I look out the cop car window as the lights flicker across the courtyard, and I see Grace—still furious, still beautiful—watching us go. She doesn’t wave. But there’s something in her expression that isn’t all anger. It’s gratefulness.
And then I see the blood her knuckles—and grin.
My omega can throw a hell of a good punch.
I hope she never needs to again.
It’simpossible to get comfortable on a bench carved out of concrete. I try anyway and cycle through every possible permutation of my ass and spine, until it’s clear that the only people who find these things remotely bearable are serial killers and dudes with no vertebrae.
Not me with a broken leg.
Zev is doing wall squats in the corner. Connor has his face in his hands and elbows on knees. If this was a sitcom, the laugh track would have broken by now.
We’re not in with Charlton Pack, thank Christ. They put the three of them in a cell down the hall, probably to keep the carnage to a minimum. Which is a shame. I could use the stress relief.
Time blurs in holding. There are no clocks or windows, and the only food is a plastic-wrapped bologna sandwich and a Dixie cup of water that smells like Band-Aids. At least the echo in here’s good for eavesdropping, which is how I learn that Evan is crying and Chris is threatening to sue. Tanner is trying to intimidate a guard—it’s going as well as you’d expect.
My nose is swelling shut, but I poke at it anyway and try to line up the cartilage.
Zev watches and grunts approval. “Nice technique, just like the old days.”
Connor finally looks up. His right eye’s already purple. “They’re going to kill me, you know. Like, actually kill me. My alternate’s now out with the stomach bug. I hope we’re out by tomorrow.”
Zev stops his squats and slumps onto the bench beside me. “I could lose my job,” he mutters. “They don’t let people who get arrested coach high school.”
Connor groans and pulls at his hair. “I can’t believe we got into a fight with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds.”
I snort a laugh. “Buddy, you punched that Christopher guy so hard he nearly barfed. You’re not exactly a hostage here. Besides, they swung firstafterharassing Grace and Charlotte.”
It’s maybe an hour before a guard stops at our bars. “Murphy, someone’s here for you.”
I stand and shuffle to the cell door. There’s a narrow slot. A single, cold blue eye looks through.
“Jesus, Fowler. You’re a mess.”
I smile. I’d know that gravelly voice anywhere. “Hi, Cap.”
The cell door opens and Captain Thomas Vega, fire chief and connoisseur of the world’s worst cigars, steps inside. He’s still in uniform, hat under his arm, salt and pepper hair glistening with rain. He’s never looked more like a disappointed dad.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you idiots out of here.”
The guard unlocks the door and ushers us through. Connor and Zev follow, both blinking in the too-bright hallway lights. Vega ignores them, seemingly preferring to shoot me unspoken questions like,“What the fuck did you do this time?”
We wind our way through paperwork and last interviews with surly officers. The Charlton bastards are long gone, probably bailed out by angry parents with expensive lawyers.
While the clerk processes the last of our forms, I lean into the corner with Cap.
“How’d you know?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve got a scanner app. And the old lady across from Grace’s place? She called me before she called 9-1-1.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head. “We’re old friends from way back. She recognized you from station line-up photos I’ve shared.” He lets that sink in for a second, then softens. “Next time you want to get in a brawl, call me first. I’ll bring backup.”
Zev’s standing nearby. Connor’s rubbing his wrists.
I have to ask. “Am I fired for this?”
