Chapter 2
Chapter Two
SHERIFF GAVIN DRAKE
Ipull the SUV into the garage bay at the Morgan County Sheriff’s Department and cut the engine.
“My eye is burning,” Ms. Walker says through gritted teeth.
I step out, push my aviators into my front pocket.
“Afternoon, Sheriff.” Officer Fitch lifts a hand from his waist holster in a half-wave.
“Fitch.” I nod, already moving toward the bullpen.
A few deputies are checking over their vehicles before heading back out. Summer’s in full swing, which means campers who don’t know how to put out a fire, tourists who don’t understand what a fishing license is, and half the county trying to drink and drive their way home from the lake.
“Somebody get me the festival road-closure list before end of day,” I call out, not slowing down. “And whoever’s on the Route 9 detail, I want eyes on that stretch before Captain Nez calls asking why Lupton’s short-handed again.”
A chorus of yes, sirs follows me. Good. That’s how it should sound.
I open the rear passenger door and reach in to help her out.
One amber eye meets mine, watering, furious. “Do you mind helping me out... please?”
I’d bet money that please cost her more than the disorderly conduct charge will.
“Hurts that much to ask for help?”
She twists those pretty, plump lips like she’s biting back every word she actually wants to say.
I blow out a breath, step to the transportation desk, and pluck a tissue from the box. Fitch watches me do it like he’s seeing a solar eclipse.
I wipe under her eye. She looks ridiculous like this — furious and teary and trying to hold on to her dignity, anyway. It’s cute in an awkward, infuriating kind of way, and I hate that I notice it.
“Thank you.” She blinks up at me. “Can you pat my forehead dry too?”
My jaw sets. I toss the tissue in the trash and grip her arm, steering her toward processing.
“Campbell, get her processed,” I order.
Campbell steps out from behind the desk. “Yes, sir.”
Ms. Walker’s mouth drops open. “You’re not really going to put me in jail?”
“Yup.”
I don’t look at her face again. Can’t afford to.
“Campbell, put her in a holding cell. I’ll question her when I get in.”
“When you get in?” She practically growls it. “What time is that? I have business to handle.”
I’m already walking away when I catch it, low, muttered: “Grumpy asshole.”
I turn and pin her with a look that’s put grown men on the ground. “Keep it up and I’ll question you tomorrow evening instead.”
Her frown almost undoes me. Almost. It doesn’t, because my heart beats for one thing these days — getting through the day — and nothing gets past that. Not since six years ago.
I nod to the deputies at their desks on my way to my office, shut the door behind me, and drop into the leather chair like it owes me something.
Six years ago, everything was right. My wolf was calm. Lily’s kindness used to draw the whole town toward her without her even trying. She wasn’t my scent match — wasn’t fated to me — but she made me happy anyway, or I thought she did. Our runs through the woods were the best part of my week.
I cooked her dinner one night. Brought up bonding.
She told me she couldn’t be tied to an alpha sheriff — couldn’t spend her life waiting to find out if today was the day I didn’t come home.
She was gone within the week. Settled down with another alpha a few months after that, and from everything I heard, she was happier with him than she’d ever been with me.
I still don’t know if it was really the job. I never got the chance to ask.
Nine months later, some campers who didn’t know how to handle a rifle killed her on a run in the next county over.
I don’t run like I used to. When I do, it’s with Tyson, or Jax, never alone anymore. All I do now is work. I’ve stopped looking for a mate — stopped wanting to. There are omegas in town who know the arrangement during a rut and don’t ask for more than that. It’s enough. It has to be.
The town calls me grumpy. I’m not grumpy. I’m serious about the only thing I have left to be serious about. My career.
Sometimes I look up at the Moon Goddess and tell her not to bother sending my true mate. I’ll reject her on principle.
Then today I arrest a five-foot-four woman with honey-brown braids down her back, a diamond-shaped face, caramel skin, a stubborn mouth, and amber eyes I don’t want to think about twice.
I don’t think about my prisoner. Tomorrow I’ll put her back on the road to wherever she came from, and Morgan goes back to normal.
Walking past the holding cells, I keep my eyes forward; don’t look at her. Outside, something sweet catches on the air — gone before I can place it. Bakery, probably. Down the street.
Tomorrow I’ll question Walker, get my answers, and send her out of my town. I don’t like what I feel standing near her.
She has to go.