Chapter 18
Megan
It turns out Owen wasn’t lying.
Arrhythmia has legit Korean BBQ.
Not just a dusty roadside fusion joint with three kinds of sauce and one confused waiter, but a real place—hidden behind an unmarked door in what looks like an abandoned feed store on the edge of town.
We pull up in his Sheriff truck, and I eye the faded sign above the weathered brick building.
It says Dry Creek Supply.
There’s no open sign.
No neon. Just the faint hum of an industrial vent and the mouthwatering scent of charred meat and garlic simply drifting into the back alley like a secret invitation.
“This can’t be it,” I murmur, one hand still on my seatbelt.
“Oh, it is,” Owen says, already out of the truck and circling around to open my door like some kind of Southern gentleman hellbeast. “Jun’s not big on signage. Or humans.”
“Wait—so we’re inside city limits, and that makes this a Supernaturals-only joint, right?”
“Yep. Bear Shifter owned. Staffed by a few Boar shifters, one actual Raccoon, and a Banshee who waitresses on weekends. Don’t piss her off.”
“Great,” I mutter as he helps me down. “Dinner and a side of death screams.”
“No worries, Agent. You get scared, you can hold on to me,” Owen teases.
I roll my eyes. The man’s incorrigible, but I admit my senses are tingling.
We move inside, and my breath gets caught in my throat because it’s magic.
The walls are dark wood. The lighting is soft and golden. A warm haze of grilled meat, sizzling fat, and soy-glazed everything dances through the air like a religious experience.
The moment we step through the hidden door in the feed store wall, half a dozen heads turn. All Shifters, if I had to guess.
Big, burly, growly-looking types with sharp eyes, visible scars, and way too much muscle for one dining room.
But nobody says a word.
They just glance at Owen. Then at me. Then look away like the Wolf in the room just made his claim very clear.
Because he did.
Owen’s growl builds in his chest as his hand slides to my lower back.
Protective. Possessive. Branding me with his touch in front of the others without a single word.
I should resent it. Demand he allow me to stand on my own two feet—but I'd be lying if I said I didn’t like it. That I didn’t crave this kind of attention from him.
I swear, I feel it under my skin like a second heartbeat.
I’m his.
And more than that?
He’s mine.
“This place is insane,” I whisper, scanning the space. “How does the DPCA not know about this?”
“Oh, they do,” he says. “But like you said, it’s on our town’s land. Our territory. Jun even has a pact with the local Shifter Council allowing supes to come to dine. No violence. No politics. Just food.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “No violence, no politics, just food. Sounds like a t-shirt.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Agent. I’ll tell Jun. He loves merch ideas.”
We slide into a private booth, the table already hot, the metal grill in the center glowing faintly red.
Within seconds, a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick black hair and a sleeve of tattoos appears with a tray of banchan—all those delicious Korean side dishes that go with the meal—and a plethora of sliced and marinated meats.
The enormous man looks at me.
Then at Owen.
Then nods once, solemnly.
“You must be the DPCA agent,” he says in a deep, rumbly voice that screams Bear Shifter.
Owen just grins. “This is Agent Megan DiNapoli.”
Jun gives me a look that’s not unkind, just assessing.
I square my shoulders, meeting it head-on.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
After a beat, Jun nods. “You’ll do.”
And then he walks away.
Owen chuckles. “That’s high praise, by the way.”
“I gathered,” I say dryly, but warmth blooms low in my chest all the same.
Because this place? These people?
They might be rough and weird and covered in fur and secrets, but there’s something else here too.
Something I didn’t even realize I’d been missing.
Belonging.
Between bites of galbi and sips of cold barley tea, I watch Owen cook for me.
He moves with ease, flipping slices of pork belly with silver tongs, sliding kimchi onto my plate like it’s second nature.
No rush. No awkwardness.
Just care. Attention. Steady hands that hold mine a little too long when passing a bowl.
“You always feed women like this?” I tease, eyes on the grilled garlic he’s turning just for me.
“Only the ones I bite,” he says, not missing a beat.
My breath catches.
He looks up. His gold eyes burning across the fire. Like he’s ready to crawl across the table and claim me all over again.
“I meant what I said, Megan,” he murmurs. “You’re it for me. Mine.”
And God help me—I want to be.
Even though I’m a Jersey girl with resting bitch face and control issues.
Even though I’m here to do a job that could mean the end of Arrhythmia.
And even if it doesn’t, well, I still don’t know the first thing about being mated to a Wolf or living in a town where the top five tourist attractions are haunted, cursed, or both.
I still want to be his, because even though I don’t trust easily. I do trust him.
And somehow, here—eating sizzling meat in a secret BBQ joint full of monsters—I don’t feel like an outsider.
I feel like his.
I feel home.