Hour of the Moon

Chapter 3: By Chance

Waya

The nightmares never stopped.

Rain.
My brother.
Death.

Each memory unspooled in fragments — lightning over a grave, blood on my hands, his eyes fading under the weight of my failure. It played on a loop, an endless reel that refused to burn out.

Guilt was the only thing I couldn't outdrink.

I'd tried, though.

Whiskey, rum, anything strong enough to burn away thought. But the curse of our kind was endurance. My body never surrendered, never blacked out. It only numbed — just enough to pretend I was human again.

Nanye-hi had gone to her mother's house for the night, helping prepare for her sister's baby shower. The elders were already whispering about bloodlines and duty, their favorite sermon. They wanted pups, an heir, proof that the Alpha wasn't broken.

Let them whisper.

They didn't understand that every time I looked at her, all I saw was the life I'd been forced into — duty without desire, survival without peace.

And tonight, I wanted neither.

The rain fell hard as I pulled into the back lot of Moody Blues. The low thrum of jazz rolled out into the night, the saxophone curling through the mist like smoke. I preferred it here to The Howler. Fewer eyes. Fewer questions.

I slipped through the back entrance, rainwater dripping from my hair, the scent of bourbon and citrus hitting me like memory. I took my usual corner seat — close enough to the band to feel the rhythm, far enough to vanish if I wanted.

Then I caught it.

A scent so potent, it sliced through everything else — black currant and mandarin, faint lily of the valley undercut by warmth. Feminine. Alive.
It struck me hard, feral and electric, pulling the wolf in me to the surface before I could stop it.

My pulse thrummed in my throat.

The source sat at the bar — a woman.

Her back was to me, but the light caught her hair, a halo of dark curls with copper undertones. Her blouse clung in all the right places, ruby red against dark denim, the soft arch of her spine framed by the bar's blue glow.

The scent hit again, sharper this time.
Familiar. Impossible.

Before reason intervened, I was already moving.

I stopped just behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin.

"I don't think I've seen you around here before," I said. My voice came out lower than intended — rough, almost primal.

She turned, startled — and in that instant, the noise of the room fell away.

⸻

Keiran

I hadn't expected to find the devil in a leather jacket.

"Are you from around here?" he asked, his voice deep and deliberate, like someone used to being listened to.

When I looked up, the words caught in my throat.

His eyes were black — not dark brown, not shadowed, but the color of stormglass. Eyes that didn't just see, but read. They reflected the bar's neon blues and golds, swallowing them whole.

For a moment, it felt like falling.

"No," I managed finally. "Not from here."

He didn't blink, didn't smile. Just studied me with that unnerving stillness — the kind that makes you feel both watched and remembered.

My pulse kicked up. "If that was your idea of a pickup line, it's terrible."

His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. "I wasn't trying to pick you up."

"Well, you're doing a fantastic job of being suspicious instead."

He laughed then — a quiet, genuine sound that caught me off guard. "Fair enough. I spoke out of turn."

Before I could answer, the bartender appeared.

"Hey, Waya," she said brightly, her voice softening around his name. "The usual?"

"The usual," he replied, eyes still on me.

The name lingered in the air — ancient and heavy, like it had survived languages.

I tried to focus on my drink instead, but my curiosity betrayed me.

He was... unreal. The kind of man who shouldn't exist outside of dreams or myths. His russet skin caught the light like bronze, his jaw sharp enough to wound. A simple white shirt under his black jacket, dark jeans, boots. His hair — thick, chocolate-brown, tied loosely at the nape — brushed the collar when he turned his head.

He didn't belong in Cherokee. He barely belonged in this world.

"Why did you say I looked familiar?" I asked quietly, unable to stop myself.

His gaze flicked up, and for a heartbeat I swore the air between us thickened.

"You remind me of someone," he said after a long pause. "Or something."

"Something?"

He smiled, slow and knowing. "Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything."

He tossed back the whiskey, expression unreadable. "Two more, Vicky."

The bartender poured without question.

I watched him drink — not for courage, not for pleasure, but to quiet something far older.

I wanted to ask more, but the moment felt like a wire strung too tight. One wrong word and it would snap. So I turned back to my martini and let the silence breathe.

Three drinks later, the ache of California came flooding back.
Amy's missed calls.
The betrayal.
The lie I'd called love for three years.

The room blurred. I made for the restroom before I embarrassed myself.

Inside, the sobs came harder than I expected. All that grief I'd stuffed down finally clawed its way up — the kind that hurts because it feels like nothing and everything at once.

When I came back out, Vicky slid a drink across the counter.

"This one's on me," she said gently.

"Thanks."

"Breakup?"

"More like a breakdown."

Her lips curved in sympathy. "You're not the first, and you won't be the last. But you're in the right place to forget for a night."

I forced a smile. "Men should be the last thing on my mind."

Vicky tilted her head toward the empty seat two stools down. "Then you're in luck. That one's trouble anyway. Waya's been through hell. Lost his brother a few years back — car accident. Never really came back from it."

The name again — Waya.

It rolled through me like a whisper I shouldn't have heard.

"That's awful," I said softly.

"His family runs the pharmacy on Main. Good people. Old blood. The kind this town doesn't forget."

"Grief never really dies," I murmured. "It just learns how to hide."

Vicky smiled faintly. "You'll fit right in here."

When a rush of new patrons filled the bar, I paid my tab and stepped out into the cold.

The night wrapped around me — sharp air, silvered stars, the faint scent of rain.

For the first time in months, I breathed.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

And though I told myself it was nothing, something inside me answered.