Taken by My Fated Mate

Riley’s POV

“Double the caramel, triple the espresso shots, and throw in some more of those little yellow goodies,” the guy said, drumming his finger on the pastry case like he was summoning ancient coffee spirits.

Little yellow goodies? I squinted at the sign LEMON SPRINKLES, shining like a beacon of citrus joy.

“Um, are you talking about the lemon sprinkles?” I asked, probably with more patience than I deserved for someone who owned at least five coffee loyalty cards.

He cocked his head and gave me a slow once-over.

“The… lemon zest curls?” his buddy offered helpfully.

“Nope. Lemon sprinkles.” I snorted and drizzled so much caramel into the blender it should’ve been classified as a health hazard, then injected three espresso shots—enough to resurrect a mummy—and crowned the concoction with a mountain of sugar that could wake the dead.

The coffeeshop was ridiculously busy for a Tuesday night. We closed in ten minutes, but since my Monday/Wednesday/Friday class schedule was blissfully empty, I had zero reason to panic. Well, aside from next week’s calculus final.

I glanced up. “I’ll be with everyone in just a sec!” I shouted, trying to sound efficient and chipper at the same time.

“We’re all paying together!” someone called cheerfully from the end of the queue.

Oh, well. Easier for me to ring up, but now I had to juggle someone’s whole squad. Great.

I finally looked up—and nearly face-planted the counter. Holy gym-rats: almost half a dozen ridiculously tall, muscle-carved, jawline-sharp guys filled the place.

Had the college football team decided to do a pop quiz on caffeine?

Alas, the sight in front of me was not even close to give me butterflies.

Protein-shake guys with egos to match? Hard pass.

Nerdy cinnamon-roll types who tell you their pet tarantula is named Steve? Sign me up.

I rang up the first order, then the next. Caramel overload, espresso overdose. Repeat until my pinky finger ached.

It was a coffee marathon until the last guy shuffled forward. He was the quiet one, with moss-green eyes peeking from under a beanie. I liked beanies—mysterious vibe.

“Matcha latte. Oat milk. No sweetener,” he said softly, voice so smooth it could be churned into its own latte art.

I paused in mid-scoop. Matcha? Really? The menacing glow of red plastic cups replaced by muted green earth-tones. My pulse did a cartwheel.

His teammates let out a round of good-natured hoots and hollers. “Way to live on the wild side, man!” The jocks seemed amused that Matcha Guy was rebelling against the caramel cartel.

“Just kidding,” he called back, flashing me a grin that should’ve been illegal.

And—oh wow. Our eyes met, and time did that slow-mo thing you only see in cinematic masterpieces. His dark green eyes flickered—then, impossibly, they deepened into a pulsing, unnatural red glow.

I dropped the scoop of matcha powder like it was radioactive. My heart stalled mid-beat, then slammed back to life in an panic-induced drum roll. The coffeeshop fell hush.

Matcha Guy’s grin stretched into something more animalistic. Like, say, a wolf? No, I was being ridiculous. Wolves don’t shop coffee at midnight.

“Uh-oh,” mumbled the guy next to me, voice low enough that I couldn’t tell if he was worried or excited.

Matcha Guy slammed the pastry case, making the glass rattle. I stumbled back, frosting splattering on my apron. My spidey-sense screamed: RUN.

He moved in a blur. Suddenly, I was running, not in the “workout-endorphin” way I’d hoped, but in the “holy-crap-I’m-fleeing-for-my-life” way.

Through the break room, past the staff fridge full of mystery sandwiches, and out the back door I tore. I didn’t own a car—my bank account politely declined—so I sprinted toward my dorm like a caffeinated gazelle.

Two steps in, a big, warm hand yanked my bicep and spun me around. I flew forward and slammed into Matcha Guy—his eyes still glowing that eerie, ember-red.

Behind him, teammates formed a wall of muscle that could bench-press small planets. My fight response gutted me, but I managed a defiant glare.

“Let go or I’m calling the cops,” I barked, voice braver than I felt. I was 5'3" on a tall day.

Matcha Guy growled—deep, resonant, and decidedly un-human. I swear it sounded for a split-second like “mate,” which…was his pickup line? Aussie slang? Definitely not.

“No,” I muttered. “Not… mate.”

He snarled again—more growl than word—and this time my entire skeleton felt it. Then he released me and doubled over with a crack, half-howl escaping his lips. I recoiled into another guy’s pecs.

“Grab Noah and the girl. Move!” one of them barked.

My slow-motion terror kicked in. I was hefted over a shoulder like a backpack, stubbed toes, flailed arms, and all, and hustled toward a hulking white van parked just ten steps from the building.

“Hey! Let me go!” I yelled, arms flapping against the night air. But there was zero audience—every last customer had apparently vanished.

They slammed me onto the bench seat in the middle and buckled me in. I whipped around, desperate, and undid the seatbelt in one swift motion.

“Stop it,” said a low voice beside me. Seatbelt Guy—who looked suspiciously like “muscles with a heart of gold”—held the belt down with one meaty hand.

“You don’t want to run right now,” he said, calm as a zen master sipping green tea.

“I want out!” I snapped, heart racing.

Groans and sickening cracks followed by howls erupted behind me. I squeezed my eyes shut, ready for anything.

“Drive!” someone barked from the driver’s seat.

The van lurched forward, slamming me into the belt. My head snapped back, vision spinning.

When I finally dared open one eye, I saw Matcha Guy—Noah—on all fours like a hairier, muscled, slightly adorable hellhound. Gray fur sprouted across his arms, his jaw stretched, fangs gleaming under the streetlights.

My voice caught in my throat. “What the hell are you?” I whispered, equal parts awestruck and terrified.

Seatbelt Guy gave me a tired look through the rearview mirror. His expression said: sorry, this is how we roll at night. Then, as if reading my mind, he shrugged.

“Werewolves.”