Chapter Text
The golden hour light made the desert road look like something out of a dream, the kind of warmth that usually belonged in a nostalgic memory faded with time.
Inside the truck, the air was thick with the scent of cheap diner coffee wafting from the cups on the console and the lingering sugar of the too-sweet pie they’d just shared. Buck was in the passenger seat, his hands animated as he moved through a blow-by-blow of the Annual American Firefighting Games, like Eddie wasn’t right beside him the whole time.
"—and like, do you remember that guy from the Boston squad? He was fast, sure, but his knot-tying was sloppy. You saw it, right? If that had been a real-life scenario, he’d have been toast," Buck said, his eyes bright with that specific, frantic energy he got when he was passionate about the job.
Eddie hummed, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth as he half-listened to Buck’s cocky rants. He was too busy watching the way the setting sun caught the gold in Buck’s hair. No one was as serious as the omega had been during the games but now that it was all over, his singular focus had melted away to a bratty smugness that Eddie found all too endearing. It was pretty embarrassing and frustrating at first, but even Eddie was swept up by his energy a few hours in.
"He wasn't that bad, Buck. You’re just too competitive."
"I am not!" Buck laughed, a sound so full and genuine it made Eddie’s chest ache with how fond he was. God, he didn’t think he would never get used to it.
Ever since that fateful night three months ago, he’d been at a state of dazed happiness. His heart would lurch between the overwhelming love for his little family and the familiar self-doubt reminding him not to fuck things up.
It was funny how one drunken kiss on a random Tuesday night could change everything.
And then it happened, two weeks ago.
A mundane hospital visit due to Buck’s never-ending back pain. Unexplainable nausea. The single most shocking good news he’d received ever since Chris’s birth.
Beside him, Buck shifted in his seat, his hand instinctively dropping to rest flat against his lower stomach—it was a gesture he didn't even seem to realize he was doing yet. "Anyway, the Nashville BBQ was the real winner. I would’ve ask for the recipe but I think they still held some grudge toward us for declining their food. Though, I think the baby preferred the peach cobbler."
The “us” in his sentence made Eddie grin. He remembered how antagonistic Buck was toward them Nashville folks—his morning sickness had been a lot worse when he couldn’t cook for himself and a hungry, nauseous Buck was worse than a cranky toddler. Eddie reached over, covering Buck’s hand with his own. The warmth of Buck’s skin, coupled with the blooming scent of a content omega was grounding.
Suddenly, Eddie felt a surge of bravery he hadn't known he possessed. He felt greedy. He didn’t want to take it slow and keep it on the low anymore. He was sick of sneaking kisses and stealing glances, of having to see Buck put on a thick patch on the site of his unmarked mating gland. He wanted to puff his chest out and announce to his family, his friends, strangers on the streets that Buck was his mate.
He was done with the best friends label that felt three sizes too small.
When we get to LA, Eddie thought, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of Buck's hand, I’m calling Maddie. No, no, I'm going over there. I’m asking for her blessing to court him properly.
He could already see it. Maddie sharing a knowing look with Chimney. Jee clinging to his leg, asking what’s a mate, Uncle Eddie? He imagined the way Christopher’s face—grown-up and teenage-moody as it had become lately—would absolutely light up. Chris loved Buck. Knowing that Buck was officially staying, and that there was a sibling on the way... it would be the first time in a while that their family truly felt whole.
"Eddie? You okay? You’ve got that constipated slash crazy look on your face," Buck teased, leaning his head back against the headrest.
Eddie didn’t entertain his jab, too happy to even roll his eyes. "I'm great, Buck. Better than great."
Despite the lack of context, Buck grinned, reaching for the radio. "Well, if you're so happy, you won't mind a little celebration music."
A sugary, high-tempo pop song from some blond singer blasted through the speakers—something Buck definitely shouldn't have known all the lyrics to, but did. He began to sing along dramatically, using a half empty plastic water bottle as a microphone, his voice hitting a purposefully terrible falsetto.
Eddie laughed, a real, deep-belly sound, and shook his head. Adjusting the headlights, he looked away from the road for just a second to catch Buck’s eye, a silent 'I love you' passed through the grin he wasn't ready to say out loud yet.
"Alright, Buck, stop or you’re gonna give me a heada—”
CRASH!
“Wha—”
“Ed—!"
The world flipped with the jarring screech of tearing metal and a violent, sickening jolt from behind.
The truck lurched forward, tires screaming against the asphalt as the rear disintegrated. Eddie’s head slammed against the side window. The last thing he saw through the blurred, spinning kaleidoscope of the dark night and bright headlights was Buck’s body being thrown forward, his hand still desperately curled over his stomach, before the world dissolved into a crushing, silent black.
---
Eddie woke up to the annoying, constant beep of something.
Is it time for his shift already?
Groaning inwardly, he lifted his hand to shut the alarm off. Well, tried. He could barely twitch his hands, the limb unusually heavy and sluggish. Eddie scrunched his eyes, willing them to open. His head felt like it’s been split open and his whole body felt like a giant bruise. Buck would—
His eyes snapped open.
Buck.
Where is Buck?
Eddie tilted his nose to the air, taking a deep breath and promptly coughing from the cocktail of sharp chemicals, distressed pheromones and sour sickness. Footsteps entered the room and through his watery eyes, Eddie could see a nurse arriving at his bedside. What—
“My name is Nurse Donna. Can you understand me?”
Eddie croaked, then cleared his throat. “W-where’s Buck?”
“Sorry?”
Cold dread began to creep inside him. His head pulsed with his heartbeat, but Eddie furrowed his eyebrows, forcing himself to stay focused.
“Evan Buckley. Tall male, curly haired with a birthmark on his left browbone. My omega.”
“I—”
“Mr. Diaz.” A doctor arrived just when Nurse Donna was about to reply. “I’m Dr. Harrison. I’m the attending trauma surgeon. You’ve suffered a Grade 2 concussion and some internal bruising, but you’re stable.”
Eddie didn’t give a fuck about that concussion. His lungs felt like they were filling with ice water. He couldn’t smell Buck’s pastries and summer berries scent anywhere and these people won’t tell him where his omega was.
“The passenger,” Eddie rasped, his voice cracking. “Evan Buckley. Where is he?”
Dr. Harrison smelled like industry grade blocker when he stepped closer, checking the readout on the monitor. He didn’t look Eddie in the eye. “Mr. Diaz, you’re in Nashville General. We’ve processed the intake from the scene. The Highway Patrol responded to a single-vehicle rollover—your truck. You were the only occupant recovered from the wreckage.”
“No,” Eddie hissed, the word tearing at his throat. The heart monitor began to spike, a frantic tweet-tweet-tweet echoing his rising pulse. “He was right there. We were talking. He was—he’s pregnant. He’s an omega, he’s mine.” A flash of anger slashed through the panic. “Check the report again.”
“We have,” the doctor said, his voice maddeningly calm. “The responding officers found the passenger side door sheared open. There was blood on the upholstery, but the seat was empty. They did a thermal sweep of the immediate area, thinking he might have wandered off in a state of shock, but... nothing.”
“Wandered off?” Eddie’s alpha instincts roared, a low vibration starting in his chest that made the beta nurse take a half-step back. “In the middle of the desert? With a head injury? You think he just went for a stroll?”
“The police are treating it as a Missing Persons case, Mr. Diaz—”
“No! Nonononono, he wouldn’t—”
A thousand scenarios flashed through his mind, each one worse than the before. Missing. Buck—his pregnant mate—was missing.
“We need you to stay calm,” Dr. Harrison insisted, reaching for a syringe to flush into Eddie’s IV line. “Your blood pressure is spiking. We’re going to give you something for the agitation—”
“Don’t you dare,” Eddie growled, his hand snapping out to catch the doctor's wrist with a grip that shouldn't have been possible for a man who just survived a rollover. He could feel his fangs poking against his bottom lip, twisting his mouth into a snarl that felt more animal than human. “Get me a phone. Now.”
---
The doctor had retreated eventually, likely to chart Eddie’s "aggression" or consult with security. They didn’t look too alarmed, probably too used to dealing with emotionally explosive alphas or omegas, but they had left a phone. It was Eddie’s, the screen a little cracked but miraculously fine otherwise.
His first instinct was to call Bobby.
Fuck.
Eddie’s fingers trembled as he bypassed Maddie’s contact. He loved her, she deserved to know, but he didn’t have it in him to comfort an omega’s grief right now—not when his own instincts were threatening to turn him feral. He needed a clear mind, someone who was capable of putting aside their emotions to focus on the objective. A hunter. He needed Athena.
The line picked up on the third ring.
“Thena.”
"Eddie? How’s the trip? Buck’s not replying to Harry’s messages and he’s getting cranky. I thought you two were halfway to the border by now." Athena’s voice was light, background noise of the Grant-Nash household humming behind her. He could hear Harry and May’s voices bickering in the background and it felt like a slap.
Eddie paused, chest aching and suddenly jealous of the sounds of normalcy. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick and jagged.
"Buck’s gone."
“Gone?”
The silence that followed was instantaneous. The clink of utensils on dishes ceased. When Athena spoke again, her voice had shifted—Athena was gone, replaced by Sergeant Grant-Nash.
"Start from the beginning. Give me the facts, Eddie."
"We were hit. Rear-ended," Eddie rasped, his eyes fixed on the empty hospital chair in the corner of the room. "The doctor says the door was sheared off. They say he 'wandered off,' Athena, but he wouldn’t… I know he wouldn’t do that. He knows the protocol for shit like this—it makes no sense. There was blood on his seat. Someone took him. I have to find—"
“And what about you?”
Eddie blinked, bewildered. “Me?”
“There was an accident, no? And it sounds like a bad one—there’s no way you escaped unscathed.”
“This isn’t about—”
“Eddie.”
A frustrated growl rose up his chest. “Fine. I’m in Nashville General with a concussion and some internal bruising.”
"Thank you. Now listen to me," Athena’s voice was a low, steady anchor. "I am calling my contact at Nashville PD. We are going to track the CCTV from that highway. But you have a concussion. You stay in that bed. If you go running into the desert with a head injury, you are no use to him."
Eddie’s hand clenched around the phone until the metal groaned. "I can’t just sit here! I can—”
“No! You will stay put and heal. Buck wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself for him, Eddie. Let the professionals handle this.”
“Athena—”
“Stay. Put.”
The line went dead.
---
Night rolled over with an agonising speed.
The green glow of the heart monitor was the only thing cutting through the oppressive dark of the room, casting sickly shadows against the white linoleum. Eddie didn't move. He sat perched on the edge of the mattress; his back rigid and his hands clamped together so tightly his knuckles were white stones.
He was an alpha in a cage.
His instincts were a physical pressure behind his ribs, a low vibration in his chest that he couldn't quiet. The air in the room was wrong—cold and devoid of the sun-warmed skin and sweet summer berries that usually anchored him. Without Buck’s scent, Eddie felt like he was floating in a void, his internal compass spinning wildly with no north to find.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table, but he didn't look.
He knew it was Hen or Chimney, probably a wall of frantic text or a missed call he wouldn't answer. Couldn’t, beyond the first texts he sent to them. If he heard their voices, the reality would settle into his bones like lead. If he spoke the words—Buck is gone—they would become a permanent part of the universe, and Eddie wasn't ready to live in a world where that was a fact.
He thought of Christopher. The image of his son’s face, staying at Hen’s. He was probably playing video games with Denny and Mara, absently wondering why Buck had stopped bothering him with random pictures from their road trip.
Did Hen tell him? Did she gasped and slipped up in front of the children?
The thought made Eddie’s throat close up. What was he supposed to say? I’m sorry, Chris. I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't brave enough. I lost him. I lost them both.
The "both" hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. The baby. A life that was barely a flicker, a secret they’d cradled between them, now potentially extinguished before it even had a name.
Eddie leaned forward, his elbows digging into his knees as he bowed his head. He locked his fingers together, his forehead resting against the bridge of his hands. He wasn't really a man of faith—not anymore. Life had beaten the religion out of him years ago, replaced by the cold logic of the battlefield and the fire line. But here, in the silence of a strange city, Eddie found himself reaching for the God he’d abandoned.
Please, he whispered, the sound a ragged, broken thing in the empty room. Not him. Anything but him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Buck in the truck, singing that terrible pop song with such unrefined joy, his hand protectively hovering over his stomach.
You can have me, Eddie bargained, his voice cracking into a silent sob he refused to let out. Take my life, take my soul, just... don't let him be scared. Don't let him be alone. Just give them back. Please, just give me my family back.
The heart monitor mocked him, its steady, rhythmic beep measuring every second that Buck wasn't there. Every second that the desert stayed silent. Eddie stayed in that position for hours, a broken soldier at a vigil, praying to a silent sky for a miracle he didn't think he deserved.
---
Sleep came to him, fitful and fragmented.
The nurse had entered the room twice to check his IV, but she’d retreated quickly, sensing the jagged, dangerous edge of his scent—the smell of a predator waiting for a reason to snap.
When the call came, his heart rate, which had been a low, sluggish thrum of despair, spiked instantly. The monitor beside him began a frantic, rhythmic chirping.
“Athena,” he rasped, the word sticking in his dry throat.
"Eddie," Athena’s voice came through, crisp and layered with the kind of forced calm she used when she was standing behind yellow police tape. "I’ve been coordinating with the Nashville PD. We pulled the footage from a weigh station five miles back from the crash site."
"And?"
"There was a black heavy-duty pickup. It was trailing your truck for twenty miles. We got a partial on the plate, and a facial recognition hit from a grainy window reflection at a gas station stop." There was a momentary pause, the sound of paper shifting. "The truck belongs to a man named Caleb Miller. He’s a local alpha, worked in logistics. Eddie, he has no criminal record, but—"
"Caleb Miller," Eddie breathed, the name tasting like copper and ash in his mouth. The memory he’d been suppressing slammed into him: the smell of charcoal, the sound of a man sobbing over a gurney in a rainy LA alleyway. It had been one of the most recent cases that stuck to him—the heartbreaking howl of an alpha who’d just lost his omega had resonated deeply with him, reminding him of himself when Shannon was hit years ago. "It’s him. It’s the husband. From the call in June."
"The husband?" Athena’s tone sharpened. "Eddie, stay with me. What are you talking about?"
"His wife was the omega who died, Athena—the one I couldn't save!" Eddie’s voice suddenly broke, the dam he’d built over the last twenty-four hours shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. He wasn't the stoic soldier anymore; he was a terrified mate. He wracked his brain, willing himself to remember, to notice if there was anything that he’d missed. The fire station, the hotel, the road, the gas stations. If he’d just begun to follow them in the desert, then that meant—
The diner right by the road.
Fuck.
"It’s the diner. He must’ve recognised us there. He saw how happy we were and he—he took him because he wants me to feel what he feels. He wants me to watch my family die too. Shit. It’s all my fault, I—"
Athena was quick to stop him from spiralling. "Eddie, breathe. The police are dispatching a car to his registered address—"
"They’re going to be too late!" Eddie roared, standing up so abruptly the heart monitor leads yanked taut against his chest. "He’s had him for two days and God knows what he’d done to him! Buck is hurt, he’s scared, and he’s pregnant, Athena! He’s carrying my child and he’s trapped with a madman!"
The silence that followed was heavy. For three seconds, the only sound was his ragged breathing and the frantic, high-pitched pinging of the monitor as Eddie’s heart rate climbed into the danger zone.
"He is?" Athena’s voice was barely a whisper, the legendary Sergeant Grant-Nash mask finally slipping to make way for Athena, the mother. The professional distance evaporated, replaced by a sharp, horrified intake of breath. "Buck is... he’s pregnant?"
"Six weeks," Eddie choked out, a single, hot tear finally escaping as he rubbed a hand down his face. "We weren't supposed to be here. We were supposed to be going home. Please, Athena. Please tell me you have an address."
There was a rustling sound at the other end of the line.
"Eddie, listen to me very carefully," Athena said, her voice regaining its steel but tempered now with a desperate urgency. "I am sending the coordinates to your phone. But don’t be reckless, you are in no condition—"
Eddie didn't hear the rest. He reached up and ripped the electrodes from his chest, the monitor flatlining into a long, continuous scream that mirrored the one inside his own head. He hung up the phone, grabbed his boots, and walked out of the room.
He was done waiting.
---
The fluorescent lights at the Piggly Wiggly didn’t help with his pounding headache, but it was the only thing filling Caleb’s head as he stood in the cereal aisle. It was a mundane chore—milk, bread, a six-pack of cheap lager, and a box of generic granola bars. He moved slow and sluggish, like a ghost wandering in aimlessly through a great mansion.
Inspect the labels. Calculate the price after tax. Move on.
His dry eyes stung with fatigue and the scratches under his long-sleeved shirt throbbed with his heartbeat. He looked like shit. Barely even human. But to the bored teenage cashier, he was just another tired Alpha stopping by after a long graveyard shift.
Dawn was beginning to peak when he drove back to the house.
The rented blue sedan was creaky and smelled like cigarette smoke, an annoying downgrade to his meticulously cared for truck. But unlike the truck, it was cheap and whole.
It took him a wrong turn and two before he arrived at his grandfather’s old hunting cabin, tucked behind a screen of weeping willows and rusted machinery. There was a small mossy lake and a well dug beside it.
The cabin was small, smelling of untreated damp wood and the stale, lingering scent of a life that had ended years ago. Collapsing on a wooden chair, Caleb cracked a beer, the hiss of the tab the loudest sound in the kitchen. He sat at the scarred wooden table, staring at the dust motes dancing in the morning light. He was just waiting. Waiting for the world to feel as empty for Eddie Diaz as it felt for him.
He grabbed a granola bar from the plastic bag and placed it on the opposite side of the table.
“Had a good sleep, honey?”
Sarah made a face at his beer.
“I know, I know. It’s not good for me, but I had a rough night, okay? I deserve it.”
His wife had always been strict about his diet ever since the health scare he had a few years ago. She’d hide the alcohol and only bring it out during happy occasions. It was sweet, how much she cared.
There was a strand of blond hair falling in front of her face. She blew it away, letting out a silent laugh when it flopped back to the same place.
Smiling, Caleb watched her fondly but just as he reached out to fix it for her, a muffled noise caught his attention.
Thump. Scrape. Thump.
The sound came from beneath his boots. A dull, rhythmic pounding against the floorboards.
Caleb closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. He settled back on his chair and took a long pull of the lager, letting the bitterness coat his tongue. He’d wanted silence. He’d wanted to bask in his dear wife’s golden smile.
But the basement wouldn’t even give that to him.
Scrape. Crash.
“Hold on, honey.”
With a sigh that was more of a growl, Caleb set the bottle down. He turned away from Sarah to trod down the wooden stairs, each step complaining under his weight. His hands searched for the light switch, then flicked on the single, naked bulb.
In the corner of the damp room, the omega—Buck, if he heard it right—was struggling. He was a mess of limp curls and pale, clammy skin. He was gagged with a strip of linen, his hands bound in front of him with coarse rope. His left leg was dragged behind him, the denim of his jeans soaked dark with a botched patch job over a jagged wound.
There was a pile of old wooden furniture near a wall. Buck had managed to drag an old, rotting nightstand and two milk crates toward the high, barred foundation window.
He was trying to build a staircase, Caleb realised with a spark of anger. Again. His fingers clawing at the ledge, desperate for a glimpse of the sky he thought his alpha was still under. He didn’t even turn around to look at the alpha, letting out loud whines like he was hoping a passing neighbour would hear the noise and come to his rescue.
Well, too damn bad. This was a private property.
---
The world tilted as the strange alpha’s hand fisted in the back of Buck’s shirt, yanking him backward.
Buck hit the cold concrete floor with a stifled cry, the breath driven out of him. He scrambled instinctively, his bound hands curling over his lower stomach, shielding the tiny, fragile life that felt like the only warm thing left in the world.
The alpha didn't say a word as he kicked the old crates aside. He grabbed the nightstand and smashed it against the foundation wall, the rotten wood splintering into useless kindling. Shards of wood landed on the stained, bare mattress that had been Buck’s nest for the last few days. Then, as if laughing at Buck’s futile attempt at defiance, he grabbed a hammer, slammed the heavy wooden shutter over the tiny window and hammered it shut.
Total darkness, save for that one yellow bulb.
"How many times do I have to tell you?" His voice was raspy, devoid of pity. "There’s no one out there to save you. I watched the truck flip and land upside down. I watched his head hit the glass. There was a piece of the steering wheel sticking out of his chest, Buck. I watched him take his last breath—he looked at me in the eyes—and he was crying. He cried because he had to watch me take you. Eddie Diaz is a corpse in a Nashville morgue."
Buck shook his head violently. Tears welled in his eyes, hot and stinging, but he squeezed them back. No. No, he’s not. Eddie is coming. Eddie always comes. He knew Eddie would move heaven and earth for his family—he was coming. There was no way he wouldn’t come.
Was he?
But the doubt planted by the strange alpha was like poison. It had been three days since he woke up in the dingy basement with a jagged slash on his shin and cuts all over his skin. Three days of Buck yelling, banging, whining to no result.
Buck didn’t know what the fuck this guy’s deal was. He knew his nickname, he knew Eddie’s, he knew that they were a pair, but Buck couldn’t for the life of him, remembered who he was. He’d reckoned the alpha was one of the victims from a call they had responded but he didn’t think he’d seen that guy in Nashville.
Why is he doing this?
What did Eddie do to him?
What is he planning to do with Buck?
His mind raced, but he kept getting distracted by the throbbing wound on his leg.
Does Eddie even know Buck’s still alive?
They didn't have a bond. They’d been taking it slow, wanting to date and figure things out before they began with a formal courting. Buck had thought it to be sweet—he’d never been wooed traditionally—but as he sat on the damp ground, he cursed their caution for the nth time. If only Eddie had claimed him before. Now, there was no golden thread in his mind to pull on, no heartbeat echoing in the back of his consciousness to tell him Eddie was still breathing. There was only a nauseating silence.
What if they thought Buck was already dead?
A high, distressed omega whine rattled his chest.
“Shut up,” the alpha hissed. He was clutching his head, eyes red and crazed. Buck saw how the pacing man was becoming more and more agitated as time passed—he knew the smart thing to do would be to stop, to be pliant until there was an opening he could use.
But. His baser instincts didn’t give a shit about smart. As he paced, Buck’s whines only got louder.
“Shut up!”
Shouting, the alpha stepped closer, his shadow looming over Buck. Suddenly, his hand shot out, his fingers digging into the sensitive skin at the nape of Buck's neck.
No no no, he wouldn’t—
No!
Buck’s entire body jolted as Caleb scruffed him.
A thin, wounded keen cut through the silence.
It was a violation that cut deeper than any physical blow. The act of scruffing was supposed to be sacred—a gesture of absolute protection and intimacy between a mated pair, a way for an alpha to soothe their omega into a state of total, trusting pliancy.
In the stranger’s hand, it was a weapon.
Buck’s biology betrayed him instantly. His spine went limp, his muscles turning to water as his nervous system forced him into a state of submission. He hated it. He wanted to scream behind the gag, his mind fighting to stay upright, to stay angry, but his body was a traitor. He slumped against the alpha’s shins, mouth letting out tiny whimpers as his head lolled back.
The man leaned down, his mouth inches from Buck’s ear. His scent—usually hidden by a patch of blocker—exploded in the small space. It was sour and acrid, smelling of burnt hair and bitter charcoal, the scent of a grieving alpha who had turned his own soul into a wasteland.
"He died sobbing your name, little omega," he whispered, his grip on Buck’s neck tightening just enough to hurt. "He died thinking he failed you. He watched you got taken away—what do you think he thought of in his last moments? Did he think you’d die? Tortured? Assaulted?” Buck flinched at the last word, knowing well he didn’t mean the beating the omega had been enduring. “And now you’re going to stay down here until you forget what his scent even smelled like."
The alpha let his head drop with a disgusted sneer, kicking him toward the mattress.
Buck let himself curl up into a tight ball. His eyes glazed over, the tears pooling on his lashes finally dripping down his cheeks. He was a fighter. He’d always taken pride at being one. Evan Buckley, the man who’d never given up.
But the exhaustion of three days without proper food and the soaring fever from his leg was finally winning. He drifted in the grey space between consciousness and despair, his only anchor being the faint, rhythmic pulse of his own heart, praying it was still beating in sync with another one somewhere out in the dark.
---