Inside, the place is its usual brand of organized chaos.
One of the printers is still jammedagain, someone left a box of donation muffins from the Crescent Moon Diner in the evidence fridgeagain, and I’m pretty sure there’s still ectoplasm on the ceiling tiles from last week’s poltergeist situation.
But Megan doesn’t flinch.
She heads straight to the far desk, opens her laptop, and starts typing.
Focused.Calm.Professional.
Like she belongs here.
Like she’s not just visiting.
Gods help me, I want her to stay.Need her to.
Not just the night.Not just the week.I want her here.Permanently.
Curled in my bed.Filing reports at my desk.Kissing me goodbye on her way to interview suspects and train fresh-out-of-academy Pups in how to handle magical flareups.
I want her in it.In this life.With me.
But I don’t explain it to her.Not about what mating means or how this works.
Because I know I’ll beg her to stay if she says no.
And I’m not ready for any of that.Not the possibility of her rejection or refusal.
Not yet.Not ever, if I’m being honest.
Instead, I scan the complaint board.Half the town’s worried the DPCA is about to crack down, and the other half still thinks she’s an undercover succubus sent by the Coven to test their virtue.
Clyde, one of my deputies—and a nervous-as-hell Horse Shifter with a tendency to chew on raw carrots when stressed—leans against the wall like he’s been waiting for me to get back.Which, knowing Clyde, he probably has.
“So, what’s the word, Sheriff?”he asks, nibbling.“Is that DPCA agent here to shut us down?”
“Not today, Clyde.”I grab a marker and start going down the list of open complaints.“You got an update on Mrs.Fiddler’s trash cans?”
“Yeah.”He sighs and taps his clipboard.“Just some local kids playing pranks.Nothing to do with the Hellmouth Guy mentioned in the alley.And the Possum uprising in North Woods turned out to be a miscommunication.Again.”
“Those Possums are organized,” I mutter.“They know exactly what they’re doing.”
He nods solemnly.“Tactical geniuses.”
I glance over my shoulder at Megan.Her hair’s tied up now, those dark curls looped messily atop her head.Face serious.She’s gorgeous when she’s kicking ass, but this right here—this quiet diligence?
This is the kind of beauty that hits a man slow and deep.The kind that sticks.
She catches me watching and smiles.A soft, tired little curve of her lips that still manages to gut me.
“I’m almost done with my first report,” she says, fingers tapping keys.“Just finishing the field notes and flagging the portal interference on the cloud.”
“Cloud?”Clyde whispers like she said a spell word.
I grin.“That’s where normal people store things, Clyde.Not in cursed mason jars or under their horseshoes.”
“I’m just saying, cloud sounds like a place ghosts live,” he mutters.
“Go check on the wards at the high school,” I say, waving him off.
