32. Legal Troubles In Cozy Paradise
Legal Troubles In Cozy Paradise
~WILLA~
T he law office smells wrong—all leather polish and old paper and that particular brand of aggressive air freshener that screams 'we're trying to hide something.'
I shift in the too-soft chair, missing the worn kitchen stools at home where at least the discomfort is honest. My fingers twist in my lap, finding and releasing the same fold in my jeans over and over while Attorney Margaret Pierce adjusts her reading glasses and spreads another stack of documents across her mahogany desk like she's dealing cards in the world's worst poker game.
Everything here is designed to intimidate.
The walls lined with leather-bound books no one's touched in decades.
The certificates framed in gold that probably cost more than our monthly feed bill.
The way Ms. Pierce—"Call me Maggie," she'd said, though her severe gray suit suggests she's never been a Maggie in her life—peers over those glasses like she's dissecting our souls for billable hours.
"The bad news," she begins, and I already want to run, "is that Mr. Harrison has retained Caldwell & Associates. They're... aggressive. Known for dragging cases out, bleeding the opposition dry through legal fees alone."
Cole's hand finds mine under the desk, his calluses rough against my palm.
The contact grounds me, keeps me from bolting for the door like my omega instincts are screaming to do.
On my other side, River shifts closer, his knee pressing against mine in silent support.
Behind us, Mavi and Austin form a wall of presence, their scents mingling into something protective and fierce.
"The worse news," Ms. Pierce continues, sliding a document toward us, "is that Montana law gives him grounds to contest. The ranch being inherited property acquired during the marriage creates a gray area. If he can prove he contributed to its maintenance or improvement..."
"He never lifted a finger," I interrupt, heat flashing through me. "He saw it as beneath him. Manual labor was omega work."
Ms. Pierce's expression softens fractionally.
"I believe you. But believing and proving in court are different animals.
Especially in small-town circuits where everyone knows everyone.
" She taps a manicured nail on the papers.
"Iron Ridge Pack has connections in three neighboring counties.
Judges who owe favors. Court clerks whose kids got scholarships from pack foundations. "
River leans forward, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from his shoulders. "What kind of legal fees are we looking at?"
The number she quotes makes my stomach drop through the floor. It's more than the ranch makes in six months. More than these men should ever have to spend on my mistakes.
"I have savings," River says immediately. "From my time with the forestry service. It's not much, but?—"
"My parents left me some bonds," Austin adds from behind me. "And there's Mom's jewelry. I was keeping it for Luna, but this is more important."
"No." The word tears from my throat, raw and desperate. "No, you can't—I can't let you?—"
"The hell you can't," Cole growls, his hand tightening on mine. "We're pack. Your fight is our fight."
But the guilt is already spreading through my chest like spilled ink, staining everything it touches.
I hunch forward, making myself smaller, the same instinct that kept me safe in Iron Ridge now trying to minimize the damage I'm causing here.
These men who took me in, who built me a nest, who gave me a home—and this is how I repay them?
By draining their accounts and pawning their memories?
"There might be another angle." Mavi's voice cuts through my spiral, sharp with the kind of focus I've only heard when he's in full investigator mode. "I've got contacts. People who owe me favors from my time working arson cases. If Blake's pack is as dirty as I think they are..."
Ms. Pierce's eyebrows climb toward her steel-gray hairline. "Mr. Cross, I can't advocate for anything illegal?—"
"Nothing illegal," Mavi assures her, though his smile has too many teeth to be comforting. "Just thorough. Very, very thorough background investigation. The kind that might turn up interesting patterns in insurance claims or financial records."
"Hypothetically," Ms. Pierce says carefully, "if such patterns existed, they could certainly influence negotiations. No one wants a messy public trial. Especially not people with things to hide."
The hope that flickers is almost worse than despair. Hope means disappointment waiting to happen. Hope means letting these men risk more for me when I've already cost them too much.
"I never meant to bring this trouble to your door," I whisper, the words barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "You had a good life before I showed up. Peaceful. Now you're talking about spending your savings, selling your mother's things..."
"Willa." Austin moves into my line of sight, crouching beside my chair. His hazel eyes are fierce with determination that looks wrong on his gentle features. "You didn't bring trouble. Blake did. There's a difference between running from a fire and being the arsonist."
The metaphor hits too close to home. I flinch, remembering smoke and flames and the certainty that I was going to die in that house.
Ms. Pierce clears her throat, drawing our attention back to the immediate problem.
"I'll need a retainer to get started. File our response, begin discovery.
But I want you to understand—small-town politics make these cases unpredictable.
If Blake's pack has the influence I suspect, we could be looking at an uphill battle. "
"Then we climb," Cole says simply. "Whatever it takes."
The next twenty minutes blur together in a haze of legal terms and strategy discussions.
Ms. Pierce outlines our options with clinical efficiency—contest the filing, counter-sue for attempted murder given the fire, seek restraining orders for harassment.
Each option comes with its own price tag, its own risks, its own ways Blake could twist the system against us.
Through it all, the men never waver. River takes notes in his careful script, asking pointed questions about precedent.
Austin mentally calculates what he can liquidate, his lips moving slightly as he does math in his head.
Mavi's already on his phone, thumbing through contacts with the kind of focus that probably terrifies criminals.
And Cole—Cole just holds my hand, his thumb rubbing steady circles on my knuckles like he's trying to wear a promise into my skin.
When we finally leave, the late afternoon sun feels too bright after the office's artificial lighting.
I blink against it, disoriented, and suddenly they're around me.
Not surrounding me like I'm fragile, but positioning themselves like a shield against the world.
Cole at my right, River at my left, Austin and Mavi flanking us like guards.
"Lunch," Austin declares. "You barely ate breakfast, and stress on an empty stomach is asking for trouble."
"I'm not hungry," I protest, but River's already steering us toward the diner across the street.
"Tough," Mavi says, holding the door open. "We eat, we plan, we fight. In that order."
I catch Cole's reflection in the diner window as we enter. The strain shows in the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes scan the street like threats might materialize from thin air. He's carrying the weight of this, same as me, but he won't admit it. None of them will.
They're too busy protecting me to protect themselves.
And that terrifies me more than any legal threat Blake could manufacture.
The blue glow from six monitors turns my security office into an underwater cave, all shadows and electric current.
I've been at this for four hours now, following digital breadcrumbs through databases I'm not supposed to have access to anymore.
Funny how people forget to revoke permissions when you leave law enforcement on good terms. Funnier still how many favors stack up when you've spent years being the guy who catches the bad guys nobody else can find.
My third cup of coffee sits cold and forgotten beside a legal pad filled with connections that make my skin crawl.
Blake Harrison isn't just an abusive alpha—he's part of something systematic, something that stinks of organized crime wrapped in pack politics.
The kind of operation that destroys lives and calls it business.
The phone rings, and I snatch it before the second ring. Can't wake the house. Can't let them see me like this, consumed by the hunt the way I used to get when a case hooked its claws in deep.
"Cross," I answer, voice pitched low.
"Mavi, you magnificent bastard." Jake Torres, formerly of the Montana State Police Financial Crimes unit, sounds entirely too cheerful for midnight.
"You were right about those insurance claims. Three properties in the last five years, all owned by Iron Ridge pack members or their associates.
All mysterious fires. All paid out in full. "
"Let me guess," I say, fingers already flying over the keyboard to pull up property records. "All investigated by the same adjuster?"
"Gregory Mitchum. Who just happens to be mated to Blake Harrison's cousin." Jake's voice drops. "This is big, Mavi. RICO big. Why didn't you stay with the force? We could use you on this."
"I've got my reasons." My eyes flick to the baby monitor on my desk, Luna's sleeping form just visible in the green-tinted screen. "Send me everything you can without getting yourself fired."
"Already in your encrypted folder. And Mavi? Be careful. These aren't the kind of people who play nice when cornered."