Page 17 of The Cobbler and His Elves

The creak of the jail’s outer door jerked me from my reverie. Heavy footsteps approached, accompanied by the jangle of keys. Sheriff Dawson appeared, his mouth set in a grim line.

“You’ve got a visitor, Hart,” he growled.

My heart leapt. Jack? Elijah? But as the sheriff stepped aside, my hopes crashed down around me.

Mr. Thompson shuffled into view, his weathered face a mask of discomfort. He couldn’t meet my eyes as Sheriff Dawson ushered him to a chair in front of my cell.

“Go ahead, Mr. Thompson,” the sheriff prompted. “Tell me again what you saw the night of the theft.”

Thompson cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over my left shoulder. “It was late. I’d gone back to the tannery to fetch some paperwork I’d forgotten. That’s when I saw him.” He jerked his chin in my direction. “Lurking around the back of the building. When he saw me, he ran off.”

I gaped at him, disbelief and anger warring inside me. “That’s a lie! I was nowhere near the tannery that night!”

“Now, now,” Sheriff Dawson said, his tone maddeningly calm. “No need for theatrics. Mr. Thompson has no reason to lie, does he?”

But as I stared at Thompson, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Guilt? Fear? Whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“If that’s all, Sheriff,” Thompson mumbled, already turning toward the door.

Dawson nodded, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

As Thompson shuffled out, I called after him. “Mr. Thompson! Please, you know I didn’t do this. Why are you lying?”

Mr. Thompson turned and his eyes locked with mine one last time. Something flickered across his weathered face—regret, perhaps. He hesitated for a heartbeat, before shaking his head almost imperceptibly. Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the sheriff and my growing suspicions.

Dawson turned to me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mustache. “Looks like your goose is cooked, Hart. Might want to start thinking about who’s going to run that little shop of yours while you’re enjoying the state’s hospitality.”

With that parting shot, he strode out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I paced the small cell, my mind racing. Something about this whole situation felt wrong. Thompson’s behavior, the sheriff’s smugness... And then there was Martha. Where did she fit into all of this?

As if summoned by my thoughts, a memory surfaced. The ledger we’d found in Martha’s house. There had been an entry that had seemed odd at the time:

SHD shirt—custom tailoring, paid IOU. No entry in my books.

I froze mid-step. SHD. Sheriff Hank Dawson. The pieces began to fall into place with dizzying speed.

The sheriff was involved. Somehow, he was using Martha to blackmail Thompson. But why?

I chewed my lip, my mind churning. What was the sheriff’s angle in all this? The leather theft seemed like small potatoes compared to blackmail. I sank back onto the cot, my head spinning. If I was right, then Martha and Thompson were both in danger. And I was stuck in this cell, powerless to help them.

My thoughts turned to Jack and Elijah. God, how I wished they were here. Their steady presence, their unwavering support... I’d come to rely on it more than I’d realized.

I shifted on the cot, wincing slightly at the lingering soreness from our night together. The memory of their hands on my skin, their lips tracing paths of fire across my body, sent a shiver through me despite the chill of the cell.

The realization struck me. My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, the world around me seemed to blur at the edges. This raw, all-consuming feeling that had been simmering beneath the surface—it wasn’t just a fleeting spark of desire or the comfortable warmth of friendship. No, this was something far more profound, more terrifying in its intensity. My heart raced, pounding against my ribcage as if trying to break free. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, anchoring myself to reality. Somewhere along the way, without my noticing, I’d fallen in love with them both.

The realization left me breathless. I’d always scoffed at the idea of true mates, dismissing it as romantic nonsense. I’d thought Jack and Elijah were the enemy, denying what had been right in front of me all along. But now, faced with the possibility of never seeing them again, I understood. They were my mates, my alphas. And I might lose them before I ever got the chance to tell them how I felt.

A commotion outside my cell drew me from my thoughts. Sheriff Dawson’s voice, raised in anger, filtered through the thick walls.

“I don’t care what it takes, Smith,” he snarled. “We need to take care of Thompson and his girl before they talk. You hear me?”

My blood ran cold. Martha and Thompson were in immediate danger, and I was trapped behind these bars, unable to warn them.

I pressed myself against the cell door, straining to hear more. But the voices moved away, leaving me with nothing but the echo of the sheriff’s threat ringing in my ears.

Panic clawed at my throat. I had to get out of here. Had to warn Martha and Thompson. Had to find Jack and Elijah before it was too late.