Chapter 27 Hunter
Hunter
The drive to the police station feels too short. Amelia spent the whole ride in the back of Dylan's car, wedged between me and the door, trying to convince herself she could do this. That signing paperwork would somehow make Vincent go away, would somehow make her safe.
It won't. We both know it won't. But we have to try.
Dylan insisted on coming. As her brother and closest family, the police said his presence would strengthen the restraining order application.
Plus, Amelia needed him. She needed all of us, but the station has rules about how many people can be present for these meetings, so it's just the three of us.
Silas and Wyatt fought to be here, wanted to support her through this, but they're back at the house, probably pacing holes in the floor with worry.
Now I'm sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs at the police station, the kind designed to make you want to leave as quickly as possible, and I'm so angry I can barely see straight.
The fluorescent lights overhead are too bright, the air conditioning too cold, and everything about this situation makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
We shouldn't have to be here. Amelia shouldn't have to sit across from a police officer and sign paperwork detailing every horrible thing her ex did to her.
She shouldn't have to relive trauma just to get a piece of paper that might not even keep her safe.
But with her heat less than twenty-four hours away at most, if we don't get the restraining order filed now, it'll be hell trying to do it later.
Amelia is sitting between me and Dylan at the table, both of us flanking her like bodyguards.
My hand is wrapped around hers in her lap, her fingers gripping mine so tightly I'm losing circulation.
Dylan's hand is on her other side, and I can see the white-knuckle grip she has on him too, anchoring herself between us like we're the only things keeping her from flying apart.
The officer across from us is mid-thirties, balding, with the kind of tired eyes that say he's seen too much of humanity's worst. He's going through the report with methodical precision, explaining each charge, each incident, each protection the restraining order will provide.
"This will last for three months initially," he's saying, his voice flat and professional.
"Then we'll need to go before a judge to get it converted to a full protective order, which can last up to a year or more depending on circumstances.
Given the severity of the documented incidents and the threat level, I don't anticipate any issues with the judge approving the extension. "
Amelia nods, but I can feel her trembling beside me.
Her rose scent is stronger than usual, the blockers completely failed now, mixing with something acidic that speaks to her fear and distress.
My Alpha instincts are screaming at me to get her out of here, to take her somewhere safe and protected, to eliminate the threat that's causing her this much pain.
But we have to do this first. We have to get this paperwork filed.
The officer pulls the stack of documents closer. "Now, I need to walk you through the documented incidents so you understand what you're signing. This is standard procedure to ensure—"
"Okay," Amelia interrupts, her voice thin and strained. "Where do I sign?"
The officer blinks, surprised. "We haven't gone through all the incidents yet. I need to explain each one, make sure you understand what you're signing, that you agree with the documentation."
He starts reading from the first page. "Incident one, dated March 15th, 2023. Hospital visit documented contusions consistent with—"
"Stop." Amelia's voice cuts through his recitation, sharp and strained.
The officer pauses, looking up. "Ms. Sterling, I need to—"
"I don't want to hear it." Her grip on my hand tightens to the point of pain, and when I glance at her face, there's something fierce and desperate in her expression.
Her jaw is set, her eyes blazing with determination that looks like it's taking every ounce of strength she has to maintain.
"I don't want to go through what he did to me.
I don't want to relive it or rehash it or remember it.
I lived through it once. I don't need to hear it read back to me in clinical language like I'm a case file instead of a person.
" Her voice gets stronger with every word but edged with panic.
"I want it to go away. I want him to go away. So where do I sign?"
She glares at the officer with such intensity that he actually leans back in his chair, clearly taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. There's steel underneath Amelia's softness, a survivor's determination that Vincent tried to break but never quite managed to destroy.
The officer recovers quickly, clearing his throat and pulling the documents closer.
His expression has shifted from bureaucratic efficiency to something more human, more understanding.
"Right. Of course. I understand." He starts pointing to different lines scattered throughout the paperwork.
"Here, and here, and initial here. Then a full signature at the bottom of each page. "
Amelia releases my hand and Dylan's to pick up the pen, and I immediately miss the contact.
She signs quickly, her handwriting shaky but legible, working through the stack of papers with single-minded focus.
I can see her breathing getting faster, shallower, the telltale signs of a panic attack building.
Her hand trembles with each signature, each initial, but she doesn't stop until she's done.
The moment she signs the last page, I stand and pull her up with me, guiding her away from the table and toward the corner of the room where there's slightly more privacy. Her chest is heaving, gasping for air that won't come, her hands trembling violently. The pen clatters to the floor, forgotten.
"Hey, you're okay," I murmur, my hands on her shoulders, trying to ground her. But she's shaking her head, her eyes unfocused, clearly spiraling into a full panic attack.
"I signed it," she gasps out, the words barely coherent between hyperventilating breaths. "I signed that I know what he did to me. But I don't. I don't remember all of it. What if I'm lying? What if the records are wrong? What if—"
"Stop," I say firmly, cupping her face and making her look at me. "You're not lying. Your body remembers even if your mind doesn't. The hospital records don't lie. The photos don't lie. You survived something terrible and you're here, and that's all that matters right now."
"Just breathe with me," I continue, my voice softer now. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you."
She follows my breathing pattern, her eyes locked on mine, using me as an anchor while the panic recedes. It takes several minutes, her body slowly unclenching, the immediate crisis passing. But she's exhausted, wrung out, barely staying upright.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to let her out of my sight.
Not now, not when she's this vulnerable, not when Vincent is out there somewhere.
But she needs space to breathe, needs to not be in this building with the paperwork and the officer and the constant reminder of what she survived.
"Go sit on that bench right there," I say, gesturing to the wooden bench just outside the station doors, visible through the glass windows. "Right where I can see you the whole time. I just have a few more things to speak with the officer about and then we'll go home."
She gives me a small nod.
"Two minutes," I promise, kissing her softly, a brief press of lips meant to reassure. "I'll be right there."
I watch her walk out of the station, tracking her movement through the window as she crosses to the bench and sits down heavily, her shoulders hunched. I can see her clearly, and only then do I turn back to the table where Dylan and the officer are waiting.
"How likely is this shit actually going to work?" I ask bluntly, dropping back into my chair. "Be honest. Is this piece of paper going to keep her safe or are we just going through the motions?"
The officer's expression turns grim. He glances toward the door where Amelia just left, then back to us, and sighs.
"Not very likely, if I'm being honest. In my experience, someone like Vincent who's already demonstrated this level of obsession and willingness to violate boundaries, who's sent hundreds of threatening messages over months, who's escalating in his language and his attempts to locate her—he's going to take what he wants.
A restraining order is just paper. It gives us legal grounds to arrest him immediately if he violates it, no questions asked.
But it doesn't actually physically stop him from approaching her. "
He taps the file folder in front of him. "What concerns me most is his law enforcement connections. He knows how restraining orders work, knows the limitations, knows how to work around the system. That makes him more dangerous, not less."
"Fuck," Dylan hisses, his hands clenching into fists on the table. "I hate this. I hate that we're doing everything right, following all the proper channels, and it still might not be enough to keep my sister safe."
The officer nods sympathetically. "I understand the frustration.
What I can do is assign additional patrol units to your address.
" He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
"I noticed in the documentation that there are.
.. biological factors that might make the next few days particularly concerning. "
Both Dylan and I go very still. The officer continues quickly, keeping his voice clinical and professional.
"I'm not asking for details. But if there's a time when she'll be more vulnerable than usual, when her scent might be stronger or her ability to defend herself compromised, we need to account for that in our protection strategy. "
"She's going into heat," Dylan says flatly, his jaw tight. "Within the next twenty-four hours, probably sooner."
The officer nods like this confirms something he already suspected.
"That's what I thought based on the timeline in the medical records and the urgency of filing today.
Here's what you need to understand: if Vincent has been tracking her as obsessively as these messages suggest, he knows her cycle.
Men like him, they track that information religiously.
Birth control prescriptions, heat suppressant refills, calendar patterns—he'll have documented all of it. "
My hands clench into fists on the table, rage making my vision white at the edges. The idea of Vincent tracking Amelia's most vulnerable moments, planning his attack around when she'd be least able to defend herself, makes me want to find him right now and end this permanently.
"I'll assign two additional patrol cars to your address," the officer says, making notes in his file.
"Rotating shifts, twenty-four-hour coverage until the immediate threat passes.
I'll also put out an alert to all units in the area with Vincent's description and vehicle information.
If he's spotted anywhere near your neighborhood, we'll pick him up immediately. "
"Thank you," Dylan says, his voice rough with emotion.
"I need to get her home," I say, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the linoleum with a harsh sound. "Dylan, if anything changes, if you hear anything about Vincent's location or movements..."
"I know," Dylan interrupts, standing as well. "I'll call immediately. The second I hear anything."
We walk out of the station together, the morning sun too bright after the fluorescent interior.
Dylan is still talking, saying something about how he just wants Amelia to keep that smile on her face, how every day Vincent threatens her happiness.
I'm nodding along, trying to engage, but something feels wrong.
That prickling awareness at the back of my neck, the one that kept me alive overseas, the one that says danger is close.
I look toward the bench where I left Amelia, expecting to see her sitting there waiting for us, maybe with her head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, recovering from the panic attack.
But the bench is empty.
My heart drops into my stomach, dread flooding through me in a cold rush. I spin, searching the area. The parking lot. The sidewalk. The street.
"Dylan," I say, my voice coming out strangled, barely more than a whisper. "Where is she?"
Dylan follows my gaze, confusion flickering across his face before it shifts to alarm. "What? She was right there. You told her to wait on the bench."
"She's gone." The words feel surreal leaving my mouth. Our cars are still parked in the lot, but Amelia isn't on the bench, isn't anywhere I can see.
I'm already pulling out my phone, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. One missed call from Amelia, received three minutes ago while we were still inside talking to the officer. Three minutes. She's been gone for three minutes and I didn't know.
My stomach drops, terror replacing the dread, sharp and visceral.
I call her back immediately, the phone pressed to my ear so hard it hurts, counting each ring like it's a lifetime. One ring. Two rings. Three.
Pick up. Please pick up. Please be okay.
She answers on the fourth ring, and the sound of her voice makes my knees weak with relief that immediately turns back to fear when I hear the panic in her tone.
"Hunter?" Her voice is small, on the edge of panic. "I don't know where I am."