Chapter 14
Gabe
Iknew Boone was rattled after whatever conversation he had with her this morning. He tried to play it off when we spoke at the station, but I’ve known him long enough to read the set of his shoulders, the shortness in his answers.
Something about Sadie’s past has him wound tighter than I’ve seen in a long time. That’s why I’m here now—and why I took off my uniform before I came.
If Boone’s right, she doesn’t have fond associations with men in our line of work. No need to give her another reason to push me away. I throw on jeans, a plain Henley, and a jacket instead of the fire captain’s shirt.
No badge. No department logo.
She’s already walking toward the truck when I pull up, wiping at her cheeks like she’s trying to erase whatever happened at Cora’s before I got there.
“So?” I ask once she’s buckled in. “How was the mural today?”
For a second I think she won’t answer. She’s watching the trees blur past her window, jaw tight. Then she says, “I’ll need another two days for the base layers. Maybe three if the weather doesn’t hold.”
Her voice is thin, frayed at the edges. I nod, keeping my eyes on the road. I want to ask her about the redness in her eyes but I know pushing too hard will make her retreat.
She glances at me then, and I catch the faint crease between her brows. “Will you ask about the phone call?”
I glance over at her. She looks worn out, angry in a way that has nothing to do with me, and I don’t want to add another layer to that right now.
“Let’s get you home first,” I say, and she doesn’t press.
The rest of the drive is quiet, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional shift of her weight in the seat. Her head tips toward the window at one point, and I can tell by the slow rise and fall of her shoulders that she’s slipping under.
When we pull into her driveway, I kill the engine and glance over. She’s already half-asleep. I hate to wake her, but I’m not leaving her out here in the truck.
“Sadie.” I reach out and touch her forearm lightly. “Hey, we’re here.”
She blinks awake, rubbing her eyes. “Thanks,” she murmurs, unbuckling and climbing out.
I grab my jacket and follow her up the short path. She turns when she hears my steps behind her. “Where are you going?”
“Look,” I say, stopping just close enough that I don’t crowd her, “you and me are going to talk, okay? But not out here. So… are you letting me in?”
She studies me for a long moment, her gaze sharp and searching, like she’s deciding whether I’m worth the risk. Then she steps aside.
Her place is small, tidy but lived-in. There’s a faint scent of turpentine under the coffee smell—leftover from whatever paint mixing she was doing earlier. A stack of sketchbooks sits on a narrow table near the wall, and there’s a mismatched pair of mugs in the sink.
“You want anything? Coffee? Tea?” she asks, heading toward the tiny kitchen space.
“I’m good,” I say, and drop onto one end of the small sofa.
She comes back and sits on the opposite one, knees angled slightly away from me. She’s wringing her fingers together, nails digging into her palms, and that alone tells me she’s not okay.
“I know you know about Scott,” she says finally.
I shake my head. “All I know is Boone was concerned. And judging by what I saw today, he has every right to be.”
Her mouth flattens. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I lean forward a little, resting my elbows on my knees, and reach out just enough to let my fingertips brush hers. Not a grab, not a hold—just the barest connection.
“You sure about that?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She curses under her breath, stands up abruptly, and starts pacing the narrow strip of floor between the sofa and the window. Her arms are crossed, then uncrossed, her hands sliding into her hair and tugging lightly like she’s trying to get her head straight.
For a moment, I think she’s going to tell me to get out.
Instead, she drops back onto the sofa—closer to me this time—and stares at the floor.
Her shoulders rise and fall in uneven rhythm. I can see she’s weighing whether to open her mouth at all. My instinct is to fill the silence, make it easier for her, but I bite my tongue. She doesn’t need me steering her. She needs me listening.
She keeps her eyes down, tracing an imaginary seam along her jeans. “It’s not… it’s not just Scott,” she says finally, the name brittle in her mouth.
My chest tightens. Boone didn’t give me details, just a look that told me enough to know something ugly sat in her past.
“You know Max was my husband.” Her voice is quieter now, but steadier. “And you know he was a firefighter.”
I nod slowly, careful not to interrupt.
“What you don’t know,” she says, looking past me at some fixed point on the wall, “is that he was part of a pack before I ever met him. Scott was the chief of the station. He was an Alpha like Max, but his position at work meant he held a lot more authority over all of them. Then there was Levi, Trevor, Dalton and Jeremiah. Jeremiah was the youngest of the group, Max’s favorite. ”
Her lips twitch like she’s half-apologizing for even saying something decent about one of them.
“Max was—” She stops, swallows, then starts again.
“Max was good to me. Not perfect, but… he was kind. He had this way of making me laugh at things I shouldn’t.
Always chasing the next big rescue, the next big fire—daredevil, but harmless with me.
I was their Omega, and for the first year, they were all gentle. Or at least, I thought they were.”
Her hands knot together in her lap until her knuckles pale.
“Then came the first time Max got pulled for a long-duty rotation. Scott volunteered him—said the department needed someone reliable. And while he was gone, Scott and the others came to check on me. That’s what they said.
Just to make sure I was ‘taken care of.’”
The way she says those last words tells me exactly what they meant, even before she forces herself to go on.
“I thought it was nice. That they cared.” Her voice breaks. “But it wasn’t care. It was… two days. Two days where I couldn’t leave the bed. Two days where they—” She clamps her mouth shut, tears spilling before the words can.
I feel the urge to stand up, to put my fist through a wall, to drive to Memphis and make sure no one named Scott is breathing by nightfall. But I grip my knees instead. If I let my temper show now, she’ll think it’s aimed at her.
She wipes at her cheeks roughly, like she’s punishing herself for crying. “It didn’t stop there. Max never noticed. He was so tired all the time, so focused on proving himself. And I didn’t want to… ruin him. He was all I had.”
There’s a hollowness in my gut as she keeps going.
“When he died—” She pauses, inhales like it physically hurts.
“When he died, they got worse. They’d leave me when I needed them.
Leave me when I was in heat, which was better than when they decided to show up.
I couldn’t tell which was worse—being alone and vulnerable, or not being alone and knowing exactly what they wanted from me. ”
She’s trembling now. It’s subtle, the kind of tremor you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. But I see it.
“And it’s not like I even know what I’ve been doing the last three years. I just… kept moving. And when this job came up—painting here, far away from Memphis—it felt like an escape. Back there, every Omega knew about me. Knew the stories. Here… here, I’m no one. Off the radar.”
She exhales, but it’s shaky. “I don’t want to be on anyone’s radar. I want to finish my work. Stay away from Alphas. I just want to feel safe in my own skin again.”
I shift forward on instinct, but the second my weight leaves the couch, she flinches. It’s tiny, but it’s there—like a ghost of muscle memory telling her to brace.
That does more to me than anything she’s said so far.
So instead of crowding her, I drop to one knee in front of her, making sure she can see my hands before I rest them loosely on my thighs. No reaching. No cornering.
“Sadie.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “I’m so damn sorry you went through that.”
Her eyes flick to mine for the first time since she started talking. There’s something raw there, a mix of disbelief and—just for a second—relief.
“I get why you’d be wary of me,” I say, “and of Boone. Of anyone like us. I get it. And I’m not asking you to change that overnight.”
The urge to promise her she’ll never have to deal with something like that again sits heavy on my tongue, but I don’t say it.
I can’t guarantee it, not in a world that keeps proving it doesn’t care what Omegas endure.
But I can make damn sure she knows I believe her.
That I’m not looking at her like she’s broken.
She draws her knees up slightly, curling inward. “You don’t get it,” she whispers.
“Then make me,” I say, softer now.
Her throat works like she’s swallowing glass. “You can’t fix what they did. You can’t make it so I’m not—” She cuts herself off, eyes squeezing shut.
I lean back a fraction, still at her level. “I’m not here to fix you,” I tell her. “I’m here because you matter. Not what you can paint, not what you survived. You.”
Something shifts in her expression then, not quite trust but not the complete wall I’ve been getting since we met.
“Why?” she asks, and it’s not cynical—it’s curious, almost childlike in its quiet disbelief.
Because no one should have to go through what you did. Because you deserve to feel safe without earning it like some damn reward. Because if I’d known you back then, I’d have burned that whole pack to the ground.
I keep all that inside. What I say instead is, “Because I see you trying to make a life here. And I want that to work for you.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a beat too long, then drifts away. “I’m tired,” she admits.
I nod, rising slowly so she can see every movement before I stand. “Then I’ll get out of your hair. You want me to lock the door on my way out?”
She hesitates. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I take that for the small victory it is.
When I step out into the cool night air, I can still feel the tremor in her voice rattling in my chest. Boone’s right—she’s been through hell. But hearing it from her… it’s worse than I imagined.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I think it’s going to be a long time before I stop imagining what I’d do if I ever ended up face-to-face with Scott.