Page 9

Chapter nine

Sofia

I dragged myself into the back office, my feet aching despite the baby-blue sneakers I was wearing. Shya, the Shoe Queen, had bought these for me, and I loved them more than I had any right to love a pair of shoes. A poster was pinned to the door.

WANTED: Dead or Alive (preferably incinerated)SUSPECT: Any rat daring to trespassCRIME: Existing with those tiny demon hands and plotting world dominationREWARD: Sofia's eternal gratitude + lifetime VIP access to all experimental coffee flavors before they hit the menuNOTE: If you hear a scream that could shatter the sound barrier, DO NOT APPROACH. Simply evacuate the premises and wait for Sofia to regain her dignity.

I glanced back down the hall to catch Brian ducking behind the counter, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. Yes, I was a werewolf afraid of rats. They could all judge me after they’d seen one wash its face like a tiny serial killer.

“Very funny!” I called out. “Just remember who approves your time-off requests, Picasso!”

I took the poster inside and pinned it next to the whiteboard that was covered in my scrawled notes—half-formed ideas for seasonal drinks, a reminder to call the supplier about the delayed whiskey shipment.

My office was modest but organized—exactly the way I liked it. A single desk, sturdy and well-loved, was near the far wall, its surface mostly clear except for the neatly stacked pile of invoices I still had to pay. In the corner, a punching bag hung from a reinforced ceiling hook. A fresh pair of hand wraps sat on the shelf beside it. Next to the bag, a small rack of free weights leaned against the wall. Despite the exhaustion I felt, the familiar space soothed me. This was mine. My little corner of order and creativity, the one place where I felt I had some measure of control.

I sighed, rolling my shoulders as I glanced at the time. The afternoon rush was over, Julie and Brian could handle things before I was due back to set up for the evening, and I had twenty minutes before my video call with Lucian. Just enough time to warm up and shake off the tension clinging to me. I tried not to think that I should have been coming in from an afternoon relaxing at the spa. I just hoped Shannon had toe-curlingly delicious sex all afternoon; someone deserved to be having some fun around here.

The thought of texting Lucian, calling today off, passed my mind, but I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when I was finally making progress. It didn’t come easily to me, this fighting thing. Not every werewolf was born to be powerhouse fighters like the Shaw brothers. Take Mr. Davaar, who ran the local hardware store—he would only Shift on full moons, and spent that time refusing to leave the safety of his front yard. Or Joyce Rimmer, whose wolf was scared of everything. Every. Thing. I’d once seen her wolf jump fifteen feet in the air when a leaf blew past in front of her.

Being a Shifter didn’t automatically make you a warrior. Most of us were ordinary, just trying to live our lives. That was how my mom and dad had brought me and Jase up. My parents had survived Oliver’s reign by keeping their heads down, blending in, never drawing attention. They taught us to stay hidden, stay human as much as possible. Shifting meant risk. Playing in our wolf forms? Forbidden. We weren’t the kind of Shifters who wrestled in the woods, honing our instincts through play-fights and mock battles. We Shifted only when absolutely necessary.

Early morning, before the enforcers started their rounds, when Oliver’s lackeys were still sleeping off the previous night’s excesses, we’d sneak out, nosing around the neighborhood, feeling the air on our fur for a few precious minutes before scurrying back inside. We never hunted. Never fought. If another wolf approached, we lowered our heads, tucked our tails, and slipped away.

Jase had turned that around. He’d worked his ass off these last few years, and I was so freaking proud of him for following his dream of being a tough-guy enforcer for Mai and Ryan. Me? I’d been so busy working and looking after Jase that it was only recently that I decided it was past time for me to learn how to defend myself.

I started my warm-up, throwing careful jabs at the punching bag. Each hit sent a satisfying thud through the small room. Left, right, left again. The memory of last night’s bar fight flashed through my mind—Derek stepping in, making it look so easy while I seemed to just stand there.

Useless.

That’s what he thought of me. What everyone thought of me. Good for making coffee and pulling drinks. But that was it. I wasn’t someone worth sticking around for. I was just another burden, someone who needed protecting, someone you moved on from as soon as you realized that this was all there was.

I hit harder, my muscles protesting. Another punch, this one sloppy with anger. I reset my stance, focused on my form like Lucian had taught me. I would show them they all messed up by leaving me. I would be someone I was proud to be. I wasn’t going to let the doubts win. Not today.

The punching bag swayed with each strike, my breathing growing heavier as I found my rhythm. Time got away from me, and I jumped when the laptop binged with an incoming call.

I wiped sweat from my face and accepted Lucian’s call. The screen flickered to life, revealing him in his study—all polished mahogany and leather. His jet-black hair was perfectly styled as usual, not a strand out of place despite the late hour wherever he was. Those amber eyes locked onto mine with laser focus, seeming to glow in the dim lighting behind him.

Even through a laptop screen, Lucian Black commanded attention. The crisp white shirt with rolled-up sleeves showcased forearms corded with muscle, and his sharp-featured face remained a careful mask of control. After months of training, I’d learned to read those micro-expressions—the slight tightening around his eyes that meant he was assessing my condition, the barely perceptible downward turn of his mouth that showed displeasure with what he saw.

“You look like hell,” he said flatly. “We should reschedule.”

“I’m fine.” I squared my shoulders, ignoring the protest from my muscles.

His eyes narrowed to amber slits. “Miller, I can count the hours of sleep you’ve had from here. What happened to rule number one?”

“Self-care is for people without staff shortages,” I muttered. “What are we working on today?”

He studied me silently, that penetrating gaze making me feel like a specimen under glass. “Power,” he finally declared. “Since you’re determined to punish yourself today, let’s make it count.”

My wolf’s ears pricked forward. Power. Exactly what I needed after watching Derek handle Brad last night like he was swatting a fly. Never again.

“Show me your stance.”

I settled into position, feeling the pleasant burn in my muscles from the warm-up.

“Lower,” he commanded. “You’re still too high. A child could sweep you right now. Center of gravity, Miller. We’ve been over this.”

I adjusted, sinking deeper. “Better?”

“Show me the Caldera sequence. Full power.” His eyes locked on mine. “Your whole body generates the force, not just your limbs.”

I launched into the combination, each movement flowing into the next. Left jab, right cross, left hook, uppercut, knee strike, roundhouse kick. My muscles burned as I tried to maintain perfect form while channeling maximum power through each strike.

“Again,” he commanded when I finished. “But this time, someone you love is standing behind you. If your strike fails, they pay. Make each one count.”

The faces flashed through my mind—Jase with his crooked smile, Mai and her quiet strength, even my staff who depended on me. Something shifted inside, and my next combination exploded with purpose. Each strike carried intention, each movement had meaning.

“There it is.” Lucian’s voice held rare approval. “That’s the difference between fighting and surviving. Remember this feeling, Miller. Real power isn’t anger—it’s knowing exactly what you’d burn the world down to protect.”

I nodded, chest heaving but standing straighter than I had all day.

The next hour blurred into a punishing rhythm of strike, correct, repeat. Lucian pushed me relentlessly, demanding perfection with every movement until sweat plastered my shirt to my back.

“Time for your favorite part,” Lucian said, a rare smile touching his lips. “Blades.”

My exhaustion evaporated instantly. I moved to the false wall panel, revealing my private arsenal. With knives, I wasn’t just a coffee shop manager trying to be something else. With knives, I became something dangerous.

I selected my practice set—three perfectly balanced throwing blades Lucian had sent to me when we started training. The weight settled in my palm like old friends, and everything else fell away.

My body moved on instinct through the forms—slash, parry, pivot, strike. The blades became liquid silver extensions of my arms, catching light as they cut through air. This dance required no supernatural strength, no wolf reflexes—just precision, practice, and patience. Things I could control. Things I could master.

“Targets,” Lucian commanded.

I shifted grip without breaking rhythm and released. The first knife struck center target with a satisfying thunk. The second and third followed in rapid succession, forming a tight cluster that would have dropped any attacker.

“Again,” he ordered as I retrieved them. “Add the Viper defense. Your enemies won’t politely wait their turn.”

I nodded, then launched into the sequence again. This time, I wove defensive counters between each throw—duck an imaginary attacker, slash across their abdomen, weave past their retaliation, release. The rhythm sang through my blood, making me feel more alive than I had in days.

“Better,” Lucian nodded. “Your form is improving. You’re actually starting to look like a fighter instead of a coffee shop manager playing at one.” His eyes tracked the last knife as it hit its mark. “The blades suit you, Miller. They’re becoming an extension of you, not just weapons.”

From Lucian, that was practically a standing ovation. I bit back a smile despite my burning muscles.

“Rear attack scenario,” he commanded. “Keep the blades live this time. Use their momentum.”

I pivoted, visualizing an attacker—six-foot-three, broad shoulders, hands reaching for my throat. My body responded instantly, feet planted as I executed the counter he’d drilled into me for weeks. The knife left my hand in a perfect arc of lethal intent, striking exactly where an attacker’s shoulder joint would be—not to kill, but to disable.

“Good, but we need someone you can practice against. All the shadow-boxing in the world won’t prepare you for an actual body.”

“No!” The word burst out forcefully. There was no way I wanted anyone to know about this. “I’m not ready to let anyone else in on what we’re doing.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll figure something out. But you won’t progress any more without an actual person to practice on.”

I tilted my head, unable to suppress a grin. “But you did say I’m progressing, right?”

He scowled. “Don’t get cocky. Your progress stops the moment you collapse from exhaustion. When did you last sleep—actually sleep—for a full night?”

I opened my mouth to lie, then closed it at his knowing look. “Define ‘full night’?”

“That’s what I thought.” He crossed his arms. “You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends, Miller. All this training won’t mean anything if you’re too exhausted to use it when it counts.”

I wiped sweat from my face with a towel. Lucian was being dramatic. I knew my limits and knew I was okay.

“I’m managing fine.”

“Are you?” Lucian’s voice took on that stern edge I’d come to know well. “Because I see someone running on fumes and caffeine. What’s the first principle I taught you?”

“Balance is the foundation of everything,” I recited automatically, slumping against the desk. “But the bar—”

“Will still be standing if you take one damn night off.”

“Who’s going to cover? Shannon called in sick again, Julie and Brian are already maxed out—”

“And that’s exactly why I’m going to send Darla down there to sort things out if you show up to our next session looking like roadkill.”

I froze. “You wouldn’t.”

His smile was sharp. “Try me. And good luck getting her to let you slide, Miller. You think I’m tough? Knowing her, she’ll tie you to that punching bag until you sleep for a week.”

The threat wasn’t empty—I’d seen enough of Darla’s protective streak to know she’d do exactly that. Despite what everyone else in the Three Rivers thought, I knew that Lucian and Darla were not human, and Darla was definitely not Lucian’s wife. She preferred her partners with skirts and heels.

Being married had been their cover when they lived here, when Lucian wanted to get away from his family, their multiple businesses, and the squabbling between his four brothers, who, by all accounts, kept getting themselves into trouble. Darla was Lucian’s bodyguard and had sworn to protect him whether he was the hot-shot billionaire of the family business or a coffee shop owner in Three Rivers. Darla was good at her job, scary as hell, and would remove limbs from anyone who looked at Lucian sideways.

“I appreciate the concern,” I said carefully, “but I can handle my schedule.”

“Then start acting like it.” His voice softened slightly. “Save some of that fire for when it counts, Miller. You won’t be any good to anyone if you burn yourself out.”

The truth was, slowing down terrified me. Everyone needed something—the bar, my brother, my staff. They kept me busy, kept my mind on them. If I paused, even briefly, I’d have to face thoughts of Derek. His hands, rough and gentle all at once. That smile that lit up something inside me when he turned it on me. The maddening way he made me want to either slap him or climb him like a tree. No. Better to stay busy.

“Get some rest, Miller. I mean it.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and hung up. Slumping down in my chair, the quiet of the office pressed in around me. All I wanted to do was curl up and have a quick nap before the evening shift started. The pile of invoices looked at me accusingly. Damn it, I had to make sure they were paid today.

I grabbed the first one, squinting at numbers that refused to stay still on the page.

My phone buzzed with a text from Julie:

Coffee machine possessed again. Line to the door. Can’t handle alone. HELP!

I closed my eyes, swallowing the flash of frustration. Not Julie’s fault our ancient espresso machine had a death wish.

A second text lit up: SOS! People getting angry!!!

I was already standing, shoving the invoices aside. The accounts would have to wait. Maybe I could do them after closing time?

Chaos crescendoed as I yanked open my office door—raised voices, angry hissing, the distinctive metal-grinding-on-metal sound of impending mechanical rebellion. I rushed into the bar to find exactly what I’d expected: a line stretching to the door, Julie’s panicked face, and our espresso machine belching steam like a caffeinated volcano.

I squared my shoulders and marched toward the counter. I was Sofia Miller, and caffeine-deprived customers were nothing compared to what I could handle.

They wanted coffee? Fine. I’d give them the best damn coffee in Three Rivers, broken machine or not.