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Jules

Hoboken, New Jersey– On The Waterfront Bar & Bites

This is not the life I wanted.

But it’s the one I’ve got.

Another Friday night, another round of overpriced cocktails for Wall Street rejects with trust funds and zero personality.

I slide two tumblers of whiskey down the bar, plastering on a smile I don’t feel as the guy who ordered them snaps his fingers at me like I’m a dog.

I don’t flinch.

Not anymore.

That muscle’s been dead a long time.

“Maybe smile more next time,” he says, his buddies laughing behind him like they’re all part of some mediocre sitcom.

I’m already walking away, jaw tight, heart numb. If I don’t move, I might say something I can’t afford to. And I need this job.

It pays just enough to cover my shitty rent and my never-ending student loans for a degree I don’t use.

Art.

What a joke.

My name’s Jules, and I bartend in Hoboken for people who think suffering is when the bartender puts too much ice in their drink.

I’ve got no family.

No boyfriend.

No best friend.

Just a tiny studio apartment downwind of the old factories, and a sketchpad I don’t touch anymore because looking at it hurts too much.

“Hey, Jules,” my manager barks from the kitchen pass, “busboy called out. I need you to take on trash duty tonight.”

Of course he did.

“Sure,” I mutter, already grabbing the bag.

He wasn’t really asking. The or else was implied.

I shoulder open the back door and step into the alley, the warm summer night wrapping around me like the sigh of something tired.

The city buzzes just beyond the fence.

I can hear it. Feel it.

But it doesn’t touch me. Not really.

I’m invisible here. And maybe I like it that way.

The bag splits as I hoist it toward the bin, bottles clinking loud enough to drown out my curse.

I yank the string tight and shove the mess down into the dumpster like it personally offended me.

Then I freeze.

There’s someone there.

I can feel them watching me from the shadows.

Just watching. But still. It creeps me the fuck out.

My heart jumps into my throat.

You’re being ridiculous, Jules.

I ignore it and bend to pick up what I’ve dropped.

The alley’s always been gross— hot, sticky, and stinking of rot and grease —but tonight it feels worse.

Heavy. Like the shadows aren’t the only things watching me.

I pause, the hairs on my neck standing up even though there’s no breeze.

It’s the strangest feeling.

Like I’m not alone.

Like somewhere someone out there is just waiting for the moment to jump out and say, “hey there, I’ve been looking for you . ”

Of course, there is no someone out there just waiting to claim me. I mean, reality isn’t that kind or inventive.

I glance over my shoulder, unable to shake the feeling like someone is there.

Still nothing. Still no one.

Just the dim security light buzzing overhead and the usual city noise drifting in from the next street.

“Get a grip,” I mutter, making sure I have all the garbage off the floor and inside the dumpster before I head back inside.

I’m not in any rush. The tips have been nil and the customers are cranky and rude.

I hate this job. But what else can I do?

I close my eyes willing that feeling of being watched to just go away.

But it lingers.

Like someone’s breath on the back of my neck.

All night, I’ve had that crawling sensation.

Eyes tracking my movements, studying me.

Not in the way those barflies stare when they think I’m not looking.

No, this feels different.

Intense. Focused. Not leering. Searching.

I rub my arms and start to head back inside when the door bangs open again.

I freeze.

No.

Not them.

The two jerks from table nine— Tony and Bobby or whatever their names were —are stumbling into the alley like they’ve been waiting for a chance.

Loud. Laughing. Drunk in that smug, dangerous way some men get when they know nobody will stop them.

They’d been handsy all night.

One of them accidentally grazed my ass when I carried a drink to their table.

The other told me I had a porn star pout and asked what I did after closing.

My boss?

Please.

He told me to smile more and gave them free shots when they asked him when I was scheduled to work next, after I’d already told them no .

“Hey, sweetheart,” one of them slurs, swaying closer. “Forgot to tip you.”

“That’s okay. Better get back inside,” I snap, trying to keep my voice even. “Bar’s closing in twenty.”

“Just being friendly.” His hand reaches out, touches my face.

I frown and try to move away, but his friend is blocking the only exit.

His fingers grow bold, pressing firmly into my skin.

“Don’t be a bitch.”

Panic claws up my spine.

I try to yank free, but there’s nowhere to go—cornered between the dumpster, the brick wall, and the two of them.

The sound of their derisive laughter makes me tremble with fear. I do not like this.

This is bad. Dangerous.

But then suddenly, he’s there.

Not walking. Not running.

One moment it’s just me and the assholes.

The next, this mystery man steps from the shadows like he owns them.

Tall. So tall. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, something unearthly in the way he moves.

Graceful, but coiled with danger and power.

Like a predator on the edge of striking.

His eyes lock on mine, and the whole alley seems to still.

For a second, I forget the jerks who followed me out back with ill intentions.

I forget my name.

Hell, I forget how to breathe.

He’s not just hot.

He’s other .

Like from another world. Seriously.

And this is what I get for reading those sexy alien kidnapping books.

I mean, he’s man, yes, but he’s also more .

Like he was sculpted from shadow and smoke and made real just for this moment.

I don't even register what he does to the guy who touched me.

I just hear the pop of a wrist, the sharp gasp of pain, some exchanged words, and then they’re both gone.

Fleeing without a backward glance.

And now I’m standing there, alone with him .

Only I don’t feel afraid.

I should.

I know that.

But instead, my pulse is racing for another reason entirely.

Because whatever he is? My body responds before my brain can catch up.

And it wants him. Desperately.

Just breathe, Jules.

This strangely beautiful man saved me. But I don’t know whether to thank him or run.

He’s just too much .

Tall. Too tall.

Broad.

Too still. Frozen in his stance.

A statue carved from smoke and silver.

He steps forward, and the air shifts around him like it knows to get out of his way.

Dangerous.

But not in the way that makes me want to run.

Not in a way that reminds me of the jerks inside, or the creeps who wait too long outside the bar pretending they’re looking for a rideshare.

No, this is different.

This is the kind of danger that pulls at something inside me.

A quiet voice that doesn’t scream, run . Instead, it whispers, watch .

Wait.

Want.

He’s not like the men I deal with every night.

Hell, he’s not like anyone I’ve ever seen.

There’s something too perfect about him.

The way he moves. Like he’s not bound by the same rules of motion the rest of us are.

Fluid.

Controlled.

Predatory.

That stupid question floats through my head, unbidden. You know the one.

Would you rather be alone in the woods at night with a man or a bear?

And every woman knows the answer.

Bear.

But this man?

Something about him tells me he could take on a bear and win.

With nothing but his hands and a calm, clinical sort of precision.

And the strangest part?

I still don’t feel scared.

Because while everything about him says predator, nothing about him says threat.

Not to me.

In fact, for the first time in what feels like years, I feel seen.

Like I matter.

Something prickles at the base of my skull. A whisper of realization.

He’s not normal.

Not even close.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes.

An unnatural glow, a depth that looks less like reflection and more like a window into another world.

A colder one. Older. More powerful.

And then he speaks.

His voice is deep and smooth. Rich like smoke and velvet, but with something steel-edged beneath it. Something sharp enough to slice through me clean.

“Are you alone in the world, Jules Strano?”

The question lands with terrifying precision.

Like he already knows the answer.

Like he’s not asking out of curiosity, but confirmation.

I swallow hard. My throat is dry.

My mouth wants to lie.

But my soul answers for me, whispering yes .

I blink, frown, shake my head like I misheard him.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Are you alone?” he repeats.

I should say no.

I should lie.

But I don’t.

“Yes,” I whisper this time out loud before I can stop myself.

The word hangs there.

True. Heavy. And something in his expression changes.

Like he’s been waiting for it.

I take a step back. “Who the hell are you?”

He smiles. It’s dark. Cocky. A wicked grin.

“My name is Alaric, and I’m going to make every one of your dreams come true.”

And then everything goes dark.