Chapter 2
Ali
Ali followed Big Timber toward his truck on unsteady legs, her body still buzzing from their confrontation in the diner. Her magic was doing things she'd never experienced before—humming, sparking, reaching toward him like it had developed its own independent will.
This was such a spectacularly bad idea.
"Nice truck," she said, because apparently her mouth had decided to make small talk while her brain was still trying to process the fact that she'd just been claimed by a cryptid male who smelled like her personal kryptonite.
"Custom job," Big Timber said, running his hand along the chrome detailing that spelled out his handle in elegant script. The gesture was almost possessive, and Ali wondered if he touched everything he considered his with that same casual ownership.
That steamy thought was not helping her current situation at all.
"Built it myself," he continued, moving to check something under the hood. "Took three years to get it right."
Ali circled the massive Peterbilt, snapping photos while trying to distract herself from the way his flannel shirt stretched across his shoulders.
Through her magical lens, she could see golden threads extending from his aura into the truck itself, as if his connection to the vehicle went deeper than mere ownership.
"You're bonded to it," she said. "Magically, I mean."
"Most cryptids bond with their territory." He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. "This truck is mine."
The way he said 'mine' made her think of other things he might consider his property. Like her, apparently, if the supernatural trucking community was to be believed.
"Mobile territory," she said, climbing up the running boards to peer into the cab. "Smart. Can I see inside?"
He nodded toward the passenger door. "Climb up."
The moment Ali stepped into the cab, his scent hit her like a wall of pine-scented temptation.
The space was enormous even by truck standards, custom-built for someone his size but somehow still managing to feel cozy rather than cavernous.
Behind the driver's area, she could see a curtained sleeper berth that looked less like a standard trucker setup and more like a mobile bedroom.
A mobile bedroom where Big Timber—Tim—probably slept alone every night.
Don't think about his bedroom, Ali. That way lies madness and poor life choices.
"This is incredible," she said, running her hands over the hand-stitched leather upholstery. "You really did build it yourself?"
"Had to." He climbed into the driver's seat, which groaned under his weight. "Nothing off the lot was going to work for someone my size."
Ali settled into the passenger seat and was surprised to find it fit her perfectly despite being built to accommodate his massive frame. "What were you driving before this?"
"Borrowed rigs. Rental trucks. Whatever I could find that wouldn't collapse under me." He started the engine. "Lot of sleepless nights in truck stop parking lots."
Her magic dimmed, pulling inward. While she'd been growing up in a house with her own bed and her own space—even if that space came with Cottonmouth's constant criticism—Tim had been essentially homeless, hiding his true nature and making do with whatever scraps of comfort he could find.
And now here she was, getting ready to ride shotgun with him into what would probably be a disaster of epic proportions.
Cottonmouth would absolutely lose his mind if he knew.
His precious stepdaughter, the one he'd spent years trying to mold into respectable wife material, was about to run off with exactly the kind of male he'd warned her away from.
Dangerous supernatural with a history of violence.
That's how he'd described Big Timber, like being big and strong automatically made someone a threat.
Never mind that Tim moved like he was afraid of breaking things, that he'd built this truck with his own hands, that other truckers clearly respected him.
But then again, Cottonmouth saw monsters everywhere he looked, especially when they didn't fit his narrow definition of acceptable. And Ali had spent years believing his version of truth, to avoid his disapproval.
Well, screw that. She was done living her life according to his prejudices. Even if her current life choices were looking increasingly like the setup to a supernatural romance novel.
Chapter One: Innocent photographer meets mysterious cryptid trucker. Chapter Two: Sexual tension reaches dangerous levels. Chapter Three: Someone gets claimed against a truck.
Ali shook her head, trying to dispel that particular mental image. She was here for a story, not to become the heroine of her own paranormal romance.
"Where are we going?" she asked as they pulled out of Moonbeam's parking lot.
"Supply depot first. Then I'll show you what we're really hauling."
They drove through the industrial outskirts of town while Ali tried to maintain some semblance of professional behavior.
Which was difficult when every breath filled her lungs with Tim's scent and her magic purred with approval.
Her camera was still throwing off occasional sparks, and she was pretty sure the electrical system in the truck was responding to her magical overload.
This was the biological override nonsense that made supernatural relationships so complicated. Her body had apparently decided Tim was perfect mate material and was now broadcasting that fact to anyone with supernatural senses within a fifty-mile radius.
Meanwhile, her brain was trying to remind her that she'd known him for approximately thirty minutes and getting claimed by cryptids was not on her career development plan.
The supply depot turned out to be a nondescript warehouse in an industrial complex that had seen better decades. Tim backed up to a loading dock with the skill of someone who could parallel park an eighteen-wheeler in a space the size of a shoebox.
"Stay close," he said as they climbed out. "And let me do the talking."
Ali bristled at the command, even though her traitorous body wanted to sidle closer to his side. "I can handle myself."
"I know you can." His voice carried a note of respect that surprised her. "But Snowman's been paranoid lately, and strange humans make him nervous."
"Snowman?"
"You'll see."
The warehouse interior was a maze of medical supplies and equipment, but what caught Ali's attention was the creature waiting for them. Massive even by cryptid standards, with white fur covering arms the size of tree trunks and pale blue eyes that held the cold of mountain peaks.
"Holy shit," Ali muttered. "That's a yeti."
"Timber," the yeti said, his voice carrying the rumble of distant avalanches. "Good to see you, brother. And you brought the photographer."
"Snowman." Tim's voice carried genuine affection. "Everything ready?"
"Loaded and secured. Though I have to say, the client's getting nervous about the timeline." Snowman's pale eyes fixed on Ali with unsettling intensity. "Word is Cottonmouth's been sniffing around the shipping manifests again."
Of course. Of course he was involved in whatever this was.
"Sheriff Cottonmouth?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"You know him?" Snowman's voice dropped to a growl that made the warehouse's metal framework vibrate.
"He's my stepfather," Ali said, ignoring Tim's sharp look. "And before you ask, no, I don't know what he's up to. He doesn't exactly share his corruption schemes over family dinner."
The silence stretched uncomfortably before Snowman spoke again. "Timber, we need to talk. Privately."
"No." Tim's voice carried a note of authority that made both Ali and the yeti straighten. "She's with me. Whatever you need to say, you can say in front of her."
The possessive claim in his voice made her wet as hell, which was really not helping her concentration. She was supposed to be gathering information for her story, not getting turned on by displays of alpha male dominance.
Even if said displays were admittedly very effective.
Snowman studied Ali for a long moment, then seemed to come to some internal decision. "Cottonmouth's been intercepting medical shipments for the past six months. Claims it's drug enforcement, but the supplies never make it to evidence lockup. They disappear into the black market instead."
Of course they did. Ali felt sick but not surprised. She'd known her stepfather was corrupt—she'd grown up watching him take bribes and abuse his authority. But profiting from medical supplies meant people were suffering, dying, while he lined his pockets.
"What kind of medical supplies?" she asked.
"Specialized medications for supernatural communities," Snowman explained. "Lycanthrope insulin, banshee vocal cord treatments, troll metabolic stabilizers. Things that aren't available through normal medical channels."
"Because the government doesn't recognize supernatural medical needs," Ali said, pieces clicking into place. "So you've created your own supply network."
"The Supernatural Truckers Alliance," Tim confirmed. "We've been running medical supplies to communities that can't get help anywhere else for fifteen years. It's completely legal—we pay all the taxes, follow all the regulations. But Cottonmouth's been using his authority to shut us down anyway."
Ali's investigative instincts were screaming. This wasn't just a story about supernatural truckers—this was a story about systematic medical discrimination and government corruption. This story could make her career if she could document it properly.
It would also destroy any remaining relationship she had with Cottonmouth. Not that there was much left to destroy.
"What's in this shipment?" she asked.
Snowman gestured toward a stack of insulated containers. "Lycanthrope insulin. There's a werewolf community in Montana that's been without medication for three weeks. If they don't get this shipment soon..."
"They'll lose control," Ali finished. "Turn feral. Become the monsters everyone already thinks they are."
"And give Cottonmouth all the excuse he needs to shut down the entire network permanently," Tim said grimly.
Ali stared at the containers, thinking about the werewolf families who were counting on this delivery, the children who might not survive without proper medical care. Then she thought about Cottonmouth, sitting in his office counting bribes while people suffered.
And she thought about how he'd react when he found out she was not only documenting his corruption but doing it while mated to a cryptid. The disappointment, the rage, the inevitable lecture about throwing away her life for some "degenerate monster."
You know what? Good. Let him be disappointed. She was done trying to earn approval she'd never get anyway.
"I'm in," she said. "Whatever you need me to do."
Tim studied her face with those intense dark eyes. "This isn't a story anymore, Ali. This is real life. People could get hurt."
"People are already getting hurt." Ali lifted her camera. "But maybe I can help make sure the right people are held accountable."
Tim's expression grew warmer and her heart fluttered with anticipation. But before he could respond, Snowman cleared his throat.
"If we're doing this, we need to move fast. Cottonmouth's got connections, and word travels."
"Snowman, load us up," Tim said. "We've got a delivery to make."
As they watched the containers being loaded into Tim's trailer, Ali traced protection sigils on each container. Her magic sealed them against temperature fluctuations and tampering.
“Extra insurance,” she said when Tim raised an eyebrow. She was standing closer to him than strictly necessary. He radiated heat and a pine forest scent. She wanted to do increasingly inappropriate things to him.
"This is dangerous," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Cottonmouth won't let us just drive away with this shipment."
"Then we'll have to be smarter than he is." Ali looked up at him, noting the way his pupils had dilated slightly. "Besides, I know his methods. That could be useful."
Tim's hand settled on her lower back, a gentle touch that sent heat racing through her. "Stay close to me. Whatever happens."
"Planning on it," Ali said, and was surprised by how much she meant it.
Ali scrolled through her camera roll while Tim secured the load, selecting the best shots from Moonbeam's and the supply depot.
She took more around the truck and the area.
She immediately uploaded the pictures to Instagram with quick captions: #SupernaturalTruckers #MedicalJustice #ConvoyForACause.
"By the way," Tim said as they climbed back into the truck, "my real name's Tim. Timothy McGraw. My parents had a sense of humor."
Ali blinked. "Like the country singer?"
"Yeah. Try not to hold it against me."
As Tim started the engine, Ali's phone buzzed with an incoming call. She glanced at the screen and her blood turned to ice water.
Sheriff Cottonmouth.
"Don't answer it," Tim said, noting her expression.
But as Ali stared at her Cottonmouth's name on the screen, a terrible certainty settled in her gut. He knew. Somehow, he already knew she was with Tim.
Which meant their little medical supply run had just become a lot more complicated.
"Tim," she said as the phone kept ringing, "I think we have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind where my stepfather somehow knows I'm with you and is probably already mobilizing half the state police to stop us."
Tim's knuckles went white on the steering wheel. "How could he possibly know that?"
Ali thought about Cottonmouth's network of informants, his paranoid surveillance of anything he considered a threat, his particular hatred for supernatural communities.
"Because he's been watching the supernatural trucking network for months," she said slowly. "And he's probably got eyes on every truck stop, every supply depot, every place you guys gather."
The phone finally stopped ringing, only to immediately start up again.
"Well," Tim said, his voice carrying a note of grim determination, "I guess we're about to find out how far he's willing to go to stop us."
Ali stared at the phone as it rang again, then made a decision that was either brilliant or completely insane.
She answered the call.
"Hello, Sheriff."