28. Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part One #3
I set the phone aside, letting the conversation end on that note of shared understanding.
Two hours. I can give them two hours to create something perfect for her, something that might help ease the exhaustion carved into her bones.
But first, I'm going to sit here a little longer, holding her while she sleeps, being the anchor she seems to need. It's a small thing, maybe, but sometimes the small things matter most.
Just being chosen, being held, being protected is enough to start healing wounds that run soul-deep.
I set the phone face-down on the dashboard, the screen's fading light taking with it the warmth of pack banter, leaving just me and the woman sleeping against my shoulder and the decisions that come with protecting what's mine.
The parking lot has grown darker while we've been sitting here, other cars coming and going, families heading in for early dinners, couples holding hands as they navigate the uneven asphalt.
Normal people living normal lives, unaware of the small drama playing out in a dusty truck in the back corner. Willa's breath puffs against my neck, warm and steady, and I find myself matching my breathing to hers without conscious thought.
There's something about her like this—unguarded, trusting, all her sharp edges softened by sleep—that makes my chest tight with an emotion I don't want to name.
She looks younger without the weight of consciousness pulling at her features.
Vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I have roar to life.
I lean down slowly, careful not to jostle her, and press my lips to her forehead.
The kiss is feather-light, barely there, but her skin is warm and tastes faintly of salt from the day's exertions.
She smells like honey and hay and something uniquely her—a scent I'm already addicted to, that my hindbrain has catalogued as 'safe' and 'home' and 'protect at all costs. '
"Rest," I whisper against her skin, the words barely voiced. "Let your Alphas handle everything."
The promise comes out without thought, natural as breathing, and that should terrify me.
Your Alphas. Like it's already decided, like she's already ours, like the careful boundaries I maintain are just tissue paper waiting to burn.
But the words feel right in a way that bypasses logic and goes straight to instinct.
She sighs in her sleep, turning her face into my neck, and her lips brush against my pulse point.
The contact is accidental, unconscious, but it sends electricity racing down my spine anyway.
My arm tightens around her automatically, holding her closer, and I have to close my eyes against the surge of want that threatens to overwhelm common sense.
This is new territory for me.
Not the desire—I'm familiar with that, know how to compartmentalize it, use it, set it aside when needed.
But this tenderness?
This gentle ache that makes me want to wrap her in bubble wrap and simultaneously worship every inch of her?
That's uncharted ground, and I don't have a map for navigating it.
Another minute passes, maybe two, just breathing her in and marveling at how someone who's been through so much can still trust so completely.
Then, with movements careful enough to disarm a bomb, I retrieve my phone again.
This time, though, I'm not looking for messages.
I tap through screens with practiced efficiency, past encrypted folders and hidden apps, until I find what I'm looking for.
Blake Harrison's photo fills the screen—a professional headshot from Iron Ridge's website, all artificial smile and calculating eyes.
He's wearing one of those ridiculous Alpha power suits, navy blue with a blood-red tie, styled like he thinks he's running for office instead of managing a pack of abusive assholes.
I study the image with the same clinical detachment I once used to analyze targets.
High forehead—arrogant, likes to think he's the smartest person in the room.
Weak chin hidden by careful grooming—compensating, always needs to prove his dominance.
Eyes set too close together, showing a narrow worldview, inability to see beyond his own needs.
The smile doesn't reach those eyes, never has in any photo I've found.
Sociopathic tendencies, potentially narcissistic personality disorder.
My thumb swipes across the screen, pulling up more photos.
Blake at pack gatherings, Blake at business meetings, Blake with his arm around Willa in what should be a loving photo but instead looks like possession.
In every image, she's smaller, dimmed, trying to take up less space while he spreads out like he owns the world.
The cold thing that lives in my chest—the part that made me good at my job, that let me hunt predators through legal loopholes and back alleys—unfurls like smoke.
I know men like Blake Harrison.
Have put dozens of them in the ground or behind bars, depending on what the law allowed.
They're all the same underneath the expensive suits and practiced smiles: hollow creatures who feed on others' pain, who break beautiful things because they can't stand not being the brightest light in the room.
But Blake made a critical error.
He didn't just hurt someone— he hurt her.
He touched what's ours, left marks on her soul that might never fully fade, and now he's stupid enough to show up in our territory acting like he still has rights to her air.
My free hand flexes against my thigh, muscle memory from years of specialized training.
I know seventeen ways to kill a man without leaving forensic evidence.
Know how to make someone disappear so thoroughly their own mother wouldn't find them.
Know which pressure points cause maximum pain with minimal visible damage, how to break someone down psychologically until they're begging for physical pain instead.
All skills I've carefully leashed since leaving that life behind. But for Blake? For the man who locked Willa in a burning building and then had the audacity to blame her for it?
The leash feels awfully thin.
Willa stirs against me, making a soft sound that pulls me back from the edge of that particular darkness. Right. She needs tenderness now, not the predator I keep caged.
That'll come later, when she's safe at home in the nest Cole's building, when I can slip away and do what needs doing without her ever knowing the specifics.
Because that's the thing about being both protector and weapon— you have to know when to be which.
Right now, she needs the man who'll hold her while she sleeps, who'll whisper promises in the dark and mean them. But Blake? Blake's going to meet the other version, the one who earned a reputation in certain circles for being very, very good at making problems disappear.
I pull up a different app, one that looks like a standard weather program but opens into something far more useful.
Contact lists. Safe houses. People who owe me favors.
Resources accumulated over years of operating in the gray spaces between legal and necessary.
Blake Harrison thinks he can waltz into our town, threaten our Omega, and walk away unscathed.
He thinks that expensive suit and Iron Ridge's money make him untouchable. Assumes Willa has no one to protect her, no one who'd go to war for her safety.
He's about to learn exactly how wrong he is.
"Let the haunt begin," I murmur, the words a promise to the universe and a warning to anyone stupid enough to threaten what's mine.
The thing about ghosts is they don't always stay buried.
Rarely… they come back, seeking justice or vengeance or just to make sure old debts get paid.
Blake's about to discover that some ghosts have teeth, and some haunts end in blood.
For now, I have a woman to take care of, a promise to keep about dinner, and a pack waiting at home with what better be the world's most comfortable nest.
The hunt can wait a few more hours.
After all, anticipation makes the kill so much sweeter.