Chapter 1
Jam Doughnut
(Ren)
I hissed through gritted teeth as I loosened my tie. The stifling heat was getting to me, and the fact that the train was packed like a tin of sardines wasn’t helping.
I was losing it.
My control over my wolf was slowly slipping away. My body temperature was already unnaturally higher than a human’s, and I felt as though I were boiling alive inside this metal box.
You see, I’m not an ordinary man. I’m a werewolf, and travelling on the Tube during morning rush hour was unnatural enough for me.
“It’s too fucking hot in here,” I swore under my breath as frustration simmered inside me.
I closed my eyes and began to count.
“One… two… three… four… five…”
I probably looked like a nutter, but I needed something to calm my mind before I lost control and turned the entire carriage into bloody carnage. I almost laughed when I realised that carriage and carnage somehow rhymed. Maybe I was losing my mind, or perhaps I’d already lost it.
The stares piercing me didn’t bother me. I was used to them. It wasn’t the people. It was the heat, the cramped space, and the fact that everyone stood far too close, constantly bumping into me like I was some kind of human trampoline.
I already stood out like a sore thumb. I was just over six foot six and built like a tank. I wasn’t made for this, shit. Mountains were my thing.
Hunting deer was my thing.
Every morning, I regretted taking the Tube instead of driving. Then again, the metal box on four wheels didn’t appeal to me either. Besides, have you ever tried driving through central London? I’d rather chew off my own arm, which was why I was here, sweating like a pig and cursing like a builder.
For the past five years, I had travelled to every corner I could think of, searching for her scent. Every time I returned to East London, I felt her presence somewhere nearby, but I could never find her.
I knew what Skinwalkers were like. They could blend seamlessly into human crowds, making them almost impossible to track. They could change their hair colour, alter their faces and become anyone they wanted. You name it, they could do it. But I kept trying.
Every morning.
Every night.
For six months, I had taken a different route to my office, following whatever faint trace of her scent I could detect. This particular route was where I sensed her most strongly, so I kept coming back.
Day after day.
Week after week.
For five years, my life had become painfully predictable. I worked nine to five, sometimes coming in at weekends. I travelled by Tube, bus and on foot whenever I could, and every morning and evening, I wandered the streets searching for her.
I had become a stalker with a broken heart.
Then, six months ago, I discovered a little corner coffee shop called The Witch’s Brew and Frog Tarts. I found it after my Tube station had been closed, forcing me to walk to the next one, two streets away from my office.
It had been raining that day—properly pissing down—and my umbrella had broken. I’d been soaked to the bone, and somehow, that miserable little detour had led me to the best coffee shop in London.
The one that smelled of her.
I tried other places after that, but none of them smelled of her, and none of them sold pastries that tasted so good. There was something about The Witch’s Brew and Frog Tarts.
Maybe it was the coffee.
Maybe it was the pastries.
Or maybe I was simply addicted to sugar and their strawberry jam doughnuts.
Perhaps I had completely lost it and she was gone for good.
Either way, I had become addicted. Every morning, I ordered the same thing: two strawberry jam doughnuts and a cup of sweet coffee.
I had a serious sweet tooth. I blamed the coffee shop for it. That was easier than admitting I had a problem.
Or perhaps it was because the coffee and jam doughnuts always tasted better there. They tasted like her, like our first stolen kiss that wasn’t meant to be a kiss, like the bite on my shoulder that always itched whenever I walked in.
I sighed as I stormed through the Tube station after getting off the train. A wave of relief washed over me the moment I stepped outside and escaped the suffocating heat.
A few minutes later, I pushed open the door of The Witch’s Brew and Frog Tarts.
“Ding!”
The little bell above my head rang as I ducked inside. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries instantly calmed me.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning,” one of the men behind the counter replied.
The one with the ginger curls was called Will. The other, standing beside him, was Jack.
They knew me well by now, and my order was already waiting for me.
Two strawberry jam doughnuts.
A cup of sweet coffee with frothy milk.
That was all it took to calm me.
“Hmmm…” I said as I licked the sticky jam from my fingers with satisfaction. “Feeling better, you grumpy bastard?” I mumbled to myself through a mouthful of doughnut.
Much better, I admitted as I paid for my order.
The usual girl with brown hair and glasses wasn’t in today. I quickly scanned the shop to see whether she was there, but she wasn’t. Only the two ginger-haired, freckled brothers stood behind the counter. I’d learnt that they owned the shop.
I looked at them again and nodded as I left. One of them caught my attention and nodded back when he saw me.
Then I stepped outside with my coffee in one hand and my second doughnut in the other, heading towards my office.
I stepped into the empty lift and took another bite.
That was when everything went horribly wrong.
“Splat.”
The jam exploded from the side of the doughnut. A blob landed on my polished shoe. Another streaked across my tie, and the rest hit the mirrored wall of the lift before slowly sliding down it.
I stared at the mess.
“Oh, shit.”
My fingers were covered in jam, too. I tried licking the remaining sugar from my lips before pulling a tissue from my tailored suit pocket. I wiped my fingers, then my shoe and finally my tie.
I looked at myself in the mirror. It wasn’t perfect, but luckily, I had spare clothes in my office.
“That’ll have to do for now,” I muttered.
I straightened my spine and reached towards the buttons. I was just about to press six with my elbow when the lift doors opened.
Someone stepped inside.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” I grumbled without turning around.
“Where to?”
“Four, please.”
The sweet feminine voice made me freeze.
Slowly, I turned around. I still had the half-eaten doughnut in my hand, and there was something on my face. I could feel it. It was definitely sugar stuck to the corner of my mouth.
I suddenly wished the lift would swallow me whole.
I looked like a child, not an Alpha or a man running a business for his queen—my cousin.
The woman looked at me.
Then at my tie.
Then back at me.
“Doughnut explosion?”
I looked down at the doughnut, then at my tie, and finally back at her.
“Hmm—oh. Yeah—h—”
“Sorry. What did you say?”
She pointed at my tie and repeated, “Doughnut explosion?”
“O-h,” I said as I looked at my tie.
“Do you need a tissue?”
I blinked at her and nodded. “Y-yeah. I guess so. I thought I had it all under control,” I said and chuckled like an idiot.
I hadn’t seen my mate since that morning I tied her to my bed.
I had played out this scenario a thousand times in my head. Different versions, different moments, but never this one.
