Page 12

KATE

T he air outside is cooling fast, dusk pressing in on the windows like a warning.

I lock the cash drawer, brew a cup of tea I don’t drink, and sweep the same patch of floor for the fifth time.

I’ve already tucked Hank the goose in for the night, thank God—because if Hudson is the storm, Hank is the lightning.

The bell above the store door rings. Of course it does—it's impossible for it not to. But something about the way it rings is different. Like it doesn't dare chime too loud. Like even it knows who's on the other side. And the second I hear it, I know it's him.

I glance up from behind the counter, heart already ticking faster.

The lights are off. Closed sign hanging.

But I unlocked the door twenty minutes ago, like I knew he’d come.

Not hoped—knew. Which makes it worse. Because knowing meant I’d already surrendered to something I told myself, I wouldn’t.

It meant that despite everything—his silence, his distance, the way he made my blood heat and my guard rise—I still wanted him to come through that door.

And that terrified me more than anything he might say once he did.

Hudson Rawlings fills the frame like a thunderstorm—tall, sharp-eyed, jaw set hard enough to cut through Appalachian stone.

His shoulders stretch the worn leather of his jacket, jeans slung low on lean hips, every inch of him carved and coiled like danger in a man’s skin.

His scent hits me next—smoke and pine and male—and my stomach flips, low and hot.

It’s the same smell that clung to the old Rawlings’ cabin I wasn’t supposed to sneak near as a kid.

Danger wrapped in temptation. A wild, feral thing that made me want to get closer, even when instinct screamed I shouldn’t.

Now, it curls around me like a memory and a promise I haven’t decided to believe.

My breath stumbles, and my thighs tighten involuntarily.

My body responds before I can think better of it, before I remember why this is a bad idea.

My body remembers, even if my brain is trying really hard to forget.

I move behind the counter, suddenly too aware of the thin cotton of my shirt, the way my breath catches at the base of my throat.

His boots track mud across my freshly swept floor.

Typical. But he stops short just inside the door like he feels the tension hanging in the air too, like he knows I’m watching every move he makes and feeling far too much.

“I’m closed.” I don’t raise my voice, but it slices anyway.

His gaze sweeps over the dark interior, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging every shadow, every inch of the space that’s mine—until it lands on me.

And when it does, it’s like being branded.

His eyes drag over my face, down my frame, pausing just long enough to make heat bloom low in my belly.

“I know,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel ground beneath his boots.

There’s a beat where we just stare at each other—too long to be polite.

Long enough to crack the tension wide open, to let everything we haven’t said start humming between us.

My breath stutters in my chest, and the space between us feels thick with things we might do and things we absolutely shouldn’t.

I drag my eyes from his and turn toward the back, pulse drumming in my ears. I don’t tell him to follow.

But I leave the door open anyway. It's not an invitation, not exactly—but it’s not a warning, either. Just space. Space he can fill or walk away from.

The silence stretches behind me, then comes the click of the door, the soft tread of boots across worn wood. My pulse jumps.

He follows.

I don’t offer coffee. Don’t need to. He hasn’t come for small talk or coffee.

“I heard about the delivery,” he says, voice low, controlled.

“Which one?” I toss over my shoulder. “The basket of preserves to Widow Ridley, where your wolves tried to muscle me off Hollow Ridge?”

I don’t have to see him to feel the change in the air.

It rolls in slow and heavy, coiling between the walls and sliding over my skin like a warning.

The hairs on my arms rise, gooseflesh chasing down my spine.

It’s subtle—like the pressure changing before a storm, the kind that makes birds go quiet and leaves tremble without wind.

The kind of change you feel in your bones before you even know why.

"I admire the way you handled it," he offers.

“Handled it?” I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Do I get a medal or just a pat on the head?”

“Neither. I didn't mean to sound condescending.”

I turn then, arms crossed. “Too late." Before he can respond, I continue, "Let me guess, you’re here to apologize. Offer me protection? Swear you didn’t know?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t. But that doesn’t change what happened.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I step closer. “And I don’t need your protection. I’m not some doe-eyed human who wandered too close to the woods.”

His eyes flash, the wolf flickering behind them. “I know exactly what you are.”

“Then stop treating me like I need saving.”

Another beat. Longer this time. The air between us goes electric.

“You’re infuriating,” he growls.

“Right back at you, Sheriff.”

Then he’s on me.

My breath catches, a flicker of instinct laced with something hotter—need, defiance, maybe both. My body tenses, anticipation strung taut, but I don’t move. Not yet. Not when everything in me is sparking like dry pine, ready to catch fire.

One step. Two. He’s heat and muscle, looming and relentless—and then his hands are on my waist, big and rough and claiming.

His mouth crashes into mine like he’s starving for it.

For me. Like he’s been holding back, and he’s done waiting.

His lips are bruising, his tongue greedy, and it sends a bolt of need through me so sharply, I gasp into the kiss, fisting the front of his shirt like I could pull him closer to me.

And the way he groans? Like I just gave him oxygen.

The first kiss is fire and fury—raw and untamed. All teeth and heat, mouths clashing, breath stolen like he’s trying to inhale me, consume me.

I push against him, defiant for a heartbeat, then pull him closer, needing more, needing him.

My fingers curl into his shirt, then slip beneath it, seeking skin.

Heat radiates off him like a live wire. Hard muscle flexes under my hands, the kind you earn from violence, from discipline, from survival.

My body arches into his, helpless to do anything but answer every demand he makes with one of my own.

He lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion, like I weigh nothing, like the distance between restraint and possession never existed.

My legs wrap around his hips without hesitation, muscle to muscle, fire to fire. His body settles against mine with the kind of pressure that steals breath, the kind that makes you forget where you end and he begins. It’s wild and consuming and terrifyingly right.

Like I’ve waited not just days—but lifetimes—to do this. And I’m done waiting.

And I'm not the only one. He's just as desperate, just as wrecked with want. Our hands are everywhere at once, grasping, fumbling, pulling. Clothes peel away fast—torn from skin like they’re in the way of something inevitable. Fingers are frantic and greedy, clawing at buttons, zippers, whatever’s keeping us apart.

His jacket hits the floor with a thud, then my shirt, and his belt clatters a second later.

The air between us disappears with the last shred of fabric.

Then everything else is gone too—just heat, skin, and the electric tension of a fuse burning too fast. It's the wildfire moment, the one that devours hesitation and leaves nothing but raw want in its wake.

We are ash and spark, crashing together in the kind of hunger that could tear the roof off this place and still not be enough.

The sensation of him against me—of his solidity and power, sculpted like stone and barely contained by his own fervent desires—is almost too overpowering to endure. I can barely breathe as if the sheer force of him will crush me into pieces.

His form radiates heat and need, pressing in close enough to drown me in it.

He's a storm front of sensation, searing every inch of skin he touches until I forget how to breathe.

His mouth explores every curve and hollow of my body with intent—lips igniting my skin, tongue tracing heat along every sensitive spot, teeth grazing just enough to send shivers down my spine.

Each kiss lands like a brand, leaving fire in its wake.

My world tilts under the weight of it, vision blurred by sensation as he consumes me with a fever that is both ruthless and reverent.

As he continues the fervent trail of kisses down my torso and spreads my legs, the heat of his breath on my inner thighs sends electric shivers of anticipation through my body. With a feverish touch, his lips meet my labia, leaving me trembling and desperate for more.

When the tip of his tongue expertly grazes my clit, a sharp, involuntary gasp escapes from my lips. Arousal drenches my body, and its potent scent seems to drive him into a frenzy, filling the air with an intoxicating allure.

He savors every tantalizing second, devouring me as if I were an irresistible feast laid out before him.

His tongue delves deeper into my folds, exploring each sensitive crevice with relentless desire.

Every stroke intensifies the sweet slickness that coats his tongue, leaving me writhing beneath him, consumed by the fiery passion of the moment.

I moan his name, a blend of fear and yearning. It slips from my lips with a shuddering breath and hangs thick in the air like both a bold challenge and a fervent plea for more, a declaration and a surrender. He steps closer and thrusts into me, the broad head of his cock almost splitting me in two.

As he begins to pound into me, he takes control m, asserting a primal dominance over my trembling form in a way that is raw, urgent, and profoundly fulfilling. I am his prisoner and his willing captive, and I respond with a fervor that shocks me, meeting his demands with my own mounting need.

Every movement inside me is deliberate—a seamless fusion of intensity and precision.

His strength is overwhelming, and I feel myself unraveling under his expert assault.

He commands my entire being with each calculated penetration.

I respond eagerly to this dance of passion, matching his rhythm as though we are two perfectly attuned lovers.

My fingers dig into his broad shoulders, holding on to him as if I might be swallowed by the force of our shared desire.

I urge him to delve even deeper as if nothing will satisfy this boundless craving.

The guttural groan that escapes him sends thrilling tremors down my spine as if he is ripping me apart with pleasure. His mouth descends upon mine in an all-consuming kiss as if he will devour me whole.

I lose track of where he ends, and I begin. There is nothing but this reckless abandon... and then I feel it—his teeth at the base of my throat. Right where an alpha would inflict and leave his mark, claiming his mate once and for all time.

And I freeze.

“Hudson—”

He doesn’t stop. His mouth lingers near the hollow of my throat, breath burning, teeth too close to that sacred place. That claiming place.

Panic tears through the haze of heat and need, and I shove at his shoulders. He doesn’t budge—too big, too strong, too caught in the edge of whatever he’s about to do.

I twist and bring my knee up fast, catching him in the side hard enough to make him stumble back.

He crashes into the shelves behind him, breath ragged, eyes wild.

I sit up, heart hammering. “Get out!"

"Kate..."

"No. You don’t get to make that choice for me.”

His eyes flash. “You think you have a choice? That I do? We are fated mates,” he declares.

I slide off the counter, gather his clothes from the floor and throw them at him before moving behind the counter, placing it as a barrier between us.

“Everything’s a choice, Hudson. Even giving in to instinct or fate.”

He watches me. Not moving. Not speaking.

“You want to mark me? To claim me?” I say quietly. “Then earn it.”

The words settle in the charged air between us, a challenge and a warning.

He doesn’t follow me when I disappear into the back room.

I pause behind the curtain, chest heaving, hand braced against the doorframe.

The adrenaline hasn’t faded—not completely.

My body still thrums with the aftershocks of want, anger, and something too complicated to name.

Vulnerability, maybe. Or the terrifying hope that he might come after me.

"And be sure to lock the door behind you."

The words come out sharper than I mean, but I don’t take them back.

Not when my chest still heaves, not when the ache of what almost happened—what almost changed everything—still smolders deep inside.

I wait for the sound of the door, the echo of his exit, but I don’t turn around.

Because I know if I see him now, I might not make him leave at all.

I flinch when the door slams shut, the sound too final, too sharp in the silence he left behind.

Of course he didn’t lock it—there’s no way to from the outside. I wrap my shirt around me with fingers that still tremble and cross to the front door. Pressing my forehead to the cool metal, I let the chill seep into my skin.

Then, with a steadying breath, I slide the deadbolt into place. A small, defiant sound in a world that’s anything but certain.

In my pocket, the note from Luke crinkles as I curl my fingers around it.

A reminder that desire and danger walk too close in this town. I’ve worn down the edges from unfolding it so many times, rereading the half-scribbled warning, and searching it for hidden meaning.

I haven’t told a soul—not even Waylon. Not yet. Because if what’s in that note is true, then Hudson might be the least of my problems. And trusting the wrong person could cost me everything.

And just like that, the fire inside me fades to ash. The storm he brought in slipping back into the silence it came from. But the heat isn’t gone. It simmers beneath the surface, like embers under scorched earth—waiting for one breath of wind to rise again and burn everything down.