Chapter 4 - Wren

The din of the bar enveloped Wren as she weaved between tables, a tray of empty glasses balanced on her palm.

It was another busy night at The Howling Moon, the most popular watering hole on this side of the mountain. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp scent of alcohol, a smell she had grown accustomed to over the past five years.

She had been working there since she was seventeen after setting out from the shack, lying about her age to get the job. Not that anyone cared much—in that part of town, a job was a job, and if you could do it, you were hired.

Wren was quick on her feet and rarely made mistakes, which was why they kept her around. It wasn't much, but it was a living.

As she reached the bar, she set down the tray and started loading the glasses into the washer. Mara, the owner, nodded at her from where she was pouring drinks. "Good work, Wren," she said, her husky voice barely audible over the noise. "Keep it up."

Wren nodded back, a small spark of pride flickering in her chest. It wasn't much, but it was the closest thing to kindness she had experienced in years.

She knew better than to get attached, though. In this world, you were only as good as your last shift. If she disappeared tomorrow, they'd replace her without a second thought. At most, they'd say it was a pity to lose such a reliable worker.

She was wiping down the bar when a hand grabbed her wrist. She looked up to see a burly man with a scraggly beard leering at her. His breath reeked of cheap whiskey.

"Hey there, pretty thing," he slurred. "How about you and me go somewhere quiet?"

Wren twisted her wrist, breaking his grip with a move she had perfected over years of dealing with handsy drunks. "How about you keep your hands to yourself?" she snapped, taking a step back.

He scowled, reaching for her again. "Don't be like that, Sweetheart. I'm just trying to be friendly."

Before he could touch her, a meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was Bruno, their bouncer. "Time to go, Pal," he growled. "You know the rules. No touching the staff."

The drunk tried to shrug him off, but Bruno's grip was like iron. After a brief struggle, Bruno hauled him toward the door, ignoring his slurred protests.

Wren took a deep breath, steadying herself. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened, and it wouldn't be the last. Just another night at The Howling Moon. As she turned back to the bar, her eyes caught on a newcomer who had just walked in.

Wow!

She froze. He was... different. Gorgeous didn't begin to cover it. He was tall, with broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. But it was his coloring that caught her eye.

His hair was white as snow, his eyelashes so pale they were almost invisible. And his eyes—they were the brightest blue she had ever seen, like chips of ice.

He wasn't from around here; that much was clear. Nobody on this side of the mountain looked like that. They were a rough bunch, all sharp edges and hard lives etched into their faces. This man looked like he had stepped out of a fairy tale.

Wren realized she was staring when Mara chuckled beside her. "Why don't you serve him, Honey?" she said, a knowing glint in her eye. "I need a smoke break anyway. Cover for me, will you?"

Wren nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. Grabbing a clean rag, she made her way over to where the stranger had settled at a corner table with another man.

As she approached, his companion excused himself and headed to the restroom, leaving them alone. The stranger's eyes met hers, and she felt a jolt of electricity run through her.

Up close, he was even more breathtaking. His jawline could cut glass, and his lips... She forced her gaze away from his mouth, her cheeks warming.

"What can I get for you?" she asked, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the sudden dryness in her throat.

He smiled, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "What would you recommend?" he asked, his voice deep and smooth. "I'm in the mood for something... memorable."

The way he said "memorable" sent a shiver down her spine. Wren swallowed hard, trying to maintain her professional demeanor. "Well, our house special is pretty popular. It's a blend of whiskey and local herbs. Packs quite a punch."

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Sounds intriguing. But I have to ask, is it as intoxicating as your company?"

Wren felt her cheeks flush even hotter. Was he really flirting with her? She was used to crude comments and lewd stares, but this... this felt different. Dangerous in a whole new way.

"I wouldn't know," she managed to say, aiming for nonchalance. "I make it a point not to sample the merchandise."

He chuckled, a rich sound that seemed to resonate in her chest. "Fair enough. In that case, I'll trust your recommendation. One house special, please."

Wren nodded, turning to head back to the bar. "Coming right up. Let me know if you need anything else," she said over her shoulder.

"I'm sure I will," he replied, and she could feel his eyes on her as she walked away. The weight of his gaze sent a tingle down her spine, and she had to resist the urge to look back.

At the bar, she took a moment to collect herself as she prepared his drink. Her hands were steady, but inside, she was a mess of conflicting emotions. Attraction, wariness, curiosity... it was the first time anyone had affected her like this.

When she returned with his drink, he was still alone at the table. His eyes lit up as she approached, and she felt a flutter in her stomach. Get it together, Wren, she scolded herself. He's just another customer.

"Here you go," she said, setting down the glass. "Careful, it's stronger than it looks."

He picked up the glass, his fingers brushing hers for just a moment. Even that brief contact sent a spark through her. "I like things with hidden depths," he said, his voice low. "They're always the most interesting."

Was he talking about the drink, or...? She pushed the thought away, but she couldn't quite suppress the warmth blooming in her chest.

He took a sip, his eyes widening slightly. "You weren't kidding about the kick," he said, sounding impressed. "I think I'm going to enjoy my time here."

The way he said it, looking directly at her, made it clear he wasn't just talking about the bar. She should walk away. She had other customers to serve and other tables to clear. But something kept her rooted to the spot.

"So," he said, setting down his glass. "Do you have a name to go with that expert drink recommendation?"

She hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no harm in telling him. "Wren," she said.

"Wren," he repeated, as if savoring the sound. "It suits you. Delicate, but I bet you're tougher than you look."

She raised an eyebrow at that. "You'd be surprised," she said, a hint of challenge in her voice.

He grinned, clearly enjoying their banter. "I hope so. I like surprises."

Wren felt a smile tugging at her lips despite her best efforts to remain professional. There was something about him that drew her in and made her want to keep talking. It had been so long since she'd felt this kind of connection with anyone.

He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but somehow still commanding. "So, Wren," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur that sent a shiver through her. "What's a gorgeous girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Her first instinct was to laugh, but she didn’t. It was such a cliche line, but coming from him, it didn't sound cheesy. "It seems you're not from around here," she said, deflecting the compliment.

He grinned, not at all put off. "Is it that obvious?" he asked.

She nodded. "You look a little... out of your depth," she admitted. “Like a fish out of water.”

He chuckled, a rich sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "I suppose I am," he said. "I've never seen so many rogues in one place before. It's quite dangerous, isn't it? I worry for you, working in a place like this. Especially after what I just saw with that drunk fellow."

And just like that, the spell was broken.

Wren felt her smile fade, replaced by a familiar bitterness. Of course. He was one of those pack wolves. The ones who thought they knew everything about rogues without ever having met one.

"Why do you think rogues are so dangerous?" she asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

He looked surprised by her sudden change in tone.

"Well," he said, hesitating for a moment, "they're kicked out of packs for a reason, aren't they? They commit crimes, become unstable. I've heard stories of rogues losing their minds, becoming little more than monsters."

Each word was like a knife in her gut. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. "And have you ever met a rogue?" she asked. "Talked to one? Or are you just repeating what you've been told?"

He blinked, taken aback by her vehemence. "I... well, no," he admitted. "But everyone knows—"

"Everyone knows nothing," she snapped. "Did it ever occur to you that rogues can have children? That those children are born rogues through no fault of their own?"

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I've heard that rogue children can be accepted into packs," he said, but he sounded uncertain now.

Wren laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, really? And how many packs do you know that would take in a rogue child? How many would risk their precious reputation to help someone they see as less than dirt?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly at a loss for words.

"That's what I thought," she said, disgust churning in her stomach. "You have no idea what the real world is like. You sit in your safe, comfortable pack and judge us without knowing a damn thing about our lives."

His brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and concern crossing his face. "I didn't mean to offend you," he said softly. "I'm just... I've never had a chance to meet them before. Everything I know about rogues comes from stories and warnings."

"And it never occurred to you that those stories might be biased?" she challenged. "That maybe the packs have reasons for keeping rogues demonized?"

There was a flash of understanding in his eyes, and he gasped. "Fuck… You're a rogue… I didn't know. I mean, I would never have thought. I didn't mean…"

Wren turned to walk away, too livid to listen to whatever ignorant shit he wanted to say. She had a feeling nothing he said would make her feel any better.

His firm hand grabbed her wrist, and he leaned forward, his eyes intense. "Then tell me," he said. "Help me understand. What's it really like, being a rogue?"

For a moment, she was tempted. The earnestness in his voice, the genuine curiosity in his eyes—it was almost enough to make her believe he really wanted to know.

But then she remembered all the others who'd asked similar questions, their interest nothing more than a fleeting curiosity, a desire for a thrilling story about life on the wild side.

"It's not my job to educate you," she said coldly. "If you really want to know, open your eyes and look around. We're not monsters or criminals. We're just people trying to survive in a world that's decided we don't deserve to exist."

He flinched at her words, and she saw a flash of something in his eyes—regret? Shame? But it was gone too quickly for her to be sure.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he sounded sincere. "I didn't realize... I mean, I never thought about it that way."

"Of course you didn't," she replied, her voice bitter. "Why would you? You've probably never had to think about anything beyond your comfortable pack life."

He shook his head. "That's not fair. You don't know anything about me or my life."

"And you don't know anything about mine," she retorted. "But at least I'm not the one making assumptions based on prejudice and fear."

He winced but didn't back down. "You're right," he admitted. "I made assumptions, and that was wrong. But I'm trying to understand now. Isn't that worth something?"

Wren studied him for a long moment, torn between her instinctive distrust and the tiny part of her that wanted to believe he was sincere. But in the end, it didn't matter. One conversation wasn't going to undo a lifetime of prejudice, and she wasn't naive enough to think she could change his mind.

"Understanding takes more than just asking a few questions," she said finally. "It takes time, effort, and a willingness to challenge everything you think you know. Are you really prepared to do that?"

He hesitated, and that was all the answer she needed.

"I didn't think so," she said, her voice flat. "Enjoy your drink. There are plenty of other bars in town if you find the company here too... dangerous."

She was trembling now, anger and old pain threatening to overwhelm her. Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving him staring after her.

She headed straight for the back door, needing air, needing to escape before she did something stupid like cry in front of a bar full of people. Mara called her as she walked past but she rushed for the exit even faster.

As she pushed through the door into the cool night air, she could still feel his eyes on her back. But she didn't look back. She couldn't. Because if she did, she might see regret in those blue eyes, and that would be even worse than ignorance.

So she kept walking, letting the door swing shut behind her, cutting off the noise and the light and the memory of a man who, for just a moment, made her forget who she was and where she came from.