Second-Chance Mate:The Alpha Who Took What My Mate Threw Away

Chapter 6

The caller hung up before I reached the office.

Jake still had the phone to his ear, frowning at the dead line. “Rude,” he said. “Didn’t even wait for my charming personality.”

“Who was it?” I leaned on the doorframe, trying to pretend my skull wasn’t still buzzing.

He flipped the screen toward me. Unknown number. Of course.

“They asked for you,” he said. “‘Ms. Thorn,’ all official. Wanted to know if you’d ‘noticed anything unusual’ last night.” Air quotes. “I said yes, my boss almost got turned into scrap metal, but she already talked to the cops. They did not appreciate my sense of humor. Then—click.”

My stomach dipped. “Probably insurance,” I said. “Or a survey. ‘On a scale of one to ten, how satisfied are you with your near-death experience?’”

Jake studied my face for a second too long. “Yeah. Sure. You look super ‘survey’-level stressed.”

“I always look like this,” I said. “It’s part of my brand. Go deal with your Civic before it grows roots.”

“Bossy,” he muttered, but he went, humming off-key as he disappeared back into the bay.

The moment he was out of sight, the office felt too small. The air too thin. I shoved the phone into its cradle and went back to the SUV like it could anchor me.

The worst of the headache had drained away, but the world still felt too sharp around the edges. Nyra was no longer slamming herself against the bars; she’d settled into a tight coil in my chest, ears pricked, watching.

He didn’t leave, she noted.

“Don’t sound so happy about it,” I muttered, grabbing my ratchet. “He will.”

Caleb was where I’d left him: on the far side of the engine bay, arms folded, leaning against the workbench like he’d grown there. In daylight, the cut on his temple was already mostly closed, just a faint, angry line.

“You talked to them?” he asked.

I slid under the hood again, grateful to have metal blocking him from view. “Jake did. He has a gift for scaring off telemarketers and, apparently, faceless investigation units.”

“They weren’t telemarketers,” he said quietly.

“I know.” The words came out sharper than I meant. I forced my voice down. “They’ll call again. I’ll keep not answering.”

“That works until it doesn’t.”

“Story of my life.”

Bolts and brackets answered more easily than people. I lost myself in them for a while, letting the rhythm of the work steady my breathing. When I finally had to crawl out, my hands were steadier but my head wasn’t.

“You’re good to go,” I said, wiping my palms on a rag. “Radiator’s fine, steering’s aligned. Try not to make me regret saving your bumper.”

“Thank you,” he said. He meant it. It made my chest tight in a different way. “You didn’t have to.”

“Sure I did,” I said. “It’s my job. I fix things.”

His gaze lingered on my face. “That’s not the only thing you fix.”

“Don’t get poetic in my shop,” I warned. “I charge extra.”

He almost smiled, then let it fade. “Council calls don’t come alone, Maia. They fan out. Ask neighbors, businesses, hospitals.”

I shrugged, too hard. “Let them. I’m human on paper. Boring in person. Nothing to see.”

His eyes dropped briefly to my hands, then to my throat, before returning to mine. “You really believe they can’t smell what I can?”

Nyra pushed, smug. He can.

I shut her down as best I could. “You’re concussed, remember? You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe.” He tilted his head. “What did you call my wolf last night?”

My mouth went dry. “Your what?”

“Riven,” he said. “You said his name. You said it again this morning. I’ve never given you that.”

My pulse stumbled. The buzzing in my skull spiked.

“I must’ve heard you mumble it,” I said. “When you were staggering around. Or I guessed. It’s a very…sharp name. Suits you.”

He didn’t even blink. “I don’t mumble his name in front of Council. And wolves don’t ‘suit’ random guesses.”

Nyra leaned forward, pressing against my ribs like she wanted to see him better. He called to us, she said, tone almost dreamy. We answered.

“Shut up,” I breathed.

Caleb’s eyes sharpened. “What did she say?”

“That I hate this conversation.” I turned away, walking to the counter before my legs could decide otherwise. Paper. Math. Receipts. Safer. “Your total’s there. Parts, labor, attempted murder of my door.”

He followed at a respectful distance. “Put it on this.”

A credit card slid across the worn laminate, followed by a second card. Black, heavy, thicker than plastic should feel.

I glanced at it before I could stop myself.

A stylized wolf’s head, silver on matte black. Small print under it: SILVERPINE PACK. Caleb Hale, Alpha.

My chest clenched. “I’m not joining a pack.”

“I’m not asking you to.” He nodded at the second card. “That’s an offer, not a summons.”

“For what?” I asked. “Group therapy? Moon howling classes?”

“If they come back,” he said, eyes on mine, “and you decide you don’t want to face them alone—call. Or if your wolf gets too loud and you don’t know how to quiet her without breaking yourself. I have people who can help.”

“I’ve been ‘helped’ before,” I snapped. “Straps. Needles. Fancy words about safety. I’ll pass.”

His jaw flexed, something dark moving through his gaze. “That wasn’t help. That was control.”

“Semantics.”

“No,” he said. “Difference.”

Silence stretched, full of everything I didn’t want to name.

Finally I snatched up the black card and, without thinking, shoved it into the junk drawer under the till. Pens rattled. Old receipts crinkled. The card disappeared under a mess of normal, human trash.

“Happy?” I said. “I accepted your… flyer.”

He exhaled once through his nose, almost a laugh. “I’ll take it.”

He picked up his keys, lingering for a second like he might say more. Then he didn’t. Just turned and walked back toward the SUV, posture loose but ready, as if he expected someone to jump out of the shadows at any moment.

The engine coughed, then settled into a smooth idle. He pulled out slowly, careful this time at the mangled frame, then eased into the street.

I watched the taillights disappear around the corner, the scent of pine and storm slowly leaching from the air.

Normal, I told myself. Back to normal.

Behind my ribs, Nyra lay down, chin on her paws.

You kept the card, she said.

“Shut up,” I whispered.

But my eyes kept flicking to the drawer like I could see through it, to the little, impossible lifeline I’d hidden under pens and paperclips.