Him a pack of Alphas who blend with him, and me a pack that’s in need of an Omega…even if I’m a broken mess with a strong front.
"Only if you promise to behave."
"No promises, darlin'." He winks, grabbing a mixing bowl from the shelf like nothing happened, but the heat in his eyes tells a different story. And as I turn back to my half-unpacked mugs, I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips—this messof ours might be complicated, but in moments like these, it feels an awful lot we belong with one another.
"The investigation," he says suddenly, the change in topic jarring. "Rodriguez called me this morning. Says the county's dragging their feet, but he's pushing. Won't let them sweep this under the rug."
Reality crashes back—the fire, Gregory, the fact that I'm technically a victim in an ongoing investigation where the perpetrators are still free. Still out there, waiting for the next opportunity to strike.
"They'll get away with it." The words taste bitter, truth usually does.
"Not if I have anything to say about it." The protective fury in his voice makes something in my chest tighten. "Gregory Mason better hope the law gets to him before I do."
"Calder—"
"I know, I know. Let the system work. Follow proper channels." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The system that's failed you at every turn. The system that says attempted murder is just property damage if the victim is an Omega."
The old anger rises, familiar as breathing. But underneath it, something else—gratitude that someone else sees the injustice, that I'm not alone in my rage even if I'm alone in everything else.
"I should really start those pies," I say, needing to move, to do something with my hands before I do something stupid like cry or throw myself at him.
"Right." He nods, already backing toward the door. I know the change of topic may have dampened the mood a bit, but the conversation needed to happen. "I'll just...I've got fence repairs at my place. Should probably..."
"Yeah."
We're terrible at goodbyes, have been since the first time we fell into bed together months ago, both of us raw, lonely anddesperate for something that didn't hurt. Now we're tangled in each other in ways that go beyond physical, and neither of us knows how to untangle without tearing something vital.
He pauses at the door, looking back with eyes that hold too much.
"Wendy?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful at the ranch. I know you can handle yourself, but..." He trails off, jaw working like he's fighting words that want to escape.
"I know," I echo his earlier sentiment, and somehow it's enough.
He leaves, and I'm alone with my mugs, preheated oven, and the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin.
I grab my grandmother's recipe card from the drawer, the edges soft from decades of use, and try to focus on measurements and techniques instead of the fact that I can still smell him in my kitchen.
Pine and bourbon and possibility I can't afford to want.
But as I start measuring flour, I can't shake the feeling that something's shifting. The investigation, Calder's barely controlled need to protect, my own defenses crumbling despite my best efforts—it's all building toward something I can't quite see yet.
Change is coming whether I'm ready or not.
I just hope this time, when everything burns down, there's something left in the ashes worth saving.
The mixing bowl clatters against the counter as I set it down too hard, my hands still shaky from his touch, from want, from the effort of always pulling back just before we fall completely.
"Get it together, Murphy," I mutter to myself, tying my hair back with practiced efficiency. "You've got pies to bake and aranch to run and absolutely no time for complications named Calder Hayes."
But even as I start cutting butter into flour, creating the perfect crumble for pie crust, I know I'm lying to myself. He's already a complication—has been from the first night he found me crying in my car outside Wildflower & Wren, overwhelmed by nightmares and the weight of starting over.
He'd held me then, no questions, no demands, just solid warmth and the promise that I wasn't alone.
That should have been warning enough.
