27. The Past Hits The Present #3
The warm arm that slides around my waist from behind surprises me— I swear these men have a sixth sense for when I need them — because even before I see the glint of his sunglasses, I know that scent—smoke and cinnamon, the afterburn of fireworks in a snowstorm, and just enough danger to electrify the air.
Mavi doesn't stride into scenes; he seeps in, invisible until the exact second his presence will cause maximum disruption or comfort. It’s like the molecules in the space behind me realign to make room for him, and then there he is—lean, loose, and coiled with tension that doesn’t show in his voice, only in the way he fits himself to my back, arms braced on either side of my hips.
There's no preamble, no warning. One instant I'm alone in my humiliation, and the next, Maverick's body has bracketed mine, his heat and his scent a wall I can hide behind.
He doesn't exactly grab me—he doesn't have to, because the proximity is possession enough. His chin comes to rest just beside my ear, breath warm on my neck, and suddenly every nerve ending in my body lights up. The people on the street see it too, the way he wraps me in, yes, casual but absolute claim, and I feel it: how the focus of the crowd pivots from Blake’s public evisceration to this sharp, intimate counterclaim. The town absorbs spectacle like sugar water, and Maverick’s the hummingbird at the feeder—drawn to drama, but always the fastest, brightest thing in the room.
Blake’s face contorts, disgust sharpening to something like incredulity.
The onlookers are silent, but their attention is a living thing, pulsing between the men who want to own the narrative of Willa James.
For one second I worry that Mavi is about to escalate everything past the point of no return, but then he does what only Maverick Cross would do: he leans in just enough for the gesture to be unmistakable, then flashes a lazy, dangerous grin that says he’s enjoying himself and doesn’t give a damn who’s watching.
The message is clear—your move, asshole.
It should be mortifying, and maybe part of me is, but the bigger part is relief.
His touch steadies me, grounds the chaos in my head.
I can breathe again. My entire body, which had been locked in fight-or-splinter mode, starts to recalibrate itself around the steady, sparking line of his arm and the long, slow exhale of his presence.
God, I missed this—the way Mavi can seize control of a disaster just by refusing to let it matter, by acting like it’s already over and he’s the one who won.
I expect him to speak, to throw a barb that will cut Blake to the bone, but instead he goes for something far more devastating: softness.
He lets his lips skim the shell of my ear, a whisper of contact that makes my knees buckle, and in that fraction of a moment the whole town might as well not exist.
"Morning, beautiful," he murmurs against my ear, and I can hear the smile in his voice even as his arm tightens, pulling me back against his chest. "Miss me?"
Before I can answer— or even think fast enough —he spins me in his arms and his mouth crashes down on mine.
This isn't a greeting kiss.
This isn't even a regular kiss.
This is a claiming, pure and simple, designed to send a message to every Alpha in a three-block radius.
His tongue slides against mine with devastating skill, one hand tangling in my hair while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise. He kisses like he's trying to crawl inside me, like he's been starving for the taste of me, like Blake and Cole and the whole damn town don't exist.
My body betrays me completely.
A moan escapes— soft, needy, absolutely mortifying —and my hands come up to clutch at his shoulders for balance.
He tastes like coffee and cinnamon, that dangerous edge always lurking beneath his careful control now unleashed for public consumption.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, tugging gently, and another sound breaks free that I'll be embarrassed about for the next decade.
When he finally pulls back, I'm breathing like I've run a marathon.
My lips feel swollen, probably look it too, and I can taste him on my tongue.
The world spins lazily, all my blood apparently having relocated south, and I have to blink several times before his face comes into focus.
He's grinning, the bastard.
Green eyes bright with satisfaction as his thumb traces my bottom lip, spreading the moisture he left there.
"Good morning to me," he says, voice pitched to carry. "How'd the budget review go? You save us millions yet?"
My brain is completely static. Blake is standing ten feet away, looking like someone hit him with a cattle prod, Cole's trying not to laugh, half the town is staring, and Mavi's asking about budgets like he didn't just stake a claim more effectively than any formal announcement could.
"I—what?" I manage, still clinging to his shoulders.
"The hay purchase." His hand slides lower on my back, fingertips tracing patterns that make me shiver. "Cole texted that you found us a better supplier."
"Oh. Yes. Johnson's Feed Mill." The words come out breathy, disconnected. I'm still processing the kiss, the audience, the way my body won't stop humming. "We could save... um... money."
"Brilliant." He shifts his attention over my shoulder, and his entire demeanor changes.
Still relaxed, still touching me, but there's something predatory in the set of his shoulders now.
"Who's this?"
I follow his gaze to Blake, who's recovered enough to sneer.
"Her ex-husband. You must be another one of her replacement Alphas."
"Replacement implies someone needed replacing." Mavi's voice stays light, conversational, but his hand on my back presses harder, keeping me close. "From what I hear, you were more like a placeholder. Training wheels she outgrew."
"Why you?—"
"No one important," I interrupt, desperate to end this before it escalates further.
I turn in Mavi's arms, looking up at him through my lashes in a move I learned watching other Omegas but never had the courage to try.
"Can we go? I'm hungry."
The puppy eyes are apparently effective.
Mavi's ears turn pink—actually pink—and he swallows hard.
"Yeah. Yes. Food. We can do food."
I feel like he’s not thinking about food at all.
"Mavi," I say his name soft and sweet, playing up the omega-in-distress angle. It feels manipulative but also strangely powerful, using these tools I've always been denied.
That does it.
His protective instincts flare hot enough to scorch, and before I can process what's happening, he bends and scoops me up into his arms.
I squeal— actually squeal like some romance novel heroine —as he lifts me effortlessly, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back.
"Mavi! Put me down!"
"Nope." He starts walking toward where I assume he parked, carrying me like I weigh nothing. "You're hungry. I'm fixing that. Cole!" He calls over his shoulder. "Hurry the fuck up or I'm having her in the car."
The crude implication makes me bury my burning face in his neck, but I can hear snickers from the growing crowd of onlookers.
This is worse than Blake's insults somehow—not cruel but overwhelming, too much attention for entirely different reasons.
Cole's voice carries clearly as we move away.
"Harrison. Last warning. Stay away from our property, our town, and our Omega. Next time I won't be so polite about it."
I peek over Mavi's shoulder in time to see Blake standing alone on the sidewalk, looking smaller somehow.
Diminished. The expensive suit can't hide what he really is— a pathetic man who needs to tear others down to feel big.
The townspeople are already turning away, dismissing him as unimportant, and that casual rejection probably stings worse than any threat.
"Stop looking at him," Mavi orders softly. "He doesn't deserve your attention."
He's right.
I turn my face back into his neck, breathing in his scent—smoke and cinnamon and something uniquely Mavi that makes me feel safe despite the chaos of the last ten minutes.
His truck is parked crooked outside the hardware store, like he abandoned it in a hurry when he spotted us.
"I can walk," I protest as he fumbles for his keys one-handed.
"I know." He manages to get the passenger door open without putting me down, then carefully sets me on the seat. His hands linger on my waist, thumbs stroking over my ribs. "Doesn't mean you have to."
Cole appears as Mavi's rounding the truck, tossing him a set of keys I recognize as belonging to the ranch truck. "I'll drive the feed back. You take care of her."
They share one of those silent communication moments all the pack seems capable of, entire conversations in a single look.
Then Cole's heading back to the feed store and Mavi's sliding behind the wheel, the engine already rumbling to life.
We drive in silence for several blocks. I can feel Mavi's glances, quick checks to gauge my emotional state, but I keep my eyes on the passing buildings. The adrenaline's wearing off, leaving behind a complicated mix of emotions I can't sort through.
"You okay?" he finally asks as we hit the edge of town.
"I don't know." It's honest at least. "That was... a lot."
"Blake's an asshole."
"Not just Blake." I turn to look at him, taking in his profile—the sharp jaw, the intense focus he brings to everything, even driving.
"The whole thing. Cole saying those things about.
.. about us. You kissing me like that in front of everyone.
Carrying me like some—I don't know, like property or something. "
His hands tighten on the wheel. "You're not property."
"I know. But it felt like..." I struggle for words. "Like you were marking territory. Both of you. Using me to make a point to Blake."
Mavi's quiet for long enough that I think he won't answer.
Then he signals and pulls off onto a scenic overlook, the town spread below us like a child's toy set. He puts the truck in park but doesn't turn off the engine, just sits there staring at the view.
"You're right," he says finally. "Part of it was about Blake.
Showing him he has no power here, no claim on you.
That he lost something precious through his own cruelty.
" He turns to face me fully. "But mostly?
Mostly, I kissed you because I've wanted to since the moment you walked into our kitchen.
Because you looked like you needed someone to stand between you and him.
Because the thought of him talking to you, breathing the same air as you, made me want to commit violence. "
The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest tight.
"Mavi..."
"I shouldn't have done it like that. In public, without asking, using you to prove a point." His green eyes are serious now, all playfulness gone. "I'm sorry if I made you feel like property. You're not. You're—" He stops, jaw working. "You're ours to protect, not own. There's a difference."
"Is there?" The question comes out smaller than intended.
"Yes." He reaches over, fingers gentle as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Property doesn't get choices. You do. Always. Even if every instinct in my body screams to lock you away where men like Blake can never hurt you again, you get to choose."
I think about that as we sit in comfortable silence, the town going about its business below us.
About choices and protection, about the difference between being claimed and being valued.
How these men keep offering me things I didn't know I was allowed to want.
"Thank you," I say eventually. "For showing up when you did. For getting me out of there."
"Always," he says simply, like it's that easy. Like protecting me is as natural as breathing.
"And Mavi?" I wait until he looks at me. "Next time you want to kiss me senseless in public? Maybe warn me first so I can at least put on lip gloss."
His laugh is bright and surprised, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
"Deal. Though for the record? You don't need lip gloss. You're perfect exactly as you are."
The warmth that blooms in my chest has nothing to do with the morning sun and everything to do with the way these men keep teaching me I'm worth more than I ever believed.
It's terrifying and exhilarating and completely overwhelming.
But as Mavi pulls back onto the road, humming off-key to whatever's playing on the radio, I think maybe overwhelming isn't always bad.
It just another word to prove I’m alive and allowing myself to live a cowardice life to please the world.