Chapter 2
2
JAMES
A week of these daily chats with my mystery girl, and still, my restless feet carry me back and forth across the room as I wait for her message. I glance at my closed door—old habits die hard—before staring down at my cell phone again. Pacing helps me think, always has, but lately these conversations are the only thing that gets me moving. The phone feels warm in my hands as I read her last message again. Something about her responses makes my Alpha instincts stir—her quick wit, the way she combines chaos with humor. It’s been a long time since anyone made me feel this... alive.
My room is small, sparse, but the morning light streaming through the window makes it feel less confining than usual. A few more weeks until I’m out of here.
I glance at her last message again, and the urge to protect, to pursue, rises strong and unexpectedly. I haven’t responded to anyone like this in years.
I should get back to work, I type quickly, then glance up to my shut door, at the gap beneath it for any shadows. All clear. But I enjoyed our chat, Lily. Something shifts in my chest when I type her name—it has ever since she shared it during our second conversation. Sometimes, at night, I catch myself saying it under my breath like a secret worth keeping. Lily . A simple name that’s become anything but simple to me.
Giving up so easily, James? And here I thought you were hardcore.
I grin despite myself. Trust me, sweetheart, I’m plenty hardcore. Just temporarily occupied.
Mysterious. Let me guess—international spy? Professional ninja? Underwater basket weaver?
The laugh escapes before I can stop it.
If I told you, I’d have to kill you. And you’ve already got one body to deal with.
Fair point. Though now I’m definitely intrigued.
Footfalls sound out in the hallway. I type faster. Keep being intriguing, then. Maybe you’ll find out someday.
Is that a promise or a threat?
Both, I think. Neither. Everything’s complicated right now. Let’s call it a possibility, I send instead.
I like possibilities.
Her reply makes something in my chest tighten.
So, mysterious stranger, we’ve been chatting for a week, and you haven’t asked for photos once. Either you’re not a creep, or you’re playing a very long game.
I can’t help the laugh that escapes. If that’s your way of asking for photos...
Still grinning, I drop into my chair and stick my foot out, twisting to get the right angle. The canvas shoes almost gleam under the lights as I snap the picture against the industrial floor. Here’s a toe pic. Try to contain your excitement.
Oh, my. How scandalous. At least buy me dinner first.
I would if I could. Unfortunately, I’m a bit... tied up at the moment.
The truth hovers dangerously close to the surface. But something about her makes me want to be honest—or as honest as I can be.
Tied up with Bertha the sourdough? she asks.
Among other things. Life’s complicated right now.
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.
Yeah. I get that.
Something in her response tone shifts, and I ask. Bad day?
Not bad, exactly. Just... one of those days where everything reminds you of what you’ve lost, you know?
The vulnerability in her words hits something deep in my chest.
Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.
Sorry, didn’t mean to get heavy. Usually, I save the tragic backstory for at least the second week of accidental texting.
Lucky me, I’m ahead of schedule. Want to talk about it?
Another pause. It’s just... my mom. She loved Christmas. The bakery was always her favorite place at this time of year. Some days, it feels like yesterday; others, it feels like a lifetime ago.
My chest squeezes at my past, my shitty situation. Through the window, snow continues to fall, each flake another reminder of everything I’ve lost. The white blanket covers everything, just like the silence that’s smothered my old life, buried who I used to be. I think of my own losses—freedom, reputation, time. Some days, the weight of it all feels like drowning in that endless white, but hers feels heavier somehow.
How long?
Fifteen years. I was twelve. My sister was fourteen. Dad did his best, but... well. Complicated.
I fight back the urge to promise things I can’t deliver. To fix, to heal, to wrap her in safety, and to make the world soft again. Fuck, it’s been one week of messages, and I’m already in too deep. But what else do I have in here except these moments, these words that make me feel real again? Getting obsessed is dangerous, and I know better. But empty Alpha promises won’t help either of us. Instead, I type, Thank you for telling me.
Thanks for listening. Most people get weird about grief. Like it has an expiration date or something.
Grief is grief.
Anyway, you know what’s weird? Talking to you is easier than talking to most people I actually know.
Maybe because there’s no pressure. No expectations.
Maybe. Or maybe you’re just good at listening.
If she only knew how much these conversations mean to me, too. These moments of normalcy, of connection, in a place designed to limit both.
Then the past hits without warning, sharp as a knife…
Rain drumming against the windshield, streetlights smearing orange through the darkness. The leather of my jacket creaking as I grip the steering wheel. I should’ve known better. Rick had always walked the line between legal and not, had always pulled this shit since I’ve known him. But friends are friends and you trust them, right? So, why the fuck does picking him up in the middle of the night from the drug store leave me questioning my decision?
The passenger door suddenly rips open. Rick dives in, face flushed with adrenaline, rain dripping from his hair. The metallic click of something heavy hitting the floor makes my chest tight.
“Drive!” His voice cracks. “Fucking drive, James!”
“What the hell did you—” The words die in my throat as I spot the duffel bag, catching the glint of metal—a gun—beneath his jacket. My stomach drops. “Fuck, tell me you didn’t.”
“Shut the hell up and drive, man!” He’s sweating despite the cold, slamming his palm against the dashboard. “You’re my ride, remember? That’s what you fucking promised!”
“A ride home, Rick! You said you were picking up ? —”
“Move!” he shouts.
I’m jittery, knees bouncing, my gaze swinging to the store he just rushed out of. No sign of anyone running out after him! Did he use the gun?
I’m already shifting into gear because that’s what I do—I protect, I help, I fix things. Even when every instinct screams that this time, this time, I’ve walked into something I can’t fix.
We tear down a residential street, houses looming dark against the rain-heavy sky.
“Pull over now. Fucking now!” Rick suddenly jerks forward, snatching the wheel with his gloved hand and jerking us over the damn curb, and I hit the brakes.
“What the—” I grip the wheel tighter, shoving him away. “I’m not moving until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
Rick is already grabbing his duffel, the door half open. “Sorry, bro. Had to be you. You’re the only one they’d believe.” His grin is something dark, something that makes my blood run cold. “Needed someone to take the fall. You know how it is.”
Ice freezes me.
He vanishes between the shadows of the houses before I can react. That’s when I see it—the gun he left on the passenger floor, just as the red and blue lights explode across my rearview mirror, turning the rain into a chaos of color.
A thundering knock at my door drags me out of my thoughts. Footsteps sound outside my door, their shadows appearing underneath. “You got visitors.”
I have to go, I type quickly. But... same time tomorrow?
It’s a date. I mean, not a DATE date, just... you know what I mean.
Her flustered response makes me smirk. She’s fucking adorable.
I know what you mean. And hey... for what it’s worth? I like our not-date dates.
Me, too. Even if you’re probably a serial killer.
Says the woman who started this with a body disposal text.
Touché. Stay dangerous, mystery man.
Stay sweet, baker girl.
The familiar jingle of keys comes, and I lift my head to the door. Frantically, I move to the bed and slide the phone into the hidden compartment I’d carefully hollowed out in the wall down by the bed’s feet—worth every pack of cigarettes I’d traded for someone to help me carve it three months ago. The burner has already proved invaluable, even if getting it in here had cost me more favors than I care to count.
I adjust my shirt collar. The lock clicks, and Mike appears in the doorway. I meet his gaze steadily as I step into the sterile hallway. Our footsteps echo against the white-washed walls as he leads me through the maze of identical corridors. The air here is stale, heavy with industrial cleaner and resignation.
He gestures to a door, and I enter to find a few other locals already with their visitors. My gaze lands on my buddies, Hunter and Archer, and I immediately grin. Bastards are smirking just as hard. Their presence fills the white room with something that doesn’t belong here—hope, maybe. Or a reminder of the world beyond these walls. A world I’ll be returning to soon.
My lawyer made sure Hunter and Archer got on my pre-approved visitors’ list early on, right alongside my attorney and counselor. The paperwork wasn’t fun, but it means they can skip half the security circus when they come. And thank God this place lets approved non-family do contact visits in the common room—none of that glass barrier bullshit. Makes it feel almost normal. Almost.
I settle into the hard plastic chair with the ease of a man who knows his sentence is just a temporary inconvenience. Just a few more weeks… then freedom.
Hunter towers over most of the guards, his broad shoulders and rugged build marking him clearly as an Alpha, even if his scent doesn’t give it away. Today, his black hair is windswept from the storm raging outside, and there’s a fresh scrape above his right eyebrow—probably from another mountain adventure. He scans the room automatically, a habit from years of search and rescue work, before he takes a seat across from me at the table. The leather jacket he wears still carries traces of snow across his shoulders.
Beside him, Archer looks like he just stepped out of a business meeting, which he probably did. His golden-brown hair is perfectly styled, and his casual clothes are anything but casual. The kind of simple sweater that looks fucking expensive. But the amber eyes that meet mine belong to my buddy from when we were kids, running wild on Hunter’s grandfather’s land.
“Looking cheerful this morning,” Archer notes as they both lounge in their plastic chairs. “Finally excited about freedom?”
“Something like that. Seriously, it can’t come fucking quick enough.” They are the only family that matters anymore, if I’m honest. Hunter’s grandfather took us all in during our roughest years—me running from my family’s expectations, Archer escaping his family’s criminal empire, Hunter reeling from losing his parents. The old man treated us all like grandsons, though only Hunter shares his blood. Even now, years later, we all still call him Grandfather. “What did you find?” I ask.
Hunter and Archer lean in close across the table. Hunter’s jaw is tight, that muscle ticking the way it does when he’s holding back fury. A quick glance at the door shows the guard’s back is turned.
“Finally got through probate,” Hunter mutters, his fingers drumming against the table. “After a fucking year of delays and bullshit from Travis and his cronies.”
“And?” I ask, reading the tension in their postures. Something’s wrong.
“It’s only half a fucking map,” Hunter spits out, barely containing his volume.
“Half?” I lean back, processing. “What the hell?”
Archer runs a hand through his hair. “Apparently, when their grandfather passed, the old man had one last trick up his sleeve. Split the treasure map in half—one part to Hunter’s side, one to Travis. Some bullshit about wanting the family to come together.”
“Fuck that,” Hunter growls, and I watch him struggle to keep his composure.
Losing his grandfather is still raw for him… for all of us. Grandfather Thorne had been everything to Hunter after his parents died. The man had raised him in that sprawling farm mansion in the mountains, teaching him everything from tracking to astronomy on those endless nights.
The memory rises through me, as clear as if it were yesterday instead of fifteen years ago. The four of us around a campfire on the vast Thorne estate, the stars impossibly bright above the mountains. Grandfather’s massive frame settled into his favorite hand-carved chair, his silver beard catching the firelight, those ice-blue eyes twinkling with the flame’s reflection. Even at seventy, he’d had the bearing of a mountain man half his age—shoulders broad as a doorframe and hands that could still crack walnuts between his fingers.
“Now, boys,” he’d rumbled, his voice deep as thunder. “Let me tell you about my grandpa’s daddy.” He’d leaned forward, those eyes dancing. “Old Jefferson Thorne—though Lord help anyone who called him anything but Jed—wasn’t your ordinary prospector. Man was brilliant as a whip and twice as quick. But...” He’d paused, taking a long pull from his flask. “Well, that taught him banks weren’t worth the paper they printed.”
I remember how we’d leaned in, teenage boys hanging on every word. Even then, Hunter and I had been planning, dreaming of the day we’d search for it ourselves. The firelight had cast long shadows across Grandfather’s face as he continued.
“See, what Grandpa’s father found wasn’t just gold that made his hands shake when he wrote in that leather journal of his. Found something up in those caves that wasn’t meant to be found. Something that made him convert every last nugget and dust speck to gems and plates within a month.”
He’d stood then, all six-foot-four of him casting a giant’s shadow as he paced around the fire.
“Spent the next year burying it across our land. Five thousand acres of the meanest terrain the country could conjure. But here’s the thing that’ll curl your toes, boys...” He’d stopped, fixing each of us with that penetrating stare. “That cave system? Three men went missing in there the year after Grandpa’s dad made his find. Search parties couldn’t get more than half a mile in before their compasses went haywire. Found one man’s boot, just the boot, caught in a crevice near an underwater stream.”
“What happened to them?” Hunter had whispered, completely ensnared.
“Some say they got lost in the maze of tunnels. Others think they found what they were looking for and met with foul play while hiding it. All I know is Grandpa’s dad started carrying a rifle everywhere after that, jumping at shadows. Wouldn’t go near those caves again, not for all the gold in the world.”
“Come on, Grandfather,” Hunter had laughed, but there’d been an edge of uncertainty to it.
I shake my head now at the memory. Grandfather had always been a master storyteller, spinning wild tales about the dangers lurking in those caves. Looking back, I figure he’d do anything to keep us from hunting for that treasure—even if it meant serving up horror stories with our s’mores. Can’t say it worked, though. If anything, those stories just made the mystery more irresistible.
“Maybe,” Grandfather shrugged, settling back in his chair. “But tell me this… why did seven men vanish in spring when they tried to follow Jefferson Thorne’s trail? Why did his own brother Lincoln disappear without a trace that same year?” His eyes had glittered dangerously in the firelight. “And why, my curious boys, did they finally find him frozen solid in his bed on the hottest day of August, clutching that journal and smiling like he’d seen an angel?”
Most of those caves are gone now—collapsed, buried, or blown apart by decades of development to flatten more of the land. Sure, you can still see where the hills fold like rumpled blankets across the property, but pinpointing where those underground passages used to snake through the bedrock? That’s another story entirely. We’d spent years following dead ends and false starts, checking every depression and outcrop across five thousand acres of stubborn terrain. Without some kind of map, we might as well have been throwing darts at shadows. And just when we were ready to admit defeat, we learned about Grandfather having the map, something he denied until his dying breath.
Shaking away the memory, I breathe heavily. Sitting back in this sterile room, Hunter’s knuckles are white as he grips the edge of the table.
“We’ve been planning this since we were kids,” he says. “Mapped every inch of that terrain. Studied all the old surveys. Learned every story about where the searches went wrong because I assumed we were getting the full map from my grandfather. He never hinted that he’d give Travis Fuckhead half of it. And now this fucking family therapy bullshit?”
“Travis is a fucking ass, and he won’t share his half with us,” I blurt.
“Fucking snake,” Archer cuts in. “He got the lodge and half the grazing land, but they’ve been trying to get their hands on the main farming house mansion, too, that went to Hunter. Like the lodge isn’t enough.”
“They knew,” Hunter adds, voice thick with contempt. “They fucking knew the map was supposed to come to me. Hell, Travis never even visited him those last five years.”
I lean back in my chair, the familiar ache of my family’s betrayals rising up. “Yeah, well, blood doesn’t mean shit sometimes. Mine proved that well enough.” I gesture vaguely at our surroundings. “That’s how I ended up in this fine establishment, remember?”
“Not long now for your release,” Archer reminds me quietly.
“Counting down the weeks,” I agree, plans already forming. “And then we deal with your cousin, Travis.” An idea begins to take shape, one that makes me smile. “You know, I’ve made some interesting connections here. People who specialize in making others... cooperative.”
Hunter’s expression shifts, understanding dawning. “James...”
“Nothing violent,” I assure him. “But I know people who can make Travis’s life complicated enough that half a map might look like a fair trade for peace and quiet.”
“He’s got a family, and I fucking hate defending him, but for his kids…” Archer starts.
“We’ll leave them completely out of it,” I promise. “But Travis? He’s got some skeletons. Everyone does. Especially trust fund boys playing cowboy at the lodge while others do the real work.”
“We’ll see. For now, just lie low and get the hell out of this joint,” Hunter states.
I smile, remembering Grandfather Thorne’s words from another fireside night. “What was it he always said about wolves?”
Hunter’s lips curl into a predatory grin. “The pack that hunts together...”
“...survives the winter,” Archer finishes softly.
The guard shifts at the door, facing us, nodding in my direction to indicate time is running short. But it doesn’t matter. A few more weeks is nothing after waiting eighteen months. And when I walk out of here, we’re going to remind Travis why we’ve always been more wolf than sheep.
Even if we have to do it with half a fucking map.
Three Days Later
I ’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in the night after messaging Hunter, when my phone lights up. Lily’s name appears on the screen. I turn onto my side, away from the door, keeping the light hidden as I type…
Shouldn’t all good bakers be asleep by now?
Says the chef messaging me at midnight.
I smile. You messaged me first.
Fair point. I’m knee deep in true crime documentaries and can’t sleep. You?
Let me guess, trying to solve another small-town murder?
Hey, someone has to figure out why the local librarian vanished with all the first-edition cookbooks.
I muffle a laugh. Pretty sure that’s called theft, not murder.
But what if she was silenced because she knew too much about secret recipes?
I sink comfortably into my mattress, lost in my world called Lily, typing away.
And here I thought I was the one who should be worried about criminal tendencies.
Please, the worst crime I’ve committed is putting pineapple on pizza.
My chest tightens at her casual joke. If she only knew.
That IS pretty unforgivable.
Nerd. So why are you up? Bertha giving you sourdough troubles?
The question hits closer than she knows. Truth is, nights are the worst here. When the walls feel closer, and memories get louder.
Actually... thinking about my grandfather. The anniversary of losing him was last week.
There’s a pause before her reply comes.
I’m sorry. Those anniversaries are brutal.
Yeah. Sorry to bring it up. I know you mentioned losing your mom and... I’m doing a shit job of this late-night conversation thing.
Nah, you’re balancing the heavy and light like a pro. Besides, grief club members get to talk about this stuff. It’s in the bylaws. Anyway, want to play a game? Her text lights up my screen.
Depends. Does it involve more true crime theories?
Better. 5 Questions. And you have to be honest.
My stomach tightens. Honesty isn’t something I can afford right now, but...
Hit me with your best shot.
First kiss - when and where?
I laugh silently into my pillow. Behind the bleachers, freshman year. Belinda… can’t remember her surname. She tasted like cherry ChapStick and immediately told me I was terrible at it.
OMG Mine was Bobby Wilson at a school dance. He missed my mouth entirely and kissed my nose.
Smooth operator, that Bobby. I curl into my pillow, unable to get enough of her conversations.
Question 2. What’s the one thing you’d grab if your place was on fire?
Easy one. My father’s cast-iron skillet. Been in the family for three generations. You?
Mom’s recipe book. Even though half the pages are stuck together with ancient cookie dough.
Question 3? I shift onto my back, the phone held above my face.
How many serious relationships?
My chest tightens. Two. Girlfriend for three years when I was in high school, then another for almost two. I hesitate, then add: You?
Just one. Todd. College sweetheart turned cheating asshole.
I clench my jaw, surprising myself with how angry that makes me. His loss.
Question 4... The dots appear and disappear several times. If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?
I stare at the ceiling, imagining freedom.
Polignano a Mare, this tiny town in Puglia, southern Italy. Grandfather used to talk about it, where he often traveled and found his wife. Tiny restaurant right on the water, fishing boats coming in at dawn. You?
Japan. But not Tokyo... I want to find those hidden mountain villages where they’ve been making the same pastries for centuries.
You’d love it. Watched this documentary about their mochi traditions, the way they respect every step of the process. My mouth waters at the memories.
Tell me more about your Italian town.
My chest aches with wanting.
Imagine waking up to the smell of fresh bread and coffee. Streets so narrow, you can touch both walls. Every restaurant has red checkered tablecloths and wine served in ceramic jugs. And the old women sitting in doorways will feed you until you burst, just because you smiled at them.
Sounds perfect. Take me with you?
The words hit hard. One day, I type, wanting to make it real.
One last question... Long pause. What’s your favorite position?
I nearly choke, then muffle my laugh in my pillow.
For... cooking?
Playing innocent doesn’t suit you, Chef.
Heat floods my body. I shouldn’t encourage this, but...
Depends on the kitchen counter height.
Good answer. But that doesn’t answer the question.
Fuck. I shift, already hard. I reach down to adjust my cock.
That’s dangerous territory, baker girl.
Too scared to answer?
More like too aware of what thinking about you in any position would do to me right now.
...oh.
Yeah. Oh.
Tell me anyway.
I picture her. On top, straddling me. I want to watch your face, see what makes you bite your lip, hear every sound...
There’s a long wait before her reply comes.
Now, who’s being dangerous?
You started it. Your turn to answer.
Feels like an eternity waiting for her.
Against the wall, you behind me, taking control.
Christ. I try to steady my breathing.
You’re killing me here.
Good.
I close my eyes, picturing her next to me instead of these concrete walls. I deliberately haven’t asked what she looks like; wanted to know her mind first. But now... fuck. I want to see her smile, taste her skin, feel her curves against me.
The phone vibrates in my hand.
Earth to James? Did I break you?
Just thinking.
About?
About how fucking much I want to be honest with her. Instead, I type, About how much I like talking to you.
Smooth recovery, Chef. But same.
We talk until her responses get slower, sleepier. Until she’s sending typo-filled messages about needing to be up for the morning rush.
Go to sleep, baker girl.
Sweet dreams, Chef.
Her last message comes through as footsteps pass my cell.
I turn my phone face-down. I’m so far past the point of no return with her, but right now, I can’t bring myself to care.