Violently, to save the rest of the body.
“We did.” His eyes fall. “That was the biggest mistake of our lives. But you didn’t take that too far at all. That was…” He grins. “Honestly amazing.”
The anger flashes away into a warm blush. “Yeah?”
He nods and meets my gaze. “Yeah.”
“Thank you for catching me.”
Connor touches a hand to my below. “Always, Grace. I don’t plan on ever letting you fall again.”
Unfortunate phrasing because I think I already am. For all three of them. All over again.
Which makes me scared as hell. Doubly so as the omega in me wants to curl up and purr.
He pushes out a breath and braces himself like he’s going for a triple axel. “I don’t want to hurt you again, Grace. I meant it when I said I was sorry.” His scent spikes—a hungrier peppermint, edged with something I can’t name. I feel it swirl toward me, tugging at the part of me that wants to run right into his arms and never leave.
I grip my skate bag like it’s a lifeline. “Promise me you won’t hurt me again.”
He nods, eyes serious. “I don’t intend to ever let that happen again.”
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I close the gap between us.
He looks at my mouth, at my eyes, and then back again. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”
I nod.
He kisses me with no stage lights or choreography this time, just the warm pressure of his lips and the trembling in us both. I let myself feel all of it, the terror and the sweetness. Most of all the hope that maybe this pack scent match isn’t as doomed as I keep insisting.
Connor pulls away first and rests his forehead against mine. “Goodnight, Grace.”
“Goodnight, Connor.”
I walk away with my heart doing cartwheels, the scent of roses and peppermint following me all the way home.
Maybe second chances are sometimes worth it.
CHAPTER 18
FOWLER
When the call comes in, I’m halfway through downing a protein shake and an argument with Gus over who’s responsible for the ketchup-shaped Rorschach on the kitchen ceiling.
We’re all in station T-shirts and sweatpants, lounging on mismatched couches. Then the alarm screeches to life.
Captain Vega’s voice booms from the hallway: “Let’s go, Murphy, quit your loafing!”
Outside, the sky threatens rain but delivers only humidity. The air shimmers like a hot griddle. Some mornings I wake up needing the burn of an adrenaline spike, the white-hot edge that says you’re alive and making up for every wasted chance. The NHL used to scratch that itch. Now it’s this: flames and a borrowed sense of heroism.
We pile into the engine with Captain Vega behind the wheel. My legs bounce as if I’ll detonate if I sit still too long. Dispatch presents its clinical calm over the radio: “Structure fire. Possible entrapment. Repeat, possible entrapment. Units responding.”
The house is already halfway to becoming a cautionary tale by the time we get there. The roof is doomed to collapse. Orangelicks at the eaves, and black smoke turns the sky to a bruise. Police and fire lights paint everything in red and blue.
Vega is out first, striding through heatwaves with his turnout coat already half-buttoned. We follow, helmets slapping thighs and masks dangling. A coppery taste hangs in the air. The neighborhood crowds behind yellow tape, faces glowing with dread and awe.
There’s always a crowd. Everybody wants to see something burn that isn’t them.
We take the side door. Lopez on nozzle, me backing. Gus is behind us, carrying the irons. Vega floats behind, calling the shots but trusting us to make it work.
