Chapter Seven #2
He nodded, slow, then picked up a pebble and rolled it between his fingers. “Folks around here look out for their own. Sometimes that means asking questions, even when the answers are none of their business.”
His gaze was direct, a challenge or a test. I passed by not flinching.
“You think I’m doing something illegal?” I asked.
He dropped the pebble, then shrugged. “No, but you know how it is. Last time an omega squatted on a property, the county got sued.”
I laughed, sharp. “Jojo’s not a squatter. He’s got a job, a bed, and more sense than anyone I’ve met in Montana.”
He smiled, genuine this time. “Just making sure the situation is… appropriate.” He made the word sound like a threat, or maybe a blessing.
I wanted to punch him, or shake his hand.
Hard to tell.
“Anything else?” I said, the old edge in my voice.
He stepped closer, not quite within arm’s reach, but enough that I could see the freckle on his nose. “You got him living in the main house?”
I stared him down. “Yeah.”
He took a breath, then let it out slow. “Just a worker?”
I didn’t answer.
Calloway waited, then scanned the porch again.
The screen door slammed open and Jojo stepped out, blinking in the daylight.
He was wearing one of my old t-shirts, sleeves cut off, hanging almost to his knees.
His hair stuck out in three directions, and there was a purple mark on his neck, dark and perfect.
He looked at me, then at the sheriff, eyes wary, but not scared.
Calloway took in the scene, then gave me the smallest nod I’d ever seen. “Looks like you’re taking care of him,” he said, voice low. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
I felt my whole body unclench, but didn’t let it show.
Jojo came down the steps, bare feet leaving wet prints on the wood. “Is everything okay?” he asked, voice rough from sleep.
I grunted. “Just talking shop.”
Calloway turned to Jojo, his face softer. “You settling in all right, Joseph?”
Jojo glanced at me, then nodded. “It’s better here than anywhere else I’ve been.”
The sheriff tipped his hat. “Glad to hear it. Don’t let him work you too hard.”
He looked at me, and in his eyes was a warning—don’t screw this up.
He started for the car, then stopped. “One more thing,” he called over his shoulder.
I waited.
“Your neighbor Victor Hargrove’s been asking around about your property. Says he wants to make you an offer.”
I stiffened. “Not interested.”
“He doesn’t take rejection well,” Calloway said. “Just so you know.”
He climbed into the cruiser, fired up the engine, and backed down the drive, gravel crunching under the tires. For a long minute, I watched the dust trail fade into the trees.
I didn’t see the cruiser turn onto the county road, but I heard it—the low grind of tires, the way the gravel sang when the speed kicked up. The dust hung in the air, gold in the morning light.
Jojo came up beside me, quiet as a shadow. His scent hit first: vanilla and old shirts and something new, sweet and raw, that made my head go light. He stood close enough that our arms brushed, the heat of him bleeding right through the sleeve.
He didn’t speak at first. Just watched the road, then the barn, then me. His eyes were soft and dark, still half-lidded with sleep.
“You sure everything’s okay?” he asked, voice rasped to nothing.
I glanced down. He was closer than I thought. The mark I’d left on his neck stood out, fresh and purple against his pale skin.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said the first thing that came to mind: “You hungry?”
He smiled, small and crooked. “Always.”
I reached out, thumb tracing the bruise at his throat. He flinched, not from pain, but from something deeper—like I’d just lit a fuse under his skin. He leaned into my touch, eyes fluttering shut.
“You do this to everyone?” he whispered.
The question shot through me, sharp as a fish hook.
“No,” I said. “Never.”
He opened his eyes, searching my face for the lie. I let him look as long as he wanted.
“It was just the sheriff,” I said. “He was checking up on you.”
Jojo nodded. “He used to come by the bakery sometimes. Always asked about my folks.”
“He thinks he’s helping,” I said, voice hard. “He doesn’t know you’re… mine.”
I watched the words land. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. If anything, he moved in closer.
“You sure about that?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to say more.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, fingers digging in like he was trying to anchor himself. He pressed his cheek against my chest. “I don’t want to screw this up,” he said, words muffled.
“You couldn’t,” I answered, and believed it.
We stood like that, the sun warming our us, the land around us waking up in slow motion. A hawk circled overhead, shrieking at the edge of the sky.
I wanted to freeze the moment, but the world never let up. I felt Jojo shiver, so I pulled him tighter. “We should talk,” I said.
He tensed, then relaxed. “About last night?”
I nodded. “About everything.”
He looked up, a challenge in his eyes. “Do you regret it?”
I shook my head. “Not for a second.”
He exhaled, all the tension gone. “Good, because I don’t either.”
There was more to say, but neither of us could find the words. He reached for my hand, laced his fingers through mine, and it felt so natural I wondered if we’d been doing it our whole lives.
We started walking back to the house, side by side.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye—a truck parked half a mile off, just past the north fence line. White, newer model, the kind of shine you only got from a dealership. The shape of a man behind the wheel, engine idling, windows tinted.
My hackles went up.
I kept my eyes on the truck as we walked, running through the possibilities—stranger, neighbor, maybe Hargrove’s flunky. Didn’t matter. The message was clear.
I steered Jojo toward the kitchen door, hand on the small of his back. “Let’s get inside,” I said.
He paused on the steps, searching my face again. “Is it trouble?”
“Not yet,” I said, and opened the door for him. He slipped inside, but I stayed on the porch, eyes locked on the truck. It didn’t move, just sat there, watching.
I wanted to go over, rip the door open, and show whoever it was that they couldn’t intimidate me. Or my omega.
Instead, I waited. Eventually, the engine shut off, and a minute later, the truck started up again and rolled away, slow and deliberate.
I went inside. Jojo was at the sink, hands braced on the counter, shoulders tight.
He turned when I came in. “Who was it?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t get a look. Probably nothing.”
But we both knew that wasn’t true.
He wiped his hands on his shirt, then walked over and hugged me from behind, face pressed between my shoulder blades. “I’ll make lunch,” he said, voice shaky but steady.
I let him go, but didn’t stop watching the window. The feeling in my gut was familiar: the calm before a firefight, the certainty that something big was coming.
But now, for the first time, I had something to defend.
Not just land. Not just a name on a deed.
Jojo.
I watched him move around the kitchen, bare feet on the cold floor, hair falling in his eyes. I watched the way he cracked eggs, lined up the plates, set out two mugs of coffee.
I watched the mark on his neck.
And I knew, deep in my bones, that this was my job now.
To fight for him.
To protect what was ours.
The world outside could do its worst.
We were ready.