Page 4 of Cuffed By the Wolf

Ipull the SUV into the garage bay at the Morgan County Sheriff’s Department and cut the engine.

“My eye is burning,” Ms. Walker says through gritted teeth.

I step out, push my aviators into my front pocket.

“Afternoon, Sheriff.” Officer Fitch lifts a hand from his waist holster in a half-wave.

“Fitch.” I nod, already moving toward the bullpen.

A few deputies are checking over their vehicles before heading back out. Summer’s in full swing, which means campers who don’t know how to put out a fire, tourists who don’t understand what a fishing license is, and half the county trying to drink and drive their way home from the lake.

“Somebody get me the festival road-closure list before end of day,” I call out, not slowing down. “And whoever’s on the Route 9 detail, I want eyes on that stretch before Captain Nez calls asking why Lupton’s short-handed again.”

A chorus of yes, sirs follows me. Good. That’s how it should sound.

I open the rear passenger door and reach in to help her out.

One amber eye meets mine, watering, furious. “Do you mind helping me out... please?”

I’d bet money that please cost her more than the disorderly conduct charge will.

“Hurts that much to ask for help?”

She twists those pretty, plump lips like she’s biting back every word she actually wants to say.

I blow out a breath, step to the transportation desk, and pluck a tissue from the box. Fitch watches me do it like he’s seeing a solar eclipse.

I wipe under her eye. She looks ridiculous like this — furious and teary and trying to hold on to her dignity, anyway. It’s cute in an awkward, infuriating kind of way, and I hate that I notice it.

“Thank you.” She blinks up at me. “Can you pat my forehead dry too?”

My jaw sets. I toss the tissue in the trash and grip her arm, steering her toward processing.

“Campbell, get her processed,” I order.

Campbell steps out from behind the desk. “Yes, sir.”

Ms. Walker’s mouth drops open. “You’re not really going to put me in jail?”

“Yup.”

I don’t look at her face again. Can’t afford to.

“Campbell, put her in a holding cell. I’ll question her when I get in.”

“When you get in?” She practically growls it. “What time is that? I have business to handle.”

I’m already walking away when I catch it, low, muttered: “Grumpy asshole.”

I turn and pin her with a look that’s put grown men on the ground. “Keep it up and I’ll question you tomorrow evening instead.”

Her frown almost undoes me. Almost. It doesn’t, because my heart beats for one thing these days — getting through the day — and nothing gets past that. Not since six years ago.

I nod to the deputies at their desks on my way to my office, shut the door behind me, and drop into the leather chair like it owes me something.

Six years ago, everything was right. My wolf was calm. Lily’s kindness used to draw the whole town toward her without her even trying. She wasn’t my scent match — wasn’t fated to me — but she made me happy anyway, or I thought she did. Our runs through the woods were the best part of my week.

I cooked her dinner one night. Brought up bonding.