Mornings in Eugene began with moisture.
Fog hovered low over the Willamette River, stretching in a thin layer between bridges and parks, as though the city had not yet decided whether it truly wanted to wake. Downtown streets smelled of coffee and wet asphalt, and storefront windows reflected the pale light of the winter sun which, in Oregon, was rarely cloudless but, when it did appear, carried a raw, clean sharpness.
Kidd knew this city like his own territory.
Not because he patrolled it as a wolf, but because he had built it piece by piece.
Their company office was located on one of the side streets in Santa Clara, in a building with simple wooden siding and large windows overlooking the lumber yard. On the wall hung the company logo — Maddox & Son Construction — commissioned by his father more than twenty years earlier, back when Eugene had not yet begun expanding northward.
Kidd parked in front of the office, the engine quieting softly. His motorcycle remained in the garage under a cover, waiting for spring. In winter, reason won over pleasure, though he occasionally missed the wind against his face and the sense that the asphalt responded directly to the movement of his body.
He stepped out, adjusted the collar of his dark jacket, and headed toward the entrance. The crew was already there — a few carpenters loading tools into a pickup, someone from administration hurrying down the corridor with a stack of documents.
"Boss," one of the younger guys called out with a wide grin.
Kidd returned the smile without arrogance.
"Call me Kidd. 'Boss' sounds like someone who can't hold a hammer."
Laughter spread across the yard.
He was demanding, but fair. He could point out a mistake without raising his voice and just as quickly praise work done well. On site, he worked like everyone else — in gloves, with wood dust under his nails and the scent of resin clinging to his skin. Precision came naturally to him. A house was not merely a structure. It was a place where someone would sleep, argue, laugh, raise children.
Building carried something of an alpha's instinct.
Providing shelter.
Guarding territory.
Expanding the space that could be called one's own.
His father was already waiting in the conference room.
Robert Maddox was a man in his sixties, with broad hands and the face of someone who had spent most of his life working physically before learning to manage. There was not a trace of wolf blood in him, yet he had never needed it to command his son's respect. He was steady, stubborn, and loyal to the edge of reason.
"The government documents came in yesterday," he said without preamble, handing over a folder. "Santa Clara's moving faster than they planned."
Kidd flipped through the first pages of the contract.
A new residential development. Dozens of houses. A multi-phase project. Federal funding.
A big step.
"This will set us up for years," Kidd murmured.
"It will," Robert confirmed. "But it'll test us, too."
Kidd looked up.
"I like a challenge."
His father studied him with that steady, assessing expression he had worn for most of Kidd's life.
"I know."
Their relationship was simple. No excess words, no obvious displays of affection, but grounded in mutual respect. Kidd's mother had died when he was still a teenager. The illness had taken her quickly, leaving behind a silence that lingered between the walls for years. Robert hadn't tried to replace everything for his son. He taught him work, responsibility, consequence. The rest Kidd had carved out for himself.
By early afternoon, he drove out to the future development site.
Santa Clara was one of the fastest-growing parts of Eugene—wide lots, young trees, the scent of freshly turned earth hanging in the air. In the distance, forest-covered hills rose in a steady line, and when the wind came down from the north, it carried the smell of wet bark and running streams.
Kidd stepped out of his truck and walked between the marked stakes, imagining the outlines of future foundations. He had the ability to see space not as it was, but as it could become. In his mind, walls rose, wiring ran, windows were positioned to catch light at precisely the right angle.
When he built, he felt grounded.
As alpha, he protected his pack.
As a businessman, he created something lasting for people who didn't even know they lived on wolf land—and that suited him just fine.
He stopped at the temporary project office. The container unit sat slightly apart from the main lot, warmed by a small electric heater, technical plans pinned along the walls and a whiteboard crowded with notes.
Ana was already there.
She stood leaning over the table in a navy coat, her brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail that accentuated the line of her neck. She was tall, long-legged, with sharp, observant eyes that missed nothing. Her smile was warm, but never naïve.
"You're four minutes late," she said without looking up from the blueprints.
Kidd shut the door behind him and pulled off his gloves.
"You were counting?"
"Of course. The government pays for precision."
"Good thing it doesn't pay for charm," he replied, stepping closer to the table.
Ana lifted her gaze, and for a moment their eyes met. Her eyes were dark and attentive, and her smile shifted slightly, as if she had just received the answer she expected.
"Fortunately, the project doesn't require charm," she said calmly. "It requires compliance, deadlines, and budget discipline."
Kidd leaned over the plans, bracing his hands on the table. He was aware that his forearms looked particularly defined when he rolled up his sleeves. He caught the subtle shift of Ana's gaze as it moved over the veins along his arms before she swallowed quietly.
"And here I thought a smile would be enough."
"You can save the smile for the girls at the office," she replied without missing a beat.
"Slander," he said, a low, rough laugh slipping from his throat and filling the small space.
Ana shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She had known he would be here that day and had chosen her outfit deliberately—tailored beige trousers and black heeled boots. Beneath her desk sat a pair of steel-toe work shoes, practical and hidden. Kidd didn't need to see those.
"I've heard you have a reputation," she added lightly, tracing a finger along one of the technical drawings. "Apparently, you can convince people of anything."
"Only reasonable things," Kidd answered evenly. "And only when I believe in them myself."
Ana looked him over slowly, from his shoulders down and back again.
"And do you believe in this project?" she asked.
"I believe in houses that don't leak and foundations that don't crack after the first winter," he replied without blinking. "And I believe Santa Clara can be a place where someone feels safe."
One corner of her mouth lifted in a faintly provocative smile.
"I like it when a man talks about safety with that much conviction."
"And I like it when a woman can read between the lines of construction plans."
For a moment they stood a little too close for a purely professional meeting, yet there was no heaviness in the air. It was controlled flirtation, light, like trading sparks without intending to start a fire.
Ana straightened first.
"Alright, Maddox." She emphasized his last name deliberately. "Back to serious matters. If you shift the sewer line half a meter, we'll avoid conflict with the city grid."
Kidd studied the blueprint, pretending to hesitate.
"If I do that, I lose two parking spaces."
"You can always tell future residents it's for the greater good."
He raised a brow.
"And you'll come explain that to them?"
"If you promise coffee afterward."
"I can always make time for coffee."
Ana smiled more broadly.
"That's exactly why you have a reputation."
When the meeting ended, Kidd stepped out into the cold air with an easy stride. He liked conversations like that. He liked tension that carried no obligation. He liked knowing he could draw attention and just as easily let it go.
There was nothing serious in it.
Nothing beyond his control.
And yet, when he got back into his truck, his thoughts wandered somewhere entirely different instead of returning to deadlines and site logistics.
On the way back, he stopped at a café near Fifth Street. The barista, a young brunette with a nose ring, greeted him with a bright smile.
"The usual?"
"As always," he answered, returning the smile.
He flirted lightly, naturally, with that half-ironic glint in his eye that made people feel at ease. He never crossed the line. He understood that charm was one thing, responsibility another.
When he stepped back outside with a hot cup of coffee in hand, the city was fully awake. Students crossed intersections, cyclists glided along the river paths, delivery trucks disappeared around corners.
Eugene was calm, but alive.
His.
Not in the sense of power, but of guardianship.
And yet, as evening settled and he drove through the northern edge of the city toward the forest, something in him tightened almost imperceptibly, as if instinct were reminding him that within the quiet fabric of routine, a new scent had appeared.
Jasmine.
Kidd was not in the habit of mixing business with private life, nor private life with instinct. Still, he found himself more and more often glancing toward the road that led to Marco's house.