Christmas with my Off-Limits Alpha (Feuding Hearts Christmas)

3. Ava Mooney

Ava Mooney

Chapter Three

T he soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound in the Mooney living room as I curl up on the worn leather couch, snuggling into a cozy blanket. The comforting scent of my father’s faintly musky cologne lingers, a reminder of nighttime talks and warmth. I glance toward the hallway. His bedroom door is closed. I’m glad he’s catching up on sleep after a grueling night call, but even happier to put off talking about why I’m here and how long I’m staying in Snowy Pines.

As I sink deeper into the couch, the creak of the front door draws my attention, startling in the stillness. Joe steps inside, slightly out of breath, his mechanic’s shirt hanging loosely on his strong frame. He pauses at the threshold, eyes widened in surprise.

“Ava!” A huge grin spreads across his face and his arms open wide as he steps toward me. “Is it really you, little sis?”

“Hey, Joe Joe!” I throw off the blanket and jump up, leaping into my big brother’s arms.

We laugh as he whirls me around as if I’m still ten years old. I hold on tight and continue hugging him a bit longer after he puts me down. It’s been so long since I’ve felt so safe and loved. Joe’s warmth always did have a way of making up for my father’s cold distance. Almost.

“Whatcha doing here, Ava?”

“Surprise!" I pull him toward the couch and sit back down. "It’s great to see you!”

His brow furrows slightly, and in the dim light of the living room, his questions are evident. Bro Joe has never had a poker face. “I saw a bike in the driveway. That’s why I stopped. Is it yours?”

Ava shrugged. “That’s my baby. Built her from the kickstand up.”

“Impressive, sis. Looks to be a solid road bike." He hesitates, clearly pleased but cautious. “Don’t sidetrack me. Whatcha doing here?”

“Things work out, I’m back for good. For now, let see how the holiday festival goes. Kind of dip my toe into the water.”

“What about work? I can’t believe you’re really back to stay. What about racing? I thought you said you wanted to explore…“

“I do. I will.” I cut his questions short, knowing I have no answer that will satisfy him. Not yet.

“I have decisions to make and need a home…I want it to be Snowy Pines, Joe.” I lean forward and grab his arm, watching his face. “Maybe I can help out some at the garage for a while?”

Joe frowns. The protective brother, never far away, surfaces. “I don’t want to put you out. You’re visiting after all…”

“I mean it, Joe. I want to work with you. Snowy Pines is the only home I want and I’m ready to be a part of it again…“

His expression softened. “Really? That’s… good to hear.” He studied her for a moment, then relented with a nod. “Okay. I could use the help. I’m a man down and with the holiday race coming up, crazy busy.”

I jump as his arm beneath my hand vibrates, followed immediately by a low beeping sound. Sitting back, puzzlement is replaced with chuckles as I realize his watch is vibrating and sounding an email notification at once.

“And here’s your first job. Stop by the auto supply store and pick up that order I placed yesterday. I’d really appreciate it.”

“I’ve got it covered.”

“Great! I have a breakfast meeting with the chamber of commerce before I open the garage. I’ll be there about 9:30.” Joe taps his watch, rising as he reads the tiny text messages. Turning to leave, he pauses, catching my eye. “And Ava?”

“Yeah?”

“Just… take it slow. Dad... well, just give it some time and try not to judge.”

I smile weakly and nod my head. “I’ll do my best, Joe. Thanks. For the advice and the job and for still being my big Bro Joe.”

Standing at the door as he drives away, I have a brainstorm. This is my chance. With Joe preoccupied, I can get into the garage and check mother’s workroom. It’s a longshot, but if her journal wasn’t found and destroyed or hidden away, it will be there. It’s my best hope to understand the Kitsuné heritage and the powers I inherited from her.

It’s not long before I push open the creaky door of the old family garage, and a wave of familiar scents washes over me. Motor oil, grease, and a trace of my childhood linger in the air. It’s like stepping into a time capsule.

I swear the space has barely changed since I left. Cluttered shelves line the walls, overflowing with motorcycle parts and old tools. Cardboard boxes and plastic bins are stacked haphazardly in the corners, their contents a mystery. I wander through the narrow pathways between parked motorcycles, my fingers trailing over cold metal surfaces.

Each bike I pass sparks a different memory. There’s the old Harley where Mom first taught me how to do an oil change. The vintage Triumph Dad restored when I was ten. And tucked away in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust, is my first dirt bike.

I spent half my life in this garage. It is the place I feel closest to my mother.

But not all memories are warm. A lump forms in my throat as I approach the workbench where Mom pored over manuals and sketched designs. She should still be here. The grief hits me like a sucker punch, as fresh as the day she died.

Maybe if I’d understood what she was sooner... what I am. I’ve never been able to lose the nagging belief that her death was tied to something sinister. Or at least to a truth nobody told a grieving young girl.

This old garage is mostly a shed now. Joe’s fancy new shop has been built around it, relegating this space to a catch-all. He uses the front end as a break room for his mechanics and the rest for storage. From the minute I walk in, it feels like a sanctuary to me. A place where I can pretend life is how it used to be.

I run my hand along the smooth leather seat of an old Ducati. The cool touch pulls me back from the brink of my spiraling thoughts. Even so, as I continue to look around, the lingering shadows of the past are inescapable.

My eyes land on a small fox figurine tucked behind a box of spare parts. Mom’s! Her good luck charm. I reach for it with trembling fingers. The weight of it in my palm is a comforting memory, offset by its painful failure as a lucky charm. I thought this token was lost. How did it come to be here? I thought she had it when she died. I asked for it, but my father said it was lost.

“Mama, I miss you.” My whisper is so soft I’m not sure if I speak it or think it. “I wish you were here to help me figure out my life.”

The silence that follows is deafening. I half-expect to hear her voice, to feel her hand on my shoulder. But there’s nothing beyond a hollow echo of memories and unanswered questions.

I reach around and tuck the fox figurine into a side pocket in my backpack. My chest is tight with a mixture of longing and frustration. There’s a change in the air; the comfortable familiarity wars with the pain of loss, leaving me torn and unsettled, feeling suffocated.

As I weave through the collected junk and momentos, a flash of red catches my eye and I stop. A grin spreads across my face as I realize I glimpsed my unbound gold and auburn streaked hair in a dusty mirror. My eyes, a deep amber, flash with a hint of gold at times—a visible sign of the heritage I’m struggling to understand. The heritage I believe got my mother killed.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I came back to Snowy Pines for answers, not nostalgia. And I’m going to find them, no matter what it takes.

As I rummage through the cluttered garage, I’m searching specifically for my mother’s journal. It’s a remnant of my past I desperately want to find.

My elbow catches on a precariously stacked tower of boxes. The top one teeters, then crashes to the floor, its contents spilling across the oil-stained concrete.

“Shit!” I crouch down to gather the spilled items. My hands move mechanically, scooping up old photographs and loose papers. Then my fingers brush against something different—smooth, worn leather—a book?

Immediately losing interest in the scattered contents of the fallen box, I take the book to Mom’s worktable and flick on the old green desk lamp to get a better look.

Opening the cover, I freeze, my breath catches in my throat as I read the words written in a familiar script.

Elara Mooney.

This is my mother’s journal. I’ve found it.

I lift it reverently, running my thumb along its frayed edges. The leather is soft, pliable from loving use. And surprisingly undamaged from years stuck in a cardboard box. How many times did she open this? Labor over what words to write? Pore over its pages?

My heart pounds as I flip it open. It is hers. I’d know, even if her name was not on the first page. Mom’s familiar handwriting leaps off the page as I read. Cryptic notes and strange symbols dance before my eyes. Kitsuné lore. The town’s supernatural history.

She knew so much more than she ever told me. Why did she wait to teach me until it was too late?

My chest tightens as I skim the pages, drinking in every word. This is the key to unlocking the questions I’ve buried for years. The truth about my heritage, about Mom’s death.

But as I delve deeper, confusion clouds my excitement. There are mentions of a rift between Kitsuné and wolf shifters. Warnings. Secrets.

What the hell happened between them?

I want to keep reading, to unravel every mystery hidden in these pages. But not here. Not now. My brother Joe is due any minute to open up the garage. I’d rather he does not know I have a key. Amazing he’s never changed the locks in the years since I’ve been gone. And for sure, I don’t want to answer questions about having this journal.

My fingers tremble as I trace Mom’s elegant script. It’s like she’s speaking to me from beyond the grave, continuing a conversation cut tragically short. Grief wells up, threatening to overwhelm me.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this when you were alive?”

The journal offers no answers, just more questions. Even so, as I clutch it to my chest, a spark of hope ignites. Glancing around the garage, a startling thought comes to mind. Does Dad know her journal is here? Joe? Have they been keeping it from me?

No. The layer of dust coating the box tells me it’s been undisturbed for years. This is my discovery, my key to unlocking the truth. The men in my family choose to pretend I am not afflicted—their word, not mine—with the Kitsuné heritage.

Finding this journal now, after years of questioning and searching, can’t be a coincidence. Mom must have known I’d eventually find my way to this corner of the garage, drawn by an instinct I’m only beginning to understand. She left this for me to find when I was ready—when my powers had grown strong enough that I could no longer ignore them. The timing feels deliberate, like she’s reaching out from beyond to guide me, even as Dad and Joe remain willfully blind to what I am.

I slip the journal into my backpack, my mind racing. I need time to process this, to really dive into Mom’s writings. But not here, not where anyone could walk in and catch me.

Quickly snapping the light off, I finish stuffing the scattered contents back inside the upended box and return it to the precarious stack for someone else to disturb. As I zip up my backpack, my eyes land on the dusty mirror again. The woman staring back at me looks—determined. And a little scared. But mostly hungry for answers.

I’m going to figure this out, Mom. I promise.

The low rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts through my thoughts, and I freeze. That bike—I’d know it anywhere.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I step out the front door instead of scurrying out the back of the garage, squinting in the bright sunlight. Parking his motorcycle in the driveway like he owns the place is Liam Shadds.

My breath catches in my throat. He hasn’t changed much—still tall, dark, and brooding. His presence fills any space he’s in, impossible to ignore. His dark brown hair is slightly longer than I remember, curling above the collar of his leather jacket.

Piercing blue eyes scan the area with the same intense focus that used to make my knees weak. The firm line of his jaw is covered in a day’s worth of stubble, and his shoulders are broader than before, stretching the fabric of his black t-shirt.

He moves with a fluid grace that comes from years of riding and leading his pack—like a predator who knows exactly how dangerous he is. Watching him swing his leg over his bike gives me goose bumps, and I hate that he still has this effect on me.

Liam. Of course. Might as well get this over with. This town is too small for us to avoid one another. I close the door behind me and step out into the driveway.

His movements are fluid and graceful. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the world stands still. I forgot how solid the attraction between us is. It hits me hard, unwanted, and undeniable. The electric spark between us, the connection I spent years convincing myself was my imagination, flares instantly.

My breath catches as his eyes widen slightly, his jaw tightens. Incredibly, I think he feels it, too. I swear the air between us crackles with unspoken tension. The struggle is visible in his body language, his face, his eyes—it’s the same battle for control I’m fighting.

No room for cool, alpha demeanor here, only the unmistakable flash of desire crossing his face. This magnetic pull is not one-sided. Despite everything, despite being forced apart for years, we’re still drawn to each other like magnets to steel.

He is as intense as ever. Damn! Still impossible to resist.

“Ava.” His voice is a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I cross my arms, failing to look nonchalant. “I could say the same about you. What brings you to our neck of the woods, Liam?”

He takes a step closer, and I fight the urge to back away. “Business with Joe. Bike needs work.”

“Right,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. “Well, he’s not here right now.”

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “Guess I’ll have to wait then.”

The tension between us crackles. I remember the warnings. His father. My father. Each forbidding us. I promised I’d keep my distance, but...

Why does he always have this effect on me?

“How’ve you been, Ava?” Liam’s blue eyes search mine. “It’s been a while.”

“Fine.” The word comes out clipped. “Just peachy.”

He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching with barely concealed amusement. “Fine and peachy, huh? Good to know you haven’t lost your sharp wit and impressive vocabulary, Ava.”

His sarcasm hits like a punch to the gut, reminding me exactly why I both hate and miss our back-and-forth banter. I should walk away, but my feet remain rooted to the spot. “What can I say?” I look him up and down, pointedly. “Some things never change.”

Liam’s gaze intensifies, and I feel exposed, like he sees into my heart. “And some things do,” he murmurs.

I know I should put distance between us, but a traitorous, reckless part of me wants to close that gap instead.

“I heard the Iron Wolves are back in town.”

Liam’s jaw tightens. “News travels fast.”

“It’s a small town.”

“And you’re the sheriff’s daughter.” His counter has a bitter edge. “I’m sure that helps.”

I bristle at the implication. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shakes his head, a rueful smile on his face. “Nothing. An observation.”

We fall into an uneasy silence, the weight of our shared history and worse, our complex family histories, press down on us. There’s so much I want to say, so many questions I want to ask.

“So,” Liam breaks the silence, gesturing to his bike. “Think you could take a look? For old times sake?”

This is dangerous. He’s dangerous. But I nod. “Sure, why not? I’ve got time to kill.”

As I move to the bike, our hands brush accidentally. A jolt of electricity shoots through me, and I jerk back, my skin tingling where we touched.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this, about him. But there’s no denying the connection between us. Why do I feel like this again? Still.

Liam clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring. “So, uh, it’s making a weird noise when I speed up. Think you can figure it out?”

I force myself to focus on the bike, not on the way Liam’s presence fills the entire parking lot. “Sure. Pop the seat off, let me see.”

As we work side by side, the tension between us shifts. It’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now it’s mixed with a familiar rhythm, a dance we’ve done before.

I lean over the bike, half of me examines the engine, but my heightened focus is entirely on Liam’s presence beside me. His scent, a mix of leather and pine, fills my senses. I sneak a glance at him, only to find his piercing blue eyes already on me.

“See anything?” Liam asks, his voice low and husky.

I blink, realizing I haven’t really registered what my eyes saw. “Uh, not yet. Maybe if we...”

My words trail off as Liam’s hand lands on my shoulder. It’s not a casual touch—it’s deliberate, warm, and electric. My skin tingles beneath my jacket, and I lean into his touch before turning to face him.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the world fades away. There’s just us, the heat between us, and a thousand unspoken words.

“Ava, I…”

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps us both back to reality. I jerk away from Liam just as Joe rounds the corner.

“Hey, hey, hey! What’s going on here?” Joe’s eyes narrow as he takes in the scene.

“Liam’s bike,” I blurt out, my voice higher than usual. “It’s making a weird noise. I was checking it out.”

Joe raises an eyebrow. “Right. Well, I can handle it from here. Don’t you have somewhere to be, Ava? A supply order to pick up?”

I nod, grateful for the escape. “Yeah. Right. I should go. The store will be open by now.”

Without looking back at Liam, I hurry away and don’t stop walking until I’m several blocks away, my mind reeling the whole time. What just happened? The attraction between Liam and me... it’s always been there, simmering beneath the surface. But this? This felt like a wildfire ready to consume everything in its path.

I duck into an alley, leaning against the cool brick wall. My hand drifts to my shoulder where Liam touched me, the phantom warmth of his fingers lingering on my skin.

“Get it together, Ava,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head. “He’s off-limits. End of story.”

But I know it’s not that simple. Liam isn’t the boy I had a crush on years ago. He’s a man now, an alpha leader of his MC, with responsibilities and burdens I can only imagine. And I’m not the same girl I was.

I pull out Mom’s journal, frantic to distract my mind and traitorous body from thoughts of Liam. Running my fingers over the worn leather cover. The secrets within could change everything—my understanding of who I am, of this town’s history, of the supernatural world I’m only beginning to comprehend.

I flip open the journal, my eyes landing on a cryptic passage:

“The rift between human, fox, and wolf runs deeper than blood. But bridges can be built if one is brave enough to take the first step.”

My breath catches. Are there people like me who shift into wolves instead of foxes? Bridges? What bridges… Mom and... someone else?

I snap the journal shut, my mind spinning with questions. How much of my heritage and our town’s history are hidden from me?

And Liam... where does the forbidden fruit he offers fit into my life?

I slide down the wall, putting head on my knees and just breathe for a long while before choosing patience as my path. I will find answers to my questions. But first, I have a supply order to pick up.