliver of hope in the thought, a faint glimmer in the shadowed corners of my mind where logic battles with longing.

"Hey, come on, cheer up," Lucy nudges me again, lighter this time. "We've got a mountain of pepperoni pizzas to conquer. Race you to see who can top them faster?"

"Deal," I say, grateful for the distraction. The challenge sparks a familiar competitive fire within me, and for a moment, the strange pull of the human man fades into the background, replaced by the comfort of friendship and the simple joys of life within the pack.

"Ready, set, go!" Lucy declares, and we dive into the task at hand, laughter echoing in the warm kitchen as we leave the mysteries of the heart for another day.