Chapter 6
Owen
We take the cruiser—more of a suped up AWD SUV with a magically armored exterior.
She insists on riding shotgun, even though she clearly doesn’t trust my driving.
The minute I take a hard turn out of the lot, her hand flies to the dash like she’s bracing for impact.
“Do they not teach defensive driving in Sheriff school?” she asks, deadpan.
“We don’t defend, Agent. We pursue,” I reply, shooting her a sidelong glance.
She snorts.
“Well, great. Nothing says public safety like a growly Lone Wolf with a God complex behind the wheel.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining when I carried your suitcase like a gentleman.”
“That was strategic. I was assessing your lifting capacity.”
“Uh-huh.”
“For science.”
“Sure.”
She bites her lip to hide a smile, and damn it, there goes that dimple again.
I have to grip the wheel tighter to keep from doing something incredibly stupid.
Like reaching over and tucking that one loose strand of hair behind her ear. Or pulling the car over and finally figuring out if she tastes like the citrus and fire she smells like.
No. Focus.
We pull up to the Crypt Mansion—an old Victorian monstrosity half-swallowed by overgrown vines and bad decisions.
The wrought-iron gate creaks as I push it open, and even Megan’s sarcasm dims.
“Charming,” she mutters, eyeing the second-floor balcony like it might collapse just from her looking too hard at it.
The cracked railings lean outward, and the shutters hang like broken limbs. The place is every bit the haunted house from a kid’s nightmare.
“You should see it on Halloween,” I say, stepping through the crooked iron gate. “The ghosts put on a real show.”
She rolls her eyes, arms folded, but I catch the twitch of a smile (and my favorite dimple).
“Cute. You’ve got jokes now.”
I don’t answer.
Because the second our boots crunch across the overgrown path leading to the porch, I feel it.
Everything stills.
No wind.
No sound.
Not even the birds.
The sun dims—not sets, just dims—like something thick is moving over the sky.
And then—they appear.
Actual fucking ghosts.
Dozens of them. Wispy figures shimmer in and out of sight, pale and flickering like busted Christmas lights.
They swirl across the porch, drift through the broken windows, crawl over the railings like fog with faces.
Not malevolent.
Well, not yet.
But restless.
Too many. Too fast.
Megan stills beside me. I can feel her pulse jump—hers and mine.
“Th-these are real ghosts,” she says, voice tight with disbelief.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, my hand dropping to the pouch of salt at my belt just in case. “Nothing but authenticity in Arrhythmia.”
I don’t mean to sound like a dick.
But this is kind of a crucial moment.
Because this town?
It’s not normal. It’s not safe. It’s not easy.
Arrhythmia doesn’t just need a visitor to see the weird.
It needs someone who can stand in the middle of it and not run.
Not scream. Not shut down and pretend it didn’t happen.
And this woman—this city-raised, sharp-tongued, painfully gorgeous federal agent—is standing next to me as ghosts crawl out of the walls, and she’s not bolting.
She’s blinking.
Breathing hard.
Processing.
And somehow, through all the tension, all the unspoken rules of this supernatural place we call home, all I can think is, please don’t leave.
Please be one of the rare ones who doesn’t laugh it off or call me crazy.
Please be someone who sees what I see—and stays.
Because everything in me, every instinct, every primal part of my Shifter soul is screaming that this woman is mine.
And if she walks away after this?
I don’t know if I can handle it.
Especially with my Wolf whispering from the dark corner of my mind.
She’s ours.
She sees.
She belongs.
And for once in my life, I almost believe him.
“Okay,” she says after a long moment. Then louder, “Okay, well first, this is definitely above my pay grade.”
Megan pulls a silver charm from her pocket, and says “Second, I hope this thing is big enough.”
I glance at her.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Catholic grandma. Don’t worry about it.”
My eyebrows raise. Then, she fumbles a step, and I freeze beside her.
“Shit. Not now,” she murmurs.
“You okay?”
“Yep, but just in case, you think you can catch me?” she asks, and I nod immediately.
I should be watching the ghosts. I should be assessing the threat level. But all I can do is stare as Megan goes still.
Too still.
Her eyes roll back in her head.
She sways.
And I panic.
“Megan?” I step toward her, reaching out, but something holds me in place.
Not physically—there’s no spell, no ghostly hands—but something in the air locks me down.
Like time itself hiccupped.
For three seconds she’s frozen. Head tilted, mouth slightly open, eyes gone completely white.
But it doesn’t feel like three seconds.
It feels like a fucking year.
My heart is a war drum in my ears. My Wolf is howling, clawing inside my chest.
MATE DOWN. MOVE. PROTECT. HELP.
“I can’t—what the hell—MEGAN!” I roar as she starts to fall, and whatever was stopping me from moving suddenly releases me.
I blink and catch her, swoop her up in my arms, and my heart is pounding so hard it might actually break through my goddamn sternum.
“Megan,” I repeat her name, unsure of what to do.
I don’t have to wait long because, just like that, she snaps back.
Eyes clear. Breathing normal. Shoulders rising and falling like she just woke from a nap.
She blinks at me, confused.
I tighten my hold on her for a split second, then I help her stand.
I keep one hand on her elbow, and she doesn’t object so I take that as a win.
My voice is rough when I finally speak.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
She blinks again, lips parted.
“I—yeah. I think so.”
I still don’t let go. Can’t. Both hands are on her shoulders now, holding her steady while I try to get my own breathing under control.
“What did you see?” I ask, quieter now.
She looks past me, toward the mansion.
“There’s something beneath the house,” she says slowly. “Buried. Locked. Something old and angry.”
Fantastic.
Just what we needed.
The Crypt Mansion doesn’t just have squatters.
It’s sitting on a ticking ghost bomb.
And the person who saw it coming? She’s the curvy, Jersey-born, ghost-reading Agent my Wolf wants to mate, mark, and chain to the bedpost.
This just keeps getting better.