Chapter 9 Beau
CHAPTER NINE
Beau
Night shifts at the fire station always sound better in theory than in reality. On paper, you get a slower pace, fewer calls, maybe a chance to catch some shuteye in the bunk room if you’re lucky.
In reality? You end up on your knees at three a.m., scrubbing down the engine bay because the captain decided the place needed tidying and the rookies were all off duty.
By the time Jamila strolls in to relieve me, I’m dead on my feet. My shirt smells faintly of soap and exhaust, my hands are raw from bleach water, and every muscle in my back feels like it’s been wired too tight.
She takes one look at me and laughs. “Rough night?”
I shrug. “Depends on your definition. No fires. No rescues. Just a whole lot of mop duty.”
Jamila claps me on the shoulder. “Go home before you fall over, Beau.”
Roxy’s already halfway out the door, pulling her hoodie up over her head. “Straight to bed for me,” she mutters, waving a hand without looking back.
“Yeah, no,” I say, grabbing my duffel from the bench. “I’m stopping for coffee first. If I go home now, I’ll crash before I can even shower.”
Truth is, I’m craving the jolt—not just for my body, but for my brain. Something to cut through the haze.
I change in the locker room, swapping my station gear for jeans and a Henley, running a hand through my hair in the mirror until it looks less like I’ve been crawling around on the concrete floor all night. My beard’s getting a little longer than I usually keep it, but I can’t bring myself to care.
It’s only a few minutes’ walk to the coffee shop. The doorbell chimes as I step inside, and the smell hits me first—rich espresso, cinnamon, a hint of warm sugar.
And then there’s Cora behind the counter, bright smile and auburn hair catching the morning light from the big front window.
“Well, well,” she says, leaning on the register. “If it isn’t Fox Hollow’s favorite fireman.”
“Don’t let the captain hear you say that,” I tell her, but I’m already smiling. Cora has that effect on people—easy, playful, like she’s letting you in on a secret even if you just walked in off the street.
She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You look beat. Long night?”
“Long enough.”
She slides a cup toward me, the lid already stamped with my name. “On the house. Perks of being a local hero.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, taking the cup. Her fingers brush mine.
She’s always been like that—comfortable in her own skin, not shy about touching. I remember that about her, the way she knew exactly how to use her hands, whether she was kneading dough or wrapped around my—
Yeah. That thought sticks for a second longer than it should.
But lately, she’s not the one who’s been taking up space in my head. The last few days have been… crowded, mentally speaking. And the person responsible isn’t standing behind this counter.
She’s across town, probably wrist-deep in paint and sawdust, determined to rebuild her life brick by brick.
Cora breaks into my thoughts. “We should go dancing sometime. You still know how, or have you gone soft?”
I laugh. “I remember enough to keep from embarrassing myself. Mostly.”
“So that’s a yes?” she says, grin widening.
“That’s a maybe,” I counter. But the corner of my mouth pulls up, because saying yes to Cora is easy. It doesn’t cost me anything.
I step outside, coffee warming my palm against the crisp morning air, and nearly run into Ryker. He’s hauling a toolbox in one hand, a rolled-up blueprint in the other.
“Morning,” I say.
He nods. “Morning. You look like hell.”
“Thanks. How’s Wren’s café coming along?” I ask casually, though I’m not sure why the question slips out. Maybe because I picture it every time I pass the square—Wren inside, sleeves rolled up, that stubborn little crease between her brows.
Ryker shrugs. “We’ve done most of the heavy work. But she called this morning and put everything on hold.”
That stops me. “Hold? Why?”
“Said she needed a week. Didn’t say more than that.”
I thought she was eager—hell, desperate—to get the place open. That bakery’s more than a project for her; it’s an anchor. Her grandmother’s legacy. Hearing she’s pulled back sends a ripple of something sharp through my chest.
We part ways, Ryker heading toward the hardware store. I stand there for a moment, sipping my coffee and trying to tell myself it’s none of my business. She’s an adult. She can handle herself.
But the next thing I know, I’m back at the counter inside the coffee shop. “Hey,” I tell Cora, “make me another. And, uh… one of those cinnamon scones.”
“For you?” she asks.
“For someone else,” I say, and leave it at that.
It doesn’t hurt to check in. That’s all this is. Just making sure she’s alright.
That’s the lie I tell myself, anyway. The truth is, I don’t mind seeing her again—definitely don’t mind.
By the time I reach the bakery, the front doors are locked. The windows are dim, no light spilling from inside. I balance the coffee tray in one hand and knock.
A blur of orange catches my eye. Pancake. The cat plants himself in the front window like a sentry, tail flicking.
“Hey, buddy,” I murmur, lifting my fingers in a little wave.
I should leave. The place is clearly not open, and she’s probably resting. But something roots me in place. I knock again, harder this time.
No answer.
I pull out my phone and hit her contact. The first ring goes to voicemail. Second ring, nothing. On the third, there’s a click and her voice—low, rough, like she’s been asleep or crying.
“Beau?”
“Yeah. You okay?”
“I’m fine. If you’re at the café, you need to leave.”
There’s a muffled sound in the background. Movement. Upstairs, if I had to guess.
“Where are you?”
“I’m fine,” she says again, but it’s the kind of fine that isn’t fine at all.
My instincts kick in before I’ve thought it through. The front lock on the bakery door isn’t complicated—Ryker joked once that a determined raccoon could get it open. A few practiced motions, and it clicks.
Inside, it’s cooler, still smelling faintly of primer and lemon cleaner. Pancake weaves around my legs like I’ve been invited in. I set one of the coffees on the counter for later, find a clean bowl, and pour the cat some water.
Then I head for the stairs.
“Wren?” I call, knocking lightly when I reach the door at the top.
The knob turns under my hand. The door swings open.
And my brain blanks.
She’s sprawled on the edge of the bed in a long, oversized T-shirt, bare legs tangled in the sheets. Her hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
But it’s not her expression that guts me—it’s the scent.
Thick. Sweet. Tangy at the edges, like ripe fruit. It’s everywhere, saturating the air until breathing feels dangerous.
An Omega in heat.
I have to pinch the muscle in my thigh, hard, to keep my head clear. The urge to step closer is immediate and brutal, a primal instinct flaring like a lit match. My pulse is in my throat.
I cross to the nightstand and set the coffees down carefully, like they’re an anchor keeping me from doing something I’ll regret.
“How long have you been like this?”
Her gaze flicks to me, then away. “You need to leave. I don’t need help.”
The stubbornness in her voice is pure Wren, even wrapped in fever and scent. She means it. But she’s shaking, and her skin looks too hot, and my every nerve is screaming to close the distance.
I stay where I am. Barely.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice cuts through the haze like a whip. It’s not soft. It’s sharp, a blade meant to keep me at arm’s length.
I steady my breath—not that it helps much with the scent clawing at my lungs—and meet her eyes. “Why didn’t you call the hospital for help?”
Her laugh is brittle. “This is a small town, Beau. I don’t want any more talk than necessary.”
“You think I’m gonna talk?”
“I think it doesn’t matter. One nurse sees me like this, and by the next morning, the entire square will know I’m in heat.”
Her voice shakes on the word, and something profound in me flinches. She swallows, glances away. “You need to leave.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine, eyes bright and feverish. “I don’t need an Alpha—”
“I didn’t say you did,” I cut in, sharper than I meant to. I run a hand down my face. “Are you taking anything?”
She hesitates. “Simon was recommending stronger drugs, but I… haven’t gotten around to it.”
I exhale slowly. “Alright. How about I help you up?”
Her lips part like she’s about to refuse again, but I’m already bracing myself—literally. I have to hold my breath. Have to. Because the second I get close enough to touch her, I know I’m going to be swimming in it.
I slide an arm under hers, careful to keep my grip steady, careful not to let my palm press too much against the bare skin of her thigh where her shirt rides up.
But the moment she leans into me, it hits—warm, syrupy waves of scent so intense I swear I could taste it. And under that sweetness…
Fuck.
The slick’s there, too. Her thighs are damp, the air around her carrying that heady, unmistakable marker that tells me she’s already come—more than once.
A dizzy rush punches through my chest, and I nearly go down with her, knees threatening to give. I grit my teeth, force myself upright, and guide her back onto the bed.
“Stay there,” I say, my voice lower than I intend. “I can get you a towel.”
She nods, her head tilting weakly against the pillow. Her skin is flushed, the fine sheen of sweat at her hairline making her look almost… too soft. Like she’s half here and half somewhere else entirely.
In the small bathroom, I plant both hands on the counter and inhale—once, twice—trying to reset. The mirror shows me exactly what I’m trying to ignore: pupils blown, jaw tight, the vein in my neck ticking.
I adjust myself with a rough grip through my jeans, swearing under my breath.
That’s when I see them. A handful of thongs, delicate and lacy, hung over the sink like they had been rinsed out earlier.
I’ve had enough self-control for one day.
Before I can think better of it, my fingers hook into the loop of one—black, barely-there fabric that still carries her scent even from here—and I slide it into my pocket.
I turn on the tap, soak a towel in cold water, and wring it out. The sound of my own breathing is too loud.
When I get back, she’s not just lying there anymore. She’s half-curled, eyes rolling back, her fingers working between her thighs in tight, desperate motions.
“You should go,” she begs, voice broken and too breathy to be steady.
“How long has this been happening?”
Her lashes flutter. “Since last night.”
I’m trying not to watch. Trying not to let my eyes track the way her hips move against her own hand, the way her knuckles are slick.
But it’s impossible not to notice.
“Typically, this takes four to five days,” I say, my voice tight. “But you really need to at least get a doctor to—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off.
I push on. “How about I get your prescription for you?”
Her head tips back, and she lets out a groan that rakes over my skin like nails. “You’d do that?”
I would do anything. “Yeah,” I manage.
She exhales, the sound almost like relief. I kneel at the edge of the bed, the wet towel in my hand.
“Here. A cold compress might help.”
She nods, watching me with glassy eyes as I press the cloth gently to her forehead, then slide it down the column of her neck. Her pulse is quick under my fingers.
“Use it,” I say, handing it to her.
She pulls her hand away from herself to take it. The towel presses against her pussy, the cold making her whimper—quiet but sharp enough to hit me low in the gut.
I see the wetness glisten across her fingers. I see the way her thighs shift, restless. And before my better judgment can even get a word in, I’m lifting her hand to my face.
Her eyes widen, the faintest spark of shock cutting through the haze. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry,” I say, but it’s a lie.
She doesn’t pull back. Instead, she presses her fingers against my mouth. My lips part on instinct, and then they’re in—slick-slick and salty-sweet, her taste blooming on my tongue in a way that makes every nerve in my body stand at attention.
“Fuck,” I mutter against her skin.
Her towel slips to the side as she grabs my shirt, tugging me forward onto the bed. I catch myself on my forearms, the scent rising in waves now that I’m right over her.
I can’t help it—I scent her. My nose skims her jaw, the curve of her throat, the line of her collarbone.
I drag in deep breaths like I’m drowning, and this is oxygen. It’s heady, intoxicating, everything an Omega in heat should be and more.
She’s already tugging at my shirt, pulling it up and over my head. Her fingers skate over my chest, nails dragging lightly, making my muscles jump.
“We can’t do this,” I say, the words scraping out of me like gravel.
“Make me come, please,” she whispers, voice breaking on the last word.
My restraint shreds another inch. I shift my knee, pressing my thigh between hers. The heat there is molten, her slick soaking through the cotton of her shirt, dampening my jeans.
She moves against me almost immediately, slow at first, then faster, chasing the friction like it’s the only thing tethering her to the bed. Her breaths go ragged, her hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
I brace her hips with my palms, holding her steady as she rocks, the muscles in her thighs tightening around me.
Her head tips back, a moan spilling from her throat that’s nothing short of primal. And then she’s gone—spasming against me, her whole body shuddering as she comes.
The sound she makes lodges somewhere behind my ribs and refuses to leave.
I have to force myself back, peeling away from her heat like it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My eyes find my shirt where it’s crumpled at the foot of the bed, but in my hurry, I leave it there.
I practically run for the door, the taste of her still on my tongue, my own body strung tight and aching.
Outside, the cool air hits me like a slap, but it’s not enough to clear her from my head.
I don’t know if anything will.