Page 44 of The Alpha's Runaway Mate
The link fades, leaving behind the faint hum of reassurance. She’s being watched, even if she doesn’t know it.
Xander clears his throat from the front seat. “You good?”
“Define good.”
He gives a quiet grunt. “Thought so.”
The rain gets heavier as we wind deeper into the woods. Every few seconds, lightning flashes across the sky, turning the world stark and silver before plunging it back into black.
Kolt mutters, “Feels like everything’s coming to a head.”
“It is,” I say quietly. “And it’s about to break.”
Xander turns down a narrow gravel drive, tires crunching over wet stone as his cabin comes into view. Wards shimmer faintly along the eaves, pulsing like they’re aware of our presence.
We park, climb out, and the moment my boots hit the ground, my bear goes rigid. The air here is wrong, charged with something twisted and ancient.
“Smell that?” I ask.
Kolt nods, jaw tight. “Yeah. Magic. Not the good kind.”
Xander’s already got his gun drawn. “He’s inside. Let’s move.”
We climb the steps together, rain dripping from our jackets, thunder rolling low in the distance.
Jessica’s scent still lingers faintly on my skin, distracting, grounding, infuriating all at once. I shove the thought down, focusing on what’s ahead.
Declan’s back. Something’s off about him. And whatever he brought with him, it’s not done with us yet.
SIXTEEN
JESSICA
I drive without a plan,windows down, letting the cool morning air clear my head.
I know Nolan’s not Ethan. I know that in my bones. It was a low blow and I feel like shit about it. But sometimes the shadows of the past creep in anyway. The part of me that spent too long being told what to do still flinches when someone else tries to protect me, even when it comes from love instead of control.
He means well. He always does. But right now, I just need air. By the time I pull into the downtown square, my frustration’s quieted into something smaller. The mountain town looks peaceful, storefronts lined with hanging baskets, a few people wandering between shops, the scent of roasted coffee drifting on the breeze.
That’s when I see it, a little bookstore tucked between a coffee shop and a thrift store. The hand-painted sign readsMiller’s Books, the windows cluttered with old hardcovers and mismatched mugs.
It looks like peace. The bell over the door jingles as I step inside. The smell hits me first, paper, coffee, and old wood. Comforting, nostalgic, safe.
“Hey there!” A bright voice calls from behind the counter. A girl about my age, maybe a couple years younger, sits at a desk piled high with receipts and open books. Her brown hair’s in a loose braid, and she’s glaring at a spreadsheet like it personally insulted her.
She looks up with a sigh. “Sorry, I’m fighting for my life with this spreadsheet, and it’s winning.”
I smile. “That bad, huh?”
She groans. “Worse. My uncle owns the place and wants me to ‘modernize the system.’ I think this program has a personal vendetta against me.”
I glance at the screen. “Mind if I take a look?”
Her head pops up, eyes wide with hope. “Please tell me you speak spreadsheet.”
I laugh. “I used to be an accountant in another life. I could do this in my sleep if you need a hand.”
Her face lights up like Christmas morning. “Are you serious? Because I was about five minutes away from crying into my coffee.”
