She had a way of making the room feel smaller without trying, which was unsettling for reasons I didn’t have time to unpack.
"Ms. Carter, I presume."
“Either I’m in the presence of crack detective work or a top spot on the town’s phone tree,” she chuckles easily.
I join her. It’s clear her humor isn’t intended to ruffle.
"I'm Ellie," holding out her hand, which I take. “A journalist’s inquiry, nothing alarming. I understand you have records in connection to past unresolved disappearances.”
I don’t hear anything past “Ellie” because the touch precipitates the crash of the mate bond. It’s an explosion of feeling that nearly brings me to my knees.
This is deeply inconvenient.
Also impossible to ignore, which somehow makes it worse.
My world splinters and reforms, each fragment a kaleidoscope of singular certainty: mate. The word blazes across my senses, illuminating paths usually concealed deep within. The universe stops playing games, every paw print traced by destiny’s hand—and it points to her.
It’s like swallowing fire. My wolf yearns to surge forth—fierce and tangible, proclaiming her asours.
He, apparently, did not get the memo about professionalism in the workplace, boundaries, or basic public behavior.
Proximity aches familiar, important. Resisting the instinct to draw closer, to slide between her and the risks both seen and unseen, is near maddening. Urgency courses through me, demanding that I lock down every primal instinct.
“So Sheriff, seen much change in town over the years?” The question floats my way, riding the tail end of a casual smile. Her eyes are pools, fathoms deep.
“Not as much as you'd think,” I reply, infusing just the right amount of casual interest into my tone, betraying nothing of the storm within. “Moonhaven prefers its own pace.”
If anyone was grading me on composure, I’d earn a solid A.
Internally, I was failing every other subject.
“Really? Times I've read about seemed reshaped by their stories," she nudges, teasing more from the silence between questions.
I navigate the contour of her words; there's appreciation for the craftsmanship involved. Acknowledge without ceding ground. Yet the moment turns abruptly. The second I truly register her asmore than an inquiring visitor, a wave—undeniable, tempestuous—crashes into me. The sunlight gleams through her hair, casting flickers of gold that stir something raw within.
I position myself carefully—a silent negotiation of space and professionalism. "Our stories do tend to stick. They last much longer than we'd expect, and are prone to exaggeration."
I clench my jaw, deliberately orchestrating control, reigning in the wildness that threatens command. "Anything else I can assist with in your research?" It costs. The measured words drag over raw nerves, each syllable punctuated by the wolf's snarl nipping at my heels, restless and impatient for acknowledgment. Yet the lightness in her reply belies no awareness of the chaos she incites.
“I think that covers it. For now, anyway.” Her response is candid, spontaneous—a balm and a vexation. “I’ll be back with my official list of questions in a day or two.”
Caleb, remain the Sheriff.
My silent mantra; act the role, master the storm howling through every sinew. Ensure everyone safe, herself as well, unwittingly nestled in the eye of palpable, visceral connection.
Her “thank you” is softer than any I recall, carrying the weight of continued dialogue, suspended.
Once she is gone, the office feels quieter than it had any right to.
I stand there for a full ten seconds longer than necessary, which I immediately resent.
Every instinct I have is loudly unhelpful, and none of them care about timing.
Restraint.
This is not a moment. It is a problem. One I will have to manage carefully, quietly, and alone.
While she walks away, my duty confines familiar, with shadows now gentler, deeper.