Page 3 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas (Hollow Haven #2)

Wes

I 'd been doing this job for eight years. Eight years of early mornings, predictable routes, and animals that made sense. Wildlife didn't lie, didn't play games, didn't smell like jasmine and summer rain or make me want to fix things that weren't my business to fix.

So why was I standing in my kitchen two days later, coffee growing cold, thinking about brown eyes that had looked at me like I might be dangerous?

The morning mist was rising from the forest floor outside my cabin, carrying the familiar scents of pine needles and damp earth.

This was my territory, my peace, the place where I could exist without complications or unwanted questions.

Here, the only sounds were my radio crackling with dispatch calls and the distant conversation of birds settling into their daily routines.

I forced myself to focus on the tablet in front of me, reviewing yesterday's calls and planning today's route.

Three property inspections for hunting licenses, two follow-ups on the bear sightings near Hillcrest Road, and a routine check on the eagle nesting site up near Miller's Ridge.

Simple, straightforward work that would keep me busy and far away from Magnolia Crescent.

Not that I'd been deliberately avoiding that area of town.

I just didn't have any professional reason to patrol residential neighborhoods where the biggest wildlife concern was usually Mrs. Peterson's cat getting stuck in trees. Even the trap I’d laid out for the raccoons remained empty, giving me the perfect excuse to stay away.

New people moved to Hollow Haven regularly.

Had to, with the way young adults left for bigger cities and better opportunities.

Most of them were harmless. Retirees looking for quiet, young families wanting small-town values, the occasional remote worker who'd discovered they could afford more house if they weren't tied to urban centers.

Omegas were rarer, especially ones traveling alone.

Especially ones who smelled like they were running from something.

Scent lined with that undertone of fear and anxiety.

I'd heard through the inevitable small-town gossip network that she'd gotten a job at Pine & Pages.

Hollis Green's bookstore seemed like exactly the kind of quiet, low-pressure environment someone like her would choose.

Hollis was good people. The kind of alpha who understood that not everyone wanted to be managed or improved or fixed.

Sometimes people just needed space to breathe.

Which was fine. Good for her. Yet I had no reason to think about whether she was settling in well or if employment would help with whatever had brought her to Hollow Haven in the first place. No reason to wonder if…

"Base to Wes." Sarah's voice came through the radio, cutting through my unwanted thoughts. "Got a call about an injured owl, Magnolia Crescent area. Behind the rental houses."

I stared at the radio for a long moment, coffee cup halfway to my lips. Of course. Of course it would be Magnolia Crescent.

"Copy that," I said finally, keying the mic. "ETA fifteen minutes."

I told myself this was just another call as I loaded my equipment into the truck. Wildlife didn't observe property lines or respect my personal boundaries. An injured owl needed help regardless of where it had chosen to get hurt. Professional duty trumped personal complications every time.

But my hands were tenser than usual on the steering wheel as I drove toward the neighborhood I'd been carefully avoiding for two days.

The call had come from Mrs. Patterson, who lived two houses down from the rental where.

.. where the new resident was staying. She met me at the edge of the wooded area behind the houses, wringing her hands with the kind of anxiety that suggested she'd been watching the injured animal for hours before finally calling for help.

"It's been there since dawn," she explained, leading me through the gap between her fence and the neighbor's. "Just sitting on the ground, not flying away when I got close. That's not normal, is it?"

"No," I agreed, scanning the area for the bird she'd described. "Owls are usually very wary of human contact."

I found her about thirty feet into the tree line.

A female great horned owl, probably a year old, sitting motionless on the forest floor.

Even from a distance, I could see the problem.

Her left wing hung at an odd angle, clearly injured and preventing flight.

Vehicle strike, most likely. Young owls were still learning hunting patterns and didn't always account for the roads that cut through their territory.

The capture process was routine. Approach slowly, speaking in calm tones so she didn't panic and injure herself further.

Cover her with the heavy blanket to minimize stress, secure her in the transport carrier, quick assessment to determine the severity of the injury. I'd done this hundreds of times.

Except nothing felt routine with the scent of jasmine and rain drifting on the morning air, getting stronger as footsteps approached through the fallen leaves.

"Is she hurt badly?"

The voice came from behind me, soft with genuine concern but tense with something else. I didn't turn around immediately, didn't trust my reaction to seeing her again. Focus on the job. Professional duty.

"Wing injury," I said, carefully securing the blanket around the owl. "Probably hit by a car during night hunting."

I could hear her breathing, slightly uneven, like she was forcing herself to stay when every instinct told her to leave.

When I glanced back, she was standing about fifteen feet away.

Close enough to see what was happening, far enough to bolt if she needed to.

Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and her posture screamed discomfort with the situation.

But she stayed.

"Will she..." She paused, seeming to gather courage, her eyes darting around like she was looking for a threat, or maybe couldn’t decide if the threat was me. "Is that the kind of injury that heals? Or is it..."

The way she asked told me she understood the alternatives. Euthanasia wasn't something most civilians thought about when they saw injured wildlife, but anyone who'd worked around animal rescue would know it was sometimes the kindest option.

"Should heal fine," I said, lifting the transport carrier. "Clean break from what I can tell. She's young, good body condition."

"What’s her rehab time looking like?" The question came out quickly, like she couldn't stop herself from asking.

"Six to eight weeks usually. Depends on how well she takes to captivity and physical therapy."

She nodded, and I caught the slight relaxation in her shoulders. Like the owl's prognosis mattered to her personally. “She should reintegrate well then,” she said almost as if to herself.

"You know about wildlife rehabilitation," I observed, checking the carrier latches as I tried to buy myself some more time to talk to her. She intrigued me in a way I didn’t want to examine.

"A little." Her voice was carefully neutral. "I've... I used to be around it sometimes. The process, I mean."

The way she said it suggested more than casual exposure, but she was already stepping back, putting distance between us again. Whatever knowledge she had about wildlife work, she wasn't comfortable discussing it.

"She'll definitely be okay then?" she asked again, like she needed the reassurance repeated.

"She'll fly again," I said firmly. "Sometimes they just need time and a short period of rehab.”

Something in her expression shifted when I said that. Relief mixed with something deeper, more personal. Like the owl's recovery mattered to her in ways that went beyond general concern for wildlife.

"Can you let me know?" she asked suddenly. "How she does?"

I looked up, surprised by the request. "You want updates?"

"I just..." She struggled for words, hands still clasped tightly together. "I'd like to know she makes it back where she belongs."

Something in her tone suggested this wasn't just about the owl. And the way she was looking at the transport carrier, like she was seeing her own story reflected in an injured animal that needed time and care to remember how to fly...

I didn't do personal updates. Didn't maintain contact with civilians beyond what the job required. But she'd asked like she needed to know this one injured creature would be okay. Like maybe if this owl could heal and find her way back to where she belonged, other broken things could too.

"I'll let you know," I heard myself saying. "Recovery updates, release date when it happens."

"Thank you." The gratitude in her voice was out of proportion to the promise I'd made.

Mrs. Patterson had wandered back to her house, giving us a privacy I hadn't asked for but found myself reluctant to end.

The omega in front of me was asking about wildlife rehabilitation like it mattered personally, was looking at me like I might actually understand something important, despite the obvious stress that being this close to an unfamiliar alpha seemed to cause her.

"I should let you get back to work," she said, the stress finally showing in her voice. "Thank you for helping her."

"Willa," I called as she reached the tree line.

She turned back, surprise clear on her face that I'd remembered her name.

"The owl will fly again," I said. "Sometimes they just need the right support to remember how."

She didn’t say anything, just nodded one and then rushed away. I signed, frustrated in a way I didn’t want to acknowledge because it wasn’t from her hurrying away, it was that she hadn’t stayed.

Driving to the rehabilitation center, I found myself thinking about the way she'd asked her questions.

Knowledgeable but careful, like someone trying to remember a language they'd once spoken fluently.

Most people would have pulled out phones to take pictures or asked basic questions about what was wrong.

She'd stayed back, hands deliberately empty, but known exactly enough to ask about rehabilitation and recovery time.

Dr. Anderson was expecting me when I arrived at the center. The owl's examination confirmed my field assessment. Clean wing fracture, some soft tissue damage, but nothing that wouldn't heal with time and proper care.

"Six to eight weeks," Dr. Anderson said, updating the bird's chart. "Assuming no complications. Clean break, good bone density. She's young and strong."

"Someone wanted updates on her progress," I said, filling out the transportation paperwork.

Dr. Anderson raised an eyebrow. "Someone?"

"Civilian who found her. New resident. Seemed... invested in the outcome."

"Personal interest or professional?"

"Personal," I said, then wondered why I was so certain.

He shrugged it off and made a note on the chart. It didn’t escape me that he didn’t ask for Willa’s details, nor did I offer them. I refused to examine why that was. Why I wanted to be the one to make those calls. Admitting it to myself was more than I was comfortable with right now.

The drive home took longer than usual because I deliberately chose the route that avoided Magnolia Crescent entirely. No professional reason to swing by that area again. The owl was safe, being treated by experts, well on her way to recovery. My job was done.

But back at my cabin, standing on the porch listening to the familiar evening sounds of the forest, I found myself thinking about jasmine and rain and the way she'd looked at that injured owl like she understood exactly what it felt like to be grounded.

The forest was quiet in the way I'd always preferred.

No unexpected conversations causing complicated emotions, and most of all no scent signatures that made my alpha instincts twitch with unwanted protectiveness.

Just trees and wildlife. The kind of peace that came from understanding your place in the ecosystem.

Yet tonight, the quiet felt different. Tonight, it felt empty in a way I'd never noticed before. Like something was missing that I hadn't known I was looking for.

I'd promised her updates about the owl's recovery.

Professional courtesy, nothing more. The fact that I was already looking forward to that conversation, to seeing her face when I told her the bird would definitely fly again, had nothing to do with the omega herself and everything to do with.

.. wildlife education. Community outreach.

Right .

I went inside and made a note in my calendar to check on the owl's progress in a week. Purely professional follow-up. The kind of thing any good conservation officer would do for a concerned citizen.

The fact that I was already planning what I'd say to her, how I'd frame the good news, was just thorough preparation. Nothing more.