My heart stutters. The voice is off. I don’t recognize it. But the burned ginger and singed molasses can only belong to one person.
Saint.
My pulse kicks hard as the crowd parts just enough for me to see him, shoulders heaving, pushing hard against the officers holding him in place.
“My omega is in there!” he roars. “Get the fuck off of me and help me find her!”
Oh. Shit. He thinks…
And suddenly I’m running. “Saint! I’m here. I’m not hurt. I’m here!” I push through the crowd of police and firefighters who have surrounded him. Weaving my way under arms and past burly bodies.
I finally reach him. His eyes are wild and—Are those tears?
His eyes lock on me. But they don’tseeme. Not really. They rake over my face and body, searching. There’s true panic in them.
“Saint,” I say again, softer now. “I’m right here.”
His chest heaves. His grip tightens on the officer holding him. Then, finally, something shifts.
“Lark?” My name breaks out of him like it hurts.
“Yes,” I say quickly, stepping closer, hands coming up like I’m approaching a wounded animal. And maybe I am.
“I’m okay. I’m right here.”
And then he’s moving. The officers barely have time to react before he surges forward, breaking through their hold like it’s nothing.His hands are on me. Everywhere. Gripping, checking, dragging me against him.
“Fuck—” His voice is rough, wrecked. “Fuck, I thought—”
He hauls me up into his arms so fast I gasp. My feet leave the ground and I have to wrap my legs around his waist just to keep from slipping.
He crushes me against his chest. His arms are locked like steel bands around me, like if he loosens even a little, I might disappear.
“I’ve got you,” he mutters into my hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
“I’m okay,” I say again, pressing my face into his neck. His scent is wild, the molasses is still burned but the ginger is sharp. “Saint, I’m okay.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t loosen his grip. I don’t even think he’s breathing. His heart is pounding against mine. His entire body is rigid, so rigid I fear he’s dangerously close to breaking.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Hey… look at me.”
I pull back just enough to cup his face. His eyes find mine again. Still wild. Still not fully here.
“I’m not hurt,” I say slowly. “Nothing happened to me. I’m safe.”
His jaw flexes. His grip tightens again like he doesn’t believe me.
Behind us, someone clears their throat. “I know your alpha’s going a little feral right now,” an officer says, voice calm but firm, “but you’re going to need to step out of the restricted area.”
Saint’s head snaps toward him. The snarl that rips out of him is low and vicious enough that the officer instinctively takes a half step back.
“Saint,” I say quickly, pressing my palm to his cheek, turning his attention back to me. “Put me down. I’m fine.”
“I can’t.” His voice is rough, strained. “My alpha—” He shakes his head once, sharp. “It won’t let me.”
My chest tightens atthat. God.
Before I can respond, Fire Marshal Davis steps closer, notebook in hand, expression surprisingly unbothered.“Ms. Jensen,” he says, “I still have a few questions.”
