Chapter 29
FOWLER
Evan bristles at Zev’s words. “Maybe you should mind your own pack’s issues.” The way he says “issues” makes my teeth itch.
I crack my neck and lean in, not bothering with threats. “Your omega’s made her choice. Take the damn hint. I’d really rather stop meeting you fucks like this.”
There’s a beat, and I think maybe they’ll just go. Then Tanner makes a split-second decision that, in his defense, is probably the best one his dumb brain can produce: he swings at Zev.
The hallway erupts. Zev takes the punch and grins, then lands one back in Tanner’s solar plexus that folds the guy like a suitcase.
Connor lunges at Chris, and I get Evan, who tries to shove me, but I drop my weight and take him with me, rolling hard into the wall.
My leg screams. Fighting is the last thing I should be doing while trying to heal this shit.
But no one breaks into Grace’s apartment and threatens her and a friend.
Especially not these bastards.
Nothing we do is elegant, but it’s effective.
We’re not out to kill them—just to make a point.
It’s just like on the ice before I got us all kicked out of the NHL for good.
My fist collides with Evan’s cheekbone, and it’s like every frustration I’ve ever had gets funneled into that one glorious moment of impact.
He yelps and tries to scratch me or something, but I’ve got longer reach and more rage.
Above the chaos, I hear Charlotte and Grace screaming for us to stop, but this is a storm you can’t call off.
Zev’s wrestling Tanner to the ground, pinning him with a knee and reciting, “You done? You done?” like a mantra.
Connor and Chris are locked in a shoving match that careens into a side table, splintering it.
“Stop!” Grace screams.
I hear the neighbor’s door slam open. A few other shouts sound
Great, witnesses. The last thing a high school coach and Reverie lead need. At least Captain Vega expects this bullshit out of me.
Zev finally lets Tanner up, but Tanner just spits blood on the floor and goes for a tackle, driving Zev back against the wall. I take a boot to my good shin and cuss loud enough to echo.
Connor gets Chris in a chokehold that’s all show, and even Chris knows it. I hear him wheeze, “Let go, let go, let go,” but Connor only loosens up when Zev calls, “Off, Connor. Cops are coming.”
Sirens blare nearby. The floor shakes as the elevator opens and a pair of officers barrel out, batons ready, and for a second nobody moves. Even the alphas know better than to fight cops.
“Hands where we can see them!” the first cop shouts.
And all six of us raise our hands, bloodied and battered, but very much not sorry.
Charlotte’s sobbing now, and Grace is holding her, but she glares daggers at all of us. Even in the mess, her fury is surgical.
“What the actual hell is wrong with you?” she asks, but the question is rhetorical.
I want to explain that it’s about justice, that nobody gets to corner an omega who doesn’t want them. But the words get stuck behind my split lip and the copper taste in my mouth.
Maybe we’ve just proved nothing’s changed after all. That we’re still brash idiots who act before thinking.
Even if it was on her and her friend’s behalf this time.
I sure as hell don’t feel any different at this moment from the last time I was pulled off the ice after a fight by a referee.
The cops corral us, cuff our hands behind our backs, and start the slow, humiliating process of reading us our rights.
It’s a weird parade, six grown men bleeding and panting, escorted down three flights and into the back of cruisers while the neighbors gawk from behind security chains.
All the while Grace tries to explain the situation to the cops to keep Zev, Connor, and I from going to jail.
It’s not going to stop that. We’ve been on this end of fights enough to know that the only reason we didn’t get arrested prior to this was because it happened in an arena full of people.
They shove Zev, Connor, and me into one car, and I can’t help it—I start to laugh. It bubbles out, manic and a little unhinged, but it’s contagious, because Zev joins in and then Connor, until the entire back seat’s vibrating with suppressed howls.
“You idiots,” Zev says between snorts.
“You’d do it again,” Connor says.
I look out the cop car window as the lights flicker across the courtyard, and I see Grace—still furious, still beautiful—watching us go. She doesn’t wave. But there’s something in her expression that isn’t all anger. It’s gratefulness.
And then I see the blood her knuckles—and grin.
My omega can throw a hell of a good punch.
I hope she never needs to again.
It’s impossible to get comfortable on a bench carved out of concrete. I try anyway and cycle through every possible permutation of my ass and spine, until it’s clear that the only people who find these things remotely bearable are serial killers and dudes with no vertebrae.
Not me with a broken leg.
Zev is doing wall squats in the corner. Connor has his face in his hands and elbows on knees. If this was a sitcom, the laugh track would have broken by now.
We’re not in with Charlton Pack, thank Christ. They put the three of them in a cell down the hall, probably to keep the carnage to a minimum. Which is a shame. I could use the stress relief.
Time blurs in holding. There are no clocks or windows, and the only food is a plastic-wrapped bologna sandwich and a Dixie cup of water that smells like Band-Aids.
At least the echo in here’s good for eavesdropping, which is how I learn that Evan is crying and Chris is threatening to sue.
Tanner is trying to intimidate a guard—it’s going as well as you’d expect.
My nose is swelling shut, but I poke at it anyway and try to line up the cartilage.
Zev watches and grunts approval. “Nice technique, just like the old days.”
Connor finally looks up. His right eye’s already purple. “They’re going to kill me, you know. Like, actually kill me. My alternate’s now out with the stomach bug. I hope we’re out by tomorrow.”
Zev stops his squats and slumps onto the bench beside me. “I could lose my job,” he mutters. “They don’t let people who get arrested coach high school.”
Connor groans and pulls at his hair. “I can’t believe we got into a fight with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds.”
I snort a laugh. “Buddy, you punched that Christopher guy so hard he nearly barfed. You’re not exactly a hostage here. Besides, they swung first after harassing Grace and Charlotte.”
It’s maybe an hour before a guard stops at our bars. “Murphy, someone’s here for you.”
I stand and shuffle to the cell door. There’s a narrow slot. A single, cold blue eye looks through.
“Jesus, Fowler. You’re a mess.”
I smile. I’d know that gravelly voice anywhere. “Hi, Cap.”
The cell door opens and Captain Thomas Vega, fire chief and connoisseur of the world’s worst cigars, steps inside. He’s still in uniform, hat under his arm, salt and pepper hair glistening with rain. He’s never looked more like a disappointed dad.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you idiots out of here.”
The guard unlocks the door and ushers us through. Connor and Zev follow, both blinking in the too-bright hallway lights. Vega ignores them, seemingly preferring to shoot me unspoken questions like, “What the fuck did you do this time?”
We wind our way through paperwork and last interviews with surly officers. The Charlton bastards are long gone, probably bailed out by angry parents with expensive lawyers.
While the clerk processes the last of our forms, I lean into the corner with Cap.
“How’d you know?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve got a scanner app. And the old lady across from Grace’s place? She called me before she called 9-1-1.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head. “We’re old friends from way back. She recognized you from station line-up photos I’ve shared.” He lets that sink in for a second, then softens. “Next time you want to get in a brawl, call me first. I’ll bring backup.”
Zev’s standing nearby. Connor’s rubbing his wrists.
I have to ask. “Am I fired for this?”
Vega puffs his cheeks out. “I should say yes. But you’re not. Not unless you bring this shit to the firehouse.”
The relief makes me lightheaded. “Thanks, Cap.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank yourself for not being as much of an asshole as those other three.” He taps the brim of his hat against my chest. “I know you got a lot of pent-up rage in there. I’d rather see you get therapy to get that out, but I can’t fault you for protecting your omega with it.”
He eyes Connor and Zev, then shakes his head. “Go home. Clean up. And for God’s sake, don’t do this again.”
We file out. I limp behind the rest into the dark. At least the rain’s stopped. It’s left the city glistening and brand new.
I look at Zev, who’s already planning the apology donuts for his high schoolers, and at Connor, who will definitely charm his way out of trouble.
And I think about Grace, who might never forgive us for brawling in her living room, but at least she’ll sleep safe.
I also think about that insane punch she threw. That’s my girl.