CHAPTER 19
AMOS
This has to push her to the brink. How much more agony can one woman endure before something gives?
First, we did what we did at Luscious.
Then the lady at the bank froze her card while she was trying to buy groceries. Windy looked embarrassed as she counted out cash.
Then, we dug up her front lawn turf. She had to hire a landscaper, costing her a few grand.
Then, Wolf pulled that stunt with her job.
All this in the last two months. Surely this will break her. Windy can’t be more stubborn than we are, even if what we’re doing is childish. We’re trying everything to get her to let us go and rematch on Select-A-Mate.
I idly watch as the Chief of police pulls her in behind her when she pulls into Sip-A-Brew. Her taillight is out, all thanks to me. I unscrewed it last night while I was outside her house, stalking her.
The Chief of police, with a favor owed to me, walks up to the driver's side of her car and taps on the window. I watch as she rolls the window down, giving him a bright smile. A growl bubbles up in my throat as I watch that smile continue to grow for this other alpha. I can’t help it.
I want to rip his head off his shoulders, even if he’s doing this as a favor to a friend.
Her smile falters before it finally dies, the slow kind of fade that tells me she’s trying to figure out what went wrong.
She glances back over her shoulder, brows pinched, like she’s checking the taillight she knows is already out.
I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my mouth.
I watch the whole thing unfold from my spot down the street.
The Chief leans in, says something to her, and takes her license and registration. He goes back to his car and sits in it. My cell phone beeps a minute later.
CHIEF: Ticket or no?
I texted back quickly that he needs to write her a ticket for the broken taillight.
It’s nothing big, but it's enough to ruin her day just a little bit.
I bring my eyes back toward her, watching as she nods along to the music.
She looks confused, trying to keep her composure, but even I can tell this stop got to her.
A moment later, he gets out of his car and hands her a citation, along with her license and proof of insurance.
He taps the top of the car twice before walking back toward his car.
A moment later, he pulls out, drives a few car lengths down, and parks again—waiting.
She doesn’t notice.
Windy heads into Sip-A-Brew, her shoulders rigid, clutching at the last scraps of her earlier brightness.
She emerges a few minutes later, drink in hand, but her smile has vanished.
She massages her forehead, the gesture weary and hopeless, and releases a sigh so heavy I can almost feel the ache from here.
She gets back into her car and pulls out of the lot. By the time she reaches the stop sign, the Chief is right behind her again, like he’s been glued to her bumper. He will be, at least until she gets a street over. The moment she turns onto Maple, his lights flash—again.
I watch her pull to the side of the road. Watch the way her shoulders rise and fall once, sharply, before she rolls the window down. He goes through the same motions as before, calm, methodical, like this is just another box to check.
Another ticket.
Another blow.
She takes the paper from him with a tight, polite smile. It’s all teeth. No warmth—a perfect, silent fuck you.
Then she slams the tickets down onto the passenger seat, rolling the window up with a fierce snap, not caring if he’s turned away. I sit, watching the scene, satisfaction warring with something darker that writhes, hot and twisted, deep in my chest.
I really hate that we have to do this, but it feels like it’s the only way to reach her, to force a decision neither of us wants but think is necessary. Every part of me wishes there was another solution.
I nod at the Chief when he makes eye contact with me.
He gets into his car and turns around to head back to the station.
I pull out of my spot and follow her at a good distance.
A few streets over, I spy the second cop in place.
The moment she passes him, probably on her way to the auto store, he pulls out behind her and flashes his blue lights.
Even from back here, I can see her slamming her hands down on the steering wheel.
The second cop pulls her over like he’s been waiting for his cue.
Same lights. Same slow walk to her window.
Same clipped explanation. Same ticket. She takes it with a tight, brittle smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and he leaves her there with her jaw clenched and her fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel.
That’s when she breaks.
She gets out of the car the moment he drives off, slamming the door harder than she means to.
She stalks to the back of her vehicle, her movements sharp, frantic.
She runs her hands along the taillight, searching for the problem as if she can will it to reveal itself.
It flickers once, just enough to mock her.
She taps it twice, frustration radiating off her in waves.
She gets back in the car, breath shaking, and pulls out again. She barely makes it to the next intersection before another cruiser swings in behind her, lights flashing.
By now, she’s done pretending.
Done being polite.
Done swallowing it.
She rolls the window down and unleashes everything she’s been holding back. “So, which one sucked your dick for this?!” I can hear her from all the way over here. I’m parked down the street, and man, is she livid.
Her voice is raw—shredded, crackling with rage, disbelief, and bone-deep exhaustion. The cop stiffens, but she doesn’t stop.
“I bet it was Amos, right? He’s the one who works at the fire station, right? I’d bet it’s him. So did he at least make you feel good about yourself when you agreed to be a bastard?”
The air goes still.
His body shifts. He orders her out of the car with a harsh voice that has me white-knuckling my door handle. I want to go over there and punch him so badly, but I know we’re doing this for a cause. She has to break, and the faster she breaks, the sooner we can get this fucked up mess over.
She freezes—just for a heartbeat—but she obeys. She’s shaking with anger, her voice rising as she tries to defend herself, but he cuts her off, tells her to turn around, and hands behind her back.
Shock ripples through her posture. Her shoulders sag for a moment as the fight drains out of her all at once. But she does what he says. He puts her in the back of the cruiser and takes her to the station.
By the time I get there, she’s already been processed. Already behind plexiglass. Already looking like the world has tilted under her feet, and she’s still trying to find something solid to stand on.
I tell the Chief I need a moment with her. He grants it. There’s no way he wouldn’t grant it, not with the shit I have on him.
“I’ll give you five minutes,” he says.
“I’ll only need two.”
I step into the cramped room. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, an interrogation spotlight. Plexiglass stands between us—a barrier I ache to smash. She looks up, eyes blazing with humiliation and fury, cheeks burning with the raw ache of betrayal.
“You should agree to a rematch,” I say, voice low, steady. “All of this will go away if you do.”
Bile rises in my throat as I speak. I don’t want a rematch—I want her, fiercely, achingly. I want her safe. I want her far from this hell I helped shape. But words choke in my mouth, dead before they’re spoken.
She lifts her chin, defiant even now. “I am not agreeing to a rematch. Forget it.”
I step closer, leaning one hand against the plexiglass, letting the weight of my presence press into the space between us.
“Then enjoy your cage,” I murmur, voice nearly trembling. “You’re not stepping back into the world anytime soon—not after today’s outburst. Good luck, Windy.”
I turn to leave. Everything inside of me wants to run back to her, get on my knees, and beg for mercy. I want her to love me, want me, and spend the rest of her life with me. I fucking hate what we have to do, and if it weren’t for Wolf, we’d already be mated to this lovely creature.
“Hey!”
Her voice cracks through the room like a whip. I stop. I don’t turn around. The only acknowledgment I give her is turning my head to the side and tilting my head.
“Strike two!” she shouts, fury vibrating through every word. “You don’t want to know what happens when you get to strike three, so don’t push me.”
Her warning hangs in the air, sharp as broken glass.
I can’t stop myself—have to look back at her, catching her eyes blazing, wild and furious.
She's trembling with rage, but her skin is ghost-pale, sweat glistening on her forehead.
Her throat works as she swallows hard, like she's fighting back nausea. I don’t say a word.
Just give her a crooked smirk and walk out, my pulse a drumbeat, her voice burning in my chest long after the door shuts behind me.