Semua Bab Blind Alpha And His Unwanted Mate: Bab 411 - Bab 420

Lucas POVShe picks up the vanilla shake. The straw barely makes it halfway to her lips before she stops.The whipped cream. Too much of it. She’d said no. I know she did, I heard her voice, calm but certain. Yet the barista missed it. Sloppy. And now, because someone didn’t listen, she has to turn back.I find myself glaring at the barista for ruining her order.Strange.However, before anyone can notice, I school my expression and pretend to be busy in the book that I have abandoned since she walked in.She... what is your name? Who are you? And what is your story?Her jaw ticks, the faintest movement, like a pulse under skin. But her voice? Smooth. No bite, no edge. Just a request...kind, clear. Almost like she’s done this before. Too many times. People not listening. People assuming. She hates it yet, she never shows it.The shake goes back, and she waits. Not impatient. Her eyes move across the room again, discreet, scanning. The corner of the ceiling where the light flickers, th

Lucas POVIt’s been a week. Seven days of the same chair, same corner, same lukewarm coffee that cools too fast because I forget to drink it. Anyone else would call it boring. I should call it boring. But it isn’t. Not when she is here.She doesn’t look at me every time. Sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn’t, and maybe that’s what keeps me coming back. The unpredictability of it. Like a page I want to flip but hold back, just to savor the pause before the turn.Today she’s in another one of those dresses, loose and simple, fabric that drapes like it was made for her without even trying. Yesterday it was a sweatshirt, sleeves pushed halfway up her arms, like comfort was the only rule.She sits with her drink, that same vanilla shake, no whipped cream. Always no whipped cream. I’ve started noticing how she says it, a soft note in her voice, careful, like she’s already prepared for the barista to mess it up again. They don’t, not anymore. She trained them quick.Sometimes she pulls o

Lucas POVRain doesn’t just fall. It performs. Each drop lands with its own note. Outside, the bigger ones slap the pavement in hard, flat bursts, like a drummer who doesn’t know when to stop. Smaller drops race down the café window, some fast and clean, others dragging behind, merging, swallowing each other whole before sliding out of sight. The gutter above is offbeat, spitting water in crooked streams, pooling by the curb in circles that ripple, overlap, collapse.The door swings open, and with it comes a man who shakes himself out in the middle of the café. Drops fly across the tables, scattering like tiny glass beads. They catch the dim light for a second before dying on the wood, leaving dark freckles that spread slow. I watch one slide toward the edge, then fall, a single drop meeting the floor with a soft tick I almost shouldn’t hear, or notice but I do.Behind me, two students tumble in, their laughter sharp, too sharp. It cuts through the rain like broken glass. They don’t l

Lucas Her hand is small in mine.Tugging me forward like she has a plan. Does she? Maybe. Maybe not. Do I care? No. I don’t.I look at her, while inhaling deeply trying to catch a scent of her wolf or something, but her smell just overwhelms me and I lose my focus.Rain runs down her hair, clings to her lashes, drips from the tip of her nose. She laughs, the sound sharp, bright, cutting through the storm, and it makes something inside me shut up, the part that wants to pull her back, cover her, keep her safe.She should be cold. Miserable. Shivering. She should be anywhere but here, dragging me down some street, soaked to the bone. But no. She’s glowing. Happiness radiates off her like it doesn’t matter that her dress is plastered to her skin, that her sandals splash through puddles.And me? I watch. I count the drops sliding down her cheek. I memorize the way she tilts her head back to the sky like she’s daring the clouds to stop her.I should say something. Tell her she’ll get sick

LucasBed feels too big tonight. Sheets cold, pillow softer than it should be. I should be asleep, but the problem is I can still feel her. The weight of her laugh in my chest, the press of her lips against mine, the way her hand fisted in my shirt like letting go wasn’t an option.The room is quiet, but not silent. It never is.The faint hum of the ceiling fan cuts the stillness. The clock ticks, steady and sharp. Somewhere outside, a dog barks, followed by the rattle of a passing motorbike. My window is cracked open, and I can smell the shift in the night air, dust settling after the day’s heat, a hint of damp soil from the earlier rain.Every sound, every scent, every flicker of movement registers without effort. It always has. My brothers say that’s what the mate bond feels like... heightened senses, an unbearable sharpness, a pull to every detail about her. But that’s how I’ve lived my whole life. Observant. Restless. Never missing a thing. Not just about a single person, but eve