17. Jp
JP
T he rain started sometime in the night—a slow, steady patter against the windows in my bedroom, the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water spilling off the eaves.
I let out a frustrated breath, lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.
Normally, I love the rain. I’ve lived on this coast, on this beach, my whole life, and if there’s anything you can count on, it’s that rain is never far away in the fall. But right now, it’s grating on me, matching the restless energy I can’t seem to shake.
Sterling.
I’ve spent the last few weeks doing everything I can to put distance between us—without tearing the pack apart in the process. Early mornings. Late nights. Taking the boat out solo just to breathe without feeling like I’m suffocating.
I thought if I kept myself busy, kept my head down, I could ride it out. I’ve survived worse. But it’s not working. Sterling’s everywhere. In the way Quinn’s mood is just lighter, like thinking about her lifts something heavy off his chest.
I feel her in the way Cass is tenser than I’ve ever seen him.
And Blake…God, Blake adores her. Talks about her non-stop. Smiles in a way I haven’t seen before. He talks about her like she hung the damn moon. Every time he mentions her name, it twists something deep in my chest. Because I see it, plain as day—he loves her like she already belongs to us.
And I’m no better. I want her—fuck, I ache for her—but wanting her feels like a slow, steady poison. And I’ve been trying so fucking hard to act like that doesn’t matter.
Like I can be the one who doesn’t fall. Who doesn’t want it. But every time I breathe, she’s there. And it’s getting harder and harder to pretend I don’t feel it too.
I’ve managed to avoid Sterling for most of the week. Aside from a run-in at the bank—where I bailed like a fucking coward—I haven’t seen her since the Saturday market. When she and Cass disappeared that day, he came back looking like he’d walked through a war zone.
He said he ran into his dad, looking like he wanted to murder something. But that wasn’t the part that struck me. Cass was drenched in her slick—scent so thick it clung to him like a second skin.
And the wild look in his eyes said everything he didn’t. Said he touched her and fuck, it did nothing to cool the white-hot flare of jealousy that’s been burning a hole in my chest ever since.
Just another reason to keep her out of our lives.
Jealousy’s ugly—but Graves is worse.
He’s a vindictive, spiteful bastard on a lifelong mission to screw over his only son every chance he gets. And if Sterling stays in our orbit, she won’t be safe.
She’ll just be collateral damage.
And I don’t think any of us could survive that.
So I spent another long, restless night—lying awake, jaw clenched, my Alpha instincts clawing at me, demanding I go find her.
My mate.
What a fucking joke.
I might be a lot of things—broken, brutal, loyal when it counts—but a protector? A mate?
Not even close.
Not in the way any Omega deserves.
Her scent seems to be woven into the fabric of this town, embedded into every familiar place. Somehow, over the last few weeks, she’s managed to befriend my sister and half the people I still call friends.
She’s embedded herself into my world.
And I fucking hate it. At least, I keep telling myself that.
I roll onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut, but sleep doesn’t come. I’ve been spinning since Quinn walked through the door last night, bringing in a bottle of whiskey and smelling of her soft sweet scent.
“We have a problem,” he’d said, setting the bottle down on the table before running a hand over his face.
I stood there, listening to Cass give him the third degree about her—my fists clenched, jaw locked, pretending like my pulse hadn’t kicked up at the mention of her name. Like the idea of Sterling not being okay didn’t drop a cold, slimy weight straight into my gut.
The thought of her going into heat, of her being near anyone else, of her getting hurt because of it, that left me ice-cold. And murderous.
I didn’t ask questions. Didn’t let myself.
Didn’t trust what I’d do if I heard the answers.
But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Worrying about her.
Wanting her.
I’ve come so damn close to getting in my truck, driving to her place, and kicking down the door.
Throwing her over my shoulder and taking her home—where she’d be safe.
Where no one could touch her. Consequences be damned.
Home? I shake my head. My Alpha already knows she belongs here.
“ FUCK! ” I shout, hitting the pillow and sitting up. “Enough of this,” I growl under my breath. I check my watch. It’s barely 7 AM. I scrub my hand over my face, grabbing a sweatshirt and my shoes.
Before the sky is even bright, I’m lacing up my running shoes and stepping outside. The world is a hazy shade of gray, the wind coming in sharp off the water, carrying the scent of brine and rain, wet sand and pine from the cliffs.
The ocean is wild and restless, her waves pounding against the shore, white foam spraying high as the tide rolls in.
The pack house sits on top of a hill at the end of Ivy Street, a pretty three-story Victorian that has felt like just enough since we all first moved in together. From the porch, you can see Harris Beach and the start of the promenade.
This was where Cass grew up, and when his dad was away, I could often be found haunting their dining table. At least before his mom left. Afterward, we could be found anywhere but there: we maybe had a tendency to cause a bit of trouble. Here and there.
I take the steps off the porch two at a time and head down toward the beach.
The air is thick with salt and moisture, the wind carrying the distant crash of waves colliding with the rocky shore. It smells like a storm that has no plans of letting up anytime soon. But it’s not raining yet which is all I need. I need to run.
I head into town first, liking the quiet—how the streets still belong to the locals before the tourists flood in. But it isn’t long before I’m veering toward the ocean, lungs syncing with the rhythm of my stride, each footfall steady and sure.
My feet hit the sand with a familiar cadence, the water splashing behind me as I chase the tide’s edge. For a while, it’s just me, the wind, the surf.
Then the rain starts.
Light at first—a misty drizzle. But within minutes, it thickens into a steady downpour, soaking through my shirt and sweats in an instant. It’s near the end of September and the rain this far north carries winter’s chill.
I keep running.
The storm rolls in, wild and relentless, and I push harder. Let it wash over me. Let it drown out the thoughts I haven’t been able to escape.
I need to run until the restless, tangled-up mess that is Sterling fucking Hart is nothing more than background chatter.
She’s driving me half out of my mind, messing with my instincts in ways I don’t like.
I feel her even when she’s not there—her scent lingering in places it has no business being, her voice a phantom in my ears, replaying in quiet moments when I should be thinking about anything else.
My Alpha aches with the need to chase, to claim, to sink my teeth into her tender shoulder and make sure no one else ever gets the chance to.
I swore I wouldn’t let this happen again—wouldn’t let an Omega do this to me. Wouldn’t let one get under my skin, twist me up, make me want.
But ignoring her isn’t working. The harder I try, the worse it gets.
I run for what feels like hours, pushing myself harder, faster, chasing exhaustion like it might be enough to drown her out. But nothing quiets the restless energy burning beneath my skin. The need. The frustration. My instincts scream that I should go to her.
By the time I stop, my breath is ragged, my legs shaking, with my hands braced on my knees, sweat and rain dripping from my jaw. I straighten, blinking against the downpour, only now realizing how far I’ve come. I’m almost to the marina, where my boat is moored next to the North Star.
I should go home. But instead I head to my boat, knowing that the familiar sway of the water will lull me into something close to peace, at least for a little while. Besides, it’s been a fucking long time since I spent any time on this boat. Not since we all became a pack.
I take up a quick pace, hoping to beat the next wave of drenching rain I can see coming in off the water. But as I get closer, I see movement. A figure, running toward me along the shoreline.
I can’t believe anyone else would be crazy enough to be out in this. But as they get closer, something in my gut tightens, sharp and instinctual. A sinking feeling that feels a lot like butterflies warms my stomach.
I know before I can really see her. Before her scent reaches me, carried on the salt-thick wind, I just know.
The shape of her. The way she moves. It’s her.
She appears through the sheets of rain, her body moving in at a quick pace, straight toward me.
Her shorts are soaked through, her hoodie clinging to every curve, the fabric darkened by the rain.
Strands of damp hair stick to her face, her cheeks flushed from exertion, from the bite of the cold, from the rush of movement.
She has her hood drawn, obscuring her vision so she doesn’t notice me at first.
She’s almost past me before she startles and does a double take. I can tell she wasn’t expecting me either.
She looks wild. Breathless. Beautiful. Too Beautiful.
It’s fucking painful to look at her, to take in the way her lips part as she catches her breath, the way the cold does nothing to dull the heat in her storm-gray eyes.
I can see every edge, every soft dip of her body, the way her pulse pounds at the base of her throat.
It’s breathtaking.
Her gaze locks onto mine, and I see everything before she tries to hide it.
Heat. Need. Irritation. Hurt.
All of it lives in her eyes. All of it crashes into mine. It burns through her, through me, down the tether that’s already pulling us toward each other.
And then—she masks it.