Chapter 3
Owen
Right now I’m staring at the letter Agent DiNapoli just handed me from the Division of Paranormal Creatures & Activity, and I swear I can’t tell if it’s in English, Demonspeak, Emoticons, or just plain scribbles.
I don’t know if it’s her apple cinnamon scent that’s driving me crazy—sweet, warm, and real—or just the proximity.
How many square feet is this office anyway?
“Well?” she asks, snapping my focus back to reality.
“Well, uh, what do you want me to do with this?” I ask, my tone flat as a busted tire, while simultaneously trying not to drool on the female.
“Well, maybe start by using it as a bib, Fido.”
She hands me a tissue.
Fuck’s sake.
I am drooling.
I scrub a hand down my face and over my beard like that’ll erase the fact my inner Wolf just had a full-body meltdown the moment she walked in.
Short, curvy, bossy as hell—she smells like sun-warmed apples and burnt cinnamon, and every word out of her mouth is a trap I’m five seconds from falling into.
“Listen up, Agent,” I growl, trying like hell to find my footing in this shitstorm of sass and pheromones. “I don’t have time for all that attitude.”
“Sass?” she shoots back, one perfect brow arching like I just insulted her favorite uncle and her skincare routine in one breath.
Her tone is all mock surprise, but there’s a glint in her eye I don’t like—correction, I do like. Way too much.
Shit.
“I mean, you got a problem with sass?” I double down like an idiot.
Of course I do. Like a damn fool standing in quicksand, throwing myself an anvil.
She crosses her arms, hip cocked. “Are you serious, Fido?”
Fido.
The woman called me Fido.
That’s twice now.
“What year is it in Arrhythmia, anyway?” she goes on, and her voice is syrupy-smooth and sharp as broken glass. “Because you people? You’re a little hokey.”
“Hokey?” I echo, like I’ve never heard the word in my life, like she just told me I was made of papier-maché and raffle tickets.
She turns toward the window, and my brain short-circuits.
There are curves—and then there’s this woman.
A full damn hourglass with hips that could break a grown man and legs that go on forever before curving into an ass so round and perfect my inner Wolf practically rolls over and begs.
I shouldn’t be looking.
I should definitely not be picturing what she’d look like bent over my desk again, only this time without the clothes.
But gods help me, I am looking.
And that smile? The one she flashes when she glances over her shoulder?
Yeah. That’s the kind of smile they write obituaries about.
I’m halfway to stroking out when she bends to pick up a piece of paper off the floor, giving me the exact view I was trying so hard to avoid.
The view.
The bend.
The soft little wiggle.
My brain goes static. My Wolf howls. My pants get tighter than they should be in a professional situation.
That is 100% how I die. Right there.
Death by sweet, peach-shaped perfection.
She straightens with a soft little hum and strolls to the window, every step a silent dare.
“So,” I say, desperate to get my blood back above my waistline, “where’s that you’re from? The Bronx?”
“Nah,” she says with a shrug. “Jersey City.”
Of course she is.
That attitude? That accent? That don’t-take-shit energy that turns me inside out? She is pure Jersey Girl.
Probably came out of the womb cursing like a truck driver and side-eyeing the doctor.
She leans forward, peering out the window, her nose wrinkling like she’s caught a whiff of sulfur—or stupidity.
Then she tilts her head to the side, hair falling like a damn shampoo commercial, and says, casual as hell, “Did you know there’s a naked Gnome running around outside throwing donut holes at people’s cars?”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“What?”
She’s staring out the window, but I’m not following her. My brain is stuck somewhere around her dimples, and that gorgeous ass.
“Godsdammit,” I mutter under my breath, and stand up, already reaching for my walkie.
Megan snorts, and I swear I can feel her smile against the back of my neck.
This town is chaos.
She’s chaos.
And I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
“Ooh, yeah. He’s just totes naked, isn’t he? Full frontal garden accessory. And he has got an arm on him.”
She whistles, and I’m halfway to shifting at the mere idea of her ogling some other man’s junk.
Next, I process what she actually said, and I don’t even bother biting back my groan.
“Shit.” I push my chair out of the way with a groan that’s half growl. “Gerry must’ve gotten into the espresso again.”
“Is that code for meth?”
“No,” I mutter, stepping around her, “it’s literal espresso. The Gnome’s banned from Bean Me Up, but he keeps sneaking in through the ductwork.”
I move past her, careful not to touch her, careful not to breathe too deep.
Careful not to grab her with both hands and tell her she’s mine like some lovesick beast about to start humping the furniture.
My Wolf’s pacing in my head like it’s mating season, and this woman just strutted into our territory with enough attitude to break the damn moon.
He doesn’t care that she’s here to shut us down.
He only knows she’s our mate.
I march through the station with her on my heels, and I push open the front door. Then, I freeze because yep, there he is.
Gerry. The Gnome. Stark naked and chucking powdered sugar chaos at a Kia Soul.
“Gerry!” I bellow, stomping down the steps of the station. “Drop the donut hole and step away from the compact!”
The naked little menace turns, powdered sugar smeared across his chest like war paint, eyes wild with caffeinated glee.
“Eat this, Sheriff!” he shrieks and pelts me with a barrage of powdered missiles like he’s in some sugary reenactment of Normandy.
“Dammit!” I duck, barely avoiding a direct hit to the face. The powder explodes across my shoulder, leaving a greasy white smear on my uniform. “That’s dry clean only, you little shit!”
“Freedom!” Gerry screams, sprinting across the parking lot like a pudgy, naked track star with a sugar addiction.
I growl low and dangerous, stalking after him, trying real hard not to shift in broad daylight.
“Gerry, put on some damn pants before I tranquilize you on principle.”
“You can’t suppress my expression!” he yells, still tossing donut holes over his shoulder. “My body is art!”
“Your junk is a community hazard, pal! We’ve talked about this!”
“No one tells Gerry what to wear!”
“I’m not asking, I’m begging—shorts, man! Or a towel. Or literally anything that covers the glory of your Gnomehood!”
He flips me off with powdered fingers and keeps running, zigzagging like a feral toddler.
I glance back toward the station door and catch her watching—arms folded, hip cocked, lips twitching like she’s trying not to laugh.
Great.
Agent Megan DiNapoli, federal-grade attitude in a five-foot curvy package, witnessing my morning unravel like a live-action cartoon.
And here I am, covered in powdered sugar, arguing with a naked espresso junky Gnome like it's just another Tuesday.
Which, in Arrhythmia? It is.
I sigh, wipe my hands on my thighs, and start walking back.
She lifts a brow as I approach. “Is that part of the welcome tour, or...?”
“Only for VIPs,” I grunt, brushing off the worst of the sugar. “You’ll get your own personal Gnome tantrum if you stick around long enough.”
“Can’t wait.”
I stop a few feet from her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, and just barely far enough to keep my Wolf from lunging.
He’s been so damn restless since she walked in.
Watching her like prey, like a promise, like something ours.
Not the time. Not the place. Definitely not the assignment.
“Uh, boss?” Deputy Delilah Banks jogs up beside me, her blonde braid swinging. “Should I get him?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Cuff him and toss him in the drunk tank for twelve hours. That oughta be enough time for him to come down off his high.”
“Got it.”
The young Fox Shifter hands me a crumpled paper towel, which I accept with a grunt of appreciation as she draws her taser.
“Gerry, stop it now or I’ll tase you!” she yells, charging after him in a blur of authority and annoyance.
Behind me, chaos erupts all over again.
Gerry’s screaming about censorship and the tragedy of modern art while Delilah yells something about public decency and felony mooning.
I glance at Agent DiNapoli and nod toward the madness.
“Welcome to Arrhythmia, Agent,” I say dryly. “Hope you brought a helmet.”
She smirks. “Why? Planning to throw donuts at me too?”
“No,” I say, letting my gaze sweep her, slow and deliberate, just once. Just long enough to make her blink. “But around here? Every day’s a full-contact sport.”
And this Jersey-born, gun-toting, curve-wrapped hurricane?
Yeah. She’s about to find that out the hard way.