Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Leif
Quinn’s small hand is warm in mine as we walk up the steps to the porch of Cabin One, her fingers tightening every few seconds with excitement.
Through the open front window comes the clatter of mixing bowls and Holden’s humming, carried on a wave of buttery heat and the rich sweetness of vanilla.
Quinn has been talking about her plans to bake cookies with her Uncle Holden nonstop since breakfast, which rendered the lesson plan I had for the day all but pointless.
“Mr. Leif, do you think Holden will let me crack the eggs this time?” She bounces on her toes, her braids dancing on her purple sundress. “Last time he said I was getting better at not getting shells in the bowl.”
“I imagine he’ll let you try,” I say, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “You practiced a lot with those plastic eggs during science class.”
A burst of warm laughter spills through the window, followed by the thump of cabinet doors.
“Are you two planning to stand out there all afternoon?” Holden calls from inside. “The butter’s already softening!”
Quinn grins up at me, exposing the gap from her missing front tooth. “Come on! He’s got rainbow star sprinkles today!”
As she tugs me toward the door, a shout erupts from uphill, the words indistinct but the anger unmistakable. More voices join in, a chorus of indignation rising from the direction of the construction site.
Quinn freezes beside me, her smile faltering. “What’s that?”
I tilt my head, trying to catch the words, but they’re too far off. “I’m not sure.”
The screen door creaks open, and Holden appears, flour dusting his forearms and a wooden spoon in hand. His golden-brown curls catch the afternoon sunlight, but his expression clouds as another angry shout rises from above.
“Quinn, princess, I need your expert opinion on which cookie cutters to use today.” Holden extends his hand, his voice light. “I’m thinking dinosaurs, but maybe you have a better idea?”
Quinn hesitates, peering from Holden to the commotion. “But what’s happening? Why are people yelling?”
“Grown-up stuff.” Holden meets my eyes over her head, silent communication passing between us. “Nothing for cookie experts to worry about.”
I release Quinn’s hand, nudging her toward Holden. “Go on inside. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Promise?” she asks with far too much worry for her seven years.
“Cookie monster’s honor.” I trace an X over my heart.
As Quinn disappears inside with Holden, the angry voices swell again. I remain frozen on the porch, caught between the warmth of the house behind me and the commotion coming from the construction site.
At the top of the central road, I spot Grady limping past with his cane, his head tilted and his brow furrowing as another wave of shouting rises.
Our eyes meet across the distance, both of us pretending we’re not worried while concern pulls at our expressions.
Grady turns and limps down the path toward me. “Thought I’d bring Emily’s thermos back from lunch.” He lifts the container, a transparent excuse to meet up with the female Alpha. “Though it sounds like there might be more interesting entertainment up by the break tent.”
I step down from the porch, meeting him halfway. “Think we should sneak over for a little looksee?”
Grady tucks the thermos under his arm. “Was just thinking the same thing.”
Quinn’s high-pitched laughter drifts out the open window, followed by Holden’s soothing tones, the domesticity a sharp contrast with the rising tension.
I turn to call back. “Holden, I need to check something with Grady. Save me some dough to sample!”
Holden appears in the doorway. “Take your time. We’re still in the mixing phase.”
Grady and I start up the gravel path, our pace casual. Just two people on an innocent stroll, nothing more.
As we ascend toward the construction site, the shouting grows clearer, and my stomach tightens.
“…can’t trust him around the Omega guests…”
“…Wright Pack needs to stop protecting him…”
“…watched the video myself, clear as day…”
They’re talking about Jared.
“People sure do love a good villain story,” Grady mutters, his shoulders tense. “Never let facts get in the way of a satisfying narrative.”
“People see what they expect to see,” I say.
As we round the corner of a pallet of material, the break tent comes into full view. Workers spill from its open sides, faces flushed with emotion. At the center of the crowd stands Emily, her silver hair catching the afternoon sun, feet planted at shoulder width and unmovable as stone.
I suck in a breath. This isn’t idle gossip anymore. This is a reckoning. The pretense of this being a casual trek falls away, and without speaking, we quicken our pace toward the tent.
We enter through the back flap, slipping into the shadows where stacked chairs and extra coolers create a natural barrier. No one turns as we enter, every eye fixed on the makeshift screen at the front where a grainy video plays.
Emily stands beside the portable projector in the darkened tent, the tablet in her hand casting blue-white light over her face, highlighting the determined set of her jaw.
“This is the complete, unedited security footage from the Misty Pines water taxi,” she announces, cutting through the angry voices. “Not the fifteen-second clip circulating online, but the full record of what happened last Friday.”
The work crew is divided. To the left stands a cluster of workers with their arms folded, skepticism etched into their stances.
One spits into a paper cup, the sound deliberately loud.
To the right, others shift with discomfort, glancing between Emily and the screen with uncertainty painted across their expressions.
Grady’s shoulder presses against mine as more workers file in, compressing the available space.
“Quite the tribunal,” he whispers, nodding toward the front where two older men flank Emily, their faces impassive.
But my attention catches on a figure hunched in the far corner, hood pulled up despite the warmth of the tent. Jared. He curls forward on a metal folding chair, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced tight.
Nathaniel and Blake stand beside him, Blake’s hand on his shoulder in silent support.
“That’s him, right? The Alpha who went after that poor Omega?” A worker near us nudges his companion, voice pitched to carry. “Don’t see why we need a movie screening to know what happened.”
Emily clicks something on her tablet, and the footage restarts from the beginning. This time, the volume comes through a small Bluetooth speaker, bringing with it the sounds of water slapping the hull and engines humming.
“Pay attention,” Emily instructs, her finger hovering over the screen. “And watch what actually happened before someone started filming with their phone.”
The security camera angle provides a wider view than the viral clips, with the entire boat visible from bow to stern. It’s clear there’s tension between the pair of Alphas and the couple, and it’s also clear Jared is trying to defuse the situation by pointing out the sights.
The two men lean toward a woman, their postures predatory, invading her space, and her companion steps between them.
Words become heated, though the audio quality makes specific phrases difficult to catch. The boat rocks with a larger wave, the camera tilting. The two aggressive men surge forward, and the Omega’s companion shoves back.
A scuffle erupts.
Jared leaves the wheel, moving to separate them. The boat pitches again, more violently. The woman staggers, losing her balance, and Jared reaches out, not to attack her, but to stop her from tumbling overboard.
The woman’s companion interprets it differently, though, and his fist snaps into Jared’s face in a blur of misplaced rage.
A few sympathetic winces go around the tent, while my stomach clenches, acid rising in my throat.
Jared stumbles back to the wheel, his face a blood mask as he struggles to stop the water taxi from crashing.
The security footage continues playing, showing what the viral clips never revealed as the two aggressive Alphas jump from the boat at the dock, disappearing into the crowd while security focuses on restraining Jared.
Under this new light, the deliberate mischaracterization becomes painfully obvious.
“That’s edited,” an older worker calls from the skeptical side of the room. “Security footage can be manipulated.”
Emily’s expression remains neutral. “This comes directly from the water taxi camera. Time-stamped and verified. The woman who supposedly needed protection has provided a statement confirming this account.”
“Why isn’t that statement public?” another worker calls out. “Convenient we’re only being told now.”
“Because she’s an Omega who went into unexpected Heat in public,” Emily replies, her response carrying a clear bite. “She requested privacy, which is her right.”
The two sides of the room regard each other, tension vibrating between them.
Sweat prickles along my hairline despite the breeze moving through the open tent flaps.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. How quickly I’d assumed the worst when I watched the viral clip.
How easily I’d slotted Jared into the predatory Alpha stereotype despite my own experiences with being unfairly labeled.
“Play it again,” demands a woman at the back. “Slower this time.”
Emily obliges, stepping through the footage frame by frame during the critical moments. The entire tent follows along as Jared’s intentions become unmistakable in slow motion, his hand reaching out palm up, not grabbing or threatening.
“You expect us to believe an Alpha wasn’t affected by an Omega in Heat?” someone demands.
Across the tent, Jared sinks lower in his seat, the hood shadowing his features.
Emily angles toward him in question, and he must give her some signal, because she turns back to the crowd. “Jared is scent-blind. He can’t smell pheromones.”
A ripple goes through the crowd.