Page 10 of Hunted By the Wolves
She’d learned to tell when someone was lying to her.You didn’t survive field work, clinics that shouldn’t exist, and forty-eight hours of hell without developing that sense.The man who had warned her hadn’t wanted to scare her.
He’d wanted to give her a chance.
Riley swallowed and forced herself to move.The register needed balancing.The coffee station needed wiping down.Muscle memory took over where her thoughts refused to go.She couldn’t afford to spiral, not here, not under lights and cameras and the bored gaze of late-night customers.
Two days meant choices.
She did the math fast.
If she stayed for this shift and the next one, she’d have enough cash to get out clean.No cards.No electronic trail.Enough for a bus ticket, maybe a train if she pushed it.Somewhere noisy.Somewhere crowded.Somewhere she could disappear for a little while longer.
Running empty-handed only makes you desperate.
Desperate people made mistakes.
The bell over the door chimed, and Riley flinched before she could stop herself.
A man stepped inside.
He was tall, taller than most, broad through the shoulders without looking bulky, built in a way that spoke of strength used rather than displayed.Dark hair, cut short and practical, brushed back from a strong brow, and faint stubble along his jaw that looked more functional than styled.His eyes were a deep, unreadable gray, steady and assessing without being invasive, and they held her attention longer than she was comfortable with.He didn’t scan the store like a predator or slouch like a customer killing time.
Riley’s pulse spiked.
Not fear exactly, but he definitely made her uncomfortable
He picked up a basket and began moving through the aisles with the same quiet certainty he carried everywhere else, selecting eggs, bread, bacon, breakfast staples, nothing indulgent.Real food.Practical food.It struck her, irrationally, that he shopped the way someone did when they expected to be around long enough to use what they bought.Breakfast food.The kind of choices that absolutely made sense at 3:00 in the morning.
When he reached the counter, his gaze lifted and met hers.
Riley forgot what she was doing for half a second.
His eyes were steady.Not invasive.Not soft either.Just observant, like he was cataloging the world instead of judging it.
“Morning,” he said, voice low and even.
“Night,” she corrected automatically.
A corner of his mouth twitched.“Fair.”He set the basket down.“I’m terrible at breakfast,” he added, like it was an afterthought.“What actually makes one good?”
The question startled her.
People didn’t ask her things anymore.Not real questions.
She hesitated, then shrugged.“Depends.If you want easy?Eggs, toast, something salty.If you want comfort, you add coffee and sit down.”
He considered that seriously, like she’d just given him tactical advice.“So not complicated.”
“Complicated usually disappoints,” she said before she could stop herself.
His gaze sharpened—not alarmed, not intrusive—interested.
He paid, thanked her, and left.
Riley stood there long after the door closed, heart doing something unfamiliar in her chest.Not racing.Not collapsing.
Steady.
That bothered her.
