Page 32 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

"Someone's been signing for them," Mrs. Gable says gently, her eyes darting nervously toward Alas before snapping back to me. "The digital signature just says 'Proxy.' They showed up with your routing numbers and paid the holding fees in cash. Not me, Susan. I tried to flag it with the postmaster, but the paperwork looks legitimate on the regional side."

The floor tilts. The implications hit me with the force of a physical blow, though I refuse to use the cliché. This isn't a logistical error. This is a siege.

The Silver Serpent Syndicate didn't just file fake right-of-passage paperwork to steal my south trail. They’re actively choking out my supply lines. They know how a bee farm operates. Without those three queens, my most aggressive colonies will collapse into chaos. They’ll swarm, abandoning the hives, and taking half my honey yield with them. The farm will hemorrhage money. The Syndicate is trying to starve me out of my own property.

"They have my routing numbers," I whisper, the realization burning like acid in my mouth. "They know what I'm ordering."

Heat radiates against my back. Alas steps closer, his chest pressing lightly against me. The physical contact is a grounding wire, snapping my spiraling panic back to reality.

"Print the tracking history," Alas orders. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble that echoes off the tile walls.

Mrs. Gable blinks, startled by the command in his tone. "I'm sorry, I can't release federal records to⁠—"

"Print it." Alas doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. The quiet certainty of his demand leaves no room for debate.

Mrs. Gable swallows hard, hitting a button on her keyboard. The dot-matrix printer behind the counter whirs to life, spitting out a single sheet of paper. She hands it across the counter.

Alas reaches over my shoulder, taking the paper with his bandaged hand. His eyes scan the numbers, burning them into his memory. He memorizes the time stamps, the county-line address, the moment the shipments were diverted. He folds the paper once and slides it into his front pocket.

"Come on," he says to me, his hand settling on the small of my back.

"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," I manage to say, my voice sounding hollow.

We walk out into the bright morning sunlight. The cold wind hits my face, but it doesn't clear the fog in my head. I stop on the sidewalk, staring blindly at the hood of my truck.

"They're starving the farm," I say, the words tasting like ash. "If I don't get those queens, Colony D will swarm by the weekend. The others will follow. The yield will drop by sixty percent. The bank will foreclose by December."

Alas steps in front of me, blocking the sunlight, blocking the street, blocking everything except his dark, scarred face. He grips my chin, tilting my head up until I’m forced to look him in the eye.

"I'll get them," he states.

"They're at the county line, Alas. That's Syndicate territory."

"I'll get them." The feral, unhinged devotion in his eyes is terrifying and beautiful. He isn't making a promise. He’s stating a future fact. "They don't touch what's mine. Your farm. Your bees. You. Mine."

The sheer certainty in his voice cracks the final remaining piece of my armor. The possessive claim doesn't feel like a cage; it feels like a fortress. I nod once, leaning my face slightly into the rough pad of his thumb.

We climb back into the truck. Alas slams the truck into gear, peeling away from the curb with a screech of tires. The drive back to the northern edge of town is silent, but the silence is charged with the impending violence of the war we’re currently walking into.

As we hit the dirt road leading up the mountain, the tactical radio clipped to Alas's belt crackles to life in the quiet cab.

Static. Then, Vice President Austin's voice, clipped and professional. "Alas. Come back."

Alas doesn't slow the truck. He unclips the radio with one hand, holding it near his mouth. "Go."

"Sheriff's scanner just lit up," Austin's voice echoes through the small space. "County clerk's office reported vandalism on the south trail. All survey markers destroyed. Syndicate lieutenant is mobilized. They know who ripped up their paperwork. Retaliation is imminent."

Alas stares straight ahead at the rutted dirt road. "Copy."

"Logan’s making the final call," Austin continues, the radio static popping. "The gates close at sundown. You can still bring her in. Pack a bag. Bring her behind the iron. We can hold the farm empty."

The final offer. The club is giving us one last chance to retreat to the safety of the fortified MC compound. Evacuate the property. Surrender the dirt to save the civilian.

Alas lowers the radio. He hits the brakes, bringing the truck to a halt right at the property line. The white wooden hive boxes stretch out across the wild meadow in perfect, geometric rows. The mountain looms in the background, a silent witness.

Alas turns his head, fixing me with a look so intense it threatens to stop my heart. He doesn't give an order. He doesn't drag me out of the truck and throw me over his shoulder. The possessiveness inside him bows to my agency.

"Your land," he says, his voice a whisper. "Your call."