Prologue 2 Megan
I can’t believe I’ve been sent to some godawful town in Texas.
Texas, of all places.
Like, what do I know about tumbleweeds and cactuses—wait, is it cacti? Whatever.
I’m not here to debate grammar. I’m here because some suit at the Division of Paranormal Creatures & Activity decided I was the lucky winner of this week’s “Congratulations, you’re disposable!” assignment.
Arrhythmia, Texas.
The name alone makes it sound like a heart attack waiting to happen.
I’m a Jersey girl, born and raised. I like diners, decent bagels, and people who say what they mean—preferably while double-parked with their hazards on.
I’m not exactly cut out for small-town charm or wide open skies. Give me a good strong espresso and a street full of honking cars any day.
But here I am.
On a mission.
And yeah, okay, I’ve always had a thing for the supernatural. It’s why I took this job.
No, I’m not a Shifter or a Mage or anything with claws or wings or sparkly powers. I do have the Sight—capital S—and I’m pretty damn handy with a sidearm, thank you very much.
But this?
This feels like exile.
Apparently, I’m supposed to evaluate this town and assess its long-term viability within the DPCA framework, which is code for decide if we pull the plug on this supernatural sandbox.
What I expected? A dusty, half-abandoned ghost town filled with magical burnouts and Werecreatures in dirty flannel.
What I got? Chaos, attitude, and one dangerously attractive Sheriff with a badge, a beard, and the kind of shoulders that could make a girl rethink her whole five-year plan.
Sheriff Owen Randall.
Lumberjack-core with a voice like gravel and eyes that could melt Kevlar.
The second I laid eyes on him, my hormones tried to stage a coup. Traitors.
But I’m not here to get weak-kneed over some growly Wolf with a slow drawl and a smirk that says he knows exactly what kind of dreams he stars in.
I’ve got a job to do. A report to write. A town to evaluate.
No matter how good he smells.
No matter how close he stands.
No matter how many times he calls me Agent like it’s both a challenge and a dare.
Nope.
This isn’t a romcom. It’s not a fairytale. And it sure as hell isn’t the start of some fated mate nonsense.
This is my job.
And no hotshot Sheriff with a sexy beard and a lumbersnack smile is gonna make me lose focus.
Right?
“You wanna take a load off and tell me what’s on your mind, Agent?” Sheriff Owen Randall asks me with a wicked glint in his dark eyes.
“What? Yeah, um, here’s a letter explaining it all, Sheriff,” I murmur, handing it to him.
Our fingers brush against each other, and I swear it’s like I just got hit by a lightning bolt. I pull my hand back quickly, not meeting his gaze even though I know he’s staring right at me.
How I’m suddenly aware of him in places I’ve ignored for months?
I sneak a glimpse, and yep, he’s still staring. And, oh boy, is he growling?
I am so fucked.