Page 16 of Fake It ’Til You Mate It

The sheriff reaches out, gripping my eyelid. It takes everything I have not to tremble when he makes contact with me for the first time, but all he does is peer into my eyes, checking for a concussion.

Gus moves until he’s sitting on my chest.

The big guy reaches for him.

I hurriedly sit up, cradling Gus close—and knocking the sheriff away. “No. I mean it. Gus and me… this is Gus, by the way… we were just throwing out trash this morning before opening when we found the dead predator.”

“Wolf,” rumbles Sheriff Lobo. “That’s Declan Rowe. He was a delta in the Moonshadow Pack and someone killed him on your territory. There was a report that there were two bodies here. My deputy and I came with our team… and here you are. Very much alive. And my wolf… he seems to not be after eating one of your tainted cupcakes.”

Well. No way I can deny and of that, can I? Not when he put it so succinctly.

You know what? Just my luck.

Of course the sheriff had to find my supposedly dead body next to a corpse. Especially after he already had to come to Dough You Believe in Magic and scold me over the honesty cupcake fiasco.

“I don’t know who he is.” Well, no. That’s not quite true. “I mean, I only met him yesterday. He said his name was Declan when he bought a whole ton of baked goods from me, but I don’t know what he’d be doing out here with that!”

“Did you give it to him?”

Shit. “Well, yes⁠—”

His eyes flash. “To poison him?”

What? “No! He wasn’t supposed to eat it. You were.”

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. I’m never my best when I’m coming out of a faint—claiming it’s narcolepsy isn’t too far off—but you think I would’ve thought twice before I blurted that out.

The other male goes very, very still. “Are you telling me that your target was the Alpha?”

If I drop again, I wouldn’t be surprised. The air is thick with danger, hormones, and dominance, and I’m not sure who is wearing it more: the sheriff or his deputy.

“I didn’t target anyone! I’m just a baker!”

“So you say. Tell me, Ms. Morgan⁠—”

“Honey.” It squeaks out. “My name is Honey.”

Up until yesterday, I was fine with having him call me Ms. Morgan. He’s Sheriff Lobo. I’m good with keeping the distance. But if he really thinks that I have anything to do with this, I need him to see Honey.

His brow furrows. “Honey. Do you bake with peppermint extract?”

“That’s a Christmas flavor. I’m still transitioning from Halloween treats to Thanksgiving.” That’s true, but it takes me a second before I realize why he asked. “I didn’t make it stink like this back here!”

“Whoever did knew that it would blow a wolf’s nose out,” mutters the big male. “Even through the mask, it’s rough. Maybe we should bring her inside if you want to get her statement.”

Right. Now that I’m awake, they don’t see any reason to keep me out here. And if I’m gone, it might allow the other wolves to take away the body of their fallen packmate and, I don’t know, search for some clues about what happened to Declan.

It has to be murder, right? It’s hard enough to eliminate a shifter, but it’s not like he would’ve killed himself. It’s not how we’re wired. Our protective instincts are too strong, and our regenerative properties too high. As far as I know, only two things can truly kill a shifter: a crap ton of silver and getting our heads chopped off. I think I would’ve noticed if Declan’s head was removed from the rest of his body. It could be silver, but then what does one of my cupcakes have to do with it?

Why did he die outside my bakery?

I don’t know, but the way the sheriff and the deputy are watching me as though I should have all the answers, I think I better figure it out.

Stroking Gus’s head, trying to calm both my opossum and, well, my opossum, I do everything I can not to grimace.

I moved to Moonburrow so that I could stop waking up near dead bodies.

This is not an improvement.