“Drew Crawford,” Wade replied and watched the deputy’s expression shift from helpful to alert in under a second.
“Take a seat,” Sanchez said, already reaching for the phone. “I'll let him know you're here.”
They moved to the waiting area, and Alex practically collapsed into one of the chairs like his legs had given up on the whole standing thing. Wade sat beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together, offering what comfort proximity could provide.
His mate's breathing had gone shallow, each inhale barely moving his ribs, hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white from the pressure. A muscle jumped in his jaw, over and over, like his teeth were clenched so tight something might crack.
Reaching over, Wade covered both of Alex’s hands with one of his own, the size difference almost comical if the situation weren't so goddamn serious. “You're doing great, honey bunny.”
“I’m about to confess to murder,” Alex whispered, gaze fixed on the scuff marks someone's shoes had left on the floor. “That's not great. That's the opposite of great.”
“Self-defense,” Wade corrected, thumb rubbing circles over Alex’s knuckles in what he hoped was a soothing motion. “There's a difference.”
Alex’s laugh came out bitter and too loud for the quiet lobby. “Tell that to a jury.”
Before Wade could respond, a door opened down the hall and footsteps approached, heavy and measured. Sheriff Owen filled the doorway, all six-foot-something of solid muscle packed into a uniform that looked like it had been tailored specifically to contain that much bear shifter. Dark hair, clean-shaven face that made him look younger than he probably was, eyes that took in everything about them in one sweep.
“Wade. Alex,” Owen greeted, voice carrying that particular rumble that marked him as something other than human to anyone who knew what to listen for. “Come on back.”
Following him down the hall felt like walking to an execution, if executions happened in well-lit corridors with motivational posters about community policing. Owen’s office was small but organized, desk clear except for a computer, a few folders, and a coffee mug that proclaimed “World's Okayest Sheriff” in faded letters.
“Sit,” Owen said, gesturing to the two chairs across from his desk as he settled into his own.
Wade took the one on the right, Alex the left, and immediately regretted not sitting closer when his mate's trembling became visible enough that even someone without supernatural senses would notice. Every few seconds, Alex’s knee bounced, stopped, bounced again, like his body couldn't decide between fight and flight so it was trying both in rapid succession.
Owen leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, expression unreadable. “What do you know about Drew Crawford's death?”
For a moment, nothing happened. Alex opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Closed it again. Swallowed hard enough that Wade heard it. Tried again.
“I killed him,” Alex said, and the words seemed to cost him something vital.
The sheriff's expression didn’t change, which somehow made everything worse. No shock, no anger, no reassurance. Just that same neutral mask that gave away absolutely nothing about what was happening behind it.
Silence stretched out, punctuated only by the hum of the computer and the distant sound of someone laughing in another part of the building. Wade’s wolf paced, restless and ready to tear through the desk if Owen so much as reached for his handcuffs.
“Keep going,” Owen finally said.
Alex’s hands twisted together in his lap, fingers knotting and unknotting in a rhythm that looked painful. “He was my boyfriend. For two months. I didn’t know he was in debt to a demon. Drew told Valcore that half of what he owed was mine, which wasn't true. I’d never even met the guy.”
Beside him, Wade could smell the fear pouring off his mate, sharp and acrid beneath the lingering scent of their shower that morning. Every instinct screamed to grab Alex and run, get him somewhere safe where sheriffs and confessions couldn't touch him.
“Drew asked me to meet him at this address,” Alex continued, voice shaking but steady enough to be understood. “Said he wanted to apologize, work things out with Valcore. I thought...” A bitter laugh. “I was going to break up with him, face to face. It seemed like the right thing to do.”
Owen hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken notes, hadn’t done anything except listen with that same unreadable expression that was starting to make Wade’s teeth ache from clenching them.
“It was a trap house,” Alex said. “Soon as I walked in, Drew put this collar on me. Enchanted. Kept me from shifting. Then he pulled a gun.”
The trembling had spread from Alex’s hands to his whole body now, small quakes that made his voice waver. Wade reached over and gripped his mate's shoulder, trying to anchor him to something solid.
“There was a pipe,” Alex whispered. “Lead, I think. Heavy. I just wanted him to drop the gun. I swung at his hand, but he ducked and...” His breath hitched. “I hit his head instead. Didn’t mean to kill him. Just wanted the gun. Just wanted to get out of there.”
Owen’s gaze flicked to Wade briefly then back to Alex. Still nothing in his expression, no indication of what he was thinking or what would happen next. The silence that followed felt like it lasted years, each second dragging out while Wade calculated how fast he could get Alex out of the building if this went sideways.
“Self-defense,” Alex added, like maybe saying it out loud would make it more true, more believable. “He was going to shoot me. I just… I reacted.”
More silence. Owen’s fingers drummed once against the desk, a soft tap-tap-tap that might as well have been gunshots for how loud they sounded in the quiet office.
This was it. The moment where everything either worked out or fell completely apart. Wade’s hand tightened on Alex’s shoulder, ready to move, ready to fight, ready to do whatever it took to keep his mate from ending up in a cell.
