Chapter 15
Boone
Shepard leans against the doorframe of my place like he owns it, a coffee mug balanced in one hand, the other shoved into his jeans pocket. “I really think you should go to the bonfire tonight,” he says, like he’s casually suggesting I pick up milk on my way home.
I snort. “You’re not going.”
“That’s different,” he says, lifting his mug for a sip. “I’d go, but I’ve got to finish sorting the back room at the library. Marjorie wants the whole local history section reorganized before the fundraising board meeting.”
“Which means you’ll be buried in dusty ledgers until midnight.”
“Probably.” He grins, the calm and steady kind that’s impossible to get mad at.
Boone’s voice comes from the kitchen table, where he’s nursing his second cup of coffee and scrolling on his phone. “And Gabe’s not going either, so why should I? I’m not going to some town event alone.”
Shepard shrugs. “Because you need fun. It’s not healthy to work all the time, Boone.”
I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out. “I’ve been on back-to-back shifts. No way I’m doing a night of forced small talk on top of that.”
Shepard gives me the raised-brow look, the one that says he’s already decided I’ll end up doing the thing I’m refusing. “Just think about it,” he says, pushing off the doorframe. He heads for the door, Gus trailing after him.
When the door clicks shut, I sit there staring at the wall, thinking about Sadie.
I’ve thought about calling her. Even just sending a text. But every time I picture her face from the other day—how crushed she looked when I told her I’d shared what she’d told me with the others—I stop myself.
She doesn’t need me barging in, not right now. I’ve always been too quick to jump, too quick to go all in. I don’t pace myself, and it blows up in my face.
See? This is why you keep your distance, Boone.
But then I think about her working alone, about that stiff little smile she gives when she’s trying to hide how tired she is, and I get pissed at myself.
Maybe a few drinks at the cliffs isn’t a bad idea after all.
I grab a clean black Henley from the closet, roll the sleeves halfway up. Dark jeans, boots. Nothing fancy, but enough that I don’t look like I just stepped off shift. Jacket over my arm.
I grab my keys and head out before I can overthink it.
The drive to the cliffs is short. I can see the glow from the bonfire before I even park—the orange flames throwing sparks into the air, music drifting across the water, the smell of charred wood and sea salt mixing in the cool night air.
Jake’s voice carries over the hum of conversation as I walk up. “…and please, make sure no fires spread beyond the pits. The cliffs are dry this time of year, and we don’t need to give the department extra work.”
He’s got that easy captain’s authority, half instruction, half friendly reminder.
I grab a beer from one of the coolers near the circle of picnic tables. The glass bottles are slick from the ice. As I pop the cap, I catch sight of Julian leaning against a post, deep in conversation with Elias.
Julian’s been leading half the real estate developments in town lately—revamping the old dockfront, putting in new shops on Main. He waves me over, and for a few minutes I let myself get pulled into talk about zoning permits and how the mayor’s been dragging his feet on certain projects.
And then I see her.
Sadie’s standing with Cora and Grace near the edge of the firelight, her head tipped back just slightly as she laughs at something Cora says.
The sound carries, light and warm. She’s wearing a soft cream sweater tucked into dark jeans, her hair pulled back loosely with a few strands framing her face.
Even from here, I can tell she’s more relaxed than the last time I saw her.
But then her gaze shifts, scanning the crowd, and lands on me.
The smile falters—just for a heartbeat—before a shyer version replaces it. She lifts her hand in a small wave.
That’s all it takes for me to excuse myself from Julian, mumbling something about catching up later. Elias has already steered the conversation elsewhere anyway.
I weave through the clusters of people until I’m standing in front of her. The firelight flickers across her face, catching the gold in her eyes.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I say.
Her lips press together like she’s holding back a dozen answers, but what she says is, “Can we talk?”
There’s a seriousness in her voice that pushes aside whatever easy greeting I might have had lined up.
“Yeah,” I say, shifting the beer to my other hand. “Lead the way.”
She glances toward the far end of the cliffs where the light doesn’t reach and starts walking. I follow, keeping half a step behind. Her shoulders are set, but not in that tense, defensive way I’ve seen before—this is something else.
When we reach the quieter stretch, the noise of the crowd just a low hum behind us, she stops and turns to face me.
She’s the one who asked if we could talk, but when we’re far enough from the noise, it’s like we both forgot how. The fire is just a smear of gold behind us now, the wind cooler here at the edge of the cliffs, the music muted to a pulse you feel more than hear.
She looks at me like she’s deciding if I’m worth the trouble.
I shove my free hand into my pocket. “So… this is awkward.”
Her lips twitch. “Just a little.”
“Want to go first?”
She shakes her head, then changes her mind. “No. You go.”
I take a breath. “I’m sorry.” Two words, but they feel heavier than they should. “For pushing when I shouldn’t have, for making you feel like you had to explain things you weren’t ready to.”
She studies me for a long second, eyes catching the faint light, then asks, “Did Gabe tell you about… the talk we had?”
I shake my head. “No. Whatever you told him, that’s between you two.”
Something in her posture softens, just barely. She reaches out and touches my arm—light, but enough to send every protective instinct I’ve got into high alert. “Then I’ll tell you now.”
So I stand there and let her talk.
She tells me about Max. About Scott and the rest of the firefighter pack.
Names I don’t recognize—Jeremiah, Levi, Trevor, Dalton.
About how she thought she was safe with them because Max was.
How she was their Omega, and how at first they were gentle.
How that changed the first time Max was away, sent out by Scott.
Her voice catches when she says the words “two days straight.” She doesn’t go into the kind of detail my brain automatically fills in anyway, and I force myself to stand still, to let her finish without interrupting.
But every muscle in my body is tight, because I want to put my fist through something.
She talks about the neglect, the way Max never noticed—too tired, too driven. And then how after he died, they got worse. How they’d leave her when she was in heat, which was still almost better than the times they didn’t.
By the time she’s done, her hands are trembling. She’s not looking at me, probably because she knows what’s on my face right now.
I breathe out slow, make my voice even. “Sadie…”
“I wasn’t even sure what I was doing the last three years,” she says, almost to herself. “But coming here felt like an escape. I just want to feel safe in my own skin again.”
When she says “safe,” it hits me in the chest.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” I tell her, and it’s not enough. It never will be. “I get why you’d be wary of me. But you’re not wrong—this place is safer than that. Driftwood Cove is safer.”
She nods, swallowing hard.
The wind picks up, bringing the thump of bass from the fire pit closer, and she glances toward it like she’s ready to change the subject. “I like this song.”
It’s not the kind of track you’d dance to at a wedding—more of a loose, easy rhythm that rolls like the tide.
I take a chance. “Would you… like to dance?”
Her brows lift in surprise, but she doesn’t say no.
So I stand, offer her my hand, and when she takes it, it’s like the rest of the noise fades out. We move together in the dark, away from the crowd, no one watching. I keep my touch light, letting her lead if she wants, matching her sway. She doesn’t step back.
By the time the song shifts into something faster, we’re both smiling—small, careful ones, but real.
We stop, close enough that I could lean in if I wanted to. And I do want to. Badly. The cliff wind tangles a strand of hair across her cheek, and my fingers almost move to tuck it behind her ear.
Almost.
She blinks up at me, then steps back. “Let’s get you a beer.”
I let her lead us back to the fire, the noise swallowing us again.
The night is a blur of music, laughter, the smell of smoke and saltwater. She talks mostly to women—Cora, Grace, a couple of faces I don’t know. I don’t blame her.
Every now and then she glances my way, and I make sure I’m not hovering. Just… nearby.
It’s nearly one in the morning when she finds me leaning against the hood of my truck.
“I’m beat,” she says, pulling her sweater tighter around herself.
“Where’d you park your truck?”
She hesitates, then gives me a little grin. “I biked.”
I stare at her. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“It’s really good exercise,” she says, mock-offended. “I don’t know why none of you guys believe me.”
I just shake my head, chuckling. “Good thing I brought my truck, then.”
I load up her bike, and she lets me help her in. I’m not sure if it’s the beer, the dancing, or just the late hour, but she’s loose in a way I haven’t seen before—languid, happy. She fiddles with the dials on my dash, flipping the vents open, finding a station she likes.
As I drive, she leans her arm out the window, fingers trailing in the wind. And for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks… free.
It’s dangerous, how much I like it.
I catch myself looking more than I should, noticing the way she leans into the seat, one knee pulled up slightly like she’s finally relaxed enough to get comfortable. I’ve seen her guarded, angry, stubborn, terrified—but not this. Not this lightness.
It’s dangerous. It makes me think about how much more she might be hiding, how many other versions of herself she’s keeping locked away from the rest of the world.
When we pull up to her place, she doesn’t move to get out right away. Instead, she turns to me, lips curving in a small smile. “I’ve got some leftover fish and chips if you want to come in.”
I hesitate, but not for long. “Yeah. I’ll come in.”
Inside, the place smells faintly of paint and lemon cleaner. Her shoes are kicked off by the door, a small pile of brushes and rags stacked neatly in a corner.
Everywhere I look, there’s some trace of her—a sweater draped over a chair, a sketch half-finished on the counter. A chipped mug sits on the windowsill, paint-stained at the rim, and I wonder what it would look like with my coffee cup beside it. I shove the thought away.
She moves easily in the space, humming under her breath as she goes into the kitchen, like she’s used to having someone here. I stay leaning against the archway, watching her pull two waters from the fridge.
“You okay?” I ask.
She glances over her shoulder at me, still humming, then turns back. “I’m… feeling a little reckless.”
That gets my attention. “Reckless how?”
She twists the cap off her bottle, takes a sip, then puts it down on the counter. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her expression before she says, “Can I ask you something? Like… as a professional medic?”
I nod, curious.
She meets my eyes. “Do you think I’m sexy?”
I choke—actually choke—on my water, sputtering into my hand.
Her face falls immediately, color rushing to her cheeks. “Forget it. It was stupid. I’m probably drunk.”
I set my bottle down and step closer. “Look at me,” I say, quietly but firmly, and she does. “You’re not drunk.”
She swallows, the embarrassment still there in her eyes, but there’s something else under it—something almost like fear.
I reach up, my thumb brushing along her cheekbone. Her skin is warm under my hand, her breath catching just slightly.
“You’ve been through a lot,” I say, my voice low. “That part is true. But none of that changes how you look. And yeah… you’re beautiful, Sadie. Sexy as hell. But that’s not the only thing I see when I look at you.”
Her breathing shifts—slower, heavier. I can feel the way her pulse flutters beneath my touch.
“What if I told you I was broken?” she whispers.
“Then I’d tell you everyone’s a little broken,” I answer. “Some people just hide it better than others.”
She nods, like she wants to believe that but isn’t quite sure she can. “I feel like an open wound,” she admits. “I’ve exposed so much of myself to you guys already, and I don’t want—”
I stop her before she can finish. “Hey. You don’t have to finish that sentence.”
Her eyes are locked on mine now, and for a moment the space between us feels electric—every nerve alive. I know I’m standing right on the edge of something here, and I can’t tell if it’s smart to take the next step.
But then she leans in.
The first kiss is hesitant, like she’s testing to see if I’ll pull away. I don’t. My hand slides to the back of her neck, holding her just enough that she knows she can stop me if she wants to.
Her lips are soft, tasting faintly of salt and sweat. Her hands tremble against my chest, but she doesn’t stop.
I keep it slow. Careful. Gentle.
Every part of me is screaming to deepen it, to pull her closer, but I don’t want to take this further unless I’m sure she’s ready.
When we break apart, her breath is uneven, her chest rising and falling quickly. I’m hard—aching for her—but I don’t move.
She shifts in my arms, a subtle wriggle that makes my self-control strain, her nails lightly catching on my shirt.
“I want more,” I admit, my forehead resting against hers. “God, I want more. But I want you to be sure you want more too.”
Her fingers curl slightly in my shirt, like she’s caught between wanting to pull me closer and holding herself back.
I take her hand instead, bring it to my lips, and kiss across her knuckles.
“I better leave,” I murmur. “Before I end up begging you for more than you should give me tonight.”
Her lips part, like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t.
I step back, every muscle in my body protesting. But I know if I stay another minute, I’ll cross a line I can’t uncross.
At the door, I glance back. She’s standing there in the kitchen, one hand pressed to her lips, eyes following me like she’s just as conflicted as I am.
And maybe that’s enough for tonight.
Because now I know—beneath all her walls, all her fear—there’s a part of her that still wants to feel something good.