Chapter 18
Gabe
Iknew the bonfire was a dumb idea the moment I heard about it.
Cliffs, alcohol, an open flame—hell, even without the cliffs it was a bad combination. But try telling that to a bunch of locals who think it’s “tradition” just because it happened once last summer.
And sure enough, at three in the goddamn morning, my team is out there stomping out small grass fires and making sure the embers don’t catch on the wind and run straight into the tree line.
By the time we’ve got it contained, I’m running on fumes and a headache that feels like it’s drilling through the side of my skull. I give instructions to my crew—rest, be back for the noon equipment check, let dispatch know you’re clear—and finally head for home.
It’s that blissful moment where I’m imagining a shower, a greasy breakfast, and maybe two hours of sleep before I have to act like a functional human being again when I pull into my driveway and see Boone leaning against my front steps like a stray dog waiting to be let in.
His hair’s sticking up in every direction, eyes too bright for this hour, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket like he’s trying not to fidget.
“Whatever you want to talk about,” I call out as I get out of the truck, “you’d better do it after I’ve had breakfast.”
Boone pushes off the railing. “Shepard’s already got coffee.”
I blink at him. “And you’re telling me this why?”
“Because you’re coming with me,” he says, like it’s decided, and before I can tell him to shove it, he’s steering me toward Shepard’s place across the way.
Shepard answers his door looking like a man who’s already been up for hours—mug in hand, that calm, librarian composure that makes it seem like he’s immune to hangovers, bad mornings, and human chaos in general.
“You dragged him here?” Shepard asks Boone, stepping aside to let me in.
“Yes,” Boone says.
“No,” I say at the same time, because I still have no clue what this is about.
Inside smells like coffee and those cinnamon oat muffins Shepard buys from Marjorie’s bakery. Gus is curled on the couch like a loaf of bread, one eye half-open as we pass. Boone heads straight for the chair by the window, leaving me the couch across from Shepard’s spot.
“So what’s going on?” Shepard asks, settling in and taking a slow sip of his coffee. “And Boone, did you try drugs at the bonfire? Because you’re a paramedic, and if you’re experimenting now, that’s—”
“I didn’t do drugs,” Boone cuts in, glaring at him. “Jesus.”
“Then what’s with the hair?” I mutter. “You look like you lost a fight with a ceiling fan.”
He ignores me. “I kissed Sadie.”
That wakes me up faster than any caffeine could. I look at him, then at Shepard, then back at him. “You—what?”
“Kissed her,” Boone repeats, like maybe we didn’t hear it the first time. “Last night. After the bonfire.”
I lean back against the couch, rubbing a hand over my face. A part of me—okay, more than a part—is surprised. And not just because Boone’s always been the cautious one about crossing lines with Omegas, especially ones who’ve been through hell.
Maybe it’s my own cockiness talking, but I thought if anyone had a shot at Sadie, it was me. Guess I was wrong.
Boone’s not looking for a reaction, though—he’s looking for advice. His leg bounces like he’s wired on adrenaline instead of coffee. “I want to ask her out,” he says, and it’s not a question, it’s a declaration.
Shepard leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You just kissed her last night and you’re already jumping to asking her out? Boone, slow down. She’s—” He cuts himself off, like he’s choosing his words. “She’s not the type you rush.”
Boone’s jaw tightens. “She didn’t pull away.”
“That’s not the same as being ready,” Shepard says evenly.
I can see Boone gearing up for a defense, so I step in before this turns into an argument. “Look, you want my take? Go for it.”
That gets both their heads turning toward me.
“She’s been through a lot,” I continue, “but she’s also tough as hell. If she kissed you back—and it sounds like she did—then she’s making her own choices. You can’t bubble-wrap her forever.”
Boone frowns, glancing between us like he’s trying to gauge who’s got the better point.
I don’t miss the way Shepard’s watching him, the hint of something tight around his eyes.
And maybe I’m projecting, but it looks a lot like disappointment.
Not in Boone exactly, but in the idea of Boone and Sadie together.
Which is interesting.
I keep that thought to myself, though, because the last thing we need is to turn this into some testosterone-driven pack pissing match.
“What do you even want out of this?” Shepard asks Boone.
He shrugs, but it’s not casual—it’s the kind of shrug you give when you’re trying to mask how much you care. “To get to know her better. To take her somewhere that’s not just work or murals or pack drama. To make her laugh again.”
And I believe him. Boone’s not the type to chase tail for the sake of it. If he’s saying this, it’s because Sadie’s gotten under his skin in a real way.
Shepard sighs, leaning back. “Then wait. Give her time. Don’t make her feel like she has to give you an answer right now.”
I shake my head. “And risk losing the window entirely? No. Life’s short. Ask her, Boone. Worst she says is no.”
Boone rubs a hand over his jaw, clearly torn. “You both are no help.”
“On the contrary,” I say, reaching for my coffee. “We’re giving you two perfectly reasonable options. It’s your call which one you screw up.”
Shepard smirks at that, but it’s faint, and his eyes drift toward the window like he’s thinking hard about something. And again, I wonder if I’m imagining that flicker of disappointment.
We talk it in circles for another twenty minutes, Boone volleying between our advice like he’s trying to build the perfect middle ground. Eventually, he stands, muttering something about needing to “clear his head” before his shift.
When he’s gone, I drain the rest of my coffee and glance at Shepard. “You’re really not thrilled about this, are you?”
He lifts a brow. “I just think she’s been through enough without having to navigate pack politics on top of it.”
“Maybe she’s the one deciding she’s ready to,” I say.
Shepard doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t agree either. And something tells me this isn’t the last conversation we’re going to have about Boone and Sadie.
Shepard sits there with that steady gaze that’s always been both comforting and unnerving—like he’s cataloging every twitch in my face for future reference.
Then he sets his mug down and says, “I did something bad.”
I raise a brow. “You? Bad? What, you misfiled a biography in the fiction section?”
His mouth quirks, but it doesn’t stick. “No. I… kind of have a crush on Sadie.”
I lean back, not surprised. “Shepard, that’s not exactly breaking news. It’s practically a known fact in this pack.”
He huffs out a laugh, short and self-deprecating. “Maybe. But Boone’s got a real shot with her, and… I think I’m supposed to let him take it.”
I tilt my head. “Supposed to?”
“You know what I mean,” he says, glancing toward the window like maybe the conversation will be easier if he’s not looking at me.
“I had my chance—with Camilla. And I didn’t…
I didn’t protect her the way I should have.
” His voice catches just enough that I know he’s about to spiral if I don’t stop him.
“So maybe letting Boone be with Sadie is the right call.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. The thing is, I don’t know if it’s even a choice we’re “letting” happen. Sadie’s not a thing to be passed around like a pack heirloom. She’ll make her own call—about Boone, about any of us.
But Shepard’s shoulders are tight, and I can see the weight he’s carrying. So instead of poking holes in his logic, I go with the thing I know he needs to hear.
“Camilla would want you to move on one day,” I tell him quietly. “She wouldn’t want you to live like a ghost.”
He shakes his head like the thought’s too big to hold onto. “You think so?”
“I know so.” And I do. Camilla was all sharp edges and warm center, the kind of woman who didn’t do anything halfway. If she loved you—and she loved Shepard—she wanted you living, not just existing.
The silence stretches, and then Shepard asks, “You ever thought about… sharing an Omega?”
I snort, playing it off. “You mean like some kind of co-ownership arrangement? No. Sounds too damn complicated.”
It’s a lie. A smooth one, but a lie all the same.
The truth is, I’ve thought about it more than once—hell, with Sadie it’s crossed my mind in ways I’m not proud of. The way she draws different pieces out of each of us… Boone’s steadiness, Shepard’s quiet care, my own instinct to protect and challenge her.
But I’m not about to open that door, not when it’ll just make this mess harder.
We talk about nothing for a little while after that—Shepard pretending to be interested in the half-empty coffee pot, me pretending to check my phone like I’ve got urgent captain business. When I leave, it’s with the taste of that lie still bitter in my mouth.
By the time I get home, the exhaustion from the night’s calls has settled into my bones. I walk through the quiet house, drop my keys on the counter, toe off my boots. Gus’s absence reminds me Shepard’s probably already walking him, which saves me one chore but leaves me with too much empty space.
I tell myself I’m going to shower and pass out, but when I get to my room, I don’t reach for the towel. I reach for the top drawer of my nightstand.
There’s a photo in there, edges curled from being handled too much over the years.
Me, Boone, and Sawyer. We’re standing in the backyard of my parents’ place, all sunburned from a day at the lake, grinning like idiots.
Sawyer’s got his arm hooked around my neck, pulling me in close, and Boone’s maybe twelve, just hitting that age where he’s lanky and awkward but still trying to keep up with us.
It’s my favorite picture and my least favorite. Because every time I look at it, I remember the night Sawyer died.
The things I didn’t say. The things I didn’t stop.
The way Boone’s life cracked right down the middle, and how I’ve never told him the full truth about what happened.
If he knew—if he ever knew—he’d never forgive me.
And maybe I wouldn’t blame him.
I trace a thumb over the image of his younger self, over the bright, hopeful kid who looked at me like I hung the damn moon. Boone deserves to be happy. He deserves something good that isn’t touched by loss or betrayal.
So if Sadie’s that for him, then fine. I’ll keep my distance. I’ll swallow down whatever the hell I feel when she looks at me. I’ll be the captain, the friend, the steady presence she can rely on without ever crossing that line.
Because Boone may never know the truth about that night, but I do.
And it’s enough to keep me from taking anything else from him.