Flash Marriage to the Dangerous Secret Alpha

Anna POV:

"He's thirty minutes late."

I stared at the digital clock on my phone, the numbers glowing like a small, mocking accusation.

Thirty. Minutes.

My thumb hovered over my brother Michael's contact. One tap and he'd be here in ten minutes, ready to flip the table and probably the man who was supposed to be sitting across from it.

I took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of burnt coffee and sugar. No. I was twenty-three. I could handle a disastrous blind date on my own.

The bell above the cafe door chimed, and a gust of cold city air swept in. A man swaggered through, his shoulders too broad for the narrow aisle between tables. Hayes. He didn't apologize. He didn't even offer a tight, insincere smile. He simply pulled out the chair opposite me, the legs scraping loudly against the tile floor, and dropped into it.

He scanned me from head to toe. My comfortable jeans, my favorite worn-in sweater, my practical boots. His eyebrow arched in a clear expression of disdain.

"Anna Hamilton?" he asked, his voice laced with a condescending drawl.

I forced a polite smile that felt like stretching a cold rubber band across my face. "That's me. And you're Hayes."

I pushed the laminated menu across the table toward him. "Can I get you a coffee? Their latte is actually pretty good."

He shoved it back with two fingers, as if it were contaminated. "I only drink VOSS. Still. Which I doubt this place carries."

My smile tightened. My stomach did, too. It was a familiar knot, the one that appeared whenever I had to deal with men from the pack's upper echelons.

"Right," I said, my voice clipped. I flagged down a waitress and ordered a bottle of their most expensive sparkling water for him. For myself, I ordered a large iced Americano. I needed the bitter shock of it.

Hayes didn't wait for the drinks to arrive. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, creating an immediate, unwelcome sense of intimacy. "Let's get straight to it. My mother says you run some kind of little shop."

"I own a coffee shop, yes," I corrected him, my posture stiffening. "It's doing very well."

"That's nice," he said, the words dripping with dismissal. "You'll have to close it, of course."

The air in my lungs seemed to freeze. "I'm sorry, what?"

"After we're mated. My Luna can't be out serving coffee to strangers. It's unseemly. You'll have duties at home. My parents are traditional. They'll expect you to be available."

I stared at him. The knot in my stomach tightened into a cold, hard stone. My own shop, The Daily Grind, was my life. I'd built it from nothing, pouring every dollar I had and every ounce of my soul into its four walls. It was the one place in the world that was entirely mine.

I picked up my water glass, my fingers cold against the condensation. "And why, exactly, would I give up my business?" My voice was dangerously quiet.

He actually laughed. A short, barking sound that made heads turn at the next table. "You're a wolfless, Anna. You should be grateful an Alpha from a family like mine is even considering you. You don't have the luxury of making demands. Your only role is to support your mate and his pack."

Wolfless.

The word hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't an insult; it was a fact. I was born into a werewolf family, adopted, but my inner wolf had never surfaced. I couldn't shift, couldn't mind-link, couldn't feel the pull of a mate. In the rigid hierarchy of our world, I was a dud. A human living on the fringes of their society.

My gaze dropped to the table, my vision blurring. My hands started to tremble.

The waitress arrived with our drinks. She placed the iced Americano in front of me, the dark liquid swirling around the ice cubes. The bottle of overpriced water landed in front of Hayes with a soft clink.

He didn't even acknowledge her. He was too busy enjoying his own monologue. "You'll also be expected to attend all pack functions. You'll need to learn the family histories of the top twenty families. My mother will quiz you. She's very particular." He unscrewed the cap on his water, looking smug, as if he were bestowing a great gift upon me.

I took a slow, deep breath. The trembling in my hands stopped. My vision cleared. I looked at the condensation dripping down the side of my glass, then at the arrogant smirk on his face.

He thought I was weak. He thought I was desperate.

He was wrong.

"You know," I said, my voice suddenly light, almost conversational. "You've given me a lot to think about."

His smirk widened. "I knew you'd see reason."

I picked up my iced Americano. The plastic cup was cold and solid in my hand.

"I've thought about my career," I said, my eyes locked on his pristine white shirt.

"Good," he nodded, leaning back.

"I've thought about your family's expectations."

"Excellent."

"And I've come to a decision."

With a flick of my wrist, I upended the entire cup.

The dark, cold liquid, mixed with a cascade of ice cubes, arced through the air and hit him square in the chest.

The shock on his face was instantaneous. His mouth fell open. A single ice cube slid from his collarbone down the front of his shirt, leaving a wet trail.

He leaped to his feet, knocking his chair over with a loud crash that silenced the entire cafe. "What the hell!" he shrieked, his voice cracking.

Icy brown liquid dripped from his chin onto the floor. His expensive shirt was a ruined, clinging mess.

Slowly, I stood up. I reached into my purse, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and slapped it onto the table. "For the drinks," I said, my voice as cold as the ice now melting down his chest.

"You're insane!" he sputtered, pointing a trembling finger at me.

"No," I said, looking him directly in the eye. "I'm not. But you are incredibly selfish, and I would rather die alone than be mated to a man who sees me as a possession."

The other patrons were now openly staring, some hiding smirks behind their hands. A few teenagers in the corner were filming on their phones.

Hayes's face contorted with rage. He lunged, his hand reaching to grab my wrist.

I sidestepped him easily. Years of navigating crowded cafes had made me nimble. "Don't touch me," I warned, my voice low and final.

He froze, his hand hovering in the air, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him. The humiliation was a visible wave that washed over his features. He let out a strangled curse, clutched his soaked shirt, and practically ran out of the cafe, the bell jangling violently behind him.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The tension in my shoulders eased. A small, triumphant smile touched my lips.

It was a short-lived victory, I knew. My mother would be furious. But for a moment, it felt good.

As I turned to leave, a strange sensation prickled the back of my neck. A feeling of being watched. Intently.

I scanned the crowded cafe. My eyes swept over couples sharing pastries, students hunched over laptops, a mother trying to quiet a fussy baby. Nothing seemed out of place.

Then my gaze snagged on a man sitting alone in a dim corner. He was half-hidden behind a newspaper, but I could see a strong jaw and a dark, well-fitted jacket. There was an stillness about him, an intensity that felt out of place in the casual chaos of the cafe.

For a split second, I felt a jolt, a strange hum of energy in the air.

That sense of familiarity made no sense. I'd only been looking at him for a couple of seconds, but a strange ripple went through me—like a distant, long-forgotten image surfacing from deep water, only to sink again before I could grasp it. Was it the line of his jaw? The way he sat so utterly still, that coiled tension in his posture? I was certain I had never seen this man before, yet my body seemed to know something my mind didn't—a faint tightness in my chest, as if some old, dormant string had been quietly plucked.

I found myself sifting through my past: a stranger brushed past in college? A brief glance on some long-ago trip? None of it fit. But the feeling wouldn't leave. It clung to a dark corner of my mind like a tune I couldn't name—stubborn, half-remembered, and refusing to be dismissed.

He must have felt my stare, because he shifted, the newspaper rustling as he lowered it slightly. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt them. A weight. A pressure.

It was probably just my nerves, frayed from the confrontation. I shook my head, dismissing the feeling as paranoia.

I pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, the city noise washing over me. The brief moment of unease was forgotten as I started the walk back to my own shop, my sanctuary.