Chapter Three
Emery
You don’t realize how much junk you’ve accumulated until it’s all packed into the back of your car like a very personal, very chaotic game of Tetris.
Clothes. Books. A yoga mat I haven’t unrolled in eight months. A sad-looking fern I rescued from a breakup and named Kevin. Shoe bags. Coffee mugs.
My entire life has now been reduced toa number of overstuffed duffel bags, a plastic laundry basket, and an emergency snack bag that I'd been picking through since hour two of the drive.
Somehow, it all fits.
The roads are clearer now, the snow tapering off into flurries as I roll down Main Street, following Coach’s directions: past the post office, a few shuttered storefronts, a sign advertising the Frost Fair with a cartoon moose on skates, and then, there it is.
Wolfe’s Hardware.
The building is old and charming in that hasn’t-changed-for-thirty-years kind of way. There are big windows full of snow shovels and faded signs, and a hand-painted logo on the glass door. Below it, in smaller font:
If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.
I park out front, kill the engine, and let the silence settle in. For a second I just sit there, my hands still on the wheel as I stare at the warped sign.
It’s weird how real it all suddenly feels.
There’s no going back now—no job waiting in a big-city clinic where I pretend not to hear the sexist comments from across the weight room, and no tiny apartment with peeling walls and a neighbor who communicates exclusively through passive-aggressive post-its about hallway noise and recycling etiquette. It’s just me and my car, along with…
Well.
Whatever the hell this next chapter is supposed to be.
I flex my fingers, crack my neck, and swallow down the tight lump that’s been living in my chest for weeks. I don’t have a fallback plan or a safety net; only sheer stubbornness and enough professional credibility to bluff my way through the small-town nonsense I’m about to walk into.
With that in mind, I take a breath, pop the door open, and step out into the cold.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the heavy warmth that hits me like a gut punch.
The place is baking—the kind of heat that makes my scalp itch and my bones ache, probably powered by an ancient wood stove and the sheer willpower of a man who doesn’t believe in central air.
Under the heat, scent hits me too: sawdust, metal, and oil, as well as something heavier that’s threaded through it all. This alpha’s scent isn’t sharp, like Beau’s had been. There’s no pine-and-ice bite. This is older and denser, soaked into every board of the place.
I tug off my gloves and take a look around.
The store is packed with all sorts of practical.
.. things. There are arrays of power tools, garden shears, hunting knives, and snow shovels lined up in a wall of quiet threats.
There’s no flair or branding, certainly no trendy packaging; just the kind of front where things work, or they’re not stocked.
It’s both functional and dependable, and I can’t help but think of how that’s a little like the town itself.
“Be with you in a minute,” a deep, clipped voice calls from somewhere in the back.
A moment later, he emerges, and even if I haven’t been warned, I would have known without a doubt that this alpha is Beau Wolfe’s father.
He looks to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties; built like a slab of granite—and just as expressive. He’s all broad shoulders and moves like a man who’s never rushed a damn thing in his life, with the kind of quiet weight that fills the space before he even speaks.
He’s dressed in a threadbare flannel with a gray beard that’s trimmed close: no style or softness, but a piece of armor, and his eyes are the exact same shade of blue as Beau's.
“You lost?”
His scent rolls ahead of him as he comes closer, threaded with the same stubborn backbone I felt radiating from his son in the diner. He looks me over as he approaches, though his gaze isn't curious, nor kind.
“No.”
My instincts want me to dip my chin, but I ignore them, squaring my shoulders instead.
“My name’s Emery Tate. I was told my rental keys were left here?”
“Ah,” he says after a beat. “The physical therapist.”
I nod.
“That’s me.”
He pivots toward the counter, grunting as though this whole interaction has already worn out its welcome. I watch as he ducks behind it. It’s clear he’s the kind of man who thinks silence is a perfectly acceptable conversation, and with that alpha presence behind it, it’s meant to press, to push.
“Front key and back key are inside,” he says when he re-emerges with a plain white envelope, my name scrawled across the front in blocky, no-nonsense handwriting. “The heat kicks in slow, so don’t wait to turn it on, or you’ll regret it.”
I nod, tucking the envelope into my coat pocket.
“Appreciate the warning.”
He gives me another once-over: a silent audit I haven’t agreed to take, and one that isn’t meant to be passed.
“You really drove up in that storm?” he asks.
I glance down at my boots, which are both salt-stained and soaked through. They’re proof of survival, and also proof I’ve made a decision he clearly thinks is dumb.
Still, I shrug.
“The snowstorm was less terrifying than the thought of staying where I was.”
Something cold flickers in his expression, and he lets the silence hang.
I don’t rush to fill it. I’ve dealt with enough men like him before: the ones who use silence as a weapon, who wield eye contact like a blade; especially older alphas who think the whole world lives under their thumb.
“Well,” he says at last, as if it costs him. “Welcome to Iron Lake.”
“Thanks,” I reply, my own voice even but clipped. “I’ve already been gifted coffee, pancakes, and four different weather threats, so I think I’m officially initiated.”
His grunt might be a laugh, but it lands wrong.
“Anything practical you need, you come here. No point going anywhere else.”
“Good to know,” I say, straightening slightly. “Wolfe’s Hardware or bust.”
He nods once, his blue eyes unblinking and unreadable.
I hold his stare just long enough to make it clear I’m not intimidated, but I’m not stupid, either. My heart thuds once, hard, as something primal twists low in my gut. Not fear exactly, but close enough to taste.
I turn, stepping back out into the cold without another word. The envelope in my pocket feels heavy as I slide back into my car, and I can’t help but think of how Ken Wolfe is a very unpleasant man.