Leah's POV
The supermarket fluorescents buzzed like angry hornets. I trailed Liam past pyramids of canned beans, his boots squeaking against linoleum. He moved like a feral cat—all coiled tension and sideways glances. The discount rack called to him like a siren.
"Jackpot," he muttered, scooping armfuls of spaghetti boxes into the cart. The packaging screamed ITALIANA AUTENTICA! in Comic Sans. I snorted. Authentic as his leather jacket's "genuine pleather" tag.
"Grandma's got expensive taste in hospice care, huh?" I nudged a box with my elbow. The noodles rattled like dried bones. "Why not buy her real food now that you're rolling in mobster cash?"
He didn't look up. "Nonna'd skin me alive if I wasted good dollars on truffle oil when Barilla's ninety cents." The cart shuddered as he dumped another box. "Besides, spaghetti's her love language. Ate it every Thursday with Papa Enzo before the cirrhosis got him."
I let my claws retract just enough to snag a frozen lobster tail from the seafood aisle. The cart protested as I added ribeyes thick enough to choke a grizzly.
"Man alive," Liam wheeled around, nearly colliding with a pyramid of artisanal salt packets. "We hosting the fucking Roman senate?"
"I eat like a wolf." The lie came easy. Truth was, the beast under my skin hadn't stopped snarling since the alley. Every cell screamed hunt, feast, claim. But princesses don't gnaw raw flank in public. Not unless they want torches and pitchforks.
He eyed my haul, cigarette bobbing between his teeth. "Y'know what they feed wolves in zoos? Kibble. Cheap, efficient, no Michelin stars required."
"Good thing I'm not a house trained wolf." The cart screeched as I pivoted toward frozen fish.
His hand shot out to block me. "Don't." The streetwise sneer faltered. "Those had more freezer burn than my ex's heart. If you want decent cod..." He checked his phone, the cracked screen glowing 2:47 AM. "Pier 16's market opens at four. Old Man Russo guts them while they're still pissed off."
I arched a brow. "You moonlight as a seafood sommelier?"
"Grew up scaling mackerel at the docks." He flicked ash into a potted basil plant. "Before the developers turned it into artisanal kombucha stalls."
-
The steak seared beautifully in his rusted skillet.
"How do you like your steak?" I asked.
"I like it with my whole heart." He mumbled as he poured more beer down into his throat.
I narrowed my eyes. "Never eaten a steak before?"
He mumbled something that I couldn't quite catch.
I pressed my palm over Liam's knuckles, guiding the tongs. His pulse rabbited under my touch - human hearts beat so frantic, like they're racing toward extinction.
"Rare's here," I traced his lifeline, calluses catching on royal skin I shouldn't have exposed. "Medium's... here." My thumb slid upward. The scent of his adrenaline spiked, copper-bright. "Well done's—"
He jerked back like I'd branded him. "Burnt. Got it." The flush creeping past his collar betrayed him. "Just... char the damn thing. I like my meat like my landlords - crispy and screamin'."
I served his steak resembling charcoal briquettes. Mine bled freely, five plates circling me like a carnivore's sacrament. He stared as I demolished the third, juices staining my chin rubied.
"Got a tapeworm empire in there?" He poked his own meat with forensic suspicion.
"Metabolism." I licked my thumb clean. "Greater capability comes with caloric demands."
"Right, right." He sawed his steak into confetti.
"So, are you going to stop pimping?" I took a bite and asked.
"So here it comes. This whole 'stop pimping' crusade - you gonna fund my career change? Buy me a tie, send me to community college?"
I frowned. My voice was bitter as wolfsbane. "You'd last five minutes in a lecture hall."
"Four more than you'd last in stilettos." He jabbed his fork toward my boots. "Those things are murder weapons."
"Everything's a weapon if you're creative." I leaned back, studying the photo taped above the sink - Nonna's fish dwarfed her cancer-ravaged frame, yet her grin could've powered nations. "You ever think about leaving? Taking her somewhere with clean air?"
The question hung like a struck match. Outside, a siren wailed toward the harbor.
"Where?" His laugh came out hollow. "Tuscany? Fiji? Places like that..." He gestured vaguely, cigarette describing arcs in the dimness. "They're postcards for rich bastards. Me and Nonna? We're the gum stuck under their designer loafers."
I watched him scrape burnt bits into a chipped saucer labeled For Strays. His hands betrayed him - gentle with the dish, ruthless with himself. Humans were contradictions wrapped in cigarette foil. My kind lived centuries by clinging to certainties: hunt together, die honorably, keep the bloodline pure. But these brittle, ephemeral creatures? They thrived on chaos, building sandcastles against tsunami tides.
Liam's voice cut through my musing. "You keep staring, I'm gonna charge admission."
I piled five empty plates in front of me and licked my lips. "Just wondering how you taste." The words slipped out before I could leash them.
He froze. The kitchen clock ticked three times before he rasped, "Medium-rare, probably. Lots of gristle."
I chuckled. He stared at me with amazement.
"What?" I frowned.
He immdiately looked away. "Nothing. It's just... I've never seen you smiling."
Through the grease-streaked window, the city pulsed - a living thing made of shortcuts and survival.
I swiped the back of my hand across my greasy lips, eyeballing Liam hard while keeping my tone straight-up. "You really need to stop pimping and get a real gig."
His chuckle came out like a rusty hinge. "Why don't you pimp me instead? Got that Madam vibe down pat."
"Quit fronting." I frowned. "Everybody's got a dream. What's yours?"
Dude buried his nose in that T-bone like it held life's answers. "Sure. I wanna be some Dubai oil baron. Get that Greek god bod. Maybe cop a title like I'm fucking Buckingham Palace royalty." His knife screeched against the plate. "Or be one of those silicon brats coding billion-dollar apps between bong hits. But come on, look at me." He jerked his chin toward the diner's neon sign flickering like bad decisions. "I dropped out of school when I was a kid and I've been hanging out on the street ever since. Cops play catch-and-release with me like I'm some fuckin' trout."
I leaned in, keeping it gentle like talking to a cornered stray. "Just need one clean shot. Legit work. Think about it."