Page 65 of Found by the Pack
Her lips twitch. “Just a little.”
“Want to go first?”
She shakes her head, then changes her mind. “No. You go.”
I take a breath. “I’m sorry.” Two words, but they feel heavier than they should. “For pushing when I shouldn’t have, for making you feel like you had to explain things you weren’t ready to.”
She studies me for a long second, eyes catching the faint light, then asks, “Did Gabe tell you about… the talk we had?”
I shake my head. “No. Whatever you told him, that’s between you two.”
Something in her posture softens, just barely. She reaches out and touches my arm—light, but enough to send every protective instinct I’ve got into high alert. “Then I’ll tell you now.”
So I stand there and let her talk.
She tells me about Max. About Scott and the rest of the firefighter pack. Names I don’t recognize—Jeremiah, Levi, Trevor, Dalton. About how she thought she was safe with them because Max was. How she was their Omega, and how at first they were gentle. How that changed the first time Max was away, sent out by Scott.
Her voice catches when she says the words “two days straight.” She doesn’t go into the kind of detail my brain automatically fills in anyway, and I force myself to stand still, to let her finish without interrupting. But every muscle in my body is tight, because I want to put my fist through something.
She talks about the neglect, the way Max never noticed—too tired, too driven. And then how after he died, they got worse. How they’d leave her when she was in heat, which was still almost better than the times they didn’t.
By the time she’s done, her hands are trembling. She’s not looking at me, probably because she knows what’s on my face right now.
I breathe out slow, make my voice even. “Sadie…”
“I wasn’t even sure what I was doing the last three years,” she says, almost to herself. “But coming here felt like an escape. I just want to feel safe in my own skin again.”
When she says “safe,” it hits me in the chest.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” I tell her, and it’s not enough. It never will be. “I get why you’d be wary of me. But you’re not wrong—this place is safer than that. Driftwood Cove is safer.”
She nods, swallowing hard.
The wind picks up, bringing the thump of bass from the fire pit closer, and she glances toward it like she’s ready to change the subject. “I like this song.”
It’s not the kind of track you’d dance to at a wedding—more of a loose, easy rhythm that rolls like the tide.
I take a chance. “Would you… like to dance?”
Her brows lift in surprise, but she doesn’t say no.
So I stand, offer her my hand, and when she takes it, it’s like the rest of the noise fades out. We move together in the dark, away from the crowd, no one watching. I keep my touch light, letting her lead if she wants, matching her sway. She doesn’t step back.
By the time the song shifts into something faster, we’re both smiling—small, careful ones, but real.
We stop, close enough that I could lean in if I wanted to. And I do want to. Badly. The cliff wind tangles a strand of hair across her cheek, and my fingers almost move to tuck it behind her ear.
Almost.
She blinks up at me, then steps back. “Let’s get you a beer.”
I let her lead us back to the fire, the noise swallowing us again.
The night is a blur of music, laughter, the smell of smoke and saltwater. She talks mostly to women—Cora, Grace, a couple of faces I don’t know. I don’t blame her.
Every now and then she glances my way, and I make sure I’m not hovering. Just… nearby.
It’s nearly one in the morning when she finds me leaning against the hood of my truck.
