He paused on the steps, searching my face again. “Is it trouble?”
“Not yet,” I said, and opened the door for him. He slipped inside, but I stayed on the porch, eyes locked on the truck. It didn’t move, just sat there, watching.
I wanted to go over, rip the door open, and show whoever it was that they couldn’t intimidate me. Or my omega.
Instead, I waited. Eventually, the engine shut off, and a minute later, the truck started up again and rolled away, slow and deliberate.
I went inside. Jojo was at the sink, hands braced on the counter, shoulders tight.
He turned when I came in. “Who was it?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t get a look. Probably nothing.”
But we both knew that wasn’t true.
He wiped his hands on his shirt, then walked over and hugged me from behind, face pressed between my shoulder blades. “I’ll make lunch,” he said, voice shaky but steady.
I let him go, but didn’t stop watching the window. The feeling in my gut was familiar: the calm before a firefight, the certainty that something big was coming.
But now, for the first time, I had something to defend.
Not just land. Not just a name on a deed.
Jojo.
I watched him move around the kitchen, bare feet on the cold floor, hair falling in his eyes. I watched the way he cracked eggs, lined up the plates, set out two mugs of coffee.
I watched the mark on his neck.
And I knew, deep in my bones, that this was my job now.
To fight for him.
To protect what was ours.
The world outside could do its worst.
We were ready.
Chapter Eight
~ Jojo ~
Lunch was simple: cold chicken, biscuits, and a quart jar of pickles, but it tasted better than any meal I’d ever had in a restaurant. Maybe it was the light—honest, dusty sun pooling in the kitchen, turning the battered tabletop into something almost holy. Or maybe it was the fact that every time I looked up from my plate, Rawley was looking right back at me.
His eyes were different today. Last night’s wildfire was banked down, replaced by something more patient, but twice as hot. Every move he made was deliberate, even when all he was doing was splitting a biscuit and smearing it with honey.
The baby chicks piped from their crate by the stove, little feathered motes zipping between the cardboard walls. I’d already cleaned up after them twice, but I liked the sound. It made the place feel alive, not like a rental with all the ghosts painted over.
Rawley finished his food first, then leaned back in the chair, stretching until the old wood popped. He caught me watching his arms, and one corner of his mouth twitched.
I looked away, swallowing a mouthful of biscuit and pride.
He drummed his fingers on the table, then folded his hands. “You ever want to know what happened, why I ended up here?”
I tried to play it cool, but I could feel the hunger in my voice when I said, “Yeah. If you want to talk about it.”
He grunted, then went quiet for a few seconds, like he was assembling a war plan. “My family’s from Texas,” he finally said. “Old money. Steele with an E. Grew up in Fort Worth, country clubs, private schools, the whole nine.”
