Zara – POV
The Drunken Moon Bar, East Atlanta | 1:07 AM
It was 1:07 AM and I was already over it. My feet were killing me, my curls ( which was 3c/4a) were frizzed halfway out of the messy bun I barely had time to fix before shift, throwing the cute part completely out the window. I was one tequila breath away from setting this whole damn place on fire.
The bar smelled like sticky rum, burnt lemon wedges, cheap cologne, and the kind of regrets that only show up in group chats the next morning. The Friday night crowd had turned rowdy about an hour ago, but now? They were just touchy and drunk. The kind of touchy that made you want to slap somebody, but you don't — because you need rent.
My bestie, Liyah, had called off twenty minutes before it opened. Self-care, she texted. Which meant I was stuck running the floor with Tanya, a girl who believed holding a bottle in her hand was the same thing as helping. I was doing everything: taking orders, dodging hands, restocking limes, pretending to laugh at jokes that weren't funny, and praying nobody pissed me off enough to let the wolf show.
I needed the money too badly to walk out. And that pissed me off even more.
The soft spot in my shoulder ached from where I'd taken a blow years ago — back when I still believed I had a real pack. Back when I thought blood meant loyalty and not politics.
But that was a lifetime ago. Now it was just me. No family to run to. No pack to lean on. Just my roommate's cold-ass leftover lo mein in the fridge and the annual $500 wire from Auntie Brenda — always sent on my birthday with the same four-word message:
"Love you. — Auntie Brenda."
Never picks up. Never texts back. Just enough money to make sure I don't drown, but not enough to keep me afloat.
I wiped my hands on a rag and leaned back against the bar. The neon "Drunken Moon" sign above me flickered twice — like even it was tired of this shit.
"Hey, hey, babygirl," a voice slithered in from the left.
I already knew who it was before I turned. Marcus — one of our regulars. Late thirties. He Smelt like Newports and Hennessy. Always trying to convince me he was different from the other creeps. And always failing of course
"You're lookin' like a goddess tonight," he said, leaning forward with a grin that had no business being that confident. "Been thinkin' 'bout you all week. You know you could leave this place, right? Come home with a real man."
I gave him the same tight smile I always did. "Appreciate it, Marcus. Do you want another beer or are you good?"
"Don't play with me, Z," he said, voice lowering like that was supposed to be sexy. "You keep actin' shy, but I know you feel this vibe."
I laughed softly — mostly to keep myself from snapping. "There is no vibe. And I'm working. Let me know when you need a refill."
I turned to walk toward the stockroom and felt him slide a hand around my waist. Fingers grabbing more than they were welcome to.
I stopped mid-step.
He leaned in closer, breath hot near my ear. "Come on now, don't act like you ain't been thinking 'bout it too."
My blood chilled. Not from fear. From rage.
I grabbed his wrist and yanked it off me, firm and final. "Marcus. Don't ever touch me again."
He raised his hands like I'd hurt him. "Damn, I'm just saying. Ain't gotta be so mean."
I was already walking away. I didn't care what Tanya saw. I didn't care if the whole bar watched me throw him through the jukebox. I just needed five minutes in the back before I did something that got me fired or arrested.
I pushed through the swinging door to the hallway that led to the stockroom, my heart pounding, lips pressed together so tight they hurt. My wolf stirred beneath my skin — angry, irritated, done.
And then I felt it.
That shift.
The air changed. Got heavy. Thick. Charged like lightning right before it strikes. I turned around — just in time to see the front door open.
And he walked in.
And my whole body forgot how to breathe.
Tall, too confident, dressed in all black like a bad decision I'd regret twice. He didn't stumble like the others. Didn't reek of vodka or ego. No, he moved like he owned the damn air, like gravity only worked because he said so. My skin prickled before my brain caught up.
And then I caught his eyes — storm gray, sharp, hungry — like he knew something I didn't. My hand tightened around the bottle I was pouring. A splash hit the counter and Tanya actually looked up from her phone, like even her lazy ass could feel the shift in the room.
He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just looked. Straight through me.
That's when it started. Low in my chest. A hum. A burn. A whisper I hadn't heard since I was sixteen and the pack told me I wasn't one of them.
My wolf... went still.
I stared from behind the doorway, hidden from full view — but I could feel his eyes scan the room. Searching.
No one else noticed. Tanya barely glanced up from her phone again. Marcus had gone back to pretending he didn't just get rejected in front of half the bar.
But me?
I felt like something in me had just cracked open.
His presence was a hum — low and primal. A pull. A claim. Like gravity had shifted and now it wanted me closer to him.
Then his eyes found me. Gray. Sharp. Alive with something ancient and hungry.
My fingers gripped the edge of the door.
And for the first time in years, I heard that whisper again — deep in my chest, somewhere beneath the layers of grief, survival, and rage.
Wake up.
He's here.
__________
I leaned against the cold wall of the hallway and tried to breathe.
My hands were still shaking — not from Marcus. I'd dealt with worse. I'd survived worse. But that man who walked in? The one dressed like a warning? He wasn't just another drunk dude trying too hard. He hadn't even ordered a drink.
He looked at me like he already knew my name. Like he'd been looking for me and finally found the missing piece. My body had reacted before my mind even processed what I was seeing — heart racing, heat blooming across my collarbones like I'd just been kissed without being touched.
Wake up.
That voice again. Familiar but not mine. Not exactly. I clenched my jaw and tried to shake it off.
"Get it together," I muttered, digging in the small fridge for a backup Red Bull and pretending I hadn't almost lost it in front of a room full of strangers. "It's just a fine-ass man. Not the second coming."
I cracked the can open, took a sip, and let the fizz burn my tongue. Cold. Sharp. Something to ground me. I needed it.
And then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Controlled. One beat at a time like whoever it was knew exactly where they were going — and who they were walking toward.
I turned just as the door creaked open, letting in a wash of warm bar light and shadow.
He stepped through.
Not stumbling. Not hesitating. Just entering, like he'd been granted access by some invisible force I couldn't fight.
Up close, he was worse.
Tall. Wide shoulders. Skin the color of fresh coffee in candlelight. Faded gold chain around his neck, sleeves pushed up to reveal arms that definitely did damage. His jaw was sharp, lined with a trimmed beard, and his gray eyes—gray, like thunderclouds before the first drop—locked on me with full intent.
I froze, half Red Bull raised to my lips.
He said nothing.
Didn't move closer. Didn't smile. Just stood there in the doorway like his name was already carved somewhere on my body.
"Can I help you?" I asked, voice steady even though everything inside me was not.
His lips twitched. Barely. Like a smile that changed its mind.
"I don't know," he said, voice smooth like sin in velvet. "Can you?"
I blinked. "That's really vague for a man standing in the staff hallway."
"Didn't mean to intrude," he said. But he didn't leave. Just watched me like I might shift into something else any second.
I felt my heartbeat in my wrists. My ears. My thighs.
"You lost or something?"
"No," he said, eyes dragging down my body like a fingerprint. "I think I just found something I wasn't looking for."
My breath caught. There it was again — the pull.
Like his presence was tugging on something under my skin. Something old. Something wild. Something I hadn't dared name in years.
I stepped back, just slightly, needing space to think.
"Look," I said, trying to clear the fog in my head. "If you're here to try the whole mysterious stranger thing, that's cute. But I'm not on the menu."
A beat passed. Then another.
"I'm not here for that," he said. Low. Honest. And somehow... possessive. "I didn't even know I was coming here. Something just... told me to stop."
I stared at him. Everything in me said run. But everything deeper—the thing I buried when the pack cast me out—said stay.
Then, as if realizing the weight of the moment, he nodded once and took a step back. Gave me space. Gave me breath.
"I'll let you get back to work," he said. "But I'll be here. When you're ready."
And just like that, he disappeared back through the door, leaving the scent of leather, rain, and something dangerously familiar in the air.
I stood there, Red Bull forgotten, lips parted in confusion and want.
Because somehow...
I knew his name before I ever heard it.
Khalid.