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Wolf's Blood, Vampire's Heart
Chapter 2: The Stranger's Gaze

Chapter 2: The Stranger's Gaze

Rain streaked down the café windows, blurring the world outside into a gray smear. Layla sat at a corner table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers. Mira was chattering about their anthropology quiz—something about kinship structures—but Layla barely heard her. Her mind was still on those gray eyes, the way they'd pinned her in place like a moth under glass.

"You're zoning out again," Mira said, snapping her fingers in front of Layla's face. "Earth to Layla. What's with you today?"

"Nothing," Layla lied, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

Mira raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but didn't press. She leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone. "Whatever. You're buying the next round for spacing out on me."

Layla nodded absently, her gaze drifting to the window. The rain had eased to a drizzle, and students milled about outside, their umbrellas bobbing like colorful mushrooms. She sipped her coffee, trying to shake the unease that had settled in her chest since last night. Maybe Mira was right—maybe it was just a coyote, and the guy in the quad was a coincidence. But those eyes...

The café door swung open, a gust of damp air sweeping in. Layla glanced up, and her breath caught. A guy stepped inside—tall, lean, with an air of quiet confidence that made heads turn. His dark hair was slicked back from the rain, framing a face that was all sharp angles: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips curved in a faint, almost mocking smile. But it was his eyes that stopped her cold—pale blue, piercing, like shards of ice catching the light.

He scanned the room, and when his gaze landed on her, it lingered. A shiver ran down her spine, not from the cold. There was something in the way he looked at her—something hungry, curious, like he was peeling back her skin to see what lay beneath.

"Who's that?" Mira whispered, nudging Layla under the table. "He's staring at you like you're on the menu."

"I don't know," Layla murmured, tearing her eyes away. Her coffee suddenly tasted bitter, and she set it down, her hands trembling slightly.

The guy moved toward the counter, his steps smooth and deliberate, like a predator stalking through tall grass. He wore a black leather jacket, damp from the rain, and a silver ring glinted on his finger as he ordered. The barista—a girl Layla recognized from her history class—flushed as she handed him his cup, stammering something incoherent. He flashed her a smile, all charm and teeth, before turning back toward the room.

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"He's coming this way," Mira hissed, straightening up. "Act normal."

Layla didn't have time to respond. He slid into the empty chair at the table next to theirs, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of rain and something sharper, like metal or blood. Her stomach twisted, and she stared hard at her mug, willing herself not to look at him.

"Nice day for coffee," he said, his voice low and smooth, with a hint of an accent she couldn't place—maybe British, maybe something older. It wasn't directed at anyone specific, but Layla felt it like a hook in her chest.

"Yeah, if you like drowning in it," Mira shot back, her tone playful but edged with suspicion. "New around here?"

He tilted his head, those blue eyes flicking to Mira for a moment before settling back on Layla. "Just passing through. Ravenwood's got a certain... charm."

Layla's throat tightened. She could feel his stare, heavy and unyielding, but she kept her eyes down, tracing the rim of her mug with her thumb. Her skin prickled, and for a split second, she thought she heard a whisper—a soft, wordless hum in the back of her mind. It was gone as fast as it came, leaving her reeling.

"I'm Mira," her friend said, undeterred. "This is Layla. She's usually more talkative, but she's having an off day."

"Layla," he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like he was tasting it. She finally looked up, meeting his gaze, and it hit her like a punch—sharp, electric, and impossibly deep. "Pretty name. Suits you."

"Thanks," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. Her heart was pounding now, and she didn't know why. He wasn't just good-looking—he was dangerous, in a way she couldn't explain.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his coffee untouched. "You're not from around here either, are you?"

"Born and raised," she said, surprised by how steady she sounded. "Why?"

His smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You've got a scent about you. Something... different."

Mira laughed, breaking the tension. "Okay, creepy much? What are you, a bloodhound?"

"Something like that," he said, his tone light but laced with something darker. He straightened, picking up his cup. "Enjoy your coffee, ladies. Maybe I'll see you around."

He stood and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him. Layla let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her hands clammy against the mug.

"What the hell was that?" Mira said, staring after him. "He's hot, but weird. Like, serial-killer weird."

"Yeah," Layla agreed, though she wasn't sure "weird" covered it. Her mind was buzzing, that faint hum lingering like an echo. She glanced at the window, half-expecting to see him watching her from the rain-soaked street, but he was gone.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Mira dragged her to the library, where they crammed for the quiz, but Layla couldn't focus. She kept replaying the guy's words—"a scent about you"—and the way his eyes had seemed to see right through her. It wasn't just attraction, though he was undeniably striking. It was something else, something that made her feel exposed.

By evening, the rain had stopped, leaving the campus slick and glistening under the streetlights. Layla said goodbye to Mira at the dorm entrance and started up the stairs alone, her boots echoing in the quiet hall. She was halfway to her room when she heard it again—the howl, closer this time, rising from the forest beyond the building.

She froze, her hand on the railing. It wasn't her imagination. It was real, raw, and calling to her. She turned toward the window at the end of the hall, her breath fogging the glass as she pressed her forehead against it. The trees swayed in the wind, shadows dancing in the moonlight.

And then she saw him—not the wolf this time, but the guy from the quad, standing at the edge of the woods. His gray eyes caught the light, unblinking, and a chill raced through her. He didn't move, didn't wave, just stared, like he was waiting for her to make the next move.

Behind her, the hum in her mind flared again, sharper now, and she stumbled back, her heart hammering. Whatever was happening, whoever these strangers were, one thing was clear: her quiet little life in Ravenwood was over.