5
T he iron bars of the cell door clanged shut, the sound echoing through the Millcrest Courthouse & Jail. I sank onto the narrow cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort against the metal frame. The events of the past few days whirled through my mind like leaves caught in an autumn storm.
How had I ended up here? Just days ago, my biggest worry had been scraping together enough money to keep my shop open. Now, I sat accused of theft, separated from the two men who had somehow become the center of my world.
I closed my eyes, remembering the warmth of Jack and Elijah’s bodies pressed against mine, their scents mingling with my own. The ghost of their touches lingered on my skin, a bittersweet reminder of what I stood to lose.
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.
But how? The cell door loomed before me, solid and unyielding. I was no escape artist, no hardened criminal with tricks up my sleeve. I was just a cobbler, in way over his head.
I slumped against the bars, despair threatening to overwhelm me. Then, unbidden, my grandfather’s voice echoed in my memory.
“Milo, my boy,” he’d often said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “a good cobbler can fix more than just shoes. With clever hands and a quick mind, you can mend any problem life throws your way.”
I looked down at my hands, calloused and scarred from years of working with leather and tools. Then my gaze fell on the cell’s lock.
It wasn’t so different from the intricate fastenings on some of the fancier shoes I’d repaired over the years. Complex, yes, but not impossible to understand. Not for someone with clever hands and a desperate need. Hope, fragile but persistent, bloomed in my chest. I might not be an escape artist, but I was a damn good cobbler.
I slipped my hand into my pocket, fingers curling around the pouch where I kept extra thread and awl needles. With a quick glance at the cell door, I withdrew a thin, pointed needle and crouched before the lock.
I inserted the needle’s tip into the keyhole, feeling for the tumblers inside. The cool metal against my fingers brought back memories of repairing delicate ladies’ boots, their tiny buckles requiring a similar delicate touch.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the subtle vibrations transmitted through the tool. Each click and scrape told a story, just like the worn soles of a working man’s boots. I manipulated the awl needle, coaxing the lock’s inner workings like I would tease a stubborn leather seam.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I worked, the silence of the jail broken only by my measured breathing and the soft scraping of metal on metal. I thought of my grandfather, who’d taught me that patience and persistence could overcome any obstacle.
The lock resisted, but I persevered. This was no different than salvaging a pair of shoes others might deem beyond repair. Every mechanism had its weakness. I just had to find this one’s.
As I worked, I thought of Jack and Elijah. Of Martha and Thompson. Of all the people counting on me, even if they didn’t know it yet.
I couldn’t fail them. I wouldn’t.
The lock clicked softly beneath my fingers, and the cell door swung open.