9
NACHO
The knock on my door is soft. Hesitant. The knock of someone who isn't sure they should be here.
I set down my pen and roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knot that's been building since I read the patrol reports this morning. Three noise complaints. One fender bender. A shoplifting incident at the hardware store that turned out to be old Mr. Garrett forgetting to pay for a box of nails.
Small town problems. The kind I signed up for when I took this job five years ago.
"Come in."
The door swings open.
And her scent hits me first.
Her sweet omega scent flooding my office before I even see her. But underneath the sweetness, there's something sharp. Bitter. The chemical signature of distress. Cortisol. Adrenaline. Fear.
My alpha surges, demanding I find the threat and eliminate it.
Then I see her.
My whole body goes rigid.
Jessica Delacroix is standing in my doorway, backlit by the fluorescent lights of the hallway, looking like she's been through a war and lost. Her blonde hair is tangled from the wind, falling around her face in messy waves that catch the light. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, but her hazel eyes are red and swollen. She's been crying. Recently.
She's wearing a coat that swallows her frame. Dorothy's, probably. Underneath it, I catch a glimpse of a navy blue sweater that stretches across her chest, hugging her curves in ways that make my uniform pants feel suddenly too tight.
But it's the scent that's killing me. Her scent fills the small office until I can barely think straight. My alpha recognizes her on a level that bypasses conscious thought.
Omega. Ours. Distressed. Fix it.
I stay seated. Barely.
"Jessica." My voice comes out lower than I intended. Rougher. "What happened?"
She steps inside, pulling the door closed behind her. Her movements are jerky. Uncoordinated. Like a marionette with tangled strings.
And her scent intensifies with the closed door.
"I need you to arrest someone," she says.
I blink. "Who?"
"Everyone." She throws her hands up, and the coat sleeves flap around her wrists. "Callum. His mother. Melissa. Everyone on Instagram who's calling me a monster. That woman named BeckyLovesWine2003 who said I'm stuck up even though I've never met her in my life."
Her voice is rising with each word, climbing toward hysteria. The scent of her distress sharpens, and my alpha doesn't like seeing her this upset. Nor unable to fix it.
"BeckyLovesWine2003?" I repeat.
"It's her username. She left a comment saying Callum dodged a bullet. She has a profile picture of a cat wearing a sombrero. I want her arrested."
I lean back in my chair and study her. The tremor in her hands. The way she's holding herself, arms wrapped around her middle like she's trying to keep herself from falling apart. The way her scent is spiking with each breath turning almost acrid with stress.
"I can't arrest people for Instagram comments," I say carefully.
"Why not?"
"Because being an asshole isn't illegal. If it was, I'd have half the town locked up."
