When she finally pulls back, I force myself to let her go. Her eyes are swollen, lashes damp.
“Talk to me,” I say softly.
She shakes her head, staring down at her lap. “I didn’t know you were the sheriff,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say. “I should’ve told you.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “We really weren’t thinking straight. This has messed up everything.”
I ignore the sting her statement causes me. She’s right. We should have never…
“Fuck.” I rub a hand over my face, tugging at my hair. “I know. I just—” I look at her again. “That guy—was he your boyfriend?”
She meets my gaze then, eyes wet but steady. “I know you don’t know me well,” she says, voice trembling but sure, “but I’mnot the kind of person who’d sleep with someone else if I was in a relationship.”
The words hit hard. Shame flares hot behind my ribs. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
She sniffs, wipes at her nose with her sleeve. “Same.”
I hand her keys back. For a moment, neither of us moves. The world outside feels painfully bright.
“I should go,” I say finally.
She nods.
I climb out of the car, shutting the door carefully. As I walk back toward the cruiser, I glance around, praying no one saw us. Two people in a parked car, one of them in uniform—it’s a bad look, no matter how innocent the truth sounds.
But it’s not innocence that burns through me. It’s something else.
Something about her I can’t shake.
Her scent still clings to my jacket, light and warm and unmistakably Omega. It wraps around me even after I start the engine.
I grip the steering wheel, jaw tight.
This is the second time I’ve risked my career for her.
And I hate that I can’t bring myself to regret it.
By the time I get back to the station, the morning light has sharpened into something harsher. The kind that makes everything too clear, too unforgiving.
Jasmine greets me with a nod from dispatch, the phone already pressed to her ear, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The steady hum of the scanners fills the space—voiceslayered over static, the rhythm of a department that doesn’t quite sleep.
The day’s supposed to be about structure. Routine. Something steady to hold onto after the mess at the fire station. The interviews with the deputies are lined up back to back—fifteen minutes each, just enough time to get a read on them, maybe start building trust.
I need the distraction.
Marcus Henderson’s first. He walks in right on time, posture still military, even though he’s been out for years. His uniform’s pressed, his boots shined. He shakes my hand firmly, meets my eyes without hesitation.
“Deputy Henderson,” I say, motioning for him to sit.
“Sheriff Hill,” he replies, settling in. “Call me Marcus, if that’s easier.”
He talks about his service, his transition to small-town law enforcement, how he joined Driftwood’s department after losing a friend in the city. His voice is steady, measured, the kind of tone that makes you want to trust him.
“I’m good at following structure,” he says. “You give me a plan, I’ll execute it. No complaints.”
“Discipline’s not the problem,” I tell him. “But flexibility matters too. We’re dealing with a community still on edge after the fires. They’ll need reassurance as much as enforcement.”
