Chapter 16 #2
I spun around to find Sheriff Randall Dawson standing in my doorway.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet office. Then he locked it. The deadbolt sliding home made my stomach drop.
"Sheriff," I said, keeping my voice level even as my heart started to race. "This is a private office. You need to leave."
"Do I?" He took a step closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne—something sharp and expensive that didn't quite mask the smell of sweat and rage. "See, I don't think I do. I think you and I need to have a conversation."
"If you have something to discuss, you can contact me through proper channels—"
"Proper channels?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. The sound was cold, calculated. "You just destroyed my career in front of a judge. You made me look like a fool. And you think I'm going to go through proper channels?"
I took a step back, my hip hitting the edge of my desk. "You destroyed your own career, Sheriff. I just pointed out the facts."
My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he heard it, but I forced my shoulders back, kept my chin level.
I'd learned a long time ago that showing fear was an invitation—in courtrooms, in negotiations, and especially in moments like this.
My hands wanted to shake, so I pressed my palms flat against the desk, grounding myself.
The wood was solid beneath my fingers, real and steady even as my pulse thundered in my ears.
I wouldn't let him see me afraid. Wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
"Facts." He moved closer, deliberately, like a predator stalking prey. "Let me tell you some facts, Ms. Potter. I know people. Important people. People who owe me favors. People who can make your life very, very difficult."
Another step. I was trapped now, the desk behind me, nowhere to go.
"You need to leave my office," I said, but my voice shook.
"You need to shut the fuck up." His hand came up, and I flinched. But he didn't hit me. Instead, his fingers wrapped around my throat—not squeezing hard, but firm enough that I could feel the strength in them. The promise of what he could do.
He pushed me back against the desk, his body crowding mine, his hand steady on my throat. Not choking me. Just... holding me there. Controlling me. Making me feel how powerless I was in this moment.
"Get your hands off me." The words came out strangled but defiant. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst, but I forced myself to meet his eyes.
His grip tightened fractionally, and I saw surprise flicker across his face. He'd expected me to crumble. To beg.
To hell with that.
His eyes narrowed, and for a terrible moment I thought I'd pushed too far. That he'd actually hurt me just to prove he could.
But I didn't look away. Didn't back down. Even with his hand on my throat and my body trembling with adrenaline, I held his gaze.
"Fuck you," I said quietly.
"You should be more careful," he said softly, his face inches from mine. "A woman alone in her office. Anything could happen. A break-in. An assault. These things happen in small towns, you know. Especially to women who make enemies."
My pulse hammered against his palm. I felt each individual finger pressing against my skin, smelled the coffee on his breath and the rage rolling off him in waves. This wasn't just anger. This was cold, calculated menace.
"I could hurt you right now," he continued in that same soft, terrible voice.
"I could do whatever I wanted to you, and who would stop me?
Who would even know? Your Orc isn't here to protect you.
Your friends aren't here. It's just you and me, Sarah.
And I'm a sheriff. Who do you think people would believe? "
I wanted to say something defiant. Wanted to tell him to go to hell, to get his hands off me, to get out of my office. But my throat had closed up, and all I could do was stare at him with what I knew was naked fear in my eyes.
His smile widened. "There she is. The real Sarah Potter. Not so tough now, are you? Not so smart. Just a scared little girl playing lawyer."
His thumb pressed against my windpipe—not hard enough to cut off air, but hard enough to make breathing difficult. Hard enough to make the threat crystal clear.
I felt tears prick at my eyes, felt my body start to shake.
And then, suddenly, he was gone.
One second his hand was on my throat, and the next he was being yanked backward with such force that he slammed into the opposite wall hard enough to send the framed diploma's crashing to the ground.
Kael stood between us, one hand fisted in Dawson's shirt, the other drawn back and ready to strike.
"Don't," I gasped, finding my voice. "Kael, don't—"
"Give me one reason," Kael said, his voice so cold and controlled it sent chills down my spine. "One reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."
"Because—" Dawson started, but Kael slammed him against the wall again, cutting off his words.
"The only reason you're still breathing," Kael continued in that same terrifyingly calm voice, "is because I don't want Sarah to watch. But if you ever touch her again—if you even look in her direction—I will end you. Do you understand?"
Dawson's face had gone pale. "You're threatening a law enforcement officer—"
"I'm making a promise." Kael leaned in closer, and I saw Dawson's eyes widen with genuine fear. "You remember how quietly I slipped up on you just now? How you didn't even hear me coming? That's how easy it would be. You'd never see it coming. Never hear it. You'd just... stop."
"Kael," I said again, but my voice came out as barely a whisper.
"Remember how easily I broke out of your jail?" Kael continued, ignoring me. "You think your locked doors and your guns and your deputies would stop me if I decided to come for you?"
He released Dawson's shirt with a shove that sent the sheriff stumbling toward the door.
"Get out," Kael said. "And pray I never see you near her again."
Dawson straightened his shirt with shaking hands, trying to salvage some dignity. But his face was still pale, and I saw the fear in his eyes.
"This isn't over," he said, but the words lacked conviction.
"Yes," Kael said quietly. "It is."
Dawson left without another word, the door slamming behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I stood there, my hand pressed to my throat where Dawson's fingers had been, trying to process what had just happened. Trying to breathe. Trying to think.
And then, without warning, I started to cry.
Not the polite tears I'd shed at Argon's gratitude. Not the controlled emotion I allowed myself in private moments. This was something else entirely—great, gasping sobs that shook my entire body, tears that came from somewhere deep and raw and terrified.
But it wasn't just fear. It was something bigger, something that had been building for years and finally broke free.
"Sarah." Kael's voice was gentle now, all the cold fury gone. "Sarah, it's okay. You're safe. I've got you."
His arms came around me, pulling me against his chest. I buried my face in his shirt and cried harder, my hands fisting in the fabric like I was afraid he'd disappear if I let go.
"I'm sorry," I choked out between sobs. "I'm sorry, I just—I can't—"
"Shh." His hand stroked my hair, his touch infinitely gentle. "You don't have to apologize. You don't have to be strong right now. I'm here."
And that was what broke me completely.
Because he'd seen it. He'd seen me terrified, seen me powerless and scared and small. He'd seen the parts of me I never let anyone see—the parts that were weak, that were vulnerable, that were human.
And he hadn't looked away.
He hadn't judged me for it. Hadn't seen weakness. Hadn't seen failure.
He'd just seen me. The real me. The one I kept hidden behind competence and control and carefully constructed armor.
"I hate this," I said, my voice muffled against his chest. "I hate that I was scared. I hate that I couldn't—that I just stood there and let him—"
"Stop." He pulled back just enough to tilt my face up, his thumbs wiping away my tears. "You survived. That's what matters. You were smart enough to stay calm, to not provoke him. That's not weakness, Sarah. That's strength."
"I didn't feel strong," I whispered. "I felt terrified."
"You were terrified," he said simply. "And you survived anyway. That's what courage is."
I looked up at him through blurry eyes, and something in his expression made my chest crack open even wider. Because he wasn't looking at me with pity. He wasn't looking at me like I was broken or damaged or less than I'd been before.
He was looking at me like I was brave. Like I was extraordinary. Like seeing me scared and vulnerable and human had only made me more precious to him.
The tears came harder then. Because letting him see this—letting him see all of me, the scared parts and the weak parts and the parts I usually kept locked away—meant I couldn't go back. Couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't hide behind professional boundaries and carefully maintained distance.
He'd seen me. Really seen me. And I couldn't unsee the way he'd looked at me when he did.
"I don't know how to do this," I whispered. "I don't know how to let someone in like this."
"You're doing it right now," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "You're letting me hold you. You're letting me see you. That's enough, Sarah. That's more than enough."
And then his lips were on mine.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he was giving me the chance to pull away. But I didn't want to pull away. I wanted to fall into him, to lose myself in the heat and safety of his touch.