Page 3 of Alien Charming (Alien Wolf Tales #3)

CHAPTER 3

E lli tucked her market basket over her arm and slipped out the back gate before her aunt could add to her already lengthy list of errands. The morning air was still pleasantly cool as she walked down the quiet street towards the center of the village.

Not for the first time, her mind drifted to Seren. The memory of his appearance still sent a thrill through her. Not fear, but something warmer, more curious. He was so big and powerful, but his size made her feel safe rather than intimidated, and his eyes had held such unexpected gentleness.

The timber and stone buildings clustered around the central square came into view, and she straightened her shoulders, tucking a stray wisp of hair back into her severe knot.

“Morning, Mrs. Hendry,” she called to the miller’s wife, who was sweeping the step outside her shop.

The woman’s pleasant expression faltered. “Oh. It’s you, Elli.” She continued sweeping, her eyes fixed on the ground. “We’ve only cornmeal left.”

“That’s fine.” She placed her coins on the counter, careful not to let their fingers touch when Mrs. Hendry handed over the bag of cornmeal.

At the butcher’s, Mr. Collins served three customers who had arrived after her before finally acknowledging her presence. “The usual weekly roast?” he asked, not meeting her eyes.

“Yes, please.”

He wrapped the meat in paper, sliding it across the counter. “Tell your aunt the price has gone up.”

She nodded, adding the package to her basket. The same routine repeated at the apothecary, where the herbalist watched her like she might pocket something when his back was turned, and at the milliner’s, where the shopkeeper’s daughter whispered behind her hand to her friend as Elli examined spools of thread.

The women gathered around the fountain in the square gossiping moved aside as she approached, their conversation dying. One mother pulled her curious child closer to her skirts.

“Mama, why does she?—”

“Hush now,” the woman murmured. “Don’t stare.”

The weight of their gazes pressed against her back as she filled her water jug.

“Did you hear there were four Vultor in town yesterday?” one woman whispered, not quietly enough. “Bold as brass they are these days.”

“I don’t trust them. The mayor should just forget this nonsense about trading with those savages.”

Her fingers tightened around the handle of her jug. If only they knew that the voice of one of those “savages” was the kindest sound she’d heard in years. As she walked away from the fountain, the whispers followed her like shadows, impossible to outrun.

When she paused at the greengrocer’s stall, Mr. Bennett gave her his perpetually pitying smile. “Good morning, Elli. Your aunt sent you for the usual, I suppose?”

“Yes, please.” She placed her basket on the counter, avoiding his gaze.

“Let me pick them for you,” he said slowly, enunciating each word as though speaking to a child. “Wouldn’t want you getting confused about which vegetables are which.”

As usual, she bit her tongue. She could identify more plant varieties than anyone in the village, could explain their medicinal properties and growing conditions. But what was the point? They’d made up their minds about her long ago. No one seemed to remember that she’d been an excellent student before her mother died and her aunt took her out of the village school.

“Thank you,” she murmured instead.

Mr. Bennett nodded, pleased with his own generosity. “Your aunt is a saint, you know. Taking care of you all these years.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Not everyone would have the patience.”

“I know.” The words tasted bitter.

“She tells us how you struggle with even the simplest tasks.” He placed the vegetables in her basket, counting them out loud as if she couldn’t do it herself. “One carrot, two carrots, three carrots…”

Her fingers curled into her palm. Aunt Margaret had crafted her prison so perfectly—walls built not of stone but of whispers and falsehoods. The villagers’ perception of her as slow-witted and burdensome was just another chain binding her to her aunt’s house.

“Make sure you go straight home now, Elli,” Mrs. Fletcher called from her fabric shop doorway. “Your poor aunt worries when you dawdle.”

“I will,” she promised, although she longed to flee in the opposite direction, towards the woods where Seren had waited. Where someone had actually listened to her, spoken to her as an equal.

She clutched her basket tighter and started back towards the house, wondering what Seren would think if he saw how these people treated her and if he knew the lies they believed. The weight of the villagers’ stares and whispers felt even heavier than usual today. She kept her eyes down, focused on the cobblestones beneath her feet as she made her way towards the edge of the square.

“Elli? Elli Dawson, is that you?”

The voice was bright and familiar, and she looked up to see Bella Fletcher hurrying towards her, a genuine smile lighting her pretty face. Bella had been another of her friends in school, before Aunt Margaret had decided she was “too simple” to continue her education.

“Hello, Bella.”

“It’s been ages!” Bella reached out and squeezed Elli’s free hand. “I’ve missed seeing you around.”

The simple touch of friendship made her throat tighten unexpectedly. How long had it been since someone had touched her with genuine warmth?

“I’ve been busy with the house and garden,” she said, the practiced excuse slipping out automatically.

“I understand. It seems like I’m always busy these days as well. Father says he sees you at the market sometimes, but you’re always rushing off.” Bella frowned at the women by the fountain who were now watching both of them. “I swear some people have nothing to do but gossip.”

Shifting the basket to her other arm, she forced a smile. “Your father’s shop looks busy.”

“It is! I’m learning the trade now.” Bella leaned closer. “But I still find time to read those stories we used to love. Remember how we’d hide behind the schoolhouse and trade books?”

The memory warmed her from within. Those stolen moments of adventure and imagination had been precious escapes.

“I remember.”

“I have a new one you might enjoy.” Bella’s eyes sparkled. “I could bring it by sometime, if you’d like?”

Before she could respond, Mrs. Fletcher’s voice cut through the air. “Bella! Your delivery has arrived!”

Bella sighed. “I should go. But it was wonderful to see you, Elli. Truly.”

“You too,” she said, meaning it more than she could express.

With another quick squeeze of her hand, Bella hurried off, and Elli watched her retreating figure with a small pang of envy. Unlike her, Bella wore her outsider status like a badge of honor, grease-stained hands and all. The Fletcher workshop sat on the village outskirts, a ramshackle building perpetually surrounded by strange contraptions and mechanical parts that most villagers regarded with suspicion.

“Did you see her hands?” Mrs. Hendry whispered loudly to another woman as Bella disappeared into the fabric shop. “Black with engine oil, like a man’s. It’s not natural.”

The village had plenty of opinions about Bella and her father—how they tinkered with dangerous machines and how no proper young woman should be handling tools and engines. Bella had been the one to fix the miller’s grain processor when it had broken down before the last harvest, saving the village from potential starvation. She’d also managed to repair the broken pump at the well when no one else could figure it out. But still they talked.

Yet Bella walked through the village with her head high, ignoring the whispers. The difference was that Bella had her father’s unwavering support. Mr. Fletcher beamed with pride at his daughter’s mechanical aptitude, defending her choices fiercely against any who questioned them.

“My Bella’s got more brains in her little finger than most have in their entire skulls,” he’d proclaimed loudly at the harvest festival last year when someone had suggested she might be better suited to “women’s work.”

Bella had found purpose in her father’s workshop, a place where her intelligence and skills were valued. No wonder she could smile so easily, even as the village whispered behind her back.

She sighed and adjusted her basket again, the weight of the day’s purchases digging into her arm. What would it be like , she wondered, to have someone stand up for me that way?

The brief moment with Bella had lifted her spirits, but reality settled back onto her shoulders as she headed for home. Aunt Margaret would be waiting, ready to inspect each purchase and to criticize how long she’d taken.

She passed the edge of the square, where neat cobblestones gave way to the packed dirt road. The late morning sun warmed her back as she walked, a small comfort. Her thoughts drifted to Seren again—how different those warm golden eyes had been from the cold, judgmental stares of the villagers.

A shout of childish laughter pulled her from her reverie. Several village children played along the roadside, chasing one another with sticks fashioned as swords. She smiled at their antics but decided to give them a wide berth. Children were unpredictable, and she’d learned to be careful around them—their parents often pulled them away from “simple Elli” as if her condition might be catching.

“Look out!”

A small boy darted past her and collided with a display of pottery outside Mr. Tanner’s shop, causing a number of pots to fall, shattering on the ground. He gave a dismayed gasp as Mr. Tanner rushed out of the shop.

“Timothy! Get away from her!” A stout woman rushed forward, yanking the child back, and glared at her. “What did you do?”

“I—Nothing. He just ran into?—”

The woman’s face hardened. “Can’t you watch where you’re going? Look at this mess you’ve made!” She gestured at the shattered pottery. “Timothy could have been seriously hurt!”

Other villagers paused to stare, and she felt her cheeks burn, already knowing there was no point in trying to explain that it hadn’t been her fault. They’d been quick to blame her without knowing the facts, and now their expressions were a mixture of pity, contempt, and fear.

“Always causing trouble,” someone muttered. “Poor Margaret, dealing with that one.”

She sighed and knelt to begin gathering the broken shards, wishing she could disappear into the earth like the roots of one of her plants.