Chapter 9 Knox
Knox
Morning comes heavy and gray, the kind of light that seeps through the blinds and settles into everything.
I’m sitting at my desk before seven, half a cup of black coffee cooling beside a stack of files.
The air in the station still smells faintly of last night’s burnt coffee and cleaning solution.
Jasmine’s humming quietly at the dispatch desk, a tune I can’t place.
Today’s supposed to be simple. Interviews with the deputies. Set the tone. Start the cleanup coordination with the fire department and volunteers. Sheriff things.
That’s the plan.
When Gabe Ashford called last night to say he’d have a list of volunteer names for me—people willing to help with debris removal and the new safety checks—I jumped at the chance to meet first thing. It’s practical. Productive. Keeps my mind off the one thing I can’t afford to think about.
But when I pull up to the fire station, everything about the uniform feels different. The badge, the gun belt, the polished boots—all of it feels like armor I have to keep from cracking.
Gabe’s already waiting for me in his office. He’s wearing the same expression he always does: composed, deliberate. Coffee mug in one hand, clipboard in the other.
“Morning, Sheriff,” he says. “You ready for the circus?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say. “You’ve got the volunteer list?”
He hands me a clipboard, a sheaf of papers clipped to it. “Most of them confirmed this morning. You’ll recognize a few names—town regulars. The rest are new blood. Kids mostly. Big hearts, not a lot of experience.”
I scan the top few lines—names, ages, contact info. Then I see it.
Millie Harper.
The name hits like a blow to the ribs, even though I knew it’d be there. I swallow hard, my thumb tightening on the edge of the paper.
Gabe doesn’t notice. He’s talking about equipment rotations and safety briefings, about coordinating cleanup schedules between our departments. I nod when I’m supposed to, eyes flicking down the list again.
“She’s the youngest of the group,” Gabe says, pointing at a few of the names. “Works hard, though. Always shows up.”
I force a nod. “Good to know.”
We go over logistics, or at least I pretend to. My brain’s half a mile away, caught on the memory of her eyes that night and the sound of her voice when she said my name.
When we finally step out of his office, I’m too busy thinking about how I’m going to get through the day without losing my composure to realize where we’re heading—until I see her.
She’s standing near one of the trucks, hair pulled back into a messy braid that hangs over one shoulder. She’s wearing a faded Driftwood Volunteer T-shirt, tucked into high-waisted jeans, a smudge of something—ash or dirt—streaking her cheek. The sight of her hits hard.
And then I see who she’s talking to.
Tall guy. Blond hair shaved close to his head.
Fire department uniform, hands shoved into his pockets, easy smile.
She’s laughing at something he said, a small sound that carries in the open space.
When he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before pulling her into a hug, something in my chest twists tight.
Gabe’s saying something beside me, but I barely hear it. My brain scrambles for sense.
Her boyfriend?
I didn’t see his name on the volunteer list, but that doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know all the firefighters yet. Could be a friend. Could be more.
So not only did I sleep with the youngest volunteer in Driftwood—but she’s not even single?
Perfect.
I feel sick.
She’s still laughing, and that sound feels like salt in an open wound. I tell myself to look away, to keep walking, to stay the hell out of this.
Gabe turns toward me. “We’ll get started in an hour,” he says. “Sound good?”
“Yeah,” I manage, voice rough. “I, uh—got a few things to handle first. We’ll talk later.”
He nods, oblivious. “Sure thing, Sheriff.”
I walk out before I can embarrass myself.
There’s a long hallway that leads back to the exit, lined with framed photos of old fire crews. As I pass the glass case, my reflection catches—a tall man in a pressed uniform, gold badge shining, face drawn tight with things he shouldn’t be feeling.
That’s who I am now. Sheriff Knox Hill. Law and order. Discipline. A man who doesn’t lose control, doesn’t cross lines.
I can’t jeopardize that.
Not for anyone.
I step outside and climb into the cruiser, but I can’t drive away. My hands stay on the wheel, unmoving. Through the windshield, I can still see her through the open bay doors, standing near the fire truck, still talking to that blond guy.
He touches her shoulder before walking inside. She waves after him, the movement small, distracted.
And then I see it. The shift. The brightness drains out of her face. Her shoulders hunch, her posture crumples just a little.
Something’s wrong.
Before I can stop myself, I’m out of the car. My boots hit the pavement, the sound echoing too loud in the quiet.
She’s unlocking her car when she notices me. The look on her face is pure shock.
“Knox,” she says, voice thin.
“Was that your boyfriend?” The words come out before I can swallow them back.
Her eyes widen. “What the fuck?”
I realize how this looks—me, in full uniform, walking toward her like an idiot. She blinks rapidly, green eyes watery.
“Millie—”
But she’s already turned away, climbing into her car. I do the only stupid thing left to do. I open the passenger door and slide in beside her.
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which, honestly, maybe I have.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she says, voice shaky. Her eyes are red. She’s been crying.
“Why are you crying?” I ask quietly.
“I’m fine.” She wipes at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I have to get to work, okay? I’m busy.”
“Not like this.” I reach over, take her keys gently from her fingers before she can start the ignition. “You can’t drive in this state.”
She hiccups, a tiny sound that breaks something in me. And before I can think, I pull her toward me.
She doesn’t fight it.
She just folds into my chest, shaking. Right there in the parking lot, under the morning sun, pressed against my uniform like I’m her anchor and not the reason she’s falling apart.
“I’m staining your jacket,” she mumbles against my shoulder, her voice muffled.
“It’s fine,” I say, though my throat’s too tight.
I hate the way my body reacts—the sharp awareness of her against me, the instinctive pull to hold her tighter, to protect. My Alpha instincts kick in hard, the scent of her curling around me, sweet and distracting, almost dizzying. It’s chemical, primal, instinctual.
And it scares me.
When she finally pulls back, I force myself to let her go. Her eyes are swollen, lashes damp.
“Talk to me,” I say softly.
She shakes her head, staring down at her lap. “I didn’t know you were the sheriff,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say. “I should’ve told you.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “We really weren’t thinking straight. This has messed up everything.”
I ignore the sting her statement causes me. She’s right. We should have never…
“Fuck.” I rub a hand over my face, tugging at my hair. “I know. I just—” I look at her again. “That guy—was he your boyfriend?”
She meets my gaze then, eyes wet but steady. “I know you don’t know me well,” she says, voice trembling but sure, “but I’m not the kind of person who’d sleep with someone else if I was in a relationship.”
The words hit hard. Shame flares hot behind my ribs. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
She sniffs, wipes at her nose with her sleeve. “Same.”
I hand her keys back. For a moment, neither of us moves. The world outside feels painfully bright.
“I should go,” I say finally.
She nods.
I climb out of the car, shutting the door carefully. As I walk back toward the cruiser, I glance around, praying no one saw us. Two people in a parked car, one of them in uniform—it’s a bad look, no matter how innocent the truth sounds.
But it’s not innocence that burns through me. It’s something else.
Something about her I can’t shake.
Her scent still clings to my jacket, light and warm and unmistakably Omega. It wraps around me even after I start the engine.
I grip the steering wheel, jaw tight.
This is the second time I’ve risked my career for her.
And I hate that I can’t bring myself to regret it.
By the time I get back to the station, the morning light has sharpened into something harsher. The kind that makes everything too clear, too unforgiving.
Jasmine greets me with a nod from dispatch, the phone already pressed to her ear, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The steady hum of the scanners fills the space—voices layered over static, the rhythm of a department that doesn’t quite sleep.
The day’s supposed to be about structure. Routine. Something steady to hold onto after the mess at the fire station. The interviews with the deputies are lined up back to back—fifteen minutes each, just enough time to get a read on them, maybe start building trust.
I need the distraction.
Marcus Henderson’s first. He walks in right on time, posture still military, even though he’s been out for years. His uniform’s pressed, his boots shined. He shakes my hand firmly, meets my eyes without hesitation.
“Deputy Henderson,” I say, motioning for him to sit.
“Sheriff Hill,” he replies, settling in. “Call me Marcus, if that’s easier.”
He talks about his service, his transition to small-town law enforcement, how he joined Driftwood’s department after losing a friend in the city. His voice is steady, measured, the kind of tone that makes you want to trust him.
“I’m good at following structure,” he says. “You give me a plan, I’ll execute it. No complaints.”
“Discipline’s not the problem,” I tell him. “But flexibility matters too. We’re dealing with a community still on edge after the fires. They’ll need reassurance as much as enforcement.”
He nods, eyes steady. “Understood. I’ll follow your lead.”