He nods, eyes steady. “Understood. I’ll follow your lead.”
We shake hands again. He leaves me with a good impression—solid, reliable, not too eager.
Next is Jamie Cooper. Two years on the job, part-time. She’s younger, maybe late twenties, with sun-streaked hair pulled back in a messy bun and an energy that doesn’t sit still. She talks fast, about her patrol near the pier, about how she splits her time between the department and helping her dad at the bait shop.
“It’s a weird town sometimes,” she says, grinning. “You’ll see. People love their gossip more than their morning coffee.”
I make a note of that.
She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I like the job, though. The people. They trust us, mostly. It’s a small department, but it works.”
“Any issues with coverage?” I ask.
She hesitates. “Sometimes on weekends. Ortiz handles most of the late-night calls. He knows everyone. Half the time, he talks them down before they even reach the station.”
I thank her and send her out with a promise to review patrol rotations.
Then comes Lucas Ortiz. Fourteen years in Driftwood’s department, the longest tenure here by far. He’s a big man, broad shoulders, silver streaking his dark hair. His uniform’s worn but neat, his badge polished to a mirror shine. He doesn’t need to prove anything.
“You’re the first new sheriff we’ve had in almost a decade,” he says as he takes the seat opposite me.
“Change makes people nervous,” I reply. “Including me.”
He laughs quietly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t step on too many toes. People here like things familiar.”
“I’ve gathered that.”
He fills me in on the rhythm of the place—how the town slows in winter, how the pier floods every few months, how the old-timers still call the station to report raccoons in their trash cans. He’s sharp. Observant. The kind of man who reads people as easily as he reads a map.
When he leaves, I’m left with a desk full of notes and a rare feeling of calm. These are good people. Not perfect, but they care. They want this town to be safe. It’s a start.
I should feel better. I should feel grounded.
But instead, I feel the tension creeping back under my skin, crawling up the back of my neck.
By noon, the interviews are done. The station’s quiet again, the only sound the steady hum of the air conditioner and the faint scratch of my pen as I write up my report. My coffee’s gone cold. My chest feels tight.
I tell myself it’s just fatigue, leftover stress from the move. But it’s not that. I know what it is.
It’s her.
The scent of her still clings to me, faint but unmistakable, embedded into the fabric of my uniform like it’s been branded there. Vanilla and warmth, something floral and sweet underneath. It’s been hours and it’s still in my head, curling through my thoughts like smoke.
I’ve been an Alpha my whole life. I know what that means. The instincts. The triggers. The way scent can shift something chemical, biological, primal. It’s biology, not weakness. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
But I haven’t felt this out of control in years.
Amy never did this to me. With her, it was simple. Balanced. We could go months without a flare of instinct, without me even thinking about my designation. She calmed me. Softened the edges.
Maybe I got used to that.
Maybe I forgot what it means to feel like this—to have every sense sharpen, every nerve alive, just because of one person’s scent.
And that terrifies me.
I open my laptop and typepheromone blockers for Alphasinto the search bar. The results load fast—medical suppliers, discreet services, local pharmacies. Most of them require prescriptions or on-site evaluations.
I click through pages, scanning.Temporary suppressants.Topical inhibitors.Emergency injection protocols.
