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Chapter 100: Unexpected
Lucas's Perspective
Milo looked like a whole new dog when the groomers finally brought him out. Gone was the shaggy, wild look; trimmed down, he looked sharper, leaner, almost wolfish. His blue eyes gleamed as he trotted straight toward me, tail wagging, as if he'd just been through a spa day and knew he looked good.
Beside him, the groomers led out the smaller, pampered-looking dog with glossy fur and a ribbon tied neatly at the collar. Lydia immediately lit up.
"There you are, Prada." She bent down, scooping her dog into her arms before giving Milo a once-over. "And wow… he's a big, handsome boy. Where did you get him?"
I crouched, giving Milo a pat between his ears. "He actually found us. He was a stray."
Her brow arched slightly, eyes flicking between Milo and me. "Some stray," she said with a half-smile, like she didn't quite buy it.
Lydia set Prada down, and to my surprise, the little dog made a beeline for me, tail wagging furiously. I knelt and offered a hand, and Prada immediately licked it. Lydia blinked.
"That's… odd. Prada usually doesn't like anyone but me."
I smirked. "He's got great taste."
She blushed, just a flicker of pink across her cheeks, before quickly straightening her expression, smoothing it back into that calm mask she wore so well.
Prada, emboldened, turned his tiny frame toward Milo and let out a bark, trying to act like the big dog in the room. Milo didn't even twitch. He simply looked up at me, waiting. I shook my head once, and Milo turned away, utterly ignoring the challenge. Lydia noticed, her lips curving into the faintest grin.
A few minutes later, we stepped out of the groomers with both dogs in tow. The late afternoon air was warm, and on impulse, I stopped at a vendor nearby. "Two dog ice creams," I said, handing over a bill, "and two regular ones."
We sat on a bench while Prada happily devoured his treat and Milo carefully enjoyed his. Lydia and I ate ours, talking between bites.
It was easy. Too easy. Her voice softened when she spoke to me, free of the polished edge she usually wore at school. She told me about places I should check out in Beacon Hills—the preserve, an old bookstore, the coffee shop everyone swore by. Every so often, she'd drop in a playful remark, something sly that could be read as flirtation or just banter, depending on how I chose to take it.
And the truth was… I liked it.
For once, it didn't feel like a game. It felt like two people enjoying each other's company over melting ice cream and wagging tails.
We walked until we reached her car. Prada hopped into the passenger seat while Lydia checked her phone. It rang, and the name flashing on the screen made her expression shift instantly. Jackson.
She answered, and I watched in silence as the mask fell into place. Her tone turned light, easy, casual. "Yeah, just ran into Lucas at the groomers," she brought up in the middle of the conversation, breezy as if it meant nothing. She laughed at something he said, her performance flawless.
By the time she hung up, Jackson had bought it completely.
She lingered a moment, hand on the door, looking at me. "That was… a lot more fun than I expected," she admitted, her smile softer than before.
I nodded, but said nothing.
She slid into her car, Prada settling in her lap, and with a last glance my way, she drove off.
I stood there for a beat longer, Milo at my side, the taste of ice cream still on my tongue.
A few hours later.
The parking lot was almost empty, the silence of the night broken only by the faint buzz of a flickering lamp overhead. Derek's boots echoed on the asphalt as he crossed toward his car, shoulders tense after a long day.
He was halfway to the driver's side when something thudded hard against the hood. Derek froze.
A body.
The corpse of a man sprawled across the metal, limbs hanging limp. The metallic tang of blood hit Derek's nose before his eyes fully adjusted. Recognition came sharp and fast.
The younger hunter. The one with too much mouth at the gas station. The one who had spat on the memory of Derek's family.
Derek's heart dropped into a steady, furious beat. He looked up, scanning the lot. That was when he saw it—a figure darting away, moving fast. A blur in the dark, broad-shouldered, too quick for human.
Werewolf.
Derek sprinted after it, claws threatening to break free, but the thing was fast— atleast faster than it should have been. He turned corners, cut through rows of cars, but within seconds, the figure vanished into the night.
Panting, Derek slowed, eyes narrowed. Something about the way it moved… animalistic, yes, but wrong. Sloppy, unbalanced. Not like any werewolf he'd hunted with or fought against before.
He didn't have time to think it through.
Derek rushed back to his car. The hunter's body still lay across the hood, lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Whoever did this wanted it found here. Wanted him framed.
"Damn it."
With a grimace, Derek dragged the corpse off the hood, lowering it to the pavement. He wiped his hands on his jeans, then slid behind the wheel, forcing himself to stay calm.
The Argents were going to find this. And when they did, they'd point the finger straight at him.
As Derek drove into the dark, the weight in his chest grew heavier. He could already feel the trap closing in.