Chapter 6
Sadie
Are all the men in this goddamn town hot?
I don’t mean to notice. I really don’t. But it’s getting ridiculous. Is there some clause in the Driftwood Cove charter that says only genetically blessed people can live here?
First Shepard in that damn black turtleneck, then the giant firefighter who looked like a statue carved from raw sex appeal, and now Boone, the paramedic with the most charming damn smile this side of my sanity.
Stop it, I mutter to myself as I twist open the second Diet Coke and take a sip.
My throat’s dry. My mouth is drier. Maybe it’s the heat. Or the nerves. Or the lingering scent of Boone’s cologne still teasing the air around me.
Or maybe I’ve just been alone too fucking long.
I look down at the sketchpad in my lap and refocus.
The bench I picked is tucked beside a little stone wall near the center of town, just past the general store and across from a rundown real estate office with peeling white paint and flower boxes spilling over with red geraniums. There’s a fountain trickling water a few feet away and a patch of sunlight warming my knees.
I sketch lightly, letting the pencil guide me.
The town’s murals need to reflect its heartbeat. That’s what I always told myself when I did this back in Memphis. I wasn’t painting for the walls—I was painting from them. Like exhaling color from concrete.
So far, I’ve got three viable ideas.
The first is a nod to the sea—curved waves in motion, done in swirling colors like stained glass, with long-winged herons breaking through the tide.
The second, more abstract: a bloom of hands lifting lanterns in the fog. I like the metaphor of it. Community. Illumination. Maybe add some local flora to ground it.
The third, still just lines right now, is a townscape at dusk. Simple rooftops, soft lamplight, a kid on a bike. The quiet hour before dinner. The bones of peace.
I breathe out slowly and flip to a new page.
Then, because I can’t help myself, I pull out my phone. I scroll through my old photos—past the screenshots and receipts, past the old grocery lists, past the blurry art reference shots—until I find the folder I shouldn’t touch but do anyway.
“MURAL MEMPHIS 03 – MAX FINAL SHOT.”
The photo loads. My breath catches.
It’s Max, standing shirtless in front of my favorite wall.
The mural was huge—three stories high, painted on the side of an old factory-turned-art collective. It was my first solo commission. I spent six weeks on scaffolding and broke a toe falling off the last rung on the second week in. But I finished it.
I finished it.
A phoenix rising from a pile of junkyard parts. Car doors. Bike frames. Street signs. Every stroke layered in ash and hope.
Max had taken one look at it and said, “That bird’s you, babe. Beautiful and broken and so goddamn relentless.”
In the photo, he’s smiling. Hair a mess. Sunglasses perched on his nose. One arm flexed behind his head like a jackass. And I loved him so much in that moment, I almost dropped the phone trying to capture it.
Breathe, Sadie. You’re okay.
I swipe away. Shut the app.
I’m not back there. I’m not the girl still bleeding from love. I’m not his grieving widow with no pack and no place to go.
I’m the fucking phoenix.
My phone buzzes again. The vibration pulses like a warning shot. I flip it over.
My chest caves in.
Scott (2:16PM): Passed by your place. You weren’t there. Thought we agreed you’d keep us in the loop. Don’t make this a problem.
I stare at the text.
No. No. No.
Of all the Alphas in that godforsaken pack, he had to reach out?
Scott was always the roughest. The cruelest. Cold blue eyes and that constant sneer, like nothing I did was ever quite enough.
Max didn’t see it, not at first. Not until it was too late.
After Max died, Scott had used every loophole in the pack dynamic to make sure I knew I didn’t belong. Every. Single. Time. Unless he needed someone to fuck, then I was the perfect little Omega for them.
I feel the fear crawl up the back of my throat like a parasite.
He knows I’m gone. He came to the house.
That fucker came to the house.
I glance around the town square, irrationally expecting him to appear from the shadows like a goddamn horror movie villain. But there’s no one watching. No cars idling in threat. No black SUVs with tinted windows.
This is not Memphis.
This is Driftwood Cove.
You are safe.
You are safe.
You are free.
I clutch the phone, my knuckles white, and flip to a fresh page in my sketchbook. My hand moves before I can stop it. Curved lines. Sharp edges. Fire.
A phoenix.
Wings outstretched. Flames licking at her spine.
This bird isn’t made of junkyard scraps and scrap metal like before. This one is all ash and renewal. Wild. Beautiful. Dangerous.
I draw harder, faster. The tip of my pencil breaks and I grab another without missing a beat.
This is the tattoo on my ribcage. The one I got when I turned eighteen. My first ink. Max came with me, held my hand, laughed at the way I cursed. “What hurts more,” he’d asked, “this or the knot?”
I’d shoved him and he’d kissed my hair and told me I was made for surviving things most people couldn’t even name.
I blink, hard.
I’m still surviving, Max. I’m still here.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t check it. Not yet.
Instead, I slide the Diet Coke between my knees and keep sketching.
Each feather I shade in feels like an anchor. Every flame another piece of armor. I draw until the noise in my chest dulls down into something manageable. Something human.
Then I sit back and take a long, slow sip.
The soda’s warm now, syrupy in my mouth. The sun’s moved, light flickering through the trees near the fountain. My hand aches.
But the sketch is good.
Really good.
It won’t be one of the murals—I don’t know if I can make this personal here, not yet—but it reminds me that I am an artist. That I still have something to say.
The breeze picks up, tugging at the loose strands of my ponytail. I tuck them behind my ear and glance toward the bakery. No more Alpha encounters, thanks. I’m at capacity for today.
I slip the sketchbook into my tote and stare at the mural location across the street. The wall’s still blank. Still waiting.
And I’ll be ready soon.
Just… not today.
I decide I’ll make something for dinner.
It’s not even that I’m hungry—just tired of feeling like I’m floating. Like I’m stuck in some liminal space between lives, between who I was and who I’m supposed to become.
The grocery store smells like detergent and ripe bananas. It’s bigger than I expected for a small town, but not in a corporate way—more like someone hand-stocked the shelves with care.
I wander toward the fish section, basket in hand, the metal handle creaking faintly as I grip it tighter than I need to.
The display case is pristine. Rows of fillets laid on crushed ice. Labels in neat script read “Marshall’s cod,” “Marshall’s snapper,” “Marshall’s flounder.” Whoever Marshall is, he’s apparently got a monopoly on the local fish market.
I’m squinting at the snapper, trying to remember if I like it, when the scent hits me first.
Smoke and pine. The sharp tang of fire gear. Heat and sweat and the faint bite of engine oil.
And then he walks past me.
My breath stutters. I know that gait. That weighty, ground-eating stride. I know that suit. The fire-resistant jacket hanging open just enough to show the black shirt underneath. The thick boots. The gloves tucked into his waistband.
My pulse quickens. No. No, no, no. Not again. Not here.
He stops.
My stomach drops.
I glance sideways just as he bends to grab a steak from the cooler, and my eyes fall on the tag stitched to his jacket—Cpt. Ashford.
It’s him. The one from the mural site. The one with the dark, messy hair and the too-tall build and the presence that hits like a sledgehammer to the gut.
I freeze.
Of course it’s him. Because why not? Why wouldn’t the man who stopped my lungs just by standing nearby be a fire captain? Of fucking course.
He straightens, his gaze catching mine, and my legs lock in place.
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead like he’s shaking something off.
And then he’s walking toward me.
I grip my basket tighter. My fingers go cold.
“Hey,” he says, voice low but sure, gravel over velvet.
“Hi.” My voice cracks. Great.
He offers a hand. His palm is massive. Scarred along the ridge beneath his thumb. The fingers are callused, thick, steady.
And I—I can’t move.
I wait too long. He pulls back, not rudely. Just… understanding. Or maybe used to it.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, staring down at my hands. “Charcoal. Didn’t want to smudge you.”
He nods. “No worries. I’m Gabe.” His mouth lifts in something between a smile and a smirk.
I blink. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
This is the Gabe Boone was talking about?
Of course it is.
“Sadie,” I say, finally meeting his eyes. They’re dark amber with flecks of gold. Serious. Unreadable.
He nods again. Easy. Like he’s used to carrying silence.
I panic and point dumbly at the fish. “Um. Is the snapper any good?”
His brow quirks slightly, but he rolls with it. “Yeah. It’s from the mayor’s fishing crew. Ethically caught, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Really?” I pick up the wrapped fillet. “The mayor fishes?”
He shrugs. “Kind of. Rowan—he owns the lighthouse—is the one who catches ’em. Jake handles the sale and delivery. Sort of a team effort.”
I nod, not sure why I feel like I need to keep talking. “That’s… cool.”
“You here for the murals, right?” he asks, shifting his weight. “Boone mentioned you.”
Right. Boone. The one I ran into.
“I am,” I say, tucking the snapper into my basket.
A beat passes. My mouth opens before I can stop it.
“Actually, uh—I have something that belongs to Shepard. If you’re going to see him later, maybe you could give it to him?”
He lifts a brow.