Page 13 of Wolf Fated

I nod shakily, suddenly acutely aware of the intimacy of our position, of the way his solid frame engulfs me in a cocoon of warmth and safety. Heat floods my cheeks, and I make a move to extract myself from his embrace, but he tightens his hold, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that steals my breath away.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to have such a pity party," I mumble, swiping at the lingering tear tracks on my cheeks with the back of my hand.

Mitch's brow furrows, and he shakes his head, his expression one of quiet reassurance. "This isn't a pity party, Sarah. Anything that causes this level of anguish with you is serious for me."

His words, spoken with such conviction, such unwavering certainty, strike a chord deep within me. For once, I don't feel the need to shrink back, to brush off my pain as insignificant or unworthy of acknowledgment. Instead, I find myself nodding, emboldened by the genuine concern that shines in his molten gaze.

"I'm just...not used to this," I confess, my voice little more than a whisper.

Mitch regards me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a gentleness that belies his imposing stature, he reaches out and takes my hand in his, engulfing it in the warmth of his calloused palm. “Not used to what? Showing this side of yourself to people who care?”

“No one cares,” I whisper, my voice thick with a lifetime's worth of loneliness and isolation. "Not the foster parents, not the social workers...to them, I was just another whining foster kid, a burden to be shouldered until I aged out of the system."

Oh God! Why did I tell him that? I don’t tell anyone about my past. I don’t cry in front of people. I don’t let myself get emotional. I don’t show anyone anything. Why does it all come out with him? I have no defenses. My walls are obliterated as though they were never there.

Shame floods through me. I stiffen, face hot and blood running cold. Wait for the sounds of pity. Mitch doesn't flinch though, and why does he always do the unexpected? He doesn't turn away or offer empty platitudes. He does the one thing no one else has done and understands. He tightens his grip on my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a soothing caress.

"That changes now. You're not alone anymore, Sarah. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. " His words wash over me like a balm, soothing the ache that has been festering in my soul.

He’s absolutely too good to be true and the biggest question of all strangles past my lips. “Why?”

He smiles, his expression one of quiet understanding and something else, something deeper that sends a frisson of awareness rippling through me. He rises to his feet and offers me his hand. "You’ll see. For now we should head over to the station. I'll need to access your account information, see if we can get to the bottom of this mess.”

I frown, placing my hand in his without hesitation even when he didn’t answer me. Not really but his touch grounds me in a way I can't quite explain. He has my trust. Stupidly. Completely. Confusingly. We make our way toward the front entrance and I find myself drawing strength from his solid presence at my side.

As we step outside, the crisp mountain air fills my lungs, carrying with it the scents of pine and earthy moss. But there's another scent mingled in, one that sets my pulse fluttering when he helps me into his police cruiser–the rich, heady aroma of sun-kissed skin and something distinctly masculine. It's Mitch's scent, I realize with a start, and it's everywhere–clinging to the upholstery and permeating the air around us like an intoxicating musk.

I’ve never noticed scent before and now that I do, I take a deep breath and savor the air in my lungs.

"I like your car. It smells like you," I murmur, unable to resist the urge to lean in and breathe deeply of that alluring fragrance. Holy hell, did I really say that?

A low chuckle rumbles from Mitch's chest, and he shoots me a sidelong glance, his lips curved in a hint of a smile. "I'm glad you approve," he says, his tone rich with amusement.

The drive to the station is a blur, the picturesque scenery of Willowbrook passing by in a haze of vivid colors and quaint charm. But I barely register any of it, my focus entirely consumed by the man beside me, by the steady thrum of his presence that seems to ground me in a way I can't quite articulate.

I’ve fallen into some sort of dream. An alternate reality, because I shouldn’t be attracted to this man. It takes me months to let people in and even then, I don’t let them in entirely, but this man has sunk past every defense I have in a brief hour.

We pull into the parking lot of a quaint, two-story building that exudes a sense of rustic charm. The sheriff's station, I realize, taking in the whitewashed clapboard siding and the neatly tended flower boxes that line the front entrance.

As we make our way inside, I can't help but marvel at the cozy interior, with its worn hardwood floors and the rich, earthy scent of cedar that permeates every nook and cranny. Everything about this town feels familiar.

As though I belong.

And I’ve never belonged anywhere.

Mitch's deputy, a muscular man with a friendly smile, greets us in the lobby, his gaze flickering between us with a hint of curiosity. I recognize him as the man who followed the sheriff into the woods last night. I read his name badge: Zane Matthews.

“We’re going to be doing some research. Sarah’s bank account has unfortunately been emptied,” Mitch says.

I register the shock on Zane’s face as Mitch takes my hand, leads me down a side hallway and into a cozy office tucked away from the main bullpen.

As the door clicks shut behind us, Mitch draws a brown leather chair next to his behind his heavy oak desk that dominates the center of the room. "Make yourself comfortable.”

I do as he asks, sinking onto the supple leather. He draws his own chair close. I breathe in air laced with sandalwood and a soft, calming haze settles over me with his closeness. With a few deft keystrokes, he pulls up my online banking portal when he asks for it.

"All right, Sarah," he says, his gaze lifting to meet mine with an intensity that steals my breath away. "Let's get to the bottom of this."

“Okay, Sheriff,” I say.

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