Chapter 9 Nacho
NACHO
The knock on my door is soft. Hesitant. The knock of someone who isn't sure they should be here.
I set down my pen and roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knot that's been building since I read the patrol reports this morning. Three noise complaints. One fender bender. A shoplifting incident at the hardware store that turned out to be old Mr. Garrett forgetting to pay for a box of nails.
Small town problems. The kind I signed up for when I took this job five years ago.
"Come in."
The door swings open.
And her scent hits me first.
Her sweet omega scent flooding my office before I even see her. But underneath the sweetness, there's something sharp. Bitter. The chemical signature of distress. Cortisol. Adrenaline. Fear.
My alpha surges, demanding I find the threat and eliminate it.
Then I see her.
My whole body goes rigid.
Jessica Delacroix is standing in my doorway, backlit by the fluorescent lights of the hallway, looking like she's been through a war and lost. Her blonde hair is tangled from the wind, falling around her face in messy waves that catch the light.
Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, but her hazel eyes are red and swollen. She's been crying. Recently.
She's wearing a coat that swallows her frame. Dorothy's, probably. Underneath it, I catch a glimpse of a navy blue sweater that stretches across her chest, hugging her curves in ways that make my uniform pants feel suddenly too tight.
But it's the scent that's killing me. Her scent fills the small office until I can barely think straight. My alpha recognizes her on a level that bypasses conscious thought.
Omega. Ours. Distressed. Fix it.
I stay seated. Barely.
"Jessica." My voice comes out lower than I intended. Rougher. "What happened?"
She steps inside, pulling the door closed behind her. Her movements are jerky. Uncoordinated. Like a marionette with tangled strings.
And her scent intensifies with the closed door.
"I need you to arrest someone," she says.
I blink. "Who?"
"Everyone." She throws her hands up, and the coat sleeves flap around her wrists. "Callum. His mother. Melissa. Everyone on Instagram who's calling me a monster. That woman named BeckyLovesWine2003 who said I'm stuck up even though I've never met her in my life."
Her voice is rising with each word, climbing toward hysteria. The scent of her distress sharpens, and my alpha doesn't like seeing her this upset. Nor unable to fix it.
"BeckyLovesWine2003?" I repeat.
"It's her username. She left a comment saying Callum dodged a bullet. She has a profile picture of a cat wearing a sombrero. I want her arrested."
I lean back in my chair and study her. The tremor in her hands. The way she's holding herself, arms wrapped around her middle like she's trying to keep herself from falling apart. The way her scent is spiking with each breath turning almost acrid with stress.
"I can't arrest people for Instagram comments," I say carefully.
"Why not?"
"Because being an asshole isn't illegal. If it was, I'd have half the town locked up."
"Then what good are you?"
The words come out sharp. Accusatory. She flinches the second they leave her mouth, and her scent floods with shame, like she can't believe she said them.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean... I shouldn't have..."
"You're fine."
"I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. I'm standing in your office demanding you arrest strangers on the internet because I can't cope with my own life."
Her voice breaks on the last word. Her face crumples.
And then she's crying.
Not quiet tears. Not dignified sniffles.
Full-body sobs that shake her shoulders and make her gasp for air.
She covers her face with her hands, but it doesn't hide anything.
The sounds she's making are raw. Wounded.
The sounds of someone who's been holding it together for too long and finally shattered.
And her scent—God, her scent. The distress pheromones are so strong I can taste them. Sharp and bitter and wrong. Everything in me is screaming to make it stop.
I'm on my feet quickly.
"Hey." I cross the small space between us in two strides. "Hey, stop that."
Terrible words. Useless words. The kind of thing you say when you have no idea how to handle the situation but you have to do something.
She cries harder.
"Jessica." I grab her shoulders. Gently. Just enough to steady her. Her body is warm under my hands, soft even through the coat. "Look at me."
She shakes her head, still hiding behind her hands.
"Jessica."
Something in my tone must reach her because she lowers her hands. Her face is a mess. Mascara smeared under her eyes. Cheeks blotchy and wet. Nose running.
She's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"I bet you hate me," she chokes out. "Just like everyone else. The whole town thinks I'm crazy. "
"I don't hate you."
"You should. I'm a disaster. I'm standing in your office crying like a child and I can't even explain why because I don't know why. I just... I walked here. My feet brought me here and I don't even know what I expected you to do about any of this."
Her voice is spiraling. Climbing. She's working herself into a full panic attack, and the scent of her distress is making my alpha lose its mind.
I do the only thing I can think of.
I pull her against my chest.
She goes stiff for a second. Then she melts. Her hands fist in the fabric of my uniform shirt, and she buries her face against my shoulder, and she cries like someone who hasn't been held in a very long time.
And the scent—
Her scent wraps around me intensified by the heat of her body, the stress hormones slowly fading as she feels safe. It mixes with my own leather and rain, dark sugar and ironwood, until I can't tell where she ends and I begin.
My alpha settles. Purrs. Mine. Pack. Safe.
I stroke her back in slow circles. Feel the curve of her spine under my palm.
The softness of her body pressed against mine.
She's all curves and warmth, exactly the way I remember from those nights when she'd fall asleep on my shoulder during movies.
When she'd lean against me like I was solid ground and she needed the anchor.
This is dangerous. This is crossing a line. She's vulnerable and scared and I'm taking advantage of the moment.
I don't stop.
"You're okay," I murmur against her hair, breathing in her scent. "You're safe. I've got you."
She cries until there's nothing left. Until the sobs fade to hiccups and the hiccups fade to shaky breaths. Her scent slowly sweetens, as if she belongs here in my arms.
She doesn't pull away. Neither do I.
"I'm sorry," she says finally. Her voice is muffled against my chest, and I feel the vibration of her words through my uniform.
"Stop apologizing."
"I got your shirt wet."
"It'll dry."
She pulls back just enough to look up at me. Her eyes are swollen, her makeup is destroyed, and there's a wet spot on my uniform the size of a small lake.
And her scent is still mixing with mine. Clinging to me. Marking me as much as I'm marking her.
"Why are you being nice to me?" she asks.
The question catches me off guard. “You need help. That’s a good enough reason.”
"Because I disappeared for six years. Because I left without saying goodbye. Because I was Callum's girlfriend and now I'm his runaway bride and everything is messy and complicated and I don't have any right to show up here expecting you to fix it."
"You didn't expect me to fix anything. You expected me to arrest BeckyLovesWine2003."
A startled laugh escapes her. "That's not the same thing."
"It's a little the same thing."
Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. And her scent lightens another degree. I call it a victory.
"Come on." I release her reluctantly, already missing the weight of her against me. I grab my jacket from the back of my chair. "You need food."
"I'm not hungry."
"That wasn't a question."
She blinks at me. "Did you just order me to eat?"
"I'm the sheriff. I give orders." I shrug on my jacket and hold the door open for her. "You can file a complaint later."
Deputy Martinez looks up as we pass his desk. His eyes go wide when he sees Jessica, then wider when he sees the wet spot on my shirt. I fix him with a stare that promises paperwork duty for the rest of the month if he says a single word.
He suddenly becomes very interested in his computer screen.
The walk to Rosie's Diner takes three blocks. Jessica is quiet beside me, her borrowed coat pulled tight against the cold, her breath puffing out in little white clouds. I'm hyperaware of every step, every movement, every time she shivers in the wind.
I match my pace to hers. Watch her from the corner of my eye. Catalog the way she moves, the way she holds herself, the way she flinches every time someone on the street looks at her too long.
She's been broken. Slowly and systematically, over years.
The confident woman who used to light up our packhouse with her laugh, who used to curl up beside me during movies like I was the safest place in the world, has been worn down to this.
Scared. Uncertain. Convinced that everyone is judging her.
I'm going to kill Callum.
Not literally. Probably. But the urge is there, simmering under my skin like a slow-burning fuse.
Rosie's is half-empty at this hour. The dinner rush won't hit for another hour. I guide Jessica to the corner booth, the one with the high backs that provide some privacy, and slide in across from her.
The vinyl squeaks under my weight. The table is slightly sticky with decades of spilled syrup. The jukebox in the corner is playing "Dancing Queen" by ABBA because someone in this town has terrible taste.
But mostly what I notice is the way Jessica's scent fills the small space with traces of my leather and rain from when I held her. Like we're marked on each other now.
My alpha is satisfied by this. Too satisfied.