I trace the lid of my coffee cup with my thumb. “I saw them around town a few times. They have a pattern.”
What I don’t say is how I memorized their faces, their vehicles, and their routines, the way Omegas learn to track potential threats without conscious thought. How I’d cataloged the places they frequented, the times they appeared, all to ensure I could avoid them.
“The DA’s charging them with multiple counts,” Jared continues. “Turns out I wasn’t the only one they targeted.”
“I’m not surprised.” I take another sip of coffee to hide my expression.
Jared shifts his stance, blocking the morning sun. “I just wanted to say thank you. For doing what you did.”
I rub the back of my neck, skin prickling with embarrassment. “I just did what anyone should’ve done.”
“Maybe, but not everyone would’ve.” He shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at hismouth. “Most people in this town were happy to believe the worst about me based on a doctored video. You barely knew me, and you still stepped up.”
The distant horn of the approaching water taxi echoes across the harbor, followed by the rumble of its engine.
“I know what it’s like,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can reconsider. “To be judged on assumptions.”
Understanding passes between us, a current of shared experience that needs no elaboration.
Jared extends his hand. “Well, you have my appreciation. I won’t forget it.”
His palm rests warm against mine, his grip firm but not crushing. An Alpha who doesn’t need to prove his strength. The handshake lasts only a moment before he releases me, but a shift takes place in that brief contact. Not friendship, not yet, but a mutual recognition.
The water taxi blares its horn as it steers toward the dock, its wake spreading in a V behind it. Other passengers begin to gather, resort staff and construction workers clustering at the boarding point.
As Jared turns toward the arriving boat, his collar shifts with the movement. The fabric gapesjust enough to reveal a distinct reddish mark at the curve of his neck. A bite.
My breath stutters for a beat, the sight hitting harder than I expect. I force the reaction down, tightening my grip on the coffee cup until the cardboard gives under my fingers and the taste turns bitter on my tongue.
The mark sits where neck and shoulder meet, still fresh enough to stand out against his skin. Not a claiming Mark, but intimate nonetheless. A physical manifestation of belonging.
Of connection.
My fingers tighten around my cup, the cardboard crinkling under the pressure. The reaction confuses me. It’s not jealousy. Not exactly. More like recognition of a truth forever beyond my reach. The ease with which some people find their person, their pack, their place in the world.
Jared tugs his collar higher, though whether conscious of my notice or from the morning chill, I can’t tell.
“I should help Kyle with the lines,” he says, pulling me back from my thoughts. He takes a step back. “Thanks again, Leif. I mean it.”
I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
Jared turns away, jogging down the dock toward the approaching taxi.
Emily steps forward as Jared leaves, closing the distance between us. She wears a faded flannel shirt over a tank top, tool belt slung low on her hips. The scent of crushed clover and warm flannel reaches me on the breeze, distinctly Alpha but without the aggressive edge many carry.
“I wanted to thank you, too,” she says, her gray eyes meeting mine. “For stepping in to help him. You probably saved his life.”
My cheeks warm under her sincerity, and I tell her the same thing I told Jared. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“No.” She shakes her head, silver hair catching the light. “What you did was brave. Don’t discount the good you put out in the world.”
She reaches into her work bag, and her hand emerges cradling a cloth-wrapped bundle. The fabric looks soft, a bandana, perhaps, or a scrap of old T-shirt.
“I meant to get this back to you sooner.” Her fingers work at the knot, unwrapping the bundle with careful movements. “Took longer than I planned with all the…delays.”
The cloth falls away, revealing the wooden dragon, and my throat tightens at the sight of it. The broken wing has been restored, the fracture line almost invisible. The wood gleams with freshpolish, bringing out the rich grain patterns that wind through the figure.
“You fixed it,” I manage, the words coming out softer than intended.