Cyrus really didn’t give a shit anymore.
Six months ago, he’d wanted a treaty with Boston to help keep New York City secure. Now, with the constant back and forth with Travis in Philadelphia, Cyrus wasn’t sure he should go any further down a worrisome road.
Cyrus stepped out of the elevator and crossed the lobby to the street. The noises of New York City greeted him. He’d heard tourists call it too loud, too busy, too tall of a city, but he found the sudden onslaught of sensory information calming. He couldn’t overthink things when he was in the world that was Manhattan.
Or at least that’s how he usually felt. At that moment, he wanted to crawl out his skin. What the hell was the matter with him? A growl left his throat, startling him. That was the second time in ten minutes he’d growled without meaning to. When was the last time he’d done that? Twenty-five years before? He’d probably been about eight years old, right after his first change.
Adult male werewolves didn’t do anything unintentionally—especially not ones who grew up to be Alphas. Control belonged to him.
He sniffed the air. A scent called to him, increasing his restlessness. In this case, the scent bugging him tasted like vanilla. But how to determine whose aroma he needed to find?
Cyrus looked left and right. This was New York City. Finding the scent of vanilla was like asking him to locate a needle in a haystack. Maybe whoever it was would go away and leave him with one less irritation in his cluster fuck of a week.
He stormed into the Starbucks across the street. Coffee, he needed some right then and there. If he could sharpen his senses and make it through the rest of the day, then he would let himself travel north that night for a private run—just he and the moon.
The smell of vanilla was stronger inside the coffee shop and not because of some syrup they used in the coffee. No, it grew in strength, far powerful than normal. Inside, his senses went high alert and his muscles bunched with tension. There was a threat. There had to be. What else could possibly elicit such a response from him?
He scanned the room until his gaze located the problem. Lilliana, the mate of the Alpha from Philadelphia, was sitting outside his office building in a Starbucks. What the fuck? What the hell is she doing here? He took a deep breath. Why did she smell different? Hybrid wolf, yes that had stayed the same, but why had she coated herself in vanilla? This close, he liked the smell. It made him dizzy, as if he needed to sit down for a while.
Cyrus steadied himself on the back of an empty chair and stared at Lilliana. She was petite with blonde hair that fell to her shoulders and curves in all the right places. He’d always been attracted to her, but she’d smelled too much like Travis, and something—indefinable—had been missing. She’d never really done it for him before. His eyes widened as he realized what he should have cued into immediately. She didn’t smell like Travis anymore.
Something’s wrong.
He walked over to her and threw himself down in the chair across from her. “What’s going on, Lilliana? You know you shouldn’t be here without permission. Very clear rules. I don’t send my people to wander around Philadelphia. Explain yourself and why you smell different.”
Lilliana sat back in her chair. She stared at him for a few seconds, her brown eyes punching his gut as though she had struck him. He’d barely blinked when she looked down at the table.
“I’m sorry. I think you’ve made a mistake. My name isn’t Lilliana.” Her voice was softer than usual. She bit down on her lower lip. “Unless this is some kind of joke, sir.”
Shock rendered him speechless. Holy shit. The girl in front of him was absolutely not Lilliana. She sounded different, she smelled different, and Lilliana would never in a million years be as submissive as the half-breed she-wolf sitting in front of him.
Lilliana knew nothing about her blood family—humans had adopted her. Since she’d been a latent shifter—unable to turn into a wolf—she hadn’t even known she was a werewolf until Lake had healed her. Was it possible this woman in front of him was Lilliana’s twin sister? They had nearly the same face.
The only slight difference, at least that he could see, was the woman in front of him had freckles across her nose, whereas Lilliana had none. On this unnamed she-wolf, the freckles were adorable.
Mate.
The thought slammed into him. Was such a thing possible? He’d never believed in a true mating. Most of the folklore about their origins was a bunch of crap. People mated for political maneuvers and strength. Sure, every young werewolf believed they’d grow up to find the other half of their soul, but, like him, most eventually grew out of believing in fairytales.