He shifts his weight. His pitch comes anyway, softer now, sadder around the edges.He talks about therapy, about realizing what he lost, about the apartment in Portland and how empty itfeels without me. He touches my arm when he says "us" and I move away.
"You left me for someone younger and thinner," I say. "And you're back because she left you and I'm convenient. I have always been convenient to you. That's not love. You just don't want to be alone."
He recovers fast, the way he does, rerouting to the next argument on his list. "Ellie, listen to yourself. You moved to a fishing village. You work at a county library. And now you're involved with—" He drops his voice. "He's a monster, El. An orc. You're better than this."
The lobby is quiet. A woman behind the front desk glances over and glances away.
"He's a father and a scholar and the most decent man I've ever met." The shaking stops. "He sees me. Not the safe version. Not the convenient version. Me. All of me. You never did."
Derek's face hardens. "You're making a mistake."
"You came here and tried to take my life apart. It didn't work. Go home, Derek."
I turn and walk through the lobby and push through the front door into the salt air.
The sheriff's office sits two blocks from the hotel. I almost drive past it. But instead I pull in.
The deputy behind the desk is young, polite, and halfway through a sandwich until I start talking. I tell him about the notes pushed through the mail slot at the library. The flyers. I tell him about the man who found me in the parking lot after the board meeting and recited my closing schedule back to me. Igive him Dale Rickman's name and he writes everything down in neat capital letters.
"We'll increase patrols around the library," he says. "Especially in the evenings. I'll pass this along to the sheriff."
I nod. It's not much. I didn't expect much. But I said it out loud, someone official wrote it down, and the next time something happens there's a paper trail that doesn't depend on me folding notes into a drawer. And it doesn't put Colt or the Feral Sons in the firing line.
Sarah opens the clubhouse door mid-sentence—"Reeve, put that down"—and steps aside to let me in. Reeve stands behind her holding a boot by the lace, swinging it.
"Kitchen. Jess made tea."
"Jess doesn't make tea."
"She can't have bourbon for another two months and she's taking it out on everyone. Tea is her compromise. Don't compliment it."
Sarah's mouth twitches. "She told Finn during a sparring session. He dropped his guard and she knocked him flat and then told him while he was on the mat. Her words: tactical advantage."
The clubhouse kitchen smells like toast and the lived-in chaos of a space shared by too many people with too few dishes. Jesssits on the counter with her feet dangling, a mug of tea balanced on her knee, her hair pulled back in the messy knot she wears when she's off duty. She doesn't look pregnant. She looks like Jess.
"Heard about the board meeting," Jess says. "Heard you told them to go fuck themselves."
"I told them my personal life has no bearing on my professional work."
"Same thing." She sips her tea. "Sit down."
I pull a chair out and sit. Reeve appears from under the kitchen table, grabs my jeans with both fists, and hauls himself into my lap like he's summiting a cliff. He turns around, sits, and puts his thumb in his mouth.
"I need to ask you something," I say. "Both of you."
Sarah sits across from me. Jess stays on the counter.
"Colt told me about the claiming bite last night." I adjust Reeve to a more comfortable position. "He explained all of it. The bond, the heartbeats, what it means. He told me it's permanent." I look at both of them. "But he didn't offer it."
Sarah's hands go still on the table. Jess lowers her mug.
"How did you know you were ready?" I ask. "It's forever. Literally forever. How do you know?"
Sarah and Jess look at each other. The glance lasts half a second and carries an entire conversation I'm not part of.
"That's not the right question," Sarah says.
"What do you mean?"
