Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
GRAYSON
Holly disappears into The Mountain Mug with Aspen, and I exhale. Safe. For now.
I scan the street from my vantage point, cataloging potential threats out of habit.
Two tourist hikers arguing over a map about where the trailhead starts.
A local teen shoveling the sidewalk in front of the pharmacy.
Mrs. Henderson’s ancient retriever sleeping in a patch of sun. Nothing concerning.
The air carries a sharp bite of pine and wood smoke. Familiar. Grounding. I adjust my bandanna, making sure the skull design covers the worst of my scars, and head toward the general store. Jenkins will be waiting, probably grumbling about me being late again.
Main Street hasn’t changed much since I was a kid.
Same storefronts, different paint. The hardware store where my father bought nails every Saturday morning.
The bookshop where my mother would let me choose one paperback a month if I’d kept my grades up.
The diner where I had my first job washing dishes at fourteen.
Before the Army. Before Afghanistan. Before the IED that took off a quarter of the skin on my face and my ability to feel like I’ll ever really belong among other people again.
The bell above the door jingles as I push into the general store. The scent hits me immediately—coffee grounds, leather, pine cleaner, and the faint metallic tang of the hunting gear in the back room. Home, in its own way.
“Bout time you showed up.” Jenkins doesn’t look up from the register, his gnarled fingers punching numbers into the ancient machine with surprising dexterity. “Thought maybe you’d run off to the woods again.”
I grunt in response, moving behind the counter to hang my jacket on the hook. Jenkins knows me well enough to translate my sounds into conversation.
“Got a delivery of those fancy protein bars the tourists like. Need unpacking.” He jerks his head toward the storeroom. “And Mrs. Calloway’s been in twice looking for you. Something about a special order.”
I nod and head to the storeroom, grateful for tasks that don’t require talking. The rhythm of unpacking boxes, checking inventory, stocking shelves—it settles something in me. Out in the world, I’m always on alert, tracking movement, assessing threats. Here, I can almost relax.
Almost.
My thoughts drift to Holly as I slice open a packing box. The way she looked at me across the street just now—recognition, understanding. No fear. She knows I’ve been watching her, and she didn’t run. I’m going to call that progress.
The bell jingles again, pulling me from thoughts I shouldn’t be having at work. I hear Mrs. Calloway’s distinctive voice, high and nasal, asking Jenkins where I’m hiding.
I sigh and head back to the front, a stack of protein bars in my arms.
“There he is!” Mrs. Calloway announces, as if she’s spotted a rare bird. She’s wearing a fur-trimmed coat that’s at least three sizes too large, making her look like a child playing dress-up. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
I nod in acknowledgment, placing the bars on the counter to stock later.
“I ordered those special European chocolates for my bridge club.” She taps her long nails against the counter. “You said they’d be in by Tuesday. It’s Thursday.”
Jenkins shoots me an apologetic look from behind her. Supply chain issues, he mouths.
“Shipping delay,” I tell her. “Try back Monday.”
“Monday!” She huffs, adjusting her oversized coat. “Well, that’s just typical. You know, you’re the worst worker this store has ever had. Old man Jenkins should have hired someone who actually cares about customer service.”
I feel my lips twitch upward behind my bandana. If she only knew.
“Sorry,” I manage, hoping it sounds apologetic rather than amused.
Mrs. Calloway continues her tirade about the declining standards of service in Heat Mountain while I stand there, letting the words wash over me like white noise as I think about the irony of her complaints.
What would she say if she knew I’ve owned this place for three years?
That I bought it when Jenkins was six weeks from foreclosure, drowning in medical bills after his wife’s cancer treatments?
That I only work here because the old man can’t manage on his own but is too proud to admit it?
This place is only profitable in the tourist season, and I keep it open year-round for the sake of the town, not because I need the money.
The accumulated combat pay and hazard bonuses from three tours sit mostly untouched in my accounts. I’ve never needed much—enough wood to make a blind, good hunting gear, reliable transportation. Money means little in the backcountry where I spend most of my time.
But now, for the first time, I think about what that money could do. What it could build.
A house. Not my sparse cabin with its utilitarian furnishings and tactical sight lines.
A real home, with a kitchen where Holly could make her tea in the mornings.
Bookshelves for her medical texts. A garden, maybe, if she likes growing things.
Somewhere safe, where she could be herself without hiding, in whatever place she wants to be after she leaves here.
I’d buy her anything she wanted. Anywhere she wanted.
Because I’ve already decided. Holly is mine.
Ours, technically, with Noah and Kai in the equation.
I’ll drag them both unwillingly into this if that’s what it takes.
Holly wants a pack, even if she hasn’t ever come out and admitted it.
I plan to give her whatever it is she wants from this moment into infinity.
The alpha in me has recognized her, claimed her in a way that goes beyond anything as physical as a bond.
She was mine in spirit from the moment I laid eyes on her.
Her feelings matter—I’d never force her—but I’ve made my decision.
I’ll do whatever it takes to convince her to stay with us, or let us follow her.
“Are you even listening to me?” Mrs. Calloway demands, snapping me back to the present.
I nod, though I haven’t heard a word she’s said for the past three minutes.
“Well, I expect those chocolates on Monday, not a day later.” She adjusts her enormous purse on her arm. “And I expect a discount for the inconvenience.”
“Ten percent,” I agree, just to end the conversation.
That seems to placate her. With one final sniff of disapproval, she turns and bustles toward the door, nearly colliding with a woman and her teenage daughter entering the store.
I recognize them immediately and suppress a groan. Marissa Wilson and her daughter Amber. The girl is an omega barely out of high school, and Marissa has been parading her in front of every eligible alpha within a hundred-mile radius for months.
“Grayson!” Marissa’s voice is syrupy sweet, setting my teeth on edge. “Just the man we were hoping to see.”
I nod stiffly, already looking for an escape route. Jenkins, the traitor, suddenly becomes very interested in reorganizing the candy display.
“Amber was just saying how helpful you were last time we needed camping supplies.” Marissa nudges her daughter forward. The girl looks mortified, her cheeks flaming red. “Weren’t you, dear?”
“C’mon, Mom,” Amber mutters, staring at the floor.
“We’re planning another trip this spring,” Marissa continues, undeterred. “Maybe you could give Amber some private lessons on wilderness survival? I’m sure a big, strong alpha like you has so much knowledge to share.”
The suggestion hangs in the air, about as subtle as a hand grenade. I feel a surge of pity for Amber, who looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.
“Can’t,” I say flatly. “Mated.”
The word drops like a stone in still water. Jenkins’s head snaps up so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t hurt himself. Marissa’s mouth falls open, her carefully applied lipstick making a perfect ‘O’ of shock.
“Mated?” she repeats, as if I’ve just announced I’m actually a space alien. “Since when? To whom?”
“Recent,” I say, offering nothing more. “You don’t know her.”
Marissa looks like she’s about to demand details, but something in my posture must warn her off. Instead, she sniffs dramatically, loops her arm through her daughter’s, and steers the girl toward the door.
“Well, congratulations, I suppose,” she says over her shoulder, not sounding congratulatory at all. “Come along, Amber. We’ll get our camping supplies in Fairbanks, where there’s a better selection.”
The bell jingles as they exit, leaving blessed silence in their wake.
“Mated?” Jenkins asks after a moment, his bushy eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “When exactly did you have time to propose to a girl? And why am I just hearing about it now?”
I shrug, moving to stock the protein bars on their shelf. “Didn’t propose.”
“Then how are you mated?” Jenkins persists, following me down the aisle. For a man in his seventies with a bad hip, he can be surprisingly nimble when he’s after gossip.
I consider not answering. It would be easier. But Jenkins deserves better than my silence. He’s the closest thing to family I have left in Heat Mountain.
“It’s not quite official yet,” I admit, arranging the bars in neat rows. “But we’ll get there.”
Jenkins stares at me for a long moment, then bursts into wheezy laughter. “You mean to tell me you’ve decided you’re mated to some poor girl who hasn’t agreed to it? That’s not how it works, son.”
I straighten up, meeting his amused gaze. “Just because she doesn’t know it yet doesn’t mean she isn’t mine.”
Jenkins shakes his head, still chuckling. “And who is this lucky lady who’s been claimed without her knowledge?”
“The new doctor,” I say, returning to my task. “Holly Chang.”
The laughter stops abruptly. “The one staying with you and those other two troublemakers? The beta?”
I don’t correct his assumption about Holly’s designation. That’s her secret to keep or share.
“She’s it,” I say simply.
Jenkins studies me for a long moment, his weathered face serious now. “You sure about that? You’ve never shown interest in settling down before.”
“Very.”
More sure than I’ve been about anything else in my life.
“Well,” Jenkins says finally, “if anyone can handle you three knuckleheads, it’s probably a doctor.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Just make sure she actually agrees to it before you start building her a homestead in the middle of the wilderness or something equally dramatic.”
I don’t tell him I’ve already been mentally designing that cabin in my head. Where it would sit on the mountain. How the morning light would fall through the bedroom windows. The wrap-around porch where she could drink her coffee and watch the sunrise.
Instead, I grunt noncommittally and return to stocking shelves, letting Jenkins believe what he wants. The old man knows me well enough to read between the lines anyway.
The rest of the morning passes in a comfortable routine. I help customers, unpack deliveries, clean the hunting gear in the back room. But underneath it all, my mind keeps circling back to Holly. To the house I’d build her. To the life we could have.
To the fact that, one way or another, she already belongs to me.
I just need to wait for her to realize it.