Page 58 of Found by the Pack
Boone’s shadow falls over me before I even hear his footsteps. I’m crouched, setting the last jar of paint down next to the wall, when his voice comes low and rough behind me.
“Sadie, I’m sorry.”
The air feels too thick, pressing against my ribs. I don’t turn around. My grip tightens on the paintbrush until my knuckles ache. “Please don’t touch me.”
He stops—close enough that I can hear the subtle change in his breathing, but not so close that I can feel his body heat.
Don’t cry. Don’t let him see you like this. Not him. Not anyone.
“I didn’t mean to?—”
I turn, just enough for my eyes to meet his, and it’s like my voice has been scraped down to steel. “You had no fucking right, Boone.” My throat tightens, but the words stay sharp. “None.”
His jaw works, like he wants to argue, but I’m already looking away, setting the brush in the jar.
“Bye, Boone.”
It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be.
After a beat, his boots scrape against the sidewalk. The sound of the car door shutting is too final, like something that can’t be undone. The engine rumbles to life, fades down the street, and then it’s just me and the south-facing wall of Baxter’s Feed & Seed.
I focus on the work. It’s easier.
The brush moves in my hand, the paint rolling out in steady strokes. At one point, I misjudge the angle and smudge a section, but I don’t care. The faster I finish this, the faster I can move to the next mural, and the next, until they’re all done and I don’t have to depend on anyone for anything.
My wrist twinges when I shift positions on the ladder, but I ignore it. Ignore the ache in my shoulder, the sting of the bandaid still on my forehead.
Fucking Alphas. Always thinking they have the right to decide what’s best for you. Always taking pieces of your story, holding them up to the light without asking if you want them seen.
By the time I pull the last strip of painter’s tape from the edge, the shadows are longer across the sidewalk. My phone says it’s almost four.
And that’s when it hits me.
I have no way to get all these supplies back.
The jars, the canvas rolls, the ladder—they’re not something I can strap to the mayor’s bicycle and wobble down Main Street with. I don’t even have the bicycle with me.
A slow burn of frustration curls under my ribs. Perfect. Just perfect.
I gather my bag and head toward Cora’s bakery, every step clipped, my sneakers hitting the pavement harder than necessary.
The bell over the door jingles. The smell of sugar and bread should be comforting, but right now it just feels like a too-sweet mask over a day that’s already gone sour.
Cora looks up from behind the counter, her smile brightening—until she takes in my face. “Sadie? You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, too quickly. The word tastes flat. “I just… I need help with something.”
Her smile falters. I see the way her eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of hurt crossing her face. But honestly? I don’t have the energy to care how I sound.
“What kind of help?”
“I need a taxi. Or someone who can help me get my supplies from Baxter’s back to my place.”
She hesitates, glances toward the back, then back to me. “Why don’t you sit for a minute? I’ll see who’s around who can help.”
“I don’t—” I start, but she’s already coming around the counter.
Her hand is light on my elbow as she steers me toward the small back room. It smells faintly of cinnamon rolls cooling on arack somewhere. She sets a steaming mug in front of me, the tea deep amber in the light.
