Both Regina and Emma in this chapter.

Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for sticking with me!

xxx

Regina

The interdepartmental mail is delivered twice a day by a young man on a bicycle. He leaves the mail with your secretary. Few people are bold enough to brave your office, and the pimple-cheeked teenager isn't one of them.

Your secretary is out at a late lunch when you hear the familiar whap of envelopes landing on her desk.

Pushing to your feet, you limp into the outer office. The swollen knot on your thigh is fading, but it still stiffens up when you've been sitting for too long.

You grind your teeth at the last twinges of lingering pain. You're ready for it to be done and gone. You haven't taken any pain killers since that first day; you don't want anything to dull your senses.

And perhaps you deserve the pain.

Mail in hand, you settle back into your leather desk chair with a heavy sigh. There are three interdepartmental envelopes and a couple of white, legal envelopes addressed to the town.

You start on the ratty beige envelopes that the town uses to send things back and forth. No stamps required. You've been paying the same pimple-faced boy to cart these envelopes, or ones just like them, around town for over twenty-eight years.

The first two envelopes contain memos from the city maintenance department. You toss them into an inbox on the corner of your desk.

The string around the two paper buttons on the third envelope is wound tightly, around and around. It really only takes one good twist of string to hold the envelopes shut and you sigh in annoyance at the overzealous closure.

When the envelope finally yields you're left holding a single sheet of paper.

You blink in surprise.

It's the to-do list that you left on the sheriff's desk a few days ago. All items on the list have been checked off, with the exception of the last one. The words "No more donuts" have been crossed out and beside them, in a nearly illegible hand, is a scrawling, "Not a chance!"

Your eyebrows lift as you consider this development. Your fingers drum on the page.

Perhaps you should ascertain if the sheriff has truly followed your instructions?

Yes, that's most certainly what you should do.

Your desk chair rolls back quietly as you stand and flex your leg. With a firm nod, you stride as evenly as you can out the office, thoughts of the troublesome blonde filling your head.

xxx

Emma

The hulking form of the flakey old CRT monitor dominates the spare desk. It's attached to an ancient computer that hums and whirs and clicks all day long.

When you first accepted the job as deputy you were shocked by the lack of technology provided. How could anyone work without a computer or smart phone these days?

Over the past few months you've come to realize that policing a small town has very little to do with the internet, and a lot more to do with being a presence in the townspeople's lives. With being in the right place at the right time. Moving the kids on who are about to vandalize a storefront. Chasing the neighbor's cat out of Mrs. Smith's basement. Again.

But today you need the internet. There's a contaminant leaking into the river and you need a source. You need a world broader than this little town.

The dial-up modem is slow. Pathetically slow. You slam your hands down on the keyboard in frustration.

The desk shakes. The monitor shakes. The screen goes black.

Damn it.

You reach out and smack the side of the monitor in a gesture you'd seen Graham perform many times. Your hand stings but the monitor gives no response.

You stand and make your way around to the back of the desk and begin jiggling the cords. You talk nicely to the monitor, sweet baby talk. Try to coax it back to life.

The sugary comments give way to snarky ones. Finally a long string of swear words tumbles from your mouth and you deliver a sharp kick to the computer tower under the desk. The machine rattles twice and gives a loud pop.

Then all is silent.

You look up from the dead machine and realize that your life has just gotten even worse.

The mayor is standing in the door, a thunderous expression on her face. No doubt she has just witnessed your monumental loss of patience. You sigh, straighten up, and run a frustrated hand through your hair.

"Can I help you, Madam Mayor?" You try to remain neutral, polite. The words are a struggle.

This woman has the worst timing ever. Or perhaps the best timing, depending on your point of view.

"Yes, Sheriff Swan." Her voice is deadly cold. "You may explain to me why you just destroyed city property. I trust you realize that the cost of a replacement will be coming out of your pay check?"

"Replacement?" The words choke on the way out of your mouth. "Good luck replacing that!"

You point an accusatory finger at the dead machine.

"That," you continue, "is older than Henry. That piece of crap," and you hate how your voice wavers, so rush on to try to cover it up.

"That piece of crap hasn't worked since before I arrived here. It is a waste of public money for me to spend time trying to get my work done on that beast!"

The mayor pushes off the door frame and strides towards you in a slightly broken walk. You realize that she's still in pain, but any sympathy you might have felt for her is short lived.

A few days ago you nursed her through a panic attack. Kept her from doing serious damage to herself. Steered everyone else away to protect her precious reputation.

And how has she repaid you?

She's criticized your work. Broken your lucky pen. And she's been extra bitchy to you ever since.

As she steps into your space your nostrils flare unconsciously at the faint smell of apples, soap and expensive perfume that washes over you. She's beautiful up close, smooth skin, strong cheek bones and dark, shining eyes. You hate yourself for noticing.

"Sheriff Swan." She shakes her head, sighs, and continues. "This is precisely why you have a budget."

"Budget?" you repeat feeling suddenly unsure. You take a half-step backwards, away from the red lips that are quirked into an infuriating smile.

"Yes, budget." She draws out the syllables as if speaking to a child. She presses forward again, back into your space.

"Perhaps you know what that is?" she continues. "Anything your office requires may be purchased out of your annual budget. Including computers." She looks pointedly at the dead workstation and sniffs loudly.

She's so close that a wisp of her hair brushes your cheek. You struggle not to shut your eyes.

"Oh."

Brilliant retort, Swan.

You wonder why you always wind up feeling stupid around this woman. You think she must do it on purpose.

Your heart is beating hard in your chest. You hate her. You want to kiss her.

The mayor levels one last condescending look in your direction and then steps past you. You take a deep, shaky breath and try to regain your composure.

You expect her to take her leave, but instead she appears to be prowling the room. Inspecting it.

A long finger swipes the surface of the filing cabinet. The drawers are opened and she rifles pointedly through the files, nodding grudgingly when she locates the section for property theft. The next stop is the garbage can, and you're glad that that the janitorial staff were here last night because the only thing in the black plastic bag is a used tissue.

Finally the mayor turns again and meets your eyes. The corner of her lip twitches.

And that's the moment when you lose it.

The frustration and humiliation bubble over and you find yourself striding forward, meeting her head on.

At first you think you're going to hit her, going to wipe the smarmy look clear off her face. You've protected this woman. You've held her while she's cried. You've had the most beautiful sex with her. And this is how she treats you?

This is bullshit.

You raise your hand. A flicker of something flashes through her eyes. Fear? Regret?

When your hand connects with her cheekbone, the gesture is much gentler than either of you had anticipated. Your fingers rest softly against her smooth skin.

And then you're kissing her. Hard.

She freezes. After a moment her hands come up to grasp the collar of your jacket. You think she's about to push you away, but instead she pulls you closer. She bites your lip, drawing blood, and you hiss in surprise. You draw back to stare into her eyes, torn.

For a moment her gaze is smug, predatory. And then there's a strange glint in her eyes. Something that looks almost like affection.

That's all you need to see.

You're kissing her again, urgently. And god help you but she's kissing you back. She's kissing you like she means it. She swallows the moan that escapes your throat and pulls you closer.

Later, you remember pulling away from her to slam the office door shut. You remember the desperate stagger that brought you back into her arms. You remember how she ripped your shirt off, the gentle patter of loose buttons hitting the linoleum floor.

You remember her teeth on your shoulder, your breast, your collar bone. Biting, nipping. Pain and pleasure, wrapped in one.

You remember the moment it turned softer. Tender. When her fingers changed from claws to sweet caresses.

You remember kissing the half-healed cut on her palm and the bruises on her thigh. You remember the tears you thought you glimpsed in her eyes before she clenched them shut and drew you up her body to capture your lips once again.

You remember her taste, salty-sweet, hot on your tongue. And you remember the sound of her crying out, begging you for more.

After she's tugged her clothing back over sweaty skin, after she's nodded a curt good-bye and strode from the room without meeting your eyes, you get down on your hands and knees to look for your buttons. You find all but one of them.

You remember the moment you pushed her body over the edge. You remember how her eyes had flown open to meet yours. Deep and vulnerable. Beautiful.

You wonder how far you'll go for this woman, how much abuse you'll take. You wonder if you'll ever win. You wonder if you've already lost.

You wonder why this feels like it might be okay. You wonder why it feels like it might be worth it.