Page 55 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that he can’t approve any permits until it’s remediated.” Her voice stayed level, controlled. The kind of calm that came from managing kitchen crises while everything inside screamed. “The contractor says minimum thirty thousand dollars. Maybe more once they see how far it spreads. And they’re booked out six weeks.”
I processed the numbers automatically. Thirty thousand would destroy her budget. Six weeks would push her opening into January or February, missing the holiday season entirely, burning through savings while paying rent on a space that couldn’t generate revenue.
“Let me see their estimate.”
She pulled a folder from her makeshift desk and handed it over. I scanned the line items quickly, my mind automatically categorizing and analyzing.
The estimate was inflated. Not criminally so, but definitely padded with the assumption that she was desperate and uninformed. Full wall replacement when strategic patching would probably suffice. Equipment rental at retail rates. Labor hours that seemed excessive for the scope of work.
“This is high,” I said carefully. “Not fraudulent, but definitely taking advantage of the situation.”
Her jaw tightened. “Of course it is.”
The health inspector approached, his expression professionally neutral. “Ms. Quinn, I’ll need documentation ofthe remediation before I can proceed with permit approvals. The mold suggests water intrusion that predates your tenancy, so you’ll want to contact the building owner about liability.”
“The building owner lives in Phoenix and hasn’t returned my calls in three weeks,” Talia said quietly.
The inspector’s expression softened slightly. “Then document everything thoroughly. Your lawyer can help with that.”
After he left, the contractors gave their timeline projections and headed out, promising formal quotes by end of business.
Talia stood very still in the middle of her kitchen, staring at the exposed wall.
I waited. Sometimes the most strategic move was silence, giving someone space to process.
“I can’t believe this is happening now,” she said finally. “Right when everything was finally coming together. The permits were almost done, the equipment was functional, the timeline was perfect.” She turned to look at me. “And now thirty thousand dollars and six more weeks.”
“Then we find alternatives.” I pulled out my phone. “I know people. Remediation specialists who’ll give honest assessments. Contractors who can start next week instead of six weeks from now.”
“Cassian.” Her voice carried something I couldn’t quite read. “You’ve already helped so much. And yesterday I told you I have feelings for you, and now you’re here solving my problems again.” She paused. “I don’t want you to think I need you to fix everything for me.”
Understanding hit me. This wasn’t about the mold. This was about what we were building, or trying to build. About whether her feelings for me came from genuine attraction or gratitude for support she desperately needed.
I set my phone down and moved closer, not crowding but making sure she could see my face clearly.
“Yesterday you told me you have feelings for me because I make you feel competent instead of helpless. Because I see solutions where you see problems.” I held her gaze. “Helping you solve this doesn’t change that dynamic. It demonstrates it.”
“But what if…”
“What if you’re using me for my connections? What if you only think you have feelings because I’m useful?” I finished for her. “Talia, I’ve spent three months in this town. You’re not the first person who needed help. Youarethe first person I’ve had feelings for, though.”
Some of the tension left her shoulders. “I just don’t want to mess this up before we even start. Tomorrow we’re meeting with Jace and Hollis to talk about actually doing this. About pack. And I’m standing here letting you rescue me from another crisis.”
“You’re standing here accepting help from someone who cares about you.” I corrected gently. “That’s not being rescued. That’s being part of something where people support each other. And that’s what being in a pack is all about.”
She studied my face for a long moment. Then she nodded. “Okay. Make your phone calls. But I’m paying fair rates for whatever work gets done.”
“Negotiated rates,” I agreed. “The rates I’d get for any client I was advocating for.”
The next two hours disappeared into phone calls while Talia documented everything for potential legal action against the building owner. By the time the sun started angling toward afternoon, I had commitments from a remediation crew that could start Monday, a structural engineer who’d assess the damage today for a reasonable fee, and a contractor who specialized in historical building restoration.
“They can start Monday,” I told Talia as she organized her photographs. “Two weeks maximum instead of six.”
“And the cost?”
“Eighteen thousand instead of thirty.” I pulled up the email on my phone. “Here’s their quote. Itemized, transparent, with a satisfaction guarantee.”
