He shook his head, and the ponytail whipped across his cheek. “No, never, I swear. I just—I lost my job at the bakery in town, and I couldn’t make rent, and when I saw this place was empty, I thought maybe it was abandoned. I’m sorry, please don’t call anyone.”
I looked at him—really looked, for the first time. He had the kind of face that could go twelve rounds with a bad day and still come up smiling: high cheekbones, big eyes, mouth too generous for his own good. He was scared, but not the way I expected; more like a deer waiting to see if the headlights would swerve.
I ran a hand over my head, trying to think. “You’re alone?”
“Yes. I swear.”
I let that hang. “All right, Jojo. You get a pass for tonight. But you’re gonna have to explain how you got in, and how you survived two months in this place without anyone noticing.”
The relief on his face was almost comical. “Thank you. I can show you around, if you want. Or—uh—if you’re hungry, the bread’s still warm.”
I almost laughed. Almost. “You always try to bribe armed men with carbs?”
He shrugged, a tiny ghost of a smile breaking through. “It usually works at the bakery.”
I pulled a chair from the table and sat, leg stretched out in front to ease the ache. He watched me, wary but curious. I gestured at the stove. “Go on. Finish what you were doing. But you and I are having a conversation.”
He nodded and turned back to the pot, stirring with shaking hands. I kept an eye on him, but some of the tension had bled out of the room. He didn’t seem dangerous. Just desperate.
I looked down at the table, then back at him, and realized the house didn’t feel empty anymore. Not haunted, not abandoned—just waiting for someone to come home.
I still had questions. But for the first time since I’d crossed the state line, I didn’t feel like an intruder.
I felt like the one in charge.
Jojo’s hands shook as he set the spoon down, but the stubborn little bastard didn’t spill a drop. I sat at the table, my knee barking a slow, insistent complaint, and watched every move.
Old habits die harder than steel.
I couldn’t just take the kid’s word for it. Anyone desperate enough to squat a ranch could be desperate enough for worse. I forced myself to keep the Glock holstered, but my palm itched for the grip. I let my hand rest flat on the table, fingers splayed, in case Jojo was the kind of omega who needed a visual reminder of where the power was in the room.
He kept glancing at my hand. My guess was correct.
“Sit down,” I said, gesturing with my chin.
He obeyed, sinking into the chair opposite with the anxious grace of someone waiting for a punch that might never land. Up close, the kid was even skinnier than I’d realized. His wrists looked like they’d snap under the weight of a hearty handshake.
I started in the old SEAL way—direct, monotone, no excess. “Who else is here?”
“No one,” he said. “I promise. You can check. I—” He flinched, then caught himself. “I know you don’t trust me, but I’m really alone.”
The flinch told me everything. He’d been roughed up before, probably more than once. Not my problem, but I clocked it for later.
“Finish what you were making,” I said. “Then show me the rest of the house.”
He nodded, got up so quickly his chair nearly fell over, then set about ladling whatever was in the pot into two mismatched bowls. The aroma hit me again—herbs, wild onion, bone stock. My stomach growled, and I hated that Jojo’s eyes flicked to my belly, assessing the threat level the way a stray dog would.
He carried the bowls over with both hands, careful not to spill. Set one in front of me, one at the empty place opposite. I raised an eyebrow.
“I always make extra,” he said, voice thin.
I didn’t thank him. Instead, I spooned up a bite—surprisingly good, with a kick of pepper and something smoky underneath. He watched, hunched, waiting for me to pass judgment.
“You cook for yourself?”
He nodded. “And I clean up after. I’m not a slob. I thought maybe the owners would come back eventually and—” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”
I kept eating, never taking my eyes off him. Every few seconds, he flicked a glance at the door or the windows, classic escape-artist behavior. I finished the stew in three minutes, wiped the bowl with a hunk of sourdough, then stood.
