Tangled in Moonlight: Unshifted novel Chapter 20

20 Ava: Paranoia and Secrets (I)

The bell above the door jingles, signaling another customer’s arrival at The Novel Grind. I glance up from where I’m restocking the pastry case and feel a smile tugging at my lips. It’s become such a familiar routine these past four months–the steady flow of customers, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the scent of old books, the comfortable chatter filling the cozy space.

I nod in acknowledgment, my hands continuing their task of arranging the muffins and scones just so. This place has become more than just a job to me; it’s a sanctuary, a haven where I can breathe easy and simply exist without the weight of expectations bearing down on me.

As I work, my mind wanders to the evening ahead. It’s been two weeks since Franklin and his wife, Emily, last had me over for dinner. I’m looking forward to the home–cooked meal and easy conversation, a stark contrast to the strained silences and disapproving glances that used to fill my family dinners back home.

A pang of guilt tugs at my heart, but I quickly push it

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away. This is my life now, the life I’ve chosen, and I won’t let the ghosts of the past haunt me anymore.

“Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Elkins says, placing a steaming cup of coffee on the counter in front of me. “Don’t forget, you’ve got that class this afternoon.”

I nod, gratefully accepting the mug and taking a sip of the rich, robust brew. The summer course I’ve signed up for–Introduction to Literature–is a small step, but it’s a step in the right direction. With my limited savings, I can only afford one class this summer semester, but I’m determined to make the most of it.

As the morning rush begins to taper off, I take a moment to simply breathe and appreciate the quiet moments in between. This is my life now, a life of my own making, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel a sense of peace settling over me.

I glance up from shelving a stack of paperbacks, my gaze instinctively drawn to the two men seated at one of the corner tables. Their murmured conversation drifts through the quiet hum of the café, and a chill races down my spine as I catch the unmistakable scent of shifters.

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I’m not sure how I didn’t notice it before.

My knees threaten to buckle, but I force myself to maintain an air of nonchalance, casually sliding books into their designated spots as I strain to eavesdrop. Snippets of their discussion filter through.

…a power–hungry bastard, that’s what Blackwood is,” one of them grumbles into his coffee cup. “Dragging us

all into his feud with that hothead Westwood.”

I freeze, my fingers tightening around the book in my grasp. Westwood… that’s Lucas. The name ignites a flicker of memory, one I swiftly smother before it can fully take shape. That part of my life is over, a closed chapter I’ve sworn to leave behind.

“Can’t fathom why our alpha is so hellbent on finding that Blackwood girl,” the other man scoffs. “She’s more

trouble than she’s worth.”

The book slips from my trembling hands, clattering to the floor with a dull thud. I drop into a crouch, my heart thundering in my ears as I hastily gather the scattered pages. That Blackwood girl–they can’t be talking about me, can they? But a sickening realization settles in the pit of my stomach. Of course they are.

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Panic claws at my throat, but I force it down, reminding myself to breathe. No one knows where I am, not really. I’m safe here, anonymous and unassuming, just another face in the crowd. Straightening, I flash a tight smile at the oblivious shifters and make my way back behind the counter, my hands shaking ever so slightly.

***

Class goes by in a blur, the lecturer’s voice fading into a dull murmur as my mind drifts. I can’t seem to shake the nagging sense of unease that’s been clinging to me ever since overhearing those shifters at the cafe. Their words echo in my head, an endless loop of doubt and fear that threatens to unravel the fragile peace I’ve managed to construct for myself.

As the final bell rings, signaling the end of the period, I gather my things on autopilot, my movements mechanical and detached. The hallway is a sea of bodies, students rushing to their next class or spilling out into the sunshine, but I barely register their presence. It’s as if I’m encased in a bubble, separate and isolated from the world around me.