Chapter 5
Owen
My phone rings, and like a damn fool, I answer without looking.
Big mistake.
Because the moment I grunt a greeting, I’m hit with the auditory equivalent of a hurricane.
“So, what’s this I hear about you convincing Agent Megan DiNapoli—the woman trying to shut our town down— to stay in your spare room?”
I rub a hand down my face and lean back against the cruiser, staring up at the sky like it might offer mercy. It doesn’t.
“Hello to you too, Mama.”
“Don’t you ‘Hello Mama’ me, Owen Randall. I gave birth to you in a thunderstorm with nothing but a wooden spoon to bite down on and a midwife who reeked of onions. The least you can do is not dodge my questions.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“That’s because you were busy being born, smartass.”
I sigh.
“I meant that’s not the story you always told me. Anyway, she needed a place to stay. The motels are hexed, remember?”
“Oh, I remember. That Kitchen Witch still hasn’t paid to have my bathtub de-cursed.”
“You shouldn’t have yelled at her about her casserole.”
“She put cinnamon in a tuna noodle bake, Owen! That’s a hate crime.”
I choke on a laugh, then glance toward the garage, where Megan’s probably unpacking right now.
Or maybe snooping.
Honestly, I wouldn’t blame her.
Mama’s voice softens just a little.
“Is she pretty?”
“Mama,” I begin.
“Don’t you Mama me again, boy. I may be old, but I’m still a she-Wolf with instincts sharper than your grandaddy’s straight razor.”
“She’s something,” I admit.
A beat of silence on the line.
“You like her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I can hear it in your voice. All growly and tense like you’re trying real hard not to wag your tail.”
“Mama.”
“She a human?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“Got a backbone?”
“Like a steel rod dipped in Jersey attitude.”
She hums.
“Good. You need someone who won’t take your broody bullshit. Just don’t go scaring her off with that Lone Wolf posturing.”
I grunt.
“And for the love of the gods, clean the upstairs bathroom, would you? Just because you don’t use it doesn’t mean it doesn’t smell like wet dog and flea shampoo.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You better. I raised you better than to let a nice girl stay in a bachelor den.”
“Mama, it’s not like that—”
“It better be exactly like that,” she cackles. “Or I’m calling Myrtle and telling her to bake another batch of those aphrodisiac cookies.”
“Mama!”
“I’m just saying, don’t be stupid. If this girl sees you for what you are and doesn’t run screaming? You hold on to that with both paws.”
She hangs up before I can argue.
And just like that, I’m standing there, blinking at my phone and feeling very, very exposed.
Hell.
This might actually be something, but for fuck’s sake, I’m not talking to my mother about it.
I mean, big deal. She needed a place to stay.
I’m the Sheriff. I’m providing a service. It’s practically my job!
Of course, Megan, er, Agent DiNapoli, thinks I did it for convenience. For logistics.
Truth is, my Wolf is losing his fucking mind.
He’s pacing, snarling, drooling—basically climbing the walls of my skull like a rabid animal in heat.
Claim her.
Bite.
Mark.
Mine.
And he’s not subtle about it either. He’s not the refined, mystical kind of Shifter soul you read about in fairytales.
Nah, he’s more like that snarly alien parasite from Venom—all instinct, no filter, and zero chill.
SHE’S OURS.
Okay, first of all, I tell him, she is a woman with her own mind.
She can have her own mind, but she’s still ours, he objects.
I know how this will go, so for now, I mentally shove him back into the metaphysical time-out corner where Shifter halves are supposed to wait quietly, calm the hell down.
He growls at me. Loudly. In my own head.
But then, he goes quiet.
I’ll take the small win.
I scrub a hand down my face and sigh, one eye fixed on the back door of the house, waiting for her to finish settling in before she rejoins me.
We’ve got a town tour to finish.
City Hall, the school—which handles everything from preschool to senior year under one ancient roof—the post office, library, and a few other key places I’m required to pretend are functional.
“Sheriff!” Delilah’s voice cuts in from beside me.
I blink. She’s holding the station’s cordless phone and waving like she’s signaling an aircraft.
Her Fox Shifter ears are twitching, which usually means we’ve got a situation.
“What?!” I snap.
She flinches, and I immediately grimace.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
That bark wasn’t for her.
It was for me.
Because even though she said about an hour, it’s only been twenty minutes and here she is.
Agent DiNapoli just stepped outside.
And holy hell.
I can’t decide if I should drop to my knees and thank the Fates or curse them for trying to ruin me.
She’s changed out of her city slicker clothes, and the result?
It’s—holy fucking shit.
Megan walks out of the house like a goddamn movie scene—wearing skintight blue jeans, a white V-neck that hugs her curves like it was made for her, and the same black combat boots she wore earlier.
I have never—ever—found combat boots sexy. I mean, who has?
But on her? They are definitely that.
Fuck yeah.
My chest seizes. Air gets tight.
All I can think is I want to see her wearing that every damn day.
She meets my eyes and raises a brow like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
And my Wolf—naturally—starts frothing at the mouth again.
BITE. NOW. TAKE HER.
No. Stop it. You’re embarrassing both of us.
“Um, that was Guy,” Delilah says, shifting awkwardly as she presses the phone against her chest. “He says the shit’s hit the fan.”
“Be more specific,” I grunt, tearing my eyes off Megan.
“You might wanna check out the old Crypt Mansion,” she continues. “Says we’ve got unwanted, uh, squatters again.”
“Squatters?” Megan asks as she walks over, curiosity lighting up her face.
I sigh and stand, grabbing my gear from behind the front desk.
Glock.
Salt pouch.
Silver chain.
Iron spike.
And a few other odds and ends we don’t keep on record.
“What’s all that for?” Megan asks, watching me pack it all like I’m suiting up for a paranormal apocalypse.
“You never know in this town,” I mutter.
And that’s the God’s honest truth.
Could be a harmless coven of runaway witches trying to vibe in a haunted attic.
Could be a revenant. Or a pissed-off vampire who forgot Crypt Mansion was condemned for a reason.
Could be worse.
Either way, she’s coming with me.
And if anything even thinks about touching her?
My inner Wolf snarls.
Well, let’s just say they’ll learn real fast just what kind of monster I really am.