Alphas christmas heir, p.3
Alpha's Christmas Heir, page 3
That’s when I see it.
The Vale car at the top of the slope, fishtailing just a little as it hits a patch of ice.
My stomach drops. Training overrides everything else. I flip the light bar on, hit the siren for a quick whoop, and ease up behind the sedan, leaving enough distance in case they lose control again.
The driver corrects the skid like they know what they’re doing. I still feel my heart in my throat as I watch the car straighten out.
“Easy,” I murmur, not sure who I’m talking to. Them or myself.
I hit the siren once more, short and sharp, then the car’s hazard lights flicker on as they pull toward the shoulder.
Snow whirls in the colored light as I park behind them, shift into park, and grab my hat from the seat beside me. For a second, I just sit there, fingers clenched around the brim, the radio crackling softly at my shoulder.
It could be anyone, that stubborn part of my brain insists. L. Vale is a common enough combination. Maybe it’s a cousin. Maybe it’s—
I open the door and step out into the cold.
Wind cuts through my pants, slides into my jacket collar; the scent of ice and pine and distant woodsmoke wraps around me. The snow under my boots squeaks as I walk up along the driver’s side of the sedan.
The window is already lowering by the time I reach it, motor whining faintly.
“Evening,” I start, my voice settling into the calm, neutral cadence it’s learned over years. “I saw you fishtail back there—”
Then the window drops enough for me to see inside.
Oatmeal sweater. Scarf pulled high. Hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
And a face I know like I built it myself. Softer at the edges, cheeks a little thinner, dark lashes casting shadows on skin that looks more tired than I remember. Wavy light-brown hair sticking out from under a beanie, a little damp from the snow. Brown eyes going wide and dark as they lock onto mine.
“Liam,” I say.
His name fits in my mouth like it never left.
For a second, everything goes quiet in the odd way it sometimes does during a crash. I see every detail in too-sharp focus: the tiny chip in his lower lip where he bit it once, tripping on the theater stairs. The faint shadow under his eyes. The way his grip on the steering wheel tightens, just a fraction.
And the scent.
It hits me a half beat after the visual. Familiar, beloved: warm toasted rice, the comfort of it curling right under my breastbone, edged with bright candied kumquat. But stronger now, richer, and threaded through with something else. A bright, citrus-caramel note that makes my alpha instincts sit up and pay attention, because I’ve only ever smelled it like that in one context.
Pregnancy.
The realization slams into me almost hard enough to stagger me. The cold air pouring in through the open window carries it straight into my nose. No mistaking it. It wraps around his baseline scent and changes it, the way spring rain changes the smell of earth.
I clamp down hard on every instinct that wants to surge to the surface. The protective lurch. The possessive flicker. The urge to lean in, to scent closer, to—
No.
I am the sheriff. I am on duty. He is an adult. And he is very clearly carrying someone else’s pup.
I let my expression soften a fraction and glue my voice back into its professional shape.
“Sorry to spook you,” I say, hat tipping up a little so he can see my eyes. “You all right? That patch back there’s slicker than it looks.”
His throat works as he swallows. “I’m fine,” he says, and even shaky, the sound of his voice goes straight to all the places I’ve tried not to think about. He clears his throat. “Just... just hit it wrong, I guess.”
“Nothing wrong with your driving,” I say before I can stop myself. “That corner always ices first.”
His gaze flickers away, then back. He lets go of the wheel with one hand, flexes his fingers. The knit of his sweater pulls tight across his belly, and for the first time I see the curve.
It’s not huge. He’s not near term yet, if my limited midwife-by-osmosis knowledge is right. But it’s there. Obvious enough that, if you know what you’re looking at, you can’t miss it.
I wonder how many people he’s had to field questions from in the city. How many looks. How many assumptions.
“Can I see your license and registration?” I ask, because the script is a safer place to be than the freefall of my brain right now.
“Right. Yeah.” He fumbles for his wallet, fingers a little clumsy. The faint smell of adrenaline joins the cocktail in the car: fear, embarrassment, stubbornness.
I lean in enough to take the card when he hands it over, careful to keep my gloved fingers from brushing his bare skin. The name on the license—LIAM JOEL VALE—hits me like another little shock, as if there was ever any real chance it would say anything else.
The address is in the city. The expiry date is fine. No warrants. Not that I’d ever expect there to be.
“You heading far?” I ask, handing the license back. “You live up this way now?”
He swallows again. “Yeah,” he says. “Staying at... at my mom’s place.”
So it is him at the Birch house. Somehow, that surprises me less than anything else. Of course he’d come back there, if he came back at all. Maggie would’ve wanted it that way.
“In town for the holidays?” I keep the questions easy, open, the way I would with anyone. But the answer matters more than I want it to.
His mouth twists. “Something like that,” he says. “Figured... it’d be quieter here.”
The way the words land makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Quieter here, sure. But also further. Away from what?
I could push. I don’t. Not on the side of the road, with snow piling up on the hood and his knuckles still white on the wheel.
The radio at my shoulder crackles softly as Nora checks in with Highway. I thumb it off for a second, needing the silence.
“All right,” I say. “I’m not going to write you up for anything. Just take it slow. These roads aren’t forgiving, and we’ve got more weather coming.”
He nods, shoulders relaxing a millimeter. “Thanks.”
I hesitate. Then: “Do you mind if I follow you up the rest of the hill? Just to make sure you don’t end up in a ditch?”
His eyes flick to mine, surprise flashing through them. “You don’t have to do that,” he says quickly. “I’m fine, I—”
“I know,” I say. “You’re a better driver than half this town. But I’m going that way anyway, and it’s easier to pull you out if I’m already behind you.”
I let a hint of a smile tug at my mouth. It feels wrong on my face, but in a good way.
After a brief pause, he huffs out something that might be a laugh. “Okay,” he says. “Sure. Thanks, Sheriff.”
Sheriff.
The title on his tongue does something weird to my chest. Too formal. Too distant. Too real.
“Caleb’s fine,” I say before I can stop myself.
His gaze flicks to my badge, then up to my face again. “Okay,” he says softly. “Thanks, Caleb.”
I step back, give the side of his car a light tap. “Go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
He pulls out slowly, tires crunching over the snow. I wait a beat, then follow, lights dimmed now, the siren off. The hill doesn’t seem as steep as it used to, but the sedan still struggles a little near the top. It makes it into the driveway on the first try, though, and I let my lungs unclench.
I pull in behind him, leaving room in case I need to maneuver around. By the time I climb out of the truck, he’s wrestled one grocery bag out of the back seat and is eyeing the rest with the kind of tired calculation I’ve seen in young parents hauling diaper bags.
“Let me get those,” I say, moving up beside him.
He startles, then scowls a little, which is so familiar it hurts. “I’ve got it.”
“I know you do.” I reach past him to grab the largest bag anyway, lifting it with one hand. “But the county pays me to be helpful, and my back’s not currently doing double duty.”
His ears go a little pink at that. “Right,” he mutters. “Fine. If you insist.”
I don’t point out that the bag he’s clinging to is lighter than the one I’m holding. Pride is a funny thing, and I know better than to poke at his when he’s already off balance.
We crunch up the path to the front door, the old porch boards creaking just like I remember. He fumbles the key out of his pocket, metal scraping before the lock finally gives.
The air inside hits me in a wave when we step in: dust, cold, old wood, and a thin thread of something softer underneath. Maggie. Not strong, but there. The way cloves linger in a cupboard long after the jar’s gone.
Without thinking, I step off to the side, toeing my boots on the mat to get excess snow off while he moves down the hall. “Kitchen’s this way,” he says over his shoulder, like I don’t already know.
The overhead light in the kitchen flickers on, throwing tired yellow over chipped countertops and faded cabinets. He dumps his bag on the counter and turns back to reach for the others.
“Where do you want the rest?” I ask.
“Anywhere’s fine,” he says. “That—uh—that one’s heavy, you can just put it on the table.”
I obey, setting the bag down gently so the cans inside don’t dent the wood. The table is the same one Maggie used to serve Sunday dinners on. There’s a little nick in one corner where I caught it with my belt buckle once, backing up too fast. I run my thumb over it now without thinking.
“She’d be mad if she knew you were lifting that,” I say. “Maggie always made me do the heavy stuff in here.”
For a second, his face softens, the tension around his mouth easing. “Yeah,” he says. “She had opinions about people lifting things. And about soup.”
I catch sight of a tin on the counter, lid popped, recipe cards neatly stacked inside. “I see she left you instructions,” I say quietly.
He follows my gaze and huffs a little laugh. “For winter babies,” he says, voice going distant for a second. Then he seems to remember himself, shakes his head. “Anyway. Thanks for following me up. I can handle it from here.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I glance around the kitchen. The cabinet door hanging crookedly. The draft coming through the window over the sink. The near-empty pantry he hasn’t had time to fill yet. Then, because I’m nosy, my gaze catches on the bottle near the sink. Prenatal vitamins, half empty.
Something in my chest clenches again.
“I’ve got a few minutes,” I say. “You mind if I take a quick look at your windows and the furnace? We’re expecting worse weather in a couple days. Be good to know if you’ve got any leaks that need emergency patches.”
He freezes, bag of apples still in his hands. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I meet his eyes. Give him room to say no. “It’s a courtesy check. We’re doing them for older houses near the ridge. I won’t go poking around anywhere you don’t want me to.”
His teeth catch his bottom lip for a second. Then he exhales. “Okay,” he says. “Sure. If you’ve got time.”
“Got nowhere else to be,” I lie easily. I have three calls I should return and a stack of paperwork on my desk, but none of it is more urgent than knowing whether he’s got drafty windows and a temperamental furnace when a blizzard’s due.
We do a quick circuit of the house together. Living room: the window by the couch has a draft, but nothing a strip of foam and a rolled towel can’t mitigate for a couple days. Bathroom: the heat vent rattles but blows warm air. Hallway: the loose floorboard near the bedroom is still loose; he steps over it with the muscle memory of someone who spent childhood avoiding it.
In the bedroom, the overhead light gives out after a too-bright flicker, plunging us into dimness. He swears under his breath and reaches for the lamp by the bed instead.
The quilt catches my eye first.
Blue and grey squares spread over the bare mattress, one corner folded back. I recognize it; Maggie started it the winter we graduated. Said she’d finish it “when my boy brings someone home he wants to take care of.” My face had been on fire for an hour after she said it, and Liam had hidden behind a pillow, groaning.
It landed here anyway, apparently. It suits him. Soft, practical, more heart than flash.
Beside the bed, a duffel sits half unzipped, clothes spilling out. On the little table next to it, his wallet, keys, and the vitamin bottle. A folded ultrasound picture peeks out from under the plastic. I don’t look too hard. That feels like an intimacy I don’t get to have anymore.
“The quilt looks good there,” I hear myself say.
He glances at it, then back at me, something wary in his expression. “It’s just... temporary,” he says. “Until I figure things out.”
Temporary. The word lands heavy.
“Furnace?” I ask, because standing in his bedroom thinking about why there’s only one quilt, one pillow, and no other alpha scent anywhere is going to fry what’s left of my brain.
“Basement,” he says. “Door’s off the kitchen.”
He follows me back down the hall, pointing things out as we go. He’s moving slower than he used to, but his stride is still familiar. I resist the urge to slow down to match him exactly like I always did, letting him set the pace.
The basement stairs are as narrow and creaky as ever. I go down first, flashlight beam cutting through the dim. The furnace hulks in the corner, humming steadily, pilot light a steady blue. I check the pressure, the filters, the emergency shutoff. All functional, if a little old.
“Needs a proper service after the storm,” I call up. “But it’ll hold.”
“Good,” he says, faint relief in the word.
Back upstairs, he hovers near the table while I shrug back into my jacket. The kitchen light hums overhead. Outside, the snow’s thickened, tapping against the window.
He clears his throat. “Do you want...” He glances at the kettle, then at me. “I mean, I could make coffee. Or tea. Or hot water and we can pretend it’s something better.”
It’s a simple offer. Normal. The kind of thing neighbors do. Old... something do.
The part of me that’s still seventeen and stupid lunges for it, wants to say yes, wants to sit at that table, wrap my hands around a mug, and listen to him talk until I forget what it was ever like not to.
The part of me that remembers why I left digs in its heels.
Ten years is a long time. However he ended up here, pregnant and alone, he didn’t come back for me. I broke his heart once. I don’t get to walk in here and act like sitting at this table with him is my right.
“Thanks,” I say, and make my voice gentle, not abrupt. “But I should get back. Still a few patrols to run before the roads get worse.”
His mouth presses into a line. “Right. Of course.”
“I’m going to log this as a welfare check,” I add, because it’s easier to hide behind paperwork than behind emotion. “Just so we’ve got you on the radar during the storm. If the power goes out up here, we’ll prioritize getting you a generator or a ride to a shelter.”
His face does a complicated thing at the word welfare, but after a beat he nods. “Okay. I—um. I appreciate that.”
I hesitate, then pull one of my cards from my pocket and slide it onto the table next to the kettle. “This is the direct line for the station,” I say. “Radio’s not always reliable in a storm. Any time, day or night, if you need anything, you call. If I’m not there, Nora will be.”
His gaze drops to the card. His fingers hover above it, then touch the corner. “I still had your number,” he says quietly, and I can’t tell if he meant to say it out loud.
My pulse stutters. “Yeah?”
He gives a tiny shrug. “Old habits.”
Old habits. Old wounds. Old everything.
I step back before I can say something stupid. “Get some rest,” I say instead. “Eat something. And for the love of god, don’t go back out on those roads tonight unless it’s an emergency.”
His mouth quirks, the faintest hint of a smile. “Yes, Sheriff.”
“Caleb,” I correct again, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment.
He looks up at me then, eyes dark and soft in a way that makes the kitchen feel too small. “Okay,” he says. “Yes, Caleb.”
I nod, mostly because if I don’t move, I might not. I let myself out, the front door closing with a soft click behind me.
On the porch, the cold hits like a wall. I suck in a breath, feel it burn all the way down. My exhale comes out in a long cloud, drifting up into the dim.
For a moment, I just stand there, hat in my hands, looking out at the street.
The last time I stood on this porch, I was twenty-one and an idiot. I had one foot out of town, a duffel in the trunk, and a head full of my father’s voice, telling me what an alpha owes his pack. What an alpha does when an omega he loves starts talking about leaving, about the city, about bigger things.
You’ll clip his wings if you stay, Dad had said, when I finally confessed that the thought of Liam leaving scared me so much I couldn’t sleep. You’ll hold him back without meaning to. Better for both of you if you cut clean.
I’d believed him.
I remember the way Liam’s face looked when I told him we needed to break up. The way his mouth opened like he was going to laugh, because it was absurd, right, the idea that we wouldn’t be us. Then the way his eyes slowly went flat when he realized I wasn’t joking.
I remember the sound his mother made from the kitchen when the front door slammed a minute later. Half anger, half grief.
I turned my back and walked away, telling myself I was doing the right thing. I was getting out of his way. Letting him go be brilliant somewhere that fit him better. Sparing him the slow suffocation of being stuck here with me.
It’s not often, in this job, that I get to see exactly how my choices played out years later. Most of the time, people move on out of sight. They end up fine, or they don’t, but it’s not usually charted in front of me like a case file.
