Page 10 of Craved by the Werewolf (Mystic Ridge Monster Mates #2)

VALA

T he Cauldron smelled like roasted pecans, spiced cider, and something sinful—exactly what I needed after the day I'd had.

Mika had called it a "mental health intervention.

" I called it an excuse to avoid going to the station early and staring at my ceiling replaying every second of the Haven House promo, right down to the part where I may have accidentally brushed Thorne's hand and forgot how breathing worked.

We slid into a booth near the back, far enough from the stage to avoid being drafted for open mic but close enough to see the lineup.

A fairy with iridescent hair was strumming a guitar on stage, her voice floating above the low hum of conversation.

The Cauldron's brick walls glowed in the warm light from dozens of hanging lanterns, each one enchanted to sway lazily as if in a nonexistent breeze.

"Two spiked ciders, extra cinnamon," Mika told the server before I could order tea and ruin the mood. She leaned back, arms crossed. "You've been in a fog all week, Vala. I'm officially prescribing music, booze, and not thinking about a certain Alpha."

I ignored that last part and pretended to study the chalkboard menu. "I've been focused on LA."

"You've been staring off into space like you're trying to astral project.

" She tilted her head toward the stage, where the fairy had moved into a heartbreak ballad.

"I figured a distraction was in order. Plus, open mic night is a great place to scout new guests for the show. Look—free work research."

I smirked. "So this is business disguised as pleasure."

"This is me saving you from sulking," she corrected. "You can thank me later."

The first cider arrived, hot and fragrant, and I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the steam curl into my face.

It smelled like autumn and denial. My brain kept trying to replay the moment earlier today when his shoulder brushed mine, the heat of his hand ghosting against mine for far too long.

I took a long sip, willing the cider to burn that thought right out of me.

Mika wasn't wrong.

By the second performer, the knot between my shoulders had loosened enough that I could lean back in my chair and let the candlelit haze of The Cauldron work its magic.

A selkie hit the stage with a voice like smoked honey, sang an old sea ballad that had the entire room swaying.

You didn't have to understand the words — you felt them in your bones, like the tide pulling at your ribs.

Mika nudged me halfway through, mouthing wow like she'd just discovered selkies weren't a myth.

"Still think this was a bad idea?" she murmured.

"I never said bad," I said, sipping my drink. "I said ill-advised."

"Uh-huh," she said, the grin in her voice louder than the music.

Then came a pair of goblin twins on fiddle and mandolin, fast enough to make your pulse trip over itself. Their music wasn't polite, it was a dare — each note goading the other higher, sharper, until the crowd whooped like they'd all been dosed with liquid moonlight.

A witch breezed by just then, balancing a tray of shimmering potions. "Tonight's special — Phoenix Fizz, Moonlit Mule, and Eternal Youth Elixir," she announced, the vials clinking together like tiny wind chimes.

"What's in the Eternal Youth one?" Mika asked, leaning forward like she was ready to buy two.

"Mostly pomegranate, a dash of rosewater... and a contractual clause with a minor trickster god," the witch said smoothly.

Mika blinked. "Pass."

"Moonlit Mule?" the witch offered me.

I caught the scent before she could finish — citrusy, spiked with ginger. "Tempting," I said, "but I'm already one drink away from telling the wrong person the wrong thing."

The next act was a dryad in a forest-green gown, barefoot and serene, her guitar shaped from living wood.

Every chord she played sent a faint green shimmer through the vines wound around her mic stand, until the leaves unfurled mid-song.

Her voice was low, warm, threaded with something that made the entire tavern go still.

Mika and I shared a glance — not the sarcastic kind, but the oh-this-is-special kind.

For a while, it worked. I clapped until my hands stung, laughed at Mika's commentary, and even forgot there was an Alpha-shaped problem simmering at the edges of my night.

Halfway through a pixie folk singer's set, a shadow fell across the table. The orc bartender stood there, shoulders nearly blocking out the stage lights, holding a tray with two smoking goblets.

"Compliments of the gent at the end of the bar," he rumbled, his tusks gleaming as he set the drinks down.

The goblets shimmered, tiny sparks popping on the surface like fireflies trapped in jars. Mika leaned in, eyes wide. "Do you think it's flammable?"

"If it is, you're taking the first sip," I said, watching the smoke curl up and vanish into the rafters.

We raised the goblets together. The drink was cool at first sip, then turned warm, almost spiced, blooming heat through my chest. Definitely not juice.

Before I could take a second, someone stopped at the booth. A tall, broad-shouldered fae in a silver jacket smiled down at me. "You're Nightingale, right? From The Ridge?"

"That depends," I said cautiously.

He chuckled. "Loved your promotional spot with Alpha Kaine. You two have crazy chemistry." He winked. "Better be careful with that."

Mika nearly spit her drink. "Oh, you have no idea?—"

I elbowed her under the table, hard. "Thanks," I said, giving him the polite radio-host smile that didn't commit to anything. He wandered off, blissfully unaware he'd just dropped a conversational grenade. He was polite in a weird way.

"See?" Mika grinned. "Even the fae are invested in #NightAlpha."

"I will burn that hashtag to the ground."

Before she could come back with something smart, the witch from earlier floated by, balancing a tray of tiny crystal vials, she didn't have before. "Special tonight," she said, setting two in front of us. "Moon Clarity. On the house."

The liquid inside swirled like captured starlight. Mika was already unstopping hers. "Clarity sounds dangerous," I muttered.

"That's the point," the witch said with a grin before gliding away.

We stayed another half hour, sipping glowing cocktails, watching an elf absolutely destroy a blues harmonica, and dodging Mika's relentless attempts to get me on the open mic stage. For a moment, I actually forgot about the promo, the cameras, the way Thorne's eyes had lingered on me earlier.

Then I heard a laugh at the bar — low, deep, familiar — and the sound curled down my spine like it had a claim on me. I turned automatically... but it wasn't him.

I hated how disappointed I felt.

We slipped out of The Cauldron just as a half-troll comedian was warming up the crowd. The night air cooler than I expected, carrying the faint aroma of street food from the corner vendor and the thrum of bass from the tavern behind us.

Mika fell into step beside me, juggling her bag, a notepad, and a to-go cup of something that was probably ninety percent caffeine.

"Not bad for a work night," she said. "You actually looked like you were having fun in there."

"I was," I admitted, pulling my jacket tighter. "Don't make it weird."

"Too late. I'm putting it in your performance review."

I snorted. "I don't have a performance review."

"You do now." She angled her head toward the glow of the Ridge FM sign in the distance. "Come on, Ms. Nightingale. Time to spin some songs and shatter some egos."

I didn't answer. I just let her chatter fill the walk. "Tomorrow night you'll be on stage with the big guy and who knows what'll happen." Her voice echoed through the street. "I can't wait."

By the time the radio station came into view, I'd almost convinced myself it was just work.

Almost.