Page 2 of Trusting Her Mate

Because for them, this is normal.

Behind the counter, a woman with silver-streaked hair and sharp eyes looks up from pouring coffee. She’s older, her skin mapped with smile lines, and she radiates a warmth that feels like the inside of a kitchen when something good is baking.

She’s human, no wolf scent at all, but the way she watches me is careful, measuring.

Her gaze drops to my duffel, then returns to my face. “You lost, sweetheart?”

“No,” I say automatically, and her eyebrow lifts. I sigh, feeling the weight of the miles. “Possibly in a spiritual sense.”

Her mouth twitches. That’s a good sign. Humor is still currency here.

“Sit anywhere,” she says. “You look like you need food.”

I choose a stool at the counter. It lets me keep my back to the wall without looking like I’m bracing for a fight. My hands tremble as I sit, exhaustion finally dragging me under.

The woman slides a menu across the counter. “I’m Ingrid.”

“Wren.”

Her eyes soften for half a breath, something gentle flickering there and gone. “You running from something or toward something?”

I grip the menu until my knuckles go white. What a brutal question. Simple. Direct. The answer is yes to both.

“Somewhere in the middle,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

She nods like it makes perfect sense. “You know, there’s a couple lives up in the forest, Peyton and her husband, Caine. They homestead out there. Good people. Always looking for help, and they take in folks who need a fresh start.”

My pulse kicks, wild and uneven. Peyton. Everyone has heard the story about the Luna who was rejected and rose anyway, and the Alpha who built a sanctuary. Stories are the reason I came. Stories are dangerous like that. They make hope sound like something you can actually touch.

“That sounds perfect, actually,” I say, and I mean it more than I’ve meant anything in weeks. The relief in my voice is raw, unguarded.

Ingrid tears off a piece of receipt paper and scribbles directions. “Road winds up through the tree line. Look for the wooden gate. You can’t miss it.”

“I’ll find it.”

She pours coffee into a mug and sets it in front of me. The heat seeps through my cold fingers, grounding me. “Eat first, though. You look like a strong wind could carry you off.”

“I don’t have much money.”

“Did I ask?”

My throat locks up so fast I have to stare down at the coffee, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes. Kindness is the worst when you’re trying not to fall apart in public.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She pats the counter once. “Pancakes?” I nod, reverent as a sinner at confession. “Bacon?”

“I would never insult pancakes by making them stand alone.”

That earns me a real smile.

A few minutes later, a plate lands in front of me. Pancakes stacked high, butter melting into syrup rivers, bacon crisp enough to make me believe the Moon Goddess hasn’t given up on me yet. The smell hits me hard, and I have to steady my hands before I can even pick up the fork.

I take one bite and moan. Out loud. No shame. The sweetness, the salt, the heat—they fill something inside me that’s been scraped hollow by hunger and fear.

One of the wolves in a back booth chokes on his coffee, but I ignore him. Food this good deserves respect.

For six whole minutes, life is perfect. The world shrinks to pancakes, coffee, and the sacred silence of being left alone. Then I fold the directions into my pocket, finish my coffee, and head for the door, lighter than when I came in.