"What's the problem, Miss?" he asked her once again, his tone steady but patient. When he initially posed the question, she didn't respond.
Zion thought it was best to assume she hadn't heard him the first time. After all, her gaze had been fixed on his face—her eyes subconsciously flickering from his lips, to his jaw, then back to his eyes again.
It would have been impressive, he mused inwardly, how captivated she was by his appearance—if he wasn't so accustomed to such reactions. She wasn't the first, and she certainly wouldn't be the last.
As he observed her blink rapidly, she suddenly stepped away from him. Zion casually tucked both his hands into the pockets of his blue trousers, watching her with quiet patience.
He just wished she would tell him how much she needed her car fixed so he could move on. Meanwhile, he knew he'd have to tow his car away himself until he could get it repaired. Patience, he told himself. There was no rush—yet.
His eyes shifted to the bonnet. Given the extent of the damage caused by the collision, it would take at least a day or two to fully repair. Zion wondered silently what other issues might have arisen inside the car during the crash.
When Atlas had collided with the vehicle in front, Zion's cup of coffee slipped from his grasp, spilling its dark contents onto the floor—and onto his shoes. Irritated, he leaned down to wipe the stain, only to look up and see this crazy woman gripping Atlas by the neck, literally.
Around them, cars had pulled over, and spectators were pulling out their phones, capturing the scene in photos and videos. His jaw clenched with frustration, the irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior. He knew he had to act quickly before she further embarrassed him. "What is the problem?!" she cried out.
He watched her struggle to compose herself. She looked like she'd just come through a tornado—her mascara was smudged, her gown wrinkled and stained from the chaos, and her eyes burned with fury. Honestly, he almost wanted to laugh. Instead, he just tore his gaze away, sizing her up with a mixture of irritation and, frankly, amusement. 'Another crazy woman,' he thought. That was the only explanation.
Good thing he had enough money to make her disappear—that was the only reason she'd be leaving his life anytime soon.
"Your driver almost killed me," she spat, voice trembling with rage, her hands flailing in the air as if to emphasize her point. "Just after wrecking the back of my car!"
He let out a deep sigh, looking around once more. The crowd had thinned slightly, but enough people still watched, mouths hanging open or phones raised to record. The whole scene made him sick—this spectacle of chaos, a show for strangers' entertainment.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice flat and impatient, more out of necessity than concern.
"What?" she asked, disbelief lacing her voice. She couldn't quite believe the question he'd just asked, or the way he'd asked it.
Zion Ashcroft's brow furrowed slightly. He wasn't the type to repeat himself.
"You should hold on for a little while," he said calmly. "A cab will be here soon. I'll take care of the bills—both for that—and for fixing your car." His tone made it clear: this wasn't a suggestion, not a plea. It was an order, really. Take it or leave it. Stay and accept his help, or turn around and walk away, no questions asked.
The words seemed to hit her wrong. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and her arms folded tightly across her chest.
"My car's insured," she snapped back. "I don't need your money." The anger she'd shown earlier flickered back into her eyes—a spark of defiance.
He wanted to scoff at her stubbornness, but instead, he just shrugged. Part of him wanted to tell her to stop causing a scene, to get out of there. But he kept his mouth shut. Let her say what she needed to say.
Even as he watched her, he couldn't quite understand why, despite how revolted he felt by her overbearing presence, inside him, his wolf seemed to growl and gnarl with a strange, urgent need. He pushed the feeling aside. If Gunther wanted to have fun with women, he had plenty of time for that later. Right now, he had a wild woman to deal with—and a cozy hotel room to get to.
Suddenly, her eyes lit up. The frown that had been etched on her forehead vanished, along with the tension in her face. And… she was smiling?
He took a step back, instinctively. She was smiling at him like she'd just hit the jackpot, or won something even bigger.
"But," she said, her tone shifting, "there's something you can do for me."
He raised an eyebrow in suspicion. Her excitement seemed a little too over-the-top. "And what's that?"
"Sorry, but I need you to escort me to a wedding ceremony," she explained, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.
He blinked, caught off guard. Had he heard her right? He looked at her again, silently asking her to repeat herself. Maybe he'd misheard her.
She seemed to catch on, giving a nervous chuckle.
He let out a breath of relief. Okay, she was joking.
"I swear I'm not crazy," she added with a nervous laugh.
He couldn't help but smirk to himself. "Well you look like you just escaped from the asylum," he muttered, taking a moment to really look at her.
Green eyes, chestnut brown hair—she was about five foot five, maybe a little taller. The emerald gown she wore hugged her curves perfectly, and her lush lips, now curved into that nervous smile, drew his gaze effortlessly.
She seemed to notice the lack of interest and indifference in his eyes, because once his gaze returned to her face, she pointed at her car with a playful pout.
"You owe me one noble and chivalrous deed, mister," she said softly, emphasizing the words with a teasing smile.
He almost laughed at himself—he'd been about to think that, not say it out loud. Instead, he mentally berated himself, then rolled his eyes.
"I'm being very honest! If there's one thing I've ever been serious about, it's this. You don't have to do anything else. Just escort me to the wedding and stay by my side the whole time," she added earnestly.
"And why would I want to do that?" he shot back, voice dry.
Fuck! Another question he'd meant to keep to himself. How was this woman managing to make words slip out of his mouth?
She took a slow step closer to him, her eyes dancing around his face. Her proximity made his heart pound fiercely in his chest. He could hear Gunther's heavy, frantic breaths rising and falling—almost as if his wolf was fighting to get free. What the hell was happening to him?
"Because you're not from around here and you'd rather just get this over with. But I really need a partner right now, so can you please help me just this once?" she asked, her eyes wide and pleading, almost desperate.
He was taken aback by her words, but he made a conscious effort to hide it, keeping his expression cold and unreadable.
Zion Ashcroft—Alpha prince and heir to the throne of the biggest, most powerful, and most feared werewolf pack—was rarely one to show any emotion at all.
Yet, somehow, she seemed to see right through his composure. Or maybe she just thought he'd want to know how quickly she'd figured it out.
"Your accent gave it away," she added softly.
He fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course it did.
"It won't take much of your time, I promise," she said softly.
He shrugged. "It better not."
She flashed another smile and extended her hand for a handshake.
He was tempted to roll his eyes and look away, but politeness—and perhaps a sense of obligation—kept him from dismissing her. His gaze flicked back to her car. He did owe her, after all.
As he took her hand in his, a sudden jolt ran through him, and for a few seconds, his heart seemed to stop.
Fire. That was the only way Zion could describe the sensation when her skin brushed against his. Heat flared in his stomach, rising rapidly, threatening to burn his cheeks.
What was happening to him?
"Mate!" he heard Gunther call out for the first time. He was tempted to ignore it—he had to.
"My name's Novaria Santiago," she said again, smiling warmly as she shook his hand.
"Mine!" Gunther growled insistently.
Zion's gaze flicked to the spot where she held his hand. He looked back at the crazy woman again, thinking, 'You've got to be kidding me.'
In a reflex, he pulled his hand away from her grip immediately.
"Sir," Atlas' voice broke in.
Both their heads turned toward him. Standing beside a black Rolls-Royce was a scattering of tolling vans and road safety officials.
How had he not noticed all of it earlier? Had she managed to steal his attention so completely that everything else faded away?
He glanced back at Novaria. "I believe we have a wedding to attend."
She beamed with smiles—gratitude, relief, perhaps a bit of both.
Atlas looked up at him, clearly puzzled.
"Just get my things to the hotel. I'll call you when I need you," Zion said calmly.
"Y-yes, sir," Atlas replied quietly.
Before he could do anything else, Novaria had already hailed a taxi cab, opened the car door and slipped inside.
Zion stood there for a few seconds, watching her go. She was definitely a crazy woman. Gunther must have had his head all mixed up.