"Then what good are you?"
The words come out sharp. Accusatory. She flinches the second they leave her mouth, and her scent floods with shame, like she can't believe she said them.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean... I shouldn't have..."
"You're fine."
"I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. I'm standing in your office demanding you arrest strangers on the internet because I can't cope with my own life."
Her voice breaks on the last word. Her face crumples.
And then she's crying.
Not quiet tears. Not dignified sniffles. Full-body sobs that shake her shoulders and make her gasp for air. She covers her face with her hands, but it doesn't hide anything. The sounds she's making are raw. Wounded. The sounds of someone who's been holding it together for too long and finally shattered.
And her scent—God, her scent. The distress pheromones are so strong I can taste them. Sharp and bitter and wrong. Everything in me is screaming to make it stop.
I'm on my feet quickly.
"Hey." I cross the small space between us in two strides. "Hey, stop that."
Terrible words. Useless words. The kind of thing you say when you have no idea how to handle the situation but you have to do something.
She cries harder.
"Jessica." I grab her shoulders. Gently. Just enough to steady her. Her body is warm under my hands, soft even through the coat. "Look at me."
She shakes her head, still hiding behind her hands.
"Jessica."
Something in my tone must reach her because she lowers her hands. Her face is a mess. Mascara smeared under her eyes. Cheeks blotchy and wet. Nose running.
She's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"I bet you hate me," she chokes out. "Just like everyone else. The whole town thinks I'm crazy. "
"I don't hate you."
"You should. I'm a disaster. I'm standing in your office crying like a child and I can't even explain why because I don't know why. I just... I walked here. My feet brought me here and I don't even know what I expected you to do about any of this."
Her voice is spiraling. Climbing. She's working herself into a full panic attack, and the scent of her distress is making my alpha lose its mind.
I do the only thing I can think of.
I pull her against my chest.
She goes stiff for a second. Then she melts. Her hands fist in the fabric of my uniform shirt, and she buries her face against my shoulder, and she cries like someone who hasn't been held in a very long time.
And the scent—
Her scent wraps around me intensified by the heat of her body, the stress hormones slowly fading as she feels safe. It mixes with my own leather and rain, dark sugar and ironwood, until I can't tell where she ends and I begin.
My alpha settles. Purrs. Mine. Pack. Safe.
I stroke her back in slow circles. Feel the curve of her spine under my palm. The softness of her body pressed against mine. She's all curves and warmth, exactly the way I remember from those nights when she'd fall asleep on my shoulder during movies. When she'd lean against me like I was solid ground and she needed the anchor.
This is dangerous. This is crossing a line. She's vulnerable and scared and I'm taking advantage of the moment.
