No Alpha will ever own me like that.
I swallow down the sob building in my chest and reach for the glass of water on the nightstand. My hand shakes. The water tastes like metal.
I need to get the prescription filled. First thing tomorrow.
I whisper it like a prayer.
Then I lie in the dark, fever-hot and humming with a hunger I can’t name and try not to remember what it felt like to stand too close to Beau.
Or how good it would feel to stop fighting.
Even just once.
CHAPTER NINE
Beau
Night shiftsat the fire station always sound better in theory than in reality. On paper, you get a slower pace, fewer calls, maybe a chance to catch some shuteye in the bunk room if you’re lucky.
In reality? You end up on your knees at three a.m., scrubbing down the engine bay because the captain decided the place needed tidying and the rookies were all off duty.
By the time Jamila strolls in to relieve me, I’m dead on my feet. My shirt smells faintly of soap and exhaust, my hands are raw from bleach water, and every muscle in my back feels like it’s been wired too tight.
She takes one look at me and laughs. “Rough night?”
I shrug. “Depends on your definition. No fires. No rescues. Just a whole lot of mop duty.”
Jamila claps me on the shoulder. “Go home before you fall over, Beau.”
Roxy’s already halfway out the door, pulling her hoodie up over her head. “Straight to bed for me,” she mutters, waving a hand without looking back.
“Yeah, no,” I say, grabbing my duffel from the bench. “I’m stopping for coffee first. If I go home now, I’ll crash before I can even shower.”
Truth is, I’m craving the jolt—not just for my body, but for my brain. Something to cut through the haze.
I change in the locker room, swapping my station gear for jeans and a Henley, running a hand through my hair in the mirror until it looks less like I’ve been crawling around on the concrete floor all night. My beard’s getting a little longer than I usually keep it, but I can’t bring myself to care.
It’s only a few minutes’ walk to the coffee shop. The doorbell chimes as I step inside, and the smell hits me first—rich espresso, cinnamon, a hint of warm sugar.
And then there’s Cora behind the counter, bright smile and auburn hair catching the morning light from the big front window.
“Well, well,” she says, leaning on the register. “If it isn’t Fox Hollow’s favorite fireman.”
“Don’t let the captain hear you say that,” I tell her, but I’m already smiling. Cora has that effect on people—easy, playful, like she’s letting you in on a secret even if you just walked in off the street.
She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You look beat. Long night?”
“Long enough.”
She slides a cup toward me, the lid already stamped with my name. “On the house. Perks of being a local hero.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, taking the cup. Her fingers brush mine.
She’s always been like that—comfortable in her own skin, not shy about touching. I remember that about her, the way she knew exactly how to use her hands, whether she was kneading dough or wrapped around my?—
Yeah. That thought sticks for a second longer than it should.
But lately, she’s not the one who’s been taking up space in my head. The last few days have been… crowded, mentally speaking. And the person responsible isn’t standing behind this counter.
