ALone at the art market

ALone at the art market
Where is Damien?
Did he leave me here? Maybe he  thought I was too much of a border– he realized, or he’s giving me space to rethink everything? Or werewolves don’t stay after a night?

No, I decided I wouldn’t panic.

The moment the thought formed, my shoulders dropped a fraction. I was alone in the condo, yes—but not abandoned. Not trapped. Damien hadn’t vanished into the night like some ghost story villain; he’d simply stepped out to handle whatever alpha business couldn’t wait. And I had work to do.

I padded back to the drafting table, bare feet silent on the sun-warmed hardwood. The cartons from earlier still sat half-unpacked—Italian calfskin in deep cognac and soft taupe, coils of waxed linen thread, brass hardware glinting like tiny promises. My sewing machine waited patiently in the corner like an old friend who’d never judged me for disappearing.

I sat. Picked up the half-finished prototype tote I’d started yesterday. The leather was buttery under my fingertips; the stitches I’d already laid down were even, confident. I smiled—small, private. This was mine.

I worked for maybe twelve minutes—long enough to pin the gusset and test the curve of the base—before I realized I was missing something critical.

The edge thread.  
Not just any thread. The exact shade of antique gold I’d used on the last sample. The one that made the seams pop like sunlight hitting water. Without it the whole bag would look flat, unfinished, ordinary.

I sighed. Loud. Dramatic.

I could wait for Damien to come back and drive me into town.  I could order online and wait two days.  Or…

I could go myself. The thought landed like a spark in dry grass.

I stood so fast the stool scraped. My pulse kicked up—not fear, not anymore. Excitement.  
I hadn’t walked into a city market alone in… years. Not since before Shallow. Not since before the cage.

I grabbed my phone, my ATM card, still dusty in the wallet I hadn’t touched in forever, and one of Damien’s oversized linen shirts over a pair of soft bike shorts. No makeup. No pretense. Just me—golden wolf, newly claimed, hungry for thread and air and proof that the world hadn’t forgotten how to be kind.

Down the private stairs, across the warm sand path, onto the main beach road.  
The air hit me first—salt, grilled fish, coconut oil, exhaust, jasmine from someone’s garden.  
My senses flared—too much, not enough, everything.  
I laughed out loud. A jogger gave me a strange look. I didn’t care.

Taxis were scarce—weekend beach traffic, everyone moving slow and sun-drunk. I started walking anyway, sandals slapping pavement, hair whipping in the breeze.

A middle-aged man in a battered, weirdly shaped Citroën 2CV (bright yellow, like a cheerful bumblebee with rust spots) slowed beside me.

“Need a ride into town, miss?”  
His accent was thick, local, kind. No leer. Just a man with a car and time.

I hesitated—old reflexes—then remembered.  Free. Wolf. Mate who would burn cities for me.

I smiled. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

He leaned over and pushed the passenger door open.  “Climb in. I’m Marcel. Going to the art market?”

“How did you know?” He chuckled. “You’ve got that look. Artists always do.”

I slid in. The car smelled like old leather, coffee, and something faintly of motor oil. Comforting. Human.

We drove. Windows down. Wind roaring.  
Radio playing some old French chanson I didn’t know but instantly loved.  
Marcel hummed along, tapping the wheel. I leaned my head back, let the breeze tear through my hair, and—for the first time in years—breathed without bracing for a blow.

The city unfolded around us—white stone buildings, blue shutters, narrow streets thick with scooters and laughter. Marcel dropped me at the edge of the market with a cheerful “Bonne chance, mademoiselle!” and refused my offer of payment.

I stepped into the chaos.

Stalls packed side by side.  
Bolts of fabric stacked to the ceiling—linen, cotton, silk, denim, velvet. Thread spools in every color imaginable, gleaming like candy. The air smelled of dye, dust, coffee, fresh bread from the next street over.  Voices overlapped—French, Wolof, English, laughter, haggling, children shouting.

My senses flared again—too bright, too loud, too alive.

I loved it. I’ll bring Damien here again.

I moved through the crowd like a wolf through tall grass—alert, curious, unafraid.  
At the first stall I found the gold thread—exactly the shade I needed, waxed and strong.  
The vendor—an older woman with kind eyes and a quick smile—noticed my trembling fingers.

“First time buying for a big project?” she asked in accented English.

I laughed—breathless.  
“First time buying for my project by myself. Ever.”

She patted my hand.  “Then take extra. For luck.”

I bought three spools. Then another stall—leather scraps, perfect weight, buttery.  
Another—brass buckles, rivets, zippers.  
A tiny notions shop—needles, beeswax, scissors sharp enough to cut moonlight.

My arms were full. My heart was fuller.

I stepped out of the market shade into the sun, blinking against the glare, and felt someone watching me.

Not threatening. Just… present.

A little girl—maybe eight—stood a few feet away, holding a melting ice-cream cone, staring at me with wide eyes.

I smiled.  She smiled back—shy, gap-toothed.

“You look like a princess,” she said solemnly.

I crouched so we were eye-level. “I feel like one today.”

She beamed. “My mama says princesses get whatever they want.”

I laughed—soft, true. “Your mama is very wise.” but this princess has nothing to her name.

She licked her cone, then offered it to me like a sacred gift.

I took the tiniest lick—strawberry, sweet, cold—and handed it back.  
“Thank you. That was the best part of my day.”

She ran off giggling to her mother, who gave me a warm nod from across the street.

I stood slowly, bags heavy in my arms, heart light enough to float.

Free.  Seen. Wanted—not for what I could give, but for who I was.

I turned back toward the condo stairs, wind tugging my hair, sun kissing my shoulders, and whispered to the empty air: “I’m going to be okay.”

The ocean answered with a long, rolling crash. I believed it but i should look for where to eat some local food!