I take a deep breath, the microphone amplifying the sound. “I know you’re all scared,” I begin, my voice carrying through the hushed room. “I know you’re worried about the directive from the Council. I understand the fear. But I want to be clear about one thing: I’m here to protect you. All of you.”
I pause, letting my words sink in. “I’m unhappy that people are using spells to lock everyone out of their premises. The ‘Threshold Ward’… I understand why you’re doing it. But it creates division. It makes it harder for us to do our jobs, harder for us to keep you safe. We need to trust each other, not build walls between us.”
A hand goes up in the front row. It’s Eleanor West. Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet but carries a surprising strength.
“Sheriff,” she says, her eyes clear and direct. “I have a question about the data being collected. Now that I’m a widow… does that mean I count as an unbonded Omega?”
The question hangs in the air, and it hits me then—this isn’t just about the young, the unmarried. This is about everyone. The town is rebelling because they’re scared. They’re seeing the Council’s directive not as a bureaucratic necessity, but as a threat to their autonomy, to their very lives. They’re looking for loopholes, for ways to protect themselves, and they’re turning to me for answers.
I think of my father, of the night the Rift surged, of the way his truck went off the road before the energy settled. I will always be wary of the surge, because that’s the reason he’s not alive right now. But I can’t let my fear push me like this. Not if it will make the entire town go into a frenzy.
“Thank you, Eleanor,” I say, my voice softer now. “That’s a valid question. And the answer is no. The Council is specifically interested in unbonded Omegas who have never been partnered before. But I understand your concern. I understand everyone’s concern.”
I look out at the sea of faces, at the fear and defiance I see there. “I will talk to the Council. I will demand that they provide a clear explanation of the TrueBond app, of what it means, of what it doesn’t mean. I will have that information presented to the town. The data collection will be done at the station. It will be voluntary. No one will be forced to provide their name.”
A murmur goes through the crowd, a ripple of relief.
“I’m hoping that before the next festival, I will have all the details,” I continue. “Because I’m worried, and I care. I care about this town, about every single person in it. I went door to door to check on everyone after the last surge. I have always had, and always will have, this town’s best interests at heart.”
Another hand goes up. It’s June Finch. “Sheriff,” she says. “Voluntary or not, the Council has shown its hand. How can we trust that they won’t just send in enforcers if we don’t comply?”
“I won’t let that happen. I will stand between you and them. That’s my promise.”
“And what about the Rift?” a man calls out from the back. It’s Pastor Gide, his eyes wild with a fervent fire. “The Rift is our punishment! The Council’s meddling is just another sign of our sin!”
“The Rift is a natural phenomenon,” I say, my patience wearing thin. “It’s dangerous, yes, but it’s not a punishment. And for now, I just want people to stay out of the quarry, away from the Rift. Let us handle the monitoring. Let us do our jobs.”
The questions keep coming, a barrage of fears and concerns. I answer them as best I can. I talk about the wards, about the emergency response plan, about the importance of community, of sticking together.
I see Caroline watching me with an unreadable expression. I want her to see me as the man who can protect her, who can protect this town. Not the man who lost control, who gave in to his desires in the middle of a crisis.
Finally, the questions start to taper off. The crowd is still restless, but the panic has subsided, replaced by a wary sort of calm. I’ve given them something to hold on to, a sliver of hope in the face of overwhelming fear.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” I say. “But we’re Willowbrook. We’ve faced the Rift before. We’ve faced Council interference before. We’ve faced it all, and we’re still here. We’re still standing. And we will continue to stand. Together.”
I step back from the podium, the meeting officially over. People start to file out, their conversations a low, worried hum. I watch them go, my heart heavy with the weight of my promise.
I will protect them. I have to.
Because if I don’t, who will?
I’m exhausted.
Silas texted me ten minutes ago to ask if I’ll stop by the office because there’s something he’d like to discuss. Honestly, I’m hoping he cancels just so I can head home and sleep.
Aunt Etta, who left half an hour ago, texted to let me know that she made some pasta for us.
I would kill for some dinner.
Long after the formal questions have ceased and the crowd has thinned, a stream of people approach the podium, their faces etched with a mixture of desperation and hope. They want an audience. They want to talk.
A mother worried about her daughter, a shopkeeper concerned about his business, a young Alpha terrified of being forced into a bond he doesn’t want. I listen to them all, my voice growing hoarse, my patience wearing thin, but my resolve hardening with each story. I give them my time, my word, my promise. It’s the least I can do.
By the time I’m finally able to escape, the Town Hall is nearly empty, the clock on the wall reading almost 10 p.m. The night air is cool against my skin, a welcome relief from the stuffy, tension-filled room. I rub the back of my neck, my muscles protesting a day that feels like it’s lasted a week. All I want is to go home, fall into bed, and forget about the Council, the Rift, and the complicated mess that’s my life.
I’ve just turned the corner from the hall when I see Caroline again.
She’s walking alone down the deserted street, her figure illuminated by the single lamppost at the corner.
