Chapter One #2
“Back already?” he asked, voice lower than before. I liked it better this way, like we were sharing a secret.
“I’m not allowed to go home unless I bring a peace offering to the greenhouse god,” I said, and gestured with the tray of petunias I’d grabbed at random. “Apparently Jojo’s tomato ambitions are now a full-scale mutiny.”
He let out a small snort. “They’re probably cheaper at Miller’s Feed.”
“I’m not here for a deal, I’m here for expertise.” I let my gaze linger on him a beat too long, then looked away. “And maybe to help you with that box.”
He hesitated, then nodded, motioning to a case of ceramic pots half-hidden behind a pallet of mulch. “If you’ve got a minute. I’m supposed to get these to the front, but…”
I closed the distance, rolled up my sleeves.
We worked in silence for a few minutes, moving the pots one at a time because the crate was too awkward to carry whole.
At first we stood a safe foot apart. By the fourth trip, our arms brushed in the narrow aisle.
I felt his body tense—then go strangely still.
“You always work weekends?” I asked, just to fill the static.
“Yeah. Pays more. And the regulars are less…” He searched for a word. “Overbearing.”
“Is that your way of calling me overbearing?”
He shook his head. “No. You’re… different.”
I grinned. “That’s what my parole officer says, too.”
He huffed a laugh, and we both reached for the next pot at the same time. Our hands collided, knuckles grazing, skin on skin for a microsecond. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but the contact was like a live wire.
For a moment we just stood there, shoulders pressed close, both pretending not to notice.
His breath hitched. His pupils, already big in the dim storage light, widened more.
“Sorry,” I said, but didn’t move.
He cleared his throat. “It’s fine.”
There was a beat. My heart hammered so loud I was sure he could hear it. I forced my hands back to work, stacking pots, but the air between us felt suddenly different. Charged.
“You, uh, grow stuff at the ranch?” he asked, just above a whisper.
“Jojo does,” I said. “I mostly break things and get yelled at. But I like dirt. Feels honest.”
That earned a small smile. “Yeah. It’s harder to screw up than people think.”
I looked at him. Really looked, for the first time.
Close up, you could see the faint shadow under his jaw where he hadn’t shaved in a day or two.
The ragged edge of his fingernails, the old paper cuts on his thumb.
He was a study in contradictions—softer than I’d expected, but with an edge, like a knife that’s been sharpened one too many times.
We finished moving the pots in record time. I wiped my hands on my jeans, fished a pen from my back pocket, and scribbled my number on the edge of a crumpled receipt.
“In case you need a hand with any more heavy lifting,” I said, holding it out.
He hesitated. Then he took it, folded it in half, and tucked it into his apron without comment. When he looked up again, there was something like hope in his expression, but it was gone as soon as it came.
A guy in a feed store uniform poked his head around the corner, saw us, and muttered something about inventory. Danny gave a stiff nod and turned to fetch a broom from the back wall.
I should’ve left. I really should have. But something made me linger, watching him as he swept dust from the floor, arms moving in steady, careful strokes.
As he reached up to set a pot on the top shelf, the sleeve of his shirt rode up. There, just above the wrist, was a faint constellation of bruises, yellow and purple, clustered together like a map of places nobody should ever have to memorize.
My stomach went cold.
He noticed me noticing. For a split second, his whole body went rigid, eyes blank as if he could will me not to see. Then, smooth as a dealer hiding a bad card, he yanked his sleeve back down.
“Those look fresh,” I said, trying to keep my tone even.
“It’s nothing,” he said, too quick. “I’m just…clumsy.”
I didn’t push. My rule, hard-won: never make a wounded animal cornered. But every alpha cell in my body wanted to ask, to fix, to obliterate whatever did that to him.
Instead, I smiled, softer than usual. “If you ever need to talk, or just want to trade clumsiness stories… I’ve got a scar that could probably outdo yours.”
He relaxed half an inch. “Maybe someday.”
I let the moment hang there, then turned and walked out before I could say anything stupid.
In the parking lot, the sky was melting into blue and gold, sunset painting the mountains with all the subtlety of a Vegas showgirl. For a second, I stood with my hands on the tailgate, breathing deep, letting the chill burn through me.
I’d never wanted anyone this fast before. Not even close. And if I was being honest, I’d already started planning how to see him again.
It was a good half hour before Jojo finished shopping, long enough for me to get bored, check my phone three times, and eat an entire sleeve of gas station crackers I found wedged behind the glove box.
He reemerged pushing a cart loaded with tomato flats and a half-dead rosemary bush, looking like a twelve-year-old who’d just won a sweepstakes.
I honked once for effect. Jojo didn’t even jump, just grinned and loaded the plants into the bed of the truck with the care of a bomb squad technician.
“Thanks again for coming,” he called over the tailgate, voice as bright as spring. “I know you’d rather be target shooting.”
I rolled my eyes. “You say that like we’re not gonna go shooting after this.”
That got a laugh. He hopped in the passenger seat, already rearranging the air freshener and checking his phone for memes to show me. I fired up the engine, but my attention drifted back to the hardware store window. I could see Danny behind the counter, head down, punching buttons on the register.
Then the door swung open, and in strode a man who, even from thirty yards, screamed alpha. Broad-shouldered, with the swagger of someone who never questioned if he belonged. He wore a mechanic’s shirt with the sleeves rolled to his biceps, and his walk—no, his whole energy—radiated threat.
Danny saw him, too. The kid flinched, subtle, but unmistakable, shoulders hunching inward. He ducked his head, eyes fixed on the countertop, as if bracing for impact.
The alpha—Dennis, according to his name patch—said something sharp enough to carry through the glass, though I couldn’t make out the words. Danny nodded, quick and silent.
“Who’s that?” Jojo asked, following my gaze.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he’s Danny’s older brother.”
Jojo frowned. “They look nothing alike.”
“They don’t act alike either,” I said, voice tighter than I wanted. My hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles blanching. I counted to five, then let it go.
Inside, Dennis leaned over the counter, crowding Danny’s space. Even from here, I could see how Danny’s frame shrank, how he wrapped his arms around himself like a human shield.
I wanted to march in there and throw Dennis through the hydroponics display, but I stayed put. Partly because I didn’t want to cause a scene. Mostly because Danny didn’t need another alpha barging in to “fix” his problems.
That, I got.
“Ready?” I asked Jojo, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
He blinked at me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just hungry.” A bald-faced lie, but I was out of better ones.
We pulled away from the curb, and I caught one last look at Danny through the glass. For a moment, he looked up, his eyes catching mine from across the parking lot. Then, just as quickly, he looked away.
The drive back to the ranch was quiet. Jojo dozed off by mile six, head lolling against the window, mumbling about companion planting and trellises.
I let my brain idle on that: the steady roll of the tires, the burn of late afternoon sun on my left arm. But under it all, a low-grade fury buzzed in my veins.
I’d seen bruises like that before. Sometimes on the faces of new recruits who didn’t know how to fight back. Sometimes on the wrists of omegas who belonged to nobody and everybody.
Never thought it would twist me up inside like this.
When we turned onto the gravel road leading to the house, I slowed to let a jackrabbit sprint across our path. Jojo jerked awake, startled, then giggled as if he’d been in on the joke.
“You really okay?” he asked, softer now.
“Yeah. Just thinking.” I shut off the ignition, but didn’t move. “You ever meet someone and immediately know you’d do anything to keep them safe?”
Jojo cocked his head, like he wasn’t sure if this was a test. “Is this a trick question?”
“No,” I said, more honest than I wanted. “Never mind.”
We unloaded the plants in silence. I carried the box to the greenhouse, barely noticing the prickle of thorns digging into my arms. All I could smell was Danny—basil and green things, and something sweet underneath. It clung to the back of my throat, impossible to forget.
I was halfway to the main house before I realized my hands were shaking. I flexed them, tried to remember the last time I’d cared this much about a stranger. The answer: I never had.
That night, as I lay in bed, every muscle twitching with adrenaline, I replayed the afternoon on a loop. The quicksilver flash of Danny’s eyes. The way he’d flinched when Dennis got close. The bruise, angry and purple, hidden under a borrowed shirt.
I didn’t know what the hell I was getting into, but I knew one thing for sure: I was going back.
And next time, I wasn’t leaving without getting his story.