“Ah, shit!”
“Shit? What shit? What happened?” Boone asks.
Rhett walks up to us, his eyes wide. “I was at Saddlehorn Café, grabbing a coffee. It’s all over the news. The TV, the radio... everyone’s talking about it.” He looks from Boone’s shockedface to mine. “They’re saying he tried to force himself on Willa James.”
Saramaria
“He did what?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think to stop them.
I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but I’d stepped out onto the porch, drawn by the urgent murmur of their voices, and Rhett’s last words hit me like a physical blow.
All three of them turn to me. It’s a strange, synchronized movement, like three wolves catching a new scent. Knox’s face is a mask of grim anger. I can’t tell what Boone is feeling, and Rhett’s eyes are wide with shock.
“Jack Dalton,” Rhett says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on broken glass. “I’m not sure exactly what happened, that’s just what everyone in town is saying. That he... tried to force himself on Willa James.”
Holy shit.
The world tilts on its axis. The porch, the yard, the three massive Alphas staring at me—it all blurs into a swirling, nauseating vortex.
Willa. Sweet, quiet Willa with her gentle hands and her fierce love for animals. The woman I just shared a laugh with over a ridiculous romance novel. The woman who helped me rescue a puppy from a well.
Fear floods my veins. I spin around, my feet clumsy on the porch steps, and rush back inside the house. I need my phone. I need to call her. I need to make sure she’s okay.
My bag is where I left it, dumped on the floor by the sofa. I rummage through it, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the contents. Lipstick, wallet, a crumpled receipt. Finally, my fingers close around the cool, smooth glass of my phone.
“Are you okay?”
The voice is deep and quiet, and I jump, letting out a small yelp. Boone is standing in the doorway to the living room, his large frame filling the space. He’s watching me, his brow furrowed.
“I’m fine,” I say, but the lie is obvious. I can feel the tremor running through my entire body, a fine, uncontrollable shiver. I’m shaking.
I fumble with the screen, my thumb slipping twice before I manage to pull up my contacts. I find Willa’s name and press the call button, holding the phone to my ear with a hand that won’t stay still. It rings once. Twice. Then, a cool, automated voice.
“The person you have called is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”
“No,” I whisper, ending the call and immediately trying again. Same result. Voicemail. I try a third time. Nothing.
“Shit.” I throw the phone onto the sofa in frustration. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Where the fuck are my car keys? I start tearing through my bags again, tossing clothes and toiletries onto the floor. I have to go. I have to go to the clinic. I have to see for myself.
Tears are streaming down my face now, hot and angry. I’m not sure why I’m crying. I barely know Willa. But I can imagine it. I can imagine that feeling of helplessness, of being trapped, of a larger, stronger body pressing you down, their scentsuffocating you, their hands where you don’t want them. I can imagine it all too well.
The thought of her, alone and going through that, makes something inside me crack wide open.
“What are you looking for?” Knox’s voice. He’s in the living room now, too.
“Keys,” I gasp, my breath coming in ragged, painful hitches. “My car keys. I have to go check on her.”
I spin around too fast, my foot catching on the edge of the sofa leg. A blinding, white-hot pain shoots up from my toe.
“Fuck!” I scream, hopping on one foot, cradling my injured hand to my chest. The pain, the fear, the frustration—it all boils over into a single, explosive moment of pure panic.
Boone takes a step forward, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. “Saramaria,” he says, a steady rumble that cuts through the noise in my head. “You’re freaking out.”
“I have to,” I sob, the words tearing from my throat. “I have to go.”
“I get it,” he says, his voice impossibly calm. “But can you breathe? Just for a second. Breathe for me.”
