Chapter Eleven
Wade and Alex exited the truck, gravel crunching under their boots as they crossed the small parking lot toward the police station.
Midday sun beat down, making the asphalt shimmer with heat waves that distorted the building's edges. Sweat prickled at Wade’s hairline despite the breeze carrying the scent of pine from the surrounding forest.
The station looked newer than most buildings in town, all clean lines and brick facade that hadn’t yet weathered into the mountain charm everything else wore like a badge.
Glass doors reflected their approach, and Wade caught sight of himself and Alex side by side, one massive and the other small enough to fit under his arm.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional white that made Wade’s eyes ache.
The place smelled like coffee and industrial cleaner, the kind that promised sterility without quite delivering.
Four chairs lined the wall, upholstered in some stain-resistant fabric that probably had seen more ass than a proctologist's office.
Behind a curved reception desk sat a guy who looked barely old enough to drink, typing away at a computer with the focused intensity of someone trying to appear busy. His nametag read Deputy Sanchez in neat block letters.
“Help you?” Sanchez asked, fingers hovering over the keys.
Alex’s hand found Wade’s, fingers cold despite the warm day outside. The tremor running through his mate's grip made Wade want to scoop him up and carry him right back to the truck to forget this whole thing.
But they'd agreed. Getting ahead of this was smarter than waiting for it to catch up.
“Need to speak with Sheriff Owen,” Wade said, keeping his voice level and polite in a way that didn’t come naturally but seemed necessary when dealing with cops. “It's important.”
“What’s this in reference to?” Sanchez grabbed a pen, ready to take notes like this was some routine inquiry about a noise complaint or stolen lawn ornament.
“Drew Crawford,” Wade replied and watched the deputy’s expression shift from helpful to alert in under a second.
“Take a seat,” Sanchez said, already reaching for the phone. “I'll let him know you're here.”
They moved to the waiting area, and Alex practically collapsed into one of the chairs like his legs had given up on the whole standing thing. Wade sat beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together, offering what comfort proximity could provide.
His mate's breathing had gone shallow, each inhale barely moving his ribs, hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white from the pressure. A muscle jumped in his jaw, over and over, like his teeth were clenched so tight something might crack.
Reaching over, Wade covered both of Alex’s hands with one of his own, the size difference almost comical if the situation weren't so goddamn serious. “You're doing great, honey bunny.”
“I’m about to confess to murder,” Alex whispered, gaze fixed on the scuff marks someone's shoes had left on the floor. “That's not great. That's the opposite of great.”
“Self-defense,” Wade corrected, thumb rubbing circles over Alex’s knuckles in what he hoped was a soothing motion. “There's a difference.”
Alex’s laugh came out bitter and too loud for the quiet lobby. “Tell that to a jury.”
Before Wade could respond, a door opened down the hall and footsteps approached, heavy and measured.
Sheriff Owen filled the doorway, all six-foot-something of solid muscle packed into a uniform that looked like it had been tailored specifically to contain that much bear shifter.
Dark hair, clean-shaven face that made him look younger than he probably was, eyes that took in everything about them in one sweep.
“Wade. Alex,” Owen greeted, voice carrying that particular rumble that marked him as something other than human to anyone who knew what to listen for. “Come on back.”
Following him down the hall felt like walking to an execution, if executions happened in well-lit corridors with motivational posters about community policing.
Owen’s office was small but organized, desk clear except for a computer, a few folders, and a coffee mug that proclaimed “World's Okayest Sheriff” in faded letters.
“Sit,” Owen said, gesturing to the two chairs across from his desk as he settled into his own.
Wade took the one on the right, Alex the left, and immediately regretted not sitting closer when his mate's trembling became visible enough that even someone without supernatural senses would notice. Every few seconds, Alex’s knee bounced, stopped, bounced again, like his body couldn't decide between fight and flight so it was trying both in rapid succession.
Owen leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, expression unreadable. “What do you know about Drew Crawford's death?”
For a moment, nothing happened. Alex opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Closed it again. Swallowed hard enough that Wade heard it. Tried again.
“I killed him,” Alex said, and the words seemed to cost him something vital.
The sheriff's expression didn’t change, which somehow made everything worse. No shock, no anger, no reassurance. Just that same neutral mask that gave away absolutely nothing about what was happening behind it.
Silence stretched out, punctuated only by the hum of the computer and the distant sound of someone laughing in another part of the building. Wade’s wolf paced, restless and ready to tear through the desk if Owen so much as reached for his handcuffs.
“Keep going,” Owen finally said.
Alex’s hands twisted together in his lap, fingers knotting and unknotting in a rhythm that looked painful. “He was my boyfriend. For two months. I didn’t know he was in debt to a demon. Drew told Valcore that half of what he owed was mine, which wasn't true. I’d never even met the guy.”
Beside him, Wade could smell the fear pouring off his mate, sharp and acrid beneath the lingering scent of their shower that morning. Every instinct screamed to grab Alex and run, get him somewhere safe where sheriffs and confessions couldn't touch him.
“Drew asked me to meet him at this address,” Alex continued, voice shaking but steady enough to be understood. “Said he wanted to apologize, work things out with Valcore. I thought...” A bitter laugh. “I was going to break up with him, face to face. It seemed like the right thing to do.”
Owen hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken notes, hadn’t done anything except listen with that same unreadable expression that was starting to make Wade’s teeth ache from clenching them.
“It was a trap house,” Alex said. “Soon as I walked in, Drew put this collar on me. Enchanted. Kept me from shifting. Then he pulled a gun.”
The trembling had spread from Alex’s hands to his whole body now, small quakes that made his voice waver. Wade reached over and gripped his mate's shoulder, trying to anchor him to something solid.
“There was a pipe,” Alex whispered. “Lead, I think. Heavy. I just wanted him to drop the gun. I swung at his hand, but he ducked and...” His breath hitched. “I hit his head instead. Didn’t mean to kill him. Just wanted the gun. Just wanted to get out of there.”
Owen’s gaze flicked to Wade briefly then back to Alex.
Still nothing in his expression, no indication of what he was thinking or what would happen next.
The silence that followed felt like it lasted years, each second dragging out while Wade calculated how fast he could get Alex out of the building if this went sideways.
“Self-defense,” Alex added, like maybe saying it out loud would make it more true, more believable. “He was going to shoot me. I just… I reacted.”
More silence. Owen’s fingers drummed once against the desk, a soft tap-tap-tap that might as well have been gunshots for how loud they sounded in the quiet office.
This was it. The moment where everything either worked out or fell completely apart. Wade’s hand tightened on Alex’s shoulder, ready to move, ready to fight, ready to do whatever it took to keep his mate from ending up in a cell.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity compressed into maybe thirty seconds, Owen leaned forward. “Zeppelin called me yesterday. Explained the situation.”
Wade blinked, thrown completely off balance. “He what?”
“Your alpha gave me the full story,” Owen continued, and something that might have been sympathy flickered across his face before the professional mask returned. “Demon debt, trap house, the gun. All of it.”
Alex made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “So you already knew. Before we even walked in here.”
“Wanted to hear it from you,” Owen said. “Make sure the stories matched up. That you weren't being coerced or covering for someone.”
Relief flooded through Wade so suddenly his knees went weak, and he was grateful to already be sitting down. Beside him, Alex had gone completely still, like his body had forgotten how to process anything except the information that maybe, possibly, he wasn't about to be arrested.
“No charges,” Owen said, and the words landed like physical things, solid and real. “This is self-defense, clear as day. Drew Crawford created the situation that led to his death. You defended yourself. Case closed.”
“Case closed,” Alex repeated, voice hollow with disbelief. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Owen stood, extending his hand across the desk. “You're free to go.”
Wade rose first, gripping the sheriff's hand in a shake that probably lasted a second too long but conveyed everything words couldn't. Thank you didn’t begin to cover it. His mate was safe, free, not going to spend the next decade or more behind bars for defending himself.
Alex stood slower, legs visibly unsteady as he reached across the desk. His handshake looked like it took every ounce of strength he had left, but he managed it.
“Thank you,” Alex said, and the two words came out thick with emotion that threatened to spill over into something neither of them probably wanted to deal with in a sheriff's office.
“Stay out of trouble,” Owen replied, and there might have been the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Getting out of the office, down the hall, through the lobby, and back into the parking lot happened in a blur. One second they were shaking Owen’s hand, the next, Wade was unlocking the truck while Alex stood beside it looking like he'd just survived something that should have killed him.
Which, in a way, he had.
* * * *
Alex headed out the back door, feet barely making a sound on the wooden deck. Sunlight filtered through the canopy overhead, dappling the yard in patches of gold and green. Perfect weather for stretching his legs, and Wade had suggested exactly that after they’d gotten back from the station.
Freedom from more than just legal troubles made Alex’s skin practically hum with anticipation. No collar meant shifting whenever he wanted, and after everything that had happened, running sounded better than therapy.
Wade followed him out, closing the door with a soft click. “Ready to burn off some energy, honey bunny?”
“Ready to leave you in my dust,” Alex shot back, though they both knew a rabbit had zero chance of outrunning a wolf in any real race. Still, talking shit was half the fun.
Walking into the forest felt like stepping into another world. Pine needles cushioned their footsteps, and the temperature dropped a few degrees under the thick canopy. Birds called overhead, probably gossiping about the two idiots about to strip naked in their territory.
At a massive oak about fifty yards from the house, Wade stopped and started unbuttoning his shirt. “This’ll do.”
Muscle rippled as the fabric lifted, revealing abs that belonged in anatomy textbooks and a trail of dark hair that disappeared into low-slung jeans. Alex’s mouth went dry. Even after everything they’d done together, the sight of Wade stripping down still scrambled his brain like eggs in a hot pan.
“Planning to stare all day or actually shift?” Wade asked, already working his belt loose. “Because if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going running.”