The Lost Pack (Paige) novel Chapter 2

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** Poppy’s POV **

I’ve learned two things in the last eight months.

The first is that oat milk people are the most judgmental people in this town. The second is that if you talk back to the voices in your head out loud, strangers will absolutely assume you’re unhinged. Which is honestly pretty fair.

The bell above the coffee shop door chimes as another customer leaves, and I plaster on my best friendly smile while silently begging the universe for five uninterrupted minutes without someone demanding a complicated order that I will most definitely get wrong and earn myself a huff and an eye roll. The universe, as usual, ignores me.

The pressure starts behind my eyes. It’s not painful, more like a hand settling at the base of my skull, heavy and insistent. “You’re avoiding it again,” the ethereal voice floats through my mind as if it’s my own thought.

I snort a small laugh as I wipe down the counter. “I’m working,” I mutter.

Mrs Ribble, who comes in every morning at 8:17 a.m. narrows her eyes at me from the other side of the counter.

“Sorry,” I say brightly. “Talking to the espresso machine. It’s been giving me attitude all morning.”

She huffs. “Machines don’t have attitudes.”

“You’ve clearly never met this one.”

She leaves with her Americano and a suspicious glance over her shoulder. I can already hear it now.

‘Crazy coffee girl,’ they whisper.

I don’t care, not really. Or at least, I tell myself I don’t.

The pressure deepens, curling inward this time, warm and annoyingly patient.

“You can’t keep running.”

“Oh my goodness,” I hiss under my breath as I grab another cloth and scrub at an already spotless surface. “Can you not do this right now? I’m on shift.”

“You always have an excuse,” a voice replies with an amused tone.

I bite down on my tongue. This one feels different from the others. It’s clearer and sharper somehow. It sounds almost smug.

“I swear,” I whisper, leaning closer to the counter as if the till might overhear, “if you are another hallucination brought on by caffeine withdrawal, I’m going to lose it.”

“You know I’m not.”

A man at the closest table looks up from his laptop screen.

I straighten immediately, forcing a smile. “…lose it,” I repeat louder, with a strained laugh. “Like, misplace it. My pen, it happens all the time.”

He nods slowly and goes back to typing. Fantastic, I nailed it. He doesn’t suspect a thing.

The other presences are there too; they always are. They don’t speak to me though. They press in, sliding like cold fog along the edges of my thoughts.

Sometimes, late at night, I think I hear them breathing. Like they’re right there, just out of sight.

I busy myself making two lattes for a tourist couple who whisper while pointing at the cakes behind the glass, and for a blissful few minutes, the world is just steamed milk, soft chatter, clinking cups and the smell of fresh coffee.

Then the bell rings again, and everything in me goes still. I don’t look up right away, not wanting to alert whatever it is that’s just walked through the door that I can feel them, feel that they’re different. That I can sense how they make the air feel suddenly charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm.

My skin prickles as if someone has dragged fingers lightly down my spine, and my heart skips a beat that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with instinct.

“Oh,” says the voice in my mind. “That’s interesting.”

I lift my gaze slowly.

Two men stand just inside the doorway, raindrops clinging to their jackets; one is blonde, the other a redhead. They don’t look the same physically, but they move with the same easy confidence, the same awareness of the space around them. Predators who know they don’t need to rush.

Their eyes find me immediately. Not the counter or the menu, like most customers, their focus is all on me.

I don’t flinch or step back; I just raise an eyebrow and say, “If you’re going to stare, at least buy me dinner first.”

The redhead blinks, and then gives me a curious smile.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice is warm but rough. “Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Uh-huh,” I reply, already reaching for a cup. “What can I get you?”

They order simply. Black coffee, no sugar, no fuss. As I make their drinks, I can feel them watching. Tracking the way I move, assessing me like they’re trying to solve a puzzle.