Chapter 26
Maddox
The engine of my bike cuts off, the silence ringing in my ears after the constant thrum. I swing my leg over the seat, my boots crunching on the thin layer of snow that’s started to dust the ground.
The air bites at my exposed skin, a sharp, cold contrast to the heat still radiating from the engine. I pull off my helmet, the rush of frigid air a welcome shock to my system. I need it. I need to think clearly, and the cold helps.
I push through the door of the police station, the warmth inside hitting me like a wall. It smells like burnt coffee and disinfectant, a sterile scent that does nothing to calm the frantic energy buzzing under my skin.
My eyes scan the reception area, landing on a deputy sitting behind the counter, his face illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. He’s young, with a buzz cut and an earnest expression that screams rookie. Henderson. I remember his name from his uniform.
I stride toward him, my wet boots leaving tracks on the floor. “Deputy Henderson,” I say, my tone clipped.
He looks up, his eyes widening slightly at my approach. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Millie Harper. She’s here to see Liam Bennett.”
Henderson types something into his computer. “She was here,” he confirms, not looking up. “She left about ten minutes ago. A taxi picked her up.”
A taxi. She took a fucking taxi. My jaw clenches. Why wouldn’t she wait? I told her I was on my way. I told her I’d come get her. Frustration coils in my gut, hot and sharp. She should have waited for me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Did she say where she was going?”
The deputy shakes his head. “No, sir.”
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to unclench my fists. “Okay. Can I see Liam?”
Henderson finally looks up, his expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t authorize that. Only the sheriff can grant visitation rights right now.”
“And where is the sheriff?” I ask, my patience wearing thin.
“He’s in a meeting,” Henderson says, his gaze dropping back to his screen. “With the mayor and the captain.”
“Fuck,” I say again, the word a low growl. Of course. The one time I need to talk to him, he’s playing politics with the big shots. I’m hitting a wall at every turn.
“Is he okay?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended. “Liam. How is he doing?”
Henderson hesitates for a moment, then seems to decide I’m not a threat. “He’s okay,” he says, his tone confidential. “A bit pissed off, but he’s okay. Got a few bruises, a sprained wrist. Nothing too serious.”
A bit pissed. That’s an understatement. Liam’s probably seeing red. I know him. He’s probably blaming himself for everything, for Millie, for his father, for the whole damn mess.
I nod, a sense of helplessness washing over me. There’s nothing I can do here. Not now. “Thanks for the information,” I say, turning to leave.
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Henderson calls after me.
I wave a dismissive hand over my shoulder and push back out into the cold. The snow is coming down heavier now, fat white flakes that melt on my heated jacket. I pull out my phone, my fingers numb from the cold. I need to know if Millie went to the café or straight home. I need to hear her voice.
I dial Maren’s number, my heart pounding in my chest. It rings twice, then a familiar voice answers, but it’s not Maren’s.
“Hello?” It’s Aunt Dee. Her voice sounds tired, strained.
“Aunt Dee, it’s Maddox,” I say, my breath fogging in the cold air. “Is Millie there? Is she okay?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “She’s not here,” she says, her tone gentle but firm. “We told her to go home and get some rest. To come by tomorrow.”
“So she’s home?” I press, a wave of relief washing over me.
“Yes,” Aunt Dee confirms. “She’s home.”
“Okay,” I say, my mind already made up. “Thanks, Aunt Dee. Tell Maren I’m thinking of her.”
“I will, honey,” she says. “You be careful out there. The roads are getting bad.”
“I will,” I promise, hanging up.
She’s home. The words repeat in my head, a mantra that both soothes and agitates me. She’s safe, but she’s alone. After a day like today, she shouldn’t be alone.
I straddle my bike, the leather of the seat cold against my jeans. I pull my helmet back on, the world narrowing to the small rectangle of my visor. I should respect her wishes. I should give her space. But I can’t. I need to see her. I need to know for myself that she’s really okay.
I start the engine, the roar of the motor a comforting sound in the quiet of the falling snow. I pull out onto the road, the tires slipping slightly on the slick surface. The ride to her place is a blur of white and gray, the snow swirling around me in a dizzying dance.
My mind is a mess of conflicting emotions. I’m worried about Millie. I’m angry at Liam for losing control, for putting her in danger, for getting himself arrested. And I’m angry at myself for not being there, for not being able to protect her from all of this.
She’s Liam’s best friend. She’s off-limits. I know that. I’ve always known that. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things. And right now, all I feel is a primal, undeniable urge to get to her, to wrap her in my arms and never let go.
The snow is coming down harder now, the wind whipping it against my visor, obscuring my vision. I have to focus, to keep the bike on the road. But my thoughts keep drifting back to her. To the sound of her laugh, to the way her eyes light up when she’s happy, to the feel of her hand in mine.
I’m a firefighter. I’m supposed to be the one who saves people, the one who runs into the burning building while everyone else is running out. But today, I feel like I’ve failed. I wasn’t there for her. I wasn’t there for Liam. I was just... gone.
I was too scared of dealing with everything so I checked out. They needed me, and I wasn’t there.
Finally, I see her apartment building up ahead. I kill the engine, the silence once again ringing in my ears. I sit there for a moment, just looking up at her window. The light is on, a warm, inviting glow in the midst of the cold, dark night.
I swing my leg off the bike, the snow crunching under my boots as I hit the ground.
The helmet comes off with a hiss of released pressure, and I hang it from the handlebars.
My mind is still a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, a mess of worry, anger, and something else I don’t want to name.
Something that feels a lot like possessiveness.
The snow is coming down harder now, blanketing the world in white, muffling sound and softening edges. It makes everything seem peaceful, a stark contrast to the rain this morning.
The walk to her door feels longer than it should, each step a deliberate effort to keep my pace normal, to not break into a run. All I can think about is getting to her.
I knock on her door, the sound loud in the quiet of the hallway. No answer. I knock again, harder this time. Still nothing. A knot of worry tightens in my stomach. She’s supposed to be here. Aunt Dee said she was home.
I try the handle. Locked. Of course. But I know Millie. I know her habits, her little quirks. I know about the spare key. My fingers slip beneath the ceramic pot of the sad fern she keeps outside her door, the cool metal a shock against my skin. The key slides into the lock with a satisfying click.
The apartment is quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator. I step inside, closing the door behind me, the warmth of the apartment a welcome contrast to the biting cold outside. Nimbus is curled up on the sofa. He lifts his head as I enter, blinking slowly, then goes back to his nap.
“Millie?” I call out, my voice echoing in the silence.
No answer. My heart starts to pound in my chest. I walk toward her bedroom, my steps hesitant, afraid of what I might find. The door is slightly ajar, and I push it open.
And then I’m hit by it. The scent. It’s a physical blow, a wave of pure, undiluted Omega heat that almost knocks me off my feet. Vanilla and lavender, sweet and intoxicating, but there’s something else too. Something sharp and musky. Leather and wood.
The scent of another Alpha.
My own Alpha instincts surge to the forefront, a primal, possessive rage that makes my blood run hot. What the fuck? Who’s been here? Who’s touched her?
I push the door open the rest of the way and see her. She’s sitting on the floor next to her bed, wrapped in a towel, her wet hair plastered to her back. Her head is bowed, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
I crouch down in front of her. “What’s going on?” I ask, my voice rough.
She looks up at me, and my heart clenches.
Her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Her lips are bruised, swollen, a reminder of what she’s been through.
And the scent... it’s stronger now, a cloying sweetness that coats the back of my throat.
Underneath it, the scent of the other Alpha is even more potent, a clear, undeniable claim.
She’s crying, and I can smell the slick on her, a sweet, musky aroma that calls to the most primal part of me. She’s in heat. Fuck. I take a step back, bracing my hand against the wall to steady myself. The urge to go to her, to comfort her, to claim her, is overwhelming.
I shouldn’t have come in. I shouldn’t be here.
“Maddox,” she whimpers. “It hurts.”
I swallow hard, the sweetness trapped in my throat making it difficult to breathe. “Where are your suppressants?” I ask, my voice tight.
“Took the last one,” she whispers. “They run out. The pharmacy was out.”
Fuck. I press my hand to my arm, my fingers digging into the muscle in a desperate attempt to ground myself, to keep myself from doing something I’ll regret. I want to touch her. I want to wrap her in my arms and never let go. I want to bury my face in her cunt, to taste her, to make her mine.