Knotting the Cowboys

A SWEET AND STEAMY COWBOY OMEGAVERSE

CACTUS ROSE RANCH

BOOK ONE

CINDER BLAZE

This is work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright© Cinder Blaze, 2025

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Edited by: Savage Queen Editing Services

Knotting the Cowboys BLURB

Willa James woke up to hell on earth—handcuffed to the bed of her childhood home while her high school sweetheart and soon-to-be "ex-husband" torches the place their pack once dreamed of growing old in.

With flames licking the walls and smoke stealing her breath, Willa knew death was coming for an unmated Omega like her.

Only it didn’t.

She was pulled from the flames by a team of Alpha firefighters, their scents the last thing she remembered before slipping into unconsciousness. By the time she woke, they were gone.

No names. No chance to say thank you.

Just burned memories, a long recovery, and a justice system that refused to believe her ex and his pack had set the blaze.

Two years later, divorced, packless, and done with the city that never once protected her, Willa returns to the only thing she still owns—her late grandfather’s rundown ranch, Cactus Rose.

She expects dust, disrepair, and loneliness.

What she finds instead?

Four rugged cowboys who’ve not only kept the ranch alive in her absence — but are somehow raising a baby together, without an Omega in sight. 

And fate’s got one more twist in store:

They’re the very Alphas who saved her life.

Can one scarred Omega and four cowboy Alphas turn second chances into something real?

Or will the weight of their pasts—and the heat of what simmers between them—burn everything down for good?

Welcome to Cactus Rose Ranch.

Prologue: Burning Reality

~WILLA~

The taste of smoke filled my mouth before I even opened my eyes.

Something was wrong.

Terribly, horribly wrong.

I tried to move, but cold metal bit into my wrists with a sharp, unforgiving grip. The hollow clank of handcuffs against the bedframe sent a bolt of pure terror straight through my chest.

My eyes flew open to a nightmare unfolding in real time—one I couldn't wake up from no matter how desperately I wanted to.

"Blake?" My voice came out raspy, disoriented. The bitter taste of betrayal already forming on my tongue before I could even process what was happening. "What are you doing?"

My husband—no, my soon-to-be-ex husband—stood at the foot of our bed with a red gas can tilted in his hands. The acrid smell of gasoline mingled with thickening smoke that was already beginning to burn my lungs. His familiar face, the one I'd woken up to for five years, was twisted into something I didn't recognize, all sharp angles and cold calculation where there used to be warmth.

"Just finishing what should have been done a long time ago," Blake said, his voice eerily calm. The detachment in his eyes sent ice water through my veins. "An unmated Omega like you should have known better than to try to leave me."

I pulled against the handcuffs, metal cutting into my skin as panic surged through every inch of my body. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might crack my ribs. "You can't do this. This is our home. Our pack's home."

My childhood home. My parents' legacy. My last connection to them.

A humorless laugh escaped him, the sound so foreign from the man who had once held me through thunderstorms and promised forever. "Our pack? My pack wants nothing to do with you anymore. You were only ever useful on paper." He splashed more gasoline across the end of the bed, the fumes making my eyes water. "The truth is, you were never one of us."

The betrayal cut deeper than any knife could. Every moment between us flashed before my eyes—all those nights I'd spent comforting him when the bank threatened foreclosure, all the paperwork I'd signed to save his family's legacy, using my inheritance to keep his pack's land. I had given him everything, believing I was saving not just his future, but building our own.

"I married you to save you," I whispered, tears streaming down my face, my voice breaking on each word. "I gave you everything."

"And I never asked for it," Blake snarled, his Alpha scent souring with contempt. The once-comforting smell of pine and mountain air now twisted into something rotten. "I never asked for an Omega who couldn't even bond properly. You're defective, Willa. Always have been."

The cruel words hit their mark with surgical precision, reopening old wounds that had never fully healed. Born with a rare condition that made proper scent-bonding difficult, I'd spent my entire life terrified I'd never truly belong to anyone. That I'd never be enough. And now my worst fears were being thrown in my face by the man who had once promised it didn't matter, who had sworn he loved me anyway.

Liar. He'd always been lying.

Through the window, I could see the first hints of dawn breaking over the Montana mountains—the same view I'd woken up to every morning since I was a child. Pink-gold light spilled across the horizon, oblivious to the horror unfolding inside these walls. The home my parents had left me when they died, the land my grandfather had taught me to love. And now it was all going to burn.

"Our divorce isn't even final," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady while trying to reason with a man who had clearly lost his mind. "You still need my signature."

A cold smile spread across Blake's face, transforming the features I once loved into something monstrous. "Not if you're dead."

He struck a match, the small flame dancing between his fingers like a terrible promise. In that moment, I saw with perfect clarity what I should have seen years ago—the calculation behind his charm, the emptiness where love should have been.

"Please," I begged, my Omega instincts screaming for mercy from an Alpha who no longer recognized me as his to protect. The primal part of me couldn't comprehend that my mate would harm me so deliberately, even as the rational part of my brain finally accepted the truth: he had never truly been my mate at all. "Blake, don't do this. We can talk about this."

"There's nothing left to say." His eyes were empty, soulless, as he dropped the match.

Flames erupted instantly, racing along the gasoline trail he'd laid. The whoosh of ignition stole my breath as Blake backed toward the door, watching with detached fascination as fire crawled up the walls and licked at the curtains my mother had sewn by hand. In seconds, the small bedroom was transformed into an inferno, heat pressing against my skin like a physical weight.

"Goodbye, Willa," he said, his voice nearly drowned out by the roar of the flames. Then he turned and walked away, closing the door behind him with a soft, final click that somehow sounded like a gunshot to my ears.

Smoke filled my lungs as I thrashed against my restraints, panic giving way to pure animal fear. The metal bed frame rattled but refused to give. Fire climbed the walls like living things, devouring the floral wallpaper my mother had picked out twenty years ago.

I'm going to die here, I thought, the realization crystallizing in my mind with terrible clarity. This was how I would die—betrayed and alone, in the home that was supposed to have been my sanctuary.

"Help!" I screamed, though I knew no one would hear me. Our nearest neighbors were miles away. "Please, somebody help me!"

The smoke grew thicker, making each breath a desperate struggle. My vision blurred, tears evaporating from the heat before they could fall. All around me, the home I loved was disappearing into ash, taking with it every photograph, every memory, every piece of my history.

I stopped fighting. A strange calm settled over me as the ceiling began to crack and groan above my head. If this was the end, at least the pain of Blake's betrayal would end with it. At least I wouldn't have to live knowing how completely I'd been used.

The wedding photo on my nightstand curled and blackened in the heat—me in white, Blake standing proud beside me. I'd been so young then, so painfully hopeful. Twenty-three and thinking I was saving not just Blake and his pack's legacy, but my own future too.

What a fool I'd been.

Just as the edges of my consciousness began to fade, the bedroom door crashed open with a splintering of wood. Through the smoke and flames, silhouettes appeared—broad-shouldered and moving with purpose. Alpha scents cut through the burning, four distinct notes that somehow reached me even through the chaos.

Strong arms lifted me. Someone worked at the handcuffs, metal giving way with a snap that I felt more than heard. Words were shouted around me that I couldn't quite make out through the roaring in my ears.

And then I was being carried, my face pressed against the protective gear of a firefighter whose heartbeat I could feel even through the thick material. The steady thump-thump grounded me as my world dissolved into smoke and heat.

"Stay with us," a deep voice commanded, the Alpha tone impossible to ignore even in my fading state. Something in me responded to that voice, reached for it like a lifeline.

Four scents surrounded me, different yet harmonizing in a way I'd never experienced before. Each one distinct, each one calling to something deep inside me that I'd always believed was broken:

Pine and leather, like a forest after rainfall. Rain-soaked earth and sun-warmed hay, the scent of living things growing. Smoke and cinnamon, warmth and spice and danger all mixed together. Clean linen dried in mountain air, simple and pure and safe.

As the firefighter carried me from the burning ruins of my past, something broken inside me reached instinctively toward those scents. But the darkness was pulling me under too quickly to hold on.

The last thing I remembered was being placed on a stretcher, oxygen pressed to my face, and those four scents beginning to fade as consciousness slipped away.

I didn't know their names. I didn't see their faces. I didn't get to say thank you.

But somewhere in the deepest, most primal part of my being, my Omega recognized something my conscious mind wouldn't understand until much later.

This wasn't the end of my story.

It was only the beginning.

The Return

~WILLA~

The engine coughs its last breath just as I coast into what might generously be called downtown Sweetwater Falls.

Steam hisses from under the hood like an angry snake, and I white-knuckle the steering wheel as my ancient Honda lurches to a stop beside a weathered sign proclaiming:

"Welcome to Sweetwater Falls - Where Every Heart Finds Home."

The irony isn't lost on me.

My hands are shaking—from exhaustion, from the adrenaline of nursing this dying car for the last fifty miles, from the knowledge that my bank account is gasping for air almost as desperately as this engine.

I sit there for a moment, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, breathing in the acrid smell of overheated metal and my own desperation.

The late afternoon sun beats through the windshield, turning the car into an oven, but I can't seem to make myself move. Moving means facing whatever comes next, and I'm so tired of “next” and world that doesn’t want to work in your favor.

So tired of running, of starting over, of pretending I'm stronger than I feel.

When I finally force myself out of the car, the door creaks in protest—or maybe sympathy.

The October air hits me like a slap, cooler than I expected, carrying the scent of woodsmoke that’s distinctly “small-town vibes” that makes my chest tight with a longing I can't afford.

Main Street stretches before me, all brick storefronts and American flags, pickup trucks angle-parked in front of a diner called Rosie's. It's picturesque in that aggressive way small towns have, like they're trying to prove something to the big cities that forgot them.

Then again, what would I know. I’ve only went to a few small towns in my life time and they weren’t as radiant and established as this…

My legs wobble as I pop the hood, though I know it's pointless. Black smoke billows out, making me cough—a harsh, rattling sound that reminds me my lungs still aren't right, might never be right again.

The joys of longterm smoke inhalation complications.

The engine block looks like it's been through a war and lost.

Just like everything else in my life lately.

I slam the hood down harder than necessary and grab my duffel bag from the backseat. Everything I own fits in this bag now. The thought should probably depress me more than it does, but there's something almost freeing about traveling light when you're running from the heavy past that doesn’t want to let you go.

The Sweetwater Inn sits at the end of Main Street like a Victorian grandmother, all gingerbread trim and judgment. My boots echo on the wooden porch, and I can already smell the problem before I see it—the lobby reeks of Alpha. Not just one or two, but that concentrated territorial marking that says "pack-owned establishment." My stomach clenches.

Great…let’s see if this is going to go “smoothly”.

The desk clerk looks up as I enter, her smile faltering when she catches my scent.

Omega.

Unmated Omega.

In a town this small, I might as well have "trouble" tattooed on my forehead.

"Good afternoon," she says, her voice pitched carefully neutral. "How can I help you?"

"I need a room." The words come out rougher than intended, my damaged lungs making me sound like I've been smoking for decades instead of just breathing smoke once. "Just for tonight. Maybe a few nights."

Her fingers hover over the keyboard.

"Are you... traveling alone?"

Here it comes.

"Yes."

"I see." She doesn't type anything. "Are you meeting someone here? Family perhaps? Or...?" She lets it hang, the universal small-town code for 'please tell me you have an Alpha waiting for you.'

"No. Just me." I set my bag down, trying to look less threatening, though how threatening can an exhausted Omega with fraying jeans and a shirt that's seen better days really look? "Look, I have cash. I can pay up front."

"It's not about payment." Her smile turns apologetic but firm. "It's hotel policy. We don't rent rooms to unmated Omegas traveling alone. For safety reasons, you understand."

Safety.

Right.

Whose safety, exactly?

"That's discrimination," I argue.

"That's small-town precaution."

A male voice comes from the office behind the desk. The Alpha who emerges is everything I've learned to fear—broad shoulders, possessive stance, the kind of casual authority that comes from never being told no.

"We run a family establishment here. Can't have unmated Omegas drawing the wrong kind of attention."

"I'm not looking for attention." My voice cracks on the last word. "I just need a place to sleep."

"Plenty of nice pack houses in town that take in strays," he says, and the word 'strays' hits like a physical blow. "Or maybe you should've thought about accommodations before coming to a respectable town alone."

The rage that floods me is familiar, almost comforting. It's easier than the fear, easier than the exhaustion.

"I didn't exactly plan for my car to break down here."

"Not our problem." He crosses his arms, biceps flexing in that deliberate way Alphas do when they want to remind you who's bigger. "No room for unmated Omegas. That's final."

I want to argue; to scream about rights and laws and basic human decency.

But I can see it in their faces—that particular blend of self-righteousness and willful ignorance that no amount of logic can penetrate. They've decided what I am based on my designation and lack of mate marks, and nothing I say will change that.

"Fine." I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder with more force than necessary. "Thanks for nothing."

The late afternoon sun seems harsher when I stumble back onto the porch, the cheerful Main Street scene now mocking in its normalcy. Other people go about their business—mated pairs, family packs, everyone belonging somewhere while I stand here with a broken car, empty pockets, and nowhere to go.

My phone shows three percent battery. No signal anyway. The car isn't going anywhere without a tow I can't afford. The hotel won't take me. And the sun is already starting its descent toward the mountains that ring this postcard-perfect town.

I've been in bad situations before, but this one—the totality of it, the careful cruelty of being turned away not for lack of money but lack of a mated pack—threatens to break something in me that's been holding on by threads.

The hotel door opens behind me, and I tense, ready for them to tell me to get off their porch too. But it's just another guest, an older Beta woman who gives me a sympathetic look before hurrying past.

Even she can smell it on me—the desperation, the alone-ness, the dangerous combination of Omega and unprotected.

I need a plan.

Need to think.

But all I can do is stand there, watching my broken car leak fluid onto Main Street while the town continues its peaceful existence around me, indifferent to another unmated Omega with nowhere to go.

Battle Scars

~WILLA~

Standing here on this picture-perfect Main Street, turned away for the crime of existing while unmated, I'm transported back to every moment in the city that led me here.

It's funny how discrimination has different flavors depending on the zip code—in the city, it wore designer suits and spoke in corporate buzzwords.

Here, it wears flannel and speaks in fake concern for "safety."

But the message is always the same: Omegas, especially female Omegas, need to know their place.

The city taught me that lesson early and often.

Every job interview that ended the moment they caught my scent, every apartment application rejected with thin excuses, every sidewalk crossing where I had to lower my eyes and quicken my pace when an Alpha passed. We like to pretend we've evolved past our basic designations, that we're more than our biology, but the city stripped that illusion away daily.

I remember my first real job interview after college—marketing coordinator at a firm downtown.

I'd worn my best suit, practiced my answers, researched the company until I could recite their mission statement in my sleep. The Beta interviewer had been impressed, nodding along as I outlined my ideas for their social media strategy.

Then the Alpha partner walked in, took one breath, and I watched my chances evaporate in real-time.

"We're looking for someone more... assertive," he'd said, as if Omega and assertive were mutually exclusive concepts.

That's how it always went.

Alphas sailed through doors that slammed in Omega faces.

They'd show up to interviews in wrinkled shirts and get hired on "potential." They'd pitch half-formed ideas in meetings and get praised for "thinking outside the box." They'd take credit for Omega work and get promoted for "leadership qualities."

The whole system was rigged in their favor, and they walked through life like they'd earned every advantage their designation handed them.

Brett—I can think his name now without flinching, mostly—was the perfect example.

We'd started at the same company on the same day. Within six months, he'd been promoted twice while I was still fetching coffee and being told to "smile more." He'd swagger into meetings late, interrupt everyone with his "brilliant" insights — usually just louder versions of what some Omega had suggested quietly — and get patted on the back for his "initiative."

"You just need to be more confident," he'd told me once, early in our relationship, back when I thought his attention meant something. "Alphas can smell insecurity."

What they could smell was biology, and they'd built an entire society around exploiting it.

Every law, every social norm, every unspoken rule favored them. They got the best jobs, the best homes, the best everything, while Omegas scrambled for scraps and got told to be grateful for the opportunity.

But even within our designation, hierarchies existed.

Male Omegas had it easier—not easy, but easier. They could walk alone at night without quite as much fear. They got hired for "Omega-appropriate" jobs at better rates. They weren't expected to be quite as submissive, quite as decorative, quite as willing to fold themselves into smaller and smaller spaces.

I'd seen it firsthand at the community center where I'd volunteered.

Male Omegas got placed in accounting or IT roles.

Female Omegas got reception or cleaning.

Male Omegas could be "independent" until they found the right Alpha.

Female Omegas who stayed unmated too long were "difficult" or "broken."

The worst part was how early it all started.

Before I was even born, my parents had picked out my name: William. They'd been so certain they were having an Alpha son, had decorated the nursery in strong blues and bought tiny suits. The ultrasound had been unclear, but they'd hoped. Prayed. Made plans for their future Alpha who would protect and provide and carry on the family name with pride.

Then I arrived—female, Omega, wrong in every way that mattered to them.

They'd still tried to file the birth certificate with "William." Some desperate attempt to speak a different future into existence, as if a masculine name could override biology. The government clerk had taken one look at the designation marker—that damning little Ω—and shaken her head.

"Can't register a female Omega with a traditionally Alpha male name," she'd said, like she was doing them a favor. "Sets unrealistic expectations. How about Willa? Close enough to honor your original choice but appropriate for her designation."

Appropriate.

That word had followed me my whole life.

Appropriate clothes (modest). Appropriate behavior (submissive). Appropriate aspirations (limited).

Even my name had to be appropriate, neutered down from William's strength to Willa's softness.

My parents never quite forgave me for that, I think.

For being born wrong, for forcing them to change their plans, for failing to be the Alpha son they'd dreamed of. They did their duty—fed me, clothed me, educated me—but there was always that distance, that disappointment that hung in the air like smoke.

"You need to be realistic about your options," my mother had said when I'd told her about my college plans. "Marketing is very competitive. Very...Alpha-dominated. Maybe consider teaching? Or nursing? Something more suitable."

Suitable. Appropriate. Safe. Code words for "know your place."

But I'd tried anyway.

Fought for every inch of space in a world that wanted me to disappear. Clawed my way through college, through internships where I did all the work and got none of the credit, through years of being passed over and talked over and told to wait my turn—a turn that never came.

And where did all that fighting get me?

Standing on a hotel porch in a town I've never heard of, turned away for existing while unmated, with a broken car and a bag full of everything I have left.

The sun dips lower, painting Main Street in shades of gold that would be beautiful if I could afford to appreciate them.

Somewhere in this town, Alphas are heading home to warm houses and guaranteed futures.

Somewhere, mated Omegas are setting dinner tables and feeling secure in their place in the world.

And I'm still here, inappropriate and unsuitable, carrying a name that was supposed to be stronger and a designation that makes me weak in everyone's eyes but my own.

I can't just stand here until the sun sets. No way can I let them win this easily.

My feet carry me back toward the hotel door before my brain catches up, desperation overriding common sense. The bell chimes again as I push inside, and both the clerk and the Alpha manager look up with matching expressions of irritation.

"I said we're not—" the manager starts, but I cut him off.

"You can't do this." My voice comes out stronger than I feel, though the rasp undermines whatever authority I'm trying to project. "There are laws against designation discrimination. Federal laws."

He actually laughs—this soft, condescending chuckle that makes my skin crawl.

"Little Omega wants to quote law at me? In my establishment?"

"It's not about what I want. It's about what's right." I plant my feet, even as every instinct screams at me to bare my neck, to submit, to make myself smaller until the threat passes. "I'm a paying customer. You can't refuse service based on⁠—"

"Based on keeping our other guests safe?" He steps around the desk, and I force myself not to step back. "You know what happens when unmated Omegas stay here? Other Alphas get ideas. Fights break out. People get hurt and don’t get me started on the whole Heat mismanagement since none of Omegas seem to figure out when your Heats are scheduled to riddle through your vulnerable bodies!"

Damn him.

I try to ignore that tidbit because it’s not our fault that nothing has been made to give Omegas a chance at tracking their Heats. Like give us a potential monthly tracker or something. Surely they have the right technology to do so in this time and age.

No. They just don’t want to…

"So punish them, not me."

"You are the disruption." He's closer now, using his height advantage to loom. "Your kind always are. Walking around unmarked, unclaimed, practically begging for trouble."

"My kind?" The rage burns hotter, chasing away the exhaustion for one blessed moment. "You mean people trying to exist? People who just need a bed for the night?"

"I mean Omegas who don't know their place." His voice drops to a growl, and my body betrays me—knees weakening, breath catching, this damn biology of a body responding to an Alpha's displeasure despite my fury. "Who come into respectable establishments thinking they can make demands."

"A room isn't a demand, it's a basic⁠—"

"Enough." The bark of Alpha command hits me into silence. My words die in my throat, muscles locking even as I fight against the compulsion. "You've been told no. Repeatedly. Now you're trespassing."

I manage to force words past the command's grip.

"You can't... this isn't..."

"Cheryl, call the sheriff." He doesn't look away from me. "Tell him we have an unruly Omega causing a disturbance."

"Please." I hate how the word comes out—small, desperate, exactly what he expects from an Omega. "I just need⁠—"

"What you need is an Alpha to teach you manners." He grabs my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Since you don't have one, guess I'll have to escort you out myself."

I try to wrench away, but he's already dragging me toward the door. My bag catches on a chair, spilling open, and he doesn't slow down. Clothes scatter across the pristine lobby floor—my life laid out for judgment, shabby and insufficient.

"Let go!" The words tear at my damaged throat. "You can't⁠—"

"I can and I am." He yanks the door open, practically throwing me onto the porch. I stumble, barely catching myself on the railing. "And if you come back, you'll be dealing with more than just me."

The door slams shut.

Through the glass, I can see the clerk already gathering my scattered belongings, holding them between two fingers like they're contaminated. She opens the door just enough to toss them onto the porch before retreating back inside.

My hands shake as I gather my things, shoving wrinkled clothes back into the bag.

A couple walking past speeds up, averting their eyes from the scene. Of course. No one wants to get involved when an Alpha disciplines an Omega, even here on Main Street in broad daylight.

The fight drains out of me all at once, leaving me hollow. My legs give up, and I find myself sinking onto the curb outside the hotel parking lot. The concrete is cold through my jeans, and I pull my knees up to my chest like I'm trying to hold myself together through sheer physical pressure.

Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.

But the tears come anyway, hot and humiliating, and I press my face into my hands to hide them from the world. Great hiccupping sobs that rattle my damaged lungs and make my chest burn. I'm twenty-eight years old, and I'm sitting on a curb in a strange town, crying because a hotel wouldn't give me a room.

Except it's not about the room.

It's about everything—every rejection, every slammed door, every reminder that I don't fit in the neat little boxes this world created. It's about being so tired of fighting for basic dignity.

It's about the weight of being alone, truly alone, with no pack, no mate, no family who gives a damn.

That’s the toughest part to acknowledge because a few years ago, I did have a pack. I was confident in my future and the “Alphas” of my life.

Then it all burned away thanks to the very Alpha who said I was his world…they all did.

The tears come harder, and with them, the truth I've been running from: I'm scared. Bone-deep, soul-sick scared of what happens next. My car is dead. My money is almost gone. My body is tired and damaged and no longer fully mine after what happened in the city.

And now I'm in a town that's made it clear I'm not welcome, as the sun sets and the temperature drops and I have nowhere to go.

This is what vulnerability looks like—sitting on cold concrete with snot running down your face, unable to stop crying even though it solves nothing. I've spent so long building walls, pretending I don't need what others take for granted, that I'd forgotten what it felt like to admit I'm not actually strong enough to do this alone.

But admitting it changes nothing.

There's no pack rushing to claim me, no Alpha swooping in for rescue, no family forgive-and-forget phone call. There's just me and this curb and a town full of people who'd rather I didn't exist.

I scrub at my face with my sleeve, trying to pull myself together. Self-pity is a luxury I can't afford. Neither is vulnerability. Neither is the deep, aching want for somewhere—anywhere—to belong.

Some place where my name is spoken with warmth instead of disappointment, where my designation isn't a liability, where being alone doesn't mean being less than.

The hotel door opens again, and I tense, ready for more humiliation. But it's just guests leaving, their chatter dying as they spot me. The female Beta whispers something to her Alpha mate, and they give me a wide berth, like desperation might be contagious.

The scent hits me first—sweet peas and vanilla, soft and non-threatening, decidedly Omega.

Then comes the sound of heels clicking on pavement, slowing as they approach.

I keep my face buried in my knees, hoping whoever it is will take the hint and keep walking. The last thing I need is another local telling me exactly what they think of unmated Omegas cluttering up their sidewalks.

"Hey there." The voice is warm honey and genuine concern, with just enough Southern comfort to make my chest ache for kindnesses I can't afford to want. "You doing okay, sweetie?"

I lift my head just enough to peer through my hair.

The woman standing a respectful distance away is maybe a few years older than me, dressed like she raided a 1950s boutique in the best possible way. Her dress is mint green with tiny cherries printed all over it, cinched at the waist with a red belt that matches her lipstick. But it's her hair that makes me stare—vibrant red waves with a hint of copper so specularly bright they seem to glow in the dying light, styled in perfect vintage victory rolls that must take hours to achieve.

Her hair reminds me of fire…

"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically, even though my face is probably blotchy and my eyes definitely red-rimmed. "Just... resting."

She tilts her head, and I catch the knowing look in her green eyes.

"Uh-huh. And I'm just out for a casual evening stroll in my heels." She gestures to her red pumps, which are definitely not made for walking. "Mind if I sit? These things are killing me, and that curb looks mighty comfortable."

I should say no.

Protect what's left of my dignity by not letting strangers see me this broken. But maybe the way she asks instead of assumes while carrying that careful distance makes me scoot over slightly.

"Thanks, hon." She settles onto the curb with surprising grace, smoothing her dress over her knees. Up close, I can see the freckles scattered across her nose like cinnamon on cream. "I'm Wendolyn, by the way. Wendolyn Rae Murphy, but everyone calls me Wendy. Except my mama when she's mad, then it's all three names like she's casting a spell."

Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch toward what might generously be called a smile.

"Willa."

"Well, Willa, I don't mean to pry, but I couldn't help notice you've got that classic 'small town just kicked me in the teeth' look about you." She pulls a tissue from her purse—of course she carries tissues—and offers it to me. "Let me guess. The hotel?"

I take the tissue, mostly because refusing feels like more effort than accepting.

"How did you know?"

"Because Harold Pritchard is a walking advertisement for why some Alphas shouldn't be allowed in public." She says it so cheerfully, like she's commenting on the weather. "Man's got the personality of a brick and about half the charm. Turned you away for being unmated, didn't he?"

"Said I was a 'disruption.'"

The word tastes bitter coming back out.

"The only disruption in that place is his cologne. Smells like he bathes in it." She wrinkles her nose. "Probably trying to cover up the stench of his personality."

That startles an actual laugh out of me—short and raspy, but real.

"You always this honest about the locals?"

"Only the ones who deserve it." She turns to face me more fully, and I notice how her dress has little pearl buttons all down the front, each one perfectly aligned. This is a woman who pays attention to details. "I own the bookstore-cafe combo just down the street. Wildflower & Wren? Been here about a year now, and let me tell you, the first time Harold tried to Alpha-posture at me, I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. He's been pissy about it ever since."

The way she says it—casual, unafraid, like standing up to Alphas is just another Tuesday—that makes me really look at her. Not just the vintage perfection or the warm smile, but the steel underneath.

This is an Omega who's chosen to live alone in a small town, unmarked and unmated, with hair that screams 'look at me' when convention says we should be invisible.

"Your hair," I blurt out, then immediately want to crawl under the curb. "I mean⁠—"

"Oh, this?" She touches one of the victory rolls, grinning. "I know, I know. Redheaded Omegas are already considered trouble, and here I am making it worse with the whole vintage thing. You should see the church ladies clutch their pearls when I walk by."

"Doesn't it make things...harder?" I gesture vaguely at the town around us. "Being so visible?"

"Honey, they're going to judge us no matter what." She adjusts her belt, and I notice her nails are painted the exact same shade of red as her lips and shoes. "Might as well give them something interesting to look at while they do it."

It's such a different approach to survival than mine—where I tried to blend in, minimize, make myself acceptable, she's chosen to lean into being unacceptable.

And somehow, she's sitting here on a curb with me, unmarked and unclaimed but seemingly unbothered by it.

"Plus," she continues, pulling a compact from her purse to check her lipstick, "the nice thing about being visibly rebellious is that the other rebels find you faster. We troublemakers have to stick together, you know?"

There's an invitation in those words, carefully offered without pressure.

This woman with her victory rolls and cherry-print dress and casual defiance of everything an Omega should be is extending something I'm not sure I'm brave enough to take.

"I don't know if I'm much of a rebel," I admit. "I just...exist wrong, apparently."

"Oh sweetie." Her voice softens, losing none of its warmth but gaining something deeper. "Existing as ourselves in a world that wants us to be something else? That's the biggest rebellion there is."

The sun has nearly set now, painting her red hair in shades of copper fire.

She looks like she stepped out of a different era, when women wore their strength in victory rolls and red lipstick instead of trying to hide it under submission. In a town this small, this traditional, she must stand out like a flame in the darkness.

Maybe that's the point.

Wendolyn lets out a laugh that's bright as her hair, throwing her head back like she's just heard the world's best joke.

"You know what kills me about Alphas? They strut around like they invented confidence, but the second you don't simper at them, they fall apart like wet tissue paper."

"Harold definitely seemed offended I didn't bare my neck on command," I say, surprised to find the anger cooling into something almost like amusement.

"Oh, they hate that." She leans in conspiratorially, and I catch another whiff of sweet peas and vanilla. "I once had an Alpha at my old job get so flustered when I didn't defer to him in a meeting that he actually forgot his own presentation. Just stood there opening and closing his mouth like a fish while I calmly outlined my proposal."

"What did you do?" I find myself genuinely curious about this woman who treats Alpha posturing like entertainment.

"Marketing. Big firm in Atlanta." She waves a hand dismissively. "But honestly? After a few years of dealing with Alpha egos in corporate, I decided to try something with even more testosterone. Became a firefighter."

Say WHAT now?

I nearly choke on air.

"You were a firefighter?"

It’s the most random and so far left from the typical Omega career one could think of.

"Mmmhmm. First and only Omega in my department." She says it casual as anything, like she's telling me she used to work retail. "You should've seen their faces when I showed up for training. Five-foot-five, curves for days, and absolutely determined to prove I could haul hose with the best of them."

"That must have been..." I trail off, trying to imagine it. Firefighting is almost exclusively Alpha territory, all physical strength and danger and masculine pride.

"Insane? Absolutely. Worth it? For a while." She adjusts her victory rolls, and I notice her hands—soft-looking now, but there's a strength in them that speaks to her past. "The physical stuff was hard, sure. Had to work twice as hard to build the muscle, develop techniques that worked with my body instead of against it. But the real challenge? The daily dick-measuring contests."

"They gave you hell?"

"Oh honey, they tried everything. Hid my gear, 'forgot' to tell me about schedule changes, made bets on how long I'd last." Her green eyes spark with remembered defiance. "Joke was on them, though. Omegas might not have Alpha strength, but we've got better flexibility, lower center of gravity, and—most importantly—we're used to doing everything the hard way."

"How long did you last?"

"Three years. Would've been longer, but..." She trails off, and for the first time, something shadows crosses her face. "Let's just say that being the only Omega in an Alpha pride parade gets old. Plus, there was an incident. Bad fire, civilian didn't make it, and somehow that became my fault for 'distracting' the team with my presence."

My chest tightens with familiar rage.

"That's bullshit."

"Course it is. But try explaining that to a review board full of Alphas who already think you don't belong." She shrugs, but I can see the old hurt there, carefully managed but not forgotten. "So I took my settlement, decided maybe it was time to try something different."

"And you came here?" I gesture at the small town around us, trying to reconcile this fierce woman with choosing Sweetwater Falls.

"I know, right? From fighting fires to selling books and making lattes." She laughs, but it's softer now, more genuine. "Thought I'd find some peace, you know? Small town, slower pace, chance to just... breathe for a while."

"Is there even a fire department here?"

"Oh yeah, tiny little volunteer outfit. Chief nearly swallowed his tongue when I stopped by to introduce myself." She grins at the memory. "Kept saying they weren't hiring, and I kept saying I wasn't applying. Poor man looked so confused."

"You really aren't going back to it?"

"Taking a break." She stretches her legs out, red heels catching the light from the street lamp that's just flickered on. "Maybe a permanent one, maybe not. Right now, I'm just enjoying serving coffee instead of saving lives. I have other commitments, too, but in general, this is peaceful. Less smoke inhalation, better outfits."

I find myself smiling—actually smiling—at this woman who gave up fighting fires to pour lattes in vintage dresses.

"Don't you miss it? The adrenaline, the purpose?"

"Sometimes. But you know what I don't miss? Proving myself every single day. Being the representative for all Omegas everywhere. Having to be perfect because any mistake reflects on our entire designation." She turns to look at me fully. "Sometimes it's nice to just exist without carrying all that weight. Don't you think?"

The question hits deeper than she probably intended.

Here's someone who understands what it's like to fight for space in Alpha domains. Who chose to step back not from weakness but from wisdom, recognizing that constant battle wears you down to nothing.

"I wouldn't know," I admit. "I've never figured out how to stop fighting."

"Well," she says, standing and smoothing down her dress, "maybe this is your chance to learn. Sweetwater Falls might not look like much, but it's got its charms. Good coffee, better pie, and at least one rebel Omega who knows where Harold hides his spare key when he locks himself out of the hotel."

"He does that?"

"About once a month. Man can't remember his own head, but sure, let's put him in charge of deciding who's worthy of shelter." She offers me her hand. "Come on. Let's get you off this curb before the evening joggers start using you as a hurdle."

I look at her outstretched hand—manicured nails, steady grip, offering help without pity—and feel something crack in my chest. This woman fought literal fires, dealt with the same Alpha bullshit I've faced, and chose to find peace instead of burning out. Maybe there's a lesson in that.

"I don't know why you're being so nice to me," I say, but I take her hand anyway.

"Because rebels stick together, remember?" She pulls me up with surprising strength. "Plus, anyone who makes Harold that mad is someone I want to know better. The man's vein was practically throbbing—I saw him through the window. Quality entertainment."

Standing feels strange after sitting on cold concrete, and I sway slightly.

Wendolyn steadies me without making a big deal of it, just a hand on my elbow until I find my balance. Like she's done this before.

Like maybe she's been the one sitting on the curb too, once upon a time.

"For what it's worth," I say, "I think those firefighters were idiots. Their loss."

"Oh, I know they were." She links her arm through mine like we're old friends. "But sometimes the best revenge is finding happiness they said we couldn't have. Living well, and all that."

She could be right.

That there's strength in choosing peace over war, in victory rolls instead of battle scars.

Or maybe I'm just tired enough to want to believe her.

Yearning For A Home

~WILLA~

The walk to Wildflower & Wren takes us deeper into Sweetwater Falls, and despite everything, I find myself cataloging details like I'm trying to memorize a dream before waking.

Street lamps flicker on one by one, old-fashioned things that look like they've been standing guard since the town's founding. Their golden light catches on shop windows, turning ordinary glass into pools of honey.

Wendolyn keeps up a gentle commentary as we walk, her heels clicking a rhythm on the sidewalk.

"That's the hardware store—Mr. Chen's owned it for thirty years and can find you any screw, bolt, or widget known to man. Over there's the barber shop where all the old-timers gather to solve the world's problems over coffee and gossip."

The buildings press close together like friends sharing secrets, painted in colors that shouldn't work but do—butter yellow next to sage green, dusty blue beside brick red.

Flower boxes hang from windows despite the October chill, still blooming with mums and pansies in defiant bursts of purple and gold.

It's aggressively quaint, like the town got together and decided to be a postcards photographer's wet dream.

My inner turmoil feels out of place here, too sharp and ugly for all this small-town perfection.

I'm a discord note in their harmony, a smudge on their pretty picture. But Wendolyn walks beside me like I belong, pointing out the veterinary clinic — "Dr. Patel is a miracle worker with animals and has the gentlest hands you've ever seen" — and the tiny post office —"Martha runs it like a naval operation, but she'll hold your packages if you're running late".

"Population?" I ask, trying to ground myself in facts.

"About three thousand, give or take. Swells during rodeo season and the harvest festival." She navigates around a crack in the sidewalk without breaking stride. "Big enough to have everything you need, small enough that everyone knows everyone's business. It's a blessing and a curse, depending on the day."

We pass a young couple walking their dog, and they both nod to Wendolyn, their eyes sliding over me with curiosity but not hostility. The dog—some kind of setter—wags its entire body at us before being tugged along. Normal people living normal lives in their normal town, while I'm held together with spite and stubbornness.

The bookstore comes into view again, and this time I really look at it.

The building itself is old, probably from the town's founding era, with good bones under its cheerful paint.

The wraparound porch sags slightly in the middle like it's been well-loved. Fairy lights twine through the railings and around the support posts, creating a constellation of warm white stars. The window boxes overflow with wildflowers that have no business blooming this late in the season, but there they are anyway—cosmos and black-eyed Susans and something purple I can't identify.

"So here's the thing," Wendolyn says, still with her arm linked through mine like we're strolling through a park instead of standing next to my life's wreckage. "I've got this spare room above my shop. Nothing fancy—just a bed, dresser, little bathroom. But it's clean, it's safe, and it's currently storing nothing but books I keep meaning to donate and a truly embarrassing number of vintage hats."

I stop walking, forcing her to stop too.

"Wendolyn—"

"Now before you get all prideful on me," she continues, "let me tell you about the catch. The shop's right below, and we open at six-thirty sharp. Coffee grinder starts at six-fifteen, and let me tell you, that thing is louder than Harold's cologne is strong. Plus, we get the morning rush of every caffeine-addicted soul in Sweetwater Falls, all desperate for their fix."

"I can't just⁠—"

"And don't even get me started on pumpkin spice season." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Which is right now, by the way. I swear I've made more pumpkin spice lattes in the past week than should be legally allowed. The smell gets into everything. Your clothes, your hair, your dreams. You'll be sneezing cinnamon and nutmeg."

"You don't even know me." The words come out smaller than intended, but they need to be said. "I could be anyone. I could be dangerous."

"Honey, the only danger you pose right now is to yourself." Her voice gentles, but she doesn't let go of my arm. "And maybe to my tissue supply, but I buy in bulk."

Man, she is hilarious.

"I can't pay much." The admission burns, but it's better than taking charity under false pretenses. "My car's dead, and I've got maybe a hundred dollars to my name."

"Did I mention rent? No, because I'm not charging any." She starts walking again, gently tugging me along. "Look, the room's just sitting there. Actually, it's doing less than sitting—it's actively collecting dust and making me feel guilty every time I walk past. You'd be doing me a favor."

"That's not how favors work."

"It is in my world." We round a corner, and she gestures ahead. "There she is. Wildflower & Wren, in all her quirky glory."

The bookstore-cafe is impossible to miss, even in the dying light.

Painted sage green with white trim, it has a wraparound porch with little tables and chairs, fairy lights strung along the railings. The sign hanging above the door features hand-painted wildflowers and a tiny wren perched on the ampersand. Window boxes overflow with actual wildflowers, defying the October chill with bursts of color.

"It's beautiful," I say, meaning it.

"She's my baby." Pride warms Wendolyn's voice. "Books on one side, coffee on the other, and a whole lot of organized chaos in between. We host book clubs, writers' groups, even a weekly knitting circle that's really just an excuse for the town gossips to gather intelligence."

"And you live above it?"

"Just me and Fitzgerald—that's my cat. Rescued him from behind the dumpster last winter, and now he thinks he owns the place." She squeezes my arm. "Fair warning, he's orange, he's massive, and he has opinions about everything."

I'm wavering. I can feel it in the way my resistance is crumbling, the way this sounds too good to refuse. But life has taught me that things that sound too good usually are.

"Why would you do this? Take in a stranger?"

"Because I've been that stranger." She stops in front of the shop, turning to face me fully. "Year ago, I rolled into town with a broken heart, a U-Haul full of vintage clothes, and this crazy idea that I could start over somewhere nobody knew my name." Her green eyes hold mine, understanding written in every freckle. "First night here, I slept in my car outside this very building because I was too proud to ask for help and too broke to afford the hotel—even if Harold would've let me stay."

"Someone helped you?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Miss Rosie—from the diner? Caught me brushing my teeth in her bathroom at six in the morning. Instead of throwing me out, she made me breakfast and called the previous owner of this place. Told him he'd be a fool not to rent to someone who'd clearly fight tooth and nail to make it work." Wendolyn's smile goes soft at the memory. "She didn't know me from Adam, but she saw someone who needed a hand up, not a handout. That's the difference."

The distinction hits me in the chest, right where I've been holding all my fear and pride in a tight knot. A hand up, not a handout. But my mind races with all the ways this could go wrong.

What if she expects something in return?

What if there are strings attached I can't see yet?

What if I let my guard down and⁠—

"I can see those wheels turning," Wendolyn says gently. "And whatever worst-case scenario you're cooking up in there, I promise you, the reality is much more boring. I offer you a dusty room full of romance novels and cat hair. You accept because sleeping indoors beats the alternative. We become friends or we don't. Life goes on."

The bookstore's windows glow warmly against the deepening twilight, and I catch glimpses of the interior—shelves packed with books, mismatched chairs that somehow look perfect together, strings of lights creating pools of golden warmth.

It looks like every bookstore I've ever wanted to disappear into, every safe haven I've imagined but never quite found.

"The morning rush really is brutal, though," Wendolyn continues, and I realize she's giving me space to think by filling the silence. "Soccer moms desperate for their skinny vanilla lattes, contractors who want their coffee black as their truck tires, and don't even get me started on the teenagers who think 'extra extra extra caramel' is a valid order description."

"You weren't kidding about the pumpkin spice?" I manage, trying to match her lighter tone while my insides wage war.

"Oh honey, I've got pumpkin spice everything. Lattes, muffins, scones, cookies—I even experimented with pumpkin spice hot chocolate last week, which was either genius or sacrilege depending on who you ask." She wrinkles her nose.

I want to say yes.

Want it so badly my chest aches with it.

But wanting things has always been dangerous for me.

"What if—" I start, then stop.

What if what?

What if she's genuinely kind?

What if I'm so broken I can't recognize generosity without suspicion anymore?

"What if you just try it for tonight?" Wendolyn suggests. "No commitment, no obligations. Just a bed that's not a car seat and a door that locks from the inside. Tomorrow you can go back to being all independent and suspicious if you want."

"I'm not suspicious," I protest weakly.

"Course not. You're just carefully evaluating the tactical disadvantages of accepting help from a strange woman in a cherry-print dress." Her tone is teasing but kind. "Which, honestly, fair. I could be a serial killer who lures victims with vintage fashion and caffeine addiction."

Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch.

"That would be a very specific M.O."

"Right? CSI would have a field day." She grows serious again, and her voice drops to something softer. "Look, I know trust doesn't come easy. Whatever sent you running to—or from—Sweetwater Falls with everything you own in one bag, I'm guessing it wasn't pretty. But sometime, somehow, you're going to have to decide if you'll let anyone in again. Might as well be someone with excellent taste in shoes and a truly embarrassing collection of romance novels."

The fight goes out of me all at once, like air from a punctured tire.

I'm so tired—of running, of fighting, of pretending I don't need what everyone else takes for granted. And this woman with her victory rolls and her easy kindness is offering me something I desperately need without making me beg for it.

"Just for tonight," I say, the words feeling like surrender and relief all at once.

"Just for tonight," she agrees, but her smile suggests she knows better. "Come on, let's get you settled before Fitzgerald decides you're an intruder and goes into full attack mode. Fair warning—his version of attack is aggressive leg-rubbing until you pet him."

As she unlocks the bookstore door, I catch her scent again—sweet peas and vanilla, mixed with coffee and something indefinable that might just be hope.

For the first time since my car died, since Harold threw me out, since I left everything behind, I feel something loosen in my chest.

Maybe it's not weakness to accept help.

Or maybe it's its own kind of strength, recognizing when you've hit your limits and letting someone offer you a hand up instead of drowning in your own pride.

"Thank you," I whisper, and mean it more than two words should be able to convey.

"That's what rebels do," Wendolyn says simply, holding the door open for me. "We look out for each other."

"I can't keep anything alive," I admit, gesturing at the flowers. "Even houseplants take one look at me and give up."

"That's what everyone says until they find the right plant." Wendolyn climbs the porch steps, wood creaking a welcome under her heels. "It's all about matching the plant to the person. High-maintenance people need low-maintenance plants, and vice versa. We'll find you something indestructible."

The door chimes when she opens it, a proper bell sound that rings through my bones.

The scent hits me immediately—coffee and paper and vanilla and something indefinable that speaks of stories waiting to be discovered. My eyes need a moment to adjust from twilight to the warm interior lighting, and when they do, my breath catches.

It's everything a bookstore should be and rarely is.

The cafe takes up the right side, all warm wood and mismatched chairs that somehow create perfect harmony. The coffee bar gleams with copper and brass, an espresso machine that looks both vintage and well-maintained holding court.

Chalkboard menus in swooping handwriting advertise drinks I've never heard of alongside classics. Tiny tables tucked into corners promise intimate conversations over steaming mugs.

The left side belongs to the books, and they own it completely.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves create a maze of literary possibilities, with hand-painted signs marking genres in the same swooping script as the menu.

"Romance (Swoony)" and "Mystery (Murdery)" and "Self-Help (But Make It Fun)." Overstuffed armchairs lurk in corners like friendly trolls, each with its own reading lamp and side table. Persian rugs in jewel tones overlap on the worn wooden floors, creating islands of color and comfort.

But it's the feeling that gets me—immediate and overwhelming.

Safety.

Welcome.

Home.

Words I've trained myself not to think, but they flood through me anyway. This place doesn't care that I'm unmated, that I'm running, that I own nothing but what fits in a duffel bag.

It just exists, warm and inviting and utterly without judgment.

A place I can get used to…even for a little bit.

"Oh," I breathe, and it's inadequate but all I have.

"Right?" Wendolyn watches my face with satisfaction. "I had the same reaction when I first walked in. Like finding a piece of yourself you didn't know was missing."

String lights crisscross the ceiling, creating a canopy of stars that makes the whole space feel intimate despite its size. Plants hang from macrame holders, trailing green in defiance of my black thumb. A fireplace I hadn't noticed from outside crackles in the far corner, surrounded by yet more chairs and a couch that looks like it eats people in the best way.

For one blessed moment, my worries fade to background noise. The weight of my broken car, my empty wallet, my uncertain future—it all still exists, but muted under the bookstore's spell.

I'm just a woman standing in a magical place, breathing in stories and possibilities, feeling something unknot in my chest that's been twisted for so long I'd forgotten it wasn't supposed to hurt.

"Welcome to Wildflower & Wren," Wendolyn says softly. "She's not much, but she's home."

Home.

The word reverberates through me like a struck bell, beautiful and painful all at once.

I've been running so long I'd forgotten places like this exist—spaces that embrace rather than evaluate, that offer instead of demand.

"She’s perfect," I whisper, meaning it down to my bones.

Tomorrow A New Beginning

~WILLA~

"Come on," Wendolyn says, moving through the bookstore with the easy familiarity of someone who knows every creaking board and hidden corner. "Let's get you upstairs before⁠—"

A massive orange blur launches itself from the top of a bookshelf, landing on the counter with surprising grace for something that looks like a small pumpkin with legs. The cat—because it is indeed a cat, though I've seen smaller dogs—fixes me with eyes the color of aged whiskey and lets out a meow that sounds more like a rusty gate.

"And there he is." Wendolyn sighs with fond exasperation. "Fitzgerald, meet Willa. Willa, meet the true owner of this establishment."

Fitzgerald pads closer, his considerable bulk making the counter groan. His fur is every shade of orange from pale ginger to deep marmalade, and he's got the kind of presence that makes you want to ask permission before petting him.

He sniffs in my direction, whiskers twitching with imperial assessment.

"He's...substantial," I manage.

"Twenty-two pounds at last vet visit." Wendolyn scratches behind his ears, and his purr starts up like a diesel engine. "Vet says he's 'robust,' which is polite for 'your cat is fat, lady.' But look at him—he's not fat, he's just committed to being the largest personality in any room."

As if to prove her point, Fitzgerald stretches to his full length, which is considerable, and yawns to display an impressive collection of teeth.

Then he head-butts Wendolyn's hand hard enough to make her stumble.

"See? No concept of personal space or appropriate force." She leads me toward a narrow staircase tucked behind the counter, painted the same sage green as the exterior. "Fair warning…he will absolutely try to sleep on your chest tonight. It's like being loved by a fuzzy bowling ball."

The stairs creak a melody under our feet, and I follow her up, noting the photos lining the wall—Wendolyn in her firefighter gear looking fierce and capable, Wendolyn with what must be her family all sporting matching red hair, Wendolyn at various bookstore events surrounded by smiling customers.

"So there I was," she says, launching into a story as we climb, "first week the store was open, trying to impress this very serious book club that had been meeting at the library for twenty years. I'd made fancy cucumber sandwiches, gotten the good tea, even put on my most literary-looking dress—you know, the one that screams 'I've read Proust and understood it.'"

"Did you? Understand Proust?" I ask, finding myself drawn into her storytelling rhythm.

"God no, but the dress didn't know that." She pauses at the landing to catch her breath. "Anyway, everything's going perfectly. They're warming up to me, discussing some very serious literary fiction about men having midlife crises in Connecticut. And then Fitzgerald decides this is the perfect moment to hack up the world's largest hairball. I'm talking epic. Biblical. The kind of hairball that makes you question the laws of physics."

I can't help it—I snort with laughter.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. Right in the middle of the circle. On Mrs. Henderson's designer shoes." Wendolyn pushes open a door at the top of the stairs. "The sound alone could've woken the dead. And then—because why stop there—he sat back and looked so proud of himself. Like he'd just contributed to the literary discussion."

"What did you do?"

"What could I do? I looked those ladies dead in the eye and said, 'Well, I guess that's Fitzgerald's review of the protagonist's moral journey.'" She grins at the memory. "Longest silence of my life. Then Mrs. Henderson—whose shoes were definitely ruined—just burst out laughing. Said it was the most honest literary criticism she'd heard in years."

My smile only grows at the heartwarming story.

The spare room is small but clean, with sloped ceilings that speak of attic conversion.

A brass bed takes up most of the space, covered in a quilt that looks handmade. There's a dresser painted white and chipped with age, a tiny bathroom visible through a cracked door, and boxes of books stacked against one wall.

The window looks out over Main Street, fairy lights from the porch creating a soft glow.

"They still meet here every Thursday," Wendolyn continues, smoothing the quilt unnecessarily. "And they always save a chair for Fitzgerald, just in case he has more opinions to share. Turns out, underneath all their pearls and propriety, they're just a bunch of women who appreciate a good hairball story."

"That's..." I sink onto the edge of the bed, something loosening in my chest. "That's actually wonderful."

"Right? Taught me something important about this place." She perches on one of the book boxes, victory rolls still somehow perfect despite the day. "Sweetwater Falls looks all traditional and proper on the surface, but scratch a little and you find people are people everywhere. Weird, wonderful, hairball-appreciating people."

The laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep, surprising me with its genuineness.

When was the last time I really laughed? Not the polite social kind or the bitter kind, but actual joy?

Wendolyn joins in, and soon we're both giggling like teenagers, the absurdity of the hairball story somehow breaking through all my carefully maintained walls.

"Thank you," I say when we finally catch our breath. "For this, for the room, for not being what I expected."

"Honey, expectations are overrated." She stands, heading for the door. "Towels are in the bathroom, extra blankets in the dresser if you need them. Coffee starts brewing at six-fifteen, but I promise to keep the grinder on the lowest setting tomorrow. And Willa?" She pauses in the doorway. "Whatever you're running from, you're safe here. That's not charity or pity—that's just fact. Rebels look out for each other, remember?"

The door closes softly behind her, leaving me alone with the quiet and the fairy lights and the lingering warmth of unexpected friendship. For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I don't feel quite so alone.

The quiet wraps around me like a blanket I'm not sure I deserve.

I sit on the edge of the bed, springs creaking under my weight, and try to process what just happened. A stranger—an unmated Omega stranger—took one look at my disaster of a life and opened her home without hesitation.

No interrogation, no demands, no subtle suggestions about what I might owe her later.

Just kindness, served with vintage dress flair and hairball stories.

My hands shake as I pull off my boots, and I realize it's not from exhaustion anymore. It's from the effort of holding myself together when someone is being gentle with me. Gentleness is harder to defend against than cruelty.

Cruelty confirms what I already know about the world—that it's sharp-edged and unforgiving, especially for unmated Omegas.

But kindness? Kindness suggests maybe I've been wrong, and that's terrifying in its own way.

I unzip my duffel, pulling out the few clothes that represent my entire wardrobe now.

Each piece carries memories I'd rather forget—the sweater I wore the night everything fell apart, jeans that still smell faintly of smoke despite multiple washings, a dress I can't bear to throw away because it's from before, when I still believed in happy endings. Pathetic. Twenty-eight years old and everything I own fits in one bag, just like Wendolyn said about herself a year ago.

But she rebuilt.

Bought a bookstore, created a home, made friends who save chairs for cats with opinions.

Maybe...

No…I can't think like that.

Can't let hope creep in through the cracks Wendolyn's kindness has created.

Hope is dangerous for people like me. Makes you vulnerable, trust and believe that this time will be different.

And then when it inevitably isn't, when the kindness reveals its price tag or the safety proves temporary, you're left worse than before because you let yourself want something you should've known better than to reach for.

Brett taught me that lesson thoroughly.

Started with kindness too—bringing me coffee at work, offering to walk me to my car after late nights, defending me in meetings when other Alphas got too pushy. I'd been so grateful, so stupidly relieved that someone saw me as worth protecting. Classic Omega response, my therapist would probably say if I could afford therapy anymore.

Mistaking basic decency for something special because the bar was set so low.

My phone buzzes, battery down to two percent.

Three missed calls from an unknown number.

Probably the mechanic the tow truck driver mentioned, though what's the point? I already know what they'll say. The Honda's been dying for months, held together with duct tape and desperate prayers. Now it's finally given up, and I'm stranded in a town that's made it clear unmated Omegas aren't welcome.

Except Wendolyn welcomed me. And the couple with the dog didn't seem hostile, just curious. Maybe Harold and his hotel don't represent everyone here…

The phone dies mid-thought, screen going black with finality.

Perfect. No car, no phone, no money to fix either.

The weight of it all crashes down at once, and I have to press my palms against my eyes to keep the tears at bay.

What am I doing? Running to my grandfather’s ranch, when I haven't seen it in fifteen years? Believing that inheriting some broken-down ranch will somehow fix everything that's wrong with my life?

The panic starts in my chest, familiar as breathing. Heart racing, lungs tight—though that might be the smoke damage making itself known. I'm trapped. Truly trapped. Not just in Sweetwater Falls, but in this situation I've created by running.

No backup plan, no safety net, no pack or family to call for help even if my phone worked.

I force myself to breathe slowly, counting like the therapist taught me back when I could afford to learn coping mechanisms. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The technique still works, even if everything else in my life doesn't.

The panic recedes to manageable levels, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

Okay. Facts, not feelings.

I'm in Sweetwater Falls with a broken car I can't fix.

I have a safe place to sleep tonight thanks to Wendolyn's generosity.

Tomorrow I'll need to figure out how to get to the ranch, assuming it even exists and isn't just another disappointment waiting to happen.

None of this is ideal, but it's survivable.

I've survived worse.

The thought brings a bitter smile. Yes, I've survived Blake’s escalating control, the fire that followed when I finally said no, the months of recovery both physical and emotional. I've survived my parents' disappointment, society's judgment, my own designation working against me at every turn.

What's one more impossible situation?

Maybe that's what Wendolyn recognized—one survivor seeing another. Maybe that's why she offered help without making it feel like charity. She knows what it's like to lose everything and have to rebuild from scratch, to walk into a town where you know nobody and make it home through sheer determination.

I change into sleep clothes, movements automatic.

The room is warmer than anywhere I've slept lately, and the quilt smells like lavender and something indefinable that might just be safety. Through the window, Main Street glows softly under its antique streetlamps.

Somewhere in this town, my grandfather's ranch waits—another unknown, another risk, another chance for disappointment.

But also, potentially a chance for a new beginning in the heart of this small little town.

I'm so tired of running, of starting over, of being strong. What if I stopped? What if I let Sweetwater Falls be where the running ends, not because I've found home but because I've run out of road?

The bed creaks as I crawl under the covers, and I half-expect Fitzgerald to materialize as promised. But I'm alone with my thoughts and the fairy lights and the strange feeling that maybe being stranded isn't the worst thing that could've happened.

I could be the universe's way of saying "stop."

Tomorrow I'll deal with the car, the ranch, the reality of being stuck in a town where I know exactly one person.

Tonight, I'm going to sleep in a real bed in a room above a bookstore, gifted by a rebel Omega who collects vintage dresses and hairball stories.

It's not the life I planned, but maybe that's okay. My plans haven't exactly worked out anyway.

Time to see what happens when I stop planning and just survive, one day at a time, starting here in Sweetwater Falls where every heart supposedly finds home.

Even inappropriate hearts like mine.

Sleep won't come.

Despite the comfortable bed and warm quilt, despite exhaustion that goes bone-deep, my mind refuses to quiet. I slip out from under the covers, bare feet silent on the old wooden floor, and pad to the window.

The fairy lights from the porch cast everything in soft focus, like looking at the world through a gentle dream.

Sweetwater Falls sleeps peacefully below.

A few windows still glow with warm light—night owls reading or watching TV, living their ordinary lives. A pickup truck rumbles down Main Street, heading home from some late shift. The mountains ring the town like protective walls, their dark shapes just visible against the star-filled sky.

It's postcard perfect, almost aggressively so, like the town knows exactly how charming it is and leans into it.

I press my palm against the cool glass, watching my breath fog a small circle.

Twelve hours ago, I was just trying to make it to the ranch before dark. Now I'm standing in a borrowed room above a bookstore, taken in by a woman who sees rebellion as a kindness and kindness as rebellion.

The whiplash of it makes my head spin.

How did I get here? Not just to Sweetwater Falls, but to this moment—twenty-eight years old, running on fumes both literal and metaphorical, placing my trust in strangers because I've got no other choice?

Tomorrow feels like a mountain I'm not sure I can climb.

Find a way to the ranch—hitchhike maybe, or see if there's a bus. Figure out what condition it's in, whether my grandfather left me a gift or just another problem to solve. Try to make a broken-down property into something resembling a life, with no money and no experience and lungs that still protest when I breathe too deep.

But tonight? Tonight I'm safe.

The word sits strange in my mouth, foreign as a new language. When did I stop feeling safe? When Blake's protection became possession? When my parents' disappointment became distance?

Or earlier, the first time someone told me Omegas like me need to know their place?

A light flicks on in the building across the street—someone else who can't sleep, probably. I wonder what keeps them awake. Lost dreams? Found nightmares? Or just the ordinary insomnia of ordinary lives? There's something comforting in knowing I'm not the only one awake, not the only one standing at a window wondering what comes next.

The mountains feel closer in the darkness, like they've crept forward to peer at the newcomer. Somewhere beyond them, my grandfather's ranch waits. Cactus Rose Ranch—even the name sounds like something from a movie, all thorns and beauty and Western romance. He sent letters for a while when I was young, before my parents made it clear contact wasn't welcome. I remember his handwriting, careful and slanted, telling stories about horses and sunsets and the way the desert blooms after rain.

I wonder if he knew what was ahead of me?

Maybe that's why he left it to me—not to the William my parents wanted, but to the Willa I became.

A place for someone who exists wrong, who fits nowhere, who needs somewhere to run to when the running from gets to be too much.

Or maybe he just had no one else, and I'm inheriting neglect and decay along with the land.

Tomorrow will tell.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm room.

The unknown stretches before me, vast as the darkness beyond the mountains. But for the first time in months—years—it doesn't feel entirely bleak. There's Wendolyn downstairs, probably reading romance novels with Fitzgerald purring on her lap. There's a bookstore that feels like home and a town that might, maybe, possibly have room for one more misfit.

It's not much. But it's not nothing either.

The clock on the dresser shows 11:47. Less than fifteen minutes until tomorrow, until I have to figure out how to move forward when every path seems blocked. But right now, in this suspended moment between one day and the next, I let myself feel something dangerous: curiosity.

What would it be like to stop running?

To plant feet somewhere and grow roots, thorny and deep like the cacti that presumably gave the ranch its name? To drink pumpkin spice lattes and smell like cinnamon and befriend women who wear victory rolls as armor?

To be Willa—not the William my parents wanted or the Omega society expects, but just Willa, messy and scarred and stubbornly still here?

Frightening.

Impossible.

But also...glorious to dream about.

The courthouse clock begins to chime midnight, twelve deep notes that resonate through the quiet town. With each toll, I feel something shift inside me, subtle but significant. Not hope exactly—I'm not ready for hope. But maybe its quieter cousin: possibility.

I'll wake in Sweetwater Falls with problems to solve and a life to somehow rebuild.

I'll face the ranch and whatever ghosts or gifts it holds.

Tomorrow I'll have to decide if I'm brave enough to stop running, to try trusting, to see if a heart that's been labeled inappropriate might still find its home.

Tonight, I stand at this window in a borrowed room above a bookstore, watching a sleeping town that doesn't know what to do with me any more than I know what to do with it.

The last chime fades into silence.

October 15th begins…

Four Familiar Strangers?

~WILLA~

The Honda wheezes like an asthmatic horse as I coax it up the rutted dirt road, my hands steady on the wheel despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs.

Thank God for all those nights watching Damon work on cars, his Alpha pride making him eager to show off while I held the flashlight and memorized every movement. The makeshift patch job I managed at Wendolyn's should hold—duct tape, borrowed coolant, and pure desperation working their magic one more time.

The road curves around a stand of pines, and I brace myself for disappointment.

Grandpa's letters stopped coming fifteen years ago. Fifteen years of neglect could reduce any property to ruins.

I've rehearsed it a thousand ways: the haunting tableau of abandonment, with warped fence posts leaning like old men and brittle cattle guards shrieking their own eulogy beneath my tires. I'd conjured the image in my brain, over and over again—the paint stripped from the porch and the picture windows condemned by a spiderweb of cracks, the roofline slumping in grim resignation. The mailbox a rusted jawbone, gaping for letters that would never come.

Each time, I imagined the land gone feral, reclaiming its boundaries; thistles shouldering through the cracked walk, cheatgrass swallowing the outbuildings whole. Even the barn would not be spared. Grandpa himself had described it as “old as Montana and twice as stubborn,” but neglect is a patient predator. It’d start with a few missing shingles, then a peeled patch of siding, then a hungry wind blowing straight through to pick the bones of the hayloft clean.

I half expected the whole place to be gone.

Maybe a blackened scar left by a late-summer grass fire, maybe just the foundations and the family headstones out behind the windbreak to prove any of it existed at all. It would be fitting—the past smoothed down to nothing, all the hard edges eroded so I could squint and almost convince myself that nothing was ever lost.

But history isn't that merciful, and so I braced myself for the kind of little heartbreaks that make up a lifetime.

I figured I'd open my car door to the dust-choked silence of utter emptiness, the only sound my own footsteps creaking on waterlogged boards or the lonely moan of wind through fractured glass. If anyone was left to greet me, it would be the ghosts.

Grandpa’s voice echoing from the back pasture, Grandma’s laughter in the clatter of an unsteady screen door. Just me and the shadows, keeping inventory of what we’d failed to keep alive.

Instead, I have to slam on the brakes.

Cactus Rose Ranch is alive—no, thriving.

It unspools before me in layers, every detail brighter and more deliberate than the next, like someone dialed up the contrast on my childhood memories and color-corrected them until they glowed with impossible clarity.

The fence lines are white as wedding cake and unbroken, not a slat missing or paint flaked. Curved in neat grids, they corral pastures that ripple in the gold slant of afternoon sun. Cattle—actual cattle, a dozen at least—graze without hurry, flicking their tails at nothing in particular. Their coats don’t just shine; they shimmer, as if even the livestock refuse to be dull here.

I coast the Honda forward on instinct, tires whispering over gravel so clean it could have been raked that morning. The main house sits at the end of the drive, equally impossible. The porch, freshly painted, wears a shade of periwinkle so intentional it makes my teeth hurt. Someone has lined the railings with mason jars, each overflowing with wildflowers in full, defiant bloom.

Petunias, marigolds, purple asters—a rainbow with delusions of grandeur, considering it’s October and this far north.

Every window is scrubbed, panes reflecting the sky so perfectly I could probably spot flaws in my posture from here. There’s a swing under the eaves, the kind that creaks on purpose, and a rocking chair with a thick wool blanket draped over the back. Draped, not abandoned. As if someone just stepped inside to check the kettle and would be back any second.

This can't be right.

Dead men don't maintain ranches…

I ease the Honda forward, gravel crunching under balding tires. The late afternoon sun turns everything golden, like the whole place has been dipped in honey. My throat tightens with something I refuse to name. This is what Grandpa wanted me to have. This piece of paradise he somehow kept perfect, waiting.

Movement catches my eye as I pull up near the main house.

Four men emerge from different corners of the property like they've been summoned, and my body goes on immediate alert. Not fear exactly, but something older, more primal. The Omega in me cataloging threats and possibilities before my conscious mind can catch up.

The first one reaches me as I'm climbing out of the car, and his scent hits me like a physical force—pine and leather, woodsy and grounding, with something underneath that makes my knees want to buckle.

Safety.

The word whispers through my mind uninvited as I take in his appearance.

He’s tall—maybe six-three, maybe more, impossible to tell with the way he carries himself, like the ground is contractually obligated to hold his weight. Everything about him radiates the kind of presence that makes you forget whatever you were just doing. I don’t mean the florid, line-dancing kind of masculinity that football coaches and whiskey ads try to sell you, but something older, bred into him by generations of weather and necessity. Shoulders as broad as the barn’s crossbeam, but not in the careless way of college linebackers who can slouch their way through life.

No, his were the shoulders of someone who’d hoisted hay bales and patched barbed wire in blizzards; someone who understood that survival was a group project and took it damn seriously.

His hair is dark, thick as fence rope, and sun-bleached in a way that feels earned—touched with streaks of gold that I silently, irrationally resent for being more artful than anything I could pull off with a salon visit. He’s let it get just long enough to brush his collar, and the wind—this persistent, battering Montana wind—keeps trying to push it out of his eyes.

If there’s a trace of vanity in the way he ducks his head or smooths it back, I can’t find it. His jaw is shadowed by an impeccable five o’clock scruff, more salt than pepper at his chin, and the effect is less “grizzled movie sheriff” and more “the man you call when your house is on fire and you want your pets saved first.”

But it’s his eyes that pin me, and I mean really pin me, like a bug on a collector’s card. They’re slate-gray, shot through with hints of blue, and behind them lives a steel-trap intelligence that I instantly, irrationally, want to impress. He takes me in, head to toe, in a single sweep that is neither lecherous nor dismissive—just coldly, precisely efficient.

It’s obvious he’s the leader here, not because anyone told me, but because the air around him rearranges itself to make room for the fact.

The shock of his scent hits me second and hard: sharp pine resin, old leather, and something softer beneath—maybe the ghost of aftershave or the memory of a campfire. It’s a scent that wraps around my ribs and makes my heart clench in a way I can’t afford. The Omega part of me, the part I’ve spent years duct-taping behind my ribs, catalogues the chemistry faster than I can blink: dominant Alpha, unmated, unhurried, but vigilant. The instinct in me responds before my brain can draw the brakes. A spiral of recognition, desire, and what I dare acknowledge is dangerously close to hope skids through my nervous system.

I make myself breathe.

He stands a deliberate three feet from my bumper, feet planted in mud-caked boots, arms crossed with a mechanic’s indifference.

His posture says “don’t fuck around,” but his face—fine-boned, wide-browed, almost handsome if you stripped away the day’s exhaustion—softens just enough to suggest he’s not here to run me off the land. Still, I keep my hands visible, gripping my keys like a talisman.

My whole body remembers the lesson: never underestimate a man who can hurt you.

He waits, and in the silence I notice how my boots are sinking into the gravel, how the air carries the promise of snow, how my hands are trembling just enough to betray me if he looks closely. He doesn’t. Instead, his gaze flickers past my shoulder to the battered Honda and back again, an assessment so practiced it might as well be a handshake.

Behind him, I catch movement—a second man, slightly shorter and more slender, with hair as black as the midnight sky.

He approaches with the unhurried, unflinching gait of a veterinarian—someone who’s spent years bringing his hands up to shattered bones and twitching muscle, who’s learned to move nearer not with force but gravity. Each step broadcasts intent, but not threat. I recognize it instantly: the way he keeps his palms open, slightly flexed, so even a wounded thing knows he means to help. There’s a gentleness in his carriage so pronounced it almost hurts to look at; the living proof of what rescue looks like when rescue is done right.

He’s younger than the first, but not by much. Maybe thirty? His skin is the pale, luminous kind that freckles but never tans, and there’s a smoothness to his jawline that gives him the appearance of perpetual aftershave, even though he clearly hasn’t bothered with a razor today. The contrast between his fair skin and his hair—black as the inside of a well, parted just off-center and falling in a perfect, ink-dark crescent over his brow—gives him an improbable, almost cinematic beauty. If the first man is a slab of unyielding granite, this one is all angles and patience, a stone honed to a blade.

His eyes startle me. Lush, saturated green—the precise hue of grass after a thunderstorm or those ancient glass bottles you find half-buried behind the barn. They’re bright, patient, and unflinching, and I can tell even from this distance that they’re scanning, noting, matching my face to some internal database. His gaze is so searching, so appraising, that for a second I wonder if I’m bleeding or limping or otherwise in distress. I check my hands, my knees: no visible wounds. Still, the effect is the same as stepping onto an exam table and having the doctor’s fingers on your pulse before you’ve explained why you’re there.

When he gets close enough that I catch a breath of his scent, it nearly floors me. Not the brute-force pine of the first man, but something subtler and more intoxicating—sage, rain on stone, and the faintest thread of sugar maple. It’s the smell of a storm rolling in over a hayfield, of possibility and shelter and something else, too, something stitched through with longing. For a lightning-flash second I see myself through his eyes, a stranger with one good shoe and a pair of suitcases held together by bungee cords. I look like I belong anywhere but here, and yet his face doesn’t register even a flicker of judgment. Just curiosity, and that unwavering calm.

He stops a full pace behind the first man—close, but careful not to crowd—and after a beat, his lips curve into what I’m surprised to realize is a real smile. Not the cold, professional sort that clerks and functionaries use to keep you moving, but something softer, with a trace of mischief. It’s as if he’s set himself the challenge of figuring me out without asking a single question. He doesn’t say anything, just stands with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, eyes never leaving my face.

In the span of six seconds, he has already built a file on me, and I can sense him updating it, live. His expression is so open it borders on clinical, but the warmth is unmistakable: something about it makes me want to spill my entire life story right there in the driveway.

I feel the urge to speak first, to offer some explanation for my existence, before I even register the absurdity of that.

The compulsion to fill the silence is nearly overwhelming, but the words won’t come.

His quiet patience amplifies every insecurity I carry: the battered exterior, the way my clothes still smell faintly of engine oil and sweet scent of cinnamon and coffee, the quaver in my jaw as I try not to cry or hyperventilate.

He sees it all, and in his eyes, I swear, there’s not pity but a kind of fierce, impossible understanding.

A movement by the barn interrupts the silent standoff—a third figure, taller even than the first, but lean where the others are solid. His hair is a mess of dirty blond, and from across the yard, I can make out a posture that doesn’t so much walk as stalk. He’s pacing the barn’s perimeter with restless, prowling energy, every so often glancing over at the gathering by the house but never quite meeting anyone’s gaze. There’s something about him—maybe the way he rolls his weight from heel to toe or the set of his jaw—that tells me he’s the kind of man who doesn’t do well with waiting.

Or new people in his space?

Trailing the barn-walker, or maybe keeping tabs on him, is a fourth presence.

This one is slighter, not just in build but in affect: his blond hair almost white in the sun, freckled arms folded in a loose, off-guard way. He’s stationed himself on the bottom step of the porch, half-seated, half-leaning against the post, and his smile is so wide and guileless it takes me a minute to process it. It’s the smile of a fourth-grade class clown—unhardened, a little too eager, but somehow endearing. The kid brother in every family sitcom, except here he’s at least twenty-two and dressed in worn denim and boots that look like hand-me-downs.

The effect is so wholesome it almost sets my teeth on edge.

All four of them are watching me, all in their different ways. The first—the Alpha, that old, mythic capital-A kind—stands his ground, arms crossed, face unreadable. The second, the man with the rain-green eyes and gentle hands, does nothing but keep watching, as if willing me to find my own words. The third circles at a distance, feigning distraction but always aware of the group’s center of gravity. And the fourth, the porch-sitter with the impossible grin, seems to vibrate with a restless, sunny energy, like he’s seconds away from leaping up and tackling me with a hug.

I realize, with a cold flush, that this is all some kind of test. Not a threat—not exactly—but an evaluation. The way a hospital team might take in a new patient, quickly but thoroughly, each expert bringing their own lens to the assessment. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure they can hear it, even across the gravel. My Omega senses, dulled by years of city living and good old-fashioned repression, start to buzz at the edges, warning me of something I can’t name.

It occurs to me, belatedly, that I have never in my life stood in front of four men who looked like this—all different, yet bound together by some invisible thread of familiarity. For half a breath I wonder if I’m in a movie, or dreaming, or hallucinating from stress and too many gas station energy shots. But no, this is real: the Montana sun, the scrape of gravel under my boots, the impossibly alive ranch that’s supposed to be mine.

My hands tremble as I fumble for my bag, the motion drawing their eyes to me again.

The first man—Alpha, I remind myself—finally speaks, and his voice matches everything else about him: low, steady, edged with granite.

“Ma’am.” His voice rumbles deep, careful. A polite but unmistakable warning in every syllable. “Can we help you?”

I should speak…explain…but his scent keeps wrapping around me, and there's something familiar about the way he stands—protective without crowding, alert without aggression.

My mouth opens, closes, no words coming.

Where the first man makes me want to stand straighter, the second one makes me want to soften.

"Easy there, Cole," the second man says, and his voice carries the kind of calm that probably soothes spooked horses. "Can't you see she's overwhelmed? Not nice to do that to an Omega, especially when she clearly means no harm."

Cole. The name slots into place, though I don't know why it feels significant.

"I'm River," the calmer one continues, keeping his distance like he knows exactly how much space I need. "That's Cole, our foreman. And that's⁠—"

"Mavi, checking the perimeter." A third voice comes from my left, and I turn to find sharp green eyes studying me from about twenty feet away. Dirty blond hair, compact build, every line of his body ready for trouble. His scent carries on the breeze—smoke and cinnamon with an edge of danger that makes my pulse skip. Where Cole offers protection and River offers peace, this one promises vigilance.

"Paranoid is what he is," a fourth voice chimes in, warm and amused. "Don't mind him. He thinks everyone's casing the joint."

This one—the youngest-looking of the group—approaches with an easy smile and a baby on his hip.

The man is young—midtwenties, maybe, though the easy confidence in his stride says oldest sibling energy to me. He wears his warmth the way some men wear a badge: shiny and obvious, impossible to ignore. His jaw is soft, not squared off like the first two, and his face is all open lines and sun-touched freckles, lending him the approachable air of a small-town nurse who actually remembers your birthday.

He wears cologne, but it’s subtle, layered over a scent so clean it almost hurts—like cotton sheets after a dry snap, or the deep inhale you take after a long rain when every dust mote in the world has been washed away.

It’s a scent engineered for comfort, which should be impossible in a place that already smells this much like home. The effect is so thorough it almost overrides my anxiety response, and for one dizzying moment I want nothing more than to bury my face in his shirt and let him tell me everything’s going to be all right.

But it’s not the man himself who unmoors me.

It’s the baby in his arms—a not-quite-infant, maybe eight months old, with a riot of wispy hair and a marshmallow face still etched with that newborn look of perpetual surprise. She’s got a sunbeam smile, softened at the edges by teething, and her eyes—one bright blue, one greenish-gray, unmistakably heterochromatic—lock onto mine the instant we’re in the same orbit.

And then she shrieks, not in terror or protest but in the pure, nuclear delight that only babies muster when they’ve just had an emotion explained to them by the universe.

She flails both arms wildly, then jams a fist into her mouth as if to contain her joy. Her legs paddle against the deputy’s hip, almost knocking him off-balance, and she makes this high, ululating sound that I can’t help but mirror with a startled laugh.

It’s a ridiculous sound—like a dinosaur crossed with a car alarm—but it brings every grown man in the vicinity to attention, as if she were the ranch’s actual foreman.

The youngest man handles this with practiced ease, bouncing her gently, murmuring, “See, kid? Told you she’d show up,” in a voice so calm and sure I feel my throat close up with unexpected emotion.

He glances down at the baby, then back at me, as if to confirm some in-joke he’s been waiting weeks to deploy.

“Sorry about that,” he says, narrowing his eyes just a little, like he’s taking my measure and not sure if I’ll bolt or if I’ll actually pet the baby’s head as instinct demands. “She’s a bit of a greeter. Gets it from her dads.”

Dads. Plural. I file it away for later, but the word clangs in my chest with a resonance I don’t have time to process right now, because the baby’s outstretched hands are now full-on groping toward me, and the man—still smiling, but warily now—makes a small show of tightening his grip.

And even though every nerve in my body is screaming for me to maintain a safe, city-bred distance from this small army of wholesome rural men, I feel myself inching forward, powerless to resist the gravitational pull of an unfiltered infant.

“That’s Austin,” River offers helpfully, nodding in the deputy’s direction. “And the little one is Luna. She’s new.”

“She’s not new,” the man—Austin—corrects, “she’s just…very enthusiastic.” The way he says it tells me everything I need to know: that this baby is adored, that she is the axis around which this odd collection of men now rotates. Even Mavi, the barn-circle guy, stops mid-pace to shoot a glance at the commotion, his restless skepticism replaced by something softer and more curious.

I have no idea what you’re supposed to do in a moment like this, when an entire porch full of strangers is half-expecting you to meet a baby like it’s some sort of handshake ritual.

My arms twitch with the impulse to wave, or coo, or perform some appropriate gesture of biological solidarity, but all I manage is a sheepish half-smile and a quiet, “Hey, little one. You always make an entrance like this?”

Luna makes another delighted squawk, this one so loud and urgent she very nearly squirms out of Austin’s arms. For a split second, her baby-blue eye fixes on me with the laser precision of a guided missile, and I feel a weird, headlong shiver—like she’s looking straight through the battered shell of me and into the part that might have once known what home felt like.

"Luna, no—" the man starts, but she's already reaching with chubby hands, babbling excitedly like I'm her favorite person in the world.

"I think she likes you," River observes with a gentle smile.

"Austin, get control of your daughter," Cole says, but there's fondness in his exasperation.

"Our daughter," Austin corrects, bouncing Luna as she continues reaching for me. "And she clearly has excellent taste."

"Our?" I finally find my voice, looking between them.

The baby has heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one green-gray—and watches me with unusual focus for an infant.

"Long story," Mavi calls from his careful distance. "Who are you, and what's your business here?"

The direct question snaps me back to reality.

Right. I'm not here to catalog attractive men and their confusing baby situation. I'm here because⁠—

"I'm Willa James." The words come out steadier than I feel. "William James was my grandfather. He... he left me this place."

The silence that follows is deafening.

All four men exchange looks I can't read, something passing between them in the space of heartbeats.

Luna breaks the moment by babbling louder, her reaching becoming more insistent.

"Well," Cole says slowly, and there's something in his voice I can't identify. "We should probably go inside to discuss this. Austin's right—Luna's overdue for her nap."

Can’t Breathe

~WILLA~

"Your grandfather ran about fifty head of cattle," Cole says, stopping at a fence line where red and white Herefords graze. "We've expanded to seventy-five, introduced some Black Angus bloodlines for hybrid vigor. Market prices have been good, especially for grass-fed operations."

His hand rests on a fence post as he talks, and something about the gesture—the casual ownership, the protective stance—tugs at my memory. But the thought dissolves when he turns those steel-gray eyes on me, assessing.

"You know cattle?" he asks.

"Not really." I watch a calf kick up its heels, playing in the afternoon sun. "Grandpa's letters mentioned them sometimes, but..."

"William was a good man," River says softly from beside me. "Taught us a lot about ranching. About life."

The way he says it suggests years of history I'm not privy to. "How long have you all been here?"

Another one of those loaded looks passes between them.

"Few years," Cole says, which feels like a non-answer. "Come on, I'll show you the barn."

The barn smells like hay and horses and something indefinable that makes my chest tight. More memories trying to surface—the scent of leather, strong hands steadying me, a voice saying "easy, sweetheart, I've got you."

But when I try to grasp it, it slips away like smoke.

"These are the working horses," River says, taking over as we enter the stable area. His whole demeanor shifts here, becoming even calmer if that's possible. "This is Sundance, he's Cole's. Tempest here is mine. That pretty girl is Maverick's mare, Whisper."

"Stupid name for a horse," Mavi mutters from the doorway, but his eyes soften when he looks at the black mare.

"Says the man who spends his evenings brushing her and telling her she's beautiful," Austin teases, making Luna giggle.

"Operational security includes maintaining working relationships with all ranch assets," Mavi shoots back, but his ears pink slightly.

River opens a stall door, and a golden palomino pushes her head out, immediately seeking his hands.

"This is Honey. She was your grandfather's favorite. Gentle as they come, perfect for—" He stops himself, glancing at the others.

"Perfect for beginners," Cole finishes smoothly. "If you want to learn to ride."

River's hands move over the horse with practiced ease, checking her over while murmuring soft words. There's something hypnotic about watching him work, the way the animals respond to him like he speaks their language. When Honey lips at his shirt pocket, he produces a piece of carrot with a quiet laugh that sends another jolt of almost-recognition through me.

"The security system is integrated," Mavi says abruptly, like he's uncomfortable with the soft moment. "Cameras at all entry points, motion sensors on the perimeter. Your grandfather was concerned about rustlers."

"Mavi's former law enforcement," Austin explains when I look confused. "He insisted on upgrading everything when he moved in—I mean, when he started working here."

That slip doesn't go unnoticed, but I file it away with all the other strange things about this situation.

Four men this attractive don't just end up working on a remote ranch together.

There's a story here, one they're carefully not telling.

We continue the tour—the equipment shed where everything gleams with maintenance, the chicken coop with its dozen laying hens, the garden plot already turned for winter. Every corner of this ranch speaks of care, of love even. These men haven't just maintained my grandfather's property; they've improved it, cherished it.

"The house next," Austin says as Luna starts to fuss, rubbing her eyes. "She knows it's nap time."

But the moment Austin tries to adjust her position, Luna protests loudly, reaching for me again with determined hands.

Without thinking, I step closer, and she practically flings herself into my arms.

The moment she settles against my chest, everything shifts. Her weight feels familiar, right in a way that makes no sense. She smells like baby powder and something sweet, and underneath that⁠—

Pine. Earth. Smoke. Clean linen.

She smells like all of them.

"She doesn't usually go to strangers," River observes quietly.

"Maybe I'm not a stranger," I murmur, studying her unusual eyes. One blue, one green-gray. Where have I seen eyes like that before?

Luna pats my cheek with one chubby hand, babbling seriously like she's trying to tell me something important. Behind her, I catch the men doing that thing again—perfect synchronization as Austin pulls out a pacifier, River checks his watch, Cole heads for the house, and Mavi scans the area like threats might materialize from thin air.

"How long have you four been together?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

"What makes you think we're together?" Cole asks, but there's no real denial in it.

"You move like a unit. Like..." Like a pack, my mind supplies, but that's absurd.

Packs don't form around babies and ranches.

Except apparently they do, because that's exactly what I'm looking at.

"It's complicated," Austin says, reaching for Luna as she starts to genuinely wind down. "We're family. Found family, but still family."

Luna goes reluctantly, whimpering until Austin picks her from my grasp and starts a gentle bounce that speaks of long practice. All four men adjust subtly—River moving closer to Austin, Cole taking point again, Mavi falling back to guard position.

It's beautiful and strange and makes something ache in my chest.

A representation of what I thought I’d have with Blake and the Iron ridge pack…but that…

I don’t dare finish the thought because its in the past.

"The house," Cole says, heading for the wraparound porch. "Austin oversaw most of the renovations. Kept the character but updated everything for safety and comfort."

Safety. There's that word again, following me like a shadow I can't shake.

But safe from what? And why do these men move like they're protecting something precious?

Luna's eyes drift closed as we climb the porch steps, but not before she gives me one last look—knowing and impossibly ancient for a baby. Like she's waiting for me to remember something important.

The feeling follows me into the house, where the smell of lemon polish mixes with a scent that only makes my heart clench with fear and my lungs tighten as if every breath is sacred.

Smoke.

Not current, but memory.

The phantom of fire that my body remembers even if my mind won't.

The kitchen swallows us in warmth and golden light, all gleaming surfaces and copper pots that catch the late afternoon sun streaming through gauze curtains.

It's a dream kitchen, all modern appliances hidden behind cabinet faces that match the house's vintage character. Austin moves through it like he was born here, already pulling ingredients from the massive refrigerator while Luna babbles from his hip.

"Hope you like salmon," he says, setting packages on the butcher block island. "Fresh caught from River's last fishing trip. Man's got magic hands when it comes to finding fish."

"Among other things," Mavi mutters, earning himself an elbow from River as they move in practiced synchronization. Cole retrieves plates from a high shelf without being asked, River fills a pot with water, Mavi checks locks on windows I hadn't even noticed needed checking. They dance around each other without collision, a choreography learned through repetition and intimacy.

I hover near the doorway, unsure where to fit in this domestic ballet.

"Can I help?"

"Just sit," Cole says, pulling out a chair at the large farmhouse table. "I bet you've had a long day."

Luna goes into her high chair with minimal fuss, though her eyes track me constantly. Though they mentioned she’d need a nap, I guess feeding her first would be smart.

Austin ties a bib around her neck with one hand while seasoning fish with the other, humming something low and soothing.

Multitasking rugged men who are raising a baby together on a ranch…wild.

River starts chopping vegetables with knife skills that speak of practice, while Cole sets the table around me like I'm a fixed point they're all navigating.

"She's still staring," Mavi observes, nodding at Luna. He's taken up position by the back door, where he can see both exits and all windows. "Kid's got a fixation."

"She knows quality when she sees it," Austin says lightly, but there's something underneath the joke. "Don't you, moon girl?"

Luna responds by reaching toward me with both hands, her heterochromatic eyes bright with determination.

When I don't immediately respond, she ups the ante—lower lip trembling, small whimpers building toward full distress.

"Here." River slides a cutting board of carrot sticks toward me. "Maybe she's hungry."

But when I offer Luna a carrot, she pushes it away, reaching for me more insistently.

Her whimpers escalate, and all four men tense in unison.

"She's going to work herself up," Austin says, hands full of fish and herbs. "Once she starts the full meltdown⁠—"

"I'll take her again." The words come out before I think them through. "Just for a minute."

The kitchen goes still.

Four sets of eyes watch as I unbuckle Luna from her chair and lift her into my arms. She settles immediately, pressing her face into my neck with a contented sigh that goes straight through me.

And then⁠—

Smoke.

Not the phantom whisper from earlier but thick, choking, real.

My lungs seize as time fractures. I'm not in a warm kitchen anymore. I'm⁠—

Handcuffed to a bed.

Metal biting into my wrists as I pull, pull, pull until blood makes everything slippery.

Blake's cologne mixing with gasoline, his voice calm as he explains why this is necessary.

"You should have just been a good Omega, Willa. Should have known your place."

The fire starts small.

Just curtains at first, fabric I'd chosen because they reminded me of my grandmother's house.

Orange flames licking up, up, up while Blake watches from the doorway.

"The insurance money will help the pack," he says conversationally. "Your death will be tragic but necessary. Omega who couldn't handle pack life, decided to end it all. They'll believe it. They always believe the Alpha."

Smoke fills the room faster than seems possible.

I'm screaming but no sound comes out, my damaged throat already closing.

The handcuffs won't give, won't break, and the bed frame is solid oak that Granddad made⁠—

No.

That's wrong.

This is wrong.

But the memories cascade anyway, mixing truth with fiction with terror.

"Should have mated properly." Blake's voice floats through smoke. "Should have been grateful for what you had instead of asking questions. Looking at bank statements. Threatening to leave."

My chest burns.

Inside and out, fire everywhere.

In my lungs, against my skin, the whole world orange and black and pain.

I can't breathe.

Can't think.

Can't—

"Please." The word tears from my throat, but Blake's already gone.

Just me and the flames and the certainty that this is how I die.

Inappropriate Willa finally put in her place, permanently.

The bed catches.

Sheets I'd washed that morning going up like tissue paper.

Heat blisters along my arms as I fight the cuffs, metal now burning hot against my wrists.

Everything hurts.

Everything burns.

But then⁠—

Different voices.

Not Blake's casual cruelty but urgent shouts.

"In here! I've got her!"

Strong hands. Not hurting but helping, breaking the cuffs with bolt cutters. The bite of metal giving way to freedom, but I'm already going under, smoke-drunk and dying.

"Stay with me, sweetheart. I've got you."

Pine and leather. Safety in the middle of hell.

"Get her out! Structure's compromising!"

More hands.

Gentle despite urgency, lifting me like I weigh nothing.

Rain-soaked earth and calm in chaos.

"Clear the door! Medical standing by!"

Smoke and cinnamon, sharp eyes checking for threats even as the world burns.

"She's not breathing right. Smoke inhalation, possible⁠—"

Clean linen and desperate care, hands checking my pulse as they run.

Four scents.

Four voices.

Four saviors when I'd resigned myself to death.

But that's impossible.

That's not⁠—

My knees hit the kitchen floor, though I don't remember falling.

Luna's weight is gone, someone having grabbed her before I could drop her. My hands claw at my throat as phantom smoke fills lungs already scarred from the real thing.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't⁠—

The world spins sideways, gray edges creeping in. Somewhere distant, urgent voices call my name. But all I can see is orange flames. All I can feel is metal on my wrists.

All I can hear is Blake explaining why I deserve this, have always deserved this, for being wrong and inappropriate and too much and not enough and⁠—

"Willa!"

But I'm already gone, drowning in memories that feel more real than the kitchen floor under my knees.

Saviors Awaiting Their Princess

~WILLA~

They settle me at the kitchen table like I'm made of spun glass, and maybe I am—fragile and see-through, all my careful walls shattered by recognition. Cole's hand stays on my shoulder a beat too long, and the weight of it sends conflicting signals through my body.

Safety and danger all tangled up in the scent of pine and leather that's suddenly so much stronger than before.

Now that I know—now that my mind has connected past and present—their scents assault me differently.

Not just four attractive Alphas anymore, but four saviors who pulled me from death.

My body responds to that knowledge with a visceral Omega reaction that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

Gratitude and phermones mixing into something that feels too much like submission.

"Tea," Austin says, setting a mug in front of me with careful hands. "Chamomile with honey. Good for the throat after—" He stops himself, but we all know what he means.

After panic attacks.

After smoke damage makes breathing feel like drowning.

After remembering the worst night of your life.

The mug is warm between my palms, grounding me in the present even as their scents create a cocktail that makes my hindbrain purr.

I hate it.

Hate how my body softens without my permission, how my breathing syncs to theirs, how every Omega instinct screams that these are good Alphas, safe Alphas, Alphas who've already proven they'll walk through fire for me.

Yet, how do you trust again after such immense betrayal?

When you planned your whole future.

Imagine the little babies who’d cry and you’d cradle to bed, singing lullabies and daydreaming of whom they’ll become in our society.

How do you simply snap your fingers and hop into that state of hope and belief when your world came crashing down by the same men that promised you everything and more?

You don’t.

"I don't remember," I admit, watching steam rise from the tea. "Not clearly. Just fragments. The smoke was so thick, and Blake had—" My voice catches on his name, but I force through. "The drugs he'd given me made everything fuzzy. Then the smoke on top of it..."

"Rohypnol," Mavi says quietly from his position by the door. "In your system when they brought you in. Made you suggestible, compliant. Also affects memory formation."

Of course he'd know.

Former law enforcement would recognize the signs, the drug of choice for Alphas who want compliant Omegas. My stomach turns, but under the nausea I dare acknowledge the other sensation—relief that there's a reason for the gaps, that I'm not just broken.

River resumes chopping vegetables, the rhythm soothing.

"You kept trying to thank us. Even half-conscious, smoke inhalation severe enough that you should've been focused on breathing, and you kept saying thank you."

"Polite even while dying," Cole adds, and there's something in his voice—frustration, maybe, or old anger carefully controlled. "More worried about being a bother than staying alive."

He's moved to lean against the counter where I can see him, and the casual pose doesn't hide the tension in his shoulders.

None of them are as relaxed as they're pretending.

They're all watching me, cataloging my recovery like they've been doing it for months.

Which they have, I realize.

Waiting. Watching. Keeping my grandfather's ranch perfect while I healed and fought divorce proceedings and tried to piece my life back together.

"Why?" The question comes out smaller than intended. "Why wait? Why care what happened to some Omega you'd never met?"

They exchange those looks again, but this time I can read them better.

Not conspiracy but care.

The kind of coordinated concern that comes from a bonded pack.

"William talked about you constantly," Austin says, settling Luna back in her high chair. She immediately reaches for me again, but less desperately now. "His granddaughter who should've been born an Alpha, who fought for everything twice as hard because of her designation."

"Showed us every letter you sent him," River adds. "Even the ones from when you were small. Little Willa telling him about school, about dreams, about how unfair it was that your parents named you wrong."

So they’ve know Grandfather for that long?

Years upon years.

My chest tightens.

I'd forgotten those letters, written in careful child's handwriting, pouring out hurts I couldn't tell anyone else.

Grandpa always wrote back, always said I was perfect as I was, that Willa was a warrior's name if I wanted it to be.

"He worried," Cole says simply. "Saw you getting ground down by a world that wanted you smaller. When you married Blake⁠—"

"He knew." The realization hits like cold water. "He knew Blake was wrong for me."

Everyone probably knew, but this was the “right” way.

The only way for an Omega to still “thrive” in a society that wanted us to stay small.

Heck, deep within, maybe I also knew they weren’t right for me.

But why would I reject them?

Alphas who promised me a future I knew I’d never be able to obtain on my own. Not with the help of a group of men who could give me the environment to flourish to whom I wished to become.

Only I didn’t read the fine lines…

Didn’t realize they didn’t see me as an ally, let alone someone they envision would do well in a society not meant for her rise or reign.

"Said the wedding announcement felt like reading an obituary," Mavi confirms. "That's when he started putting plans in place. Hired us to run the ranch, made sure the will was iron-clad, waited for you to need an escape route. We weren’t present as often as now, obviously, but we balanced it with our jobs and hobbies."

"But he died before—" My voice breaks.

Before I could reach him after escaping death.

"Three weeks before," Austin says gently. "We'd just gotten word about his death when the fire happened. He never knew you'd need us so soon."

The tears come again, quiet and inevitable.

Four men who'd been hired to tend a ranch became my rescue squad because an old man worried about a granddaughter too stubborn to ask for help. The irony of it—Grandpa taking care of me even after death, through these men who've been waiting, faithful as fairy tale princes.

Except they're not princes.

They're real, flesh and blood Alphas whose scents are making my skin prickle with awareness.

Every breath brings their combined presence deeper into my lungs—pine and earth and smoke and clean mountain air creating a harmony that speaks directly to primitive parts of my brain.

I shift in the chair, trying to ease the building tension in my lower belly.

But movement only makes it worse, fabric sliding against sensitized skin, every nerve ending suddenly awake and cataloging their presence. This is what I was afraid of—not them, but my own body's betrayal.

The Omega need to submit to Alphas who've proven themselves, to bare my throat and offer everything to the ones who saved me.

"You're safe here," River says, and I realize he's noticed my distress. Of course he has—they all have, probably scenting the unwanted arousal mixing with my fear and confusion. "Whatever you're feeling, it's normal. Omega stress responses after trauma can be…intense."

Intense…

If only it was “just” that and not our chemical makeup making us horny and needy to be satisfied the moment an Alpha gives us the time of day.

Let alone four sexy Alphas who reveal they’ve been yearning your return in an act of duty.

Clinical words that do nothing to ease the way my body clenches when Cole shifts position, or how my breath catches when Austin leans close to check on Luna.

Four Alphas surrounding me with gentle strength, and my designation screaming to submit, to thank them properly, to⁠—

"I should go," I say abruptly, starting to stand. "This is—I can't⁠—"

"You can." Cole's voice carries just enough Alpha authority to make me freeze, though he's not using a Ccommand. "You're exhausted, overwhelmed, and processing trauma. Your body's going to react. We know that. We're not going to take advantage."

That’s good…I guess.

I try to ignore the obvious disappointment forming in the depths of my core that’s desperate for “that”.

Trying to even recall the last time I’d had proper care in the lovely Omega department of sexual interactions only makes me want to laugh pitifully at what I dare call a sex-life.

Some Omega I am.

"We're not those kinds of Alphas," Mavi adds, and there's steel in his voice. "Whatever Blake did, however he made you feel about your designation—that's not happening here."

But that's the problem.

They're good Alphas, honorable ones, and my body knows it.

Every protective instinct they display makes the Omega in me purr louder, want harder.

I'm wet between my thighs, empty and aching, and they can probably smell it.

The humiliation burns almost as hot as the need.

"It's the rescue bond," Austin explains gently, ever the medical professional. "When an Omega's saved from death by Alphas, especially multiple Alphas, there's often an intense bodily response. Your body wants to bond with your saviors as a survival mechanism."

Right…

Of course there's a term for it.

A reasoning for my inappropriate response has a clinical name.

But knowing why doesn't make it easier to sit here, surrounded by their scents and strength, my body singing submission songs I don't want to hear.

Luna breaks the tension by throwing her sippy cup at Cole's head with surprising accuracy.

Oops.

He catches it easily, raising an eyebrow at her.

"See?" he says, almost smiling. "Luna's the only one you need to worry about. She's got opinions and she's not afraid to enforce them."

It's enough to ease the moment, to let me sink back into the chair despite every instinct screaming.

They continue preparing dinner around me, careful not to crowd but never leaving me alone.

Their scents ebb and flow with their movement, a complex dance that makes my head spin and my core clench.

I'm grateful. I'm terrified.

I'm aroused beyond reason by men who saved my life and waited for me to come home. The Omega in me wants to thank them the way biology demands—on my knees, throat bared, offering everything.

The woman in me wants to run before I do something I'll regret.

But I stay.

Caught between gratitude and desire, confusion and clarity, the past that brought me here and the future that stretches ahead unknowable.

I stay because Grandpa trusted them.

Because Luna keeps reaching for me like I belong.

Because… despite everything, this kitchen full of patient Alphas feels safer than anywhere I've been in years.

Even if that safety comes with a price my body seems all too willing to pay.

Not Ours To Touch

~COLE~

The October evening paints everything golden as I lead our group back outside, but all I can see is the way the dying light catches in Willa's hair.

Auburn, I'd thought at first, but that's too simple a word for the way copper and chocolate weave together, creating depths that shift with every movement.

She walks beside me, close enough that her scent—vanilla and maple with something uniquely her—winds around my senses like smoke. I force my eyes forward, focusing on the familiar path to the eastern pasture, but my body remains acutely aware of every breath she takes.

Christ, she's beautiful.

Not in the obvious way that demands attention, but in the subtle details that sneak up on a man.

The way her eyes—caught somewhere between orange and gold with flecks of green—widen when she spots the new irrigation system. The delicate curve of her neck when she tilts her head to listen to River explain the grazing rotation. The unconscious grace in how she moves, even exhausted and overwhelmed as she clearly is.

I'd expected... I don't know what I'd expected.

William's granddaughter, the one he worried about constantly, the woman we'd pulled from a burning house—somehow I'd built an image of someone harder, more brittle.

Broken, maybe. And she is damaged, that's clear in the careful way she holds herself, the shadows that cross her face when she thinks no one's looking.

But there's strength there too, steel under the soft curves.

And God, those curves.

I try not to notice, but I'm only an Alpha.

One who hasn’t dared go near an Omega in a long ass time, let alone wish to be with one as young as her…

The mere thought has my cock twitching with an odd sense of anticipation.

The thought of admiring her feeling forbidden…

She's not built like the skeletal models city Alphas seem to prefer—there's substance to her, a real woman's body with hips that would fit perfectly in my hands and breasts that strain slightly against her worn t-shirt.

But it's her ass that keeps drawing my gaze as she walks ahead to examine the garden gate.

Perfectly rounded, firm in a way that speaks of regular exercise. Not just cardio either—there's muscle definition in her thighs, a hint of strength in her shoulders. She takes care of herself, maintains her body with purpose rather than vanity.

"The tomatoes are still producing," she says, wonder coloring her voice as she peers through the garden fence. "In October?"

"Austin rigged up cold frames," I manage, grateful for the distraction from my inappropriate cataloging of her assets. "Extended the season by a good six weeks."

She turns back to me, and I swear the full force of her attention hits with the freight-train subtlety of a bull moose in rut. The conversation around us blurs to static; my skin prickles, heat flooding my neck and radiating downward in a way that's embarrassingly primal, my cock swelling against the confine of my jeans. She isn't doing it on purpose—there’s a sort of startled innocence in the way her gaze lands on mine, as though she’s not used to being seen, much less admired, and she’s not sure yet whether to run or try to stare me down.

And holy hell, I want her.

Not just the body, though that's a miracle in denim and old tee shirts, curves begging for strong hands. I want her laugh—rare as it is, sharp and unguarded as a hawk’s call. I want to know what makes her scowl, what stories she’d tell after the lights go out and the world shrinks down to just two breathing bodies under a warm quilt.

My body registers all of this in less than a heartbeat, reacting like the last wolf on earth who’s just caught the scent of his mate.

She doesn’t flinch away, not even when she catches how ravenous my eyes must look.

Instead, she tilts her chin and meets me head-on, challenge and curiosity warring in her expression. The tiniest muscle flexes in her jaw.

It's supposed to be her homecoming, and if I’m not careful, I’ll turn it into something else—something that responds to instinct instead of etiquette.

I drag my thoughts back to safe ground, but my mouth goes dry as she keeps looking, and I realize she’s waiting for a response not just to her question, but to her existence. To the simple, devastating fact of her. She’s too close, the wind catching the whisper of vanilla and that strange, elusive spice that is nothing like any Omega I’ve known.

I’m rock hard now, legs rooted in place, and it takes everything in me not to step closer and bury my nose in the curve of her neck.

Those extraordinary eyes study my face like she's trying to memorize it, or maybe remember it from smoke-filled nightmares. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips—an unconscious gesture that sends heat straight to my groin.

Fuck. This is exactly what I can't do. She barely knows us. Knows me…tame it, Cole.

She's William's granddaughter, traumatized and vulnerable, processing the shock of learning we're the ones who saved her.

The last thing she needs is another Alpha viewing her as something to claim. But my instincts don't care about logic or propriety. Every breath brings her scent deeper into my lungs, and my body responds with single-minded purpose.

Mine. To protect, provide, and claim.

I force myself to step back, putting professional distance between us. But she follows, moving closer to point at the greenhouse, and her breast brushes my arm. The contact is brief, accidental, but electricity shoots through me like I've grabbed a live wire. Her breath catches—she felt it too—and for a moment we're frozen, caught in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

"Cole?" River's voice breaks the spell, carefully neutral, but I hear the warning underneath. He knows. They all know. We've worked together long enough that they can read my body language like a book, and right now every line of me is screaming possession.

"We should check the barn," I say, voice rougher than intended. "New hay delivery came yesterday."

As we walk, I catch the others exchanging glances. Mavi's eyes narrow slightly, assessing threats like always, but this time I think he's evaluating me as the potential danger. Austin shifts Luna to his other hip, creating subtle distance between the baby and my barely leashed tension.

Only River maintains his usual calm, though his presence beside Willa feels more deliberate now—a buffer between her and my increasing loss of control.

She belongs here.

The certainty hits me as I watch her trail fingers along the fence posts, testing their sturdiness with unconscious expertise. This isn't just William's granddaughter visiting an inheritance—this is someone coming home. Every gesture, every delighted discovery, every moment of wonder at what we've built and maintained, tells me she's meant to be here.

With us. With me.

The thought should terrify me. We've built something good here, the four of us and Luna.

Complicated and unconventional, but it works.

Adding anyone new, especially an unmated Omega we're all connected to through trauma and obligation, could destroy the balance we've found.

But as Willa laughs at something Austin says, the sound bright despite her damaged throat, all I can think is how right she looks here.

How her presence fills spaces I didn't know were empty. How my hands itch to touch her, not just with desire but with the bone-deep need to ensure she's real, safe, ours.

Mine.

I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms.

Control. I need control.

She deserves better than another Alpha overwhelmed by his sexual needs, viewing her as territory to mark.

Deserves patience, space, and the chance to choose without pressure or obligation.

Even if every instinct in me roars against the restraint.

Regardless of whether her scent is already winding through our home, marking it as surely as we've marked it.

No matter whether I can feel the future reshaping itself around her presence, inevitable as gravity.

She's here. After months of waiting, wondering, keeping faith with a dead man's wishes—she's finally here.

Now I just have to keep myself from fucking it all up by wanting her too much, too fast, too desperately.

Simple as that.

The barn doors roll open with the smooth silence of well-oiled tracks, and Willa's soft gasp of amazement shoots straight through my chest like an arrow finding its mark. Six months we spent on this renovation, River and I working sunrise to sunset, replacing rotted beams and rusted hardware while maintaining the character William loved.

Now, watching her eyes go wide as she takes in the soaring space, every splinter and aching muscle feels worth it.

"This is... this isn't the same barn," she breathes, stepping inside with something close to reverence. The late afternoon sun streams through the new windows, turning dust motes into gold and catching the rich tones of the restored wood. "Grandpa's letters described it as barely standing."

"It was." I follow her in, maintaining careful distance even as her scent blooms stronger in the enclosed space. Vanilla and maple, yes, but underneath something wilder—like honeyed whiskey with an edge of flame. "Took some doing to save it, but the bones were good. Just needed someone to care enough to do the work."

She trails her fingers along the nearest stall door, and I track the movement like a predator watching prey.

Except she's not prey—she's something far more dangerous.

A catalyst.

A lit match in a barn full of dry hay, threatening to burn down everything stable we've built here.

"The woodwork," she murmurs, examining the carved details we painstakingly restored. "Grandpa made these. I remember him talking about learning carpentry from his father, how every cut had to be perfect."

"He taught me some of it." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Those last months, when his hands weren't steady enough for detail work. Showed me how to read the grain, work with the wood instead of against it."

Her eyes find mine, that extraordinary amber-gold gaze hitting like a physical touch.

"He taught you?"

"Said someone should know. That skills like that shouldn't die with him." I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "Guess he was preparing us to be caretakers before any of us knew it."

She turns back to the stall, but not before I catch the sheen of tears she's fighting.

The need to comfort, to pull her into my arms and promise everything will be alright, rises so strong I have to lock my knees to stay in place.

But she doesn't need another Alpha crowding her.

She needs space to process, to grieve, to discover what's been kept safe for her.

River appears in the doorway with his usual perfect timing, reading the tension like he reads everything else.

"The horses are eager to meet you," he says to Willa, but his eyes flick to me with a silent warning: Control yourself.

Easier said than done when she walks deeper into the barn and her scent intensifies, wrapping around me like a lasso.

Every breath pulls her deeper into my lungs, and my body responds with increasing urgency. It's not just attraction—though Christ knows there's plenty of that. It's recognition at a cellular level, my Alpha instincts identifying compatible Omega and screaming to claim before another does.

Which is ridiculous.

River, Mavi, and Austin are my pack, my family. We share everything, including the responsibility of raising Luna. But the primitive part of my brain doesn't care about modern pack dynamics. It only knows that an unmated Omega who smells like heaven and home is standing in our territory, and I need to mark her before she disappears again.

"The tack room's through here," I manage, voice only slightly rougher than normal. "Austin reorganized the whole thing. Has a system for everything now."

"Let me guess," Willa says, a hint of smile playing at her lips. "Alphabetized and color-coded?"

"With laminated labels," River confirms, and her surprised laugh fills the barn like music.

That's when I notice the others watching me.

Austin has appeared with Luna, staying near the entrance but keeping sharp eyes on my every move.

Mavi lounges against a support beam with fake casualness, positioned where he can intercept if needed.

They know me too well, can see the control fraying with every passing moment.

The irony isn't lost on me. Months of waiting for William's granddaughter to arrive, preparing for every contingency except this—that I'd want her with an intensity that threatens everything careful we've built.

That her scent would bypass every wall and trigger instincts I thought I had mastered.

She explores the barn with increasing delight, exclaiming over the feed room's organization, the new automatic water system, the way we've honored her grandfather's design while modernizing for efficiency. Pride wars with desire as I follow her progress, maintaining a careful six-foot distance that does nothing to dilute her scent's effect.

"You've made it better than new," she says, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "Grandpa would be so happy."

"That was the goal." The words come out steadier than I feel. "Preserve what mattered, improve what needed it. Same philosophy for the whole ranch."

She moves to the window overlooking the pastures, and the way the golden light silhouettes her figure tests every ounce of my control.

The curve of her hip, the line of her throat, the way she rises slightly on her toes to see better—every detail brands itself into my memory.

"Incoming," Mavi mutters, and I hear what he's noticed—Willa's breathing has changed, gotten shallower.

Her scent spikes with something sharp.

Anxiety. Fear.

The barn's enclosed space is triggering memories of other enclosed spaces, smoke and terror and⁠—

"Let's check the garden before we lose the light," I say, already moving toward the door. "Austin's irrigation system is something to see."

She follows gratefully, and I catch River's approving nod. This is why we work—four different strengths balancing each other. When one of us stumbles, the others compensate.

Even when that stumbling is me losing my fucking mind over a woman we've waited months to meet.

Outside, she breathes deeper, and I pretend not to notice the way her hand trembles slightly.

Just like I pretend not to notice how my own hands ache to steady her, how every protective instinct roars to life at her distress.

Professional distance, I remind myself.

She's William's granddaughter, our responsibility, and not my potential mate.

No matter how much my body argues otherwise.

The Future Of What’s Been Left

~WILLA~

The equipment shed smells like motor oil and WD-40, scents that should be purely mechanical but somehow carry their signatures too — River's calm embedded in the organized tool racks, Cole's intensity in the perfectly maintained engines, Mavi's vigilance in the security locks on every cabinet, Austin's care in the child-safety covers on anything sharp or dangerous.

I follow Cole through the spotless space, trying to process the sheer amount of money and effort they've invested in machinery I don't even recognize.

"New baler," Cole says, running his hand along the green metal with unconscious affection. "Your grandfather's was held together with baling wire and prayer. This one'll last another twenty years with proper maintenance."

Twenty years.

The number sits heavy in my stomach.

That's long-term thinking, planning for a future they couldn't have been sure would include them. My fingers find the edge of a workbench, needing something solid while my mind spins calculations I don't want to make.

How much did all this cost? How many hours of labor? Why pour so much into a ranch that might not even be theirs? What could be worth investing all this energy into a dream and vision that wasn’t theirs, but to a man who they weren’t even in debt to…

"The chicken coop's been completely rebuilt too," River adds from behind me, and I catch that scent again—rain-soaked earth mixing with the mechanical smells until my head swims. "Automatic doors, heated nesting boxes for winter. The girls are spoiled rotten."

The girls. Of course, they've named the chickens. Giving personalities to the livestock turned this working ranch into something that feels suspiciously like their forever home. All night I’ve been thinking about things revolving around the permanent ideology of them sticking around, which only gives me anxiety if I dare put a name to it. Anything that makes roots at a future where they potentially stay in my life longer than my previous pack attempted would.

My chest tightens with an emotion I can't afford to name.

Luna fusses from Austin's arms, reaching for me with grasping fingers, and I find myself moving closer without conscious thought.

She settles the moment I'm within reach, one chubby hand fisting in my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear. The weight of that small trust hits harder than it should.

"Let's head back," Mavi suggests from his position by the door—always watching, always ready. "Getting close to Luna's lunchtime, and she gets cranky when her schedule's off."

The walk from the equipment shed to the main house stretches far longer than it should, every step loaded with a thousand sensory distractions and reminders that I am not insulated from this place, or these people, the way I keep trying to convince myself.

The gravel crunches beneath my boots, crisp and uneven, and the wind coming off the hayfields is sharp enough to sting the inside of my nose.

It carries competing threads of scent—green rye, rusted iron, the faint sweetness of livestock—braiding them into something uniquely Cactus Rose. But overlaying it all are the men themselves, four distinct signatures: leather and pine, rain and sage, char and cinnamon, linen and sun. Each one should be background noise by now, except my brain catalogues them with compulsive efficiency, the way the traumatized always do with things that might someday matter for survival.

Up ahead, Luna’s small head, a dark blur against Austin’s chest, is the only sign that the world might one day become safe enough to stop cataloguing.

She’s already learned how to be the axis around which these men orbit. I keep expecting them to forget about her—hell, about me—the moment they’re distracted by some more pressing problem, but the opposite happens.

Every minute is an exercise in vigilance, in subtle midwestern care, in anticipating needs before they're spoken. Mavi walks point, always scanning the horizon for threats real and imagined. Cole keeps to my left, pacing his steps to mine like we’re yoked together by invisible rope. River trails just behind, stance loose but eyes bright, while Austin and Luna complete the formation, child wrapped in a patchwork of wool and veteran hands.

I want to laugh at the absurdity—a security detail for a woman who couldn’t even keep herself safe in her own life—but I’m too busy making spreadsheets in my head, tabulating all the ways I don’t measure up.

We pass the rebuilt chicken coop, the air shifting from diesel to something sweet and domestic.

A half-dozen hens peck under the porch, and one—fat, red, and obviously favored—waddles right up to the edge of the path, unbothered by the parade of predators in boots. Cole bends down, scooping her up with impossible gentleness and murmuring something into her feathers.

The others don’t comment, don’t even look askance; it’s normal here, a grown man sweet-talking a bird, because the bedrock of this place is that nothing is too small to deserve protection.

I steal a glance at the men surrounding me—not just hired help, not just remnants of a rescue operation gone sideways, but something more foundational. They’ve stitched themselves into the literal fabric of this ranch; the evidence is everywhere, from the freshly painted outbuildings to the way the paths are already tamped down by practiced feet.

It’s a physical record of investment, a timeline of effort and care that stretches out into the future as if they assume, without question, that they’ll always be here. And me? I’m collateral, a contingency they prepared for even when I was presumed lost.

By the time we reach the house, my arms ache from holding Luna so tightly, but I don’t want to let go. She pulls at my hair, her grip surprisingly strong, and when I tilt her up to face me, she gives a gummy smile and a soft half-chirp, like she’s already figured out that my heart is a weak spot she can exploit. I press my nose into her crown and inhale, and for a moment, everything slows down. Just the scent of her, pure and new, and the blurry warmth of the men crowding into the mudroom behind us.

Inside, the air is heavy with the memory of baking bread and slow-roast stew, a reminder that someone was always thinking about the next meal even when the world was crumbling. I let the others shuffle past me, each setting down boots or hats or burdens in a choreography that’s far from accidental, and try to find my own place in the entryway. It’s like walking into a museum dedicated to a version of me that never existed: family photos on the wall, some ancient, some new and impossible to explain; a row of miniature boots by the door, Luna-sized and already mud-stained; even the furniture is rearranged just so, optimized for group living and maximum comfort. I want to claw at it, to unmake it into something less perfect, more true to the disaster I feel like inside.

But all I do is stand there, Luna on my hip, while the men move around me like the world’s most attentive honor guard. There’s a moment where Mavi meets my gaze, eyebrows raised as if to ask permission for something neither of us can say out loud. I look away first. The shame is instantaneous.

The kitchen welcomes us back with its warmth, and I sink into a chair while the men flow into what's clearly a practiced routine. River fills the kettle, Austin retrieves items from the refrigerator, Cole checks something on his phone with a frown before silencing it, and Mavi takes up his usual position where he can see all entrances. They move like dancers who know every step, and I'm the awkward newcomer who doesn't know the rhythm.

"So." Cole's voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.

He's leaning against the counter, those storm-gray eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"What do you think? Now that you've seen it all in daylight?"

My fingers find the wood grain of the table, tracing patterns worn smooth by years of use. Grandpa's table. Their table. Soon to be... whose table?

"It's..." I swallow hard, trying to find words that won't betray the chaos in my chest. "It's more than I expected. More than I deserve. You've all done so much work, spent so much money⁠—"

"Your grandfather paid us well," River interjects gently, setting a mug of tea in front of me. Chamomile again, with honey. Already they know my preferences. "And most of the improvements paid for themselves through increased efficiency."

"Still." The wood grain blurs under my fingertips as I struggle with words. "This level of care, it's... it's beyond employee obligations."

They exchange those looks again, silent communication I can't decode.

Finally, Cole straightens, crossing his arms in a way that makes his shoulders seem impossibly broad.

"About that," he says. "We'd like to make you an offer. A formal one."

My stomach drops.

Here it comes—the catch, the price for all this kindness. My body tenses, ready to run even though there's nowhere to go.

"We'd like to stay on," River says, reading my panic with that uncanny intuition. "As your employees. Same arrangement we had with William—we run the ranch, maintain the property, handle the livestock. You'd be under no obligation to keep us long-term. Just...while you figure out what you want to do."

Right. I’m the owner now…I have to figure out what’s going to happen to this place now that I’m back…

"No pressure," Austin adds quickly, bouncing Luna as she starts to fuss. "We know this is a lot to process. But the ranch needs consistent care, and we already know the operation."

"Security systems alone would take weeks to properly transfer," Mavi points out, practical as always. "Not to mention the livestock are used to our routines. Disruption could impact productivity."

I stare at them, these four men who pulled me from a burning building and then spent months preparing a soft place for me to land. The logical part of my brain screams warnings—too good to be true, hidden motives, dangerous to trust. But the Omega part, the part I've tried so hard to suppress, whispers that these are good Alphas, protectors who've already proven themselves.

Why is it so hard to trust again? So difficult to see the good in them.

I already know the answer.

The constant disappointment I experienced again and again all through my life when I had my hopes high and was as blind as bird that wants nothing but to soar and enjoy the freedom their wings give.

I couldn’t see the predator behind me, waiting to strike…

That’s why it’s so hard to open my shattered heart to the mere ideology that these men who had such respectable careers to be okay with being here…working under…well, under me.

"Where would you live?" The question comes out smaller than intended. "If I... if I decided to sell?"

Something flashes across their faces—disappointment, maybe, or resignation.

But Cole's voice remains steady.

"We'd figure it out. Probably rent in town until we find something else. The important thing is what's best for you."

"And Luna?" I can't help asking, looking at the baby who's now contentedly gumming on her fist. "What about her?"

"She's adaptable," Austin says, but his arms tighten around her protectively. "Kids are resilient. We'd make it work."

Make it work.

Four Alphas and a baby, displaced because I can't decide if I'm brave enough to keep the gift my grandfather left me.

The thought sits like lead in my stomach.

"I don't know," I admit, fingers still tracing wood grain like it might hold answers. "I don't know what I want to do. Everything's happened so fast, and I'm not...I'm not good at quick decisions anymore."

No. I don’t have the confidence in tackling things head-on cause look where that got me?

Alone. Abandoned. Set up for dead because I hoped for a future I clearly didn’t deserve in those Alphas’ eyes, despite everything I did to make them comfortable, secure, favored in the eyes of their fellow Alphas who were ready to outcast them because of their continued fortune of bad luck.

Until little Miss Willa came saving the day with her naive hopefulness of love and a pack that would accept all of me.

I really was blind.

"Then don't make one," Cole says simply. "Take your time. We'll keep things running while you figure it out. No rush, no pressure. Just... time to breathe."

Time to breathe.

When's the last time anyone offered me that?

My chest tightens with something that might be gratitude or might be terror at how badly I want to accept.

"What about..." I gesture vaguely at all of them, at the space between us that fairly crackles with unspoken awareness. "Won't it be awkward? Me being here, you all working..."

"We're professionals," Mavi says firmly. "We've maintained appropriate boundaries with William for years. This is no different."

Except it is different.

William wasn't an unmated Omega who made their Alpha instincts flare.

Didn't smell like vanilla and maple, and endless possibilities that can make Alphas and Omegas go wild in between the sheets.

And most certainly wouldn’t make them feel so close to losing their control over their needs as Alphas.

I pretended not to notice how Cole had been reacting the other day, but I noticed.

Heck, I was easily leading him into it…

I’m not innocent.

I have needs…that haven’t been attended to for who knows how long…

But can we really live here comfortably together with no complications?

"Just think about it," River encourages. "No decisions today. Just... consider the option."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Under the table, my hands shake slightly. So many questions crowd my throat—why did my grandfather trust them so completely, how did Luna come to be, what aren't they telling me about their past?

But exhaustion wins over curiosity.

Or I subconsciously don’t want to deal with potential confrontation that wouldn’t fall in my favor?

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay, I'll think about it."

The tension in the room eases fractionally, though I can still feel the weight of things unsaid.

Luna chooses that moment to voice her opinion, a happy shriek that makes everyone smile despite the heavy conversation.

"Someone approves," Austin laughs, and the sound breaks through my anxiety just a little.

Maybe that's enough for now. I don't need all the answers today.

I just need to sit at this table that holds so much history, surrounded by men who've proven themselves in fire and smoke, holding a baby who seems to think I belong here.

For once, I can let that be enough.

Temporary Safe Haven

~WILLA~

"Ishould probably stay in the bunkhouse," I say, the words tumbling out before I've fully thought them through, and watch four Alpha faces shift into identical expressions of disapproval. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, their combined presence pressing against my awareness like a physical weight.

"Absolutely not," Cole says, flat and final. "The bunkhouse isn't set up for⁠—"

"For an Omega?" I interrupt, chin lifting despite the flutter in my stomach. "I'm tougher than I look."

"For anyone living alone," River corrects gently. "The heating's inconsistent, the plumbing needs work, and it's too isolated from the main property."

"She needs proper locks," Mavi adds, and something in his tone makes my neck prickle. "Security in the main house is integrated. The bunkhouse is vulnerable."

They're talking around me now, a four-way conversation about my safety that makes my teeth grind. But underneath the irritation, something else stirs as I watch them with Luna. Austin bounces her absently while he talks, River reaches over to wipe drool from her chin without breaking his sentence, Cole adjusts her bib with practiced ease, and Mavi—even Mavi softens when she babbles at him.

Which one of them, I wonder, had the Omega who gave birth to her?

The thought hits like cold water, unexpected and unwelcome.

I study Luna's features, trying to match them to the men's faces. She has Austin's coloring, pale and golden, but River's calm temperament. Those unusual eyes could come from anywhere, and her dark wisps of hair might grow out to match Cole's or even Mavi's.

Who was she? This Omega who carried Luna, who gave these four Alphas a child to raise? Did she love them? Did they love her?

The jealousy that twists in my gut is as surprising as it is inappropriate. I have no claim here, no right to feel territorial about men I met hours ago.

But I do. God help me, I do.

"—main house has everything you need," Austin is saying when I force my attention back. "Full kitchen, updated bathrooms, comfortable bed⁠—"

"Where will you all go?" I ask, needing to derail my own thoughts. "Four men and a baby can't exactly squeeze into the bunkhouse either."

"We'll manage," Cole says. "It's got four bedrooms, and we've bunked in tighter spaces during fire season. Your safety and comfort come first."

"That's ridiculous." The words come out sharper than intended. "I'm not displacing an entire family from their home."

"It's your home," River reminds me. "We're just employees, remember?"

Except they're not, and we all know it.

Employees don't look at their boss like she hangs the moon.

Employees don't make her body respond with every breath, every movement, every careful kindness.

Employees don't make her wonder what their hands would feel like⁠—

My silence must make them realize I’m not budging with this one because Cole decides to speak.

"Fine," Cole says, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "But there are ground rules. We maintain the early morning schedule for ranch work. You'll hear us starting around five-thirty. The main house alarm system stays active—Mavi will show you the codes. And—" He pauses, jaw working. "We'll need to establish protocols for your Heat phases."

Heat.

The word hangs in the air like a loaded gun.

My face burns, but I force myself to meet his eyes.

"I don't have Heats."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Even Luna stops babbling, as if sensing the sudden tension.

"You..." Austin starts, then stops. "What do you mean, you don't have them?"

"I haven't had a proper Heat in—" I try to remember. "Two years? Maybe more? Blake insisted on blockers. Said it was too disruptive to pack life."

Something dangerous flashes across all four faces.

Mavi's hands clench into fists.

River goes very still.

Austin pulls Luna closer like he's protecting her from the words.

And Cole—Cole looks ready to hunt Blake down and teach him exactly what disruption means.

"Blockers for two years?" Austin's medical training kicks in, overriding his anger. "Willa, that's—did you have proper monitoring? Blood work? Hormone panels?"

I shrug, uncomfortable with their focused attention.

"The pack doctor said it was fine. Lots of Omegas use long-term suppression."

Okay, maybe it wasn’t “fine” but that’s what everyone says because the side effects aren’t important when it doesn’t effect the Alphas.

If the Omega suffers, they deem it a “sacrifice for the love of your pack”.

One of the plentiful joys of submission.

"Lots of Omegas get serious complications from it too," he says quietly. "Bone density issues, hormonal imbalances, increased cancer risk⁠—"

Oh…

Now maybe I didn’t think about ALL of that.

"Austin," River warns, but the damage is done.

My hands shake as I wrap them around my cold mug.

"I didn't have a choice," I whisper. "Blake said—the pack needed—" I can't finish.

It would be easier, maybe, to blame the chemicals—hormones, the Blockers he fed me like vitamins, his careful rationing of affection that left me as starved as a dog chained in a snowstorm. But when I claw at my own memories, I see it all too clearly: a slow stripping away of will by subtle rewording of my boundaries. Each concession a little more permanent, until "what I want" became so irrelevant I forgot it was even a question. I wrapped myself in his pack’s expectations like a lead blanket, convinced that was the price of belonging. If I seemed placid, it was only because he made me forget the alternative.

Now, in the harsh fluorescent morning and surrounded by four men who see right through the act, the shame of it burns through my marrow.

I don't look up. My hands hide under the lip of the table, nail beds already angry pink, as I pick at old scars and new ones. I can't tell if Austin's concern is worse than Mavi's silent disgust, or if River's steady gaze makes it better or worse.

It isn't just the blockers that made my skin a stranger to itself.

I let myself become an object, and now I can't even say whose hands I want to claim me next.

Cole's phone rings, sharp in the heavy silence. He glances at it, frowns, and for once doesn't silence it immediately.

"They need us in town," Mavi says, reading the screen from his angle. "Structure fire at Rosie's Diner."

"Now?" Austin protests. "We're in the middle of⁠—"

"They wouldn't call if it wasn't urgent," Cole interrupts. He looks at me, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. "We need to go. But this conversation isn't over."

I simply nod, knowing there’s more urgent matters to tend to then this conversation revolving around my “Heats”.

The next twenty minutes pass in controlled chaos. Four men moving through the house with military efficiency, gathering essentials while trying not to crowd me in the hallways.

I press against walls, hyperaware of every near-miss, every moment when their bodies almost brush mine.

River's carrying an armload of clothes from the upstairs bedroom when he has to squeeze past me in the narrow hall. We do an awkward dance, him trying to give me space, me trying to disappear into the wallpaper. His scent—rain and earth and growing things—floods my senses.

"Sorry," we both say simultaneously, and his quiet laugh makes something flutter in my chest.

Luna, meanwhile, has decided that any moment I'm not holding her is a personal betrayal. She shrieks every time Austin tries to pack her things, reaching for me with desperate hands.

"I've never seen her like this," Austin mutters, finally giving up and passing her to me.

She settles instantly, burying her face in my neck with a contented sigh.

"It's like she thinks you're⁠—"

He cuts himself off, but I hear the unfinished thought.

Like she thinks you're her mother.

"Here." He demonstrates preparing a bottle one-handed while I hold Luna. "Six ounces, formula's in the cabinet, always test the temperature on your wrist. She usually takes one around two, another at six, and then cereal at dinner."

"How did you all end up here?" I ask, needing to fill the strange intimacy of him teaching me to care for his daughter. "From firefighting to ranching seems like a big jump."

His grin turns mischievous.

"Well, after Cole saved River from a burning building and they got all intense about it, then Mavi showed up with his whole brooding mysterious thing, and then I wandered in like a lost puppy and somehow we all just... stuck."

"Austin," Cole warns from the doorway. "We need to go."

"Right, right." Austin's expression sobers. "The town only has volunteer fire response right now. We're usually the fastest option when things go wrong."

They pile essential gear by the door—medical kits, basic firefighting equipment, they apparently keep on hand.

The easy way they prep for emergency response speaks of long practice.

"You'll be okay?" River asks, concern clear in those green eyes. "We shouldn't be more than a few hours."

"I'll be fine." The words taste like lies, but I force a smile. "Go save the day. That's what you do, right?"

Something passes between them, some shared memory of the last time they saved someone.

Me.

From fire and smoke and the Alphas who wanted me dead.

"Lock up behind us," Mavi instructs. "Alarm code is your grandfather's birthday. Don't open for anyone you don't know."

"And call if you need anything," Austin adds, scribbling numbers on a sticky note. "That's my cell. Ranch phone autodials the bunkhouse if you hit star-nine."

They head for the door in a unit, and I follow with Luna still clinging to me.

The afternoon sun slants across the porch, painting everything golden.

Four men who've upended my world in a matter of hours, leaving to help strangers because that's who they are.

"Be careful," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it.

Cole turns back, those storm-gray eyes holding mine.

"Always are. You just focus on settling in. We'll talk more when we get back."

Then they're gone, their truck kicking up dust as it speeds toward town.

Luna and I stand on the porch, watching until they disappear around the bend.

The ranch feels different without them—too quiet, too empty, too much space for my thoughts to fill.

"Just you and me now, baby girl," I murmur to Luna. She babbles something that sounds like agreement, then sticks her fingers in my mouth.

I carry her back inside, surveying what is supposedly my domain. The kitchen where they prepared meals as a family. The living room with its worn furniture and baby toys scattered across the rug. The stairs leading to bedrooms that probably smell like them—pine and rain and smoke, and clean mountain air.

Mine, but not mine. Theirs, but not theirs.

All of us caught in this strange limbo my grandfather created, bound by obligation and trauma and something else I'm not ready to name.

Luna yawns, and I check the clock.

Nap time, according to Austin's carefully written schedule.

Time to pretend I know what I'm doing, that I belong here, that I'm not terrified of the quiet and the responsibility and the way my body still hums from their presence.

"Come on, sweet girl," I whisper. "Let's figure this out together."

Not Alone Anymore?

~WILLA~

The house reveals itself to me in the slowest, cruelest increments—like an old wound that forgets to scar over but still remembers how to ache.

Every hallway is a palimpsest, layered with the ghosts of my childhood and the new, more vivid ghosts of the men who’ve made it theirs.

The walls are the same soft blue, but the gallery of faded family photos now shares space with crisp new prints: horses running, mountains in stormlight, the four of them grinning over blackened steaks at the summer barbecue pit.

There’s a scratch on the banister that I remember blaming on a cousin, but now it’s been buffed smooth and stained a richer brown, as though someone’s gone through erasing even my mistakes. I trace the banister with my fingers anyway, daring myself to remember—and to admit that I don’t recognize what’s become of my own ancestral home.

I carry Luna against my chest, her breathing warm and rhythmic, and try to map what’s changed by scent alone. Underneath the familiar sharpness of pine cleaner and the high desert’s mineral tang, a new chemistry dominates: four distinct notes, woven together by time and proximity, all of them so obvious I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t notice right away. Cole’s campfire smoke and cedar, Mavi’s spice and tobacco, Austin’s sun-drenched wheat, River’s rain and cut grass. It’s not just a place they’re occupying—it’s as if their pack has left a living imprint on the walls, the floors, every surface I touch. Even the air tastes different.

The kitchen is both shrine and battleground. The stone countertops and battered cast iron pans are as I remember, but the old breadbox is gone, replaced with a fancy espresso machine and three different kinds of protein powder lined up on the cowboy checkered tablecloth. Someone’s left a baby bottle in the dish rack, next to a thermos marked “River” in blocky Sharpie. I can almost hear the echo of my grandmother’s laughter in the space, but when I open the fridge, it’s stocked with energy drinks and chicken breasts and half a dozen jars of whatever organic nonsense Austin must be experimenting with for Luna’s “enriched brain development.” I close it quickly, not sure whether I want to scream or cry or just start pitching things onto the floor until it looks like my memory instead of someone else’s future.

I keep moving, Luna’s weight anchoring me to the present. The hallway leading to the living room is a corridor of old certificates—grandpa’s rodeo trophies, grandma’s volunteer awards—and right at the end, pinned to the wall with a tack, is a childish drawing of a barn and a stick-figure family. Someone has added a fifth stick figure in a different colored marker. Underneath it reads: “Home is wherever we all are.” The handwriting is lopsided and obviously Austin’s, a detail that alternately infuriates and devastates me.

And still, every step feels like a trespass. I feel the urge to apologize aloud to the furniture, to the floorboards, to the ghosts of my own past selves who must be watching from the shadowed corners and wondering how I let it all slip away. But Luna is awake now, peering over my shoulder, small hands tangled in my hair, her scent of milk and talcum oddly grounding.

The living room still has Grandpa's ancient recliner, worn leather shaped by decades of evening rest. But now there's also a playpen in the corner, baby toys scattered across a rug that's definitely newer than my last visit. The mantel holds his collection of carved horses, but between them sit framed photos—the four men at various ranch tasks, Luna at different stages of tiny, and one that stops me cold.

All five of them together, Luna maybe two months old, passed between them like the world's most precious football. Their faces are soft with exhaustion and wonder, the kind of bone-deep contentment that comes from surviving something difficult together.

New fathers, clearly. But no mother in sight.

"Where did you come from, little one?" I whisper to Luna, who's gumming contentedly on my collar.

She offers no answers, just drools with impressive volume.

The kitchen tells more stories. Grandpa's cast iron skillet hangs in its place of honor, but the refrigerator is covered in feeding schedules, pediatrician appointments, and a hand-drawn chart tracking who's on night duty. The mundane intimacy of it makes my throat tight.

This is a family, unconventional but real.

I heat a bottle according to Austin's instructions, testing the temperature carefully on my wrist. Luna takes it eagerly, her heterochromatic eyes fixed on mine with unnerving focus. The weight of her trust settles over me like a blanket—warm but suffocating.

Upstairs, I find my grandfather's room untouched, like they've made it a shrine.

His reading glasses still sit on the nightstand, bookmarked Western novel waiting for him to return. The other bedrooms bear clear signs of their occupants—Cole's military-neat, River's with plants on every surface, Mavi's spartan except for an extensive knife collection, Austin's cheerfully chaotic with medical journals stacked everywhere.

But it's the room at the end of the hall that stops my heart.

Luna's nursery is a masterpiece of careful love.

Soft sage walls with hand-painted wildflowers climbing toward the ceiling. A white crib with carved details that I recognize as Cole's handiwork, mimicking the style my grandfather taught him. A rocking chair positioned perfectly to catch morning light. Shelves full of books, toys, stuffed animals that look both new and already loved.

"They did this for you," I tell Luna, emotion thick in my throat. "Four Alpha cowboys turned their lives upside down for one tiny girl."

The changing table has everything organized just so—Austin's influence clear in the labeled containers. A mobile hangs above, handmade with felt animals that look like River's patient work. The window has bars installed at exactly regulation height—Mavi's security consciousness. And everywhere, in every detail, such profound care it makes my chest hurt.

Who was she? This Omega who gave them Luna and then... what? Died? Left?

The questions burn, but there's no one to ask.

I settle Luna in her crib after checking her diaper, proud of managing basic baby care without disaster. She fusses briefly, then settles, tiny fist clutching a stuffed horse that smells like all four of them.

My own bed—Grandpa's bed—feels strange and too large. I lie awake listening to the house settle, trying to distinguish normal sounds from threats. Every creak could be an intruder. Every whisper of wind sounds like smoke.

My body stays rigid, waiting for danger that doesn't come.

When Luna's cry splits the night, I bolt upright so fast my vision spots. The clock reads 2:47 AM. Her cries escalate quickly from fussy to frantic, and by the time I reach her room, she's red-faced and screaming.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." I lift her out, bouncing like I've seen Austin do. "Shh, sweet girl. What's wrong?"

She arches away from me, shrieking louder. Not hungry—she just ate a few hours ago. Diaper's clean. No fever that I can tell. But the crying intensifies until it's the kind of sound that drills into your skull and makes rational thought impossible.

I try everything.

Walking. Rocking. Singing—which makes her cry harder, possibly from aesthetic offense. The baby books on the shelf offer suggestions that all seem to require equipment I can't locate or techniques I don't understand.

"Please," I beg, tears pricking my own eyes as her distress feeds mine. "I don't know what you need."

Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. My arms ache from bouncing, and Luna's cries have taken on a desperate quality that speaks of real distress.

I need help. Need someone who actually knows what they're doing.

But I don't have a phone. Don't have their numbers. Don't have⁠—

The ranch phone.

Austin mentioned it autodials the bunkhouse, but he also left his cell number. I carry a screaming Luna downstairs, finding the sticky note still on the counter. My hands shake as I dial.

He answers on the second ring, voice alert despite the hour.

"Willa? What's wrong?"

"She won't stop crying." The words tumble out in a rush. "I've tried everything, but she's getting worse, and I don't know⁠—"

"I'm coming." Already I hear movement, boots on floor. "Is she pulling at her ears? Arching her back?"

"Arching, yes. And her face is so red⁠—"

"Gas, probably. I'll be there in two minutes. Try laying her on her back and bicycling her legs gently."

I follow his instructions, but Luna's too worked up now. Her cries echo through the house, and I'm struck by how thin the line is between caretaker and catastrophe.

True to his word, Austin appears at the back door in under two minutes. Hair mussed from sleep, wearing flannel pants and a henley thrown on backward, but his hands are steady as he takes Luna from me.

"Hey, moon girl," he croons, already working her legs in a practiced rhythm. "Got a tummy ache? Let's fix that."

He shows me how to hold her, how to apply gentle pressure to her abdomen, how to recognize the different cries. Luna settles gradually, hiccupping through the last of her tears while clinging to his shirt.

"Gas drops are in the medicine cabinet," he says quietly, aware of her drowsing state. "Second shelf, blue bottle. Sometimes she just needs help working things through her system."

I retrieve them, watching him administer the drops with easy competence. Luna's eyes drift closed, exhausted from her ordeal. When he offers her back to me, I take her carefully, mimicking his hold.

"Thank you," I whisper. "I'm sorry for waking you⁠—"

"Never apologize for asking for help with her." His voice carries unusual intensity. "We should have done a better job preparing you or at least made sure you had everything you needed to reach us."

"I should have a real phone," I admit, the words tasting like shame. "But Blake... he controlled the plan, tracked everything. After the divorce, it got shut off immediately. All I have is this cheap prepaid that barely holds a charge."

Austin's expression darkens in a way I've never seen from him.

The usual sunshine replaced by something harder.

"He isolated you."

"It was for pack unity," I say automatically, then hear how hollow it sounds. "Or that's what he said. Keep outside influences from disrupting our bond."

"Bullshit." The vehemence surprises me. "That's not pack behavior, that's abuser behavior. A real pack, a good pack—we make each other stronger, not smaller."

The 'we' hangs between us, loaded with meaning.

Luna sighs in her sleep, and I rock her automatically, processing his words.

"I thought I was doing everything right," I admit to the darkness. "Followed all the rules for being a good pack Omega. Submissive, supportive, accepting whatever the Alphas decided was best."

"Can I—" Austin pauses, something uncertain in his expression. "Can I hug you? Just... you look like you need a hug, and I'm trying not to assume⁠—"

"Yes," I breathe, surprising myself. "Yes, please."

He's careful about it, mindful of Luna between us. One arm around my shoulders, the other supporting Luna's weight. His scent—clean linen and mountain mornings—wraps around us both. Not demanding, not claiming, just...offering comfort.

"Iron Ridge failed you," he says quietly against my hair. "Blake failed you. But that's on them, not you. And I hope—we all hope—that maybe we can show you what pack is supposed to be. What family is supposed to be."

I should pull away…maintain boundaries…remember that I barely know these men, that trust is dangerous, that Alpha promises have burned me before. But Luna's warm between us, and Austin's embrace asks for nothing except the chance to offer comfort, and I'm so tired of being strong alone.

"Thank you," I whisper again, meaning more than just tonight's rescue.

"Always," he says simply. "That's what pack does."

When he finally pulls away, I miss the warmth immediately.

Luna stirs but doesn't wake as I adjust her in my arms.

"I should let you get back to sleep," I say, though part of me wants to beg him to stay. To not leave me alone with the responsibility and the quiet.

"I'll walk you up," he offers. "Make sure she settles okay."

We climb the stairs together, Luna a bridge between us.

In her nursery, he watches me lay her in the crib, nodding approval at how I position her.

"You're doing better than you think," he says softly. "She's just particular sometimes. Gets it from her fathers."

Fathers, plural. The questions burn again, but this isn't the time.

"Get some rest," he says from the doorway. "Tomorrow the others will want to mother-hen you about the whole phone situation. Fair warning—Cole's probably already online shopping for options."

The image of stern Cole browsing cell phone plans makes me smile despite everything.

"Noted."

Austin disappears into the darkness, and I hear the back door close softly. Luna sleeps on, peaceful now, while I stand watching her breathe.

This strange little family that's folded me into their midst, offering help without judgment, protection without possession. Maybe Austin's right…that this is what pack is supposed to be.

Time will tell.

The sound of axes splitting wood pulls me from sleep, rhythmic and sure, and for a moment I forget where I am.

Then Luna's soft breathing through the baby monitor brings everything back—the ranch, the men, my new reality that feels more like a fever dream than inheritance.

Pale morning light filters through curtains I don't remember drawing. My body aches from yesterday's emotional marathon, muscles sore in places I didn't know could hold tension. But underneath the exhaustion, something else stirs.

Curiosity, maybe. Or the dangerous beginning of feeling safe.

From the window, I can see them already at work.

Cole splitting logs with economical precision, each swing deliberate and controlled. River mucking out stalls, moving with the fluid grace of someone who finds peace in routine. Mavi walking the perimeter, checking things I probably wouldn't even notice.

Their breath clouds in the crisp October air, but they move like the cold energizes rather than hinders.

No sign of Austin, but Luna's contented babbling through the monitor suggests he's already retrieved her.

The easy way they share her care speaks of long practice, complete trust.

A family in everything but name.

I dress quickly, pulling on jeans and one of the few sweaters that doesn't smell like smoke or bad memories. My reflection looks foreign—hair wild from sleep, face softer than I remember seeing it. Like the constant alertness I've worn for two years is finally, cautiously, easing.

The kitchen smells like coffee and contentment. Austin has Luna in her high chair, cheerfully wearing what appears to be half her oatmeal. River appears at my elbow before I've fully entered, pressing a mug into my hands.

"Two sugars, splash of cream," he says with a quiet smile. "Figured you could use it after last night's adventure."

He's already learned how I take my coffee.

Such a small thing, but it makes my throat tight with emotion I can't afford.

"Morning," Cole says from the doorway, bringing the scent of fresh-cut wood and morning frost. "Sleep okay after the Luna incident?"

"Fine," I manage, wrapping both hands around the warm mug. "Sorry again about⁠—"

"Stop apologizing." It's not quite an order, but close. "Austin said you handled it well for someone thrown in the deep end."

"She just needed some help," Austin adds, wiping banana from Luna's cheek. "Same as anybody would."

Mavi enters last, closing the door firmly behind him.

"Perimeter's clear. No signs of trouble."

The way he says it suggests he always checks, every morning, like danger might manifest overnight.

I wonder what made him this vigilant, what threats he's protecting against.

Or who.

"So," I venture, settling at the table where I can see all of them. "The fire last night?"

They exchange those weighted looks again, whole conversations in glances I can't decode.

"Rosie's Diner," River explains, taking the seat across from me. "Kitchen fire that spread faster than it should have. We got it contained before major damage, but..."

"But?"

"Accelerant," Mavi says bluntly. "Someone wanted that place to burn."

My coffee turns bitter on my tongue.

"Arson? Here?"

"Small towns aren't immune to crime," Cole says, joining us at the table. His hair's still damp with sweat from wood-splitting, and I force my eyes away from how it darkens his collar. "Sometimes they're worse. Everybody knowing everybody's business creates... friction."

"The new chief's investigating," Austin adds, bouncing Luna when she starts to fuss. "She's good. Came from Denver, doesn't have any local biases to work around."

"She?" I ask, surprised.

Female police chiefs in small towns aren't exactly common.

"Hazel Martinez," River supplies. "Tough as nails, fair as they come. She's already ruffling feathers by actually investigating instead of sweeping things under the rug."

"Which some people don't appreciate," Mavi mutters. "Lot of folks liked the old way. Look the other direction, keep the peace, don't ask hard questions."

I think of Harold at the hotel, his immediate dismissal of me. Of the looks that followed me through town.

"And now someone's setting fires?"

"Could be unrelated," Cole says, but his tone suggests otherwise. "Could be someone testing boundaries, seeing what they can get away with. Either way, we'll handle it."

The casual confidence in that statement should worry me.

Four men appointing themselves protectors of a town that may not want protection.

But all I feel is relief that someone's paying attention.

"Emergency services response time is twelve minutes from the county station," Austin explains. "Would've lost the whole building waiting for them. That's why folks call us first."

"And Station Fahrenheit 49?" I remember them mentioning it yesterday.

"New volunteer fire station being built on the old Mackey property," River says. "Should be operational by spring, but for now, we're the stopgap."

"Convenient," Mavi observes, voice dry as dust. "Fire breaks out just when the town's most vulnerable. Makes you wonder who benefits from the chaos."

"Mavi sees conspiracies everywhere," Austin says lightly, but there's acknowledgment in it too. Sometimes paranoia is just pattern recognition.

"Point is," Cole redirects, "we may have more late-night calls. If you're not comfortable being here alone⁠—"

"I'm fine," I interrupt, surprising myself with the firmness. "I've been alone a long time. At least here I have neighbors to call."

Something shifts in the room at that admission.

Luna chooses that moment to throw her spoon with impressive accuracy, hitting Mavi square in the chest. Oatmeal splatter included.

"Your kid's got an arm," he tells Austin, deadpan.

"Our kid," comes the automatic chorus from the other three, and I file away another piece of their puzzle.

Not just Luna's fathers but somehow all equally invested.

River starts cleaning up breakfast dishes while Cole outlines the day's schedule—fence repairs in the north pasture, hay delivery to stack, evening feeding for the stock. Normal ranch operations that feel anything but normal with the undercurrent of arson and Alpha dynamics.

"I can help," I offer. "I might not know much about cattle, but I can learn."

"Today you rest," Cole says firmly. "Get familiar with the house, the immediate grounds. Tomorrow we can talk about what you want to learn."

I should bristle at being ordered, but there's sense in it.

I'm exhausted, overwhelmed, and probably not safe around large animals until I know what I'm doing.

"Besides," Austin adds, standing with Luna, "this one's decided you're her new favorite person. Barely let me dress her this morning without fussing for you."

As if to prove his point, Luna reaches for me with grabby hands, making demanding noises until I take her. She settles immediately, patting my face with sticky fingers that smell like banana and baby powder.

"See?" River laughs. "You've got the most important job—Luna wrangler."

I can’t stop myself from smiling.

They disperse to their various tasks, but not before each checks in somehow. Cole reminds me about the alarm codes. River points out where they'll be working. Mavi shows me the emergency numbers posted by every phone. Austin runs through Luna's schedule one more time.

Then they're gone, leaving me with a baby who thinks I hung the moon and a house that smells like four Alphas who might be the best men I've ever met.

"Well, little one," I murmur to Luna, who's contentedly gnawing on my collar. "Looks like we're both starting over. Think we can figure it out together?"

She babbles something that sounds like agreement, and I choose to take it as a yes.

Outside, I can hear the men calling to each other across the ranch, their voices carrying on the clear morning air.

Not alone anymore, I realize.

For the first time in years, I'm not alone.

The thought terrifies me almost as much as it comforts.

The Pulsing Tension Of Jealousy

~WILLA~

The inside of Cole's truck smells like him—pine and leather and something indefinably male that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

I press myself against the passenger door, trying to maintain some distance in the confined space, but there's no escaping his presence. Every gear shift brings his hand dangerously close to my thigh, and I find myself holding my breath each time, waiting for contact that doesn't come.

Clearly I’m just a horny Omega lately…

I am every single stereotype rolled into one—some cliché, slick-palmed Omega who can't even share a two-hour car ride without getting her wires crossed by the scent of sweat and aftershave. It's mortifying, but also a little exhilarating, the way my body reacts before my brain has time to catch up or scold.

If I think about it too much, I risk spiraling into a shame loop, so instead I stare out the windshield, counting fence posts as they whip by, praying for rain or a small tornado or honestly any weather event that would forcibly extract me from this stew of pheromones and awkward longing.

Cole glances over, his eyes sharp but his expression gentle, like he knows exactly how every nerve ending in my body is misfiring and he's perfectly content to let me squirm.

It's not intentional—at least I don't think it's intentional—but the effect is the same: I'm tuned to every subtle shift in his posture, each shallow inhale, every time his fingers flex around the stick shift. I have to remind myself how to breathe.

In the back seat, Wendolyn is talking a mile a minute, some story about a bake sale gone awry, but her words are barely registering.

The narrative thread slips through my fingers, replaced by the roar of blood in my ears and this gnawing, low-level ache that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin or maybe into someone else's.

"She's got a V8 diesel under the hood," Cole says, his voice carrying that particular brand of masculine pride men reserve for their vehicles. His hands move over the steering wheel with the same careful precision he uses for everything—splitting wood, mending fences, existing in space like he owns it. "Bought her used five years ago, rebuilt the engine myself. She'll pull anything we need around the ranch."

"She's got a V8 diesel under the hood," Cole says, his voice carrying that particular brand of masculine pride men reserve for their vehicles. His hands move over the steering wheel with the same careful precision he uses for everything—splitting wood, mending fences, existing in space like he owns it. "Bought her used five years ago, rebuilt the engine myself. She'll pull anything we need around the ranch."

From the backseat, Wendolyn leans forward between us, bringing her sweet pea and vanilla scent into the mix.

"I still can't believe you all maintain that whole ranch. It's like something out of a movie. Do you think—" She pauses, and I can hear the excitement building in her voice. "Do you think I could help with the horses sometime? I grew up riding, before the city swallowed me whole."

My stomach clenches at her easy enthusiasm.

Of course she knows horses. In fact, she'd be useful, capable, fitting into ranch life like she was born to it…unlike me, who can barely tell a halter from a bridle.

"River handles most of the horse training," Cole responds, but his eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror. "But we could always use extra hands. Right, Willa?"

The question hangs in the air, weighted with more than its simple words.

He's deferring to me—the owner, the one who should be making these decisions. Except I have no idea what the right answer is. Yes seems too permissive, like I'm opening doors I can't close.

No…it feels petty, jealous, and confirming every awful thing I think about myself.

"I..." My voice catches, and I clear my throat. "Sure. If River thinks it would help."

Wendolyn's delighted squeal fills the cab.

"Oh, this is perfect! I've been dying for an excuse to get out of town more. The shop practically runs itself these days, and I miss being around animals."

She chatters on about her childhood horses, show ribbons won, the way nothing compared to the connection between rider and mount.

Each word is another stone in my stomach, weighing me down with inadequacy.

Here's another Omega—unmated, independent, successful—who brings actual skills to the table. Who has her own business, her own life, her own easy confidence that doesn't require four Alphas to prop her up.

What do I bring?

Smoke-damaged lungs and a talent for making terrible life choices.

The ability to panic at unexpected noises and freeze when making simple decisions.

A body that responds to Alpha commands like a instrument perfectly tuned for submission, even when my mind screams resistance.

I'm getting the princess treatment because I own the deed, nothing more.

They're careful with me the way you're careful with cracked china—still functional but requiring delicate handling. The thought makes my chest tight, breath coming shorter.

I'm spiraling, I know I'm spiraling, but I can't seem to stop the mental freefall.

Wendolyn would be perfect here.

She'd match their competence, contribute meaningfully, probably have the horses eating from her hand within days. She wouldn't need Austin to show her how to make a bottle or River to talk her through breathing exercises or Mavi to check the locks twice because she's terrified of shadows. She wouldn't make Cole hesitate before speaking, choosing his words carefully like she might shatter.

The thoughts tangle and twist, feeding on themselves.

I'm so lost in my own head that I don't notice Cole's hand moving until it's there—warm and solid on my thigh, fingers spread possessively wide.

"Besides," he says, his voice dropping into that register that bypasses my brain and speaks directly to my hindbrain, "we gotta finish training with the Boss of Cactus Ranch first."

The words are casual, directed at Wendolyn, but his thumb strokes once along the inseam of my jeans. The touch is lightning through my system, making me bite back a gasp.

Boss. He called me Boss, but the way his hand claims my thigh suggests something far different from professional hierarchy.

"Of course," I manage, proud when my voice comes out steady. "Training first."

Inside, I'm anything but steady.

His hand is a brand through the denim, each point of contact sending signals my body receives loud and clear. My thighs want to part, to invite more than this careful touch.

My breath wants to catch, to let him know exactly what he's doing to me.

But I hold still, grateful for the millionth time this week that I invested in scent-blocking underwear.

The expensive kind that actually works, keeping my arousal from perfuming the air with obvious need.

Don’t need my horny business spreading through town.

I have a feeling Wendolyn wouldn’t spread the word, but small towns are known for their gossip, so I can’t be contributing to it when I’ve just arrived.

Wendolyn chatters on about horses and schedules, blissfully unaware of the tension crackling in the front seats. Or maybe she's not unaware—maybe she's giving us the gift of background noise, a buffer against the weight of Cole's touch and what it means.

His fingers flex slightly, not quite a squeeze but enough to remind me they're there.

As if I could forget.

As though every nerve ending in my body isn't currently rerouting to that five-inch span of contact.

The truck rumbles on toward town, but all I can focus on is the heat of his palm, the careful control in how he holds me—firm enough to claim, gentle enough not to frighten.

This is what I was afraid of.

Not them, but this—my body's eager betrayal, the way it responds to the slightest provocation.

Cole's hand on my thigh shouldn't feel so at home with such a possessive touch, but it does.

It shouldn’t make me want to crawl into his lap and find out if his control extends to other activities… but it does.

I dare to envision what could happen if I surrendered to the moment—if my hand crept just an inch to the left, brushing the back of his knuckles, inviting all that heat and promise to slide higher and stake its claim.

I imagine the windows fogging up with our breathing, bodies angled awkwardly in the bucket seats, denim and cotton stretching and giving way under the press of palms and mouths, and the world beyond the windshield blurring into irrelevance.

If it was just the two of us and no highway, no chaperone Omega in the backseat, no self-imposed rules or broken glass memories… If it was only Cole’s hand on my thigh and the thick thrum of his voice rumbling in my ear, saying my name like it was a password or a prayer.

The fantasy is so vivid it almost aches…

A split-second reel of him pulling over on some gravel turnout, the truck idling in the hush, and me climbing over the console to straddle his lap, legs shaking, lips parted and hungry. I’d kiss him bruising and desperate, wanting to see if he’d lose that legendary self-control for once, if he’d pin me with all that slow-burning Alpha force and leave marks where no one else could see. In the fantasy, he’s greedy and gentle all at once, and I’m bold—bolder than I’ve ever been—untangling every knot of caution and letting my body decide what happens next.

And I know he’d take it slow, even if I begged for fast. He’d treat me like something wild and half-healed, and I’d hate how much I loved it, how much I wanted someone to see me as vulnerable and precious instead of just convenient or needy. I want to be seen, claimed, chosen for something beyond my fragile usefulness—a wanting so raw it trembles in my bones.

But when I snap back to reality, the lines are too clear, the distance too wide.

We’re not alone.

There’s a schedule, a destination, a façade to maintain, and beneath it all, the faint terror that if I let slip even an ounce of that need, it would devour me whole and leave nothing recognizable behind.

So I keep my hands to myself and pretend the world is all fences and sky, that the open road is enough to soothe the restless creature clawing at my insides. I try not to think about the way Cole’s thumb is drawing figure-eights on my jeans, or how every nerve in my leg is screaming for more, or how if he told me to pull over and get in the back seat, I’d do it with zero hesitation and never look back.

I stare out the window, watching Montana roll by, and try to remember who I was before fire and Alphas and a baby who thinks I hung the moon.

Try to remember why independence mattered so much when surrender feels this sweet.

His thumb moves again at that moment, just barely, and I press my thighs together against the pulse of want between them.

Thank God for those expensive panties.

Thank goodness for Wendolyn's chatter.

Thank the Heavens for whatever self-control keeps me from doing something stupid like covering his hand with mine and guiding it higher.

The town limits come into view, salvation and disappointment in equal measure. Soon he'll have to remove his hand, shift gears, pretend this didn't happen.

Soon I'll have to pretend my body isn't screaming for more than careful touches and loaded looks.

Goodness, it would have been nice if we were home instead so I could take a cold shower to cool off this endless arousal…

But for now, I sit in the passenger seat of his truck, letting him hold me in place with nothing more than the weight of his palm, and pretend this is normal.

“Pretend”nI'm the kind of woman who deserves this careful attention.

Imagine that I'm not terrified of how much I want this…

Boss of Cactus Ranch.

The title sits strange on my tongue, but under his touch, I almost believe it could be true.

The loss of his hand feels like amputation.

Cole shifts into park outside the feed store, his fingers sliding away from my thigh with deliberate slowness that makes me want to whimper.

The absence of his touch leaves me bereft and aching, my body screaming protests I refuse to voice.

My cheeks burn with heat that has nothing to do with the October afternoon.

Everything between my legs throbs with insistent need, and I can feel the telltale slickness gathering despite my expensive underwear's best efforts.

My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird, and I know—I know—my arousal must be written across my face like neon signs.

"Well," Wendolyn announces brightly, already gathering her purse, "I need to use the ladies' room. This heat always makes my makeup run silly." She slides out of the truck with surprising grace, but not before shooting me a look over her shoulder—a knowing smirk that makes my stomach flip.

What does she see that I'm missing?

The truck door closes with a definitive click, leaving Cole and me alone in the suddenly suffocating cab.

I reach for my door handle, desperate for escape, for air, for distance from this Alpha who makes me forget every hard-learned lesson about self-preservation.

"Wait."

One word, soft but commanding, and my hand freezes on the handle.

Breathe Willa.

I don't turn to look at him.

Can't.

If I do, he'll see everything—the want, the fear, the pathetic eagerness of an Omega who should know better.

"Were you jealous?" His voice carries a note of curiosity, like he's working through a puzzle. "When Wendolyn talked about the horses?"

Heat floods my face, different from arousal but just as telling.

"No." The lie tastes copper-bitter on my tongue. "Why would I be jealous? She's nice. Helpful. Everything a good small town neighbor should be."

"Hmm." The sound rumbles from his chest, and then he's moving, leaning across the center console until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Look at me, Willa."

I could refuse.

Should refuse.

This is my truck—well, his truck, but I'm the boss, aren't I? I should maintain professional distance, keep boundaries clear, protect myself from wanting things I can't have.

Instead, I turn my head, meeting those storm-gray eyes with a defiance I don't quite feel.

He's closer than expected, close enough that I can see the flecks of blue hidden in the gray, close enough to count his eyelashes. His scent intensifies—pine and leather and pure Alpha musk that makes my inner Omega want to bare her throat in submission.

"You were jealous," he says, not a question this time. His breath ghosts across my cheek as he leans closer still, until his lips nearly brush my ear. "You know what I think?"

I remain perfectly still, caught between prey instinct and something hungrier.

My fingers dig into my thigh where his hand was moments ago, trying to hold onto control that's rapidly slipping away.

"I think," he whispers, his voice dropping to that register that liquifies my bones, "beneath this wallflower surface you're trying so hard to maintain, there's a fierce dominant Omega begging to come out and be seen in the world."

The words arrow straight through me, finding their target with unerring accuracy.

My breath catches, body trembling with the truth of it.

How does he see what I've tried so hard to hide?

The part of me that Blake tried to suppress, that my parents found embarrassing, that society insists doesn't exist?

His lips trail along the shell of my ear, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the heat of them.

"I hope you'll let that side come out and play more."

The wanting crashes over me like a wave, drowning rational thought.

My scent spikes despite the blocking underwear, arousal and need and something wild that's been caged too long.

I bite my lip hard enough to hurt, trying to ground myself, but the small pain only sharpens the edge of desire.

Cole pulls back just enough to see my face, and his eyes darken at whatever he finds there.

His gaze drops to my mouth, to where I'm still worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, and I watch him watch me with a hunger that matches my own.

The air between us crackles with possibility.

His hand rises, moving to cup my jaw, thumb hovering just over my abused lip.

I can see the moment he decides, the shift in his expression from careful to determined.

He leans in, closing the distance with inevitable slowness that makes my eyes flutter shut in anticipation⁠—

His phone explodes with sound, shattering the moment like glass.

"Fuck." The curse is bitten off, sharp with frustration as he jerks back. I open my eyes to find him glaring at the screen with enough heat to melt circuits. "What?" he barks into the phone.

I can hear Austin's voice, tinny through the speaker, though not the words. Whatever he's saying makes Cole's expression darken further.

"Yes, we're getting the formula," Cole growls. "Yes, I have the list. No, I don't need you to—" He pauses, jaw clenching. "My voice sounds deep because it's my fucking voice, Austin. Christ."

I’m fighting hard not to smirk at that.

More tinny chatter from the other end. Cole's free hand clenches into a fist on his thigh.

"Tell Mavi he's a spying prick and to mind his own fucking business." He ends the call with perhaps more force than necessary, tossing the phone onto the dashboard like it personally offended him.

I can't help myself.

"What's wrong with Mavi?"

Cole's laugh is short and humorless.

"He's a psycho stalker of an over-analyst who loves to know what everyone is doing. Probably has this truck wired for sound." He glares at the roof like surveillance equipment might materialize.

The moment between us is thoroughly broken, but the want still simmers under my skin. Cole seems to feel it too, tension radiating from his frame as he collects himself. Finally, he opens his door with controlled movements.

"Come on," he says, circling around to my side. "Let's get this over with before Austin sends a search party."

He opens my door and offers his hand—palm up, patient, letting me choose.

I stare at it for a long moment, this simple gesture that feels weighted with meaning. His words echo in my mind: fierce dominant Omega begging to come out.

Maybe he's right. I've been hiding too long, letting fear and past failures dictate my choices. Maybe it's time to stop living in Blake's shadow, stop apologizing for existing, stop pretending I don't want things that scare me.

Moving forward…is scary…but it doesn’t take a way the crave to want something new? Someone new…

I place my hand in his, feeling the calluses from ranch work, the careful strength in how his fingers close around mine. It's just help getting out of a truck. It doesn't have to mean anything.

But as he steadies me onto the pavement, as his thumb brushes over my knuckles before letting go, I know I'm lying to myself. This means everything. This choice to reach out, to accept what's offered, to stop running from the possibility of something good.

"Ready?" he asks, and I know he's talking about more than shopping for baby formula.

"Yeah," I say, surprising myself by meaning it. "I'm ready."

The feed store awaits, normal life beckoning, but something fundamental has shifted.

I'm still scared, still uncertain, still carrying more baggage than any one person should.

But for the first time in years, I'm also curious about what comes next.

Cole's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the store, and I let him.

Let myself lean into the touch just a little.

Dare allow myself to imagine what it might be like to stop fighting so hard against wanting this.

The fierce dominant Omega inside me stretches, testing her chains, and for once…I don't push her back down.

Small Town Gossip

~WILLA~

Hank's Hardware squats on the corner like a testament to the last century, all worn brick and hand-painted signs that promise "If We Don't Have It, You Don't Need It."

The bell above the door announces our arrival with the aggressive cheer of a dog that's been waiting all day for visitors, and the familiar scent of metal shavings and WD-40 floods my senses.

"Well, well!" A man emerges from behind a display of power tools, wiping his hands on an apron that might have been white in a previous decade. "Cole Montgomery gracing us with his presence. And you brought friends!"

Hank—because this can only be Hank—is built like a scarecrow that's been left out in too many storms. All angles and enthusiasm, with eyes that light up like he's just won the lottery at the sight of customers. His gaze skips between us with the calculating speed of a small-town merchant who knows gossip is currency.

"Hank." Cole's greeting is economical, but not unfriendly. "Needed to show the ladies around town. This is Willa James, William's granddaughter. And Wendolyn Murphy from the bookshop."

"The new ranch owner!" Hank practically vibrates with excitement, pumping my hand with enough enthusiasm to rattle my teeth. "Your grandpa was a good man. Best customer I ever had—always paid cash, never haggled, knew exactly what he needed."

Before I can respond, he's already pivoting, dragging us toward a display that dominates the front window. "You ladies have to see this! The new fire station project—going to revolutionize emergency response in Sweetwater Falls."

The poster is professionally done, all gleaming architectural renders and statistics about response times. A donation box sits prominently below, already half-full of bills and checks. The enthusiasm is infectious, even if the execution feels like someone's civic studies project escaped into the wild.

"You should introduce yourself to the crew when they're up and running," Hank says, focusing on Wendolyn with the intensity of a matchmaker who's spotted opportunity. "Pretty Omega like you, they'd love to have you involved with fundraising or organizing community events."

Wendolyn's smile tightens just a fraction. "Actually, I have experience with fire departments. I was a firefighter in Denver before I moved here."

The words land like a stone in still water. Hank's mouth opens, closes, opens again. "You were a... but you're an..."

"An Omega, yes." Wendolyn's chin lifts slightly, a defensive gesture I recognize from my own arsenal. "Five years with Denver Fire, certified in structural and wildland suppression."

The silence stretches until I can hear the fluorescent lights humming. Then, like sharks scenting blood, other customers begin drifting closer. The store's not large—sound carries, and nothing travels faster in a small town than surprising news.

"An Omega firefighter?" The voice belongs to a woman in her sixties, hair teased to impressive heights and secured with enough hairspray to damage the ozone. "Well, that's... unusual."

"Very progressive of Denver," another woman adds, in a tone that suggests 'progressive' is synonymous with 'foolish.' "Though I suppose they have different standards in the big city."

Wendolyn's shoulders inch higher. "The standards are actually identical statewide. Physical requirements, training hours, certification process⁠—"

"Still," the first woman interrupts, "it's so rare to see an Omega in such a hands-on, manly profession. Must have been challenging, keeping up with all those Alphas."

My teeth clench hard enough to ache. I know this dance, these words wrapped in false concern. The way they diminish achievement by focusing on designation rather than capability. Beside me, Cole shifts slightly, and I feel rather than see his attention sharpen.

"I kept up just fine," Wendolyn says quietly, but I catch the tremor underneath. "Graduated third in my academy class."

"How wonderful." The woman's smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Though I imagine it's nice to have a more... appropriate career now. Running a bookshop is so much better suited to an Omega's strengths."

The words hit me like a match to gasoline. Every memory of being told to be smaller, quieter, less ambitious roars to life. Every time Blake told me my ideas were "cute" but impractical. Every job interview where they looked at my designation before my qualifications.

"That's prejudiced," I say, the words coming out sharper than intended. "And wrong."

The store goes silent except for the hum of electricity and the distant sound of traffic. Every eye turns to me, the stranger making waves in their ordered world.

"Excuse me?" The woman's carefully penciled eyebrows climb toward her hairline.

"I said it's prejudiced." I step forward, putting myself slightly in front of Wendolyn. "To assume Omegas can't do the same jobs as Alphas. Wendolyn saved lives in Denver. She ran into burning buildings while people like you sat safe at home making assumptions about what's 'appropriate.'"

"Well, I never—" The woman's face flushes red beneath her foundation. "I was simply making conversation. No need to be aggressive about it."

Aggressive. Another word weaponized against Omegas who don't perform submission correctly. My temper, already frayed from days of upheaval, snaps its last thread.

"You know what else is unusual?" I hear myself say, voice carrying the kind of authority I forgot I possessed. "Omegas owning ranches. Running cattle operations. Making business decisions without Alpha oversight."

The woman blinks, clearly trying to follow the shift. "I don't see what that has to do with⁠—"

"I own Cactus Rose Ranch," I continue, letting the words ring through the store. "Inherited it from my grandfather, and I'm running it with a crew that includes Wendolyn. Because I value competence over conventional thinking."

The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel Cole behind me, his presence solid and somehow approving. Wendolyn stands straighter, and there's something like hope flickering in her green eyes.

"What's all this commotion?"

The voice creaks from the back of the store, and a man who must be ancient shuffles into view. If Hank is a scarecrow, this is the farmer who built him—weathered and bent but still sharp around the edges.

"Dad," Hank says weakly. "These folks were just discussing the fire station⁠—"

"Don't care about the fire station," the old man interrupts, squinting at us through glasses thick as bottle bottoms. "Who's making trouble in my store?"

"No trouble," the woman with the hairspray helmet says quickly. "Just a misunderstanding about⁠—"

"About whether Omegas can be firefighters," I cut in, meeting the old man's gaze steadily. "I was explaining that they can."

He studies me for a long moment, then barks out a laugh that sounds like gravel in a blender. "Course they can. My grandmother was an Omega, and she could outwork any Alpha on the ranch. Delivered all twelve of her babies herself too, including my father during a blizzard."

The woman's mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

"You the James girl?" the old man asks, pivoting with surprising agility. "William's granddaughter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He nods decisively. "About time that ranch had family on it again. You need anything for the place, you come to me, not him." He jerks a thumb at Hank. "Boy wouldn't know quality if it bit him. Tries to sell people fancy when what they need is functional."

"Dad," Hank protests weakly.

"Retiring anyway," the old man continues, ignoring his son completely. "Soon as I find someone who knows a hammer from their ass to take over. Can't leave it to him—he'd have the place selling scented candles within a month."

Wendolyn is laughing before she can stop herself, and I genuinely smile at his commentary mixed with a sense of humor.

The hairspray woman and her companion have retreated to the fastener aisle, suddenly fascinated by screws.

Wendolyn's shoulders have dropped from around her ears, and there's color back in her cheeks.

"We should go," Cole says, speaking for the first time since we entered. His hand finds its familiar place at my back, warm and steadying. "Still have stops to make."

But as we move toward the door, I catch the look on his face in the security mirror. It's subtle—just a softening around his eyes, a slight curve to his usually stern mouth. Pride, I realize with a jolt. He's proud of me.

The bell chimes our exit with the same aggressive cheer, but it sounds different now. Like victory rather than warning.

On the sidewalk, Wendolyn catches my arm. "Thank you," she says quietly. "I usually just... let it go. Easier than fighting every battle."

"I know," I tell her, because I do. God, how I know. "But you shouldn't have to shrink yourself to make them comfortable."

"Listen to you," she says, a real smile breaking through. "Fierce dominant Omega indeed."

My face heats at the reminder of Cole's words, but before I can respond, his hand presses more firmly against my back. Not pushing, just... claiming space. Claiming me, in view of anyone watching from the hardware store windows.

"Next stop?" he asks, but his voice carries undertones that make my stomach flip.

"Lead the way," I manage, trying not to lean into his touch, failing miserably.

As we walk back to the truck, I catch our reflection in a shop window. Wendolyn is confident again, me standing taller than I have in years, and Cole is watching us both with an expression that makes my heart race.

Maybe this town isn't ready for Omega firefighters and ranch owners. But ready or not, we're forcing them to get out of their old minds that continue to negatively plague us.

Mountain View Grocery & Supplies announces itself with a hand-painted sign that's one strong wind from retirement and windows plastered with ads for everything from cattle feed to wedding dresses.

The building sprawls like it's been absorbing neighboring businesses for decades, which according to Wendolyn's whispered commentary, is exactly what happened.

"Pearl Chen-Morrison's family started with just the grocery," she explains as Cole holds the door. "Then they bought the hardware store next door when it failed. Then the feed supply. Now it's this beautiful mongrel of a store where you can buy birthday candles and brake fluid in the same aisle."

The inside is organized chaos—or maybe chaotic organization. Aisles stretch in directions that defy euclidean geometry, stocked with an impossible array of goods. The smell hits me in layers: produce and motor oil, fresh bread and leather goods, cleaning supplies and what might be incense from a display of "Local Artisan Crafts."

"Willa James."

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, and then a woman materializes from between shelves like she's been summoned.

Pearl Chen-Morrison is compact energy wrapped in a floral apron, her black hair streaked with silver and pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Her eyes are sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, and she's looking at me like I'm a puzzle she's just solved.

"I'd know you anywhere," she continues, closing the distance with quick steps. "You have your grandmother's eyes and your grandfather's stubborn chin. William showed me every picture you ever sent him. Kept them in chronological order in a photo album he carried everywhere."

The words hit unexpectedly hard. Grandpa, carrying my pictures like a talisman. I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat.

"Mrs. Chen-Morrison⁠—"

"Pearl," she corrects, reaching out to clasp my hands in hers. They're small but strong, calloused from decades of work. "Just Pearl. And you're our girl, finally come home."

Our girl.

The possession in it should rankle, but instead, it wraps around me like a blanket. Cole shifts closer, and I feel rather than see his satisfaction at Pearl's welcome.

"Your grandfather was very specific about your preferences," Pearl continues, still holding my hands. "Vanilla creamer, not plain. Sharp cheddar, never mild. That organic peanut butter that costs a fortune but you loved the texture. I've kept it all in stock, just in case."

"You..." My voice breaks slightly. "You stocked things for me?"

"Of course." She pats my hands before releasing them. "William said you'd come when you were ready. My job was to make sure you'd find what you needed when you did."

Wendolyn makes a soft sound beside me, and when I glance over, her eyes are suspiciously bright.

Cole's hand finds my back again, steady and warm through my sweater.

"Thank you," I manage. "That's... thank you."

Pearl waves off the gratitude.

"You need anything for that ranch, you call. I know every supplier in three states, and most of them owe me favors. We take care of our own here."

Our own.

There it is again, that casual claim of belonging.

We make our purchases—Cole insisting on paying despite my protests—and Pearl loads us down with extras.

"Samples," she calls them, though the bag of homemade cookies and jar of local honey seem excessive for samples.

The veterinary clinic sits two blocks down, a converted craftsman house with a modern addition that somehow manages not to look grafted on.

The waiting room smells like disinfectant and the peculiar musk of nervous animals, but it's clean and calming with its pale blue walls and thriving plants.

"Can I help—Cole!" The receptionist, a young man who can't be out of college, practically lights up. "Is Luna okay? Did something happen?"

"Just showing Willa around," Cole assures him. "Is Elena available?"

"For you? Always." The receptionist's eyes dart to me with curious intensity. "I'll let her know you're here."

Dr. Elena Vasquez emerges within minutes, and I understand immediately why River chose to work with her. She carries authority like a second skin, silver threading through dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her handshake is firm, professional, but her eyes warm when they land on me.

"Ms. James. I've been waiting to meet you." Her accent carries traces of somewhere farther south, softening the formal words. "Your grandfather spoke of you often. He was very proud."

There's that tightness in my throat again.

"The ranch animals are all in excellent health," she continues. "River's exceptional with preventive care. But if you need anything—emergencies, routine visits, or just advice—we're here."

Cole hovers throughout the interaction, not quite touching but close enough that his presence is unmistakable. Claiming space around me like he's drawing invisible boundaries. Dr. Vasquez notices—her lips twitch with what might be amusement—but says nothing.

The Rusty Spur squats on Main Street like a watchful toad, all weathered wood and neon beer signs that probably haven't been turned off since installation. Even in mid-afternoon, the parking lot holds a respectable collection of trucks and motorcycles.

The kind of place that serves as office, therapy couch, and social club for half the town.

Inside, the atmosphere is pure honky-tonk trying to age into respectability. Peanut shells crunch underfoot despite the "Please Use Provided Receptacles" signs. The air tastes like decades of cigarette smoke that no amount of deep cleaning can fully exorcise.

A jukebox in the corner plays something twangy about trucks and heartbreak.

The man behind the bar looks up from polishing a glass, and his face splits into a grin that transforms his weathered features. Buck Jennings is exactly what a saloon owner should be—handlebar mustache, vest that's seen better decades, and eyes that miss nothing.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says, already reaching for a glass. "Henry James's granddaughter, as I live and breathe."

He slides a sweet tea across the bar before I can even ask, the glass sweating in the afternoon heat. It's perfect—not too sweet, plenty of ice, with that particular restaurant quality that can't be replicated at home.

"How did you⁠—"

"Know your order?" Buck's mustache twitches. "Girl, your grandpa talked about you every time he came in. How you liked your tea, how you took your steak, how you could out-stubborn a mule when you set your mind to something. I'd know Henry James's granddaughter anywhere."

Henry. Not William. It takes me a moment to realize he's using my middle name, the one Grandpa insisted on despite my parents' protests. "Henry after my father," he'd said. "So she'll always know she comes from strong stock."

I sip the tea to hide the emotion threatening to spill over.

It tastes like summer afternoons on the porch, Grandpa teaching me to play poker while Grandma pretended not to notice.

"Your money's no good here," Buck adds when Cole reaches for his wallet. "First drink's always free for family coming home."

Family.

Home.

The words keep hitting like stones in a pond, each ripple spreading further.

We don't stay long—we need to bring back the formula for Luna before dinner time—but Buck makes me promise to come back "when you can stay awhile and tell me how you really are."

The walk back to the truck takes us past the Sweetwater Falls Hotel, and I can't help glancing through the window. The same sour-faced clerk from my arrival sits behind the desk, but what catches my eye is the policy binder open on the counter.

Even from here, I can read the bold type:

"Omegas unaccompanied? No."

My steps falter.

After the warmth of the other welcomes, this reminder of systemic prejudice hits like cold water. Cole sees it too—his whole body goes rigid, jaw clenching with the kind of anger that reshapes atmosphere.

"Archaic assholes," Wendolyn mutters. "That policy's been illegal for twenty years, but Harold keeps it on the books because 'tradition.'"

"We'll deal with it," Cole says, and something in his tone suggests 'dealing with it' might involve more than strongly worded letters.

Back in the truck, I process the afternoon's whiplash of experiences. The judgment at the hardware store versus the welcome everywhere else. The signs of progress are next to policies from another century. A town that held space for me while simultaneously clinging to prejudices that would see me as less than.

"It's a lot," I finally say, watching storefronts slide past. "The town, I mean. Some people act like I've always belonged here, others look at me like I'm an invasive species."

"That's small towns for you," Wendolyn sighs from the backseat. "Everyone's in your business, everyone has opinions, and God help you if you don't fit their narrow definitions. But the good ones, the people like Pearl and Buck? They make it worth it."

"The judgmental ones are just louder," Cole adds, navigating around a tractor that's decided Main Street is the perfect place for a leisurely drive. "Doesn't make them the majority."

"Still," I mutter, thinking of the hotel's policy, the hardware store women, all the micro-aggressions that death by a thousand cuts. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just trading one type of cage for another."

Cole's hand moves like he's going to reach for me, then returns to the wheel.

The almost-touch burns more than contact would have.

The feed store bags thump against the truck bed with each pothole, a percussion section to Wendolyn's endless monologue about which families have been feuding since the Nixon administration.

I try to focus on her words, on the mundane gossip that should ground me in normalcy, but my thigh still burns where Cole's hand rested, even though it was hours since we arrived and got down to business.

Even through the denim, I swear I can feel the exact outline of his fingers, branded into my skin like a claim I'm not ready to examine.

I swear I’m going insane…

"—and then Margaret's prize heifer got into Paul's alfalfa field, and well, you can imagine the fireworks after that," Wendolyn continues from the backseat, apparently unbothered by my minimal responses. "Though personally, I think they're both being ridiculous. It's been three years!"

Cole's driving has shifted from the focused intensity of earlier to something more relaxed, one hand draped over the wheel while the other rests on the center console.

Close enough that I could touch if I were brave.

Just a few centimeters that every breath brings his scent—pine and leather and something indefinably male that makes my inner Omega self want to purr despite my best efforts to silence her.

When was the last time I even purred for an Alpha. ?

I can’t even remember making the sound for the Iron Ridge Pack…let alone Blake himself, the orchestrator of that relationship.

Main Street unfolds before us like a postcard that's trying too hard. Storefronts painted in jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, amethyst—catch the afternoon light, their windows gleaming with small-town pride. Hanging baskets overflow with chrysanthemums and ornamental kale, defying October's chill with bursts of copper and purple. Wrought-iron benches line the sidewalks, each bearing a brass plaque: "In Memory of..." "Donated by..." "For Our Beloved..."

It's aggressively charming, this main street, like the whole town got together and decided to cosplay as a Hallmark movie. But underneath the fresh paint and careful maintenance, I catch glimpses of what it costs to keep up appearances. A crack in the sidewalk hastily patched. A storefront with a "Coming Soon!" sign that's faded from seasons of false promises. The way people's waves at Cole's truck carry a weight of expectation, like they're cataloging who he's with and why.

"There it is!" Wendolyn practically bounces as we pull up to a Victorian house converted into commercial space. "Wildflower & Wren" is painted in flowing script above windows dressed for autumn with paper leaves and tiny pumpkins. "I still can't believe it's really mine sometimes."

The building is painted a soft lavender with white trim, feminine without being cloying. Window boxes burst with trailing ivy and late-blooming petunias. Through the glass, I glimpse warm light and the promised merger of books and café that seems almost too perfect to exist in a town this small.

Cole exits first, circling the truck with that controlled grace that makes my mouth dry. When he opens my door, his hand is there again—offered, not demanded.

I take it, letting him steady me onto the sidewalk, trying not to notice how his thumb brushes my pulse point before letting go.

"After you," he says, one hand finding the small of my back as we follow Wendolyn inside. The touch is light, barely there through my sweater, but it might as well be a brand for how aware I am of each finger's placement.

The shop's interior assaults my senses in the best way. Coffee—rich and dark—mingles with vanilla and cinnamon from whatever's baking in the café section. But underneath flows the deeper scent of books: old paper and binding glue, fresh ink from new releases, the indefinable smell of stories waiting to be discovered. It wraps around me like a familiar embrace, and for the first time since arriving in Sweetwater Falls, I feel something in my chest unclench.

The familiarity of being back in such a cozy space gives me an odd sense of peace.

"Welcome to my kingdom," Wendolyn says with a flourish, green eyes bright with pride and something like nervousness. "Books on this side, café over there, and my apartment's upstairs, though that's not part of the tour unless you're into organized chaos."

Floor-to-ceiling shelves create an intimate maze, each section marked with hand-painted signs in Wendolyn's flowing script. "Romance Heroes Worth Swooning Over." "Mysteries to Keep You Up Past Bedtime." "Self-Help for When You Can't Help Yourself." The humor makes me smile despite myself. It’s even funnier to see Cole’s confusion as he’s trying to understand it all.

"Nice," Cole tells her honestly. I bet he’s seen the place before, but maybe didn’t know it belonged to Wendolyn. "How long have you been open?"

"Just over a year." She glows under the praise, copper hair catching the warm light from vintage fixtures. "Left my corporate marketing job in Denver after a spectacular breakup and decided to follow a dream instead of a man,” I can tell she’s exaggerating, but I guess it’s more to entertain us than to go into the dramatics and past she probably doesn’t like to tell many about. “Obviously, the firefighter stuff was a bonus, but yeah. Investing in my dream shop was the best decision I ever made, even if some folks think I'm crazy for trying to make a bookshop work in a town this size."

Cole positions himself near the door, hands loose at his sides, but eyes constantly scanning. It should make me feel trapped, this protective watching, but instead I feel... safe. Like whatever threats exist in the world, they'll have to go through him first.

The thought sends an inappropriate thrill through me that I ruthlessly suppress.

"These are my babies," Wendolyn says, leading us to a climate-controlled case. "First editions, signed copies, a few manuscripts that probably shouldn't exist outside private collections but somehow ended up in estate sales."

She opens the case with reverent hands, pulling out a cloth-wrapped volume.

"Pride and Prejudice, first edition. Found it in a box of romance novels at a yard sale. The woman selling it had no idea what she had."

"May I?" I reach out instinctively, then catch myself. These aren't just books; they're investments, dreams made tangible.

"Of course!" She places it in my hands with the care of a mother passing over a newborn. "Anyone who handles books like that knows their value."

The leather is soft under my fingers, pages gilt-edged and whispering with age. I open it carefully, breathing in the scent of centuries-old paper, and for a moment I'm transported. Not to Regency England, but to my grandmother's library, learning to love stories before I learned to fear the world.

A bell chimes as the door opens, bringing a gust of October air and two women who immediately zero in on our corner. Their eyes skip over Wendolyn, pause on me with the calculating look of locals sizing up a stranger, then stick on Cole with an interest that makes my hackles rise.

He shifts closer without seeming to move, his body angling to put himself between me and the newcomers. The movement is subtle but unmistakable—a claiming that has no words but speaks volumes. His scent intensifies, pine and leather wrapped around something more primal, and my body responds with embarrassing eagerness.

"Ladies," he acknowledges with a nod that manages to be polite while clearly communicating a lack of interest.

They titter—actually titter—and whisper to each other as they move deeper into the shop. But I catch their backward glances, the way they catalog my proximity to Cole, the defensive angle of his shoulders. By tomorrow, I'm certain, half the town will know Cole Montgomery brought the new ranch owner to Wendolyn's shop and stood guard like she was precious cargo.

"Popular with the locals?" I ask, trying for casual and missing by miles.

Wendolyn snorts. "Single Alpha under sixty who looks like that? He could be a serial killer and half the unmated Omegas in town would still throw themselves at him." She pauses, eyes dancing with mischief. "Good thing he only seems to have eyes for one particular Omega these days."

Heat floods my face, and I busy myself returning the book to its case. Cole's hand finds my back again as we move through the narrow aisle, steadying me when I stumble over nothing but my own awareness of him. His touch burns through my sweater, each point of contact sending signals my body receives far too eagerly.

"We should get going," he says, voice pitched low enough that it feels intimate despite Wendolyn's presence. "Still have a few stops before the hardware store."

But he doesn't move away, doesn't remove his hand from where it rests against my spine. We stand there in the classic literature section, surrounded by stories of love and loss and second chances, while my body catalogues every point where we almost touch. His heat radiates across the scant inches between us, and I have the wild urge to step back into his chest, to find out if he'd wrap those strong arms around me or maintain this careful distance that's driving me slowly insane.

"Right," I manage, proud when my voice doesn't shake. "Thank you for showing us your collection, Wendolyn. It's really incredible."

She beams, clearly pleased, and walks us to the door. "Come back anytime. And I mean it about helping with the horses—if River's willing to teach, I'm eager to learn."

The October air hits like a relief and disappointment combined. Cole's hand falls away as we reach the truck, and I tell myself I'm glad. Tell myself the absence doesn't feel like a loss. Tell myself a lot of lies as we prepare to continue this tour of my maybe-future hometown, with an Alpha who makes me want things I shouldn't want and a growing certainty that I'm in way over my head.

Wendolyn follows us out, eager to bid us farewell.

"Thanks for the ride. And the tour. And the..." She gestures vaguely. "Everything."

"You sure you don't want to come back to the ranch for dinner?" I offer, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "Austin's making his famous chili apparently."

"Tempting, but you're staying the night, right? I don't want to intrude on⁠—"

"She's coming back tonight," Cole interrupts, and something in his tone makes my stomach flip. "Evening training. Can't skip the first day."

"Training." Wendolyn draws out the word, eyes dancing between us. "Right. Of course. Lots of... training to do."

"Wendolyn," I protest, heat flooding my face.

"What?" She's all innocence, but her grin is pure mischief. "I'm just saying, ranching requires lots of hands-on instruction. Very physical work. Probably gets sweaty."

"Oh my God."

"I'm going now," she announces, climbing out with her purchases. But before closing the door, she leans back in with a stage whisper. "Just remember—tension like this needs resolution, or everyone suffers. Don't make those poor men suffer, Willa."

"Wendolyn!"

She's already gone, practically skipping to her shop door with a wave over her shoulder. I sink into my seat, face burning, steadfastly not looking at Cole.

"She's not subtle," he observes, voice carefully neutral.

"She's a menace," I correct, then immediately worry it sounds too harsh. "I mean, she's great, but⁠—"

"Willa." The way he says my name stops my rambling. "Breathe."

I do, filling my lungs with air that tastes too much like him. Pine and leather, and possibility I'm not ready to examine.

"For what it's worth," he continues, pulling away from the curb, "she's not wrong about the training. River's got the horses ready, and Austin wants to go over Luna's routines in detail. Mavi's probably already run seventeen background checks on everyone you met today."

SEVENTEEN?!

"Just seventeen?"

"He's showing restraint." There's humor in his voice now, the tension easing. "Usually it's at least twenty."

The town fades behind us as we head back toward the ranch.

Back toward four Alphas and a baby and a future I can't quite envision. But for the first time, the uncertainty doesn't feel like drowning.

It feels like a possibility.

That I’m actually worthy of starting anew…starting with this potentially opportunity I can no longer ignore.

"Cole?" I say as we turn onto the ranch road.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For today. For..." I gesture helplessly. "Everything."

His hand leaves the wheel just long enough to squeeze mine, there and gone before I can react.

But the warmth lingers all the way home.

Glimpse Of What “This” Can Be

~COLE~

The gravel crunches under my tires as I ease the truck to a stop near the bunkhouse, killing the engine with more care than necessary.

Every movement feels deliberate, controlled—a desperate attempt to maintain the professional distance that's been crumbling since the moment Willa climbed into my passenger seat this morning. The October evening paints everything in shades of amber and shadow, but all I can focus on is the woman beside me who's somehow managed to dismantle every wall I've built in a matter of days.

I kept today's trip short on purpose.

Usually, Mavi and I make the town run into an all-day affair—hardware store, feed store, vet supplies, grocery haul, plus whatever maintenance the truck needs. We hit every business that matters, checking in with the community that depends on us as much as we depend on them. But I couldn't subject Willa to that marathon, not when she's still finding her footing. Not when every new person she meets sizes her up like she's either prey or competition.

The jealousy that flashed in her eyes when Wendolyn mentioned helping with the horses—Christ, that did things to me.

My dick's been half-hard since that moment, my Alpha brain interpreting her possessiveness as interest, as claiming. She doesn't want another Omega on her territory, near her Alphas. The primitive part of me that I usually keep locked down tight practically howled at the recognition. Mine, my thoughts insisted.

She's staking her claim without even realizing it.

I should feel guilty about how much that pleases me.

Should remember she's traumatized, recovering, needs space and time, and definitely not another Alpha losing his mind over her. But logic doesn't stand a chance against the satisfaction that pools hot in my gut every time I remember that flash of jealousy, the way her scent spiked despite those expensive blocking panties she thinks hide everything.

"Looks like dinner's ready," Willa says, her voice soft in the truck's intimate silence. She's gazing at the main house where warm light spills from every window, painting golden rectangles on the darkening ground.

Through the kitchen window, I can see movement—River at the stove, Austin probably setting the table one-handed while Luna supervises from her high chair. Mavi will be checking locks, running his evening perimeter, making sure we're secure for another night.

It's domestic…a real home…and Willa's looking at it like she's seeing something precious and fragile, something she wants but doesn't quite believe she can have.

How can I convince her she deserves the world?

To be spoiled and loved as any Omega should.

"They'll wait," I hear myself say, even though I know we should go in. Should join our makeshift family for dinner and pretend my body isn't screaming to claim the woman sitting two feet away.

She turns to look at me, and fuck me, but that white sweater is going to be my undoing.

It's nothing special—soft cotton that's seen better days, probably something she grabbed without thinking. But it's slipped off one shoulder, baring the elegant line of her neck, the delicate hollow of her collarbone.

The truck's dome light casts shadows that beg to be traced with lips and tongue, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.

My eyes trail lower without permission, taking in how those jeans hug her curves like they were painted on.

She's not trying to be sexy—that's what makes it worse. She's just existing in her body, unaware of how every breath makes that sweater shift, how the setting sun backlights her hair into a copper halo, how her very presence is rewiring my brain into something feral and wanting.

The blocking underwear can't hide everything.

Maybe it's imagination or wishful thinking, but I swear I catch hints of her true scent—vanilla and maple with that underlying sweetness that's pure aroused Omega. It weaves through the truck's recycled air, mixing with leather and pine until I can't tell where I end and she begins.

My mouth waters with the sudden, visceral need to taste her properly. To push her back against the seat and bury my face between her thighs until she's sobbing my name, until her slick coats my tongue and her scent is branded into my memory forever.

The fantasy hits with enough force to make me grunt, cock jerking hard against my jeans.

If I let it, the urge would tear through me, wild and unrestrained, until there was nothing left but instinct and muscle memory and the taste of her on my lips. I want to break her open and meld her to this place, to me, until all of Sweetwater knows exactly who she belongs to. I'd start at that shoulder—God, that shoulder, tempting and soft and exposed in a way that says touch me, claim me, be the first one to make me shiver.

I'd run my thumb along the curve of her clavicle, slow and deliberate, not just as a tease but as a promise. My teeth would follow, leaving faint indents, a warning and a vow. She'd gasp, maybe try to play tough, but I know she'd melt; beneath all her bravado, she wants this as much as I do.

I can see it already: the trail of love bites, some dark and angry, some pale and ghosting, dotting her skin like constellations only I know how to read.

I'd paint them on her—a secret code of devotion and appetite, meant to linger for days so she'd think of me every time her shirt brushes over a sore spot. It wouldn't stop there.

I'd map every inch of her, learning the secret languages only my tongue and hands could translate. The hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse hammers desperate and wild, the sweet curve of her waist that fits exactly into my palm, the soft inner flesh at the top of her thigh where her scent pools thick and heavy.

If she let me, I'd spend a whole afternoon with her laid out on the bed, sunlight filtering through those thin ranch curtains, her hair a copper halo on my pillow.

I wouldn't just mark her; I'd worship her, wear her down slow until every stubborn wall she built was rubble under my hands.

She'd be defiant at first, lip curled and brow furrowed, daring me to back down. But I'd take my time—I'm nothing if not patient, and I've waited so many goddamn years to feel this alive again. To dare let my body feel what she’s igniting so effortlessly when I’ve been a rock of coal in the emotions department.

I'd coax her open with fingers and mouth, drawing out those little noises she tries to smother. I want the desperate ones best—the gasps, the whimpers, the guttural demands that echo down to the bones. The way she'd clutch at my hair, my shoulders, digging in like she's drowning and I'm the only thing keeping her afloat.

I'd make her come on my tongue, once, twice, until she's trembling. Boneless and spent, legs thrown over my shoulders, her hands fisted in the sheets or in my hair, I wouldn't let up until she begged.

And even then, I'd keep going, dragging her through bliss until she remembered what it felt like to surrender and be adored. Her taste would be everywhere—my mouth, my beard, even my skin—and I'd take it as evidence for anyone who cared to look that she's not just a guest here. She's pack. Mine. Us.

In my head, the whole damn house would know.

River would arch a brow at the new bruises on her neck, Mavi would try not to smirk, and Austin would just blush and offer her coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Luna, perceptive as ever, would probably giggle, sensing her Omega's happiness radiating off her like heat.

There'd be no hiding it, and I wouldn't want her to. I'd want her marked, claimed, so she never doubted for a second that she belonged here—not as a guest, not as a burden, but as the center of our world.

The fantasy is so vivid I can almost taste her already.

My jaw aches with the effort it takes to hold myself back, to not reach across and drag her into my lap right now, consequences be damned. I shift in my seat, desperate for relief, and catch her watching me—those maple-gold eyes darkened in the half-light, lips parted like she's halfway to a confession.

I'd give her everything.

I want her enough to burn for her, to lose myself in the act of worship and not care who sees the ashes after. Fuck, I'd get down on my knees and beg if that's what it took to have her, to make her feel safe and home and wanted.

I'd learn every inch of her body and all the ways she needs to be loved, then I'd give it to her until she never doubted again.

"Cole?" Her voice breaks through the haze of want, uncertain but not afraid. Never afraid, not my fierce little Omega who faced down half the town's prejudices without flinching.

I force my eyes to hers, knowing she can see everything—the hunger, the barely leashed control, the Alpha need to claim and possess and protect. Her pupils dilate in response, black swallowing gold, and her lips part on a shaky exhale that might as well be permission for all the control it leaves me with.

She sees me.

Not the careful rancher, not the controlled foreman who keeps everyone safe and fed and functioning. She sees the man underneath who wants her with an intensity that should terrify us both.

And instead of running, instead of using that sharp tongue to put me in my place, she holds my gaze with a courage that makes me want to howl at the moon.

This is what I realized in town, watching her move through spaces like she's always belonged there.

She's nothing like the flashy Omegas who used to throw themselves at us during our firefighting days—all obvious assets and calculated submission, performing their designation like it's a role to be played. Willa's different. Humble without being weak, strong without needing to prove it.

She adapts without losing herself, finding her place in our world through determination rather than manipulation.

The way she handled Luna last night, calling Austin for help without shame.

The way she stood up for Wendolyn at the hardware store, protective instincts flaring over a woman she'd just met. The way she's slowly learning the ranch's rhythms, asking questions and absorbing information like she's planning to stay.

Like she's planning to make this home.

Preparing to stay with us…permanently.

To be OUR Omega…one that fits right in.

That fits just right as the final piece in our oddly mixed puzzle.

I want that.

Want her to stay, to let us show her what pack is supposed to be.

Want to wake up to her scent in the house, to teach her how to ride River's horses, to watch her confidence grow until that fierce dominant Omega I glimpsed in town becomes her default setting. Want it all with a desperation that should embarrass me but doesn't.

Our eyes stay locked, the air between us charged with possibility and promise and all the things we're not saying.

Somewhere in the distance, a door slams—probably Mavi finishing his rounds. Reality intrudes, reminding me that we're sitting in view of anyone who cares to look, that dinner's waiting, that I'm supposed to be the responsible one.

But for one more moment, I let myself look at her.

Let myself imagine a future where this tension finds its resolution, where the careful distance I maintain crumbles entirely. Where I get to find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells, if her skin marks as easily as I imagine, if she makes those little whimpering sounds when she comes that have haunted my dreams since the day we pulled her from the fire.

Soon.

The word is a promise to myself, to her, to the inevitability building between us.

Soon, but not tonight.

Tonight we'll have dinner with our family, and I'll pretend my control isn't hanging by a thread. Tomorrow we'll work the ranch, and I'll teach her about the horses without backing her against a stall door.

But soon—very soon—I'm going to stop pretending this is just obligation or proximity or shared trauma. I’m going to boldly act and give up on denying myself what I whole heartily need.

I'm going to kiss her like I've been dying to since the moment she stood in our kitchen, defiant and damaged and absolutely perfect.

And God help us both, but I don't think she'll stop me.

"We should go in." Willa's voice cracks slightly on the words, breaking the spell that holds us frozen. "They're waiting for us."

The words are logical, responsible, everything we should be thinking.

But they come out breathless, undermined by the way her chest rises and falls too quickly, the way her fingers grip the edge of the seat like she needs an anchor.

She's trying to be the voice of reason while her body broadcasts the same need that's eating me alive.

"Yeah," I agree, the word rough as gravel in my throat. "We should."

Neither of us moves.

The dome light casts everything in soft focus, turning the truck's interior into something intimate and separate from the world beyond the windows.

That's when I notice it—a strand of her auburn hair has escaped whatever she'd done to tame it this morning, falling across her face in a way that makes my fingers itch. Such a small thing, but it breaks something in me.

The careful control I've maintained all day, the professional distance I swore I'd keep—it all crumbles at the sight of that single piece of hair catching the light.

"Hold still," I murmur, reaching across the center console before I can talk myself out of it.

She freezes, but not with fear.

This is anticipation, the same electric awareness that's been building between us since I put my hand on her thigh this morning.

My fingers find that errant strand, tucking it slowly behind her ear, letting my fingertips trail along the shell. Her skin is silk-soft and fever-warm, and I feel more than hear the tiny catch in her breathing.

"Cole." My name on her lips sounds like a prayer and a curse combined.

The lamplight from the ranch filters through the windshield, casting shadows that turn her eyes into pools of amber fire.

Those extraordinary eyes that see too much, that challenge and submit in equal measure.

Her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, and I can see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat like a trapped bird. Everything about her in this moment—the vulnerability, the want, the trust she's placing in me by not pulling away—it destroys the last of my good intentions.

I've tried to deny this.

Tried to tell myself she needs time, space, careful handling.

That the attraction crackling between us is just proximity and shared trauma, that it'll fade once she settles in.

But my body knows better…my cock surely knows what it wants to be deep inside with.

Every cell in me recognizes her as mine to protect, to pleasure, to claim in all the ways that matter.

The Alpha in me has been patient long enough.

"Fuck it," I breathe, the decision made between one heartbeat and the next.

I lean across the console, moving slow enough that she could stop me if she wanted.

My hand slides from her ear to cup her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

She makes a sound—half whimper, half purr—that shoots straight to my cock. Her scent spikes despite those damn blocking panties, vanilla and maple and pure, sweet arousal that makes my mouth water.

"Tell me to stop," I whisper, close enough now that my breath ghosts across her lips. "Tell me to back off, and I will. No questions, no hurt feelings. Just say the word, Willa."

She needs to know she’s the one in the driver’s seat with this.

That she’s in control and I’ll abid to whatever she wishes from me.

I may be a starving Alpha desperate to taste her, but her permission or denial would be respected, no matter how horny I am to enjoy every bit of her.

Her eyes search mine, and I see the war there—want battling caution, need fighting fear. But underneath it all, that defiant flame that made me hard in the hardware store, that makes her challenge societal expectations and face down her demons.

The fierce dominant Omega who's been caged too long, finally ready to break free.

"I don't want you to stop," she breathes, and her hands come up to fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. "I'm so tired of stopping, of being careful, of pretending I don't want⁠—"

I swallow the rest of her words with my mouth, and Christ, the taste of her.

Sweet like honey mead, with an edge of coffee from whatever she drank in town. But underneath, the unique flavor that's pure Willa—something wild and untamed that makes me groan into the kiss.

She gasps at the sound, lips parting, and I take the invitation to deepen the contact.

My tongue slides against hers, and she meets me with enthusiasm that destroys any thought of keeping this gentle. Her fingernails dig into my chest through the cotton, holding on like I might disappear if she lets go.

She makes these tiny, broken gasps—like every cell in her body just remembered how badly she’s allowed to want. Maybe she’s always sounded like that when she let herself go, like there’s this secret language of hunger and hope hidden under her defiance, but hell if I’d ever heard anything better. It’s not the breathy, practiced moaning of those barroom hookups who used to angle for a place in our bed and our will. There’s no performance here, just pure, involuntary need, every sound stripped raw and sent straight to my nervous system.

The first whimper cracks open every piece of restraint I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours welding shut. The second—high, sweet, and totally unselfconscious—settles in my gut like a grenade. I want to swallow every one of her noises, to learn them by heart, to see how many different kinds I can pull from her the next time we’re alone and I’m not worried about who’s watching from the porch.

She’s trembling now, but not with fear. I can feel it in the way her lips catch and stutter against mine, the way her hips shift restlessly even held in place by the seatbelt. It’s anticipation, it’s want, it’s the promise of what we could do to each other if I let myself off the chain. Some part of me is vaguely aware that Mavi and River and Austin could walk by at any second and see their usually uptight, ironclad Alpha losing his goddamn mind for a girl he barely knows. That should embarrass me, or at least stop me from chasing her taste like I haven’t eaten in weeks.

But it doesn’t. All I care about in this moment is the way Willa’s mouth opens for me, the way her pulse hammers under my thumb as I tighten my hold on her jaw, the way her hands tangle in the front of my shirt like she needs me to keep her afloat. She’s letting me lead but she’s not letting me dominate; every time I try to set the pace, she meets me with equal force, pushing back with a stubbornness that makes me want to ruin her and build her up a thousand times in the same breath.

My brain is static, everything white noise except for the knowledge that she’s here, real, wanting this as much as I do. I can taste it in her exhale—fear and hope and the faint, inexplicable sweetness of maple that clings to her skin even now. If I weren’t so far gone, the softness of it might break my heart. Instead, it just drives me harder.

I angle her head to take the kiss deeper, my other hand finding her waist, pulling her as close as the console allows. She arches into me, soft curves pressing against my chest, and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes. The urge to haul her into my lap, to grind against her until she's sobbing my name, nearly overwhelms what's left of my control.

"Been wanting this," I growl against her mouth, unable to stop the words. "Since the moment you stood in our kitchen looking lost and fierce and so fucking beautiful it hurt."

She moans at that, the sound vibrating through both of us, and her tongue tangles with mine in a way that suggests she's been thinking about this too. Imagining it, wanting it, fighting it just like I have.

The spark between us detonates, ignition instant and absolute. She parts her lips, and the need that surges through both of us is nuclear—hot, frantic, untamable. The first brush is gentle, a test, but we both fail the restraint immediately. She drags me downward, nails biting into my chest, and I go with her, helpless to the gravity well she’s become in my universe. My mouth crashes into hers and the taste is intoxicating: maple and ozone, a hint of fear, a drug-smuggler’s boldness. She moans and I inhale it, oxygen and invitation and challenge. Every closed-off, lonely year gets poured out on my tongue, and I drink it down greedy and grateful.

We lose the thread of thought, the script of first kisses and tender patience. It’s teeth and tongue and hunger instead. The console digs into my hip, but I lean in anyway, bracing her to the seat with a hand at the base of her skull. She tilts her chin higher, wanting more, and I give it, deepening the kiss until she’s panting. My other hand comes up, sliding under the curtain of auburn hair to cup her jaw, thumb stroking the hinge. Every tiny tremble, every catch in her breath, rewires the animal inside me. I want her to feel safe, yes, but I want her to feel wanted more. I want her to know I see the walls she keeps up and crave what’s burning behind them.

She matches me, beat for beat, gasp for gasp. Her fingers clutch the fabric of my shirt until the seams threaten to split, and she hauls me closer, a low, frantic whimper simmering in her throat. I’m past the point of shame, of worrying what the other guys might see or think. Let them witness. Let the wind carry her scent and make them jealous. I want the whole damn county to know that Willa James is mine, that she’s found her place and it’s right here in our hands, our arms, our lives.

She breaks away first, only a fraction, lips swollen and glazed, pupils enormous in the half-light. There’s a wildness in her eyes now—fear, yes, but also hope, and underneath it the simmering promise of all the ways we could wreck each other. The sound of her name, heavy and thick, rumbles out of me before I can swallow it. She shudders, nails scraping a path down my sternum, and I nearly come undone right there.

Because this isn't just a kiss. It's years of longing, of silence, of being the odd woman out in every pack she’s ever survived. It’s every time she’s been left behind, every time she’s been told she’s too much—too smart, too stubborn, too broken. I want to erase those words with my own, with my mouth and my hands and the promise that she’s never going to go without again.

My hand slides from her waist to her back, finding bare skin where that damn sweater has slipped. She's furnace-hot under my palm, and the feel of her—soft and real and here—makes me growl possessively. Mine, every instinct screams.

This Omega is mine to protect, to pleasure, to worship with hands and mouth until she never doubts her place again.

I break the kiss only to trail my lips along her jaw, finding that spot just below her ear that makes her whole body shiver. "You have no idea," I murmur against her skin, "what you do to me. How hard it's been to keep my hands off you. How many times I've imagined this since you’ve arrived. My desperation to just scoop you up and make you ours."

"Cole," she gasps, and hearing my name like that—breathless and wanting—nearly breaks me. "Please, I⁠—"

A door slams somewhere near the house, loud enough to penetrate our bubble. We freeze, remembering where we are, who's waiting, all the reasons this shouldn't be happening in the front seat of my truck like teenagers who can't wait.

Even though it feels like we can’t.

I pull back slowly, reluctant to lose contact but knowing we need to stop before this goes further than either of us is ready for.

Willa's lips are swollen from my kiss, her hair mussed from my fingers, and she looks thoroughly claimed even though we've barely started.

Fuck…she’s so damn gorgeous…

The sight makes something primal and satisfied purr in my chest.

"We really do need to go in," I say, voice rough with want. "Before Mavi comes looking and finds us like this."

She nods, still breathing hard, fingers slowly releasing their death grip on my shirt. But her eyes hold mine, dark with promise and heat that matches my own. I can see the internal battle, the way she’s hesitating to speak as her lips open partially but no words come out.

Then there’s that flicker of defiance. The unraveling beauty of her confidence beginning to spark in those wild eyes.

"This isn't over," she says, and there's that defiant flame again, the dominant Omega showing through. “Understood?”

Good.

"Yes, Boss" I tease, thumb brushing her swollen bottom lip one more time because I can't help myself. "Noted."

The truck door closes with a soft click that might as well be a gunshot for how it echoes through my body.

Willa's scent lingers—vanilla and maple and the ghost of her arousal that no expensive underwear can fully hide—while I watch her walk toward the house with careful steps, like she doesn't trust her legs.

I don't trust mine either, not with my cock straining against denim hard enough to leave permanent impressions, not with the taste of her still burning on my tongue like whiskey and want.

She pauses at the porch steps, one hand gripping the rail, and glances back.

Just for a second, but it's enough to see the flush still painting her cheeks, the way her lips remain swollen from my kiss.

Then she's gone, disappearing inside to "wash up before dinner" like we didn't just set fire to every boundary between us.

I exhale hard, letting my head fall back against the seat.

My dick throbs with each heartbeat, pressing against my zipper like it's trying to break free on its own. The ache runs bone-deep, worse than any injury I've taken on the job, because this one's self-inflicted.

I did this to myself, kissing her like that, tasting what I can't have—not yet, not until she's ready for everything that comes with letting an Alpha claim her.

Letting each of us into her life the way a pack should.

Movement catches my eye, and I turn to find Mavi leaning against the passenger window, arms crossed, watching me with that look he gets when he's cataloging evidence. Of course he's here. Of course he saw everything. The man's got a sixth sense for drama and terrible timing.

"Fuck," I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. "Not now, Mavi."

He doesn't move, just raises one eyebrow in that infuriating way that says he's not going anywhere until he's satisfied his curiosity.

Through the glass, I can see the slight smirk playing at his lips.

Bastard's enjoying this.

I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make my cock scream for attention, but it's useless.

Every movement just increases the friction, sends another pulse of need through my system. My balls feel heavy, tight with the need for release, and my knot—Jesus, I can already feel it starting to swell at the base, responding to the Omega pheromones that cling to every surface she touched.

"Fuck it," I mutter, reaching for my belt.

If Mavi wants a show, he can deal with the consequences.

The zipper sounds obscenely loud in the quiet cab, but the relief when I free my cock makes me groan.

I'm harder than I've been in years, the head already dark and dripping, veins standing out along the shaft like they're trying to escape my skin.

One stroke has me hissing through my teeth, oversensitive from denial and the lingering ghost of Willa's touch.

I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take over.

In my mind, she's still here, but the console's gone and she's straddling my lap, that white sweater pushed up to reveal perfect breasts tipped with dusty pink nipples.

Her pussy hovers just above my cock, hot and wet and ready, while she makes those broken little gasps that nearly ended me during our kiss.

"Please," fantasy-Willa whispers, rolling her hips so her slick coats my length. "Need you inside me, Cole. Need to feel your knot."

My hand moves faster, precum making the slide easy as I imagine pushing into her tight heat. She'd be so wet for me, opening up like she was made to take my cock.

I’d start slow, always slow, not out of courtesy but because if I went at her the way my animal craves, I’d break both of us. So in my head, I take my time, trace every inch of her with my hands and my mouth, memorize the dips and tension points where her reaction flips from shy to demanding. I kiss her first, again and again, mapping the taste of her tongue as she fists my hair and damn near pulls it out by the roots. I whisper to her how perfect she is, how much I want her, how I’ve never needed anyone the way I need this—not just the slick heat of her body but the way she looks at me when she drops her guard, the way her voice goes tight with want.

When I finally push into her, it’s like the world goes monochrome except for the place where our bodies join. She’s small and tight, hot as the coals of an endless wildfire, and I grit my teeth so I don’t fuck it up and lose control. The first thrust is always the best and the worst: her head goes back, mouth falling open in shock and delight, that exquisite split-second where her body fights me before yielding and dragging me deeper. I watch her eyes the whole time, the way her lashes flutter when sensation overloads her. I want her to see herself through me, to know exactly how much she’s undone the man who once thought he had himself locked down tight.

I hold myself there, buried to the hilt, savoring the twitch and throb of her around me. She says my name—just once, quiet and reverent—and I nearly black out from the force of it. But this is the part where she surprises us both. She clutches my shoulders and rolls her hips, grinding down on me like she’s starving for more, using my body the way I always hoped she would. The dominant Omega, all pretenses of shyness burned away by pure need. She moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what she wants and how to take it.

And God help me, I give her everything. Every deep, grinding upward thrust; every bite along her collarbone; every broken moan I never let myself make in real life. I anchor her with my hands, one at her waist and one in her hair, and let her ride me as hard and fast as she wants. She sets the rhythm, bouncing in my lap with reckless abandon, making the whole truck shake with our shared violence of want. I can almost hear the slap of skin, the wet, obscene sounds of her body milking mine for every last drop of release. She’d make the sweetest, dirtiest noises—little whimpers at first, then sobs of pleasure that rip the air out of my lungs.

Her nails dig crescent moons into my shoulders, and I welcome every sting. She’s flushed and wild, hair flying, sweat beading on her skin. I can almost smell the ozone crackle of our pheromones filling the cab, drowning out every other scent but hers. She’s so fucking beautiful in this fantasy, ruined and radiant and alive in a way I never dared hope to see.

I ride the edge of orgasm for as long as I can, desperate to make this last, but the way she clenches around my dick—the way her body milks me, demanding surrender—breaks me every time. I want to knot her, to fill her with so much of myself she never questions who she belongs to again. I want her to feel me for days, to see the proof of my claim every time she moves.

The truck rocks slightly with my movements, but I'm past caring. All that matters is the image in my head—Willa bouncing on my cock, her breasts swaying with each thrust, that auburn hair wild around her face as she chases her pleasure. I'd lean forward to capture one nipple between my teeth, sucking hard while she keened above me, her pussy clenching rhythmically around my shaft.

"That's it," I'd growl against her skin. "Take what you need. Show me how an Omega claims her Alpha."

She'd come first, throwing her head back as her walls squeezed me like a vise, slick gushing around my cock as she screamed my name.

The sight, the sound, the feel of her coming apart—it would trigger my own release, my knot swelling fully as I pumped her full of cum, preparing for us to be locked in together while she collapsed against my chest.

Reality crashes back as my orgasm hits, brutal and intense.

I grunt through clenched teeth, hips jerking as rope after rope of cum spurts across my fist and stomach.

My knot throbs at the base, partially swollen and aching for the tight grip of an Omega's pussy to lock into. I massage it roughly, working out the worst of the swelling while aftershocks ripple through me.

"Shit," I pant, reaching for the box of tissues Willa had insisted we buy in town. Something about always being prepared, delivered with that practical efficiency that makes me want to bend her over the nearest surface and show her just how messy things can get.

I clean up as best I can, grateful for the foresight even as my hands shake slightly from the intensity of release. The truck reeks of Alpha musk and cum, so I crack the windows, letting in the cool October air.

It helps, but not enough to hide what just happened from anyone with a functioning nose.

Or this stalking asshole waiting for me.

"Nice night to chill in here," Mavi's voice cuts through the darkness, closer now. He's moved around to the driver's side, hands in his pockets, looking like butter wouldn't melt. "Your food's getting cold."

"You're too old to scare the shit out of me," I snap, tucking myself back in and doing up my jeans with movements that aim for casual and miss by miles.

He rolls his eyes, unimpressed.

"If you can jerk off in your truck, man, you need to know your surroundings. What if it had been Austin? Kid would've been scarred for life."

Guess he doesn’t know I clearly noticed him but I let it slide.

"You're annoying." I shove the door open, forcing him to step back. The night air hits like a blessing, cooling the sweat on my skin and diluting the evidence of my loss of control.

"Cole." His voice shifts, losing the teasing edge. I pause, knowing that tone. It's the one he uses when he's about to say something I don't want to hear. "You sure you want Willa?"

I turn slowly, meeting his green eyes in the porch light.

"What kind of question is that?"

"The kind that needs asking." He leans against the truck, all fake casualness hiding real concern. "If you initiate this, there's no holding back. You know it, I know it, the whole pack knows it. Remember what happened with that Omega from years ago."

My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.

Sarah.

He would bring up Sarah, the traveling nurse who'd blown through our lives like a wildfire, leaving nothing but ash in her wake. The one who'd seemed perfect until she wasn't, until we realized her interest was in what we could provide, not who we were.

"Willa's nothing like her," I grit out.

"No," Mavi agrees quietly. "She's not. Which is why I'm asking. Sarah was a mistake we could recover from. Willa... if this goes wrong, we lose everything. The ranch, the pack stability, Luna's safe space. You ready for that risk?"

I stare at him for a long moment, seeing the genuine worry beneath his usual paranoid exterior.

He's not wrong to be concerned. We've built something good here, something worth protecting. But he also didn't taste her desperation, didn't feel how perfectly she fit against me, didn't hear the way she said my name like coming home.

"I'm ready," I say finally, each word deliberate. "She's worth it."

Mavi searches my face, then nods slowly.

"Alright. Just... try not to fuck in the truck where the baby can see, yeah? We're trying to raise her with some class."

"Fuck off," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.

I stride toward the house, leaving him with the truck and whatever surveillance equipment he's probably planning to install. Each step feels like a declaration, a choice made that can't be taken back.

Inside, I can hear voices—River's calm tones, Austin's laughter, Luna's happy babbling.

And somewhere in there, Willa, probably still flushed from our kiss, still tasting like possibility.

Mavi's right about one thing—there's no holding back now.

But as I reach for the door handle, I realize I don't want to hold back.

Not anymore…not with her.

Time to make the right choice, even if it burns everything down in the process.

Learning To Trust

~WILLA~

My hands are numb where they've gripped the sheets all night, but there's a heat in my chest that I recognize as something far more dangerous than guilt—it's hope, unfurling like a flower that doesn't know winter's coming.

The October morning filters through curtains I don't remember closing, painting everything in shades of amber that make the room feel like a memory I'm still living in.

My body aches in places that haven't ached in years—not from pain, but from want so acute it's carved itself into my bones.

Did it really happen?

The question circles my mind like a vulture over carrion. But I can still taste him—pine and leather and that indefinable maleness that made my knees weak. My lips feel swollen, oversensitive, like Cole's kiss branded them with invisible marks only I can feel. I press my fingers to my mouth, chasing the ghost of pressure, and a whimper escapes before I can swallow it back.

The kiss. God, the kiss that rewrote every definition I had of what kissing could be.

Not the perfunctory pecks Blake allowed when his pack was watching, performances of affection that left me cold.

Not the calculated seduction I'd endured in the early days, when each Alpha took their turn showing me what I'd gain by submitting.

Those first months in Iron Ridge, every touch was a transaction disguised as foreplay, every breathless whisper in my ear a rehearsed line from a script older than the bloodline itself.

Blake would watch from a distance first, that slow, predatory tilt of his chin that said remember, you’re being graded here.

Every time I caught his gaze, he'd meet my eyes and arch an eyebrow, not in curiosity or surprise but in the way a cop tests sobriety—measuring how much of myself I'd managed to keep hidden, how much was leaking out where someone might notice. He had a way of looking through me, weighing the sum total of my behaviors against the endless, invisible rules of his world.

Sometimes I wondered if he was making them up as he went, moving the goalposts just to see how far I’d chase them, how willing I was to contort myself into the perfect version of what he wanted.

If I passed, he'd reward me with a flash of his perfect, predatory smile—sharp, knowing, infuriatingly satisfied—as if I'd become incrementally more worthy in his estimation, another notch on a scoreboard only he could read.

Liam, on the other hand, was the master of subtle sabotage—a compliment tipped just enough to cut, a lingering touch that never quite matched the warmth in his words.

He’d brush my hair behind my ear the way you’d unsnarl a snagged thread, like he was fixing something broken in me, then later say, "You always look prettiest when you don't try so hard, Willa."

The implication hung there: don't try to outshine me, don't let anyone see you sweat, don't forget who plucked you from anonymity in the first place.

At night, he’d soften, become almost gentle—fingers tracing circles along my collarbone, pressing his scent into my skin with the patience of someone marking their territory—but every gesture came with an aftertaste of performance, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

Hayden was the jokester, the one who could make me laugh until my stomach hurt and then, with surgical precision, slice me open with a few words.

He’d hold court at the dinner table, making everyone forget the seriousness of being a pack, and for a moment I could almost believe we were just friends, a found family.

Then, when conversation lulled, he'd lean in—close enough for only me to hear—and say something that burrowed right under my skin: "You’re good at pretending. You’ll fit in just fine."

The message was clear: don't get too comfortable, don't let the mask slip, or someone will notice you don’t belong.

Jude only acted as a shadow, rarely speaking, but his silence was a force field that kept me guessing what he was thinking. He’d linger at the edge of rooms, eyes narrowed, studying every interaction as if cataloging weaknesses.

When he did talk to me, it was always in riddles, or questions that sounded like accusations. "Do you ever miss your old life?" Or, "Is this what you pictured, when you said you’d do anything for family?"

Sometimes I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking, and the intensity of it made my skin prickle. Like he was waiting for my illusions to crack.

The four of them together were a machine—smooth, relentless, and impossible to escape. I learned quickly that kindness was currency, affection a controlled substance.

Even the good moments were transactional, weighted with the certainty that the bill would come due eventually. Every day felt like running an obstacle course where the obstacles smiled and told you they loved you, then moved the hurdles when your back was turned.

They'd spent weeks circling me like wolves at a kill, hands on my hips, mouths on my skin, always careful to leave just enough of my dignity intact that I wouldn't run. As if my exhaustion was the prize they were all after.

They'd spent weeks circling me like wolves at a kill, hands on my hips, mouths on my skin, always careful to leave just enough of my dignity intact that I wouldn't run. As if my exhaustion was the prize they were all after.

And I let them.

I played the game, wore the smile, learned to anticipate the pressure of desire without ever truly feeling it. I even told myself I liked it, because what was the alternative?

To admit that sex was something you survived, that pleasure was just a rumor for Omegas like me?

Even now, the memory of Blake's teeth at my throat, the practiced timing of his hands, makes my stomach twist with something equal parts longing and revulsion. He never kissed me the way Cole did.

None of them did.

I was a means to an end—a peacekeeping treaty signed in flesh and pheromones, not a person made for worship or wonder.

And then, as if waking from a fever dream, I'm back in this bed, the echo of last night's hunger trembling in my thighs, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers. Because what Cole gave me was nothing like that.

There was no calculation, no ledger of debts to be settled. It was heat, sure, but it was also a kind of awe—a trembling reverence that made me feel, for the first time, like I wasn't just a body to be conquered.

Cole kissed me like I was air and he was drowning, like I was precious and powerful and worth the risk of everything.

Dinner afterward exists in fragments—River's quiet concern as he served the chili, Austin's determined cheer that didn't quite mask the knowing looks, Mavi's smirk that said he knew exactly what happened in that truck. And through it all, Cole's careful distance, like he was giving me space to process while his storm-gray eyes promised this wasn't over. I remember Luna reaching for me constantly, remember the men taking turns holding her so I could eat, remember feeling surrounded by care that didn't demand payment.

My mind drifts back, unbidden, to those early days with Iron Ridge.

When I'd thought I'd found my place, my pack, my purpose.

The memory tastes bitter now, tainted by everything that came after, but God, those first months had felt like destiny.

The night they accepted me, the whole house swelled with anticipation—an air of collective hunger barely concealed behind the rituals of dinner and drink.

I remember trembling against the brick of their fireplace, the taste of whisky burning my lips, and how Blake, first among equals, gathered me close like a thing he’d finally won at auction. "You saved us," he'd whispered, and even now, years later, I can feel the way his words branded my neck as surely as the heat of his mouth. "Our perfect Omega, smart and beautiful and everything we needed."

He’d made a show of saying it only to me, his hands possessive on the small of my back, but everyone was listening—even Jude, who lurked in the corner with his perpetual air of silent skepticism.

What I’d done was pragmatic, not heroic.

Iron Ridge was circling the drain: old debts, bad gambles, the usual family curse of living large and planning small. I’d offered my credentials at the first dinner—half a joke, half a plea for relevance—explaining in stuttering detail how my MBA might be worth more to the pack than my barely-there Omega status.

Blake hadn’t laughed. He watched my mouth move as I talked spreadsheets and LLCs, his eyes dark and wolf-hungry, and when I finished, he just tipped his head and said, "Then you'll be in charge."

The room went quiet.

It was the first time anyone had trusted me to lead.

The first time my ideas weren't met with a patronizing pat, or a dismissive smile, or a suggestion I stick to "soft skills" like smoothing feathers and making nice with the neighbors.

That night, we drank to new beginnings.

I felt lightheaded with relief, even as Blake’s arm never left my waist. He paraded me around the table as if I were both a trophy and a weapon—proof to his pack that he’d outmaneuvered fate and scored the wildcard that might keep them all afloat.

In the morning, he made sure I had the best room, the run of the house, access to any ledger or contract I needed. He even bought a fucking printer just for me—state of the art, which I suspect he chose less for the features and more for the status it conveyed.

No one had ever spent that much money on my potential before.

The others followed his lead, each staking their claim on my usefulness in different ways.

Hayden, seeing the mood, turned my achievement into a party—complete with shots and a hastily-thrown poker tournament where the stakes were secrets instead of dollars. Jude nodded approval, but I could tell he was already compiling a list of potential scenarios where I’d screw up, just so he’d be ready to mitigate the damage.

But it was Liam who truly left a mark.

His praise was sharper than Blake’s, less about what I’d done and more about what it cost me to do it. He watched me from across the kitchen, glass of scotch in hand, not smiling but also not looking away. I could feel his gaze prying into all the soft, self-doubting places inside me, and when the others finally peeled away for the night, he stood near the window, backlit by the porch light and waiting for me to make the first move.

I remember the way my hands shook as I approached, the push-pull of anxiety and anticipation. He didn’t say hello. Just nodded at the paperwork I’d already begun to organize on the counter. "Blake’s right—you’re exactly what we need," he murmured, his tone warm but edged. "Not just pretty, not just accommodating. You see the holes in the foundation."

He sipped his drink, considering, then added, "It’s rare, you know. For someone like you to be both ornamental and essential."

I wanted to tell him to fuck off. To say I'd never asked to be ornamental, that my usefulness wasn't a surprise to me and shouldn't be to anyone else. But instead I just flushed, hoping the anger masked the elation underneath. I’d been so starved for validation that even a backhanded compliment felt like a benediction.

Liam, the Iron Ridge Second, never wasted time with fluffy motivational speeches or empty praise.

His brand of validation cut straight to the vulnerable marrow, as if he delighted in finding the places you’d spent your whole life protecting and then lighting them up with a single, surgical compliment.

That first week, after I’d wrestled their fucked-up balance sheets into submission and mapped out bailout scenarios that didn’t involve mortgaging the whole ranch to special-interest packs, Liam stood in the kitchen at midnight waiting for me to finish tallying receipts.

He didn’t even bother with a greeting—just tossed back a swallow of bourbon, watched me from across the room, and said, “Your mind’s wasted on backwater outfits like this, you know. You could be running circles around the city packs. They wouldn’t see you coming until you had their assets by the throat.”

He left the words hanging there, as if they ought to shame me, but I just tucked them away with the rest of his offhand assessments—small, jagged tokens I carried like a gambler’s lucky chip.

I knew what he meant, and he wasn’t wrong: I could have done better.

But I’d chosen Iron Ridge.

Chosen this pack that was halfway to ruin, chose to tie my fate to theirs because I liked underdogs and because, if I was being honest, I was scared of what I might become if I ever went back to the city.

Here, incompetence at least had the decency to show its face. In the city, the masks were prettier and the knives sharper.

Still, Liam’s approval tasted sweet, even when laced with condescension.

The venom in it only made me crave more. I craved it the way I always craved a challenge, the way some Omegas craved lullabies or a strong arm slung over their shoulder.

Every time he acknowledged me in front of the others—tossing me a dry “good catch” when I flagged a risky supplier, or a “your numbers check out” when I forecasted profit curves better than their fancy consultants—it was like getting a gold star from a teacher I’d always wanted to impress.

Sometimes, when the rest of the house was asleep, I’d catch him out on the porch, quietly rolling a cigarette or just leaning against the banister, eyes on the distant ridgeline. He never invited conversation, but he also never sent me away. I’d stand beside him, both of us silent, our breath fogging in the mountain cold, and if he said anything at all it was always something that sliced to the core—“You’re working too hard,” or “You bleed for these people more than they’d ever bleed for you.”

It should have hurt.

Instead it felt like permission, like a dare to keep proving him wrong. Or right. I’m still not sure which I wanted more.

The next morning after my first successful audit, he’d left a mug of black coffee on my desk, no note, but the message clear: You earned this.

When I’d shown up to the breakfast table, Jude and Hayden were already ribbing Blake about “outsmarting the whole damn county” by signing me, and Hayden, never one to miss a chance for theatrics, had actually stood and tried to start a slow clap. I’d wanted to disappear. Liam just raised an eyebrow, and I knew the performance was for me as much as for anyone else. I’d belonged, at least for the morning.

Over the months, Liam’s mentorship turned from sharp-edged to something almost fatherly, in a feral, pack-specific way.

He’d critique my strategies with the intensity of a chess master, always pushing me to anticipate the next three moves, always reminding me that the wolves outside were hungrier than the ones at home. “Don’t think because you’re ours, you’re safe,” he said once, late in my first year. “Everyone’s waiting for you to slip up. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

I never did slip, not when they were watching.

Instead, I became exactly what they needed, and sometimes—alone in the dark with my own thoughts—I wondered if I’d ever stop needing to be needed.

Hayden was the one who first decided I should be paraded. At the time, it felt almost like an inside joke between just the two of us—how he'd catch my eye across a crowded pack-hall, waggle his brows, and then announce with theatrical flourish that "the brains behind Iron Ridge has arrived." But as months wore on, he seemed to enjoy the escalation, each public display a little bolder, a little more performative, until I became something of a legend in the insular, petty circles of regional pack society. At every quarterly council or livestock co-op negotiation, Hayden would arrive with a hand at the small of my back, making sure everyone saw it: I was not just his packmate, not just an Omega, but the one who saved them all from oblivion.

He told everyone I was their secret weapon. Sometimes he’d use that exact phrase, sometimes he’d riff on it—“our insurance policy,” “our walking bailout,” “the best thing to happen to Iron Ridge since indoor plumbing.” There was pride in it, of course, but also a layer of possessiveness that sometimes made my skin crawl. To him, it was a friendly boast. To others, I started to feel like a novelty, a sort of rare breed only Iron Ridge could have produced. Once, at a summit in Bozeman, he’d tipped back a shot of bourbon and declared, “Willa James: the only Omega I know who can bankrupt you with a spreadsheet and bury you under the paperwork.” The whole table laughed, and I forced a smile, even as my cheeks burned.

When I tried to brush him off, to point out I was only doing what any competent adult—or decently-trained finance grad—would have done, Hayden would just shake his head and repeat his favorite refrain: “Not just a pretty face,” he’d say, as if I were a show dog who’d learned to do arithmetic, “Our Willa’s got a brain that could rival any Alpha’s. Fixed our finances in three months flat.” Sometimes I caught him looking at me sideways, as if he expected me to be insulted by the compliment, but mostly I just let it wash over. In his way, Hayden meant it as the highest form of praise: to be the secret weapon was to be indispensable. In the world we inherited, that was as good as indestructible.

For Hayden, being seen was everything. He lived for pack-wide poker nights, bonfire parties, county fairs where he could wear his best boots and get recognized by people in three counties. He’d pull me up on makeshift stages to help call raffle numbers or hand out blue ribbons, always leaning in close enough to let the rumors start themselves. “Just giving the people what they want,” he’d joke to me, though he never quite said what, precisely, he thought that was. I think a part of him liked the idea of being the first to find value in me, as if my success was in some way a testament to his own good instincts. Like an Alpha in all but the title, collecting broken things and making them shine.

Under Hayden’s influence, I became the kind of person other packs whispered about. There were rumors I’d been imported from the city like some kind of luxury good, that I’d masterminded mergers back East, that my last pack had been driven to ruin by my ambition. Hayden loved these stories and never bothered correcting them. “Let them think you’re a shark,” he’d say with a wink. “Better than them thinking you’re prey.” In public, he played up the myth, but behind closed doors, he’d sometimes break the act—just for a minute—long enough to admit he was glad I’d stuck around. That he liked having someone on his level to talk schemes with, someone who didn’t wilt when he upped the stakes.

It wasn’t always so simple, of course. There were times I caught the disapproval in Hayden’s eyes when I overstepped, when my ideas threatened to eclipse his own. Those moments always passed quickly, replaced by a louder, brasher version of his usual praise, but I could feel the undertow beneath. If Iron Ridge was his kingdom, I was the queen he’d only meant to install as a figurehead—and sometimes, even to my own surprise, I wanted the throne for myself. Hayden seemed to sense it too. Once, after a brutal round of budget cuts, he’d cornered me in the kitchen and said, “Careful, Willa. You’re starting to sound like a real Alpha.” His tone was light, but his eyes were not. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he’d ever really meant to share power at all.

Still, even on the worst days, Hayden never let anyone outside the pack see a crack in our alliance. In front of outsiders, he was my loudest supporter. The only one who came close to matching that intensity was Jude.

Jude, the pack’s enforcer, was supposed to be all muscle and stoicism, a man who resolved conflict with his fists when words failed. For the first month I lived at Iron Ridge, I barely heard him say a full sentence. He watched everything from the periphery, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, a living warning sign hung over every conversation. It took me weeks to realize he was not actually angry, just careful—a man so used to being the last line of defense that he’d forgotten how to stand down.

It was after my first major win—the renegotiation with the feed supplier, where I’d shaved forty percent off our annual costs and stopped the hemorrhaging—that he finally spoke to me directly. The house was quiet, everyone else out celebrating, and I’d stayed behind to double-check the figures. Jude appeared in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, silent for so long I almost startled when he finally cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said. Just that.

I blinked, unsure what to say back. This was a man who’d broken a rival’s nose for less than a perceived slight; I half-expected him to throw me out for daring to touch the books.

But he just nodded slowly, as if coming to terms with something he’d already known. “You didn't just save the ranch,” he continued, voice quieter now, “you saved the pack. Most of us had nowhere else to go.” He looked down at his scarred hands—visible even in the dimness, reminders of every fight he’d won and lost—and then up at me. “We’re not good at saying things, around here. But you—” he hesitated, searching for the right word—“you did good by us, Willa. We won't forget.”

From that moment on, something changed between us. If Hayden was the showman, Jude was the anchor—steadfast, silent, and unshakable in his loyalty. He never tried to claim credit for my ideas, never needed to be seen as the architect behind every success. Instead, he made sure I had the space and time to do what I needed: he’d intercept angry ranch hands before they reached my office, chase off politicians hoping to cut backroom deals, or just stand guard at the bonfire parties, a silent sentinel making sure no one got too rowdy on my watch. More than once, I found a mug of tea waiting for me on late nights at the books, the cup still steaming, a silent gesture from a man who measured affection in action, not words.

Jude’s loyalty was a gift I never expected. In another world, maybe we’d have been friends, or something closer—if I’d been a different kind of Omega, the kind who craved safety over challenge. As it was, I just tried to deserve it, doing my work as quietly and thoroughly as I could, hoping he’d never have to clean up a mess I’d made.

The thing about being a “secret weapon” is that you’re only as valuable as your next victory. The moment you slip, you’re just another liability, another failed investment the pack can’t afford to keep. I lived with that knowledge every day, tucked behind my smile at meetings and the careful way I rationed my opinions on the ranch. Even at my most confident, a part of me always waited for it to fall apart—the moment when I’d disappoint them all, become too much trouble, and find myself back at zero.

It’s funny, looking back, how desperate I was to keep earning my place. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I made myself essential, maybe I’d finally be safe. Maybe I’d even be loved, not for what I could do, but for who I was underneath it all.

But that’s not how it worked at Iron Ridge.

There, love was always transactional, always contingent on what you brought to the table.

And if you ever stopped delivering, it was only a matter of time before you were replaced by the next shiny new thing.

They'd all been cut from the same cloth, I realize now.

Same build—tall, broad, conventionally handsome in that aggressive Alpha way.

Same backgrounds—ranching families with more pride than business sense.

Same approach to affection—calculated touches designed to spark my Omega instincts without ever truly satisfying them. They'd been interchangeable parts in the machine of pack hierarchy, each filling their role without deviation.

Here at Cactus Rose, the differences between the men are stark as winter and summer.

Cole with his controlled intensity and careful hands.

River's gentle strength and connection to growing things.

Austin's sunshine personality hiding depths of care.

Mavi's sharp edges protecting a loyalty that runs bone-deep.

Each utterly unique, utterly themselves, utterly unlike the cookie-cutter Alphas who'd nearly destroyed me.

My men.

The thought slips through before I can stop it, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. They're not mine. I'm the boss here, the owner, the obligation they're stuck with. The kiss doesn't change that. Can't change that. I've been someone's property before, and I won't—can't—do that again.

But my traitorous mind supplies the memory of Cole's hand cupping my jaw, the reverent way he'd touched me like I was something precious.

The way he'd asked permission, waited for my answer, put the power in my hands even as his Alpha instincts must have been screaming to take control.

"Tell me to stop," he'd said, and meaning it.

Meaning it in a way Blake never had, never could have.

Because Blake's pack had seen my submission as their right, my resistance as a challenge to be overcome.

But Cole?

Cole had held himself back until I pulled him closer, until I chose what happened next.

Control I’ve dared to earn for…craved…would beg for in a pack.

My omega instincts, so long suppressed they'd nearly atrophied, had surged to life in that truck. Not the trained responses Blake's pack had conditioned into me—perform submission, accept domination, exist for their pleasure.

But something wilder, truer.

The urge to claim as much as be claimed.

To take what I wanted instead of waiting to be given scraps of affection.

I'd kissed Cole like I was starving because I was. Starved for touch that didn't come with strings, for desire that didn't feel like debt, for an Alpha who saw me as more than a useful acquisition. And he'd given me that, given me everything in those stolen moments before reality intruded.

My body shivers at the memory, heat pooling low in my belly as I remember the solid weight of him, the barely leashed control in how he'd held me. What would have happened if Mavi hadn't been watching? If we'd had true privacy? The possibilities make my breath catch, make my thighs clench together against the sudden ache between them.

I can't think like this, right? Not want something so fragile and risky like this?

Not when I'm still learning how to exist without a pack's control. When these men deserve better than an Omega too damaged to trust properly. Certainly not when Luna needs stability more than I need to chase feelings I don't understand.

But even as I think it, I know I'm lying to myself.

Because last night, pressed against Cole in that truck, I'd felt more like myself than I had in years.

Not the performed version Blake's pack had demanded. Not the broken thing that had crawled from the ashes of their betrayal. But someone real and whole and worthy of being kissed like the world was ending.

My men.

The thought comes again, stubborn as a weed in concrete. Maybe not yet or ever.

But here in the morning light, with my body still humming from remembered touch and my heart racing with possibility, I let myself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

My thoughts tangle like wild vines, growing thick and untamed as I imagine what those lips could do beyond kissing, and my body becomes a perpetual crooked line of want that I'm tired of denying. The fantasy unfolds without permission—Cole's mouth trailing down my throat, his stubble rasping against sensitive skin, those careful hands becoming demanding as they map territories I've kept hidden for too long.

In my mind, we never left the truck.

In my mind, he lifts me over the console with that easy strength, settling me in his lap where I can feel exactly how much he wants me. His cock presses against me through our clothes, hard and insistent, and I grind down because in fantasies I'm brave.

In fantasies, I take what I want without apology or fear.

"Been thinking about this," fantasy-Cole growls against my collar, teeth scraping where shoulder meets neck. "Want to taste every inch of you, Willa. Want to lay you out in the truck bed under the stars and lick you until you scream."

The image sears through me—naked under the Montana sky, his dark head between my thighs, those storm-gray eyes watching my face as his tongue works magic I've only imagined. My hips shift restlessly against the sheets, and I can feel how wet I've become just from thinking.

The slickness between my legs is undeniable evidence of needs too long ignored.

I slide my hand down my stomach, hesitating at the waistband of my sleep shorts.

When was the last time I touched myself like this? Not quick, furtive moments in the shower, but really let myself feel pleasure without shame?

Blake had made it clear early on that Omega self-pleasure was "unnatural," a sign of an unsatisfied pack.

Liam had been blunter—"Why would you need to touch yourself when you have four Alphas ready to serve?"

But they'd never served.

They'd taken, demanded, performed just enough to trigger my Omega responses without ever satisfying the deeper craving.

They'd flood the room with pheromones during pack meetings, getting me wet and needy, then act disgusted if I tried to find relief later.

"Greedy," Blake would say, his voice dripping contempt. "A good Omega waits for her Alphas."

Well, I'm done waiting.

Over denying myself because men who never deserved me decided my pleasure was inconvenient.

My fingers slip beneath cotton, finding slick heat that makes me gasp. I'm soaked, more aroused than I've been in years, and it's from nothing more than a kiss and the memory of being wanted.

I grab a pillow with my free hand, pressing it over my face to muffle the sounds I know are coming. The house feels too quiet, too full of potential witnesses, but I can't stop now. My fingers find my clit, circling slowly, and the sensation arrows through me like lightning finding ground.

In my fantasy, Cole's tongue replaces my fingers. He's patient but thorough, learning what makes me shake, what makes me beg. His hands grip my thighs, holding them open when I try to close them against the intensity.

"Let me see you," he rumbles against my pussy. "Let me taste how sweet you are when you let go."

I work myself faster, two fingers sliding inside while my thumb maintains pressure on my clit.

The dual sensation has me arching off the bed, the pillow barely containing my moans. I'm close already, embarrassingly fast, but my body is desperate for something it's been denied too long.

The fantasy shifts—now it's not just Cole. River's there too, his green eyes dark with want as he watches Cole pleasure me. Austin's sunshine smile turned wicked as he palms himself through his jeans. Even Mavi, usually so controlled, looking at me like I'm something worth breaking rules for.

Not taking turns like Blake's pack, not performing dominance, but working together to take me apart.

"Beautiful," fantasy-River murmurs, his hand gentle in my hair. "So perfect when you let yourself feel good."

"Been wanting to hear these sounds," fantasy-Austin adds, pressing kisses to my breasts. "Want to learn every noise you make when you come."

Fantasy-Mavi says nothing, just watches with that intensity that sees everything, but his hand reaches out to stroke my cheek with surprising tenderness.

The combined imagery—being wanted, cherished, pleasured by men who see me as more than a useful Omega—pushes me over the edge.

My orgasm crashes through me like a summer storm, sudden and overwhelming.

I bite the pillow to keep from screaming as waves of pleasure roll through my body, my pussy clenching around my fingers as I work myself through it.

"Cole," I whimper into the fabric, then "River, Austin, Mavi," because in this moment of raw honesty, I want them all. Want to belong to men who kiss like drowning and care for babies and check perimeters and grow things.

Want to be part of their unconventional pack even if it terrifies me.

The aftershocks leave me trembling, sprawled across the bed like a marionette with cut strings. Slowly, awareness returns—the morning light now fully illuminating my room, the distant sound of voices outside, the cooling wetness between my thighs. Embarrassment tries to creep in, but I push it back.

This is my body, my pleasure, my choice.

Blake doesn't get to steal this from me anymore.

I lie there for another moment, catching my breath and marveling at how different I feel. Looser, somehow. Like I've unclenched muscles I didn't know were tight. My body hums with satisfaction instead of the usual frustration, and I realize this is what I've been missing—not just physical release, but the freedom to want without shame.

The sounds outside grow clearer—definitely the men starting their morning routines.

Cole's deep voice carries on the wind, giving some instruction about fence posts. River's quieter tones respond. They've been up for a while, then, which means I've had privacy for my moment of self-indulgence. The thought brings relief and a tiny bit of disappointment I refuse to examine.

I roll out of bed, legs still slightly shaky, and pad to the bathroom. The shower is quick but thorough, washing away the evidence of my morning activities. The face in the mirror looks different somehow—color in my cheeks, a brightness to my eyes that's been missing for years.

I look alive.

Look like a woman who knows what she wants, even if she's not ready to take it yet.

Back in my room, I dress with purpose.

Dark jeans that can handle ranch work, a tank top that won't show sweat too badly, boots that actually fit properly thanks to yesterday's shopping trip. I pull my auburn hair into a high ponytail, practical and out of the way.

Today I'm going to learn, going to contribute, going to prove I can be more than a damaged Omega taking up space.

Ranch Boss.

The title sits strange but not unwelcome on my shoulders. I may not know cattle from sheep yet, but I can learn. These men—my men, that traitorous part of my brain insists—are willing to teach. And maybe, just maybe, I'm finally ready to be taught more than just ranch work.

I'm ready to learn what it feels like to be part of something good.

Something real.

I check myself one more time in the mirror, squaring my shoulders. Time to face the day, and the men who are making me feel things I thought I'd never feel again.

Time to pretend my body isn't still humming from self-induced orgasm while I learn about fence posts and feeding schedules.

I wear my confidence like armor, cocked to one side, but it's a fragile thing that looks like it's been mauled by a pack of self-doubt and too many mornings spent questioning my worth. Still, I step out of my bedroom with purpose, chin high and shoulders back, ready to face whatever ranch work awaits.

The hallway stretches before me, morning light painting golden stripes across hardwood floors that creak beneath my boots.

"Morning, Boss."

I nearly jump out of my skin, hand flying to my chest as I spin toward the voice.

Mavi leans against the wall not three feet away, looking like he's been there for hours. Like he's part of the architecture, some guardian gargoyle in worn jeans and a black henley that does criminal things to his shoulders.

"Jesus," I gasp, heart hammering against my ribs. "Do you practice that? The whole appearing-from-nowhere thing?"

His lips quirk in what might generously be called a smile but looks more like a predator deciding if you're worth the energy to chase.

"Practice makes perfect. Want to see the morning security drills?"

The question seems innocent enough, but there's something in his green eyes that makes my stomach flip.

A knowing glint that sets off every alarm bell in my body. He looks like a man with a secret, and I have the sinking feeling that secret involves what I was doing ten minutes ago with my hand between my legs.

"Security drills?" I repeat, buying time while my brain cycles through possibilities.

How long has he been up here?

The house is old—floors creak, walls aren't exactly soundproof.

Oh God, what if he heard⁠—

"Every morning," he confirms, pushing off the wall with liquid grace. "Check the perimeters, test the alarm systems, make sure nothing's out of place. Thought you might want to learn, being the boss and all."

That knowing look intensifies, and heat floods my face so fast I'm surprised my hair doesn't catch fire. He knows. He has to know. There's no other explanation for the way he's watching me, like a cat who's found a particularly interesting mouse to toy with.

"How long—" I start, then stop, then force myself to continue because not knowing is worse than knowing. "How long have you been up here?"

His smirk becomes a full grin, sharp and devastating.

"Long enough."

Two words that confirm every mortifying suspicion.

Long enough to hear me gasping into a pillow.

Long enough to hear me moaning four names like a prayer.

Long enough to know exactly what the Ranch Boss was doing instead of learning about fence posts and cattle management.

Oh. My. Fucking. God…

I close my eyes, willing the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Of all the men to catch me in a moment of self-pleasure, it had to be Mavi—the one who sees everything, who probably has the entire house wired for sound, who's now looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing to happen to his morning routine in years.

"I was just—" I begin, then realize there's no good way to finish that sentence.

Just what? Getting myself off to fantasies about you and your pack brothers?

Taking care of needs I've denied for two years?

Discovering that my body still works despite Blake's best efforts to break it?

"Follow the leader," he says, cutting off my stammering with a wink that should be illegal in at least three states. He turns and starts down the hallway, hands sliding into his pockets with casual arrogance. "Security drills wait for no one, not even bosses who sleep in."

Sleep in. Right. That's what we're calling it.

Not "bosses who spend their mornings fingering themselves to thoughts of their ranch hands." Just sleeping in.

I groan, the sound escaping before I can stop it, and his shoulders shake with what might be laughter.

"This is going to be a long, embarrassing day," I mutter, but my feet are already moving, following him despite every instinct screaming at me to lock myself back in my room and never emerge.

The mortification burns hot in my chest, but underneath it, something else stirs. Interest, maybe. Or curiosity about this man who heard me at my most vulnerable and chose to tease rather than take advantage. Blake would have stormed in, demanded explanations, punished me for taking pleasure without permission. But Mavi? Mavi's offering to show me security drills like nothing happened, except for that knowing smirk that says he's filing this information away for later.

He moves through the house like he owns it, which I suppose he partially does through sweat equity if nothing else. His stride is purposeful but unhurried, giving me time to appreciate the way his jeans fit and immediately hate myself for noticing. I just came to thoughts of him not twenty minutes ago—I should not be checking out his ass in the hallway like some hormonal teenager.

"Regretting following me already?" he asks without turning around, because of course he knows I'm staring. The man probably has eyes in the back of his head, or at least mirrors strategically placed to catch unsuspecting Omegas in moments of weakness.

"Regretting a lot of things," I admit, because what's the point of lying to someone who heard you moaning his name into a pillow?

"Don't."

The single word carries more weight than it should.

He pauses at the top of the stairs, finally turning to look at me. The teasing is still there in the curve of his lips, but his eyes are serious.

"Nothing wrong with taking care of yourself. Nothing wrong with wanting."

The words hit like a physical blow, so different from everything I've been taught. I blink hard against the sudden burn of tears, overwhelmed by this casual acceptance of needs I've been shamed for having.

"Besides," he continues, the moment of sincerity passing as quickly as it came, "gave me something interesting to think about during the boring parts of patrol."

"Oh my God," I breathe, face flaming anew. "You can't just⁠—"

"Can't just what?" He's already heading down the stairs, leaving me to follow or be left behind. "Tell the truth? Acknowledge that our boss has excellent taste in fantasy material? Admit that hearing you say my name like that is going to make concentration difficult for the foreseeable future?"

Oh god! He did hear everything!

Each word is another nail in the coffin of my dignity.

I follow him down the stairs, torn between wanting to push him down them and wanting to know what else he overheard.

This is Mavi—controlled, paranoid, security-obsessed Mavi—talking about my morning self-pleasure session like we're discussing the weather.

"For what it's worth," he tosses over his shoulder as we reach the bottom of the stairs, "the walls are thicker than you think. I was checking the attic access in the hallway—routine security sweep. Just happened to have excellent timing."

Somehow that makes it worse.

Not that he was deliberately listening, but that he was just doing his job and stumbled into my most private moment. I'm going to have to face him every day knowing he heard me come. Knowing he knows exactly what I sound like when I lose control.

"Still want to learn about security?" he asks, pausing at the back door. "Or would you prefer to hide in your room and pretend this never happened?"

The challenge in his voice sparks something in me—that defiant flame Cole identified, the part that refuses to be shamed into submission anymore.

He’s testing me.

Trying to determine if I’m going to cower for having needs as an Omega or own up to my desires without cowering to his unexpected presence.

I lift my chin, meeting his green eyes with as much dignity as I can muster while my face burns like a beacon.

"Show me," I say, proud when my voice comes out steady. "If I'm going to be Boss, I need to know everything about this place. Even if my tour guide is a smug bastard who has terrible timing."

That will show him.

His grin widens, sharp and appreciative as he leans in close, his scent only teasing me further.

"There she is. The fierce Omega Cole was talking about.” He doesn’t hesitate then, giving me the softest peck on the cheek that I could ever think he can muster. “Welcome to the real world, Boss. It's a lot more interesting than whatever cage you've been living in."

He pushes open the door, October morning air rushing in to cool my heated face.

The oddest realization is how my body goes haywire.

At both his minuscular touch and how it feels as if he’s setting me up to be free from the prison I’ve lived in all this while.

I follow him out, mortification and intrigue warring in my chest.

This is my life now—learning ranch work from men who've heard me at my most vulnerable, who tease instead of shame, who make me want things I'm not sure I'm ready for.

God help me, but despite the embarrassment, I'm already curious about what else the day will bring.

Protecting Against The Past

~MAVERICK~

The attic at Cactus Rose Ranch is my domain—a cramped space filled with outdated equipment that I've jury-rigged into something resembling a modern security system.

Dust motes float through the single shaft of morning light as I check the monitors, each screen showing a different angle of the property. It's routine, this morning patrol through digital eyes: perimeter fence intact, barn doors secured, main house quiet. My fingers move across keyboards with practiced efficiency, logging timestamps and noting anything unusual.

Which, at 6:47 AM on a Thursday, is absolutely nothing.

Until the speaker crackles to life with a sound that freezes my hands mid-keystroke.

A moan. Soft, muffled, but unmistakably feminine. Unmistakably Willa.

My body goes rigid, every muscle locking as my brain processes what I'm hearing. The audio feeds from the bedrooms are supposed to be for emergencies—smoke alarms, break-ins, or someone calling for help. Not for... this. Breathy gasps now fill the cramped attic space, each one hitting my nervous system like a cattle prod.

I should turn it off.

My hand hovers over the kill switch, trembling slightly. This is a violation of privacy, of trust, of every professional boundary I've maintained in my five years at this ranch. But another moan filters through—longer, needier—and my hand moves to the volume knob instead, turning it up just enough to hear clearly.

"Fuck," I mutter, the word barely a breath. My cock is already responding, blood rushing south with embarrassing eagerness. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. But I'm already reaching for my phone, thumb moving to the security app with a mixture of self-loathing and desperate curiosity.

The camera angle is high and wide—designed to show the whole room in case of intrusion, not to provide intimate details.

But God, it's enough. More than enough.

Willa lies sprawled across her bed, and my breath catches hard in my throat. She's wearing some kind of white crop top, sheer enough that I can see the dark outline of her nipples through the fabric. The morning light paints her skin gold, highlighting the flush spreading across her chest. Her auburn hair fans across the pillow like spilled copper, and her legs—Christ, her legs are spread wide, knees bent, giving me a perfect view of her fingers disappearing into her pussy.

My cock throbs so hard it’s painful, the denim biting into sensitive skin as my erection strains against its prison.

I shift in the plastic chair, the creak deafening in the otherwise dead-quiet attic, terrified my body might betray me by making enough noise to draw someone up here. Each heartbeat seems to pump molten need straight through my veins, until my hands shake with the effort of not palming myself right here at the workstation.

I know I should look away.

The right thing to do—in any universe, under any code of ethics—would be to close the app on my phone and go for a freezing shower. But there’s something about her, sprawled out and so utterly unguarded, that makes reason irrelevant. It’s not even about getting off; it’s about wanting to know her, every last secret, every quirk and shiver and gasp she’ll make when she thinks no one’s watching.

Fuck, I want her.

Everything about her is raw and honest, not performative for the camera, which just makes it ten times hotter. The flush on her face, the way her hips roll up to meet her own touch, the desperate urgency in her rhythm—it’s pure need, animal and unfiltered. There’s no acting, no pretense, just this desperate, beautiful hunger.

God, if she knew I was watching her right now… that thought alone nearly undoes me.

I picture her catching me in the act, turning those wild orange-gold eyes on me, shame and defiance battling across her face. Would she hate me? Would she blush and look away, or would she hold my gaze and make me watch, make me own the violation I’ve just committed?

The possibilities slingshot me straight into dangerous territory, and my hand drifts south, thumb flicking my zipper open just enough to relieve the growing pressure.

I can see how wet she is even through the camera feed, her fingers glistening as they pump in and out with increasing urgency. She's got a pillow pressed over her face, probably trying to muffle the sounds, but the microphones catch everything—every gasp, every whimper, every broken moan that escapes despite her efforts.

I can see how wet she is even through the camera feed, her fingers glistening as they pump in and out with increasing urgency. She's got a pillow pressed over her face, probably trying to muffle the sounds, but the microphones catch everything—every gasp, every whimper, every broken moan that escapes despite her efforts.

This is for her protection, I tell myself, even as my hand moves to my belt. The cameras, the audio—it's all to keep her safe. To make sure no one can hurt her again like that bastard Blake did. If something happened and I wasn't monitoring... The justification rings hollow even in my own mind, but I'm already unzipping my jeans, already reaching inside to grip my aching cock.

The first stroke nearly makes me groan aloud. I'm harder than I've been in months, maybe years. Pre-cum already beads at the tip, and I use it to slick my palm, trying to match my rhythm to the movement of her fingers on the screen. She's building faster now, her free hand moving up to squeeze her breast through that thin fabric, and I can see her back starting to arch.

Through the speakers, I hear it—my name, muffled by the pillow but unmistakable.

"Mavi."

Just a whisper, mixed with Cole's name and River's and Austin's, but it shoots through me like lightning.

She's thinking about us.

About me.

While she fucks herself with those slender fingers, she's imagining it's me touching her, me inside her, me making her feel this good.

My hand moves faster, squeezing the base of my cock to stave off the orgasm that's already building. I want to make this last, want to watch her fall apart completely. On screen, her movements become more frantic. Her hips roll up to meet her fingers, and even through the pillow I can hear her gasps getting higher, more desperate.

The wet sounds of her fingers working her pussy fill the attic, obscene and perfect.

I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting to keep silent. If anyone heard me up here, if they knew what I was doing... But I can't stop. Can't look away from the screen where Willa's whole body has gone taut, trembling on the edge. Her fingers move in quick circles over her clit now, her other hand pinching her nipple through the fabric, and I know she's close. So fucking close.

"Come on," I murmur, the words guttural and shaking as I stare at her through the grainy feed. My hand pistons faster over my cock, pre-cum already slicking the path; I’m barely holding back from just losing it right here and now. "Let go, baby. Let me see you."

She’s close—I can tell by the way her hips buck up, greedier, more demanding, like she's chasing something just out of reach. Her knees collapse inward, squeezing her wrist, and her other hand claws the sheets, white-knuckled and desperate. She’s biting the pillow hard, hair fanned in a copper halo, but I can still hear the helpless whines building up in her chest as her rhythm turns frantic. God, she’s beautiful when she’s unraveling. I want to be the one to pin her wrists, the one making her sob and squirm, but this is all I get: a pixelated window into her most private ache. It’s the purest torture, and it only feeds the sick compulsion that’s rooted deep in my gut.

I keep whispering to her, filthy encouragements that no one will ever hear.

“That’s it, sweetheart… Give it to me. Show me how you fall apart.”

I imagine my hands in place of hers, my teeth on her neck, my scent everywhere until her breathless cries are all for me. The fantasy burns brighter than the sun, white-hot and ruthless. She’s not even my Omega, not officially, and the guilt gnashes its teeth in the back of my skull, but I can’t stop. I won’t. For once, I want to see something through to the end. Even if it means crossing a line I can never uncross.

Her body is a living prayer on the screen: arching, trembling, caught between agony and surrender. I match my rhythm to hers, desperate for that final connection even as the attic closes in tighter around me, thick with the animal rank of my own need. The sounds from the speaker—her voice breaking on my name, the wet slap of her hand between her thighs—ratchet me higher, until the whole world narrows to this: the pulse in my fist, the blurry glow of her skin, the rhythm of her pleasure matching mine beat for beat.

I fist my cock harder, the pressure building at the base, and I want her to see what she does to me—to know that she’s not alone in this hunger, that I ache for her with every atom in my body.

The control room smells of dust and ozone and my own sweat, air sharp with longing and shame.

My heart pounds, heavy and erratic, as I urge her on through clenched teeth:

“Come for me, Willa. That’s it. Don’t fight it.”

My voice is a fucking wreck, broken down to its rawest parts. I hold her gaze, willing her to meet my eyes through the goddamn feed, to feel me on the other side of everything.

As if she heard me, her back bows off the bed. Even with the pillow muffling her cries, I can hear the intensity of her orgasm. Her thighs clamp around her hand, hips jerking with each wave of pleasure, and the sight pushes me over the edge. I come hard, spurting over my fist as I watch her writhe on the screen.

My knot swells partially at the base of my cock, aching for the tight grip of an Omega's pussy, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from howling at the intensity of it.

For a moment, we're both still—her collapsed on the bed, me slumped in my chair, both of us panting in our separate spaces. Guilt crashes over me like cold water, but it's mixed with something else. Satisfaction, maybe. Or recognition of a hunger I've been trying to ignore since the day she arrived at our ranch.

On screen, Willa slowly removes the pillow from her face, and even through the camera's limited resolution, I can see the mix of pleasure and shame painting her features.

She looks soft and vulnerable and absolutely beautiful, and my chest tightens with an emotion I'm not ready to name.

What the fuck have I done?

On the screen, Willa sits up slowly, like she's remembering how to inhabit her body.

Her crop top is twisted, revealing a strip of pale stomach, and her hair looks like it's been through a tornado. She glances around the room with that particular combination of satisfaction and shame that comes from solo pleasure—I know the look because I'm wearing it too. Her hands smooth down her hair, a gesture so normal and human it makes my chest tight.

I glance down at my own situation—cock still half-hard despite the release, cum cooling on my fist and splattered across my jeans.

The evidence of my voyeurism is impossible to ignore, making my stomach churn with equal parts satisfaction and self-disgust. I grab a rag from the workbench, cleaning up with quick, efficient movements while keeping one eye on the monitor.

Willa stretches, the movement pulling her top higher, and then swings her legs over the side of the bed. The microphone picks up her soft sigh, the creak of bedsprings as she stands. She's heading for the shower, movements still languid from orgasm, and I know I need to shut this down. Need to close the app, finish my rounds, pretend this never happened.

Instead, I tuck myself away and lean back in the chair, mind racing. The other men don't know about the full extent of the bedroom monitoring—they think it's just smoke detectors and basic motion sensors. But after what happened with Sarah, I couldn't risk being blindsided again.

Couldn't risk another Omega playing us against each other, using our protection and trust as weapons.

Sarah.

Even thinking of her name brings a bitter taste.

She'd blown through our lives two years ago like a prairie fire—all heat and destruction, leaving nothing but ash in her wake. Beautiful, calculating, with a sob story designed to trigger every protective instinct an Alpha possessed. We'd taken her in, given her shelter and care, and she'd played us like a master musician. Set us against each other with carefully placed rumors and strategic tears.

By the time we realized what was happening, she'd nearly destroyed the pack bonds we'd spent years building.

But Willa... Christ, Willa's nothing like that.

Where Sarah's need had been performance, Willa's is genuine. Where Sarah calculated every touch and glance for maximum impact, Willa fights her own desires like they're enemies. She doesn't want to want us, doesn't trust the attraction, and that honesty is more seductive than any manipulation could be.

The sound of running water echoes through the speakers—she's in the shower now.

I force myself to close the app, the screen going dark with a soft click that feels louder than it should. My cock twitches with interest at the thought of her naked under the spray, but I've pushed enough boundaries for one morning.

Standing requires more effort than it should; my legs shaky from the intensity of the orgasm. Fuck, when was the last time I came that hard from just watching? The answer is never—not even with live partners, not even during the wildest days when we were young firefighters with more testosterone than sense.

I think about Cole yesterday, how he'd sat in his truck after dropping Willa off and jerked himself raw. I'd watched through the cab camera—not for pleasure but for concern, making sure our pack's leader wasn't losing his mind over another potentially dangerous Omega. But the desperation on his face, the way he'd groaned her name as he came... It had confirmed what I already suspected. Willa isn't just another rescued Omega to us. She's something more dangerous—someone who could actually matter.

The water shuts off.

She'll be out soon, getting dressed, preparing to face another day of learning the ranch. And I need to be ready. Need to decide how to handle what just happened. The old me would delete the footage, pretend it never existed, maintain the professional distance that keeps everyone safe. But the me who just came to watch her pleasure herself?

That version wants to push, to tease, to see what happens when Willa realizes she's not as alone in her desires as she thinks.

I straighten my clothes, run a hand through my hair, and make my way down from the attic. The ladder creaks under my weight, but the house is still quiet—River's already in the barn, Austin's with Luna in the kitchen, Cole's checking the eastern pasture. Perfect timing for what I have planned.

I position myself near her door, far enough away to seem casual but close enough to catch her when she emerges. It's a calculated move, one I've used dozens of times during security sweeps. But this time, my heart's racing with anticipation rather than vigilance. This time, I'm not checking for threats—I'm about to become one.

The doorknob turns, and I school my features into casual indifference. She steps out looking like temptation wrapped in denim and cotton—dark jeans that hug her curves, a tank top that shows off toned arms, her damp hair pulled back in a ponytail that exposes the elegant line of her neck. She looks fresh and clean and determined, like a woman ready to conquer the world.

Time to shake that confidence, just a little.

"Morning, Boss," I say, pitching my voice low and casual.

She jumps like I've electrocuted her, hand flying to her chest as she spins toward me. The look of shock on her face is priceless—eyes wide, mouth open in a little 'o' of surprise, color already rising in her cheeks.

"Jesus," she gasps, and I can hear her heart hammering from here. "Do you practice that? The whole appearing-from-nowhere thing?"

I let my lips curve into what River calls my 'predator smile'—all teeth and dark promise. "Practice makes perfect. Want to see the morning security drills?"

The question hangs between us, innocent on the surface but weighted with everything I'm not saying. Her eyes narrow slightly, catching something in my tone, and I watch the wheels turn in that clever mind. She's wondering how long I've been here, what I might have heard. The blush spreads from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of her tank top.

"Security drills?" she repeats, buying time. Good girl. Always thinking, always analyzing. It's going to make this so much more fun.

"Every morning," I confirm, pushing off the wall with studied nonchalance. "Check the perimeters, test the alarm systems, make sure nothing's out of place. Thought you might want to learn, being the boss and all."

I put just enough emphasis on 'boss' to make it clear I know exactly who was in charge of their own pleasure twenty minutes ago. Her face goes from pink to crimson, and I have to fight not to laugh at her mortified expression.

"How long—" she starts, stops, visibly steels herself. "How long have you been up here?"

This is it. The moment where I could lie, could protect her dignity and my secret. Could pretend I'm just the paranoid security expert who happened to be doing rounds. But where's the fun in that?

"Long enough," I say, grinning wide enough to show teeth.

The words land like a bomb. I watch her process them, see the exact moment she realizes what I mean. Her mouth opens and closes like she's forgotten how words work, and the expression of pure mortification mixed with something that might be arousal is going to fuel my fantasies for weeks.

"I was just—" she begins, then seems to realize there's no good way to finish that sentence. Just what, indeed? Just fingering yourself to thoughts of me and my pack brothers? Just discovering what that body can do when you stop fighting it?

"Follow the leader," I interrupt, saving her from further embarrassment. For now. I turn and start down the hallway, sliding my hands into my pockets with deliberate casualness. "Security drills wait for no one, not even bosses who sleep in."

Behind me, I hear her groan—a sound of pure embarrassment that makes my cock twitch with renewed interest.

"This is going to be a long, embarrassing day," she mutters.

I let my shoulders shake with silent laughter as I lead her toward the stairs.

She has no idea how right she is.

But more importantly, she's following.

Despite the embarrassment, despite knowing I heard her, she's choosing to face this head-on.

Fierce little Omega indeed.

This is going to be more interesting than any security drill I've ever run.

The Rodeo Around Cactus Rose Ranch

~WILLA~

The protein smoothie Mavi made tastes like redemption and humiliation blended with too much banana.

I drain the last of it, the cold glass sweating against my palm as I lean against the kitchen counter, trying to process the last hour. Security drills, he'd called them. More like a masterclass in mortification wrapped in education.

He'd shown me every camera angle, every sensor, every weak point in the ranch's defenses—all while wearing that knowing smirk that said he remembered exactly what sounds I'd made this morning.

"River's in the stables," Mavi says now, washing my empty glass with practiced efficiency. "Morning routine with the horses. You should go watch." His green eyes hold mine for a beat too long. "Unless you need more time to... recover."

Heat floods my face again, but I push off the counter with as much dignity as I can muster. "I'm fine."

"Never said you weren't." He dries his hands on a dish towel, movements precise and controlled. "Just saying, River's got a gentler teaching style than mine. Might be easier on your nerves."

My nerves are shot to hell, but not for the reasons he's implying. Or maybe exactly for those reasons. The October morning had been crisp during our rounds, but I'd barely noticed the cold with Mavi's constant presence at my shoulder, his occasional touches to correct my stance or guide my attention. Professional touches. Mostly.

The walk to the stables gives me space to breathe. My boots crunch over gravel, and I focus on the physical—the slight burn in my lungs from the morning air, the way my muscles protest after crawling through tight spaces to check sensor placements. Anything to avoid thinking about how Mavi's scent clung to me during those close-quarters demonstrations, or how his rare praise made something warm unfurl in my chest.

The stable doors stand open, releasing the mingled scents of hay, horses, and something earthier—River's presence announcing itself before I even see him. I pause at the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the softer light, and find him in the third stall down.

He moves like water around the horses, every gesture deliberate but flowing. A bay mare stands perfectly still as he runs his hands along her legs, checking for heat or swelling. His black hair catches the light filtering through high windows, and when he murmurs something to the horse, she turns her head to nuzzle his shoulder with obvious affection.

"You can come in," River says without looking up. Of course he knew I was here—these men seem to have preternatural awareness of everything happening on their ranch. "Just move slowly. Willow here is still learning to trust new people."

I step inside, the packed earth soft under my boots. The stable smells alive in a way the main house doesn't—animal warmth and fresh straw, leather and grain, life continuing its ancient rhythms. "Willow?"

"Rescue horse." River straightens, one hand still resting on the mare's neck. "Came to us about six months ago, half-starved and scared of her own shadow. She's made good progress, but..." He shrugs, the movement gentle. "Trauma leaves marks, even when the body heals."

The words hit deeper than he probably intended. I approach slowly, watching Willow's ears swivel to track my movement. She's beautiful despite the visible ribs and dull coat that speak to past neglect—a dusty brown that might shine like mahogany with proper care.

"Stop there," River instructs when I'm still several feet away. "Let her look at you first. Horses need to assess threats before they can accept friendship."

So I stand still, hands at my sides, while a traumatized mare decides if I'm safe. The parallel isn't lost on me. River moves to a wall of equipment, selecting items with the same careful consideration he showed with the horse.

"We'll start with grooming," he says, returning with an array of brushes and combs. "It's about more than making them look good. It's trust-building, health-checking, communication." He holds up a rubber curry comb. "This first. Always start with the curry, work in circles to loosen dirt and stimulate circulation."

He demonstrates on Willow's shoulder, his movements firm but gentle. The mare's eyes half-close in pleasure, and I feel an unexpected pang of envy. When was the last time someone touched me with such purposeful care?

"Your turn." River offers me the curry, our fingers brushing in the exchange. His skin is warm, calloused from work, and I have to focus on the tool instead of the brief contact. "Start where I was. She's used to being handled there."

I mirror his movements, trying to match the pressure and rhythm. Willow's skin twitches under the comb, but she doesn't move away.

"Good," River murmurs, and the simple praise makes my chest tight. "Feel how her muscles relax? That's her saying you're doing it right."

We work in companionable quiet for a while, River showing me each brush and its purpose. The dandy brush for surface dirt, the body brush for shine, the face brush that's softer than baby's breath. His hands guide mine occasionally, correcting my angle or pressure, and each touch sends warmth spreading from the point of contact.

"You weren't always a veterinarian," I say eventually, remembering breakfast conversations about their firefighting past.

River's hands still for just a moment on Willow's mane. "No. Wildfire specialist and paramedic with the Montana Department of Natural Resources." His voice drops lower, taking on a distant quality. "Thought I was saving the world, one blaze at a time."

I continue brushing, giving him space to continue or not. The mare's coat is starting to shine under our ministrations, revealing hidden depths of color.

"Lost my partner in the Sleeping Child fire three years ago." The words come out measured, careful. "Marcus. We'd worked together for five years, had each other's backs through dozens of calls. But that day..." River picks up a mane comb, his movements precise. "Wind shifted. What should have been a routine defensive line turned into a death trap. I got out. He didn't."

My hand stills on Willow's side. "River, I'm so sorry."

"I quit the next week." He works through a tangle in the mare's mane with infinite patience. "Couldn't look at fire the same way. But animals..." He gestures to Willow, to the other horses watching us from their stalls. "They heal. They trust again, even after the worst happens. Figured if they could do it, maybe I could learn."

The stable feels smaller suddenly, more intimate. I'm acutely aware of his presence, the way his earthy scent mingles with horse and hay. When he moves around Willow to work on her other side, we're separated by only the width of a horse, but it feels like both too much and not enough distance.

"Pick up her hooves," River instructs, demonstrating. "Check for stones, thrush, any sign of injury. It's trust at its finest—they're giving you their ability to flee."

I follow his lead, marveling at how Willow lifts her hoof at the slightest pressure, balancing on three legs while I clean out the packed dirt. River's approval is silent but present, communicated through small nods and the relaxed line of his shoulders.

"She likes you," he observes as Willow turns to lip at my ponytail. "Animals know things about people. They don't care about your past or your designation or what anyone else thinks. They just feel your energy."

As if to prove his point, Willow lips at my palm, her whiskers tickling. Then she pushes her massive head against my chest, nearly knocking me back with the force of her affection. I freeze, overwhelmed by the trust this broken creature is showing me.

"She trusts you now." River's voice is soft, almost reverent.

My throat tightens painfully, and I have to blink hard against the sudden burn of tears. This mare who has every reason to fear humans has decided I'm safe. My scarred lungs catch on the next breath, the mingled scents of hay and horse and River's earth-and-sunshine presence overwhelming in the best way.

"Hey," River says gently, noticing my struggle. "It's okay. First time a rescue connects with you... it's always emotional."

But it's more than that.

It's the careful way he taught me, never condescending. It's the trust he showed by sharing his grief. It's the simple acceptance of my reaction without judgment or expectation. After years of being managed, handled, controlled, this gentle guidance feels like glimpsing sunlight after a long winter.

Willow whickers softly, her breath warm against my neck, and I let myself lean into her solid presence while River watches with those green eyes that see too much and judge too little.

I leave the stables on unsteady legs, like a sailor finding land after months at sea. Willow's trust sits heavy in my chest—a gift I didn't earn but was given anyway. River had squeezed my shoulder before I left, a silent acknowledgment of what passed between us, and now I stand in the afternoon sun trying to remember how to be a person who doesn't cry over horses.

"There you are!" Austin's voice cuts through my emotional fog like sunshine through storm clouds. He bounds toward me with an energy that belongs on motivational posters, his light brown hair catching gold in the light. "River said you had a breakthrough with Willow. That's amazing—she usually takes weeks to warm up to new people."

I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "She's a special horse."

"They all are, in their own ways." Austin's hazel eyes study me with the kind of attention that sees past surfaces. "You okay? You look a little..."

"Overwhelmed?" I supply, and he nods.

"It's a lot, I know. This place, the animals, the..." He gestures vaguely between us, encompassing all the unspoken things. "But hey, I've got something that might help. Come on."

He leads me across the yard with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where they're going and why. His stride is purposeful but not rushed, and I notice how he automatically adjusts his pace to match mine. The clean linen scent that clings to him mingles with something medical—antiseptic and latex, the smell of someone who heals.

"Mavi mentioned you crushed the security drills this morning," Austin says conversationally. "Said you crawled through the attic access without complaining once about the dust or spiders."

Heat floods my face at the mention of this morning. "He's got an interesting teaching style."

Austin's laugh is bright and knowing. "That's one way to put it. Mavi believes in trial by fire. Or in this case, trial by cobweb." He glances at me sideways. "He also said you handle pressure well. That's going to come in handy right about now."

"Why? What are we—" I stop as we round the corner of a smaller outbuilding. A pen comes into view, and in it, a calf lies on its side in the straw. Even from here, I can see something's wrong—the listless way it breathes, the dull cast to its eyes.

Austin's demeanor shifts instantly from cheerful to professional. He vaults over the fence with practiced ease, already pulling latex gloves from his pocket. "Hey there, little man," he murmurs, kneeling beside the calf. "Not feeling so good today, huh?"

I climb through the fence more carefully, watching as his hands move over the animal with expert precision. He palpates the calf's stomach, checks its gums, feels along its legs with the kind of focused attention that speaks to years of practice.

"Colic," he says, glancing up at me. "Not uncommon in calves, but needs immediate attention. Come here, I'll show you what to look for."

I kneel beside him in the straw, trying not to think about what might be soaking into my jeans. The calf barely acknowledges our presence, too sick to care about potential threats. Up close, I can see the distension in its belly, the way its breathing comes shallow and pained.

"First thing—always check the eyes." Austin gently pulls back an eyelid. "See how they're dull? Dehydration. And here—" He presses on the calf's gums. "Should pink up immediately when you release. The slow return means poor circulation."

His teaching style is different from River's quiet guidance or Mavi's challenging approach. Austin explains everything as he goes, his voice taking on the cadence of someone used to training others. His hands work while he talks, preparing supplies from a medical kit that seems to materialize from nowhere.

"Temperature next." He produces a thermometer, and I try not to grimace as he shows me exactly where it needs to go. "103.5. Bit elevated, but not critical. The leg though..."

He runs his hands down the calf's right foreleg, and the animal flinches. "Secondary issue. Probably went down hard when the colic hit, twisted something." He sits back on his heels, already planning treatment. "Okay, here's what we're going to do."

The next few minutes are a whirlwind of medical efficiency. Austin shows me how to prepare the injection site, how to fill a syringe without air bubbles, how to wrap the injured leg with just enough pressure to support without cutting off circulation. His movements are confident but never rushed, and he explains each step like he has all the time in the world.

"I was an EMT first," he says while demonstrating the proper angle for an intramuscular injection. "Fire department, emergency response, the whole adrenaline junkie package. Loved it for years—the rush, the saves, the brotherhood."

"What changed?" I ask, watching him work with fascination.

"Got tired of only seeing people on their worst days." He caps the used needle with practiced movement. "Started thinking about what happened after we dropped them at the hospital. Who helped them heal, not just survive? So I went back to school, became a nurse practitioner. Traded the sirens for steady care."

He hands me a prepared syringe. "Your turn. Subcutaneous this time—under the skin, not into muscle. Pinch up a fold here, insert at a forty-five-degree angle."

My hands shake slightly as I take the syringe. The calf's hide is surprisingly tough, and I hesitate with the needle poised.

"You've got this," Austin encourages, his hand hovering near mine but not taking over. "Think of it as giving relief, not causing pain. Sometimes the quiet saves are the most important ones."

Something in his tone steadies me. I pinch the skin as he showed me, slide the needle in with one smooth motion, and depress the plunger. The calf doesn't even flinch, too sick to care about one more discomfort.

"Perfect!" Austin beams at me like I've just performed surgery. "Natural instincts. You'd make a good nurse."

I hand back the syringe, a surprising surge of accomplishment warming my chest. "I just followed your instructions."

"No, you did more than that." He starts cleaning up supplies, movements efficient. "You stayed calm, kept your hands steady, and most importantly—you cared about doing it right. That's not something you can teach."

We work in companionable silence for a while, Austin showing me how to massage the calf's distended belly, how to encourage it to stand. The animal seems perkier already, whether from the medication or the attention. When it finally struggles to its feet, wobbling but determined, I feel ridiculous pride.

"There we go," Austin croons, supporting the calf's weight. "Feeling better already, aren't you? Willa here helped fix you right up."

The use of my name in that context—as someone who helps, who heals—makes my throat tight again. Austin pretends not to notice, busy checking the leg wrap, but his next words tell me he understands.

"It's addictive, you know. Being useful. Making things better instead of just... existing." He glances at me, hazel eyes warm with understanding. "Bet you haven't had much chance for that lately."

The accuracy of the observation stings. "Not much call for financial auditing on a ranch."

"Maybe not," he agrees, helping the calf take a few tentative steps. "But there's plenty of call for someone who learns fast, works hard, and isn't afraid to get their hands dirty. Literally, in this case."

I look down at my jeans, now decorated with straw, mud, and things I don't want to identify. Somehow, I don't mind. The calf butts against my hip weakly, seeking attention, and I stroke its head without thinking.

"See?" Austin grins. "Natural caregiver. The animals know."

His clean linen scent mixed with antiseptic should be clinical, impersonal. Instead, it speaks of comfort, of someone who makes hurting things whole. As we stand together in the pen, watching the calf grow steadier on its feet, I feel something inside me grow steadier too.

The equipment shed looms before me like a test I didn't study for. After the success with the calf, I'd been riding high on accomplishment, but Maverick's presence changes the atmospheric pressure. He leans against a massive tractor, arms crossed, looking like trouble in worn denim and engine grease.

"Ready for the real work?" he asks, and there's that smirk again—the one that says he remembers every sound I made this morning. "Hope those delicate hands can handle more than baby animals."

I bristle at the challenge, which is probably exactly what he wants. "My hands are fine."

"We'll see." He pushes off the tractor, circling it with predatory grace. "Flat tire. Tools are there." He points to a chest that looks like it hasn't been organized since the Clinton administration. "Figure it out."

No demonstration. No patient explanation. Just expectation and those green eyes watching to see if I'll sink or swim. It's so different from River's gentle guidance or Austin's enthusiastic teaching that I almost protest. Then I remember this morning—how he'd pushed me through the security drills, never accepting "I can't" as an answer.

Fine. Two can play this game.

I approach the tool chest like it might bite, sorting through wrenches and things I can't name. The tractor is massive up close, its tire coming up to my waist. I've changed car tires before—how different can it be?

Very different, as it turns out. The lug nuts are the size of my fist and torqued tight enough to defeat mortal strength. I strain against the wrench, feeling Maverick's eyes on me, refusing to ask for help. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool October air.

"Physics," he says finally, when I'm red-faced and panting. "Leverage beats strength every time."

He doesn't show me—that would be too easy. Instead, he waits while I figure out how to use a longer wrench, how to position my body weight, how to break the seal with steady pressure instead of frantic pulling. When the first lug nut finally gives, the satisfaction is fierce.

"Good," is all he says, but something in his tone makes the single word feel like a medal.

I work in silence for a while, muscles straining as I remove each nut. Maverick doesn't offer help, but he doesn't leave either. He's there when I struggle with the jack, pointing out the reinforced frame points without touching. There when the old tire won't budge, mentioning casually that rust makes things stick.

"You always this hands-off?" I grunt, fighting with the spare tire that weighs more than Luna.

"Depends." He moves closer, ostensibly to check my work but really just to be annoying. His scent—metal and leather and something uniquely Maverick—makes thinking harder. "Some things need hands-on attention. Others, you learn better by doing."

The innuendo isn't subtle, but I'm too focused on not dropping a tire on my foot to respond. When I finally get it mounted, aligned, and start threading the lug nuts back on, he makes a sound that might be approval.

"Where'd you learn this teaching method?" I ask, tightening nuts in the star pattern I remember from driver's ed. "The Frustrate Your Student school of education?"

His laugh is sharp but not unkind. "Foster care, actually. Twelve different homes in ten years. You learn real quick that nobody's going to hold your hand. Either you figure it out or you don't survive."

The casual delivery doesn't hide the weight of the words. I pause, wrench in hand, studying him. "That's..."

"What it is," he finishes, shutting down any sympathy before it can form. "But it taught me to be resourceful. To watch, learn, adapt. Skills that kept me alive then and keep everyone safe now."

He moves to a section of fence, running his hand along the wire. "Come here. Different lesson."

I follow, grateful to leave the heavy tire behind. My arms ache and my jeans are now decorated with grease to go with the calf-pen stains, but there's something satisfying about the physical evidence of work.

"Fence tension," Maverick explains, showing me how to test the wire. "Too loose, cattle push through. Too tight, it snaps in weather changes. Has to be just right."

His hands guide mine to feel the proper resistance, and that spark from this morning returns. Static from the dry air, maybe, but it jolts through me nonetheless. He doesn't let go immediately, his fingers wrapping around mine to demonstrate the testing motion.

"Trust but verify," he says, his voice lower now. "That's how you stay safe. Check everything, assume nothing, always have a backup plan."

"Sounds exhausting," I manage, hyperaware of his proximity.

"It is." He releases my hands, stepping back. "But it's better than being caught off guard. Than losing people because you got comfortable."

There's history in those words, trauma that shaped him like the foster system did. I want to ask, but he's already moving on, leading me to an irrigation pump that looks like it's seen better decades.

"This one's been acting up," he says, handing me a wrench. "See if you can figure out why."

Another test. I crouch beside the pump, trying to remember anything useful from high school physics. Maverick leans against a post, watching with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. The pressure makes my hands shake slightly as I check connections, test moving parts, try to think like a machine.

"Take your time," he says when I fumble a bolt. "Rushing leads to mistakes. Mistakes here could mean flooded fields or dried crops."

No pressure then. I force myself to slow down, to really look at the mechanism. There—a worn gasket where water's been seeping, mineral deposits indicating a slow leak. I point it out, explaining my reasoning, and something shifts in Maverick's expression.

"Well, fuck," he says, but he's smiling—a real smile, not the sharp smirk from earlier. "Got it in one. Took River three days to diagnose that last month."

Pride blooms warm in my chest. "Really?"

"Really." He moves closer to inspect my find. "Good eye. Most people would have gone straight for the complex problems, missed the simple failure."

We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the small scars on his hands that his investigative work left behind. Close enough to notice how his presence makes the air feel charged, dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with equipment.

"You're not what I expected," he says quietly. "When Cole brought you here, I thought... well, doesn't matter what I thought. You're tougher than you look."

"Have to be," I reply, meeting his intense gaze. "No one else is going to do the work for me, right?"

His smile turns sharp again, approving. "Now you're learning. Come on, one more thing to check before⁠—"

A metallic crash cuts him off. I spin toward the sound, but Maverick's already moving, putting himself between me and whatever made the noise. His hand shoots out, pressing me back against the shed wall as a piece of farming equipment I can't identify rolls past, clearly having broken free from its moorings.

"Stay," he orders, every line of his body tense as he assesses the threat. Only when he's certain it's just mechanical failure does he relax, but he doesn't move away. We're pressed close, his body shielding mine, and I can feel his heart racing under the calm exterior.

"Just equipment failure," I say, trying to lighten the moment. "Not an assassination attempt."

"This time," he mutters, finally stepping back. But his hand lingers on my arm, thumb brushing over the pulse point. "Can't be too careful. Not with..."

He doesn't finish, but I hear what he doesn't say. Not with you. Not with someone who matters. The intensity of his protection, the way he moved without thought to shield me, says more than words could.

"I should check that," he says, but doesn't move yet. "Make sure nothing else is loose."

"Maverick?" I touch his hand where it still rests on my arm. "Thank you. For the lessons. For..." I gesture at the space where he'd protected me.

His fingers tighten briefly, then release. "Just doing my job, Boss. Keeping everyone safe." But the look in his eyes says it's more than that. Says I'm more than just another responsibility to manage.

As he goes to secure the equipment, I lean against the shed wall, pulse still racing. Each man teaches differently, shares differently, but they all protect with the same fierce intensity. And despite every wall I've built, every promise to keep my distance, I'm starting to feel protected in return.

Starting to feel like I belong.

Cole stands in the middle of the pasture like he grew from the Montana soil itself. The afternoon sun backlights his broad shoulders, and even from a distance, I can see the easy authority in how he surveys the cattle. This is his domain—not just the ranch he manages but the land he reads like scripture, every ridge and water source memorized.

"Thought I'd find you out here," I call, climbing through the fence with more grace than I managed this morning. The success with Maverick's challenges has left me feeling bolder, more capable.

He turns, and for a moment something flashes in those storm-gray eyes—heat, memory, the ghost of yesterday's kiss. Then the careful distance slides back into place, professional masks we both wear like armor.

"Good timing," he says, voice neutral. "Need to check the eastern pasture rotation. You should see how this works."

I fall into step beside him, trying not to notice how his presence makes the air feel thinner. The field stretches before us, dotted with Black Angus cattle that watch our approach with mild interest. Cole moves through them without hesitation, one hand occasionally touching a flank or checking an ear tag.

"Rotation is everything," he begins, slipping into teaching mode. "Keep cattle in one spot too long, they'll graze it to dirt. Move them too often, the grass doesn't recover properly. It's about reading the land, understanding what it needs."

He points to a section where the grass grows shorter, paler. "See that? Three weeks ago, had twenty head here. Now it's resting, recovering. By the time we bring them back in six weeks, it'll be stronger than before."

His passion for the land threads through every word. This isn't just a job for him—it's a calling, a purpose that runs bone-deep. We walk the fence line while he explains water sources, drainage patterns, how weather affects every decision. His hands move as he talks, painting pictures of seasonal changes and growth cycles.

"You grew up doing this," I observe, watching him calculate herd positions with unconscious expertise.

"Family ranch about two hours north," he confirms. "Smaller operation, but same principles. Learned to read cattle before I could read books. Thought I'd take it over eventually, before..."

He stops, jaw tightening. I wait, letting the silence stretch until he's ready.

"Firefighting seemed like a calling," he continues eventually. "Saving lives, protecting communities. Noble work. Left the ranch at eighteen, sure I was meant for bigger things than cattle and grass."

"What changed?"

He pauses at a water trough, checking levels and flow rate. "Reality. Lost my parents five years ago. Car accident on black ice—nothing anyone could have done. Suddenly the ranch I'd walked away from was gone, sold to cover debts. Made me realize what I'd given up chasing glory."

The vulnerability in his voice makes my chest tight. I want to touch him, offer comfort, but the careful distance between us feels like a wall I can't breach.

"This place became home instead," he says, gesturing to the expanse of Cactus Rose. "Different land, but the same principles. Take care of it, and it takes care of you. Everything connected, everything in balance."

We continue walking, and he shows me how to spot overgrazing, how to identify good pasture from stressed land. His teaching style is systematic but not cold—he wants me to understand the why, not just the what. When we reach a section of fence that needs attention, he produces tools from his pocket like a magician.

"Hold this," he says, handing me wire while he works. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and that electric current from yesterday sparks to life. He freezes for just a moment, then continues working as if nothing happened.

But something has shifted. The air between us grows heavy with unspoken words, with the memory of his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair. I force myself to focus on the fence, on his instructions about tension and spacing, but my body remembers. My body wants.

"Boss! Cole!" Austin's voice carries across the field, urgent enough to break the spell. "Magnus is loose again!"

Cole curses under his breath, already moving. "Bull," he explains tersely. "Territorial as hell and too smart for his own good. Stay behind me."

I follow as he jogs toward the north pasture, and sure enough, a massive Angus bull stands in the middle of the path. Magnus is appropriately named—he's enormous, all muscle and attitude, pawing at the ground like something from a bullfighting poster.

"Easy, big guy," Cole murmurs, slowing his approach. "Just need you to move along."

Magnus snorts, lowering his head in clear threat. That's when I realize we're between him and his herd—the worst possible position. Cole realizes it too, his body shifting subtly to put himself between me and two thousand pounds of territorial beef.

"When I move, you go left," he says quietly. "Don't run, just walk steady to the fence."

"Cole—"

"Trust me."

And I do. Despite every instinct screaming at me to run from the advancing bull, I trust Cole's calm authority. He steps forward, arms spread wide, making himself the bigger target. Magnus focuses on him entirely, and I ease left as instructed, heart hammering against my ribs.

What happens next is like watching a dance. Cole doesn't challenge the bull directly—instead, he angles his body, redirects Magnus's attention, guides him with subtle movements until the animal is headed back toward his herd. It's masterful, the kind of skill that comes from a lifetime of understanding animals.

"Jesus," I breathe when Cole rejoins me at the fence. "That was⁠—"

"Stupid," he finishes, but he's grinning. "Magnus likes to test boundaries. Part of why he's such a good breeding bull—that attitude passes to strong calves."

We're both breathing hard from adrenaline, standing closer than necessary. His pine-leather scent wraps around me, intensified by exertion, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for him.

"Come on," he says, voice rougher than before. "Let me show you the property maps."

He leads me to a small outbuilding that serves as a field office. Inside, the walls are covered with topographical maps, precipitation charts, grazing schedules that look like military planning documents. Cole spreads a worn property map on the desk, and we bend over it together.

"Here's where we are," he says, pointing. "Eastern pasture. This section here is winter grazing, more sheltered. This is hay production..."

I try to focus on his words, but he's standing so close. Close enough that his arm brushes mine as he traces property lines. Close enough that his breath stirs my hair when he leans in to point out water sources. The proximity is torture, made worse by how natural it feels.

"The creek forms our eastern boundary," he continues, professional despite the tension. "Good year-round water, but we have to watch erosion during spring melt. See how the previous owners let cattle access it directly? We've had to fence it off, install water systems instead."

His hand covers mine on the map, guiding my finger along the creek line. The touch is meant to be instructional, but my body doesn't care about intentions. Heat floods through me from that simple contact, and I hear his breath catch.

"Everything's connected," he says, and I'm not sure if he's still talking about the ranch. "Water affects grass, grass affects cattle, cattle affect soil. Change one thing, everything shifts."

"Like pack dynamics," I murmur without thinking.

His hand stills on mine. "Yeah. Exactly like that."

We stand frozen, the moment stretching taut between us. Then footsteps on gravel break the spell—someone approaching the office. Cole steps back smoothly, professional distance restored, but his eyes hold promises of conversations we'll have later. Promises of more than conversation.

"Should get back," he says. "Dinner prep soon."

I nod, not trusting my voice. We leave the office together, and I'm so focused on not touching him that I miss the rough ground. My ankle turns, and I stumble. Cole's there instantly, arm around my waist, steadying me against his solid warmth.

"Careful," he murmurs, and the word carries weight beyond the immediate concern.

"I'm trying," I reply, and we both know I'm not talking about walking.

He holds me a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing the strip of skin where my tank has ridden up. Then he releases me, stepping back with visible effort.

"Ranch work's dangerous," he says, voice carefully neutral again. "Have to watch every step."

But as we walk back toward the main house, the careful distance between us feels more like anticipation than separation.

Every shared glance, every accidental touch, adds fuel to the fire we started yesterday.

And despite all the reasons to be careful, to go slow, to protect what's being built here—I know it's only a matter of time before we burn.

Wendolyn's cherry-red hatchback looks deliriously out of place among the ranch trucks, like a metropolitan fairy tale that took a wrong turn at the county line. Cole and I round the corner to find the front porch occupied—Wendolyn chatting animatedly with an elderly woman in a hand-knit cardigan, while River holds Luna on his hip, pointing out birds in the evening sky.

"Auntie Willa!" Wendolyn calls out, waving enthusiastically. "Mrs. H and I thought we'd stop by with the little princess. Someone's been fussy all afternoon—apparently she missed her new favorite person."

As if to prove the point, Luna's heterochromatic eyes lock onto me, and she immediately starts reaching, making grabby hands and the particular whimpering sound that means 'pick me up now.' River chuckles, moving closer to transfer her, and I catch myself reaching back just as eagerly.

"Well," Mrs. Holloway observes with sharp eyes that belie her grandmotherly appearance, "that's quite the bond already. Usually takes her weeks to warm up to new folks."

Luna settles against my chest with a contented sigh, her chubby fingers immediately tangling in my ponytail. The weight of her, the baby-powder-and-milk scent, the absolute trust in how she melts into me—it's overwhelming in the best way. Around us, the men seem to relax, like Luna in my arms completes some invisible circuit.

"How long have you been watching her?" I ask Mrs. Holloway, shifting Luna to my hip with growing confidence.

"Oh, going on four months now," she replies, producing a thermos of what smells like legendary hot chocolate from her massive purse. "Ever since these boys realized a baby couldn't exactly tag along for cattle drives. Though Lord knows they tried at first."

"She rode in a carrier on my back for the first month," Austin admits, appearing from the house with a fresh diaper bag. "Worked great until she learned to grab things. Ever try to vaccinate cattle with a baby pulling your hair?"

The image makes me laugh, which makes Luna laugh, her joy infectious. "She's lucky to have all of you. But I'm curious—how did she come to you? I mean, it's not exactly traditional..."

The men exchange looks—quick, loaded with unspoken communication. River takes the lead, his voice careful. "Luna came to us when we were... at a crossroads. The pack was struggling. We'd been through some difficult times, made some mistakes, and honestly, we were close to going our separate ways."

My chest tightens. I can't imagine these men as anything but united, can't picture this ranch without their interwoven presence. "You were going to split up?"

"It was bad," Cole admits, his usual authority tempered with old pain. "We'd lost trust in each other, in the pack structure. Everything we'd built felt poisoned. Then Luna arrived—suddenly we had someone who needed us whole, functioning, united. She saved us, really."

"But how—" I start, then Austin smoothly interrupts.

"Anyone want coffee? Mrs. H brought her famous coffee cake too. We should get inside before it gets cold." His hazel eyes hold gentle warning—this story has boundaries, places they're not ready to let me enter yet.

I accept the deflection, but my mind races as we move inside. Another Omega. There had to have been another Omega here—someone who left or was lost, someone whose absence nearly destroyed them. The thought sparks unexpected jealousy, hot and sharp. Which is ridiculous. I have no claim here, no right to feel possessive of men who've known love before.

But watching them move around the kitchen, the easy domesticity of their routine, I can't help wondering. Did she stand where I'm standing, holding Luna while Austin made coffee? Did she laugh at Maverick's paranoid security checks, learn to read the land from Cole, find peace with River's horses? The ghost of her lingers in their careful silence, in the way they've circled around certain topics since I arrived.

"You're thinking too hard," Wendolyn murmurs, appearing at my elbow with a slice of coffee cake that could feed three people. "I can actually hear the gears turning."

"Just wondering," I admit quietly, bouncing Luna when she starts to fuss. "About before. About what happened."

Wendolyn's perpetually cheerful expression softens. "Not my story to tell, hon. But I will say this—what they have now, with Luna, with the ranch stable again? It's precious to them. They won't risk it lightly."

The weight of her words settles over me. They won't risk it lightly, which means I'm a risk. My presence here, the growing connections, the kiss with Cole, this morning with Maverick—it all threatens their hard-won peace. The thought should make me pull back, rebuild my walls, protect everyone from potential disaster.

Instead, I find myself sinking deeper into their world. Luna plays with my necklace while the men share ranch updates, and I'm struck by how natural this feels. Maverick teases Austin about his coffee being too weak, River quietly fixes a plate for Mrs. Holloway, Cole reviews tomorrow's schedule with easy authority. It's a family, unconventional but unmistakably real.

"She's getting sleepy," Mrs. Holloway observes, watching Luna's eyes droop. "I should get her home for proper bedtime."

"I can take her," Austin offers, but Luna clings tighter to me, whimpering protest.

"Or," River suggests carefully, "Willa could help with bedtime routine tonight. If she wants to learn."

All eyes turn to me, and I realize this is another test. Not of ranch skills or physical capability, but of willingness to integrate into their most precious responsibility. Luna nuzzles into my neck, her trust absolute, and my answer comes without hesitation.

"I'd like that. If you'll show me how she likes things done."

The smile that breaks across Austin's face could power the ranch for a week. "Really? That would be—yes. Great. I'll get her bottles ready."

Mrs. Holloway pats my arm as she stands to leave. "You'll do fine, dear. Baby knows good people when she finds them." She eyes the men with grandmotherly sternness. "You boys better appreciate what's landing in your laps here. Second chances don't come often."

The words hang in the air after she leaves, weighted with meaning none of us acknowledge directly. Cole helps Wendolyn with her coat while she chatters about tomorrow's town gossip, but I catch her meaningful looks. Everyone seems to see something I'm only beginning to understand—the shape of what could be, if we're brave enough to reach for it.

As Austin leads me upstairs to Luna's nursery, the others naturally follow. It should feel crowded, four large men in a baby's room, but instead it feels right. River explains Luna's favorite lullaby, Maverick double-checks window locks from habit, Cole lingers in the doorway watching with an expression I can't read.

"She likes her bottle just barely warm," Austin instructs, showing me how to test the temperature. "And she needs her stuffed rabbit—Mr. Hoppy—or she won't settle."

I follow each instruction carefully, aware of their attention but not feeling judged. When Luna finishes her bottle and I shift her to my shoulder for burping, she lets out a surprisingly loud belch that makes everyone laugh.

"Definitely takes after Maverick," River teases, earning a good-natured shove.

The normalcy of it—the teasing, the shared responsibility, the easy affection—makes my throat tight. This is what Pack should be. Not the rigid hierarchy of Iron Ridge, not power plays and calculated affection, but this. Messy and real and worth protecting.

Luna falls asleep in my arms as I rock her, humming tunelessly. The men grow quiet too, something reverent in how they watch. When I finally lay her in the crib, tucking Mr. Hoppy beside her, it feels like crossing a threshold I can't uncross.

"Thank you," Cole says quietly as we file out. "She doesn't trust easily, but with you..."

"It's mutual," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty.

We stand in the hallway, none of us quite ready to separate for the night. The house settles around us with comfortable creaks and sighs, and I'm struck by how much has changed in just one day. This morning I was alone in my room, fumbling toward pleasure I'd been denied. Now I'm surrounded by men who've taught me, protected me, begun to trust me with their most precious charge.

My walls haven't just crumbled—they've been systematically dismantled by patient hands and gentle expectations. And despite every warning screaming in my head, every memory of how wrong it went before, I want this. Want to belong here, with them, in this impossible family they've built from broken pieces.

"Same time tomorrow?" Maverick asks, and it takes me a moment to realize he means morning security rounds.

"Maybe a little later," I suggest, face heating at the memory. "Give everyone time to... wake up properly."

His grin is wicked, but there's warmth beneath it. "Your call, Boss."

They drift away to their evening routines—River to check the horses, Austin to prep tomorrow's medical supplies, Maverick to his perimeter check, Cole to his office for paperwork. But each pauses to touch me as they pass—a hand on my shoulder, fingers brushing mine, a gentle chuck under my chin. Small gestures that speak volumes.

I stand alone in the hallway, listening to Luna's soft breathing through the baby monitor, feeling the phantom pressure of each touch. Tomorrow I'll learn more about ranching, face whatever challenges they throw at me. But tonight, I let myself imagine what it would be like to stay. To be not just the boss or the obligation, but part of this patchwork family.

To be theirs, and have them be mine, in all the ways that matter.

First Heat Approaching

~WILLA~

My hands are numb where they grip the seatbelt, but there's a heat in my lower belly that I recognize as something far more dangerous than yesterday's want—it's biology betraying me, my body preparing for something I'm not ready to face.

Wendolyn's cherry-red hatchback bounces over another pothole, and I press my palm harder against my stomach, as if I could hold back the inevitable through sheer pressure. The blockers I've relied on for two years are failing, and the proof pulses through me with each heartbeat—a slow, insistent ache that whispers of heat coming too soon, too fast, too much.

"You're going to love Dr. Sylvie," Wendolyn says, her copper waves catching morning light as she navigates Sweetwater Falls' main street. "She's only been here six months, but she's already revolutionized how this town handles Omega healthcare. No more Alpha doctors making decisions about our bodies, no more 'prescriptions' that just happen to benefit whoever's courting you."

I try to focus on her words instead of the way my skin feels too tight, how every bump in the road sends uncomfortable awareness through parts of me that have been dormant for years. "How did she manage that?" My voice comes out huskier than usual, smoke damage and anxiety creating a rasp that makes me sound like I've been screaming. Or moaning. God, don't think about moaning.

"By being absolutely brilliant and taking no shit whatsoever." Wendolyn's grin is wicked with admiration. "First week she was here, some Alpha tried to access his Omega's medical records without consent—you know, the usual 'I need to monitor her cycle for her own good' bullshit. Dr. Sylvie not only refused, she reported him to the medical board and got his veterinary license suspended for ethics violations."

"Veterinary license?" I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make me hyperaware of the growing slickness between my thighs. Wrong. This is all wrong. My heat isn't due for another three weeks.

"Oh yeah, that was the other thing—before Dr. Sylvie, Omegas here had to see the regular doctor who also happened to be the large animal vet. Because apparently we're livestock." She rolls her eyes hard enough to sprain something. "But our Doc shut that down real quick. She's got a proper Omega-focused practice now, with actual privacy laws and everything. Anyone tries to interfere with an Omega's medical autonomy, they get the hammer."

The image of a tiny doctor wielding an actual hammer makes me smile despite my discomfort. "Why didn't anyone stop this before? The veterinary thing seems..."

"Barbaric? Degrading? Probably illegal?" Wendolyn supplies cheerfully. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when every position of power is held by Alphas who benefit from the system. But that's changing too. Wait 'til you meet our new police chief—Chief Hazel Martinez. She's scarier than Dr. Sylvie, if that's possible."

I clutch my stomach tighter as another wave of pre-heat symptoms washes over me. My skin prickles with hypersensitivity, every brush of fabric against my body sending mixed signals of discomfort and need. "Police chief? That's unusual." Understatement of the century—female Omega police officers are rare enough, but a chief?

"Built her reputation in Denver first," Wendolyn explains, turning onto a tree-lined side street. "Took down some major trafficking ring, made enemies of all the right people. When Sweetwater Falls' old chief finally retired—and by retired I mean got caught taking bribes from pack leaders to look the other way on consent violations—the town council practically begged her to come here. Smart move, too. First month, she arrested three Alphas for harassment. Actual arrests, not just warnings. Nobody wants to fuck with their career by crossing her."

The trees blur past my window as I process this information. Two powerful Omegas in positions that directly challenge Alpha control—medical and law enforcement. It's like Sweetwater Falls is becoming a haven for those of us tired of the old ways.

"It's refreshing," I manage, though my voice catches as another cramp rolls through me. "Seeing Omegas in power who actually use it to protect other Omegas instead of..." Instead of becoming enforcers for the same system that oppressed them, I don't say. Instead of being like the female Alpha doctor at Iron Ridge who told me I was "too dramatic" about my pain, who said good Omegas didn't complain.

"Instead of being pick-me girls for the patriarchy?" Wendolyn finishes with characteristic bluntness. "Yeah, we don't do that here anymore. Dr. Sylvie and Chief Martinez made sure of that. They've got each other's backs, and they've got ours. It's a whole new world, baby."

A whole new world. One where I might actually get medical care that isn't designed to make me more convenient for Alphas. One where my strange biology might be treated as variation instead of defect. One where⁠—

Another cramp hits, stronger this time, and I can't suppress the whimper that escapes. Wendolyn's eyes dart to me with concern.

"Almost there, hon. Just another minute."

The clinic appears like salvation—a modest building with sage-green trim and windows that actually have curtains for privacy. The sign reads "Sweetwater Women's Health" in elegant script, with "Dr. Iris Sylvie, Omega Health Specialist" below. No mention of veterinary services, thank God.

Wendolyn pulls into a parking spot near the door, and I take a shaky breath. Whatever's happening to my body, at least I'll be facing it with a doctor who sees me as a person, not livestock or property. That has to count for something.

Even if my treacherous body is already preparing for a heat that could destroy everything I've started to build at Cactus Rose Ranch.

The clinic door opens to reveal an interior that defies every medical space I've ever known.

Instead of harsh fluorescents and antiseptic assault, soft lighting warms walls painted in soothing earth tones.

Lavender—real lavender, not artificial spray—mingles with something herbal and calming.

There's actual art on the walls, abstract pieces in blues and greens that make me think of water, of flow, of things that move naturally instead of being forced into rigid channels.

"First time?" The receptionist, a Beta woman with kind eyes, smiles without the judgment I'm braced for. "Dr. Sylvie will be right with you. There's tea in the corner if you'd like some while you wait."

Tea. At a doctor's office. For Omegas. I sink into a chair that's actually comfortable, trying to process this alien world where medical care comes with comfort instead of humiliation. Wendolyn plops down beside me, already flipping through a magazine about sustainable farming that definitely wasn't chosen to reinforce traditional Omega roles.

"Willa James?" A woman appears in the doorway to the exam rooms, and I know immediately this is Dr. Sylvie. She's shorter than me but carries herself like she's seven feet tall, with sharp brown eyes behind designer glasses and silver streaking through black hair pulled back in an efficient bun. Her scent is subtle but distinctive—mint and steel, Omega notes wrapped in professional authority.

The exam room continues the theme of actual care for patient comfort. The table has a proper cushion, the stirrups are padded, and there's a heating pad already warmed and waiting. Dr. Sylvie washes her hands while I change into a gown that actually closes properly in the back—another small dignity I didn't know I was missing until it was offered.

"Tell me what's happening," she says, settling onto a rolling stool with a tablet instead of a clipboard. "In your own words, at your own pace."

So I do. The failing blockers, the symptoms that started this morning, the fear that's been eating at me since I felt that first tell-tale cramp. She listens without interrupting, occasionally making notes, her expression neutral but attentive. When I finally run out of words, she nods thoughtfully.

"Let's take a look. I'll explain everything I'm doing before I do it." And she does, narrating each part of the examination like I'm a person who deserves to know what's happening to my own body. Revolutionary concept, apparently.

"Your scent glands are definitely more active than they should be on standard blockers," she observes, gentle fingers palpating the glands at my throat. "Tell me about your cycle history. When did you last have a natural heat?"

"Two and a half years ago." The admission burns with shame. "Before I started the blockers."

"And the blockers were prescribed by...?"

"The pack doctor at Iron Ridge. He said—" I swallow hard, tasting old bitterness. "He said my natural cycle was too disruptive. That I needed to be regulated for pack harmony."

Dr. Sylvie's hands still for just a moment, and when she speaks, her voice carries steel wrapped in silk. "Let me be very clear about something. There is nothing wrong with your natural cycle. Nothing disruptive about your biology. You were medicated for their convenience, not your health."

"But my condition—" The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I have this scent-bonding thing. I can't properly bond with a pack through scent marking like normal Omegas. I'm defective⁠—"

"Stop." The command cuts through my spiral with surgical precision.

Dr. Sylvie rolls her stool around to face me directly, eyes blazing behind those designer frames. "There is nothing defective about you. Nothing shameful about your biology. You have a variation in scent reception that affects approximately three percent of Omegas. It's uncommon, not abnormal. Different, not broken."

Tears burn my eyes at the fierce certainty in her voice. No medical professional has ever defended my biology before. They've always treated it like a problem to solve, a malfunction to manage.

"The blockers you've been on," she continues, returning to examination mode but keeping her voice gentle, "contain synthetic hormones that are frankly barbaric. Designed in the sixties by Alpha researchers who thought Omega arousal was a medical condition to be suppressed. I'm prescribing you natural blockers—plant-based, designed to work with your body instead of against it."

"Will they work with my... variation?" I can't quite bring myself to say 'defect' again under her sharp gaze.

"Better than the synthetic ones, actually. Your condition means you process scent pheromones differently, which is why the standard blockers are failing—they're targeting the wrong receptors." She types rapidly on her tablet. "The natural ones work systemically, supporting your whole endocrine system instead of just suppressing symptoms."

"What about side effects?"

"Some wooziness as your body adjusts. Possible hot flashes—what some of my patients call 'heat stroke'—as your natural hormones reassert themselves. You'll need to avoid sexual arousal for the first forty-eight hours while the medications stabilize." She pauses, glancing up with a knowing look. "That means limiting physical contact with your men."

"They're not—" I start automatically, then flush hot. "They're not my men. Or my pack. We haven't signed anything, there's no formal arrangement⁠—"

Wendolyn's laughter cuts through my protests like sunshine through fog. "Oh honey, no. Doc's got it right. They're absolutely your men. I saw how they looked at you yesterday, how they orbited around you like planets around the sun. And if you try to say they're available, I'll have to fight you, because I've had my eye on that sweet Austin for months."

"I'm their boss," I insist weakly. "They work for me. That's all."

"Uh-huh." Wendolyn's grin is pure mischief. "And I'm a natural blonde. Come on, Willa. Even Luna knows better, and she's barely crawling."

Dr. Sylvie clears her throat, bringing us back to medical matters, but there's amusement in her eyes. "Regardless of formal arrangements, you'll need to inform any... interested parties about the restrictions. I'm including instructions for them as well. No scent marking, no prolonged physical contact, and definitely no sexual activity until your system stabilizes."

She hands me several prescriptions, each carefully labeled. "This one's for the natural blockers. This is a mild sedative if the adjustment symptoms become uncomfortable. And this—" she pauses, studying me carefully "—is information about nesting supplies. You'll likely experience increased nesting urges as your natural hormones return."

I stare at the paper blankly. "Nesting?"

The silence that follows is deafening. Dr. Sylvie and Wendolyn exchange looks of pure shock, like I've just announced I don't know what water is.

"You don't know what nesting is?" Wendolyn's voice rises to a pitch that could shatter glass. "How do you not—what kind of backwards—those absolute bastards!"

"Willa," Dr. Sylvie says carefully, like she's approaching a wounded animal. "Did your previous pack prevent you from nesting?"

"I don't—" Shame floods through me, hot and choking. "They never mentioned it. Said I didn't need any special Omega behaviors, that I was evolved past all that primitive stuff. I thought nesting was just... like, a myth? Something from old stories?"

The noise Wendolyn makes is inhuman, pure rage condensed into sound. Dr. Sylvie's professional mask slips, revealing fury that could melt steel.

"Nesting is a fundamental Omega behavior," she says, each word precise as a scalpel. "It's how you create safe spaces, how you process stress, how you prepare for heats and major life changes. Denying an Omega the ability to nest is—" She stops, visibly collecting herself. "It's abuse. Medical abuse, psychological abuse, cultural abuse. Those bastards deliberately prevented you from accessing a core part of your identity."

My hands shake as I process this. Another thing stolen, another piece of myself I didn't even know was missing. How many other "primitive" behaviors did they convince me I was too evolved for? How much of myself did I let them erase?

"We're fixing this," Wendolyn declares with the certainty of someone who moves mountains for fun. "Shopping trip this weekend. We're getting you every soft thing in Montana until you figure out what your nest needs."

Dr. Sylvie nods approvingly. "I'll include some basic nesting guides with your prescriptions. And Willa? There's nothing primitive about taking care of yourself. Nothing shameful about being exactly what you are—a powerful Omega who deserves to experience every aspect of her identity."

They come out of nowhere—well, not nowhere, because I suppose this is exactly where two years of self-loathing, misplaced obedience, and covert hope stack up like kindling—but I don't expect them to hit so hard, or so fast. My vision blurs. It takes all of three seconds after Dr. Sylvie finishes speaking for my throat to tighten and water to spill down my cheeks, slow at first, then in fat, humiliating drops. I don't even try to wipe them away. I just let them track down my jaw, pooling at the edge of my chin and darkening the collar of the absurdly soft paper gown they gave me. It's not a sobbing, ugly cry—more like my body is wringing out some toxin I've been stewing in unawares. I don't make a sound, but my chest shudders and my hands start to shake so hard I have to clasp them between my knees to keep from rattling apart entirely.

Wendolyn doesn't smother me with a hug, which I'm grateful for because touch is lava right now, but she scoots her chair closer and gently sets the back of her hand against my shoulder, grounding me just enough. She doesn't say "there, there" or "it's okay"—she just hums a low, soothing note that makes my skin goosebump all over. Dr. Sylvie hands me a box of tissues, the good kind with lotion, and sits back on her stool with a patient, nonjudgmental air, like this is just another step in the physical exam. The most natural thing in the world.

I cry until my vision clears and I can breathe slow again. When I look up, neither of them are watching me with pity. If anything, there's a kind of pride in Dr. Sylvie's posture, and a knowing, gentle smugness in the quirk of Wendolyn's smile. For the first time in my life, something inside me slides back into place. Not all the way, but enough to make me feel like I could build on it, like maybe I'm not irreparably broken after all.

By the time I can speak, the only thing I manage is a hoarse, "Thank you," but it feels like more than enough.

"You know what we need?" Wendolyn announces as we gather our things, her ability to pivot from rage to enthusiasm whiplash-inducing but somehow perfect. "A girls' night. Proper one, with wine and terrible movies and someone teaching Willa about nesting who isn't a medical professional—no offense, Doc."

Dr. Sylvie pauses in washing her hands, looking genuinely surprised. "Are you... inviting me?"

"Hell yes I am!" Wendolyn bounces on her toes like an excited puppy. "When's the last time you did something that wasn't work? We don't exactly have a massive female friend group around here. It's basically me, Willa, and whoever we can kidnap from town."

The doctor's professional mask softens into something almost vulnerable. "I... don't really do social things. Most people find me too..."

"Badass? Intimidating? Likely to destroy any Alpha who looks at us wrong?" Wendolyn grins. "Sounds like exactly what our friend group needs. Plus, you need to meet Luna—she's Cactus Rose's baby mascot. Eight months of pure sunshine who's already got four wrapped-around-her-finger daddies."

"The Luna from the Bishop-Cross-Stone-Montgomery household?" Dr. Sylvie's eyes sharpen with interest. "I've been curious about that arrangement. Four-Alpha households are rare enough, but successfully raising an infant..."

"Oh, they're magnificent at it," I find myself saying, warmth spreading through my chest. "Luna's the most loved baby I've ever seen. And she's got them all trained—one cry and they're tripping over each other to help."

"Then I definitely need to meet her." Dr. Sylvie pulls out her phone, fingers hesitating over the screen. "I don't usually give out my personal number..."

"But you're going to because we're going to be best friends," Wendolyn declares with the confidence of someone who's never met a social boundary she couldn't cheerfully bulldoze. "Plus, we could invite Chief Martinez! She probably needs something fun and girly after dealing with entitled Alphas all day."

The image of Sweetwater Falls' formidable police chief at a girls' night makes me snort. "Something tells me her idea of fun might involve target practice."

"Even better!" Wendolyn's enthusiasm could power small cities. "Wine and weapons—what could go wrong?"

Dr. Sylvie shakes her head but she's smiling as she types her number into Wendolyn's phone. "Text me the details. And remember—" she looks at me seriously "—this is for social things only. Medical questions go through the office."

"Social things only," I promise, clutching my prescriptions like lifelines.

The drive back to Cactus Rose feels different, charged with possibility. Wendolyn hums something that might be Taylor Swift while I stare out the window, trying to process everything.

Natural blockers that work with my body.

A doctor who says I'm not broken.

Friends who want to teach me about nesting—whatever that actually means. It's almost too much good after so many years of barely survivable.

"You okay over there?" Wendolyn asks as we turn onto the ranch road. "You've got that shell-shocked look people get when they realize the world doesn't have to be shit."

"Something like that." I press my hand to my stomach where cramps still pulse in steady waves. "I just... I didn't know medical care could be like that. Respectful. Affirming."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the revolution, baby. We're taking care of ourselves now, and any Alpha who doesn't like it can eat rocks."

The house comes into view, and even from here I can see movement through the kitchen windows. Multiple figures working in what looks like coordinated chaos—lunch preparation in full swing.

My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast in my anxiety.

As we approach the kitchen, the scent hits first—real food, something warm and meaty, garlic and roasting root vegetables, the acid whisper of tomatoes giving way to something subtly sweet and caramelized at the edges. There’s a thump as someone sets a heavy pan down, then laughter, overlapping as the four men move around each other in choreographed chaos, elbowing for utensils and fridge space like they do this every day and somehow nobody’s ever gotten stabbed.

River is manning the stove, a streak of flour on his jaw, while Austin slices bread with surgical precision and Maverick picks basil leaves off the stem, muttering curses at the stubborn bits that refuse to detach. Cole stands at the head of the island, delegating with a steady authority that somehow doesn’t feel like barking orders but like keeping a big ship on course. The whole tableau would be domestic as a Norman Rockwell painting if it weren't for the energy crackling between them, a livewire charge of rivalry and unspoken inside jokes and—if I’m honest—something that looks a lot like care.

Wendolyn surveys the scene, arms folded over her chest, and grins with queenly satisfaction.

"Looks like your men are feeding you," she announces, loud enough that every head in the room turns our way. "About damn time someone put some weight back on you, Willa. Last week, I nearly got a paper cut brushing your elbow."

Maverick lifts an eyebrow, deadpan.

"She’s got plenty of bite for someone so allegedly malnourished. Didn’t you nearly take off Cole’s hand last night when he tried to finish your fries?"

Cole acts wounded, clutching his imaginary injury.

"Those were her fries. Man learns respect after the first time," he says, and there’s a low ripple of amusement around the table. Even River looks up from the simmering sauce long enough to flash a smile in my direction, eyes crinkling at the edges with a warmth that makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

Wendolyn leans closer as I step into the kitchen, her voice pitched lower.

"Honestly? You’re still half the size you should be. I bet Iron Ridge put you on one of those nutrition plans, right? Something about controlling hormone balance, keeping Omegas ‘manageable’?"

I shrug, but my cheeks flare hot.

She’s not wrong.

Blake had opinions about Omega figures, opinions that included words like "delicate" and "maintained."

Another thing to unlearn, another freedom to claim.

We enter through the kitchen door to find organized chaos.

River stands at the stove stirring something that smells like heaven, while Austin chops vegetables with medical precision. Cole mans the grill outside, visible through the window, and Mavi... Mavi's setting the table, which should be normal except he freezes mid-motion when I walk in.

The glass in his hand hovers three inches above the table, his whole body going rigid.

His nostrils flare once, twice, and his eyes darken from forest to midnight in the space of a heartbeat.

"Shit," he breathes, the word barely audible.

River turns from the stove, and I watch his face change as my scent hits him. The easy smile falters, his throat working as he swallows hard. The spoon in his hand trembles slightly before he sets it down with excessive care.

"Willa," he says, voice rougher than I've ever heard it. "You're back."

Austin's knife stills on the cutting board. He doesn't turn around, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles go white around the knife handle. When he finally looks at me, his pupils are blown wide, the warm hazel barely visible around black.

"How was the appointment?" he asks, and oh, he's trying so hard to sound normal.

To be the sunshine one, the easy one, but his jaw clenches between words like he's fighting not to say something else entirely.

"I'll get Cole," Mavi announces abruptly, practically fleeing to the back door.

Through the window, I watch him grab Cole's shoulder, see Cole's whole body stiffen as Mavi speaks urgently in his ear.

When Cole enters, he moves carefully, like he's approaching a spooked horse. But his eyes—storm-gray gone almost silver—tell a different story.

They track over me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, cataloging every change, every sign of my body's betrayal.

"You need to sit," he says, pulling out a chair. "And explain what the doctor said."

I sink into the offered seat, hyperaware of how they've all shifted positions. Not crowding, not quite, but creating a loose circle where they can watch me while maintaining distance. Like planets orbiting an unstable sun.

"My blockers are failing," I start, voice huskier than ever from the combination of smoke damage and arousal I'm trying to ignore. "Dr. Sylvie switched me to natural ones, but there's an adjustment period. Forty-eight hours where I need to avoid..."

"Fucking?" Wendolyn supplies helpfully from where she's raiding the fridge. "She needs to avoid getting railed until her hormones settle. So hold your cocks and let an Omega adapt to actual medical care for once."

I can’t help but blush—no, not blush, because that’s far too dainty a word for the full-body ignition this moment produces. I look like I’ve been staked out in the Montana sun, every square inch of me pink and radiating off an embarrassing, involuntary heat signature. Wendolyn, meanwhile, just beams at the assembled men like she’s the proud owner of a prize-winning livestock auction and has no earthly idea what she’s done to the value of my dignity.

The four of them react like she’s detonated a smoke grenade in the middle of the kitchen, each Alpha responding with their own highly specific brand of physical discomfort. River’s hand tenses around the wooden spoon, enough to make it bow. Austin chokes on an inhale sharp enough to turn his face pinker than mine, while Maverick’s jaw clenches so violently I swear I hear enamel crack. Even Cole—usually the imperturbable one—freezes, his eyes doing a slow blink like he’s rebooting to process the news.

And the thing is, we’ve never even gotten close to actual fucking. Not even a near-miss. If you don’t count the humid, weirdly sacred moment in the barn when Cole gripped my wrist and guided me so gently from the hayloft, or the dozen times Maverick has trapped me against a wall with pure, predatory intent before peeling away and muttering “nope, not today,” or the slow, inexorable crush of River’s arms when he helps me dismount from a horse, or the time Austin bandaged my calf and looked up at me, eyes burning with unsaid apology and unspeakable hunger, like he wanted to fix a thousand wounds at once with his hands and his tongue—if you don’t count any of those, then yeah, totally, zero progress on the fucking front.

Except I do count them, every single one, so that’s a lie. I haven’t known what it is to be wanted without being owned until recently, and now that it’s happening I don’t know what the hell to do with myself except make things weird for everyone, which is apparently my superpower.

I try to shrink into my chair, away from the collective force of their attention, but the kitchen is too small and so am I. Maverick won’t meet my eyes, which is new and disorienting; he always looks head-on, like he’s daring you to call him a bastard. Now he’s staring at the ceiling fan, lip curled in an expression halfway between annoyance and longing.

River’s hands are shaking, barely, as he ladles sauce into a bowl, then wipes his knuckles on a dish towel with deliberate, mechanical focus. He won’t look at me either, but I feel him tracking me by scent or echolocation, every muscle taut as if bracing against an earthquake.

Austin tries, bless him, to fill the silence with gentle optimism, but there’s a tremor in his voice that wasn’t there yesterday. The way he looks at me—concern layered over something softer and so much more dangerous—it makes my head go hot. I am, at this point, likely emitting pheromones that could floor a moose at fifty yards.

And Cole, who’s supposed to be the anchor, the level-headed captain of this ship, can’t take his eyes off me. He watches like he’s memorizing a route through dangerous country: cataloging every flicker, every tremor, every red-blossom patch on my face. The silence stretches tight, one of those moments with a gravity so thick it bends memory around it.

I want to say something to defuse it, some joke about how the last time someone forbade me from sex it was an abstinence assembly in tenth grade, but the words stick in my throat. My hands turn restless, fingers drumming the table until they trip over each other. No one laughs, not even me.

The urge to confess is overwhelming. My body’s a disaster zone, a demolition site trying to grow new life in the rubble, and I want them to know—not just the embarrassing hormonal part but the actual, core-of-me part. That they make me feel like someone who could be loved, not just repaired.

Instead of saying any of this, I lock eyes with Cole, and the kitchen tilts slightly on its axis. It’s like we’re the only two people in the universe for a moment, the others reduced to background radiation.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s waiting to see if I’ll say anything, and I’m waiting to see if I’ll survive the next minute without combusting.

And then, because reality is always stranger and hornier than fiction, Luna chooses this moment to crawl into the kitchen—an adorable eight-month-old in pink overalls, blue ribbons in her hair, and the kind of smile that could melt glaciers. She shimmies determinedly across the tile, ignores the gathering of grownups, and settles right at my knees, grabbing my ankle with both chubby fists.

The spell breaks.

“Oh my god, she’s crawling?” I’m half out of my chair before I realize it.

“Started last week,” Austin says, voice soft and impossibly proud. “She likes coming into the kitchen to check on us. Or maybe she just likes the smells.”

“She’s a future chef,” adds River, his own voice returning to its usual mellow cadence. “Or a professional food thief.”

Maverick finally glances down, meets my gaze for just long enough to flash a crooked half-smile, and then looks away. “She’s got good instincts. Knows where the action is.”

I lean down and scoop Luna onto my lap, letting her tug on my fingers with surprising strength. It helps, grounding me in the present and making the charged air just a little easier to breathe.

“She’s perfect,” I murmur, and I’m not just talking about the baby.

Wendolyn swoops in, snapping a photo on her phone. “Look at you, already nesting!” she crows. “Told you it would come naturally.”

I want to roll my eyes at her, but I can’t. Not when she looks so genuinely happy for me, for all of us. There’s a lightness in the room now, the kind that only happens after something very heavy is admitted out loud.

I look up at the men—my men, if I’m honest with myself for once—and see that the tension has shifted. It’s not gone, but it’s changed flavor.

It’s hope, threaded with longing and a little fear. It’s the recognition of something rare and new.

I could get used to this.

The silence that follows is profound. Austin makes a sound like he's been punched. River turns back to the stove with movements too precise to be natural. Mavi stares at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe.

And Cole... Cole's hands grip the back of my chair hard enough that the wood creaks.

"We can do that," Cole says finally, voice steady despite the white knuckles. "Whatever you need to be safe."

"It's not about what we want," River adds quietly, stirring with excessive focus. "Your health comes first."

"Even if what we want is..." Austin trails off, then physically shakes himself. "No. Medical restrictions are absolute. We've done harder things than keep our hands to ourselves for two days or as long as we need to."

"Have we though?" Mavi mutters, earning a dish towel to the face from River.

"The doctor was very clear," I manage, trying to ignore how my body responds to their struggle. How some primitive part of me preens at affecting them so strongly. "No scent marking, no prolonged contact, no..." I gesture vaguely, unable to say the words.

"No making you scream our names into pillows," Wendolyn supplies with unholy glee. "No finding out what other surfaces in this house can support two bodies. Or discovering if Willa's a biter when she comes."

"Jesus Christ," Mavi groans, covering his face.

"Wendolyn," Cole warns, but his voice catches on her name.

"What? We're all thinking it." She bites into an apple with a satisfied crunch. "The pheromones in here are thick enough to bottle. Could probably make an online business selling this stuff like aromatherapy perfume and become a millionaire faster than you lot get cracking on making my girl your Omega wife.” I’m choking on my own saliva, Luna looking at me with delight as she giggles at my coughing fit. “Might as well acknowledge the four of you want to worship Willa like the goddess she is, but can't because modern medicine requires patience."

Ugh.

She may be grilling us — or more so them — but at the end of the day, she’s hitting the center of the darting board.

"Not helping," Austin says through gritted teeth.

"I disagree," I find myself saying, surprising everyone, including myself. "Acknowledging it makes it... less. If we pretend the attraction isn't there, it gets bigger. But if we can laugh about it, maybe we can survive two days."

River turns from the stove, something soft and amazed in his expression.

"You're remarkable, you know that?"

His praise makes my head spin, but I try not to fully grasp how his pride makes me feel.

"For needing medical care?" I try to deflect, but he shakes his head.

"For facing it head-on. For trusting us to respect the boundaries. For being brave enough to admit what's between us, even when you can't act on it."

The words settle over me like a blanket, warm and encompassing.

Because he's right—I am trusting them.

Trusting them to honor my medical needs over their obvious desire. I trust them not to use my vulnerability against me. Trusting them to be the men I'm starting to believe they are.

"Lunch is ready," River announces, breaking the moment before it can get too heavy. "And everyone needs to eat, hormones or no hormones."

We settle around the table, careful to maintain space but unable to stop the lingering glances, the accidental brushes of fingers when passing dishes. The meal is delicious—some kind of stir-fry that River apparently learned from his grandmother—but I barely taste it through the awareness thrumming in my veins.

Two days. Forty-eight hours of this exquisite torture, surrounded by men who look at me like I'm precious and untouchable in equal measure.

Men who respect my boundaries even as their bodies scream to cross them. Men who might—if I'm brave enough, if we're all brave enough—become something more than employers when those forty-eight hours are up.

"So," Wendolyn says around a mouthful of rice, "who wants to help plan Willa's first nesting experience? Because that's happening this weekend, medical restrictions or no medical restrictions."

And just like that, the tension breaks into something manageable. We're still aware—God, are we aware—but we're also a family of sorts, planning and teasing and existing in this space between what is and what might be.

Two days. I can survive two days.

Probably.

Ride The Worries Away

~WILLA~

The October sun has no business being this hot, but here it sits on my shoulders like a weight, making my tank top cling to the small of my back with sweat that feels too much like the slickness gathering between my thighs.

I press the cold latte glass against my neck, letting condensation trickle down my collar as I sit alone on the café's patio, trying to pretend I'm just another local enjoying an unseasonably warm morning instead of an Omega fleeing the suffocating cloud of Alpha pheromones that's turned Cactus Rose into my personal torture chamber.

The foam on my latte forms a heart—because of course it does—and I destroy it with my spoon before anyone can see. My body thrums with awareness, every nerve ending hypersensitive as the new blockers work their plant-based magic through my system.

Dr. Sylvie warned me about the adjustment period, but she didn't mention how I'd feel everything. The rough wood grain of the table under my palms, the slight breeze that makes my nipples tighten beneath thin cotton, the way my pulse beats hot and insistent in places I'm trying very hard not to think about.

Twenty-three hours down. Twenty-five to go.

The café bustles with morning activity—ranchers grabbing coffee before heading to their fields, shop owners preparing for the day, a cluster of older women at the corner table who've been dissecting everyone's business since I sat down thirty minutes ago. Their voices carry despite their attempts at discretion.

"—that's her, Cole's new Omega⁠—"

"—heard she inherited the whole ranch⁠—"

"—living with all four of them, can you imagine⁠—"

I take a long sip of my latte, fighting the urge to smirk at their failed attempts at subtlety.

Cole's Omega.

As if I'm already branded, already claimed, already slotted into the neat little box this town has prepared for me. Part of me bristles at the assumption.

Another part—the part that remembers Cole's hands gripping my chair hard enough to make wood creak, the hunger in his storm-gray eyes when Wendolyn spelled out exactly what we couldn't do—that part preens like a cat in sunshine.

The sun beats down harder, and I shift in my metal chair, trying to find a position that doesn't make me so aware of my body.

Everything feels swollen, sensitive, ready. The cotton of my jeans rubs against my inner thighs with each movement, and I have to bite back a whimper that would definitely give the gossip circle new material.

This is why I fled the ranch at dawn, leaving a note on the kitchen counter like a coward. The house had been thick with their scents—pine and leather, metal and storm, earth and sunshine, clean linen and care.

Every breath I took made my body clench with need, made my throat tight with want I couldn't act on. Austin had been up with Luna, humming softly as he changed her diaper, and just the sight of his gentle hands had made me ache in ways that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with longing for that tenderness turned my way.

So I ran.

Sort of…

Borrowed the ranch truck and drove into town like the hounds of hell were chasing me, which wasn't entirely inaccurate given how Maverick's security instincts probably had him tracking the vehicle before I even hit the main road.

Another drop of condensation rolls down my glass, and I track its path with my finger, trying to ground myself in the simple sensation.

The town moves around me in its morning rhythm, and I notice something that makes my chest tight with unexpected emotion. I'm not the only Omega out and about, unchaperoned and unafraid.

There's Wendolyn across the street, striding into the fire station with her copper hair catching the light, her turnout gear slung over one shoulder like she's carrying the weight of the world and making it look easy.

Two blocks down, I can see the police station where Chief Martinez supposedly rules with an iron fist wrapped in legal precedent.

And somewhere in this town, Dr. Sylvie is probably already at her clinic, revolutionizing Omega healthcare one patient at a time.

We're changing things.

The thought hits me with unexpected force. Not through grand gestures or violent upheaval, but through simple presence. Through refusing to hide, to cower, to accept that our biology makes us less than.

Through owning businesses and enforcing laws and saving lives and yes, inheriting ranches from grandfathers who saw our worth when the rest of the world didn't.

The heat makes my head swim slightly, or maybe that's the hormones. I press the glass to my forehead, letting the cold shock through me.

My body is a livewire of sensation, every brush of air against exposed skin making me hyperaware of how empty I feel. How much I want to be filled, claimed, marked in ways that would scandalize the church ladies at their corner table.

But it's more than physical need. It's the emotional ache that catches me off guard—the longing for River's quiet presence, Austin's gentle touch, Maverick's protective intensity, Cole's steady authority. For the first time in my life, I want a pack not because I'm supposed to, not because society expects it, but because these specific men have shown me what it could be. What we could be, if I'm brave enough to let it happen.

Twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes. Not that I'm counting.

The whispers continue around me, and I catch fragments that make my spine straighten with something between pride and defiance. They're not just talking about me as Cole's potential Omega. They're talking about the ranch, about female ownership, about the way the power dynamics in Sweetwater Falls seem to be shifting with each passing day.

"—never seen anything like it⁠—"

"—four Alphas letting an Omega run things⁠—"

"—heard she's got a head for business⁠—"

"—changing everything⁠—"

Gossip surely runs these towns, but let them wonder and whisper and try to make sense of something that doesn't fit their neat categories.

I take another sip of my latte, the bitter coffee mixing with sweet foam in perfect balance, and let myself exist in this moment.

An Omega alone but not lonely, claimed by none but belonging to something bigger than tradition or expectation.

The heat presses closer, making my skin glow with perspiration that has nothing to do with exertion. My body prepares itself despite the blockers, despite my will, despite the medical restrictions that keep me safe but slowly driving me insane.

Soon, I'll have to go back to the ranch, face those four sets of eyes that track my every movement with barely leashed hunger.

But for now, I sit in the morning sun, letting my presence be its own small revolution, counting down hours until I can stop pretending I don't want exactly what they're offering.

"You have the most intriguing smile," a voice says, and I look up to find a woman hovering near my table like a hummingbird who's discovered premium nectar.

She's all animated energy despite the heat, wearing a sundress that looks vintage but probably cost more than my truck payment, her dark hair pinned up in a style that manages to be both professional and slightly chaotic.

"I'm sorry?" I blink against the sun, trying to place her. Something about her screams 'I know everyone's business and I'm not sorry about it.'

"Your smile," she repeats, gesturing with hands that never stop moving. "It's got this quality—like you're thinking of a secret joke but also maybe planning someone's demise. Perfect for portraiture. You should model for our art club." She pulls out a chair without invitation, settling across from me with the confidence of someone who's never met a boundary she couldn't cheerfully ignore. "I'm Patty Summers, by the way. Local journalist, gossip columnist, occasional investigative reporter, and full-time pain in the ass, depending on who you ask."

The name clicks—Wendolyn mentioned her. Something about being too curious for her own good. Looking at her now, with sharp brown eyes that seem to catalog every detail of my appearance, I believe it.

"Willa James," I offer, though something tells me she already knows exactly who I am.

"Oh, I know." She grins, producing a small notebook and pen from her purse like a magician with rabbits. The pen taps against the paper in a rhythm that matches her barely contained energy. "Everyone knows about Cole Montgomery's mysterious new Omega who inherited old man Garrett's ranch. You're the most interesting thing to happen to this town since Chief Martinez arrested the mayor's son for drunk driving."

I stiffen at being called Cole's Omega again, but Patty's already moving on, her pen now twirling between her fingers like a tiny baton. "Which brings me to my question—why are you here alone? Those possessive Alphas of yours usually don't let their precious cargo out of sight, especially not..." She pauses, nostrils flaring slightly as she catches my scent. "Oh. Oh, you're close to heat, aren't you? That explains the sweat. I thought it was just this ridiculous October heat wave."

My face flames hotter than the sun.

"How do you—why would you⁠—"

"Know about them?" Patty laughs, a bright sound that carries across the patio. "Honey, it's my job to know everything about everyone in this town. Plus, those four are hardly subtle. Do you have any idea how long I've been watching them orbit each other like planets afraid to collide?"

I lean forward despite myself, the cold latte forgotten.

"You know them well?"

"Know them? I've been documenting them for years." Her pen stops twirling as she fixes me with those sharp eyes. "Cole Montgomery—pack Alpha in everything but official paperwork, owner of more land than God and shoulders that could carry the world. Problem is, he thinks he has to. Man won't let a fly go by without emphasizing what is his, so even the little critter stays away from what he's marked."

The accuracy of it makes my breath catch. Just yesterday, he'd stood between me and an angry bull without hesitation, claiming the danger as his to handle.

"Then there's Maverick Cross," Patty continues, warming to her subject. "His best buddy in crime, though 'buddy' might be too gentle a word. Mavi's an over-possessive analytical man of muscle and brains. Sees threats in shadows and shadows in sunshine. The kind of man who'd burn down the world to protect what's his, then build a better one from the ashes just to prove he could."

I think of this morning's security check, the way Maverick had appeared from nowhere in the hallway, how he'd shown me every vulnerability in the ranch's defenses with the intensity of someone preparing for war.

"They need River and Austin to blend the two out," Patty says, pen now sketching abstract patterns on her notebook, "or else they'll probably drive each other insane with how crazy they are."

"River and Austin balance them?" I prompt, desperate to understand these men who've tangled themselves so thoroughly into my life.

"River Stone," she says, voice softening with something like fondness, "is earth and water made flesh. Steady as the mountains, gentle as rain. He's the one who reminds them they're human, not just protectors or providers. Keeps them grounded when Cole tries to Atlas the whole world and Mavi starts seeing conspiracies in cloud formations."

The description is so perfect I can almost see River in the stables, hands gentle on damaged horses, teaching me patience through touch.

"And Austin Bishop," Patty sighs dramatically, "sunshine in human form. The baby of the group but somehow also their emotional center. He's the one who makes sure they eat, sleep, remember to laugh. Without him, those three would work themselves into early graves trying to out-protect each other."

"How do you know all this?" I ask, genuinely amazed at her insight. "This isn't just observation. This is..."

"Intimate knowledge?" Patty grins, unrepentant. "Five years of watching, documenting, occasionally sending Austin cookies when he looks too thin. They fascinate me—four Alphas who chose each other, who built something beautiful despite this town's best efforts to box them into traditional roles. And now..." Her gaze sharpens on me. "Now they've found you."

The weight of her stare makes me shift uncomfortably, hyperaware again of my body's state.

"I'm just their boss. The ranch owner. It's a business arrangement."

Patty's laugh this time is knowing, almost pitying.

"Oh honey. You're sitting here alone because being near them right now would probably set your heat off like a firework, aren't you? That's not a business arrangement. That's biology recognizing what your heart's too scared to admit."

She leans back in her chair, pen resuming its restless movement.

"I've watched those men for years. Seen them with other Omegas who came and went. But the way they look at you? The way they moved at yesterday's supply run, unconsciously keeping you at their center? That's not obligation. That's inevitability."

My hands shake slightly as I reach for my latte, needing something to do besides process the truth in her words.

Patty watches with those too-knowing eyes, cataloging my reaction like she's already writing tomorrow's column in her head.

"They're treating me like I'm poison," I admit, the words bitter as old coffee. "Because of the heat. The medical restrictions."

"Oh, the good old days," Patty says casually, and my head snaps up.

"You're an Omega?" I don't know why I'm surprised—maybe because she carries herself with such confident authority.

"Guilty as charged. Though I prefer 'investigative journalist who happens to have a uterus that occasionally makes questionable decisions.'" She winks, and suddenly I understand her insight better. She's not just observing from the outside—she knows what it's like to navigate this world with our biology.

"The protection thing," she continues, voice gentler now, "it's not about thinking you're poison. It's about control. Those four have dealt with enough heartbreak to know what happens when control slips. When want overrides sense. They're not avoiding you because they don't care—they're avoiding you because they care too much to risk hurting you."

"Heartbreak?" The word tastes like copper in my mouth, sharp with the fear of history repeating. "Is that... is Luna connected to whatever happened?"

Patty's pen stills completely for the first time since she sat down.

She studies me with those journalist eyes, and I can see her weighing words, measuring how much truth to dispense. The silence stretches like taffy in the heat, and I resist the urge to fidget under her scrutiny.

"That beautiful baby," she finally says, voice soft with something that might be reverence, "is both connected and separate from their past. Luna's not the heartbreak—she's the healing." Her pen starts moving again, sketching what looks like stars on her notebook. "But it's not my place to tell that tale. What I will say is that little babe is a fallen star that fell in that pack's life when they needed it the most or they would have lost the beautiful foundation they have together."

The poetry of it makes my chest tight. I think of Luna's heterochromatic eyes, the way she seems to see more than any baby should, how her mere presence can shift the energy of a room. A fallen star indeed—something celestial and unexpected, arriving precisely when needed.

"They were going to split up," I murmur, remembering yesterday's careful admission. "Before she came to them."

"Sometimes," Patty says carefully, "love isn't enough. Sometimes you need purpose beyond each other, something that demands you be better than your pain. Luna gave them that. Made them remember why they chose each other in the first place."

She leans forward then, close enough that I can smell her subtle Omega scent—vanilla and newsprint, stories and sweetness. Her eyes fix on mine with intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Now they may have finally found the final piece in their puzzle." Her gaze doesn't waver, holding mine with the weight of prophecy. "The thing about puzzles is, you don't always know a piece is missing until it clicks into place. Then suddenly, the whole picture makes sense."

My heart hammers against my ribs, and I'm about to ask what she means—demand she stop talking in riddles and just tell me what everyone seems to know but me—when a familiar voice cuts through the morning air.

"Willa?"

I turn to see River standing on the sidewalk, holding the lead ropes of two horses like this is perfectly normal for downtown Sweetwater Falls.

The morning sun backlights him, turning his black hair to dark silk, and even from here I can see the careful control in how he holds himself. Not too close, maintaining that professional distance we've all been desperately clinging to for the past twenty-three hours and forty-seven minutes.

"River," I breathe, and hate how his name comes out like a prayer.

He approaches slowly, the horses following with easy trust.

One is Willow, the rescue mare who'd accepted me yesterday, and the other is a striking painted gelding I haven't met yet. Both wear halters but no saddles, and their coats gleam with recent grooming.

"Annual checkups," he explains as he stops a careful six feet away—close enough for conversation, far enough that our scents won't mingle too much. "Dr. Morrison's clinic is just around the corner. Saw the truck outside and got worried when you weren't at the ranch this morning."

The admission hangs between us, heavy with everything he's not saying.

Worried could mean so many things—worried about my safety, worried about my location, worried I'd fled entirely. His green eyes scan me with professional assessment, noting the flush of my skin, the way I can't quite sit still, all the telltale signs of my body's rebellion.

"I needed space," I admit, then soften it with, "The air at the ranch was a bit... thick."

Something flashes in his eyes—understanding mixed with what might be regret.

"We've been trying to stay out of the house more. Give you room. But maybe that just concentrated things when we were inside."

Patty clears her throat delicately, reminding us both of her presence.

"Well, this has been illuminating, but I should go." She stands with the same energy she arrived with, tucking her notebook away. "River, you should take Willa riding through the valleys and hills. Let the worries shed away. Nothing like mountain air to clear the head and settle the body."

She aims that last bit at me with a knowing look that makes me blush all over again.

Of course she knows exactly what my body needs settling from.

River considers this, head tilted slightly as he studies me.

"Would you like that? The horses are calm, and the trails are shaded. Might be cooler than sitting in town."

The thought of being alone with River, even with the careful distance between us, makes my pulse race. But the alternative—returning to the ranch where all four of them are trying to give me space in a house that feels smaller by the hour—seems worse.

"I don't have riding clothes," I hedge.

"What you're wearing is fine," he assures me. "We'll take it easy. Just walk the trails, let the horses stretch their legs before their appointment."

Patty pats my shoulder as she passes, the touch brief but grounding.

"Trust him," she murmurs low enough that only I can hear. "River Stone knows how to handle delicate things without breaking them."

She saunters off with a wave, leaving River and me in a bubble of awkward awareness. The horses shift restlessly, and Willow stretches her neck toward me, whickering softly.

"She remembers you," River says, his voice warm with approval. "Made quite an impression yesterday."

I stand, ready to take out the change in my pocket for the latte, but River ends up taking a bill and handing it over to me to leave on the table. I smile and thank him, while he assures me with an added wink that it’s his duty to make sure I’m hydrated.

Gives me a moment of normalcy despite the tension.

The heat makes everything feel languid, dreamlike, and I'm hyperaware of how my body moves, how River tracks each step without seeming to.

"Hi, pretty girl," I murmur to Willow, letting her soft nose bump my palm. Her whiskers tickle, and the simple pleasure of it grounds me. "You here for a checkup too?"

"Vaccines and teeth floating," River confirms. "Nothing serious. But I thought..." He pauses, choosing words carefully. "I thought maybe we could make a day of it. If you're up for it."

There's something in his tone, a careful hope that makes my chest tight. This isn't just about giving the horses exercise or escaping the heat. This is River offering time together that's safe, controlled, but still connection.

"Okay," I agree, and his smile is worth the risk. "But I might need help mounting. It's been a while."

"Of course." He moves to Willow's side, making a cradle of his hands. "I'll boost you up."

The moment of contact, even through my boots, sends electricity shooting up my spine. His hands are steady, strong, and I have to focus on swinging my leg over Willow's back instead of how much I want those hands elsewhere. I settle onto her bare back, grateful for the mare's calm energy.

River swings up onto the painted gelding with the fluid grace of someone who learned to ride before walk. He keeps space between us as we start down the street, but I can feel his constant awareness, the way he monitors my comfort without being obvious.

"Let's do one more thing first," he says as we near the edge of town, and there's something in his gentle eyes that makes my breath catch—a promise, a question, a possibility I'm not sure I'm ready for but desperately want to explore.

"What's that?" I manage, proud when my voice comes out steady.

His smile is soft, almost secretive. "Trust me?"

And despite everything—my body's rebellion, the history I don't fully understand, the careful distance we're maintaining—I find that I do.

Completely.

"Lead the way," I tell him, and follow him into whatever comes next.

Be Wild And Free, My Dandelion

~RIVER~

The boutique appears like a mirage at the end of Main Street, all soft pastels and feminine promise, and I guide the horses to the hitching post with hands that want to shake.

Willa's presence burns behind me, even with the careful feet of space between our mounts.

Twenty-four hours since her doctor visit, twenty-four more to go, and every breath I take carries her scent—honeyed need barely masked by the new blockers, making my jaw clench with the effort of control.

"Easy," I murmur, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to the horses or myself. My fingers work the knots with practiced ease while my mind races through every reason this is a terrible idea. Taking her shopping, being alone with her, pretending I can handle the sight of her trying on clothes when just watching her exist makes my blood run hot.

But she'd looked so lost this morning, fleeing the ranch like the house itself was suffocating her. And maybe it was—four Alphas trying to give space in a home that suddenly feels too small, our scents layering despite our best efforts. At least out here, with the October breeze and the normal sounds of town life, we can pretend at normalcy.

"I've never been in there," Willa says, studying the boutique's window display with curiosity tinged with wariness. "Looks expensive."

"Suzie loves it," I tell her, referring to the owner who's become a friend over the years. "She has good taste, carries quality pieces. Thought you might want something... lighter. For the heat."

The word hangs between us, loaded with double meaning. The October heat wave, yes, but also the biological fire burning through her system, making her skin glow with perspiration that has nothing to do with temperature. I force myself to look away from the damp curls clinging to her neck.

Inside, the boutique smells like lavender and possibility. Sarah greets us with professional warmth that sharpens into real delight when she recognizes me. Her Beta scent is thankfully neutral, not adding to the pheromone soup already threatening to drown me.

"River! And you must be Willa." She extends a hand, and I notice how Willa takes it carefully, like she's relearning how to exist in the world. "What are we looking for today?"

"Everything," I say before Willa can downplay her needs. "She needs a full wardrobe. Starting with things suitable for this heat."

I move through the store with purpose, selecting items while Willa trails behind making soft sounds of protest at the growing pile. A white romper catches my eye—innocent and delicate, the kind of thing that will torture me with how much skin it reveals while technically being modest. I add it to the stack along with sundresses, light blouses, things that will let her skin breathe while her body adjusts.

"River, this is too much⁠—"

"You need clothes," I interrupt gently, meeting her orange-gold eyes. "Let me do this."

Something flickers in her expression—vulnerability, maybe, or recognition of care she's not used to receiving. She nods slowly, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.

"I'll be right back," I tell her, needing space before I do something stupid like pull her against me right here in the shop. "Saw some boots across the street that would be perfect."

The boot store is a blessed reprieve, letting me breathe air that doesn't carry her scent. I select a pair of cognac leather cowboy boots, butter-soft and practical, imagining how they'll look with that white romper. The image makes heat pool low in my belly, and I have to count to ten before heading back.

By the time I return, Willa's in the changing room. Sarah gives me a knowing look but doesn't comment on the way I position myself on the bench outside—close enough to hear the rustle of fabric, far enough to maintain some semblance of control.

"How's it going in there?" I call, voice rougher than intended.

"Fine," comes the muffled response, followed by more rustling. "Just... give me a minute."

I close my eyes, trying not to imagine her undressing, trying not to think about pale skin and soft curves and the way she'd looked yesterday, flushed and panting after our ride. My hands grip the bench hard enough to leave marks in my palms.

The changing room door opens, and every thought evaporates.

She stands there in the white romper, and it's like someone reached into my chest and squeezed. The fabric skims her body, innocent and alluring in equal measure, ending mid-thigh to reveal legs that go on forever before disappearing into the cowboy boots I'd chosen. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, auburn waves catching the light, and her cheeks carry a flush that could be embarrassment or heat or both.

"I... it's not a big deal," she says, smoothing the fabric with nervous hands. "Just a romper."

Just a romper. Like she isn't standing there looking like every sunrise I've ever wanted to wake up to, like temptation wrapped in white cotton and leather. My mouth goes dry, and I have to swallow twice before I can speak.

"You look..." Beautiful. Perfect. Like everything I've been trying not to want. "It suits you."

The compliment comes out strained, and her flush deepens. She shifts her weight, the movement making the romper's skirt swirl, and I track the motion helplessly. Twenty-four more hours. Twenty-four more hours of this exquisite torture.

"There's one more outfit," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "But I should... I need to check my accounts first. See what I can actually afford. I don't want to use the ranch money for personal things, and⁠—"

The anxiety in her voice cuts through my haze of want. She's wringing her hands now, that same worried gesture I've noticed when money comes up. Something cold settles in my stomach as I realize what this is about—not just finances, but worth. Someone taught her to measure her value in dollars, to feel guilty for having needs.

"Willa," I say softly, and her name tastes like prayer on my tongue. "Come here."

She hesitates, caught between the changing room and where I sit. I can see the war in her eyes—trust battling with ingrained lessons about obligation and debt.

But trust wins, like I hoped it would, and she takes those few steps until she's standing before me, close enough that her scent wraps around me like silk rope.

My hands move before my brain catches up, grasping her waist and tugging her down onto my lap in one fluid motion. She lands with a soft gasp, hands flying to my shoulders for balance, and the weight of her—Christ, the perfect weight of her settling against me—makes my vision blur at the edges.

"River!" Her voice comes out breathless, scandalized. "We're in a public changeroom. Someone could⁠—"

"Shh." I cup her face with one hand, gentle but firm, turning her to meet my eyes. The contact of skin on skin sends electricity racing up my arm, and I have to breathe through the urge to do more, touch more, claim more. "Look at me, Dandelion."

She does, those orange-gold eyes wide with surprise and something else—something that makes my cock twitch beneath her.

Her lips part slightly, and I force myself to focus on words instead of how badly I want to taste that mouth.

"When you're with us," I begin, keeping my voice low and steady despite the chaos in my chest, "when you're with me, you don't worry about money. Ever."

Confusion flickers across her features, her brow furrowing in that way that makes me want to smooth the lines with my thumb.

"But... that's not how it works. Blake always said—" She pauses, swallows hard. "The pack at Iron Ridge made it very clear. Omegas use their own earnings to buy things that appease their Alphas. It's our responsibility to look presentable, to afford the things that make us... desirable."

The words hit like cold water, and I feel my jaw clench hard enough to crack teeth.

My free hand tightens on her waist, not enough to hurt but enough that she feels the tension running through me.

Blake. Iron Ridge. Every new detail about her past makes me want to hunt down those bastards and show them what happens when you treat an Omega like a decorative expense.

"Listen to me," I say, and something in my tone makes her go still. "That's not how a pack works. That's manipulation, financial abuse wrapped in tradition." My thumb strokes along her cheekbone, trying to gentle the harsh truths. "A real pack? We take care of our Omega completely. Money, responsibilities, every burden—that's ours to carry, not yours."

"But I'm not—we haven't—" She stutters, color rising in her cheeks. "I'm not your Omega. Not officially."

"Aren't you?" The question comes out rougher than intended, and I watch her pupils dilate in response.

God, she's so close. Her scent wraps around me, sweet and needy despite the blockers, and every breath I take is torture. She shifts slightly on my lap, and I have to bite back a groan at the friction. My cock is hard enough to cut glass, trapped between us, and there's no way she doesn't feel it.

"River," she whispers, but I'm already moving, reaching up to free a strand of auburn hair that's caught on her lip gloss. The gesture is innocent enough, but my fingers tremble with the effort of keeping it that way. Her hair slides like silk between my fingers, and I wind it around my knuckle just to feel it against my skin a moment longer.

"In our pack," I continue, voice gone gravel-rough, "the Alphas provide. Not because the Omega can't—you're brilliant, capable, could probably buy and sell half this town if you wanted. But because caring for you is our privilege. Our purpose."

She's breathing faster now, little puffs of air that ghost across my face. Her hands still rest on my shoulders, and I feel her fingers flex slightly, like she's fighting the urge to grip tighter.

The knowledge that she wants to touch me as badly as I want to touch her nearly breaks my control.

"Anything you pick today is mine to give you," I murmur, letting my thumb drift to her bottom lip. The plump softness makes my mouth water, and I trace the curve slowly, watching her eyes flutter. "This whole store, if you want it. Every dress, every shoe, every piece of lace and silk."

Her tongue darts out, barely grazing my thumb, and I see stars.

"That's... that's too much," she manages, but her protest lacks conviction.

"Nothing is too much." I lean closer, our faces inches apart now. "You've been taught to shrink yourself, to apologize for having needs. But baby, spoiling you isn't a burden—it's what we're built for. What I'm built for."

My hand slides from her face to her neck, fingers resting against her pulse point. Her heartbeat hammers against my palm, rabbit-quick and perfect. The romper leaves so much skin bare, and everywhere I touch feels like striking matches.

"The ranch money is pack money," I explain, trying to keep some thread of coherent thought while she sits here warming my lap, smelling like heaven and looking like sin. "And pack money is for pack needs. You needing clothes, feeling beautiful, being comfortable—those are pack needs."

"I don't understand," she whispers, and there's something broken in her voice that makes my chest ache. "Why would you—all of you—want to..."

"Because you're ours." The words slip out before I can stop them, and her sharp intake of breath makes my cock pulse. "To protect, to provide for, to cherish. Even if you haven't accepted it yet, even if we're all dancing around it—you're ours, Willa."

Her scent spikes, arousal breaking through the medication's barrier, and I know I need to pull back before we cross lines we can't uncross. But she's warm and perfect in my lap, looking at me like I'm offering her the world, and maybe I am. Maybe I'd give her everything if she'd just let me.

"Let me take care of you," I whisper against her ear, letting my lips barely brush the shell. "In all the ways they never did. Starting with buying you pretty things that make you smile."

She shifts again, the change minute yet seismic—her weight subtly shifting, as if she’s hoping one small adjustment will be enough to break the magnetic field between us, to conjure back the polite, safe distance of before. Her hands tense on my shoulders, knuckles near-white, but she doesn’t push away; there’s a flickering hope in her that maybe if she sits higher on my thigh, or angles her hips just so, she can reframe this as accidental, harmless, not the deliberate surrender it so obviously is. The air between us is wet-concrete thick. I can hear the catch and flutter of her breath, feel the heat of her skin radiating through fabric into my chest, smell the spike of nervous energy and budding desire that neither of us is equipped to handle in public.

She clears her throat, like she’s gathering courage, but her mouth is dry. "Sorry," she says, attempting a laugh, and she means to lighten the mood, to make a joke of it, but her voice comes out paper-thin, uncertain. She moves to lift herself off, but her attempt only serves to slide her further against me, and the full-body shudder that wracks through her is echoed, doubled, in me.

This time, she tries to find a neutral space, a compromise: scooting back, a little to the side, balancing on the very precipice of my knee. If she can just hover here, maybe she’ll prove to herself she’s still in control, that this proximity is a matter of convenience and not need. It doesn’t work. All it does is shift the angle of her hips against my lap, so the friction is sharper and the pressure, if anything, more acute.

Her ears go pink. She fumbles, nearly overturns the bench in haste, and manages to whisper, "Maybe I should change back." The words are lost, barely audible above my pulse. Every molecule of her is trying not to flee, not to run, and I start to wonder how many times she’s had to steel herself to endure intimacy, how often she’s played along with the script someone else wrote for her. The thought douses any lingering mirth.

She finally goes rigid in my lap, muscles locked, frozen in indecision. I realize, with a sick panicked clarity, that if I let her go now, she’ll think I’m repulsed, that her neediness is a problem, a liability to be managed and hidden. I can’t bear that for her, not for a second.

But there's nowhere to go, no way to escape the hard length of my cock pressed against her, and when she squirms one more time, I have to grip her hips to still her before I lose what's left of my control.

"I should—" She ducks her head, hair falling forward to hide her burning cheeks. "I should get up. I'm sitting on something in your pocket."

The innocence of it—the way she tries to give me an out, to pretend she doesn't know exactly what she's feeling—makes something predatory wake in my chest. My lips curve into a smirk she can't see, and I shift my hips deliberately, rolling them just enough that there's no mistaking what's between us.

"Is that what you think it is?" My voice comes out husky, lower than I intended, a rumble edged with laughter and hunger, somewhere between a purr and a challenge. I see her go absolutely still as the meaning registers, and there's a split second where her eyes flit up to mine, feigning innocence, lips parted in a perfect little 'o.' But for all her careful composure, every ounce of her is reacting—heartbeat thundering through her, hands clutching tighter at the first hint of risk.

She freezes, caught between the roles she's always been forced to play: the good Omega, the unassuming guest, the girl who never lets herself hope for too much or take up too much space. But her body betrays her ambition—her need. The way she balances on my lap reads like the world's slowest, most deliberate grind, and if she isn't consciously doing it, her instincts have already taken over.

Maybe that's what kills me about her: she's so goddamn intuitive and self-aware, she could micromanage her own arousal into nonexistence, yet there's always a fracture line, a fault that gives way under the slightest pressure and reveals the magnitude of what's bottled up inside.

"Something in my pocket," I echo, rolling her words between us as if they're a joke two steps from turning dangerous. My hand tightens on her hip, thumb dragging small circles against the exposed skin just above the band of the romper.

"You're sure about that?"

She wets her lips, breathing in shallow, hitching little gasps. I can tell she's doing quadratic equations in her head—measuring the statistical odds of this being a real offer versus some elaborate emotional trap. Old wounds flare, every scar of rejection and exploitation, and I can feel her bracing for impact even as she leans incrementally closer.

But here's the secret: the longer she hesitates, the more my own anticipation spikes. I want her to want this. To want me. Not because she feels obligated, or because she thinks it's expected, but because she can finally choose to chase what she wants without fear of backlash. I want her to trust that if she falls, the only thing waiting for her is arms wide open.

So I coax her forward, just a fraction, using my grip to ease her down the length of my thigh until we're flush—no room for confusion about the hardness between us now, no plausible deniability or retreat. I stifle a groan as the pressure sharpens, and I can feel myself pulse beneath the denim, heat traveling up my spine.

"Feels a little big for a key fob, doesn't it?" I murmur, my mouth so close to her ear I can see the shiver race across her skin. Her laugh is a nervous, high-pitched thing, but she doesn't pull away. If anything, she breathes out slow, presses her thighs together, and sets her weight more firmly on my lap.

"I'm not—" She bites the inside of her cheek, fighting to keep her composure. "I'm not sure what you mean," she lies, but her eyes are molten and her whole body hums with recognition.

That's when I risk it—moving my other hand up, cupping the nape of her neck, thumb finding the delicate tendons there. She seems to melt under the contact, swaying, every ounce of resistance evaporating into need.

The silence in the little room feels alive. The only sounds are the soft rasp of her breathing and the faint pop of air conditioning from the vent above us, but it feels like standing at the lip of a dam seconds before it breaks. I want to say something clever, cut the tension with a joke, but instead I find myself just watching her unravel in my hands, trusting me not to break her.

She shifts again, hips rocking slow and unsure, and the friction is a punch to my gut. I can't help the way my own breath hitches, or the way I have to fight not to thrust up into her like a teenager. Everything is too much and not enough, a paradox of wanting to devour her and cradle her all at once.

Her hands go slack on my shoulders and she sags forward, forehead nearly touching mine. Our breaths mingle, hot and damp, and we're close enough I can see the flecks of amber dusting her irises. Her lips tremble, parted in anticipation—of the kiss, the claim, the whatever is about to happen next.

I want to kiss her more than I want air. I want to make her gasp, make her feel as beautiful and vital as I see her every damn day. But I don't move, don't push, just let her come to me if she wants it.

She does.

She closes the gap with a slow, uncertain brush of her lips against mine. It's nothing, a ghost, but it sets every nerve ending in my body ablaze. She pulls back, eyes wide in terror and awe, and I realize she's waiting for me to reject her, to laugh in her face, to say she's misread the moment and ruined everything.

Instead, I chase her mouth with my own, capturing her bottom lip between my teeth, biting down gentle just enough to make her gasp.

"Is that clear enough for you?" I whisper, voice ragged.

She nods, but the movement is jerky, desperate.

"River," she breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer and curse combined.

"River," she breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer and curse combined.

"Look at me." I wait until she does, those orange-gold eyes wide and dark with want she's trying so hard to fight.

"You know what that is, yes?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with more than just physical acknowledgment. This is about honesty, about stripping away the polite fictions that let us pretend this thing between us is manageable. Her lips part, but no words come out, and I make a decision that might damn us both.

I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away, to say no, to remind me about medical restrictions and professional boundaries. But she stays still, breathing shallow, watching me like she's waiting for lightning to strike. My hand slides from her hip to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in silk-soft hair.

"Let me taste," I murmur, and then I'm catching her bottom lip between my teeth.

The bite is gentle but firm, calibrated with the same precision I use to suture skin or slip a needle through silk-thin veins. She gasps, the sound a velvet stutter that pulses hot straight to my core. It's such a small thing—the pad of my teeth on her lower lip, a measured pull and release—but her body melts, spine unfurling, as if the whole architecture of her being was waiting for this exact pressure to make sense of itself. For a split second, the world narrows down to nothing but the taste of her, the intoxicating sweetness that scents the air every time she exhales, the adrenaline snap of risk and trust.

I don't let myself linger. Not yet. I let up almost instantly, teeth grazing her skin as I pull back, giving the tiniest nudge with my tongue as if to apologize for the audacity. The restraint costs more than I'd calculated. Every cell in me riots to close the distance, to devour her mouth with a hunger I didn't know I was capable of feeling. I want to taste her all the way down, to etch her flavor into memory so permanent it will never wash out no matter how many times I scrub my hands raw.

But this is about her, and I'm not going to fuck it up by moving too fast or letting my own need drown out the careful, delicate permission in her eyes. I hold myself still, holding her in that liminal moment, letting the air between us crackle and reroute. Her lips quiver, parted from the pressure, and there's a flash of white where she nipped her tongue between teeth, tasting herself. The effect is so carnal and innocent all at once, it makes my vision smear at the edges.

She doesn't pull away. She doesn't bolt for the door or fold in on herself like I've seen her do a thousand times in the face of disappointment. Instead, she just... stays. Sitting solid and warm on my lap, her hands slack around my neck, her pupils blown wide. If I weren't looking directly at her, I wouldn't believe it: the way the aftershock of that tiny bite seems to erase every line of defense she spent a lifetime perfecting. It feels like a privilege so profound I almost can't bear it.

And then another miracle—she laughs, a soft, stunned sound, and buries her face against my shoulder for a second as if to hide from the force of her own reaction. I can feel her smile against my shirt. It makes me want to tear the whole world apart and rebuild it just for her, so she never has to second-guess this kind of happiness.

She stays curled there for a breathless eternity, then lifts her head, eyes searching mine for any sign that it was a mistake, a joke, another test she's destined to fail. There's nothing in me but raw, adoring want, and I let it show. She watches my face like she's deciphering a new language.

"Willa," I manage, and my voice is a wreck, hoarse and unguarded. I want to say something smart, something charming, but all I can do is run my thumbs along the strong line of her jaw, desperate to prove I'm not about to vanish or push her away. "You can... you can do whatever you want."

The confession seems to embolden her, like I've given her permission to breathe at sea level for the first time. She sways forward again, hesitating a millimeter from my mouth, waiting for the world to end or to begin. The wild, impulsive part of me wants to drag her down and never let go, but the larger part—the part that's been watching her for months, cataloguing every nuance of her smile, the way she stares down a difficult horse, the way she advocates for Luna with ferocity that would make a wolf proud—knows that if I do, it will break something vital.

So I hold perfectly still. If she wants this, if she wants me, it has to be hers to take.

And, fuck, she does.

Her hands frame my face. She leans in, eyes wide open, and presses her mouth to mine. It's not a proper kiss—more a brush, a childlike test of the substance of desire—but it lands with the impact of a meteor. My hands reflexively tighten on her hips, steadying her, and I meet her just enough that she feels the answer in my bones. That yes, I want this too, more than I've ever wanted anything.

She pulls back, face flushed, breathing ragged, and lets out a shaky little laugh. "Okay," she whispers, and it's both a question and a benediction.

Her eyes open slowly, dazed and dark, and the look on her face nearly undoes me. She sways forward like she's magnetized, and I hold perfectly still, letting her choose what comes next. When she leans in, brushing her lips against mine in the softest possible kiss, my hands tighten reflexively.

"I know what it is," she whispers against my mouth, the words barely audible, painted with embarrassment and want in equal measure.

"Good girl."

The praise slips out without thought, rough and possessive, and I watch her pupils blow wide in response. My hand trails from her neck down her spine, finding bare skin where the romper dips low. She arches slightly, pressing closer, and I spread my fingers wide to touch as much as I'm allowed.

Her skin is fever-hot, silk-smooth, perfect. I trace patterns on her back, feeling the delicate bumps of her spine, the way her breathing changes with each touch.

She's trembling now, caught between want and shouldn't, and I know I need to stop before we both do something the doctor would definitely not approve of.

"Go change for me, Dandelion," I murmur, the endearment tasting right on my tongue. A name just for her, just from me. "Show me what else you picked."

She nods, looking dazed and thoroughly kissed despite our restraint. When she slides off my lap, I have to bite back a groan at the loss. She stands on unsteady legs, smoothing the romper with shaking hands, and I drink in the sight of her—flushed and wanting and mine in all the ways that matter.

"I'll just—" She gestures vaguely toward the changing room. "Be right back."

"I'll be here," I promise, and watch her disappear behind the door with what's left of my sanity.

The moment she's gone, I drop my head into my hands and breathe deep.

What the fuck am I doing?

Twenty-four hours left on her medical restrictions and I'm playing with fire, pushing boundaries that exist for her safety. But the way she responded, the trust in her eyes when she let me bite her lip, the soft confession against my mouth—it tells me everything I need to know.

This could work.

Despite our complicated dynamics, despite her trauma and our past mistakes, despite everything stacked against us—this could actually work.

She's not Sarah, not playing games or manipulation. She's just Willa, brave and broken and perfect, trying to find her way to us as surely as we're finding our way to her.

I think about Cole this morning, hands white-knuckled on the coffee mug as her scent filled the kitchen. About Maverick prowling the perimeter like a caged wolf, needing to protect but forced to keep distance. About Austin's too-bright smiles that don't quite hide the longing in his eyes. We're all walking this careful line, wanting her with every fiber of our beings but knowing she needs time, space, medical care.

But after those forty-eight hours are up? After her body adjusts and she's cleared for... everything?

The thought makes my cock throb with renewed interest, and I adjust myself with a grimace.

I'm thirty years old, not some untried boy, but she makes me feel wild and young and reckless. Makes me want to claim and provide and protect in ways I thought I'd learned to control.

The changing room door opens, and I look up to find her in something new—a sundress this time, pale blue like morning sky. She looks uncertain, younger, and I realize with a start that she's probably never had anyone buy her clothes just because. Never had someone want to spoil her for the sheer joy of watching her smile.

"Beautiful," I tell her, meaning it with every cell in my body. "We'll take it all."

Her smile is worth every penny, worth the ache in my body, worth the careful control I'll need to maintain for twenty-four more hours. Because after that? After that, we'll show her exactly what it means to be cherished by a pack that knows how to love an Omega right.

The storm is coming—I can feel it building between all of us, electric and inevitable.

But for now, I watch her spin in that sundress, cowboy boots clicking on the boutique floor, and let myself imagine all the ways we'll weather it together.

Temptations On The Sunset Horizon

~WILLA~

Into the changing room on unsteady legs, my skin still humming from River's touch, from his promise in calling me Dandelion like I'm something delicate and wild all at once.

The sundress whispers against my thighs as I carefully hang it on the provided hook, trying not to think about how his eyes tracked every movement when I spun for him. How his voice went rough on "beautiful," like the word cost him something to say.

Twenty-three hours and—I check my phone—seventeen minutes left. The numbers mock me, counting down to something that feels bigger than just medical clearance. My fingers shake as I reach for the last item in the pile River selected, barely glancing at the white fabric. My mind's elsewhere, caught on the memory of his teeth on my lip, the careful pressure that made my whole body light up like struck flint.

The material is softer than expected, some kind of silk blend that slides through my fingers like water. I'm already stepping out of my jeans, mind replaying the way River's cock pressed hard and insistent against me through his denim. The way he didn't apologize or make excuses, just let me feel exactly what I do to him. My pussy clenches at the memory, and I have to bite back a whimper as I pull my tank top over my head.

I'm so lost in sense memory—his hands on my back, the rumble of "good girl" in his chest—that I don't really look at what I'm putting on. The fabric is minimal, requiring some adjustments, but my brain interprets this as just another style choice. Straps here, elastic there. The boutique carries all kinds of modern cuts, after all. It's only when I'm reaching behind to figure out some kind of complicated back closure that I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror.

And freeze.

This isn't a romper.

Or a dress.

Or anything remotely suitable for public wear.

It's lingerie. It has to be. Delicate white lace that barely covers anything, all strategic panels and sheer mesh that leaves nothing to the imagination.

The bra pushes my breasts up and together in a way that makes them look fuller, while the matching panties—God, can they even be called panties?—are held together by tiny bows at each hip. A garter belt circles my waist with straps that dangle loose, waiting for stockings I don't have.

"Oh fuck," I breathe, staring at my reflection in horror. My skin looks pale as cream against the white lace, every curve and valley on display. The shop lighting catches on the delicate embroidery, making the fabric seem to glow. I look like a virgin sacrifice. Or a wedding night fantasy. Or⁠—

"How's it going in there?" River's voice carries through the curtain, closer than before. He must be right outside.

I spin away from the mirror, hands flying to cover myself even though he can't see.

"I'm—it's—" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "I'm not sure this one is meant for... outdoors."

There's a pause.

Then, carefully neutral:

"What do you mean?"

My face burns hotter than the October sun. How do I explain that I accidentally put on something that belongs in a honeymoon suite, not a daytime ride?

That I'm standing here looking like every wet dream he's probably tried not to have about me?

"Maybe you should..." I swallow hard, gathering courage. "Could you come in? Instead of me coming out?"

Another pause, longer this time.

I can practically hear him processing, weighing options.

"You sure?"

No. Yes. I don't know.

My body makes the decision for me, nipples tightening visibly through the sheer lace at just the thought of him seeing me like this.

"Please?"

The curtain moves slightly, and River peeks his head in. His eyes find mine first, some question there, but then his gaze drops and his whole body goes rigid. His pupils blow wide, black swallowing green until only a thin ring remains.

"Christ," he breathes, and the word sounds punched out of him.

I cross my arms over my chest, which only succeeds in pushing my breasts up further.

"I didn't realize what it was when I grabbed it. I thought—I wasn't paying attention and—" I'm babbling, cheeks flaming, unable to meet his eyes. "Maybe it doesn't fit right? I know I'm too curvy for something like this⁠—"

"Stop." The command cuts through my nervous rambling.

River steps fully into the changing room, one hand reaching back to carefully, deliberately pull the curtain closed. The small space shrinks with his presence, his pine and earth scent mixing with the perfume of my embarrassment and—God help me—arousal.

He approaches slowly, like I might bolt.

Maybe I would, if my legs weren't locked in place by the intensity of his stare.

He's not looking at me like I'm too much or not enough. He's looking at me like I'm a feast and he's been starving for years.

His fingers trail whisper-light along my bare shoulder, following the delicate lace strap. The touch is barely there, but it sends lightning down my spine.

"You look," he says, voice dropped to a register that vibrates in my bones, "like the most wanted dessert that I'd gladly devour."

The words should sound silly, maybe even cheesy.

But the way he says them—rough and honest and hungry—makes my knees weak. He leans in, and I watch his chest expand as he takes a deliberate, deep inhale. His exhale comes out as a growl, low and primal, the sound of an Alpha catching the scent of an Omega in heat.

Goosebumps race across my skin, and I can't contain the needy whimper that escapes.

My body recognizes that sound, responds to it on a cellular level. Every nerve ending lights up, and I feel myself getting wetter, the borrowed panties no match for the slick beginning to gather.

River's hands clench at his sides like he's physically holding himself back. But his eyes—his eyes devour every inch of exposed skin, lingering on the swell of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the barely-there fabric that pretends to cover my pussy.

"Dandelion," he murmurs, and my name has never sounded so much like a promise.

River moves closer still, each inch of diminished space making my breath catch, until I can feel the heat radiating from his body without quite touching. His head dips, and I tense, expecting his mouth on mine. Instead, his lips find the curve where my neck meets shoulder, barely a brush of contact that somehow sets every nerve alight.

"So soft," he murmurs against my skin, the words vibrating through me. His lips trail up, mapping the column of my throat with reverent pressure. Each kiss is deliberate, controlled, but I can feel the restraint thrumming through him in the careful placement of his hands—still at his sides, still not grabbing me the way his eyes promise he wants to.

When he reaches my collarbone, he pauses. His tongue darts out, tasting the hollow there, and my knees actually buckle. Only pride keeps me upright, that and the wall at my back.

"Can I..." His voice is wrecked, barely more than a rasp. He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the hunger there makes my stomach clench. "Can I have a glimpse of what it'll be like to appease you?"

The formal words contrast with the raw need in his delivery. Appease me. Like I'm something divine requiring tribute, not a half-naked mess in borrowed lingerie who can barely remember her own name under his attention.

I try to form words, but his hooded gaze pins me in place. Those green eyes are more black than color now, focused on me with an intensity that makes me hyperaware of everything. The lace scratching against oversensitive nipples. The changing room's recycled air moving across too much bare skin. The way my pussy throbs in time with my heartbeat, already so wet I can feel it beginning to coat my inner thighs.

"Willa." He lifts one hand—finally, finally touching with intent—and his fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb traces my bottom lip, the same lip he bit in the boutique's main room. The memory makes me shiver. "I need to hear your words, Dandelion. You can use them, yes?"

It's gentle but firm, making sure I'm present, I'm choosing, I'm not just swept along by hormones and proximity.

The care in it, the way he waits despite the obvious strain of holding back, breaks something open in my chest.

"Yes," I whisper, then clearer: "I want..." The words tangle, too many wants crowding my throat. Want his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing me into the wall. Want to know what sounds he makes when control finally snaps. Want to be claimed and cherished and—"I want a glimpse of him...of us."

The pronoun shift matters.

Not just him but us, acknowledging what we could be together. His thumb presses slightly against my lip as his breathing roughens.

"Fuck, the things you say." He moves then, decisive and sure. One hand cups my face while the other finds my hip, and he walks me backward the two steps to the opposite wall. My back hits the cool surface and I gasp at the contrast—cold wall, hot Alpha, my burning skin caught between.

His mouth finds mine with none of the earlier restraint. This kiss is hungry, possessive, years of want condensed into the slide of lips and shared breath.

He kisses like he's trying to crawl inside me, like he can somehow imprint himself on my soul through pressure and need alone.

My hands fly to his shoulders, clutching at his shirt as he angles my head where he wants it. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open immediately, eager for more of his taste—pine and coffee and something uniquely River that makes my head spin.

He makes a sound—approval or relief or pure want—and deepens the kiss. His hand slides from my jaw to circle my throat, not squeezing but holding, pinning me in place with gentle authority. The possession in it, the careful control, makes me whimper into his mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs against my lips before diving back in. His tongue tangles with mine, teaching me the rhythm he likes, coaxing responses I didn't know I could make. Each slide and retreat builds heat between us until I'm panting, gasping for air he won't quite let me have.

River makes a raw, inhuman noise when I experiment—delicately, then with daring—by sucking his tongue into my mouth. His whole body jolts like a live wire. The hand gripping my hip spasms, fingers digging in so hard I anticipate the shape of his grasp lasting days. It’s half caution tape, half claim. All I can think is how right it feels, how every inch of me wants to bruise under him, to be marked and remembered even after the high of this moment fizzles out. He presses forward with his body, closing whatever molecular gap remained between us, and I gasp into his mouth, hyperaware of the thick ridge of him—hard and eager, boxed behind his jeans, less a suggestion and more a geometric inevitability.

I want to tell him he’s making me dizzy, but I can’t remember vocabulary. His free hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, threading into my hair, and suddenly I’m short-circuited: there’s nowhere to look but his eyes, nowhere to breathe but his oxygen. I feel the slick heat gathering between my thighs, wetness pooling so quickly it’s obscene, and some feral part of me catalogs it as evidence—proof that I’m as gone for him as he is for me.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips still grazing mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.” The words are low, like he’s ashamed of needing to say them, but the rest of him doesn’t get the message. His thumb strokes just under my jaw, gentling the restraint on my throat, and my pulse hammers against his touch.

“I think I do,” I whisper, voice breaking on the inhale. Every sound in the dressing room is magnified. The soft rasp of his breath, the animal hush when he noses my cheek, the way our bodies align in a language more ancient than words. I’m throbbing with want, every inch of skin desperate for friction, for another taste of him.

He’s still holding back, and I know it. I can feel him fighting for control, something noble and selfless in it. Maybe he’s afraid to push too far, or to take what I’m not ready to give. It only makes me want him more—this paradoxical cocktail of restraint and need.

I drag my hands up his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath my palms. I’m emboldened by his hesitation, and by the impossible fact that he’s even here, wanting me. It’s so different from every other touch I’ve known—careful, reverent, but never patronizing. There’s none of the clinical detachment of a village matchmaker, none of the empty ritual I learned to expect from Alphas who saw Omegas as a job to fulfill. River’s hands on me say nothing about duty and everything about hunger.

My legs go loose and he catches me, using the grip on my hip to haul me up and back, perching me on the low bench of the changing room. I nearly overbalance, but he’s there, steady and calm and grinning like a wolf. His hands find my knees, pushing them apart, and the air between my legs shocks me cold for half a second before his heat fills the space.

He kneels. Just drops to his knees, barely a pause, and looks up through dark lashes that make my guts melt. The position should be vulnerable, but he makes it dominant, like he’s daring me to flinch. I don’t. Not even as he drags his hands up my thighs, slow enough to worship.

River doesn’t ask for permission again. He simply leans in and presses his mouth to the inside of my knee, then trails up with agonizing patience. Each kiss lands softer, wetter, closer to where I want him most. The lace of the panties is already damp, and I flush thinking of what he’ll find there. He noses against the fabric, inhales deeply, and shudders.

I can’t stay silent. “Do you want—” I choke on the word. It’s too much, too soon, but the thought of stopping makes me want to scream. “God, River—please.”

He glances up, all green and black, and my heart forgets to beat. “Whatever you need, Dandelion. You say when.”

And then his mouth is on me, or as close as the see-through lace allows, and I nearly levitate off the bench. He sucks, kisses, licks through the barrier until I’m trembling, every nerve ending alive and pleading for more. He slides the panties aside with two fingers, slow enough to build anticipation, and then his tongue is on bare skin, slick and electric.

I buck against his face, my hands flying to anchor in his hair. The feel of him is beyond anything I’ve ever known—focused, relentless, like he’s memorizing every reaction and saving it for later. He groans when I tug at his hair, deep and pleased, and doubles down on the rhythm.

I can feel myself getting close, the tension winding tighter and tighter, but River slows, deliberately, drawing it out. His tongue circles, teases, never quite giving me the pressure I crave. When I whine, he grins against me, the bastard, and finally gives in—sucking hard enough to make my whole body lock up. The orgasm hits so fast I can’t even warn him; I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming, but he stays right there, riding every aftershock, licking until I’m wrung out and whimpering.

He finally looks up, face slick, eyes glazed with pleasure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still kneeling between my legs, and gives me a lazy, satisfied smile.

“Best damn taste I’ve ever had,” he says, his voice rough, and I have to look away or combust.

He stands, muscles bunching as he lifts me back to my feet like I weigh nothing at all. He steadies me, brushing my hair back from my face, and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my mouth. This kiss is different—gentler, almost reverent, like a benediction after the holy mess of what he just did to me.

I collapse against his chest, arms wrapping around him for support, and realize I’m shaking—not from fear, but from the way he’s remade my body’s understanding of want.

We stand there for a long second, just breathing together, my head tucked under his chin. I’m still in the absurd lingerie, and he’s still impossibly hard against me, but neither of us moves to end it. The curtain ripples with every exhale, a hush world all our own.

I should be shy. Should be careful and cautious and all the things I've been taught. Instead, I kiss him back with everything in me, pouring years of suppressed desire into the clash of teeth and tongues. This is what I've been missing, what Iron Ridge with all its rules and restrictions never let me have. Not just physical pleasure but this connection, this meeting of equals despite our designations.

River pulls back just enough to breathe.

"Fuck, Dandelion," before capturing my mouth again. His thumb strokes the side of my throat where my pulse hammers rabbit-quick, and I arch into him, needing more contact, more pressure, more everything.

My body moves without conscious thought, trying to climb him, to get closer than physics allows. I've never been kissed like this—like I matter, like my pleasure matters, like the person kissing me would happily spend hours learning exactly how to take me apart.

"Been wanting this," I gasp when he moves to my jaw, nipping lightly. "God, River, I've been—years of wanting⁠—"

"I know." He seals his mouth over mine again, swallowing whatever confession was about to spill out. "I know, baby. We've got you now."

We. Plural. The promise of not just him but all of them makes me moan, the sound muffled by his tongue stroking against mine.

My pussy clenches around nothing, desperately empty, and I can feel how wet I'm getting. The delicate lace of the panties is no barrier at all—I'm probably dripping, making a mess, and the thought only turns me on more.

River seems to sense the spike in my arousal because he growls—actually growls—and presses me harder against the wall.

The kiss mutates—no, explodes—into something raw and feral, instantly obliterating any illusions of restraint that might have lingered in the charged air between us. River isn’t just tasting me, he’s devouring, imprinting the memory of me on every sense. The taste of my orgasm still glazes his lips, and the slickness is a badge—one he wears proudly as his mouth plunders mine with animal intent. The hand braced at my throat becomes the sun around which my whole universe orbits: it pins me upright with gentle but absolute authority, sending a shockwave of heat down my spine and into every pulsing nerve beneath my skin. He kisses me like he’s starving, like the only thing tethering him to this dimension is the wet, hungry collision of our mouths.

My own gasp bleeds into his mouth, fueling him—fueling us—as he presses closer, crushing my breasts against his chest until the lace bites into my skin and I relish the sting. The air is thick with our mingled scent—the arousal, the sweat, the aftershock of my orgasm—and he’s inhaling it through his nose as if he’s trying to bring my pheromones directly into his bloodstream. His tongue finds mine again, more insistent now, coaxing and teasing and then retreating just enough to make me chase after him, desperate for the next hit.

I surrender, full-body, to the headlong rush of sensation, years of careful boundaries and survival instincts collapsing in a heap around my feet. With every glide of his thumb along the side of my throat, I feel the pulse thrum in my ears: a primal drumbeat, a call to arms. My fingers claw at the back of his shirt, hauling him closer, refusing to allow even a breath of space between us.

He presses me into the wall, body caging mine, and I swear I taste blood where I bite his lip, but he only growls and plunders deeper. There’s something wild in the way his restraint ratchets tighter even as his hips roll forward, the hardness of him unmistakable, pressing into my stomach with a promise I can barely comprehend. Each movement, each squeeze or pull or tentative retreat, is calculated to wind me higher, to keep me teetering at the edge.

My legs are trembling, not from fatigue but from the sheer voltage of being wanted like this, and every time he relents for a half-breath it’s just to drink me in, to fix me in memory before he loses himself again. He nips at my bottom lip, then soothes the sting with the broad sweep of his tongue, and the tenderness is almost more shattering than the need.

He breaks the kiss only to lap at the taste of me on my own lips, humming in deep, lewd satisfaction, and then dives back in, as if he’s chasing a flavor he might never get enough of. His grip at my throat gentles just a fraction, thumb stroking the frantic flutter of my pulse, and the pleasure is so sharp it nearly tilts into pain.

I kiss him back with equal fervor, trying to communicate without words how much I need this, need him, need whatever they're willing to give me. Three years of suppressed sexuality surge forward, demanding satisfaction, demanding to be seen and met and matched.

When we finally break apart, we're both gasping.

My lips feel swollen, well-used, and his don't look much better. There's a wildness in his eyes that makes my stomach flip, promises of what could happen when medical restrictions lift and he doesn't have to hold back.

"Gorgeous," he mutters, thumb brushing my abused bottom lip. "Look at you. All pink and needy and perfect."

I am needy.

Desperately, embarrassingly needy. And for the first time in my life, I don't feel shame about it.

Not when he's looking at me like I'm precious, like my desire is something to be celebrated rather than suppressed.

"River," I breathe, not sure what I'm asking for but knowing he'll understand.

He does. Of course he does.

His hand slides down from my throat, tracing a deliberate path between my breasts, over the delicate lace barely containing them, down past the garter belt to hover just above where I need him most. The anticipation makes me squirm, pressing back against the wall like I can phase through it and escape the intensity of what's happening.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for until his fingers slip beneath the barely-there fabric of the panties.

"Fuck." The curse punches out of him as his fingers find me dripping, slick coating my thighs and pooling hot between my legs. "You're soaked, Dandelion. All this for me?"

I should be embarrassed by how wet I am, how easily my body betrays its need. Instead, I spread my legs without hesitation, giving him better access, not caring that I'm in a boutique changing room with only a curtain between us and the rest of the world.

River takes the invitation for what it is, fingers sliding through my folds with devastating gentleness. He's learning me, mapping every sensitive spot while I try to muffle the sounds wanting to escape. When his thumb finds my clit, circling with perfect pressure, I have to bite my lip hard enough to taste copper.

"Shh," he soothes, even as he slides one finger inside me. "Quiet, baby. Can't have the whole store knowing how good you feel on my fingers."

The words make it worse, make me wetter, and I can smell it now—our scents mingling in the small space, his pine and earth mixing with my honey sweetness until the air is thick with sexual musk. Anyone who walks by will know exactly what's happening in here, blockers or no blockers.

River adds a second finger, curling them just right, and my knees actually give out. Only his free arm around my waist keeps me upright as he works me with methodical precision. He's watching my face, cataloging every reaction, figuring out exactly what makes me shake.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice full of wonder. "Taking my fingers so well. Been empty too long, haven't you?"

"Yes," I gasp, past the point of anything but honesty. "So long, River, please⁠—"

He knows what I need before I can articulate it. His fingers speed up, thumb pressing harder on my clit while he fucks into me with a rhythm that has me climbing fast toward release.

The intensity in the air is suffocating, every sense tuned to the way River’s body presses mine to the cold, paint-chipped wall, to the way his touch so utterly disregards anything outside this tiny, fabric-wrapped world. But it’s the sounds—God, the sounds—that threaten to undo me: the slick, shameless noises his fingers make as they plunder into me, the wet suck and slide echoing off laminate tile and plastic hangers like a filthy metronome, the urgent slap of skin and the hollow thud of my back when he thrusts just a bit harder, as if staking a flag inside me.

It is not delicate.

It is not the soft soundtrack of a romance movie—no, this is animal, visceral, a chorus of need that sounds like it should be happening in a dark alley, not a daylight-bathed fitting room stocked with handmade linen.

I bite down on every startled whimper and moan, clutching a fistful of River’s shirt, but there’s no way to silence the chorus of our bodies.

The rhythm of it, the symphonic wetness, is so loud I’m sure the clerk must be loitering just outside the curtain, hand pressed over her mouth in either horror or awe.

River, for his part, seems intoxicated by the sound, by the way my body gives up all pretense and spills for him. His eyes never leave mine, pupils blown wide with hunger as he watches me come apart. Every time his fingers sink deeper, I hear the obscene slick and feel the answering jolt deep inside me, an electric tangle of pleasure that sparks with each curled thrust. The air is so thick with scent and heat that I almost hallucinate: the taste of the blood in my mouth from biting my lip, the sharp tang of adrenaline and sweat, the earthy pine of his skin, and—rising, cresting, undeniable—the honeyed musk of my own arousal, thick as sap. It’s everywhere. It’s everything. It floods this little booth, seeps into my lungs, rewires the chemistry of need. The noise is relentless, a vulgar punctuation for every perfect movement, as if my body has become an instrument made for this alone.

I'm close, so close, thighs trembling and breath coming in pants I can barely muffle. Just a little more and⁠—

He withdraws his fingers entirely.

Before I can protest—before I can do more than whine at the loss—River drops to his knees.

The sight of him there, looking up at me with pure hunger while my slick gleams on his fingers, nearly finishes me on its own.

"Need to taste," he growls, and then his mouth is on me.

The first swipe of his tongue makes me see stars. I slam both hands over my mouth, muffling the cry that wants to escape as he licks through my folds like a man starved.

There's no hesitation, no careful exploration—he eats me like he's been thinking about it for months, like he knows exactly what he wants and how to take it.

When his tongue thrusts inside me, replacing his fingers, I almost scream. Only the last shred of awareness that we're in public keeps me silent, hands pressed hard against my mouth while he fucks me with his tongue. The sounds he makes—greedy, appreciative, absolutely filthy—vibrate against my sensitive flesh.

My thighs shake around his head as he works me over, alternating between fucking me with his tongue and sucking on my clit until I can't tell up from down.

The pressure builds impossibly fast, coiling tight in my belly, and when he sucks hard while pressing his fingers back inside, I shatter.

The orgasm hits like a lightning strike, white-hot and overwhelming. I bite my palm to muffle my cries, whole body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me.

River doesn't let up, licking me through it, holding my trembling legs to keep me from buckling completely.

He makes the most obscene sounds as he licks up every drop of slick, greedy and appreciative like I'm the best thing he's ever tasted. His tongue is thorough, catching what's run down my thighs, cleaning me with an attention to detail that has aftershocks rippling through me.

When he finally leans back, his mouth and lips glisten with my slick. The sight is so erotic I have to close my eyes, another pulse of arousal hitting despite just coming harder than I have in years. I watch through heavy lids as he licks his lips clean, savoring the taste with obvious pleasure.

"Fuck, that was divine," he says, voice wrecked. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

He stands with fluid grace, steadying me with gentle hands as I sway on unsteady legs.

The white lace is hopelessly twisted, and I'm sure I look thoroughly debauched. The thought should mortify me.

Instead, I feel powerful. Desired. Claimed in all the ways that matter.

"This piece," River says, fingers tracing the edge of the lace with possessive intent, "you can only wear around us. Understood?"

I nod, still too overwhelmed for words. The idea of wearing this for all four of them, of letting them see me like this—vulnerable and wanting and theirs—makes my pussy clench despite just being thoroughly satisfied.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and I have to bite back a whimper at how those words affect me.

"Is everything okay in there?" The sales attendant's voice from outside makes us both freeze. "I heard some... noises."

My face flames with mortification, but River just grins, looking supremely unbothered by nearly being caught with his face between my thighs.

"Everything's perfect," he calls back, voice remarkably steady for someone who just tongue-fucked me into oblivion. "Actually, we'll take this lingerie piece in every color you have."

"River!" I hiss, shocked. "That's⁠—"

"Every color," he repeats firmly, then leans in close enough that his lips brush my ear. "The white is gonna be for the night we officially make you ours, Dandelion. Want you wearing it when we claim you properly, when there's no more restrictions holding us back."

The promise in his words makes me shiver, already imagining that night.

All four of them seeing me like this, touching me, tasting me, making me theirs in every way possible.

"Now," he continues, pulling back with visible effort, "let me clean you up because we have some riding to do."

He produces a handkerchief from his pocket—of course he carries one—and gently cleans between my thighs with a tenderness that makes my chest tight. The contrast between his careful touch now and his hungry mouth minutes ago gives me whiplash in the best way.

"I'll wait outside while you change," he says once I'm decent enough. "Take your time."

He slips out through the curtain, leaving me alone with racing thoughts and trembling limbs.

I catch my reflection in the mirror—hair mussed, lips swollen, skin glowing with satisfaction—and barely recognize myself.

This isn't the controlled, cautious Omega who fled Iron Ridge.

This is a whole new me. A blossoming Omega. Someone who takes what she wants and lets herself be wanted in return.

Twenty-three hours left.

After what just happened, after the promise in River's eyes and the taste of freedom on his tongue, those hours feel like a lifetime. But they also feel like preparation.

Time to ready myself for what's coming, for the claiming and bonding and belonging that waits on the other side.

I start changing back into the new white romper outfit and new boots, ready for the ride ahead, my movements slow and careful on unsteady legs.

Outside, I can hear River talking to the sales attendant, his voice calm and pleasant like he didn't just take me apart with his mouth in a public dressing room.

Every color, he'd said.

The white for their claiming night.

My pussy clenches at the thought, already eager despite the satisfaction still humming through my veins.

Twenty-three hours, and then I'll find out exactly what it means to belong to the pack at Cactus Rose Ranch.

I can hardly wait.

Live. Laugh. Ride

~WILLA~

The October air hits different out here, away from the boutique's perfumed confines and the town's polite scrutiny.

My body still hums with aftershocks from River's mouth, muscles loose and languid as we guide the horses through the ranch gates toward open country. Every shift in the truck seat on the way here had been a reminder—the tender ache between my thighs, the phantom pressure of his fingers, the way my new romper brushed against oversensitive skin.

But now, standing at the edge of this vast expanse of pastures and valleys, something else takes hold.

The field spreads before us like a promise written in wildflowers. They shouldn't be blooming—October in Montana usually means frost-kissed mornings and trees surrendering their leaves. Instead, purple asters and late-blooming yarrow dot the hillsides in defiant splashes of color.

The sun hangs high and proud, but the breeze carries winter's whisper, creating that perfect balance between warmth and chill that makes you feel every inch of your skin.

I inhale deeply, and the world floods in. Sage and sweet grass, the earthy musk of horses, pine resin from the distant treeline. No exhaust fumes. No concrete dust. No artificial everything pressing in from all sides. My lungs, damaged as they are, seem to expand fuller here, like they remember how to work properly when the air is clean.

"God," I breathe, not quite meaning to speak aloud. "I'd forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" River's voice comes from behind me, gentle curiosity threading through the words.

"This." I gesture vaguely at everything—the endless sky, the rolling landscape, the profound quiet that isn't silent at all but filled with wind song and distant bird calls. "The way nature doesn't ask anything of you except to exist in it."

I sense him moving closer, bringing the horses, but he doesn't touch. We're both hyperaware of boundaries now, of the careful distance that needs maintaining for another twenty-two hours. Still, his presence warms my back like sunlight.

"Cities convince you that their noise is necessary," I continue, surprising myself with the confession. "That the buzz and hum and constant motion is life itself. But it's not. It's just... loudness. Drowning out the important things."

"Like what?" He's beside me now, holding both sets of reins, and when I glance over, his green eyes hold that same patient interest that undid me in the changing room.

"Like breathing. Like thinking your own thoughts instead of whatever advertising or anxiety is being pumped at you." I shake my head, embarrassed by my rambling. "Sorry. I'm being weird."

"You're being honest." He extends Willow's reins toward me. "Ready to remember something else you might have forgotten?"

I stare at the leather straps, my stomach doing a slow flip. "River, I haven't been on a horse since I was maybe ten. I'm going to be terrible."

"Define terrible." There's amusement in his voice now, that gentle teasing I'm learning is his way of easing tension.

"Like... falling off immediately. Or going the wrong direction. Or accidentally signaling the horse to gallop when I meant to stop." I'm only half-joking. My hands shake slightly as I take the reins.

"First of all, Willow here is smarter than both of us combined. She's not going to let you do anything too stupid." He runs a hand along the mare's neck, and she whickers softly. "Second, muscle memory is real. Your body learned young—it'll come back faster than you think."

"You have a lot of faith in my body," I say, then immediately flush at the double meaning.

River's lips quirk, but he keeps his voice professionally neutral. "Your body hasn't let you down yet, has it?"

The weight of that statement—after what we just shared, after the trust I placed in him—makes my throat tight. "No. I suppose it hasn't."

"Then trust it now. Come on." He moves to Willow's side, making a cradle with his hands. "Left foot here, swing your right leg over. I've got you."

The moment of contact, even through my boot, sends warmth shooting up my leg. His hands are steady, strong, and I try not to think about how they felt on my bare skin less than an hour ago. Focus, Willa.

I place my foot in his makeshift stirrup and push up, muscle memory indeed flickering to life. My right leg swings over Willow's back with more grace than I expected, and suddenly I'm mounted, looking down at River from a height that feels both foreign and familiar.

"See?" He grins up at me, pride evident in his expression. "Natural."

As he adjusts the stirrups for my height, his hands brushing against my calves with clinical efficiency, a memory surfaces unbidden. Grandpa's weathered hands doing the same thing, his voice patient as he explained about proper seat and gentle hands.

"You're thinking about something," River observes, stepping back to check the saddle's position.

"My grandfather." The words come easier than expected. "He taught me to ride on a pony named Buttercup. Terrible name for a horse, but I was seven and thought it was perfect."

River swings up onto his own mount with fluid ease. "Tell me about it."

So I do, as we begin walking the horses toward the open field. I tell him about early morning rides when the dew still sparkled on spider webs. About Grandpa's endless patience with a chattery little girl who wanted to go fast before she'd learned to sit properly. About the stories he'd tell as we rode—ranch history mixed with tall tales until I couldn't separate fact from fiction.

"He'd let me ride until I was basically asleep in the saddle," I say, smiling at the memory. "Just walking the fence lines as the sun set, me swaying like a sack of grain, barely holding the reins."

"Sounds dangerous," River comments, but his tone is warm.

"It should have been. But I never felt safer." My voice goes soft, remembering. "He'd catch me before I could fall, every time. Lift me off Buttercup and carry me inside, my head on his shoulder. I'd wake up in my bed, boots off, tucked under the quilt like the ride had been a dream."

"Except it wasn't."

"No. It was real. The only real thing sometimes, when my parents..." I trail off, old pain threatening to surface.

River doesn't push, just guides his horse closer so we're riding side by side. "We can make new memories, you know. Starting now."

I look over at him, this man who just gave me pleasure without taking any for himself, who's teaching me I can be wanted without being consumed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But first rule of new memories—you have to actually be present for them." His smile turns playful. "So whatever weight you're carrying from before? The cities, the expectations, the fears? Leave them back at the gate. Just for now. Just for this ride."

"That's a big ask, cowboy."

"I know. But you're a big girl. I have faith in your body, remember?"

That makes me laugh, surprising us both. "Okay. Present moment. I can do that."

"Good." He clicks his tongue, and his horse picks up the pace slightly. "Then let's see if your muscle memory extends to a trot. Heels down, shoulders back, and breathe. Everything else will follow."

I mirror his movements, and Willow responds instantly, her gait smoothing into that rolling rhythm I'd forgotten I knew. My body adjusts without conscious thought, finding the sweet spot between tension and relaxation. The world starts to move faster around us, and with it, my worries begin to fade.

Maybe River's right. Some part of me has always known how to do this—not just ride, but trust. Be present. To let go.

The field opens before us, endless and welcoming, and I follow River deeper into it, leaving my fears at the gate like he suggested.

For now, there's just this: horse and rider, earth and sky, and the promise of new memories waiting to be made.

The trot becomes a canter without me consciously deciding, just River calling out "Ready?" and my body answering before my mind can interfere.

Willow surges forward beneath me, smooth as water, and the world transforms into a blur of sensation. Wind tears at my hair, whipping auburn strands across my face like silk fingers. The romper's skirt flutters and snaps against my thighs, and I'm grateful for the new boots' solid grip in the stirrups.

This is flying while staying earthbound. This is freedom with four hooves drumming rhythm into the earth. My body remembers more than I gave it credit for—the slight forward lean, the give and take of the reins, the way my hips roll with Willow's movement like we're dancing partners who never forgot the steps.

"That's it!" River's voice carries over the thunder of hooves, bright with approval. "Let her run!"

So I do.

We streak across the pasture, dodging sage brushes and jumping small streams with an ease that makes me laugh—actually laugh, wild and uncontained. The sound gets stolen by the wind, but the joy remains, bubbling up from some deep well I'd capped years ago.

The landscape unfolds around us like a secret being revealed. What looked like simple fields from the ranch gate shows its true face in motion—hidden valleys carpeted in late wildflowers, ancient cottonwoods marking water sources, rock formations that catch the afternoon light and throw it back in shades of amber and rose.

Sweetwater Falls isn't just pretty. It's raw beauty that doesn't need human approval, that exists whether we witness it or not.

I understand now why River brought me here, why he knew I needed this. In the boutique, he gave me permission to want. Out here, he's giving me permission to be. No walls, no witnesses except the red-tailed hawk circling overhead. No expectations except to stay mounted and keep breathing.

The sun tracks lower as we ride, painting longer shadows that race alongside us. My thighs burn from gripping, my lungs work harder than they have in months, but I feel more alive than I have since—since before.

Before the fire.

Before Iron Ridge.

Before I learned to make myself small enough to swallow.

"Up here!" River points toward a hill that rises above the others, its crest catching the last direct rays of sun. "Best view in the county!"

We slow to a walk for the climb, giving the horses a chance to catch their breath. My heart still pounds, but it's the good kind of racing—exertion and exhilaration rather than panic. As we ascend, the view expands exponentially. The town of Sweetwater Falls spreads below us like a miniature, complete with toy cars and dollhouse buildings. Beyond it, mountains rise in layers of blue and purple, their peaks already touched with snow.

"Oh," I breathe when we reach the summit.

The inadequacy of words in the face of this vista makes my chest tight.

River dismounts first, then moves to help me down. His hands find my waist, and even through fabric, even with careful control, the contact sparks.

He lowers me slowly, making sure my legs are steady before letting go. We stand side by side, horses ground-tied behind us, watching the sun begin its descent toward the mountain peaks.

The silence wraps around us, comfortable as an old quilt.

Minutes pass.

The sky starts its evening performance—blue fading to purple at the edges, orange and pink beginning their dance across the clouds. It's the kind of beauty that makes you feel small but not insignificant.

Part of something larger. Bigger than my mind dares to envision for myself.

"I almost died watching a sunset," I say, the words sliding out without permission.

River doesn't startle, doesn't rush to respond. He just shifts slightly closer, near enough that I can feel his warmth without touching. An invitation to continue if I want. A promise to listen if I need.

"The fire started at dusk." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, detached like I'm narrating someone else's story. "Blake—my ex—he knew I loved watching the sun set from our bedroom window. Said he had a surprise for me."

My hands clench involuntarily, nails digging crescents into my palms. River notices—of course he does—but doesn't reach for me. He knows I need to get this out without the distraction of comfort.

"The surprise was accelerant. And matches. And a deadbolt on the outside of the door I didn't know he'd installed." The words taste like ash. "They wanted it to look like an accident. Omega gets careless with candles, old house goes up quick. Tragic but not suspicious."

"They?" River's voice is carefully neutral, but I hear the steel underneath.

"The whole pack. Iron Ridge." I laugh, but it's bitter as burnt coffee. "See, the thing nobody talks about is how financially lucrative a dead Omega can be. Life insurance, sure, but also the sympathy factor. The grieving Alpha pack who lost their beloved mate? Donations pour in. Business partnerships solidify. Other packs rally around to support."

The sun sinks lower, painting everything in shades of blood and gold. How's that for poetic irony.

"But you survived." Not a question. River knows this part, has probably pieced together more than I've said.

"Barely. Neighbor saw the smoke, called it in faster than they expected. Fire department actually gave a damn about saving an Omega." I touch my throat, remembering how it felt to breathe superheated air. "Though sometimes I wonder if I actually did survive, or if this is just what comes after."

"This is real," River says firmly. "You're real. You're here."

"Here." I test the word, let it settle on my tongue. "Yeah. But getting here meant leaving everything. Not that there was much left to leave."

The confession builds momentum now, words tumbling over each other like water over stones. "The divorce happened while I was still in the hospital. They were so eager to cut ties, they didn't bother fighting for assets. Walked away with three-quarters of everything, calling it generous that they left me anything at all."

"Generous." River's repetition drips with disgust.

"The thing is—" My voice cracks, and I have to pause, swallow hard. "The thing that kills me is I built that wealth. Every penny. They were drowning when I joined the pack, hemorrhaging money on bad investments and pride projects. I restructured everything. Negotiated contracts, managed budgets, turned their joke of a construction company into something actually profitable."

My hands gesture wildly now, trying to shape three years of financial slavery into something River can understand. "Fourteen-hour days balancing books. Teaching myself tax law because they were too cheap to hire an accountant. Making their meetings run smooth, their presentations shine. And they looked at all that and saw... a tool. Something to use up and throw away when a better opportunity came along."

"You weren't a tool," River says quietly. "You were the foundation."

"Foundations can be replaced." The bitterness is back, coating my throat. "Especially when burning the old one down nets you sympathy points with the territorial Alpha council. Poor Iron Ridge pack, losing their Omega in such a tragic accident. Let's fast-track their expansion permits. Let's approve those loans they wanted."

The sun touches the mountain peaks now, setting them ablaze. Beautiful and terrible, like most true things.

"I found out later—one of the nurses let it slip—they'd already been planning my replacement. Had their eye on some young Omega from a traditional family. Seventeen and sheltered and wouldn't know financial exploitation if it bit her." My laugh sounds like breaking glass. "Probably would have been grateful for the chance to serve such successful Alphas."

"Willa—"

"I did everything right." The words explode out of me, years of suppressed rage finally finding voice. "Submitted when they wanted submission. Worked when they wanted a business partner. Cooked their meals and balanced their books and warmed their beds and never once complained when they scent-marked me so heavy I couldn't smell anything else for days. I ignored every red flag, every warning sign, every instinct that screamed 'run' because I thought—I thought⁠—"

"You thought love meant enduring," River finishes when I can't.

The sob that escapes me sounds wounded, animal.

But I don't cry. Not yet. There's more poison to purge first.

"They paid someone to kill me, River, and since that failed, they decided they could just do it themselves. Looked at everything I'd done, everything I'd built for them, and decided burning me alive was worth the insurance payout. Worth all I’d sacrificed as the best ‘thank you for your service as our Omega’." My voice drops to a whisper. "And the worst part? Sometimes I catch myself thinking they were right. That I was too much trouble. Too opinionated. Too...me."

The sun's lower edge kisses the horizon now, and the temperature drops like a stone.

I shiver, suddenly aware of how exposed I am up here—not just physically but emotionally.

Laid bare as the hills surrounding us.

"And now I'm here, surrounded by another pack of Alphas who look at me like—" I stop, unable to finish. Like I'm precious. Like I matter. Like they'd move heaven and earth to keep me safe. The comparison to Iron Ridge is so stark it makes my chest ache.

"That's what scares me most," I admit, wrapping my arms around myself as the evening chill seeps through thin fabric. "Not the fire dreams or the panic attacks or these fucking ruined lungs that wheeze when the pressure drops. It's that I can feel myself starting to trust again. Starting to hope."

River remains silent, letting me spill this poison that's been eating me alive for two years.

"What happens when you all realize I'm too much work? When the novelty wears off and you see what Iron Ridge saw—an Omega who can't just submit prettily, who has opinions and ambitions and a brain that won't shut off?" My voice rises, cracking on the edge of hysteria. "What happens when you offer me the world, and I believe you, and then⁠—"

"Then what?" His voice is so gentle it hurts.

"Then you take it away." The words come out small, defeated. "Because that's what Alphas do. They give you just enough to make you dependent, then pull it away to remind you who holds the power."

The silence stretches between us, filled with the whisper of wind through grass and the distant call of a nighthawk.

The sun continues its descent, unhurried by my emotional breakdown.

"You want to know something?" I continue, surprising myself. "I almost didn't come back here. Even with nowhere else to go, even with Grandpa leaving me everything. I sat in that lawyer's office in Bozeman for three hours, staring at the deed, paralyzed."

"Why?" No judgment in the question, just quiet curiosity.

"Because Cactus Rose was sacred." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "It was my sanctuary. Where I ran when Mom's expectations got too heavy or Dad's disappointment too sharp. Where I could just... exist. Be messy and imperfect and wild."

Memories flood in—hiding in the hayloft with a book and an apple, crying into Buttercup's mane after my first heartbreak, helping Grandpa mend fences while he listened to my teenage dreams without mockery. This place had held all my unformed self, kept it safe when the world demanded I compress into acceptable shapes.

"I knew if I came back, it would either heal me or break me completely. And honestly?" I laugh, short and sharp. "I wasn't sure I deserved healing. Not after everything. Not after I'd let myself become what they wanted—this hollowed-out thing that looked like an Omega but had no center, no self."

The tears come then, hot and sudden, tracking down my cheeks like rain on drought-cracked earth. I don't try to stop them.

The sun blurs into watercolor smears of orange and gold, and I let myself feel the full weight of it—the grief, the rage, the bone-deep exhaustion of carrying this alone.

"I forgot," I whisper, tasting salt. "Forgot that I was allowed to be a whole person. Forgot that submission didn't mean erasure. That belonging didn't require disappearing. Iron Ridge trained it out of me so well that even now, even here where I'm safe, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you all to realize I'm too damaged, too difficult, too⁠—"

"Too extraordinary."

River's interruption makes me hiccup mid-sob.

I turn to look at him, and the expression on his face steals what's left of my breath.

There's no pity there, no savior complex.

Just recognition.

Like he sees every broken piece and finds them beautiful not despite the damage but because of how they've reformed.

"You're not too anything, Willa. You're exactly enough. Exactly right." He shifts, maintaining that careful distance but somehow making it feel like an embrace. "You want to know what we see when we look at you? Not a project to fix or a pretty thing to own. We see a woman who survived what should have killed her. Who built an empire for ungrateful bastards and had the strength to walk away when they tried to burn her. Who came back to the one place that knew her true self and had the courage to start becoming her again."

The tears fall faster now, but they're changing, shifting from grief to something that might be release.

"But here," I manage between sobs, "here I can be whoever I've always wanted to be. Me. Fierce. Determined. Worthy of happiness and love."

The words hang in the air between us, a declaration and a question and a prayer all at once. The sun is almost gone now, just a sliver of fire painting the clouds in shades of glory.

River extends his hand then, slow and deliberate. An offering, not a demand. I stare at it—this hand that's gentle with horses and firm with boundaries, that played my body like an instrument but now offers simple human connection.

I take it.

His fingers close around mine, warm and solid and real. He lifts our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that somehow feels more intimate than everything we did in that changing room.

When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of vows.

"Here, you can be exactly who you've always been destined to be. Fierce and vulnerable. Determined and soft. A businesswoman and a dreamer. An Omega and a force of nature." His thumb strokes across my knuckles, grounding me. "And I swear—we all swear—our pack will always accept you. All of you. We'll never ask you to shrink or pretend or be anything but gloriously, completely yourself."

"Even when I'm difficult?"

"Especially then." His smile holds mischief and promise. "Cole likes a challenge. Mavi appreciates someone who can match his stubbornness. Austin needs someone who'll mother-hen him right back. And me?" He squeezes my hand gently. "I just like you, Dandelion. Thorns and all."

The last sliver of sun disappears behind the mountains, but the sky continues its light show—purple deepening to indigo, stars beginning their tentative emergence.

We stand there, hands linked, watching day transform into night. The temperature drops further, and River steps closer, still not quite touching but sharing warmth.

"Thank you," I whisper. For listening. For not trying to fix. For seeing me.

"Thank you," he echoes, "for trusting me with this. For letting me see who you really are."

We don't move as full dark approaches, just stand witness to the day's ending. But it doesn't feel like an ending.

It feels like that moment before dawn—dark, yes, but with the absolute certainty that light will come.

My breathing has steadied, the tears dried to salt tracks on my cheeks. Tomorrow, I'll have to face the ranch, the pack, all the messy complications of building something real with men who've already claimed pieces of my heart. But tonight, I'm here. On this hill, under these stars, with a cowboy who tastes like promises and calls me Dandelion.

For the first time in two years, I believe I might actually deserve this. Deserve them. Deserve the chance to be whole again, here where I've always been my truest self.

The first stars emerge, bright and steady, and River squeezes my hand once more before letting go.

"Ready to head back?" he asks softly.

I look out over the darkening landscape—my landscape now, my inheritance, my second chance—and nod.

"Yeah," I say, and mean it. "I'm ready."

We mount up in companionable silence, beginning the gentle ride back to where the others wait.

Back to complicated feelings and careful boundaries and the promise of what might be, once the restrictions lift and we can explore this thing building between us all.

But for now, this is enough.

This moment of understanding, of acceptance, of being seen and not found wanting.

The horses pick their way down the hill, sure-footed in the gathering dark, carrying us home.

Date Night In The Midst Of The Rodeo

~WILLA~

The kitchen light spills golden and warm through the doorway as I push inside, my body still humming from the ride—muscles loose, thighs tender where they gripped Willow's sides, and that deeper ache between my legs that has nothing to do with saddle soreness and everything to do with River's mouth.

The October night clings to my hair and clothes, but inside, the ranch house wraps around me like a blanket I didn't know I needed.

Austin sits in the old rocking chair near the window, Luna cradled against his chest in that effortless way he has with her, like she's an extension of his own body rather than a separate being requiring careful handling.

The sight of them together—his hand spanning her tiny back, her face peaceful against his heartbeat—makes something twist behind my ribs. He hums something low and wordless, a lullaby without lyrics, and his hazel eyes find mine over her dark wisps of hair.

"Good ride?" he asks softly, not wanting to disturb Luna's milk-drunk doze. There's something knowing in his expression, like he can read the afternoon's activities in the windblown state of my hair or the way I'm moving just a little too carefully.

"The best," I admit, unable to suppress the smile that blooms at the memory. River enters behind me, bringing the scent of horses and evening air, and Austin's knowing look deepens into something that might be approval.

At the dining table, Mavi hunches over what looks like a cross between a spider and a small aircraft. The drone—because that's clearly what it is—sits partially disassembled, its guts spread across yesterday's newspaper while he adjusts something with a precision screwdriver. His green eyes flick up to track my movement across the kitchen, cataloging, assessing, before returning to his work.

"New toy?" I ask, moving to the sink to wash the trail dust from my hands.

"Security upgrade," he corrects without looking up. "Thermal imaging, motion detection, and a fourteen-hour battery life. Can patrol the entire ranch perimeter twice before needing a charge."

"Because we definitely need military-grade surveillance for the chickens," River teases, pulling an apple from the bowl on the counter. The knife appears in his hand with practiced ease, and he starts cutting precise slices.

"Chickens aren't the concern," Mavi mutters, making another minute adjustment. "Not with the recent territorial disputes in neighboring counties. Better prepared than caught off guard."

The protective undercurrent in his voice makes me think of this morning, the way he'd appeared from nowhere when I'd tried to slip out unnoticed. Always watching, always ready. It should feel suffocating, but instead, it makes me feel... safe. Valued. Like something worth protecting.

I lean against the counter, close enough to River that I can feel his warmth without touching—we're getting good at this careful dance of proximity without contact.

"So," I venture, remembering something Austin mentioned days ago, "I heard something about a rodeo dance?"

Austin's rocking slows.

"The Harvest Moon Rodeo Dance. Yeah, it's tomorrow night."

"Were you planning to go?" I try to keep my tone casual, but something in the room shifts. Mavi's hands still on his drone. River's knife pauses mid-slice.

"I always go," Austin says carefully, adjusting Luna against his chest. "It's tradition. My family's been involved with the rodeo since this town was founded. But this year..."

"This year the town council passed new attendance rules," Mavi supplies when Austin trails off. His voice carries an edge sharp enough to cut. "Alphas attending social events must bring their bonded Omega partners. No exceptions."

"Partner?" The word sits strange on my tongue. "As in... their Omega?"

"As in their property," Cole's voice comes from behind me, and I spin to find him in the doorway, looking like thunderclouds decided to take human form. He must have come in through the back while I was focused on Austin. "Mayor's way of reminding unmated Alphas of their place in his vision of proper society."

The bitterness in his tone makes my chest tight. Cole moves into the kitchen with that controlled power he always carries, but there's tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw works like he's chewing on words too harsh to voice.

"The Mayor's an old prick who needs to be dethroned," he continues, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. The position puts him directly in my line of sight, and I'm struck again by how much space he takes up—not just physically but energetically, like his mood can shift the entire atmosphere of a room. "But overthrowing established power requires more than just wanting it. Need the connections, the backing, the financial weight to make other packs listen."

River's laugh surprises me—low and genuinely amused. "Financial weight?" He points his knife at Cole before returning to his apple. "Between the ranch holdings, the side businesses, and the investments, we could buy half this town tomorrow. Hell, we have more liquid assets than the Mayor's entire extended family combined, and he knows it."

"Which is why he tries to make our lives hell through regulation," Mavi adds, finally looking up from his drone. "Can't attack us directly, so he chips away with bureaucracy."

I frown, remembering my unwelcome reception at the hotel, the way the desk clerk's expression had shifted from polite to cold the moment she'd scented me.

"What do you mean? What kind of regulations?"

"Building permits that take three times longer than anyone else's," Cole starts counting on his fingers. "Surprise inspections that always seem to find violations no one else gets cited for. Zoning challenges to any expansion we propose."

"Remember the water rights dispute?" Austin shifts Luna to his other arm, her small sounds of contentment filling the brief pause. "Tried to claim our irrigation system was impacting downstream flow, even though we've used the same setup for forty years."

My frown deepens.

"But that's... is that even legal? Targeting specific pack members?"

"Legal and right aren't the same thing, Dandelion," River says quietly, and the nickname makes warmth bloom in my chest despite the serious topic. "Small town politics run on different rules. The Mayor's been in power for twelve years. His family's been prominent here for generations. That builds a certain type of influence."

"The kind that makes people look the other way," I murmur, understanding dawning. It's not so different from the territorial politics I witnessed at Iron Ridge, just dressed up in small-town charm instead of corporate suits. The same power plays, the same way of keeping outsiders in line.

"What other things has he done?" I ask, needing to understand the full scope of what my men—and that possessive thought should probably concern me more than it does—face in this town. "Besides the permits and regulations?"

River and Mavi exchange a look that speaks volumes, years of shared frustration communicated in a glance. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in with the weight of unspoken grievances.

"He's creative," River finally says, voice carefully neutral. "I'll give him that."

The apple slices forgotten on the cutting board tell me this conversation has touched a nerve. I wait, watching the play of kitchen light across River's face, the way his hands have stilled completely.

Even Luna seems to sense the shift in mood, stirring slightly against Austin's chest before settling again.

River's fingers drum against the counter—once, twice—before he speaks, and I realize I've never seen him agitated quite like this. His usual calm has cracks in it, hairline fractures that show something rawer underneath.

"Last spring, I applied to expand my veterinary practice," he begins, voice measured despite the tension in his shoulders. "Nothing fancy—just adding large animal emergency services so ranchers wouldn't have to wait for someone to drive from Billings when a cow's in distress. Standard application, all paperwork perfect. Should have been approved in two weeks."

"Let me guess," I say. "It wasn't."

"Three months." His laugh holds no humor. "Three months of 'lost' documents, sudden requirement changes, and mysterious delays. Every time I met one set of demands, new ones appeared. Additional insurance requirements that no other vet in the state needs. Zoning studies for a building that's been used for animal care since the fifties. Health department inspections for equipment that was already certified."

The injustice of it makes my hands curl into fists. "How is that not discrimination?"

"Because technically, everything was within regulatory bounds," Mavi interjects, his attention seemingly back on his drone but his voice carrying sharp awareness. "Each requirement, taken alone, is legally justifiable. It's the pattern that reveals the intent, and patterns are harder to prove in court than single instances."

He sets down his screwdriver with deliberate precision. "Which brings us to my situation. Eight months ago, I identified critical security vulnerabilities in our ranch systems. The kind of gaps that keep me up at night, knowing what's out there, who might take advantage."

"Dramatic much?" Austin murmurs, but there's affection in it.

"You weren't saying that when those cattle thieves hit the Morrison ranch," Mavi counters. "Anyway, I sourced the necessary equipment—high-end cameras with facial recognition, perimeter sensors that can distinguish between wildlife and human intrusion, a central monitoring system that integrates with my phone. Chinese manufacturers, because they're fifteen years ahead of American companies in this tech."

"And the Mayor's office held up the import permits," I guess.

"For six months." Mavi's green eyes flash with remembered fury. "National security concerns, they said. Potential spy equipment. Never mind that half the smartphones in this town have more sophisticated Chinese chips. Every appeal got buried in red tape. Every attempt to expedite hit mysterious delays."

"How did you finally get it through?" I ask, though something in his expression makes me suspect I already know the answer.

Mavi leans back in his chair, a smile playing at his lips that's equal parts satisfaction and danger. "Did you know the Mayor's son has a gambling problem? Fascinating digital footprint, really. The kind of browsing history that would make family dinners very awkward if it became public knowledge."

"Mavi," River warns, but there's resignation in it, like this is well-worn territory.

"I'm just saying," Mavi continues, examining his fingernails with studied casualness, "that sometimes having access to information can expedite bureaucratic processes. Especially when that information includes offshore betting accounts and some very creative tax filings."

"Oh, and let's not forget," his smile sharpens, "I'm not just good at security stuff. I'm very, very good at getting into people's business. Digital footprints, financial records, communication patterns—it's all data, and data tells stories. Whether those stories are good or bad..." He shrugs. "That's not really the point, as long as I can use them to our advantage."

The silence that follows feels charged, like the air before lightning strikes. I study Mavi—really look at him for the first time since the changeling room incident this morning. There's something coiled in him, a capacity for ruthlessness that should probably frighten me but instead makes me think of River's words: Alphas who'd burn down the world to protect what's theirs.

I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head, meeting his challenging gaze head-on. "Did you blackmail the mayor?"

The smirk that spreads across his face is answer enough, but he rises from his chair with predatory grace, closing the distance between us until we're standing toe to toe. He's not the tallest of them—that's Cole—but he radiates a compact power that makes the air feel thin.

"If I did," he says, voice dropping to something low and dangerous, "what are you gonna do about it?"

The challenge hangs between us like a blade. Austin stops rocking. River sets down his knife. Even Cole shifts against the counter, everyone waiting to see how their potential Omega handles direct confrontation from one of their own.

I hold Mavi's stare for a long moment, letting him see that I'm not intimidated, not cowed by his dangerous edges. Then, quick as thought, my hand shoots up and catches his ear between thumb and forefinger, pinching with the exact pressure my grandmother used when I mouthed off as a child.

"Ow, ow, ow!" Mavi's dangerous persona evaporates as he bends automatically to ease the pressure, bringing his face level with mine. "What the hell⁠—"

"You," I say calmly, maintaining my grip, "can't go messing with other people's business if you don't want them messing with yours. Defense is one thing. But you don't start fights unless someone threatens your space first. Understood?"

He's pouting now—actually pouting, this dangerous Alpha who probably has half the town's secrets stored on encrypted drives—and the sight is so unexpectedly endearing that I feel a laugh bubbling up. His green eyes are wide with surprise, lips pushed out in offended dismay, and I realize with startling clarity that under all that protective intensity is someone who just wants to keep his people safe.

The laugh escapes as a snicker, and before I can think better of it—before my brain can remind me about boundaries and medical restrictions and professional distance—I lean forward and press a soft kiss to those pouting lips.

The world stops.

Mavi freezes completely, not even breathing. Somewhere behind me, River makes a sound like he's been punched. Austin's rocking chair creaks to a halt. The only sound is my own heartbeat, suddenly loud as thunder in my ears.

I pull back, releasing Mavi's ear, and watch a flush creep up his neck to stain his cheeks pink. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, but no sound emerges. He looks simultaneously poleaxed and painfully young, all his sharp edges softened by sheer bewilderment.

"I'll forgive you," I say, trying for casual despite the way my lips tingle from even that brief contact, "since you were probably getting the equipment for Luna's safety anyway."

"I was," he mutters, barely audible, and the admission combined with his blush makes my chest feel too full.

I turn away from his stunned face, needing to break the moment before I do something really stupid like kiss him again—properly this time, with intent and heat and all the want I've been suppressing for days. My gaze finds Cole, still leaning against the counter but no longer relaxed. Every line of his body speaks of tension, control, hunger barely leashed.

"So," I say, proud when my voice comes out steady, "what did the Mayor do to annoy you?"

Cole groans, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and drops his head back to stare at the ceiling like it holds the answer to my question. The position exposes the strong column of his throat, and I have to force myself to look away from the play of kitchen light on his skin.

"Now you've done it," Austin says with gentle humor, though I catch the tightness around his eyes. "Cole and the Mayor have what you might call a complicated history."

Cole makes another sound—somewhere between a growl and a whine—that would be comical if not for the genuine frustration radiating from him. His hands grip the counter edge hard enough that I worry about the granite, and when he finally lowers his head to look at me, his gray eyes hold storms.

"The Mayor," he bites out, "decided that a ranch foreman doesn't need the same water access permits as a 'proper' ranch owner. Tried to classify me as hired help instead of co-owner, despite all the legal documentation proving otherwise."

"That's—" I start, but Austin interrupts with a rueful chuckle.

"Oh, it gets better," he says, shifting Luna as she makes small waking noises. "Want to tell her why the Mayor has such a personal interest in making your life difficult?"

Cole's jaw works like he's grinding words between his teeth. The kitchen light catches the tension in his neck, the careful control he's maintaining, and I want to smooth those lines away with my fingers. Want to ease whatever weight he's carrying.

"Go on," River encourages quietly. "She should know."

"Why would the Mayor specifically target Austin's rodeo participation?" I ask, looking between them.

Austin's expression shifts, losing the gentle humor and settling into something more resigned. "Well, Sarah is his granddaughter, so..."

The name drops into the kitchen like a stone into still water. Everything changes—the air itself seems to thicken, becoming stagnant and heavy with unspoken history. Mavi's hands still completely on his drone. River sets down the apple he'd been slicing with too much precision. Even Luna seems to sense the shift, her small sounds of waking stopping abruptly.

"Who's Sarah?" I ask, though the way they're all carefully not looking at each other tells me this is something significant. Something that still hurts.

Cole's phone chooses that moment to shrill into the silence. He glances at the screen, and his expression darkens further. "I need to take this," he grunts, already moving toward the door. "It's about tomorrow's lumber shipment."

He disappears into the other room, his voice a low rumble through the walls but words indistinct. I'm left looking at the remaining three, confusion clear on my face.

"Sarah," Austin begins, then stops, seeming to gather himself. River moves closer to him, a subtle show of support that makes my chest tight. "We should explain."

"She was our ex-Omega," River says simply, but there's nothing simple about the way the words hang in the air.

Mavi pushes back from the table, his usual sharp focus turned inward. "Our mistake, more like."

"Don't," Austin says softly, but Mavi shakes his head.

"No, she needs to know. Willa deserves the truth about what she's walking into." His green eyes find mine, holding a mixture of old hurt and new determination. "Sarah played us. All of us. Systematically and brilliantly."

"How?" My voice comes out smaller than intended.

Austin shifts Luna to his shoulder, patting her back in soothing circles that seem to calm him as much as her. "She was... very good at being what each of us needed. Or what we thought we needed. I met her first—we were the same age, both young and trying to figure out our place in the world. She seemed so sweet, so eager to help with the ranch."

"She studied us," River adds, his usual calm cracked enough to show bitterness underneath. "Learned what we each wanted in an Omega and became it. For Austin, she was nurturing and domestic. For Mavi, she was interested in security and protection. For me, she shared a love of animals and nature."

"And for Cole?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.

"For Cole, she was submissive and traditional," Austin says quietly. "Everything he'd been raised to expect in an Omega. She let him lead, deferred to his decisions, made him feel like the Alpha his father always said he should be."

The picture they're painting makes my stomach churn. I know this game—watched other Omegas play it at Iron Ridge, becoming mirrors instead of people, reflecting back what Alphas wanted to see instead of showing their true selves.

"She weaseled her way in," Mavi continues, his hands clenched on the table. "Slowly, carefully. Small gestures of care that seemed genuine. Remembering preferences, anticipating needs. By the time we realized it was calculated, we were already half in love with the image she'd created."

"We thought she was the one," River admits, and the pain in his voice makes me want to reach for him. "Started making plans. Marriage, bonding, building a life together. Cole was ready to propose."

"What happened?" Though I suspect I already know. The performance can only last so long before the mask slips.

"She got comfortable," Austin says. "Started making demands. Nothing huge at first—little things about how we spent money, who made decisions, whose name went on what documents. But it escalated. She wanted control of the ranch finances. Wanted Mavi to use his skills to dig up dirt on business rivals. Wanted River to falsify veterinary records for insurance fraud."

"When we pushed back," Mavi's voice goes hard, "she showed her true colors. The sweet Omega act dropped completely. She threatened to leave, to find Alphas who'd appreciate her properly. When that didn't work..."

"She played victim," River finishes. "Went to her grandfather—the Mayor—crying about how we were controlling, abusive, neglectful. How we'd promised her things and reneged. How we'd manipulated her into a relationship she didn't really want."

The implications hit me like cold water. "She lied about abuse?"

"Extensively and creatively," Mavi confirms. "Had stories for every bruise from ranch work, every time one of us had to leave for emergency calls. Painted a picture of four unstable Alphas who couldn't be trusted with an Omega's safety."

"The whole town turned on us overnight," Austin adds, bouncing Luna gently as she fusses. "Businesses we'd worked with for years suddenly found reasons to end contracts. People crossed the street to avoid us. The fire station started scheduling me for every shit shift they could justify."

"It nearly broke us," River says quietly. "The pack, I mean. We started turning on each other, wondering if maybe we had done something wrong, if maybe we were the monsters she painted us as."

"Why didn't you leave town?" I ask, though I think I know the answer.

"Because running would have looked like guilt," Mavi says. "And because this is our home. Our ranch. We weren't going to let her chase us away from everything we'd built."

"So you stayed and endured it," I murmur, understanding flooding through me. The careful way they've courted me, the hesitation about pushing boundaries, the way they seem to expect rejection at every turn—it all makes horrible sense now.

"The rodeo," Austin continues, bringing us back to the present, "has been my family's tradition for generations. Even when I was working in Helena, I'd come back for it. It's the one piece of home that felt untouchable. But now, with this new rule..."

"Sarah's making sure you can't participate," I finish. "One more way to punish you for not being the Alphas she wanted you to be."

"It's petty," River says. "In the grand scheme of things, missing one dance isn't⁠—"

"It's not petty." The words come out sharp enough to surprise me. "It's cruel. It's taking something that matters to you and using it as a weapon. It's showing you that she still has power over your life even after everything."

I look between them—these men who've shown me nothing but kindness and respect, who've careful of my boundaries even when it cost them, who've been slowly teaching me that not all Alphas see Omegas as possessions or tools. The thought of someone hurting them, of using their capacity for love against them, makes something protective and fierce rise in my chest.

"But if you go," I say slowly, pieces clicking together in my mind, "if you show up with an Omega on your arm, keeping your tradition despite her grandfather's rules..."

"It's like saying she didn't win," Austin finishes, a small smile tugging at his lips. "That we've moved on."

"Payback?" River asks, catching my line of thinking.

"Payback," I confirm, feeling a grin spread across my face. "Against this Sarah chick who thought she could break you."

Austin blinks at my vehemence. "Well... I guess, yeah."

"Good!" The energy building in my chest needs outlet, needs action. "Make sure Luna's in bed and you're ready by eight."

I'm already moving toward the stairs, plans forming rapid-fire in my mind. What does one wear to make an ex-Omega jealous? Something that shows I'm not playing games, not pretending to be something I'm not. Something that says these are my Alphas now, and I protect what's mine.

"Willa?" Austin calls, confusion clear in his voice. "What are you doing?"

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, turning back with what I know is probably a wicked smile. "Getting ready for the rodeo, silly. Let's go make an Omega jealous."

The stunned silence that follows is deeply satisfying. I can see them processing—the shift from their explaining their pain to me taking charge, making their battle mine.

"Operation: Payback is in effect," I announce, unable to resist the dramatic flair. "Nobody messes with my pack."

My pack. The words slip out without thought, but I don't take them back. Because that's what they are, aren't they? These men who've been hurt but haven't let it make them cruel, who've offered me shelter and safety and the space to heal. Who've shown me what Alphas can be when they see Omegas as partners instead of possessions.

Sarah thought she broke them. The Mayor thinks he can control them. They're both about to learn what happens when you threaten someone under Willa James's protection.

I take the stairs two at a time, already mentally cataloging the new clothes River bought me today. That white romper is definitely coming out to play, and maybe some of that confidence I found on horseback this afternoon.

Behind me, I hear Austin's voice, soft with something that might be wonder:

"Did she just claim us as her pack?"

"I believe she did," River responds, and the warmth in his tone follows me up the stairs like a caress.

Tomorrow night, we're going dancing. And Sarah, wherever she is, is about to learn that her little games have consequences.

Because I might be new to this pack and still be figuring out where I fit, but one thing I know for certain:

Nobody hurts my Alphas and gets away with it.

Operation: Payback, indeed.

The Burn Behind The Rodeo

~AUSTIN~

My hands won't stop moving—checking my phone, smoothing my shirt, adjusting the collar that feels too tight despite being unbuttoned at the throat.

The October evening should be cooling down by now, but the crush of bodies at the festival entrance traps heat like a living thing, making my palms sweat against the phone screen. I shift my weight from foot to foot, probably looking like an idiot to anyone paying attention, but I can't help it. She should be here by now.

The Harvest Rodeo Festival spreads before me in all its chaotic glory. Monster trucks rev their engines in the distance, the growl of machinery mixing with carnival music and the general roar of too many people crammed into Sweetwater Falls' tiny fairgrounds. Dust kicks up with every footstep, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that'll take days to wash out of clothes and hair. The smell hits in waves—fried food, hay, diesel exhaust, and underneath it all, the mingled scents of hundreds of people enjoying their Friday night.

A family pushes past me, the kids sticky with cotton candy and practically vibrating with sugar-fueled excitement. The mother's wearing pristine white jeans that won't stay that way for long, and the father's got on a cowboy hat so new it still has the price tag dangling from the brim. Tourists. They flood in every October, turning our sleepy town into something unrecognizable. The locals dress different—worn boots that have seen actual ranch work, hats shaped by years of weather rather than factory molds, jeans faded from sun rather than fashion.

I check my phone again. Nothing new since Mavi's last text five minutes ago.

The traffic situation makes me want to punch something, preferably the mayor's smug face.

Who schedules road construction during the biggest tourist weekend of the year?

Every route between the ranch and town is clogged with out-of-state plates and RVs moving at glacial pace. I should have left earlier, should have fought through the mess to pick Willa up properly instead of meeting her here like some teenager afraid to meet his date's parents.

Except this isn't a date.

Not officially.

The medical restrictions might have lifted yesterday, but that doesn't mean—I shake my head, trying to derail that dangerous train of thought.

My phone buzzes.

Mavi again: *She's two blocks out. Walking from Wendolyn's shop. ETA 3 minutes.*

I can't help the eye roll.

Of course he's tracking her. Probably convinced himself it's for her safety, but we all know Mavi's particular brand of paranoia runs deeper than simple protection. He needs to know where his people are at all times, needs that control to keep his anxiety at bay. Still doesn't explain how he got a tracker on her without her knowing.

*How?* I text back, already knowing I'll regret asking.

*Hair tie. The sparkly one I gave her yesterday. Has a micro GPS in the elastic.*

Jesus Christ.

Only Mavi would think to bug hair accessories. I'm torn between being impressed by the innovation and concerned about the violation of privacy. Though knowing Willa, she'll either find it endearing or use it to torment him by leaving the hair tie random places just to watch him panic.

The thought makes me smile despite the nervous energy crawling under my skin.

She's good for us that way—matching our quirks with her own, giving as good as she gets. Like last night when she caught Mavi's ear and scolded him for blackmailing the mayor.

The memory of her kissing him after, just a soft press of lips that left him speechless and blushing, makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

Another buzz:

*River says the Morrison family is interested in breeding rights for Dusty. Potential 10K deal.*

Good.

River's always been our secret weapon at these events.

While everyone else sees the quiet veterinarian, he's actually brilliant at reading people, knowing exactly when to mention our prize stallion's bloodline or offer a tour of the ranch. By the end of the night, he'll have secured enough deals to cover feed costs through spring.

A third text, this time from Cole:

Luna's down for the night. Stop fretting and enjoy yourself.*

Easy for him to say.

He's back at the ranch with Mavi, probably going over livestock schedules and pretending he's not checking his phone every thirty seconds for updates.

We're all nervous about tonight, about Willa making her first real public appearance as part of our pack.

The town's been buzzing with speculation since she arrived—the mysterious woman living with the Iron Ridge pack, the one who survived a fire and divorced her previous Alphas.

They don't know the half of it.

Don't know about Blake's attempted murder or Iron Ridge's greed or the way she rebuilds herself a little more each day, becoming someone magnificent. They just see an unmated Omega with a complicated past, and in a small town, that's enough to set tongues wagging.

*Tell Cole I'm fine,*

I type back, knowing Cole will see right through the lie but appreciate the effort anyway.

The omega brunch was Wendolyn's idea, and brilliant in its simplicity. Get Willa around other Omegas in a safe, supportive environment. Let her build connections that aren't filtered through us. When she'd mentioned it yesterday, hesitant like we might object, all four of us had practically fallen over ourselves encouraging her to go. She needs friends, needs a life outside our pack dynamics, needs to remember she's more than just our potential mate.

Though Christ, when she'd come down the stairs this morning in that sundress River bought her, hair still messy from sleep and smelling like honey and home, it had taken every ounce of control not to crowd her against the wall and⁠—

Stop. Not helping.

I force myself to scan the crowd instead of dwelling on dangerous thoughts.

The festival's bigger this year, spillover from some canceled event in Wyoming drawing extra visitors. Good for the town's economy, good for our ranch's bottom line, hell on anyone trying to navigate the streets. The mayor's probably preening like a peacock over the turnout, taking credit for drawing tourism while simultaneously making life hell for anyone who doesn't fit his narrow vision of propriety.

My phone shows 7:47. She'll be here any minute.

I straighten my shirt again—the navy button-down she said brings out my eyes—and try to look casual despite the hurricane in my chest. This matters. Not just the tradition or showing up the mayor, but proving to Willa that we're worth the risk she's taking. That we're nothing like Iron Ridge. That when we make promises, we keep them.

Movement catches my eye near the ticket booth, and my breath catches. Through the crowd, I spot a familiar figure moving with surprising grace despite the packed fairgrounds. My heart does something complicated and painful and perfect, and I know—know with absolute certainty—that tonight's going to change everything.

"Austin!" Her voice cuts through the carnival noise like it's meant just for me, and I turn toward the sound with my heart already climbing into my throat.

And then I see her.

The world doesn't stop—that would be too cliché—but it definitely stutters, like a film reel catching and skipping frames.

Because Willa James, the woman who usually favors practical jeans and tank tops that smell faintly of hay and horse, has transformed into something that makes my brain short-circuit.

The dress is cream-colored silk that catches every light—the setting sun, the string of bulbs over the entrance, the neon from the midway—and throws it back in subtle sparkles from what must be hundreds of tiny gems sewn into the fabric. It's short enough to be daring, ending mid-thigh in a way that makes my mouth go dry, but the cut is so elegant she looks like she stepped out of a magazine spread about rich cowboys' wives. The neckline dips just low enough to hint at the shadow between her breasts without being obvious about it, and the way the fabric clings to her waist before flaring slightly—fuck, I need to look somewhere else before I embarrass myself.

But there's nowhere safe to look. Her legs seem to go on forever, bare and glowing with some kind of shimmer that catches the light when she moves. The heels—Christ, the heels—are these delicate strappy things that somehow she's navigating the dirt and gravel in like she was born in them. They make her legs look impossibly long, muscles in her calves defined with each step.

Her hair is what really scrambles my circuits though. The auburn waves I'm used to seeing pulled back in practical ponytails or messy buns have been transformed into these Hollywood-perfect curls that bounce with each step. They're longer too—extensions, my brain supplies helpfully—and threaded through with tiny crystals or glitter that catch the light like stars. The way they frame her face makes her look younger and older at the same time, sophisticated but touchable.

And her face. God, her face. The makeup is there but subtle, enhancing rather than hiding. Her cheeks have this perfect rosy glow that makes me wonder if it's blush or just Willa being Willa. Her lips are red—not bright fire-engine red but this deep, rich color that makes me think of wine and berries and things I definitely shouldn't be thinking about in public. Her eyes seem bigger, the unusual orange-gold color emphasized with something that makes them almost glow in the festival lights.

The cowboy hat is the perfect finishing touch—white felt with a band of crystals that matches her dress, tilted at an angle that's both playful and sexy. Little strands of crystal dangle from the brim, catching the light with every movement of her head.

My jaw literally drops. I feel it happen, mouth falling open like some cartoon character, and I can't even be embarrassed about it because how else is a man supposed to react when his—when Willa looks like that?

She's close enough now that her scent reaches me, cutting through the fried food and dust and sweat of the crowd. Honey and wildflowers, but tonight there's something else—some perfume that adds notes of vanilla and spice, making my head spin and my dick take immediate, embarrassing interest.

"Hi," she says, and even her voice sounds different. More confident, like the clothes have given her permission to be this version of herself. She does a little turn, the dress flaring out to reveal even more leg, and I swear I forget how to breathe. "Sorry I'm late. I tried to text but the signal is absolute garbage today. It was driving Mavi crazy in the truck—he kept trying to refresh the GPS and cursing when it wouldn't load."

I blink, trying to restart my brain enough to form words. She's looking at me expectantly, probably wondering if I've had a stroke, and I need to say something that isn't "please let me die with my face between your thighs."

"Mavi drove you?" I manage, voice coming out rougher than intended.

"Oh yeah," she laughs, and the sound goes straight to my chest. "He was parked outside Wendolyn's place for like two hours, just sitting there in the truck like some kind of stalker. Wendolyn kept offering to drive me herself, said it was no trouble, but you know how he is."

I do know how he is, and the image of Mavi hunched in his truck, probably running surveillance on every person who walked past Wendolyn's shop, makes something protective and fond unfurl in my chest. We might tease him about his paranoia, but when it comes to Willa's safety, I'm grateful for his particular brand of crazy.

"He means well," I say, finally finding my voice properly. "Even if his methods are a little⁠—"

"Creepy? Invasive? Completely over the top?" She grins, and I notice she's wearing lipstick that doesn't smudge when she smiles. How do I know this? Because I'm staring at her mouth like it holds the secrets of the universe. "I know. It's actually kind of sweet, in a 'please don't put cameras in my shower' kind of way."

"He wouldn't." I pause. "Probably."

That makes her laugh again, head tilting back slightly, and the crystals on her hat catch the light in a way that's almost hypnotic. When she looks back at me, there's something soft in her expression.

"Do you like it?" She gestures at the dress, doing another slow turn that's definitely going to feature in my dreams tonight. "I know it's a lot. The boutique owner—Suzie?—she insisted I borrow it for tonight. It's from some fancy new collection she's trying to advertise, way out of my price range normally, but she said having someone wear it to the festival would be better than any traditional marketing."

She's nervous, I realize. Under all that stunning presentation, she's worried about our reaction. About my reaction. The vulnerability in her voice when she mentions the price makes my chest tight. How many times did Blake and Iron Ridge make her feel guilty for needing things? How many times did they treat basic care like a burden?

"We're buying it," I say, the words out before I can think them through. "The dress, the shoes, the hat—all of it."

"Austin, no, it's seriously expensive⁠—"

But I'm already moving, unable to stand the distance between us another second. My arms wrap around her, pulling her against my chest in a hug that surprises us both. She makes a small sound—not protest, just surprise—and then melts into me, her arms coming up to circle my waist.

She fits perfectly, even in the heels. Her head tucks under my chin like it was made to rest there, and I can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress. The crystals press into my chest, probably leaving marks on my shirt, but I couldn't care less. All I care about is the way she sighs and relaxes, tension I hadn't even noticed draining from her shoulders.

"You okay?" she asks against my chest, and I realize I'm holding her tighter than strictly necessary for a greeting hug. But she's not pulling away, seems content to stand here wrapped in my arms while the festival swirls around us.

"Yeah," I say into her hair, breathing in that intoxicating scent. "Just glad you're here."

The words carry more weight than they should, and we both know it. This isn't just about tonight or the festival. It's about her being here, with us, choosing to help with something that matters to me when she could have stayed safe at the ranch. It's about her standing up to the town's judgment in a dress that cost more than most people's monthly salary, not because she needs to impress anyone but because she wants to.

"Austin," she says softly, and I force myself to loosen my grip enough that she can look up at me. The angle puts her face heartbreakingly close to mine, those wine-red lips parted slightly. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem..."

Overwhelmed. Grateful. Completely gone on you.

"I'm good," I assure her, managing what I hope is a normal smile despite the riot in my chest. "You just look... God, Willa, you look incredible."

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is definitely not makeup, and it's possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. She ducks her head, blonde curls sliding forward, and I have to physically stop myself from tucking them back, from using it as an excuse to touch her face.

"It's just a dress," she mumbles, but she's smiling.

"It's not just the dress," I tell her honestly. "It's you. The way you carry yourself. The way you light up. The way you make everything around you better just by being there."

Her eyes fly to mine, wide with surprise, and I realize I've said too much. Shown too much. But I can't take it back, don't want to take it back. Because someone needs to tell her these things, needs to make her understand that she's not too much or too difficult or too anything except too good for this world that keeps trying to dim her light.

"We should probably go in," she says after a moment that stretches like taffy between us. But she doesn't move to leave my arms, and I don't move to let her go.

"In a minute," I say, and pull her close again, just needing to hold her a little longer before we face whatever tonight brings.

I should let her go. Should step back and act normal and not dump my emotional baggage on her before we've even made it through the gates.

But my arms won't cooperate, and the words are already building in my throat like flood water against a dam.

"This rodeo means a lot to me," I hear myself say, voice muffled against her hair. The admission feels ripped from somewhere deep, some guarded place I've kept locked for years. "I've been trying not to show it, trying to act like it's just another festival, but..."

She pulls back just enough to see my face, those extraordinary eyes searching mine. "But?"

The concern in her voice nearly undoes me. When's the last time someone looked at me like this? Not like the perpetual optimist, the baby of the pack who needs protecting, but like someone whose pain matters?

"I come every year," I continue, the words flowing easier now that I've started. "Haven't missed one since I was seventeen. No matter where work took me, no matter what else was happening, I always made it back for the Harvest Rodeo."

"Why?" she asks softly, and there's no pushiness in it, just gentle curiosity. Her hands have moved to rest on my chest, and I wonder if she can feel how hard my heart is pounding.

"My sisters." The words taste like ash and memory. "My twin sisters, Rose and Lily. They were six when they first saw the festival."

I see her processing the past tense, the way I said 'were' instead of 'are,' and something shifts in her expression. But she doesn't interrupt, just waits while I gather the courage to continue.

"We drove past it on the way home from somewhere—grocery store, maybe. I can't remember. But they pressed their faces against the car windows, watching all the lights and the rides, and they wouldn't stop talking about it for weeks. 'Austin, when can we go? Austin, will you take us on the Ferris wheel? Austin, do they have cotton candy?'"

My voice catches on their names, on the memory of those bright voices I'll never hear again. "I was seventeen, just started working part-time at the fire station, thought I was so grown up and important. Too busy for kid stuff, you know? Told them next year. Always next year."

Willa's hands tighten slightly on my shirt, and I realize she knows where this is going. Can see the shape of the tragedy before I spell it out. But I need to tell it. Need someone to know why this matters so much.

"The fire started from a faulty fuse in the basement. Just a spark, but in an old house with newspapers stacked by the furnace..." I swallow hard, seeing it again in my mind. The blackened skeleton of my childhood home. The silence where there should have been laughter. "Mom had run out to get milk. The twins were on this cereal kick, wouldn't eat anything else for breakfast, and we'd run out. Dad was at work. I was at the station, actually, my first overnight shift."

The irony of it still burns. Me, playing at being a firefighter while my sisters died in a fire nobody could put out in time.

"By the time anyone noticed the smoke, by the time Mom got back and called it in..." My voice breaks completely now, and I have to stop, breathe, try to hold back the tears that want to fall. "The fire department back then was a joke. Understaffed, undertrained, equipment from the sixties. They tried, but..."

"Austin," Willa breathes, and there's so much in that single word. Understanding. Sorrow. Not pity—thank God, not pity—but genuine shared pain for the boy who lost his sisters and the man who still carries that loss.

"That's why I became a real firefighter," I continue, needing to finish now that I've started. "Trained properly, learned everything I could about fire suppression and rescue operations. Made sure what happened to them would never happen to another family on my watch." I attempt a smile that probably looks as broken as I feel. "And every year since, I come to the rodeo. Ride the Ferris wheel they never got to ride. Eat cotton candy for three. Watch the fireworks and think about how much they would have loved it."

The tears escape then, just one or two tracking down my face before I can stop them. I'm about to wipe them away, embarrassed by the display, when Willa reaches up and does it for me. Her thumb is gentle against my cheek, and the tenderness of the gesture makes my chest seize.

"Everyone in town knows why I come," I manage, voice thick. "It's not a secret. Which is why the Mayor⁠—"

"The Mayor made that rule to hurt you specifically," she finishes, understanding dawning in her expression. "Because he couldn't get to Cole or River or Mavi, but he knew this would hit you where it matters."

"I'm kind of the soft one," I admit with a watery laugh. "The youngest, the optimist. Guess he figured I'd be the easiest to break."

Something fierce flashes in Willa's eyes then, a protective fury that makes her look like an avenging angel despite the sparkly dress. "He figured wrong," she says firmly. "We're going to show him exactly how wrong he was, aren't we?"

The 'we' makes my heart skip. Not 'you' but 'we,' like my fight is her fight now. Like we're a team.

"Yeah?" I whisper.

"Yeah." She stretches up on her tiptoes, even in the heels not quite tall enough to reach, and presses the softest kiss to my nose. The gesture is so sweet, so unexpected, that more tears threaten. "We're going to dance on that floor like we own it. We're going to make the Mayor look like the petty, small man he is. And we're going to honor Rose and Lily by having the kind of magical night they would have loved."

I crush her against me then, overwhelmed by the gift of her understanding. She doesn't try to fix it or minimize it or tell me it's been long enough that I should be over it. She just accepts my grief as part of me and offers to stand beside me anyway.

"Thank you," I whisper into her hair. "For listening. For being here. For..." For being you, I don't say, but I think she hears it anyway.

"Thank you for trusting me with this," she whispers back. "For sharing something so personal."

I pull back slightly, just enough to see her face. "I've never told anyone," I admit. "Not the full story. Not even Sarah when we thought she'd be our Omega."

Something flickers in her expression at Sarah's name, but it's gone before I can identify it. "Well," she says softly, "I'm honored to be the one you told."

We stand there for a moment, foreheads almost touching, breathing the same air. The festival continues around us—music and laughter and the business of living—but in our little bubble, it's just us and this moment of perfect understanding.

"Willa," I say, and her name feels like prayer on my lips. "Can I kiss you properly?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with meaning. This isn't about heat or biological urges or the pull between Alpha and Omega. This is about connection, about choosing each other in this moment of vulnerability and truth.

She blushes, that perfect pink spreading across her cheeks, and for a second I think I've overstepped. Then she smiles—soft and sure and absolutely beautiful—and nods.

I cup her face with both hands, thumbs stroking over those flushed cheeks, and lower my mouth to hers. The kiss is gentle, almost chaste, but it rocks through me like thunder. Her lips are soft under mine, tasting faintly of whatever gloss makes them that perfect red, and when she sighs into my mouth, I feel it in my bones.

It's not a claiming kiss or a passionate kiss or any of the kinds of kisses I've imagined late at night. It's a promise kiss. A "we're in this together" kiss. A "your pain is my pain and your joy is my joy" kiss.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing unsteadily. Her eyes flutter open, looking dazed and soft, and I have to resist the urge to dive back in immediately.

"So," she says, voice slightly breathless, "ready to go show this town what the Bishop-Cross-Stone-Montgomery pack is made of?"

Hearing her include herself in our pack designation makes my heart soar. "Ready," I confirm, finally letting her go enough to offer my arm. "Let's go make some memories."

She threads her hand through my elbow, and together we walk through the festival gates. Whatever tonight brings—Sarah's inevitable appearance, the Mayor's disapproval, the town's gossip—we'll face it together. And somehow, with Willa beside me in her borrowed finery and fierce loyalty, I think Rose and Lily would approve.

The Ferris wheel lights blink in the distance, and for the first time in eleven years, I'm not walking toward it alone.

Wild Loving Nesting Part One

~WILLA~

My boots strike the wooden dance floor in perfect time with the pounding bass, heel-toe-heel-stomp, the pattern burned into muscle memory I didn't know I still possessed.

Sweat runs down my spine, soaking through the silk of this borrowed dress until it clings to every curve, but I don't care—can't care—not when the fiddle screams through the speakers and Austin's hand finds mine for the next spin.

The barn's strung lights blur into streaks of gold as I whirl, hair extensions whipping around my face, crystals catching and throwing back light like tiny fireworks. My thighs burn from the constant movement, lungs working harder than they have in months, but I feel more alive than I have in years.

"And turn!" Austin shouts over the music, guiding me through a complicated pretzel move that has us tangled together for a breathless moment before spinning apart again. His face glows with exertion and pure joy, shirt soaked through and clinging to his chest, but that grin—God, that grin could power the entire festival.

The crowd presses close on all sides, a mass of bodies moving in synchronized chaos to "Cotton-Eyed Joe" or something equally ridiculous, but all I can focus on is the way Austin moves. He's different here, transformed by the music and movement into someone I've never seen before. Gone is the careful caretaker who rocks Luna to sleep with infinite patience, the responsible Alpha who manages ranch schedules and medical emergencies with equal competence. This Austin is all fluid grace and boyish enthusiasm, throwing his whole body into every stomp and slide like the dance floor is the only place that matters.

"You're thinking too hard!" he yells, catching my waist and dipping me backward until my hair brushes the floor. "Just feel it!"

He's right. I am thinking—about how I spent years watching this exact scene from the outside, nose pressed against the glass of other people's freedom. In Iron Ridge, unmated Omegas weren't allowed in the clubs after nine. We could serve drinks, clean up after parties, watch from the doorways as bonded Omegas lost themselves in music and movement and the simple joy of existing in their bodies without shame or restriction. I used to wonder what it felt like, this abandon I saw in their faces. What was the "hype" about dancing until your feet bled and your voice went hoarse from singing along to songs you only half knew?

Now I understand. It's this—this complete surrender to the moment, this permission to take up space, to be loud and messy and imperfect. It's Austin's hands on my waist, firm but not possessive, guiding but not controlling. It's the way my body knows these steps despite years of disuse, muscle memory overriding the careful control I've wrapped around myself like armor.

The song shifts to something faster, more complex, and Austin grabs both my hands, pulling me into a pattern I definitely don't know. But it doesn't matter because he's laughing—really laughing, head thrown back, dimples deep enough to hold secrets—and I'm laughing too, messing up the steps and not caring because everyone else is just as drunk on movement and music and Friday night freedom.

"Like this!" He demonstrates a complicated heel-kick combination that my brain can't quite parse, but my body tries anyway, resulting in something that's probably illegal in most states. "Close enough!"

We're both disasters, really. My carefully styled hair has given up any pretense of Hollywood glamour, hanging in sweat-dampened strings around my face. His shirt has come untucked, revealing flashes of toned stomach when he lifts his arms. We probably look like we've been wrestling in a sauna, but neither of us suggests stopping. Not when the music keeps flowing and our bodies keep finding new ways to move together.

I spin under his raised arm, using the momentum to really fly, and catch sight of our reflection in the mirror ball hanging from the rafters. We're glowing—actually glowing—lit up from inside by something more than exertion. He catches me looking and winks, pulling me back against his chest for a series of quick steps that has us moving as one body, his breath hot against my ear.

This is what I missed, all those years of watching from doorways and making excuses about early mornings. Not just the dancing but the connection, the way two bodies can have entire conversations without words. The way Austin's hand on my lower back says "I've got you" and my hand on his shoulder answers "I trust you" and neither of us has to speak it aloud.

The music slows incrementally, the fiddle giving way to steel guitar, and I realize we've been dancing for over an hour. My legs shake with exhaustion, good exhaustion, the kind that comes from using your body for joy instead of just survival. Austin must feel it too because he pulls me closer, our steps naturally shifting from line dancing to something more intimate.

"Water break?" he asks, but makes no move to leave the floor.

"In a minute," I breathe back, not ready to let this go yet.

Because I understand now why he needed this tonight, why the rodeo tradition matters so much. It's not just about honoring his sisters' memory—it's about proving he's still capable of joy despite the grief. Every laugh, every wild spin, every moment of pure abandon is a middle finger to tragedy, a declaration that loss doesn't get to win. And I think about little Luna back at the ranch, how she'll grow up with a father who knows how to find light in darkness, who'll teach her that dancing badly is better than not dancing at all.

"Thank you," I tell him as we sway to the slower tempo, my head finding that perfect spot against his chest where I can hear his heartbeat thundering from exertion.

"For what?" His voice vibrates through me, warm and curious.

"For sharing this with me. For letting me see this version of you."

His arms tighten fractionally, and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head, crystals from my disheveled hat probably poking him in the face. "Thank you for dancing with me. For getting it."

And I do get it. Get why he carries so much weight day-to-day, why he tries to be everything for everyone. He's living for three—himself and two little girls who never got their chance. Every patient moment with Luna, every careful decision about her future, is his way of making amends for a promise he couldn't keep. The burden of that kind of love would crush most people, but Austin bears it like he bears everything—with grace and determination and just enough humor to keep from drowning.

The music fades to almost nothing, the DJ's voice crackling through the speakers, and suddenly I'm aware of the crowd around us. What I hadn't noticed in our dancing bubble was how many people had stopped their own movements to watch us. A ring of spectators presses close, their faces flushed with appreciation and something that might be envy. Someone starts clapping—slow at first, then picking up speed as others join in.

"Y'all seeing this energy?" the DJ booms, and the crowd roars approval. "That's what we call electric, folks! Making me think it's time to announce tonight's dance competition winners!"

Competition? I shoot Austin a confused look, but he just grins and pulls me tighter against his side, his arm possessive around my waist as we both struggle to catch our breath. The silk of my dress sticks to his shirt where we're pressed together, and I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching mine.

"Did you know there was a competition?" I whisper-yell over the crowd noise.

"Every year," he whispers back, his breath tickling my ear. "Usually goes to the Hendersons—they've been practicing their routine since August."

The crowd keeps applauding, energy crackling through the barn like lightning about to strike, and I realize with a start that they're applauding for us. For our messy, imperfect, joy-soaked dancing that had nothing to do with technical skill and everything to do with being completely, utterly present in our bodies and with each other.

Austin's arm tightens around me, and I let myself lean into him fully, not caring that we're both sweat-soaked disasters. This—this moment, this feeling, this connection—this is what I've been missing. Not just the dancing, but the freedom to be unapologetically myself with someone who sees all of me and pulls me closer instead of pushing away.

"Now, before we get to the big announcement," the DJ continues, his voice taking on that theatrical quality that promises drama, "let's give it up for our third-place winners—Bobby and Marlene Henderson!"

The crowd erupts in polite applause as an older couple in matching western shirts wave from across the floor. I can feel Austin trying not to laugh against me, his chest shaking with suppressed mirth.

"Twenty-seven years of practice for third place," he murmurs in my ear. "Bobby's going to be insufferable at the feed store tomorrow."

"Second place," the DJ booms, "goes to our visitors from Wyoming—Jake and Ashley Morrison!"

More applause, though I notice some grumbling from the locals about outsiders placing. My heart pounds against my ribs, a drumbeat that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the growing suspicion that we might actually⁠—

"And now, folks, the moment you've all been waiting for. This year's Harvest Rodeo Dance Competition winners, taking home a grand prize that's gonna make your jaws drop⁠—"

Austin's arm tightens around me, and I realize he's nervous too. This matters to him in ways that go beyond prizes or recognition. This is about claiming his place in a tradition that tried to exclude him, about honoring his sisters with joy instead of just grief.

"First place goes to Austin Bishop and Miss Willa James!"

The roar of the crowd hits like a physical wave, and for a moment I can't process what I'm hearing. We won? We actually won with our chaotic, barely-coordinated explosion of enthusiasm?

"But wait, there's more!" The DJ has to shout over the noise. "This year's prize has been funded by one of our city's highest donors in partnership with the late William James⁠—"

My grandfather's name hits like cold water, and I stiffen in Austin's arms. He mentioned funding? When? How?

"—for a grand total of twenty-five thousand dollars!"

The number doesn't even register because I'm still stuck on my grandfather's name echoing through the barn. The crowd's gone silent with shock before erupting into even louder chaos. Someone whistles—the sharp, piercing kind that cuts through everything else.

"Twenty-five grand? That's four times last year!"

"William James? But he passed months ago⁠—"

"That's his granddaughter! She came back!"

"Never thought I'd see a James at the rodeo again⁠—"

The comments layer over each other, a symphony of surprise and speculation that makes my head spin. My grandfather funded this? Set aside money for a competition at a rodeo he probably never expected me to attend?

"The winners also get to designate a charity for ten percent of the rodeo's total proceeds," the DJ adds, barely audible over the excited chatter. "So let's get our champions up here!"

Austin starts guiding me through the crowd before I can fully process what's happening. His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with a firmness that says he won't let me get lost in the sea of bodies. People part for us, some reaching out to pat our shoulders or offer congratulations. Their faces blur together—some familiar from town, others strangers drawn by the spectacle.

"Your granddad was a good man," someone says as we pass.

"Glad to see a James back where they belong," from another.

"Y'all danced like your souls were on fire," from a woman with tears in her eyes.

Each comment adds another layer to my emotional overload. My grandfather, who I thought had forgotten about me during all those years of silence, had put money aside for this. Had he hoped I'd come back? Expected it? Or was this just coincidence, his way of supporting the town that had been his home for so long?

The walk to the stage feels endless and instant simultaneously. I'm hyperaware of every sensation—the sticky floor beneath my boots, the way my dress clings with sweat, Austin's steady presence beside me like an anchor in the storm of attention. The stage looms ahead, and that's when I spot him.

The Mayor stands with the other organizers, his face a mask of political pleasantness that doesn't reach his eyes. He's shorter than I expected, softer around the middle, with the kind of aggressive handsomeness that probably worked better thirty years ago. His suit is too formal for a rodeo, crisp and dark against the sea of denim and flannel, marking him as someone who thinks he's above all this even while presiding over it.

"Steady," Austin murmurs, and I realize my steps had faltered.

We climb the three steps to the stage, and immediately the Mayor moves forward, hand extended toward me with a smile that's all teeth and no warmth. But Austin's faster, smoother, pulling me into a hug that looks natural but effectively blocks the Mayor's approach.

"We did it," Austin says loud enough for everyone to hear, spinning me slightly so my back is to the Mayor. I catch on immediately, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding on like he's just proposed rather than won a dance competition.

When Austin finally releases me, he keeps his arm firmly around my waist, positioning himself between me and the Mayor with a casualness that would be impressive if I couldn't feel the tension thrumming through him.

"Mayor Henrickson," Austin says, extending his free hand for a shake that leaves me still tucked against his side. "Hell of a festival this year."

The Mayor's jaw tightens as he accepts the handshake, his eyes trying to find mine over Austin's shoulder. "Mr. Bishop. Congratulations on your... energetic performance."

The pause before 'energetic' carries weight, like he wanted to say something else entirely. Inappropriate, maybe. Or chaotic. Untraditional.

"We aim to please," Austin replies, his smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Course, would've been easier to get here if the construction crews weren't blocking every route from the ranch. Heinous planning, scheduling road work during the biggest tourist weekend of the year."

He draws out 'heinous' just enough to make it clear he knows the Mayor personally approved the construction schedule. The wink he adds is pure insolence, the kind of subtle disrespect that can't quite be called out in public.

"Infrastructure improvements benefit everyone," the Mayor says stiffly.

"Eventually," Austin agrees. "When they're finished. What's the timeline on that again? Spring? Summer? Next decade?"

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Austin's playing a dangerous game, but he's doing it with such good-old-boy charm that the Mayor can't call him on it without looking petty. Other organizers are shifting uncomfortably, clearly sensing the tension but unsure how to defuse it.

"We should get the photo," one of them suggests desperately. "For the paper!"

What follows is the most awkward photo session in rodeo history. The Mayor tries twice more to position himself next to me, and both times Austin smoothly intervenes—once by suggesting I hold the oversized check, once by insisting we needed Luna's other fathers in the photo, which meant calling River over from wherever he'd been watching. The final photo probably shows Austin and River flanking me protectively while the Mayor hovers at the edge looking like he's sucking on a lemon.

"Thank you all for such a lively evening," Austin says once the photographer's finished. "We're honored to be part of such a long-standing tradition. Even if some folks tried to make it harder for certain people to participate."

The Mayor's face flushes red, but Austin's already turning away, guiding me off the stage with a hand on my lower back.

We make it exactly three steps before Austin leans in close.

"He's about to blow a gasket," he murmurs, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice.

"The vein on his forehead is literally throbbing," I whisper back, sneaking a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, the Mayor's standing frozen on stage, hands clenched at his sides, that political smile cracking at the edges. "Think he'll actually explode?"

"One can hope," Austin says cheerfully, waving at someone in the crowd like he doesn't have a care in the world. "Twenty-five grand richer and we made him look like an ass in front of the whole town. I'd call that a successful evening."

The crowd swallows us back up, a buffer between us and whatever the Mayor might want to say if he could get away with it. But I can feel his stare burning into my back, the weight of his displeasure following us through the barn and out into the cooler night air. Austin doesn't let go of me until we're well clear of the building, and even then he keeps close, protective in a way that makes my chest warm.

"He's really pissed," I observe, glancing back at the barn where the Mayor's silhouette is visible through the doorway, still standing rigid on the stage.

"Good," Austin says simply. "Maybe next time he'll think twice before weaponizing traditions against people who don't kiss his ass."

The moment we're out of sight of the barn, Austin lets out a whoop that echoes across the parking lot and scoops me up, spinning me around like I weigh nothing.

My boots leave the ground entirely, the skirt of my ruined dress flaring out as fairground lights blur into streamers of color. His joy is infectious, pure and uncomplicated in a way that makes me laugh despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins from our encounter with the Mayor.

"Best. Rodeo. Ever," he declares, each word punctuated by another spin that has me clutching his shoulders for dear life. My hat goes flying, landing somewhere in the gravel, but neither of us moves to retrieve it. "Twenty-five thousand dollars and we made Henrickson look like the jackass he is. Plus—" He sets me down but keeps his hands on my waist, eyes bright with mischief. "—you held on to that mechanical bull for eight and a half seconds. That's longer than most cowboys manage."

"You were timing me?" I'm breathless from the spinning, from his closeness, from the way his fingers press into the silk at my waist like he's memorizing the shape of me.

"'Course I was timing you. Had ten bucks on you lasting at least five seconds. River thought you'd bail at three." His grin turns wicked. "Made forty bucks off Cole who was convinced you'd refuse to try it at all."

The mechanical bull ride feels like hours ago, though it was only—what, an hour before the dancing started? The whole night blurs together in a haze of sensory overload. The screaming crowd as the bull bucked and spun. The way my thighs had clenched tight, dress riding up scandalously as I fought to stay mounted. Austin's voice cutting through the noise, yelling encouragement while River and Cole watched with expressions I couldn't quite read in the spinning lights.

"Well," I say, aiming for casual despite the way my pulse picks up, "that's my hidden talent. I can ride anything as long as I need to."

The words hang in the air between us for a heartbeat before I realize what I've said. What it sounds like. Austin's eyes darken, pupils dilating, and he leans in close enough that I can smell the mix of his cologne and honest sweat from dancing.

"Anything, huh?" His voice drops to that register that makes my stomach flip, all teasing warmth with an edge of something hungrier.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I know he can see the blush even in the parking lot's sodium lights. My brain scrambles for a witty comeback, something to deflect from the very obvious direction this conversation has taken, but all I manage is a strangled sound that might be agreement.

"Good to know," he murmurs, and the promise in those three words makes my thighs clench involuntarily.

"It's—" I have to clear my throat, try again. "It's two in the morning. We should get back. Luna⁠—"

"Is sound asleep with Cole and Mavi watching over her like guardian dragons." But he steps back, giving me space to breathe, though his hand finds mine as we walk toward his truck. "Still. You're right. Should get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

"Wrong fairy tale," I manage, grateful for the shift back to safer ground. "And I think it was the carriage that turned into a pumpkin, not Cinderella."

"Same difference." He opens the passenger door with a flourish, steadying me as I navigate the high step in heels that have definitely seen better days. "Either way, gotta get you back before the magic wears off."

"Magic?" I settle into the seat, very aware of how the dress rides up when I sit. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What would you call it?" He leans against the door frame, silhouetted against the fairground lights, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. Because he's beautiful like this—disheveled and happy and looking at me like I'm something precious.

"The best night I've had in years," I admit softly.

Something shifts in his expression, goes tender in a way that makes my chest ache. He reaches out, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones like he's checking I'm real, then steps back to close the door. I watch him round the hood, noticing the way other people in the parking lot track his movement. Even sweaty and wrinkled, Austin Bishop turns heads. But he only has eyes for me as he slides into the driver's seat, and that focused attention makes me squirm.

"So," he says as the engine rumbles to life, "scale of one to ten, how much do you hate me for calling you 'granny' earlier?"

"Granny?" I gasp, playing up my horror even though we both know I'm not really mad. "GRANNY? Did you see these legs?"

"Yeah," he shoots back, grinning as he navigates out of the packed parking lot. "Saw 'em trembling on the dance floor. Shaking like a newborn colt's."

"That was exhaustion from carrying your two left feet through every song!" I smack his shoulder, careful not to actually distract him from driving. "I've seen toddlers with better rhythm."

"Toddlers who've had professional dance lessons maybe." He's laughing now, the sound filling the cab of the truck like warm honey. "Face it, James, you were hanging on by a thread during that last Texas Two-Step."

"I was not!"

"You stepped on my foot three times."

"That was strategic foot placement."

"Strategic?"

"Absolutely. Had to make sure you stayed in line somehow." I cross my arms, trying for haughty despite the smile tugging at my lips. "Can't have you getting too confident. Next thing you know, you'll be entering every competition in the state."

"With you as my partner?" He glances over, something soft and dangerous in his eyes. "I'd enter every competition in the country."

The easy banter stutters to a halt, replaced by awareness that fills the truck cab like smoke. I'm suddenly conscious of every point of contact—where my bare thigh presses against the leather seat, where his hand rests on the gear shift inches from my knee, where the air conditioning whispers across my overheated skin.

"Austin," I start, not sure what I'm going to say, just knowing the weight of this moment needs... something.

But before I can finish, the check engine light flickers on—innocent yellow at first, then angry red.

A grinding sound comes from somewhere in the engine, mechanical and wrong, and Austin's face shifts from soft to concerned in an instant.

"Shit," he mutters, already easing off the gas and scanning for a safe place to pull over. "Ugh, please don’t tell me it’s what I think it is?"

"What's wrong?" Though the grinding noise getting louder rather answers that question.

"Engine's been temperamental lately. Kept meaning to get River to look at it—he's good with mechanical stuff too—but there hasn't been time." He guides the truck onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. "Course it would die now, when we're halfway home with no cell service."

The truck shudders to a stop, engine giving one last wheeze before going silent. The sudden quiet is deafening after hours of music and crowd noise. We sit there for a moment, processing this development, before Austin drops his head back against the seat with a groan.

"Perfect. Just perfect." He fumbles for his phone, confirming what we both suspected. "No signal. We're in the dead zone between town and ranch."

I check my own phone, finding the same frustrating absence of bars. Around us, the Montana night presses close, beautiful and isolated and suddenly very inconvenient. The fairground lights are a distant glow behind us, the ranch still miles ahead, and we're alone on a dark road in formal wear with no way to call for help.

"So," I say, trying to lighten the mood, "this hidden talent of yours for picking the perfect moment to break down—is that genetic or learned?"

He turns his head to look at me, and despite everything—the dead truck, the isolation, the late hour—he smiles.

"Definitely learned. Takes years of practice to achieve this level of terrible timing."

And somehow, sitting here in a broken truck on the side of the road at two in the morning, still sweaty from dancing and high on victory over the Mayor, I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be.

Wild Loving Nesting Part Two

~WILLA~

The truck door creaks when I push it open, and the October air hits my overheated skin like a blessing—sharp and clean and nothing like the recycled warmth we've been breathing.

My legs shake when they hit the gravel, whether from hours of dancing or the adrenaline crash I can't tell, but I need this.

Need the space, the air, the momentary distance from Austin's magnetic presence to gather the scattered pieces of myself.

"I'll check under the hood," Austin says, already moving around to the front of the truck. The hazard lights click on, casting intermittent amber glows across the empty road. "Might be something simple."

I lean back against the truck's side, the metal cold through my ruined silk dress, and that's when I see them.

The stars.

Out here, miles from town with no streetlights or neon to compete, they spread across the sky in a display that steals what's left of my breath. The Milky Way cuts through the darkness like spilled diamonds, so bright and numerous my eyes can't process them all at once.

"Jesus," I whisper, tilting my head back until my neck protests.

When did I last really look at the stars? Not just notice them in passing but actually look, the way Grandpa taught me?

The hood pops with a metallic groan, and Austin's silhouette appears against the engine's dark cavity, flashlight beam dancing across mysterious mechanical parts. But I can't look away from the sky, from this tapestry of light that makes me feel simultaneously infinite and infinitesimal.

"Cassiopeia," I murmur, voice rougher than usual from the night's exertions and the ever-present rasp that smoke damage left behind. My finger traces the distinctive W shape in the sky. "The vain queen. And there—" I shift, pointing northeast, "—Perseus, coming to save Andromeda from the sea monster."

"You know the constellations?" Austin's voice carries surprise, though he doesn't look up from whatever he's examining.

"Grandpa taught me." The words come easier in the darkness, with his attention focused elsewhere. "We'd lie on blankets in the back pasture, and he'd tell me their stories. Greek myths, Native American legends, even made up his own sometimes when I got bored with the traditional ones."

I track Orion's belt, remembering Grandpa's patient finger pointing out each star. "I wanted to be an astronomer when I was seven. Then a NASA engineer at nine. By eleven, I'd decided on astrophysicist because it sounded the most impressive."

Austin chuckles, the sound muffled by the hood.

"What happened to those dreams?"

"Reality." The word tastes bitter as burnt coffee. "Hard to study the stars when your parents think anything beyond basic education is wasted on an Omega."

The flashlight beam stills, and I know I have his attention now even though he keeps working. The silence stretches, filled only by the tick of cooling metal and the distant cry of some night bird.

"I used to wish they'd take me on night picnics," I continue, surprising myself with the confession. "You know, those romantic ones you see in movies? Blanket under the stars, little battery-powered lanterns, maybe some hot chocolate in a thermos. But they weren't into those kinds of hobbies. Too frivolous. Too...soft."

"Did you ever go with William?" Austin's question is gentle, carefully neutral.

I nod, then remember he can't see me.

"Yeah. Not picnics exactly, but we'd stargaze." A laugh escapes, more wistful than bitter. "I loved it because under all those stars, I could wish for anything. Dream about all the opportunities waiting for me out there. I was so confident it was possible, you know? That I could be more than what everyone expected."

My fingers find a rough spot on the truck's paint, picking at it absently.

"But then I'd go home, and it was like stepping back into this bubble of negativity and disappointment. The stars might promise infinity, but my parents' house only had room for one future—finding a proper Alpha pack and being a proper Omega."

The flashlight clicks off, and Austin's footsteps crunch on gravel as he moves closer.

Not touching, just... present. Waiting.

"Want to know something fucked up?" The laugh that bubbles up now has sharp edges. "I was almost named William. My parents were so desperately sure they were having an Alpha son that they didn't even pick out girl names. When I came out wrong—" I gesture at myself, all Omega curves and borrowed silk, "—they apparently stared at me for a full five minutes before Mom said 'Willa, I guess.'"

"That's..." Austin starts, then stops, like he can't find words harsh enough.

"The nurse probably side-eyed them so hard," I continue, picturing it. "This couple so disappointed by their newborn's designation that they couldn't even give her a real name. Just the feminine knockoff of what they really wanted."

My hands lift in the intermittent hazard light, and I stare at my wrists like I can see through skin to the memory of metal. "You know what I wish? I wish I'd taken the initiative to accept myself long before society brought me down to the level of taking everything Blake and Iron Ridge dished out. If my self-esteem hadn't been so low, so practically non-existent..."

The words stick in my throat, but I force them out.

"If I'd had even a little confidence in myself, it wouldn't have led to me being handcuffed to the bed that night."

Austin makes a sound—sharp, pained—but I can't stop now.

The stars witness my confession, silent and eternal, and somehow that makes it easier. Like telling the universe instead of the man whose opinion has started mattering too much.

"The marks faded," I say, still staring at my wrists in the amber light. "But sometimes I still feel them. Especially on nights like this, when everything feels too good to be true. Like maybe I'm still there, hallucinating this whole thing while smoke fills my lungs."

"Willa—"

"I learned something that night," I interrupt, needing to finish. "You really don't know how resentful you are until you're faced with death and realize you have no way out."

The words hang in the cold air between us, and I press on, unable to stop the flood now that the dam has cracked.

"I expected anger, you know? When my lungs started burning and I couldn't get enough air. I thought I'd be furious—at Blake, at Iron Ridge, at the whole fucked-up world that let them think they could throw me away like trash."

My fingers trace the delicate bones of my wrist, following paths that once bore purple bruises.

"But no. What hit me in that moment wasn't rage. It was this immense, crushing regret. Disappointment in myself for not living the life I knew I deserved."

Austin shifts closer, and I can feel his presence like a warm wall at my back, but he doesn't speak. Doesn't try to fix it or minimize it or tell me how I should feel.

He just exists in this space with me, holding my pain without trying to take it.

"The smoke was so thick," I continue, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I could taste it with every breath—acrid, chemical, nothing like woodsmoke from a fireplace. And all I could think was: this is it. This is how I die. Not as Willa who studied the stars, or Willa who dreamed of being more. Just another dead Omega who couldn't keep her Alpha pack happy."

My hands shake now, and I clasp them together, feeling the strength in my own grip.

"I don't know why I forgot that sensation when they pulled me out. Why I let it go when I was released from the hospital with lungs full of scar tissue and a voice that would never sound quite right again."

The memory of that courtroom floods back—sterile fluorescent lights, the smell of industrial floor cleaner, Blake sitting across from me in his best suit like he hadn't tried to murder me two months prior.

"The divorce hearing was the worst part. You'd think facing death would be rock bottom, but no. Rock bottom was sitting in that courtroom, watching Blake tell the judge how difficult I was. How I'd neglected my duties. How the fire was really my fault for being careless with candles I never even lit."

"And no one stood up for me. Not one person in that room said 'hey, maybe we should investigate why an Omega with no history of negligence suddenly became so careless.' The pack members who'd eaten at my table, whose books I'd balanced, whose businesses I'd saved—they all sat behind Blake, nodding along to his lies."

I lean harder against the truck, needing its solid presence to anchor me.

"The judge—another Alpha, surprise surprise—looked at me like I was wasting his time. Granted the divorce in under twenty minutes. Gave Blake seventy-five percent of assets I'd built because 'an Alpha needs resources to maintain his pack.' Left me with just enough to not be considered destitute, because that might reflect badly on them."

"Maybe that's why I let it go," I say, the realization crystallizing as I speak. "Why I packed away that moment of clarity from the fire along with everything else. Because I knew I could never win. Not in a society that sees Omegas as property with delusions of personhood. Not when the whole system is designed to keep us grateful for scraps."

My right hand clenches into a fist, nails biting into my palm, and something shifts in my chest. Not healing—that's too simple a word—but maybe the beginning of reclaiming. "But being here..."

I turn finally, meeting Austin's eyes in the intermittent hazard light.

His face is a study in controlled emotion—jaw tight, eyes blazing with suppressed fury on my behalf, but holding himself back from taking over my moment.

"Seeing how life can be when you're surrounded by men who empower instead of diminish. Who ask what I want instead of telling me what I need. Who celebrate when I show strength instead of punishing me for it." My voice grows stronger with each word. "I'm starting to realize something that scared girl in the fire knew but couldn't hold onto."

"What's that?" Austin asks softly when I pause.

"That I deserve to experience victory. Even in the littlest things." I spread my arms wide, encompassing the broken-down truck, the star-filled sky, this moment of raw truth between us. "I'm alive. Actually alive, not just existing. I'm prospering—maybe not financially yet, but in ways that matter more. I have a roof over my head that no one can take away because Grandpa made sure of that."

My fist unclenches, and I examine my hand in the amber light—strong, capable, unmarked by restraints.

"I have all my limbs. My lungs work, even if they're not perfect. I can ride horses and dance until 2 AM and make my own choices about what to wear and who to trust. I'm not some defective Omega hoping for handouts like those bastards labeled me."

The words come faster now, powered by a fury that's been fermenting for months.

"I'm a survivor. And now—finally, finally—I get to live on my rules. Do you have any idea how empowering that is? To wake up and decide what I want to do with my day? To not constantly calculate whether breathing wrong might set someone off?"

Austin's eyes reflect the hazard lights, turning them into small suns, and the intensity of his attention makes me shiver.

But I'm not done.

This last part is the most important.

"I finally have a choice and a chance to love the right way. Not the Iron Ridge way where love means ownership and care comes with invoices. Real love. The kind that builds instead of diminishes. The kind that celebrates instead of tolerates."

My voice cracks on the last word, but it's not from smoke damage this time.

It's from the overwhelming realization that I mean every word. That somewhere between that first terrifying night at Cactus Rose Ranch and this moment on a dark road, I've started believing I might actually deserve the life I'm building.

Austin moves then, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps that crunch on the gravel.

His hand comes up slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want, but I'm frozen in place by the intensity in his eyes. His fingers are gentle under my chin, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to meet his gaze.

The hazard lights paint him in alternating moments of gold and shadow, and my breath catches at the raw want I see there.

"If you didn't care about consequences," he says, voice low and rough with something that makes my stomach flip, "what would you do right now?"

The question hangs between us like a lit fuse, dangerous and impossible to ignore.

I laugh—nervous, breathy, nothing like my usual laugh—because how can I answer that? How can I tell him what's been building in me all night, maybe longer?

The way my body responded to his joy on the dance floor, the way his hands felt spinning me under the lights, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious and powerful all at once?

But then I remember what I just said about living on my rules.

About choosing how to love.

And maybe it's the adrenaline from the night, or the stars watching like ancient witnesses, or just the way the moonlight catches in his eyes, but I find my courage.

"Honestly?" I meet his stare directly, letting him see everything I've been holding back. "I'd ask you to kiss me senseless. Like your whole world is slipping away and I'm the only thing that can save it. And then..." I swallow hard, but push through. "I'd beg you to fuck me against this truck so hard and deep I'll see stars that put those ones to shame."

His breath hitches, pupils dilating until his eyes are more black than hazel, but I'm not done. I force a playful smile, trying to lighten what I've just confessed.

"But that's just wishful thinking, right? I mean, you're probably all proper and gentlemanly under that cowboy⁠—"

"The difference between me and the rest of the pack," he interrupts, cupping my face with both hands now, thumbs stroking over my cheekbones with reverent pressure, "is that I act first and think later when it comes to what I want in life."

A shudder ripples through him, the last filter of restraint flickering out in the hazard-glow.

His eyes—warm, usually so gentle—go predatory, ancient, like some wild urge has clawed up through his chest and demanded to be released. I don't move, don't even breathe, transfixed by the way he searches my face for a hint of doubt, some excuse to stop, but finds none.

Austin’s jaw works, a muscle ticking as he swallows the words trying to leap out.

His hands, which still cup my cheeks like I’m the most breakable thing on earth, flex ever so slightly, as if torn between reverence and raw possession. When he speaks, his voice is a low growl, rough with everything he's been holding back:

"And right now, all I give a shit about is you, Willa."

The name lands between us like a trigger, and something flicks awake in my bones.

There is nothing tentative about what happens next.

We know what’s gonna happen…

Which is why I let it.

He surges forward and every inch of him goes taut as a bowstring. His fingers tangle in my hair, and the gentleness from earlier is gone—he’s kissing me like he’s starved for it, like he’s been watching me across a lifetime of unmet wants and finally, finally, it’s okay to be greedy.

I taste him first—clean, dizzyingly fresh, like first rain on hot dust—and then myself, sharp and metallic from my own bitten lip. We’re devouring, not just kissing.

Austin backs me into the truck door, and the cold metal bites through my dress, warning me I should be careful, but I couldn't care less. He brackets my hips in his hands, not just holding but anchoring me, and his mouth moves from my lips down my jaw to the hollow under my ear.

I don’t even recognize the sound that comes out of me—something between a gasp and a whimper, so high-strung I half expect the stars to shatter.

He breaks away just long enough to inhale, and his forehead presses hard to mine.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he rasps, voice already wrecked, "because I might not have it in me otherwise."

I’m trembling so hard my knees threaten to collapse, but it’s not fear—it’s relief. The giddy, sick relief of letting go, for once, after years of hoarding every ounce of desire and hiding it under armor. I answer him by grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and hauling him back, sealing my mouth to his with a hunger I didn’t know I had the capacity for.

Everything blurs—sound, time, the boundary between need and want. My hands roam his chest, sliding under the hem of his t-shirt to find skin, and he shudders at the contact, breaking away just enough to look at me, really look, as if branding the moment into memory.

And then he’s on me again, lips crashing into mine with that same desperate urgency, and it’s all teeth and tongue and the taste of hope after a drought.

His mouth crashes into mine with a desperation that steals my breath.

This isn't the gentle kiss from earlier at the festival—this is wildfire, consuming and uncontrolled. His lips are demanding, tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that makes my knees weak.

I moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer, and he growls—actually growls—before spinning me around to press my back against the truck.

The cold metal through my thin dress makes me gasp, but then his body cages mine, all heat and hard muscle, and I forget about temperature. His hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair extensions, gripping my waist, sliding down to cup my ass through the silk. Each touch leaves trails of fire, and I arch against him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck," he tears his mouth away to trail biting kisses down my throat. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? How crazy I've been going?"

I can't form words, too lost in the sensation of his teeth grazing my pulse point, his hands getting bolder. One slides up my thigh, pushing the dress higher, and I shamelessly spread my legs wider to give him access.

"Waiting for those blockers to work," he continues, voice muffled against my collarbone, "has been the longest two days of my fucking life. Watching you walk around the ranch in those little shorts, seeing you gentle the horses, smelling you everywhere but not being able to touch..."

His hand reaches the apex of my thighs, finding me embarrassingly wet through the thin panties, and we both groan.

"But tonight," he lifts his head to look at me, eyes wild, "watching you dance like that, seeing every man in that place want what's mine⁠—"

"Yours?" I challenge breathlessly, even as my hips cant against his exploring fingers.

"Mine. Ours. The pack's." He pushes the panties aside, fingers sliding through my wetness with devastating skill. "All those fuckers watching you, wishing they could be where I am right now, and all I could think about was getting you alone so I could give you exactly what you asked for."

Two fingers press into me with a force and certainty that obliterate every last shaky doubt in my system. There’s no teasing here, no timid escalation or gentle asking permission—he just claims, invades, fills. The sharp jolt of it rockets me up the truck door, metal biting into my spine, but I barely register the pain because it’s instantly eclipsed by the electric pleasure.

I buckle at the knees and nearly slide down the truck, but Austin’s body is there, braced against me, crowding out the air and any other possibility but this one. His palm, already hot from grabbing and gripping, presses flat over my mound, keeping me pinned at the apex of every thrust, while his thumb—dear god, his thumb—draws a fast, filthy circle on my clit with the kind of unrelenting focus that should absolutely be illegal.

I forget how to speak. I forget how to breathe. The only thing I can do is make sound—a broken, keening noise that doesn’t even sound like my own voice. My head flings back against the truck with a hollow clang, and my world telescopes down to the pyrotechnic pressure growing inside me.

Austin’s mouth is at my ear, his breath ragged and teeth flashing in the darkness. “You feel that?” He fucks those fingers into me harder, dragging them along every trembling nerve ending. “Feel how ready you are? God, Willa, you say you want to be kissed senseless but all your body wants is to be split open and devoured.”

His free hand slides up, deliberate and slow as if daring me to stop him, and wraps around my throat. He doesn’t squeeze, not really, not with more than a ghost of pressure, but the implication of it—the way it says you’re not going anywhere, you’re right here, you’re mine—sends a molten shudder through my whole body. There’s nowhere to run anyway; I’m sandwiched between the cold, dented steel of the truck and a man whose self-control is hanging by the thinnest, sexiest thread.

I should be embarrassed by how quickly I’m unraveling. By the slap of wet, the obscene little noises my body makes around his fingers, and the way my hips are already chasing every thrust like a dog desperate for a treat. But I’m not embarrassed. I’m starving. I want more.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs, jaw tight, eyes flicking down to watch the obscene dip of his hand under my dress. “Let it out. Tonight you’re not anyone’s fuckin’ secret. You want to be destroyed, I’ll make sure you never forget how.”

It’s possible I black out for a second, because there’s an instant where all I see is flashing white behind my eyelids and then I’m crashing back down in a body that feels like it’s been rewired for maximum sensitivity. My thighs start to shake, knees buckling in earnest, and he hauls me up higher on the truck so I’m riding his hand, legs dangling off the ground. The leverage means he can work me exactly how he wants—deep, punishing thrusts paired with unrelenting pressure on my clit, all of it calculated to bring me to the edge faster than I want to admit.

He bites along the curve of my jaw, not quite breaking skin but leaving heat and the threat of a mark, then growls against my ear: “Look at me.”

It takes effort, but I force my head forward, blinking into the night. He’s so close, I could count every gold fleck in his eyes if I were capable of counting. His gaze is molten with want and something like awe, as if he’s seeing me come apart is the most beautiful thing he’s ever witnessed.

“That’s it. That’s the look I wanted.” His thumb circles faster, fingers crooking up into the spot that makes my vision swim. “Give it to me, Willa. Every last drop.”

Something in the way he says my name, low and reverent like a prayer, unspools the last knot of restraint I have. My back arches, head slamming against the steel, and I cry out—loud, uncontrolled, the kind of scream I’d never allow myself even alone in the shower. It’s so sharp and sudden it echoes off the trees, bounces back like a challenge to the universe.

I start to come, hard and fast, pulses of pleasure wracking my entire body, but Austin doesn’t slow down. If anything, he doubles down, working me through the crest and into another, more brutal aftershock, holding me steady when my legs are jelly and my hands flail for something to anchor to. I clutch his biceps, nails digging crescent moons through the thin cotton of his shirt, but he just grins against my neck and encourages me to leave marks, to take, to be greedy.

“You got another for me?” he whispers, voice wrecked and hoarse and so fucking turned on it feels like a match to gasoline. “Or do I need to work you a little harder?”

I’ve never met a man so utterly devoted to the art of getting a woman off, and I’m so overwhelmed by it that my brain short-circuits. For a long, suspended moment, the only thing I can do is pant and ride out the aftershocks as his fingers keep up the relentless rhythm, coaxing every last trembling shudder from my spent muscles.

But then I feel it—the greedy flutter of want returning, ignited by the friction of him not letting up and the way he’s looking at me like a man who found water in the desert.

I want to say something cool, a witty line to mark the moment, but all I manage is a strangled, desperate whine that could resemble his name if you squint.

He laughs, legitimately delighted, and that little ripple of mirth sends a new bolt of arousal straight through me. Then he does something obscene—he curls a third finger in with the first two, stretching me wide until I gasp and nearly sob from how intense it is.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, and I want to die from how good that feels, how completely I want to belong to him in this moment. His palm is slick from me, his wrist flexing as he drives deeper, and the wet, slippery sounds are so loud in the quiet night it feels like the whole world is listening in.

The control, the precision, the pure confidence of his touch—every second I’m held here, bound by the grip at my throat and the invasion between my legs, I feel myself transforming into something new. Not a victim anymore, not a survivor clinging to pride, but a live wire of hunger and hope, ready to burn the whole world down if it means getting what I want.

He never lets up on the eye contact, not once. Even as my head tips back and my eyes threaten to roll, he growls, “Look at me. I want you to see who’s doing this to you. I want you to remember every second.”

And I do. I see every line of his face, the wild heat in his gaze, the way his jaw clenches when I contract around him like a vice. I see the pride, the protectiveness, the pure feral want.

God help me, I want this man to fuck me senseless. I want him to take me apart and put me back together so completely I’ll never again hear the word “Omega” without thinking of his hands, his mouth, his voice.

I open my mouth to tell him, but all that comes out is a choked, “Austin⁠—”

He leans in, lips brushing over mine, and his voice is scorched earth: “Tell me what you need.”

I don’t even have to think about it. The craving is so big it crawls up my backbone and sets my teeth on edge.

“Please,” I gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he adds that third finger, stretching me in the most delicious, obscene way. “Please, I need⁠—”

"I know what you need." He withdraws his fingers, ignoring my whine of protest, and spins me around to face the truck. The position leaves me bent slightly, hands braced against the still-warm hood, and I hear his belt buckle clinking. "Gonna give you exactly what you asked for. Hard and deep until you see stars."

His hands push my dress up around my waist, fully exposing my ass to the cool night air. But then his palms are there, kneading the flesh with possessive strength, spreading me open. "Look at you," he breathes, reverent and filthy all at once. "So fucking perfect. So ready for me."

I hear the sound of foil tearing—of course he has condoms, probably been carrying them since the blockers lifted—and then the blunt head of his cock is pressing against my entrance.

He feels huge from this angle, and I force myself to relax, to breathe. I haven’t taken a thick cock since my explorative years, none of the men of Iron Ridge meeting my “standards” but beggars can’t be choosers when you’re an Omega.

"You better like it fast and deep," he warns, lips brushing my ear as he leans over me, chest pressed to my back. "Cause I'm a rough youngling with the stamina of a bull, and I've been dreaming about this for days."

"Less talking," I manage to gasp out, pushing back against him. "More fucking."

He laughs—dark and promising—before slamming into me with one brutal thrust.

The stretch burns perfect, and I cry out, not caring how loud I am. He wasn't lying about being rough. His pace is immediately punishing, each thrust driving me up onto my toes, forcing me to brace harder against the truck.

"This what you wanted?" He grabs a handful of my hair, using it to arch my back further. "To be fucked like you deserve? Like the goddess you are?"

"Yes," I moan, the word breaking as he hits something deep inside that makes me see spots. "Harder, Austin, please⁠—"

He complies, hips snapping against my ass with enough force to bruise, and I love it. Love the way he's losing control, the way he's taking what he wants while giving me everything I asked for. His free hand slides around to find my clit again, rubbing circles that have me racing toward the edge.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, and the rough velvet of his voice wraps around me even tighter than his hands. “Let go for me, Will. Need to feel you squeeze my cock, need to hear you scream my goddamn name.”

Every word is gasoline. Every thrust, every graze of his palm on my clit is a spark. I am perilously close. It’s not even sex anymore but a demolition, all my worst defenses coming down brick by brick. My breath is stuttering and my vision blurs around the edges, every sense funneled to the wet, obscene slide of him inside me and the way he mutters filth in my ear like a secret only I’m worthy of hearing.

His hand slides up, fingertips digging into my hip to hold me impaled on him, and with the other he never stops playing me, coaxing me, demanding I give him everything. “You can do it,” he urges, tone low and dangerous, but so goddamn proud. “I know you want to. Show me what you sound like when I make you come.”

It’s the unsparing, relentless rhythm of his hips, the precision of his fingers circling my clit, the weight of his body pinning me down like I’m already conquered and he’s just claiming the spoils. I try to breathe but all that comes out is a sob; it’s too much, I can’t, I need⁠—

But I do. I shatter so hard my knees give out and I’d have collapsed if not for his iron grip on my waist and the truck holding me up. My orgasm roars through me like a flash flood, tearing loose a wail so loud I think the coyotes on the ridge will answer. I scream his name, I scream for God, I scream for nothing at all, just the sheer animal joy of being wrecked by someone who knows exactly what I need.

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even slow down. Instead, he fucks me right through it—riding every aftershock, grinding into me until I’m begging, until I’m incoherent. My body goes limp, legs shaking violently, but he’s still there, murmuring how beautiful I am, how good I taste, how he could do this all night and never get tired of me.

Somewhere in the haze I feel his lips on my neck, teeth scraping just enough to leave heat without breaking skin, and then his hand at my throat again, holding me steady as he fucks me deeper. Even as I sob and tremble and try to pull away, he chases me, not letting me hide from the white-hot pleasure or the rawness of what’s been unlocked.

It’s the possessive praise that does it. My orgasm crashes over me like a thunderstorm, and I do scream—his name, God's name, wordless sounds of pleasure that echo off the empty hills. He fucks me through it, drawing it out until I'm shaking, oversensitive and desperate.

"Where?" he grits out, and I understand what he's asking.

"Inside," I gasp. "Want to feel you⁠—"

I want to be filled with hit hot cum, to experience what its like. I realize I probably won’t get what I want because he’s wearing a condom, but the idea that he even asked to give me a mere option turns me on even more.

He comes with a roar that probably scares the wildlife, hips stuttering as he empties himself into the condom. I feel every pulse, every shudder, and it triggers another mini-orgasm that has me whimpering against the truck's hood.

We stay like that for a moment, both panting, bodies still joined. Then he carefully pulls out, steadying me when my legs threaten to give out.

The sound of the condom being dealt with barely registers through my post-orgasmic haze; all I’m aware of is the abrasive thud of my heartbeat in my ears and the riot of sensation still winding through my body. My knees feel like overcooked noodles, and my arms tremble as if they’ve been holding up the truck instead of the other way around. The night air should be cold enough to sober me, but my entire spine is molten, liquefied by what just happened.

I barely have time to catch my breath before Austin’s hand finds my left thigh, squeezing and massaging gently like he already knows my bones are seconds from just giving up. He pulls me upright, pinning my back to his chest, the aftershocks of his last thrust still rolling through my hips. I let my head fall back against his shoulder, let him support my weight, let myself just be held for a split, perfect moment. I almost want to cry from how safe and anchored he makes me feel. Like he’s not just holding me to keep me upright, but to tether me back to this earth when I’m half sure I just died and came back.

His mouth is at my ear before I can even try to compose myself, his voice a rough, needy scrape against my shell: “Please tell me you can handle one more.”

My laugh is closer to a sob, the kind of jagged, breathless sound that says yes, I need it, I need you to ruin me again even if it splits me in two. “Splattered against the truck?” I tease, and I can feel the answering shudder run through all the thick muscle pressed against my back. His hands are already moving, greedy and reverent at the same time, sliding up over my belly to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples with just the right amount of pressure to make my thighs squeeze together.

But there’s no time to brace, no hesitation left in either of us. With one swift motion, Austin lifts me so that my toes dangle, my thighs parted around his hips, and sets me on the edge of the truck bed. The metal bites at my skin, making me gasp, but that pain just sharpens everything else. I can feel slickness dripping down my inner thighs, pooling beneath me, and I’m so humiliation-drunk on it I could scream. He groans at the mess, his hands spanning my hips, thumbs digging in to anchor me in place.

“You’re amazing,” he says, and the awe in his voice is indistinguishable from hunger. “I could watch you come apart a thousand times and never get tired of it.”

His hands spread my thighs even wider, and before I know what’s happening, he’s on his knees in the dust, mouth latching onto my pussy like he’s starved for weeks. The shock of his tongue, hot and relentless, tears a scream out of me so raw I’m half afraid I’ve severed my own voice box. It’s pure worship, pure fucking devotion—he eats me out with the intense focus of a man memorizing every detail for the rest of his life. Every flick, every suck, every hum against my clit is engineered to devastate me completely. My heels drum uncontrollably against the truck, my fingers clawing at the roof for purchase.

He doesn’t stop when I come. If anything, he doubles down, flattening his tongue and circling my most sensitive nerves in a merciless, never-ending rhythm that turns my post-orgasmic sensitivity into something close to agony. I sob, I plead, I babble his name until the syllables lose all meaning, but he just holds me open and keeps going. Another orgasm wracks me, leaving me boneless and shivering, a marionette with all the strings cut.

Finally, when I’m half-delirious and only distantly aware of my surroundings, he stands and kisses me. I taste myself on his lips, earthy and primal, and I chase the flavor with my tongue, clinging to his shoulders for dear life. We’re both wild-eyed and panting, the quiet between us charged with something electric and dangerous.

He lines himself up again, this time not waiting for preamble or permission. The head of his cock is slick and insistent, and I try to remember how to breathe as he pushes inside. There’s no gentleness at first—just the animal, desperate drive to get as deep as possible, as if he wants to fuse our bodies together on a molecular level. My nails dig into his back, my legs wrap tight around his waist, and we move in a raw, frantic rhythm that leaves the world reduced to our points of contact: the burn where he stretches me, the bruising grip of his hands, the velvet grind of his mouth biting at my shoulder.

This time, it’s different. Not just rough, but fast. An unyielding, pounding tempo that shakes the truck and rattles the windows, that makes me forget there’s ever been anything but this—him, me, the endless night, the creak of the springs, the slap of skin on skin. I’m almost delirious when I hear myself start to cry again, but they’re not tears of pain or fear. They’re the kind of tears you get when you’re finally allowed to want what you want, when it’s given to you and then some. He sees it too, cupping my face with one hand, thumb swiping at the wetness, and that’s what finally slows him down.

He buries his forehead against mine and rocks into me with a gentler, deeper stroke.

She can feel his swollen knot, and how he groans against her flesh. I bet it’s painful for him to not just slide it in, but with their outdoor situation, it woudn’t be wise to knot there. She can get a bit of clarity despite her body’s desperate need to be filled with his knot properly and fucked senseless.

For a moment she’s almost tempted to let it happen. To feel him knot her, have him rut against her until they’re both delirious and senseless beneath the Arizona stars. But she knows the logistics are a nonstarter—the outdoor gravel, the risk of being stuck together for half an hour in public, the imminent threat of cactus needles in unmentionable places—and she’s grateful he’s the one with enough sense to hold back.

That doesn’t mean she can’t help him, though. She wants him to have relief, to feel good, to finish the way he needs to. The need to take care of him is just as strong as everything clawing for release in her own veins. So she shifts her hips back, giving him a little more room, and reaches down between their bodies, feeling for the place where his cock is thickest and hottest and most desperate.

Her fingers close around his shaft and she can feel the literal heartbeat of him, frantic and barely leashed. The knot is swollen so tight it’s almost inhuman, and she squeezes just enough to give him the sensation of being locked in, even if it’s just a mimicry of the real thing. His reaction is instantaneous: he groans into her shoulder, every muscle in his body going rigid. She strokes up to the rim of the knot, milking him, and he thrusts forward so sharply that the truck’s suspension groans in sympathy.

A small, wicked part of her wants to tease him for it. To ask if this is what all the fuss was about, if he’s always this easy to ruin, but the reality is way more intoxicating than any fantasy. He’s letting her handle him, trusting her with the most vulnerable, animal part of himself, and the power rush is second only to the relentless, shuddering pleasure still echoing through her own body. Her fingers slick with a mix of their fluids, she massages the knot, coaxing it, watching as the tension in his shoulders goes from dangerous to electrified.

He’s panting her name now, no shame or control left. Just need. “Willa, please—I can’t, I need⁠—”

“I know,” she soothes, voice shredded and raw but still hers. She curves her palm around the base of his cock, nails grazing his skin, and it’s enough to undo him. His hips snap forward, and his whole body bows over hers as he comes, the sound ripped from his chest so guttural and vulnerable she knows she’ll be replaying it in her memory for weeks.

They stay that way for a few long moments, her body draped over the cooling hood, his weight anchoring her in place, both of them too wrung out to even speak. Gradually, he softens, and she feels him slump against her, arms circling her waist with something that feels suspiciously like gratitude.

She reaches behind again, catching his shaft and strokes down to his knot, making him groan in relief at her touch as he pressed into her further so she can begin massaging his knot, easing that pang of need that’s probably driving his Alpha instincts insane.

She doesn’t know how long either of them stay like that, but his deep sigh is matched with the release of tension in his shoulders, telling her his knot is satisfied enough.

At least for now.

It makes her stomach coil with anticipation at the idea of her potentially getting to knot each of them.

"You okay?" he asks, turning me around to cup my face, studying me with concern that makes my chest tight.

"More than okay," I assure him, leaning up to kiss him soft and slow. "That was..."

"Yeah," he agrees against my lips, not needing me to finish. "It was."

He helps me straighten my dress, smoothing it down with gentle hands that contrast sharply with how roughly he just took me.

The dichotomy makes me shiver—this man who can dance with childlike joy, fuck with animalistic intensity, and then tend to me with infinite care.

"We should probably figure out how to get home," I say eventually, though I make no move to leave the circle of his arms.

"Probably," he agrees, but he's smiling. "Or we could stay here a little longer. See if any of those wishes you made on the stars come true."

I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in years.

"I think one just did."

The Past Hits The Present

~WILLA~

The feed store smells like home—hay dust and molasses, cracked corn and the earthy sweetness of alfalfa that makes my nose itch.

I breathe it in anyway, letting the familiar scents ground me as I flip through the invoices spread across the scarred wooden counter. My thighs protest when I shift my weight, muscles still tender from last night's activities with Austin, and I have to bite back a smile at the memory.

The soreness is a good reminder of what I can do as an Omega, that my body can still surprise me with what it wants and what it can take.

Validation. Confidence. Pride.

It confirms I’m not defective like Blake and the others always emphasized. I work properly, as an Omega and a woman.

They simply weren’t the puzzle pieces I needed to feel whole.

"These hay prices are criminal," I mutter, running my finger down the columns of numbers. The morning sun slants through the dusty windows, turning Cole's profile golden where he leans against the counter beside me. He smells like leather and pine soap, that particular Alpha scent that makes something in my hindbrain want to lean closer. "We're paying thirty percent more than we should be, and that's before factoring in the gas to haul it from Billings."

Cole shifts, his shoulder brushing mine as he examines the papers. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me—static from the dry air, maybe, or just my body's continued hypersensitivity after last night.

"You sure about those numbers?"

"Positive." I tap the invoice with more confidence than I've felt in years about anything. "See, they're charging us city prices for rural delivery. But there's a supplier right here in Sweetwater Falls—Johnson's Feed Mill. They're selling the same quality hay for twenty-two dollars a bale instead of thirty-one."

His eyebrows rise, gray eyes sharp with interest.

"Johnson's doesn't usually deal in bulk orders."

"They would if we guaranteed them consistent business." The numbers dance in my head, patterns I've always been good at seeing. "If we commit to buying our winter hay supply from them—say, eight hundred bales minimum—they'd probably drop the price another two dollars per bale. That's over seven thousand in savings, not counting the reduced fuel costs."

Cole straightens fully, studying me with an expression I can't quite read.

Pride, maybe? Surprise?

"You worked all that out just from looking at invoices?"

Heat creeps up my neck.

"I've always been good with numbers. Used to manage the books for—" I cut myself off before mentioning Iron Ridge. That life feels like a fever dream now, something that happened to someone else. "It's just basic cost analysis."

"Nothing basic about it." His voice carries a warmth that makes my stomach flip. "You've been here less than a week, and you're already finding ways to improve our bottom line. That's..."

He trails off as workers begin loading fifty-pound feed sacks into the truck bed, their rhythmic movements stirring up clouds of dust that dance in the morning light. I watch them work, trying to ignore the way Cole's still looking at me, like I'm some kind of puzzle he's trying to solve.

"That's what?" I prompt when the silence stretches too long.

"Impressive." The single word holds weight, and when I glance at him, his expression is soft in a way that makes my chest tight. "River handles most of our purchasing, but he tends to stick with what's familiar. Having fresh eyes on this stuff is good."

I duck my head, pleased and embarrassed in equal measure.

"Just trying to earn my keep."

"You don't have to earn anything." His hand comes up like he's going to touch my face, then drops. But his next words stop me cold. "You're looking a little flushed. Feeling alright?"

I blink, suddenly aware of the heat in my cheeks, the slight dizziness I've been ignoring all morning.

"I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well last night."

That's an understatement.

Between the adrenaline crash from the rodeo, the truck breaking down, and what happened with Austin against said truck, I maybe got three hours of restless sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt phantom hands on my skin, heard Austin's voice rough with want. My body wouldn't settle, too keyed up and aching for something I couldn't name.

Cole frowns, and this time he does touch me, the back of his hand gentle against my forehead.

"You're warm. When's the last time you had a proper nest?"

The question catches me off guard.

"A what?"

His frown deepens.

"A nest. You know, for sleeping?"

Uh…

I shake my head, genuinely confused.

"I don't... I'm not sure what you mean."

Something flashes across his face—surprise, maybe anger, though not directed at me. When he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Did Iron Ridge not let you nest?"

"I honestly don't know what that is," I admit, feeling young and stupid.

Another basic Omega thing I should know but don't, another way I'm deficient.

Cole's jaw works like he's biting back words, then he takes a breath, and his expression gentles.

"Nesting is... it's something Omegas do instinctively for comfort and security. You create a safe space—usually your bed—with soft things that smell like your pack. Blankets, pillows, clothes. The familiar scents help your body relax, especially when you're stressed or haven't been sleeping well."

I process this information, turning it over in my mind like a strange artifact.

"And it actually works?"

"Very well, usually." He's watching me closely now, like he's seeing me for the first time. "Most Omegas start nesting young, but if you were never taught or encouraged..."

"My parents thought omega behaviors were weakness," I say quietly. "Anything that marked me as different from an Alpha was discouraged."

The muscle in Cole's jaw jumps again, and when he speaks, his voice is rough.

"That's neglect, Willa. Criminal neglect."

I shrug, uncomfortable with his anger on my behalf.

"It is what it is."

"No, it's not." He moves closer, voice dropping so the workers can't hear. "You deserve to know your own body, to have comfort when you need it. We can help with that, if you'll let us."

"How?"

"Each of us can give you something with our scent—shirts, pillows, whatever you're comfortable with. You can arrange them however feels right. We've got this huge floor cushion Austin bought when Luna first came to us, didn't know her sleep routine so he went overboard with baby gear. It's ridiculously comfortable, perfect for nesting."

I picture it—surrounded by the scents of these men who've shown me more kindness in days than I received in years.

The thought makes something in my chest loosen and tighten simultaneously.

"That sounds..."

"Yeah?"

"Nice," I finish lamely, though nice doesn't cover the longing that wells up at the idea. "Really nice, actually."

Cole reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a blue bandana that's soft with age and use. Before I can ask what he's doing, he's dabbing gently at my forehead, wiping away perspiration I hadn't realized was there. The gesture is so tender, so careful, that my throat closes up.

"If you're feeling dizzy or overheated, you need to tell me," he says, still patting carefully at my temples. "We can sit for a bit, get you something cold to drink."

"Like ice cream?" The joke slips out before I can stop it, an attempt to lighten the moment before I do something embarrassing like cry over a simple kindness.

Cole's hand stills, and when I look up at him, his gray eyes have darkened to storm clouds. His gaze drops deliberately to my chest, lingering on the way my tank top clings in the heat, and his voice drops to a rumble that vibrates through me.

"I wouldn't mind ice cream. Especially if I could be a bit... explorative with it."

The image that flashes through my mind—Cole's mouth, ice cream, sensitive skin—makes heat flood my face and pool low in my belly.

"Cole!" I hiss, glancing around frantically to make sure no one heard. "You can't say things like that in public!"

His chuckle is dark chocolate and whiskey, smooth and intoxicating.

"So you did catch what I was implying. Interesting."

"Oh my god." I slap his chest, mortified but unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips. "Shh! People will hear!"

"Let them." But he's grinning now, boyish and pleased with himself for flustering me. "Not my fault you have a dirty mind, James."

"I do not have a—you're the one who—" I sputter, face burning hotter than the morning sun. "You're impossible."

"And you're adorable when you blush." He tucks the bandana back in his pocket, fingers lingering against the denim in a way that draws my attention to his hands.

Strong, capable hands that could probably⁠—

"Of course, it wouldn't take you long to move on to some old rugged douche to get a roof over your head."

The voice cuts through our moment like a blade through silk, and every muscle in my body locks tight.

I know that voice.

Know it the way prey knows the sound of a predator's footfall—bone-deep, instinctive, wrong.

My spine goes rigid, every nerve ending screaming danger as I turn with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.

Because that's what this moment feels like—something that could explode and take everything good I've built here with it.

Blake stands twenty feet away, positioned strategically in front of the Sweetwater Inn—the same hotel that turned me away that first night. He looks exactly the same and completely different. Same sandy brown hair styled with too much product, same calculating blue eyes that never quite warm even when he smiles.

But the suit is new, expensive in that understated way that screams money, and his shoes shine despite the dusty street.

He's lost weight too, honed himself into something sharper, more dangerous.

My body responds before my mind can catch up. Emotions—panic, fury, bone-deep exhaustion—surge up like flood water, and I do the only thing I can: I slam them all down, lock them away behind walls I built during countless Iron Ridge pack meetings.

My face goes carefully blank, voice emerging steady despite the earthquake in my chest.

"What are you doing here, Blake?"

He steps closer, and I catch his scent—cedar and musk, that Alpha smell that used to make me feel safe and now makes my skin crawl.

"Well hello to you too, wife." The emphasis on the last word is deliberate, cruel. "Though I suppose that's ex-wife now, isn't it? Amazing how quickly some people move on."

"I asked you a question."

His smile is all teeth, no warmth.

"Business, actually. Funny thing happened after our divorce. Some interesting discrepancies came to light about undisclosed assets. Imagine my surprise when Iron Ridge's forensic accountants discovered your dear grandfather had quite the portfolio. Properties, investments, mineral rights." He gestures at the town around us with obvious disgust. "So here I am, come to assess what this shithole might be worth."

"The town's not for sale," Cole says, and I'd almost forgotten he was there, my focus so narrowed on the threat in front of me.

He moves smoothly, positioning himself between Blake and me with a casualness that doesn't hide the tension in his shoulders.

Blake's attention shifts to Cole, and his smirk deepens.

"And you are?"

"Someone who doesn't appreciate outsiders insulting our home." Cole's voice carries that particular Alpha edge that promises violence, controlled but present. "If Sweetwater Falls is too 'dirty' for your prestigious touch, I'd suggest you leave. The town doesn't take kindly to disrespect."

"The town?" Blake laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "This place is a dump. Half the buildings need condemning, the streets are barely paved, and it smells like cow shit and desperation." He takes another step forward, chest puffing out in that way insecure Alphas do when challenged. "But money is money, even if it comes from dirty sources. Iron Ridge needs capital for our new ventures, and every penny counts."

"Then count them somewhere else."

Blake's eyes narrow.

"You going to make me, old man?"

The insult hangs in the air like a challenge. Cole doesn't rise to it, just stands there solid as a mountain, immovable. The morning sun casts harsh shadows across Blake's face, highlighting the cruel twist of his mouth as he turns his attention back to me.

"I see you've found yourself another protector, Willa. Though really, scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren't you? First that pathetic pack in Nevada who the government allows Omegas to “borrow” so you get your shit and be out of anyone’s way, and now some washed-up rancher who probably can't even get it up anymore." His voice drops, becoming conversational in that way that always preceded his worst cruelties. "Does he know how disappointing you are in bed? How you just lie there like a dead fish? I tried to train you properly, God knows, but some Omegas just don't have it in them."

The words hit like physical punches in the depths of my gut, each one precisely aimed at old wounds.

To dare say that publicly — boldly in hopes someone in this small town will pick it up and spread it like wildfire — only proves just how much this man hated me.

Despised my existence that was only in his favor when it blessed his and his pack’s pockets…

My cheeks burn with humiliation as several townspeople slow their steps, pretending not to listen while obviously hanging on every word.

Mrs. Henderson from the post office.

Jim from the hardware store.

The teenage Johnson twins who help at their family's feed mill.

All witnessing my degradation, Blake's clinical dissection of my failures as an Omega.

"Personally," Blake continues, warming to his theme, "I think this old dog just wants some young pussy and doesn't care about quality. Can't blame him—at your age, Cole, you take what you can get. Even if she's not really good in bed."

The silence that follows is deafening.

I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stand there while my past strips me bare in front of the whole town.

My hands shake, and I clench them into fists, nails biting crescents into my palms.

Then Cole chuckles.

Cole…laughing?

It feels like a phenomenon that will lead to the end of the world as we know it.

It's not the reaction anyone expects, least of all Blake, whose eyebrows climb toward his hairline.

The sound is rich and genuinely amused, like Blake's just told the best joke he's heard all week.

"Not good in bed?" Cole shakes his head, still grinning. "Son, that's where you're wrong. See, the thing about Willa is she rides cock like a woman possessed. Like a maddening bull at the rodeo, all wild energy and sweet desperation." His voice drops to a rumble that carries clearly in the morning air. "Course, you probably never experienced that. Takes a real Alpha to bring out that side of her."

My mouth falls open.

Blood rushes to my face so fast I feel dizzy.

Did Cole just—in front of everyone⁠—

"And let me tell you," Cole continues, apparently just getting started, "I'm counting down the days until the paperwork's final. Because when it is?" His eyes glitter with dark promise. "I'm going to enjoy every second of her tight pussy taking every inch of my knot. Going to fill her up so good she forgets any other Alpha ever touched her, let alone her own name."

Blake's face goes through a series of expressions—shock, fury, disbelief—before settling on defensive rage.

"You're lying."

"Am I?" Cole's smile is all predator now. "Guess you'll never know. But I will. Every night once she's officially ours. Going to worship that body you were too stupid to appreciate, going to make her scream so loud the whole ranch hears it." He pauses, letting that sink in. "Speaking of the ranch—that's private property. You set one foot on our land, try to sniff around our business, and I'll have you arrested for trespassing. The new chief in town would enjoy that. We're real particular about unwanted visitors."

"You can't⁠—"

"I can and I will." Cole's done playing now, voice going hard as granite. "Sheriffs in these parts take property rights seriously. And they take threats to our Omegas even more seriously."

Blake shifts tactics with the ease of long practice, expression morphing into concerned sincerity.

It's a look I know well—the one he used on judges, on pack members, on anyone he needed to manipulate.

"I'm just worried about her mental state," he says, voice dripping false concern. "This whole divorce has clearly been traumatic. Made her... unstable. I mean, look at her—running off to the middle of nowhere, shacking up with the first pack that'll have her? Classic signs of a psychotic break."

"My sanity is fine," I manage through gritted teeth.

"Is it?" Blake tilts his head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting lab specimen. "Because stable Omegas don't usually flee to backwater towns and spread their legs for every Alpha who shows interest. That's not normal behavior, Willa. That's someone in crisis."

"The only crisis here," Cole drawls, "is you thinking you have any say in her life anymore. My pack adores her. Values her. Sees her worth in ways you never could. So if you're done pretending to care about an Omega you tried to burn alive, I suggest you move along."

The words hang in the air like a bomb.

It’s like a virus in the air—contagion igniting before my words even finish echoing. "Burn alive?" ricochets in and out of doorways. There’s a pause in the rhythm of Sweetwater’s morning: Mrs. Henderson’s step falters, her hand stalling mid-latch at the post office door; Jim frowns so hard the veins bulge at his temples, then barks at a stack of fertilizer sacks like it’s their fault he just heard what he did; a knot of teens near the feed mill scatter and regroup, faces slack with disbelief, one of them already typing, thumbs blurring. The whole main street is suddenly a waterlogged wire for every unspoken suspicion about why I left Iron Ridge and whether the rumors about Blake’s last Omega had been true after all.

Blake senses the shift too. The easy dominion in his stance wavers as the people he aimed to cow with his words now level their gazes at him, faces hardening with a familiar small-town anger reserved for those who think themselves above consequence. For a split second, he looks less like the untouchable predator I remember and more like the cornered animal that he is—a flicker of panic behind slicked-back confidence.

Cole doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just lets the words settle, lets the crowd’s absorbing silence do the damage. It’s a master class in Alpha intimidation, the kind that doesn’t need fists or howling threats—just the truth, delivered for maximum effect, left to fester in the open air.

Blake's mask slips for just a second, showing something ugly underneath, before he catches himself.

"I have no idea what you're implying," he says smoothly. "The fire was an accident. The investigation⁠—"

"The investigation was bullshit and everyone knows it." Cole's voice could strip paint. "Now get out of my sight before I forget I'm a civilized man."

The warm arm that slides around my waist from behind surprises me—I swear these men have a sixth sense for when I need them— because even before I see the glint of his sunglasses, I know that scent—smoke and cinnamon, the afterburn of fireworks in a snowstorm, and just enough danger to electrify the air. Mavi doesn't stride into scenes; he seeps in, invisible until the exact second his presence will cause maximum disruption or comfort. It’s like the molecules in the space behind me realign to make room for him, and then there he is—lean, loose, and coiled with tension that doesn’t show in his voice, only in the way he fits himself to my back, arms braced on either side of my hips.

There's no preamble, no warning. One instant I'm alone in my humiliation, and the next, Maverick's body has bracketed mine, his heat and his scent a wall I can hide behind. He doesn't exactly grab me—he doesn't have to, because the proximity is possession enough. His chin comes to rest just beside my ear, breath warm on my neck, and suddenly every nerve ending in my body lights up. The people on the street see it too, the way he wraps me in, yes, casual but absolute claim, and I feel it: how the focus of the crowd pivots from Blake’s public evisceration to this sharp, intimate counterclaim. The town absorbs spectacle like sugar water, and Maverick’s the hummingbird at the feeder—drawn to drama, but always the fastest, brightest thing in the room.

Blake’s face contorts, disgust sharpening to something like incredulity. The onlookers are silent, but their attention is a living thing, pulsing between the men who want to own the narrative of Willa James. For one second I worry that Mavi is about to escalate everything past the point of no return, but then he does what only Maverick Cross would do: he leans in just enough for the gesture to be unmistakable, then flashes a lazy, dangerous grin that says he’s enjoying himself and doesn’t give a damn who’s watching. The message is clear—your move, asshole.

It should be mortifying, and maybe part of me is, but the bigger part is relief. His touch steadies me, grounds the chaos in my head. I can breathe again. My entire body, which had been locked in fight-or-splinter mode, starts to recalibrate itself around the steady, sparking line of his arm and the long, slow exhale of his presence. God, I missed this—the way Mavi can seize control of a disaster just by refusing to let it matter, by acting like it’s already over and he’s the one who won.

I expect him to speak, to throw a barb that will cut Blake to the bone, but instead he goes for something far more devastating: softness. He lets his lips skim the shell of my ear, a whisper of contact that makes my knees buckle, and in that fraction of a moment the whole town might as well not exist.

"Morning, beautiful," he murmurs against my ear, and I can hear the smile in his voice even as his arm tightens, pulling me back against his chest. "Miss me?"

Before I can answer—or even think fast enough—he spins me in his arms and his mouth crashes down on mine.

This isn't a greeting kiss.

This isn't even a regular kiss.

This is a claiming, pure and simple, designed to send a message to every Alpha in a three-block radius.

His tongue slides against mine with devastating skill, one hand tangling in my hair while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise. He kisses like he's trying to crawl inside me, like he's been starving for the taste of me, like Blake and Cole and the whole damn town don't exist.

My body betrays me completely.

A moan escapes—soft, needy, absolutely mortifying—and my hands come up to clutch at his shoulders for balance. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon, that dangerous edge always lurking beneath his careful control now unleashed for public consumption. His teeth catch my bottom lip, tugging gently, and another sound breaks free that I'll be embarrassed about for the next decade.

When he finally pulls back, I'm breathing like I've run a marathon.

My lips feel swollen, probably look it too, and I can taste him on my tongue.

The world spins lazily, all my blood apparently having relocated south, and I have to blink several times before his face comes into focus.

He's grinning, the bastard.

Green eyes bright with satisfaction as his thumb traces my bottom lip, spreading the moisture he left there.

"Good morning to me," he says, voice pitched to carry. "How'd the budget review go? You save us millions yet?"

My brain is completely static. Blake is standing ten feet away, looking like someone hit him with a cattle prod, Cole's trying not to laugh, half the town is staring, and Mavi's asking about budgets like he didn't just stake a claim more effectively than any formal announcement could.

"I—what?" I manage, still clinging to his shoulders.

"The hay purchase." His hand slides lower on my back, fingertips tracing patterns that make me shiver. "Cole texted that you found us a better supplier."

"Oh. Yes. Johnson's Feed Mill." The words come out breathy, disconnected. I'm still processing the kiss, the audience, the way my body won't stop humming. "We could save... um... money."

"Brilliant." He shifts his attention over my shoulder, and his entire demeanor changes.

Still relaxed, still touching me, but there's something predatory in the set of his shoulders now.

"Who's this?"

I follow his gaze to Blake, who's recovered enough to sneer.

"Her ex-husband. You must be another one of her replacement Alphas."

"Replacement implies someone needed replacing." Mavi's voice stays light, conversational, but his hand on my back presses harder, keeping me close. "From what I hear, you were more like a placeholder. Training wheels she outgrew."

"Why you⁠—"

"No one important," I interrupt, desperate to end this before it escalates further.

I turn in Mavi's arms, looking up at him through my lashes in a move I learned watching other Omegas but never had the courage to try.

"Can we go? I'm hungry."

The puppy eyes are apparently effective.

Mavi's ears turn pink—actually pink—and he swallows hard.

"Yeah. Yes. Food. We can do food."

I feel like he’s not thinking about food at all.

"Mavi," I say his name soft and sweet, playing up the omega-in-distress angle. It feels manipulative but also strangely powerful, using these tools I've always been denied.

That does it.

His protective instincts flare hot enough to scorch, and before I can process what's happening, he bends and scoops me up into his arms.

I squeal—actually squeal like some romance novel heroine—as he lifts me effortlessly, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back.

"Mavi! Put me down!"

"Nope." He starts walking toward where I assume he parked, carrying me like I weigh nothing. "You're hungry. I'm fixing that. Cole!" He calls over his shoulder. "Hurry the fuck up or I'm having her in the car."

The crude implication makes me bury my burning face in his neck, but I can hear snickers from the growing crowd of onlookers.

This is worse than Blake's insults somehow—not cruel but overwhelming, too much attention for entirely different reasons.

Cole's voice carries clearly as we move away.

"Harrison. Last warning. Stay away from our property, our town, and our Omega. Next time I won't be so polite about it."

I peek over Mavi's shoulder in time to see Blake standing alone on the sidewalk, looking smaller somehow. Diminished. The expensive suit can't hide what he really is—a pathetic man who needs to tear others down to feel big. The townspeople are already turning away, dismissing him as unimportant, and that casual rejection probably stings worse than any threat.

"Stop looking at him," Mavi orders softly. "He doesn't deserve your attention."

He's right.

I turn my face back into his neck, breathing in his scent—smoke and cinnamon and something uniquely Mavi that makes me feel safe despite the chaos of the last ten minutes.

His truck is parked crooked outside the hardware store, like he abandoned it in a hurry when he spotted us.

"I can walk," I protest as he fumbles for his keys one-handed.

"I know." He manages to get the passenger door open without putting me down, then carefully sets me on the seat. His hands linger on my waist, thumbs stroking over my ribs. "Doesn't mean you have to."

Cole appears as Mavi's rounding the truck, tossing him a set of keys I recognize as belonging to the ranch truck. "I'll drive the feed back. You take care of her."

They share one of those silent communication moments all the pack seems capable of, entire conversations in a single look.

Then Cole's heading back to the feed store and Mavi's sliding behind the wheel, the engine already rumbling to life.

We drive in silence for several blocks. I can feel Mavi's glances, quick checks to gauge my emotional state, but I keep my eyes on the passing buildings. The adrenaline's wearing off, leaving behind a complicated mix of emotions I can't sort through.

"You okay?" he finally asks as we hit the edge of town.

"I don't know." It's honest at least. "That was... a lot."

"Blake's an asshole."

"Not just Blake." I turn to look at him, taking in his profile—the sharp jaw, the intense focus he brings to everything, even driving. "The whole thing. Cole saying those things about... about us. You kissing me like that in front of everyone. Carrying me like some—I don't know, like property or something."

His hands tighten on the wheel. "You're not property."

"I know. But it felt like..." I struggle for words. "Like you were marking territory. Both of you. Using me to make a point to Blake."

Mavi's quiet for long enough that I think he won't answer.

Then he signals and pulls off onto a scenic overlook, the town spread below us like a child's toy set. He puts the truck in park but doesn't turn off the engine, just sits there staring at the view.

"You're right," he says finally. "Part of it was about Blake. Showing him he has no power here, no claim on you. That he lost something precious through his own cruelty." He turns to face me fully. "But mostly? Mostly, I kissed you because I've wanted to since the moment you walked into our kitchen. Because you looked like you needed someone to stand between you and him. Because the thought of him talking to you, breathing the same air as you, made me want to commit violence."

The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest tight.

"Mavi..."

"I shouldn't have done it like that. In public, without asking, using you to prove a point." His green eyes are serious now, all playfulness gone. "I'm sorry if I made you feel like property. You're not. You're—" He stops, jaw working. "You're ours to protect, not own. There's a difference."

"Is there?" The question comes out smaller than intended.

"Yes." He reaches over, fingers gentle as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Property doesn't get choices. You do. Always. Even if every instinct in my body screams to lock you away where men like Blake can never hurt you again, you get to choose."

I think about that as we sit in comfortable silence, the town going about its business below us.

About choices and protection, about the difference between being claimed and being valued.

How these men keep offering me things I didn't know I was allowed to want.

"Thank you," I say eventually. "For showing up when you did. For getting me out of there."

"Always," he says simply, like it's that easy. Like protecting me is as natural as breathing.

"And Mavi?" I wait until he looks at me. "Next time you want to kiss me senseless in public? Maybe warn me first so I can at least put on lip gloss."

His laugh is bright and surprised, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

"Deal. Though for the record? You don't need lip gloss. You're perfect exactly as you are."

The warmth that blooms in my chest has nothing to do with the morning sun and everything to do with the way these men keep teaching me I'm worth more than I ever believed.

It's terrifying and exhilarating and completely overwhelming.

But as Mavi pulls back onto the road, humming off-key to whatever's playing on the radio, I think maybe overwhelming isn't always bad.

It just another word to prove I’m alive and allowing myself to live a cowardice life to please the world.

Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part One

~MAVERICK~

The restaurant's neon sign flickers to life just as I pull into the back corner of the parking lot, choosing the spot furthest from the other cars where shadows pool thick between the dumpsters and delivery trucks.

My fingers tap against the steering wheel—a nervous habit I thought I'd broken years ago—as I shift the truck into park and let the engine idle, the vibration a steady thrum beneath us that should wake anyone who wasn't completely exhausted.

"You hungry?" I ask, already reaching for my wallet in the center console. "They've got decent steaks here, or we could grab something quick and⁠—"

Silence.

I turn to look at her, and the words die in my throat.

Willa's fast asleep, her head tilted forward at an angle that's going to murder her neck if she stays like that much longer.

The evening light slanting through the windshield turns her hair into something between copper and gold, but it also highlights things I should have noticed before—the dark circles under her eyes, purple-blue like old bruises, the way her cheekbones seem sharper than they did even yesterday.

How long has she been running on empty?

Her lips are slightly parted, breath coming in soft, even waves that fog the window beside her. One hand rests in her lap, fingers curled loose like a child's, while the other clutches the door handle like even in sleep she needs an escape route. The silk of that borrowed dress—still wrinkled from Austin's rodeo adventures—rides up her thighs, and I force my eyes away from the exposed skin, focusing instead on the concerning pallor beneath her freckles.

"Willa," I whisper, reaching over to gently adjust her head. My fingers barely graze her jaw before her head drops forward again, chin nearly touching her chest. "Come on, sweetheart. You're gonna hate yourself if you sleep like that."

I try again, cupping the back of her neck this time, thumb brushing the baby-soft hair at her nape. Her skin is warm, pulse steady beneath my touch, but she's dead to the world. Her head lolls back for a moment before gravity wins again, pulling her forward into that same uncomfortable position.

"Stubborn even when you're unconscious," I mutter, though there's no heat in it.

The third attempt is equally futile.

She's like a rag doll, all her usual tension dissolved in sleep, leaving her boneless and pliant in a way that makes something protective and fierce rise in my chest.

This isn't normal tired—this is bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that comes from running on adrenaline and anxiety for too long.

"Alright, different approach."

I unbuckle my seatbelt and shift sideways in my seat, creating a space against my shoulder. Moving slowly, carefully, I slide one arm behind her back and use the other to guide her toward me. She makes a small sound of protest—something between a whimper and a sigh—but doesn't wake as I ease her across the center console until her head finds my shoulder.

"There we go," I breathe, adjusting her position until she's tucked against my side, her temple pressed to the junction of my neck and shoulder. "That's better."

She mutters something in her sleep—words that might be "too bright" or "so tired" or nothing coherent at all—and then she does something that stops my heart for a full second. She takes a deep breath, the kind that expands her whole chest, and I feel the exact moment my scent registers even through her unconsciousness.

Her entire body relaxes, melting against me like I'm the safest thing in her world, and she lets out this long, satisfied exhale that sounds like relief personified.

"'M safe," she mumbles, words slurred with sleep. "Mavi's here."

Christ.

I sit there frozen, her trust a physical weight against my chest, and realize I'm smiling. Not smirking or grinning or any of my usual calculated expressions—actually smiling like some lovesick teenager. When's the last time that happened? When was the last time anything made me feel this... soft?

Her breathing evens out again, deep and slow, the rhythm of someone who won't be waking anytime soon. I should move her, should drive us home where she can sleep properly in an actual bed. Should do a lot of things that don't involve sitting in a restaurant parking lot, holding her while she drools slightly on my shirt.

But I don't move. Can't move. Because this—her weight against me, her absolute faith that I'll keep her safe even in sleep—is everything I've been trying not to want.

It's also terrifying as hell.

I'm not a man who acts on impulse.

Everything I do is calculated, measured, weighed against potential outcomes and escape routes. It's how I've survived this long, how I've kept the people I care about safe.

But today?

Today, I saw Blake Harrison's smug face and lost every ounce of that careful control.

Kissed Willa in front of half the town like some possessive asshole, carried her to my truck like she was mine to claim.

The same wild, reactive energy that made me break protocol all those years ago.

My free hand clenches into a fist against my thigh, the phantom weight of command settling over my shoulders like a burial shroud. Different situation, same fundamental flaw—when someone I'm supposed to protect is threatened, all my training goes out the window.

All that careful control shatters like spun glass, leaving nothing but raw instinct and the driving need to save them, consequences be damned.

And look how well that worked out last time.

The memory comes without warning, triggered by something as simple as the way Willa's breath catches—just for a second, a tiny hitch that sounds too much like smoke inhalation, like lungs fighting for clean air that isn't there.

Suddenly, I'm not in my truck anymore.

I'm standing in the briefing room five years ago, tactical gear heavy on my shoulders, listening to Chief Morrison explain why we shouldn't be going into the Riverside Apartments at all.

"Building's been condemned for three months," he's saying, pointing at blueprints that show a structure held together by prayer and rust. "City was supposed to demolish it last week, but red tape, budget constraints, you know the drill."

But there's a fire. There are people inside. That's all that matters.

The smell hits first—not woodsmoke but the chemical reek of burning insulation, melting plastic, synthetic carpets turned to toxic soup. My team moves through the ground floor in practiced formation, each room checked and cleared with military precision. Second floor's already fully involved, flames licking through gaps in the ceiling, but the thermal imaging shows heat signatures on the third floor.

"Building's not gonna hold," Rodriguez says through the radio, and he's right. I can hear it in the way the structure groans, feel it in how the floor shifts beneath our boots. Every instinct screams to pull back, follow protocol, wait for the aerial ladder.

Then I hear it. Crying. Thin and high and terrified.

"There's a kid up there."

The words taste like ash in my mouth, both then and now. Willa shifts against my shoulder, mumbling something about horses, and I force myself to breathe through the phantom smoke that isn't there. My hand finds her hair, fingers threading through the tangled strands, anchoring myself in the present even as the past drags me under.

"Protocol says we wait," Chen had argued, ever the voice of reason. "Structure's compromised. We go up there, we might not come back."

But the crying gets louder, more desperate, and I'm already moving. "Protocol didn't account for a fucking child. Rodriguez, Chen, with me. Everyone else, establish a water curtain at the stairwell."

The third floor is hell. Visibility zero, heat so intense it feels like my gear is melting onto my skin. We move by touch and instinct, following the sound of terror through a maze of smoke and flame. I find her in a back bedroom—maybe four years old, curled in a closet, clutching a stuffed elephant like a lifeline.

"Hey, sweetheart," I remember saying, trying to keep my voice calm despite the ceiling starting to buckle above us. "We're gonna get you out of here."

She couldn't have weighed more than forty pounds. I cradled her against my chest, her face buried in my shoulder to protect her from the smoke, and gave the order that haunts me still: "Straight line exit, no deviations. Move!"

We made it halfway.

The collapse started in the northeast corner—a grinding, shrieking protest of metal and wood giving way. The floor beneath Chen disappeared first, just vanished like a magic trick, taking him down to the inferno below before any of us could react. Rodriguez tried to grab him, overbalanced, and followed him down. The chain reaction rippled outward, supports failing in sequence, and I had a split second to choose: follow protocol and try to save my team, or get the child out.

I ran.

Made it to the stairwell just as the third floor ceased to exist, rode the collapse down two stories on a prayer and adrenaline, somehow keeping the kid safe in my arms. She lived. Smoke inhalation, minor burns, but she lived.

Chen and Rodriguez didn't.

"You did what any of us would have done," Captain Morris told me later, after the funerals, after the investigations, after the sleepless nights replaying every second. "That building should have been demolished. No one could have predicted a catastrophic failure like that."

But I knew better.

I'd felt the weakness in the structure, heard the warnings in every groan and crack. I'd made a command decision that saved one life and cost two others, and no amount of rationalization changes that math.

Willa makes another small sound, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. The gesture is unconscious, trusting, and it brings me crashing back to the present—to this truck, this parking lot, this woman who's depending on me to keep her safe.

Just like my team depended on me.

The parallel is a knife between my ribs.

Once again, I'm in a position of protection. Once again, I'm letting emotion override logic—kissing her in public, claiming her like some caveman, making decisions based on what feels right instead of what's tactically sound. The way she responded to Blake, the fear in her eyes, it triggered the same protective instinct that made me charge up those stairs.

And we all know how that ended.

I look down at her sleeping face, peaceful despite the exhaustion written in every line, and feel that familiar weight settling on my shoulders.

She trusts me. They all do—Cole, River, Austin. They trust me to be smart, to think three steps ahead, to keep everyone safe.

But what happens when keeping her safe requires the kind of choices that got my team killed?

What happens when protecting her means breaking all my rules?

My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I'm grateful for the distraction from this spiral of guilt and what-ifs.

Careful not to wake her, I fish it out one-handed, squinting at the screen in the growing dusk.

The past might be carved in stone and blood, but the present is still mine to shape. And right now, the present is Willa warm against my side, trusting me even in sleep, needing the kind of care that has nothing to do with tactical decisions and everything to do with being human.

Maybe that's the lesson I never learned from that night—sometimes the right choice isn't about protocol or logic or minimizing casualties. Sometimes it's about recognizing that certain people are worth any risk, any consequence, any amount of carefully maintained control shattered on the altar of keeping them safe.

I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of honey and exhaustion and something uniquely Willa, and make a promise to ghosts who probably aren't listening:

This time, I'll get it right. This time, I'll save everyone.

Even if it means saving them from myself.

I angle the phone screen away from Willa's face, dimming the brightness with one thumb while using my pinky to steady it—a maneuver I've perfected during too many late-night stakeouts where light discipline meant the difference between success and blown cover.

Cole's name flashes on the screen, followed by a string of messages that started ten minutes ago.

Cole: You coming home? Just pulled in with the feed

Cole: Austin said you left with Willa

Cole: If that fucker Blake followed you I swear to god

Cole: Mav answer your fucking phone

I can practically hear the growl in that last text.

My thumb moves across the screen, typing one-handed while my other arm stays wrapped around Willa, keeping her secure against my shoulder.

Me: Relax mother hen. We're fine. Stopping for dinner but she's out cold

The three dots appear immediately—Cole was waiting for my response.

Cole: Let her sleep. Our Girl hasn't been getting proper rest

*

Me: How do you know that?

Cole:

Because I have fucking eyes? Also, she told me those Iron Ridge douches didn't teach her anything about nesting. Can you believe that shit?

I frown, the expression pulling at my face as I glance down at Willa.

Now that Cole mentions it, the signs are obvious.

Beyond the dark circles, there's a hollow quality to her cheeks I hadn't noticed before, the kind that comes from running on caffeine and stubbornness instead of actual rest.

Her breathing hitches again—not quite a snore but close—and she burrows deeper into my shoulder like she's trying to crawl inside my skin.

The angle of light from the setting sun highlights things I missed earlier: the way her fingers twitch in her sleep, restless even in exhaustion.

When the faint tension in her shoulders doesn't fully release, even when unconscious. The way she's clutching my shirt now, fabric twisted in her grip like I might disappear if she lets go.

**Me**: Jesus. How long has she been like this?

Cole: My guess? Years. That kind of bone-deep tired doesn't happen overnight

Me: What are you doing about it?

Cole:

What do you think? We're setting up the best damn nest in all of Sweetwater Falls

The mental image of Cole—gruff, practical Cole—arranging pillows and blankets makes me bite back a laugh that would definitely wake Willa. He's probably standing in the middle of her room right now, hands on his hips, surveying his work like it's a tactical operation.

Which, knowing Cole, it probably is.

Me: Better add extra of my shit or I'm conning all of you

Cole: Already raided your closet. That green henley you never wear? It's hers now

Me: The fuck it is. That's my favorite shirt

Cole: You literally haven't touched it in six months

Me: Because it's my FAVORITE. You don't wear your favorites, you save them

Cole: face with rolling eyes

Cole: Just exhaust her and bring her home late. We need time to finish

The suggestion hangs there, loaded with possibility.

Exhaust her.

My mind immediately goes places it shouldn't—flashes of all the ways I could tire her out, make her sleep the deep, satisfied sleep of someone thoroughly taken care of.

The kind of exhaustion that comes from pleasure, not anxiety.

Me: And if I don't bring her home at all?

Cole: Then you better have a damn good explanation

Me: Your approval is all the explanation I need smiling face with halo

Cole: Do NOT use that angel emoji when we both know you're thinking with your dick

Me: Who says I'm thinking with my dick? Maybe I'm being a gentleman

Cole: You carried her out of town like a caveman and kissed her in front of god and everyone. Real gentlemanly

Me: She needed it

Cole: She needed YOU to stake a claim in front of her ex?

I consider that for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Did she need it? Or did I need it?

The line got blurry the moment Blake opened his mouth, the moment I saw her shoulders hunch like she was trying to become smaller. Everything after that was pure instinct.

Me: She needed to see someone choose her. Publicly. Proudly.

The dots appear and disappear several times, like Cole's writing and deleting responses.

Finally:

Cole: Yeah. She did.

Cole: Doesn't mean you get to keep her out all night

Me: If I did, that's on you for giving permission

Cole: I did NOT give permission

Me: "Exhaust her" sounds like permission to me

Cole: Exhaust her with FOOD. And TALKING. Jesus Christ

Me: Sure. We'll go with that

Cole: Maverick, I swear to god

Me: What? I'm agreeing with you. Food and talking. Very exhausting.

Cole: Go fuck yourself

The response comes so fast I know he's getting flustered, which only makes this more fun.

Cole's easy to rile when it comes to Willa—all that protective instinct wrapped up in propriety he doesn't actually feel.

Me: Maybe I will. Have Willa join in on the fucking

Cole: I'm going to murder you

Me: With what? Your disapproving glare?

Cole: With my bare fucking hands

Me: Kinky. Does River know about this side of you?

Cole: middle fingermiddle fingermiddle finger

Me: Triple birds? I'm honored

Cole: Just... take care of her, okay? She looked rough earlier. Seeing Blake fucked her up more than she let on

The abrupt shift to sincerity catches me off guard.

That's Cole—all jokes and crude banter until something actually matters, then he's the most earnest bastard you'll ever meet.

It's one of the reasons I trust him…why we all do.

Under all that gruff exterior is someone who'd bleed himself dry for the people he loves.

Me: I've got her

Cole: I know you do

Me: Nest better be fucking amazing when we get there

Cole: It will be. Austin's supervising. You know how he gets about comfort

Me: Like a mother hen with OCD

Cole: Exactly. Luna's already claimed one corner. We're building around her

The image makes me smile against Willa's hair.

Luna, tiny and determined, planted in the middle of what will be Willa's space. Austin, fussing over thread counts and pillow arrangements. River, probably contributing some obscure technical solution to optimize scent distribution. Cole, grumbling but secretly loving every minute of taking care of someone.

This is what we do.

What we are.

A pack of broken pieces that somehow fit together, each of us carrying damage we don't talk about but show in how fiercely we protect what's ours.

And Willa—whether she knows it or not—is ours now.

Me: Give me two hours

Cole: Mav...

Me*: To feed her. Christ you have a dirty mind

Cole: Says the man who just offered to fuck himself

Me: Only if Willa helps

Cole: I'm muting this conversation

Me: Sure you are. See you in two hours. Three if traffic's bad

Cole: There IS no traffic

Me*: Might be. You never know

Cole: MAVERICK

I chuckle low in my throat, the sound vibrating through my chest where Willa's pressed against me. She stirs slightly, murmuring something that sounds like "tickles," before settling again. The simple trust in that—the way she doesn't wake, doesn't startle, just accepts my presence as safe—does something complicated to my insides.

These men, this makeshift family we've built, they're everything. And now there's Willa, fitting into our chaos like she was always meant to be there, filling spaces we didn't know were empty. The nest they're building is just the physical manifestation of what we're all trying to offer—a safe place to rest, to heal, to be herself without fear or judgment.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Cole: Hey. Meant to say earlier - good job with Blake. Asshole needed to see what he lost

Me: He didn't lose her. He threw her away. Different thing entirely

Cole: His loss. Our gain.

Me: Damn right

I set the phone aside, letting the conversation end on that note of shared understanding.

Two hours. I can give them two hours to create something perfect for her, something that might help ease the exhaustion carved into her bones.

But first, I'm going to sit here a little longer, holding her while she sleeps, being the anchor she seems to need. It's a small thing, maybe, but sometimes the small things matter most.

Just being chosen, being held, being protected is enough to start healing wounds that run soul-deep.

I set the phone face-down on the dashboard, the screen's fading light taking with it the warmth of pack banter, leaving just me and the woman sleeping against my shoulder and the decisions that come with protecting what's mine.

The parking lot has grown darker while we've been sitting here, other cars coming and going, families heading in for early dinners, couples holding hands as they navigate the uneven asphalt.

Normal people living normal lives, unaware of the small drama playing out in a dusty truck in the back corner. Willa's breath puffs against my neck, warm and steady, and I find myself matching my breathing to hers without conscious thought.

There's something about her like this—unguarded, trusting, all her sharp edges softened by sleep—that makes my chest tight with an emotion I don't want to name. She looks younger without the weight of consciousness pulling at her features. Vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I have roar to life.

I lean down slowly, careful not to jostle her, and press my lips to her forehead. The kiss is feather-light, barely there, but her skin is warm and tastes faintly of salt from the day's exertions. She smells like honey and hay and something uniquely her—a scent I'm already addicted to, that my hindbrain has catalogued as 'safe' and 'home' and 'protect at all costs.'

"Rest," I whisper against her skin, the words barely voiced. "Let your Alphas handle everything."

The promise comes out without thought, natural as breathing, and that should terrify me. Your Alphas. Like it's already decided, like she's already ours, like the careful boundaries I maintain are just tissue paper waiting to burn. But the words feel right in a way that bypasses logic and goes straight to instinct.

She sighs in her sleep, turning her face into my neck, and her lips brush against my pulse point. The contact is accidental, unconscious, but it sends electricity racing down my spine anyway. My arm tightens around her automatically, holding her closer, and I have to close my eyes against the surge of want that threatens to overwhelm common sense.

This is new territory for me.

Not the desire—I'm familiar with that, know how to compartmentalize it, use it, set it aside when needed.

But this tenderness?

This gentle ache that makes me want to wrap her in bubble wrap and simultaneously worship every inch of her?

That's uncharted ground, and I don't have a map for navigating it.

Another minute passes, maybe two, just breathing her in and marveling at how someone who's been through so much can still trust so completely.

Then, with movements careful enough to disarm a bomb, I retrieve my phone again.

This time, though, I'm not looking for messages.

I tap through screens with practiced efficiency, past encrypted folders and hidden apps, until I find what I'm looking for. Blake Harrison's photo fills the screen—a professional headshot from Iron Ridge's website, all artificial smile and calculating eyes. He's wearing one of those ridiculous Alpha power suits, navy blue with a blood-red tie, styled like he thinks he's running for office instead of managing a pack of abusive assholes.

I study the image with the same clinical detachment I once used to analyze targets. High forehead—arrogant, likes to think he's the smartest person in the room. Weak chin hidden by careful grooming—compensating, always needs to prove his dominance. Eyes set too close together, showing a narrow worldview, inability to see beyond his own needs. The smile doesn't reach those eyes, never has in any photo I've found. Sociopathic tendencies, potentially narcissistic personality disorder.

My thumb swipes across the screen, pulling up more photos. Blake at pack gatherings, Blake at business meetings, Blake with his arm around Willa in what should be a loving photo but instead looks like possession. In every image, she's smaller, dimmed, trying to take up less space while he spreads out like he owns the world.

The cold thing that lives in my chest—the part that made me good at my job, that let me hunt predators through legal loopholes and back alleys—unfurls like smoke.

I know men like Blake Harrison.

Have put dozens of them in the ground or behind bars, depending on what the law allowed. They're all the same underneath the expensive suits and practiced smiles: hollow creatures who feed on others' pain, who break beautiful things because they can't stand not being the brightest light in the room.

But Blake made a critical error.

He didn't just hurt someone—he hurt her.

He touched what's ours, left marks on her soul that might never fully fade, and now he's stupid enough to show up in our territory acting like he still has rights to her air.

My free hand flexes against my thigh, muscle memory from years of specialized training.

I know seventeen ways to kill a man without leaving forensic evidence. Know how to make someone disappear so thoroughly their own mother wouldn't find them. Know which pressure points cause maximum pain with minimal visible damage, how to break someone down psychologically until they're begging for physical pain instead.

All skills I've carefully leashed since leaving that life behind. But for Blake? For the man who locked Willa in a burning building and then had the audacity to blame her for it?

The leash feels awfully thin.

Willa stirs against me, making a soft sound that pulls me back from the edge of that particular darkness. Right. She needs tenderness now, not the predator I keep caged.

That'll come later, when she's safe at home in the nest Cole's building, when I can slip away and do what needs doing without her ever knowing the specifics.

Because that's the thing about being both protector and weapon—you have to know when to be which.

Right now, she needs the man who'll hold her while she sleeps, who'll whisper promises in the dark and mean them. But Blake? Blake's going to meet the other version, the one who earned a reputation in certain circles for being very, very good at making problems disappear.

I pull up a different app, one that looks like a standard weather program but opens into something far more useful.

Contact lists. Safe houses. People who owe me favors.

Resources accumulated over years of operating in the gray spaces between legal and necessary.

Blake Harrison thinks he can waltz into our town, threaten our Omega, and walk away unscathed.

He thinks that expensive suit and Iron Ridge's money make him untouchable. Assumes Willa has no one to protect her, no one who'd go to war for her safety.

He's about to learn exactly how wrong he is.

"Let the haunt begin," I murmur, the words a promise to the universe and a warning to anyone stupid enough to threaten what's mine.

The thing about ghosts is they don't always stay buried.

Rarely… they come back, seeking justice or vengeance or just to make sure old debts get paid.

Blake's about to discover that some ghosts have teeth, and some haunts end in blood.

For now, I have a woman to take care of, a promise to keep about dinner, and a pack waiting at home with what better be the world's most comfortable nest.

The hunt can wait a few more hours.

After all, anticipation makes the kill so much sweeter.

Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part Two

~WILLA~

The slide through my hair, gentle and repetitive, and for a moment I can't remember where I am.

The motion is soothing, almost hypnotic, pulling me up from the depths of sleep like a fisherman's patient line. My body feels heavy, weighted down by the kind of exhaustion that comes from finally, finally letting go.

When did I last sleep like this? Deep and dreamless, without jerking awake every hour convinced I smell smoke?

I keep my eyes closed, trying to piece together the fragments.

Feed store.

Blake's cruel words.

Cole's protective fury.

Mavi carrying me like I weighed nothing, kissing me like he had every right to⁠—

Oh. Oh no.

My eyes snap open to find the truck's console staring back at me, and for ten long seconds I just blink at it, brain refusing to process why I'm looking at cup holders and gear shifts instead of my bedroom ceiling.

The world tilts as understanding crashes in: I'm still in Mavi's truck.

Still wearing my clothes from this morning that probably smells like a barn floor.

Still using Mavi's shoulder as a pillow, apparently, because that's definitely his scent surrounding me—smoke and cinnamon and that edge of danger that should probably worry me more than it does.

How long have I been asleep?

The light outside has shifted, gone golden and soft in that way that means late afternoon is sliding toward evening. Hours, then. I've been unconscious against him for hours, probably drooling on his shirt like some kind of disaster human, while he just... what?

Sat there? Let me use him as furniture?

"You awake?" His voice is quiet, careful not to startle, but I feel it rumble through his chest where I'm pressed against him.

"You fell pretty hard asleep. Didn't want to wake you."

I should move.

Should sit up properly, apologize for treating him like a human pillow, create some appropriate distance between us.

Instead, I find myself tilting my head just slightly, still resting against his shoulder because it's warm and solid and I'm greedy for this feeling of safety I'd forgotten existed. Through my lashes, I can see his phone in his free hand, thumb moving across the screen with practiced ease.

I expect to see security footage, maybe. Email about background checks or surveillance equipment or whatever mysterious things occupy an ex-arson investigator's time.

What I absolutely do not expect is the cheerful cascade of candy combinations, the triumphant music that plays when he clears a level, the way his brow furrows in concentration as he studies the colorful grid.

"Is that..." I blink harder, sure I'm still dreaming. "Candy Crush?"

The thumb stills.

I watch a muscle in his jaw twitch, see the way his lips fight not to curve upward.

There's a glint in his green eyes when he glances down at me, playful and almost sheepish, so at odds with his usual intensity that my chest does something complicated.

"I'm gonna be the next champion, watch." He says it with such false seriousness that I can't help the laugh that bubbles up, surprising us both.

"Candy Crush," I repeat, because my brain still can't reconcile this image—Maverick Cross, all sharp edges and calculated moves, playing the most mundane mobile game in existence. "You. Playing Candy Crush."

"It's strategic," he defends, but his ears are turning pink. "Requires planning, pattern recognition, resource management⁠—"

"It's matching candy." The giggle escapes before I can stop it, and then I'm truly laughing, the kind that makes my whole body shake. "Oh my god, you're actually trying to justify—Mavi, it's Candy Crush!"

"And I'm very good at it," he says with wounded dignity, but he's fighting a smile now too, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Level 847, I'll have you know."

"Eight hundred—" I have to press my face into his shoulder to muffle my laughter. "How long have you been playing?"

"A while." He's definitely blushing now, and it's possibly the most endearing thing I've ever seen. This man who probably knows a dozen ways to kill someone with a paperclip, reduced to embarrassment over a mobile game addiction.

My laughter finally subsides into occasional giggles, and I realize I'm still pressed against him, probably overstaying my welcome in his personal space. But when I start to shift away, his arm comes around my shoulders, holding me gently in place.

"How'd you sleep?" The question is soft, loaded with genuine concern. "You were out cold for almost three hours."

Three hours.

I've been using him as a pillow for three hours, and he just... let me. The thought creates warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with physical temperature.

"Best sleep I've had in ages," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. "I usually can't—since the fire, I don't sleep well. Always waking up thinking I smell smoke, or that I'm trapped, or..." I trail off, not wanting to dump my trauma on him.

"Cole mentioned you've never nested." His tone is carefully neutral, but I can feel the tension in his shoulder where my head still rests. "That Iron Ridge never taught you about it."

The familiar shame creeps up my spine. Another basic Omega thing I'm supposed to know but don't. "I haven't, no. Guess I didn't realize it was a bad thing that would catch up to me." I try for casual, like this massive gap in my education doesn't bother me. "I'll look into it when we get back, see what I need and if it fits the budget⁠—"

"Whoa." He shifts to look at me properly, eyebrow arched in a way that makes my stomach flip. "When it comes to you, everything fits in the budget. In fact," his voice drops, goes serious in a way that brooks no argument, "there is no budget when it comes to you."

Heat floods my cheeks.

"Mavi, you can't just⁠—"

"I can and I will." His fingers find my hair again, gentle but possessive. "We take care of what's ours, Willa. That includes making sure you have everything you need to feel safe and actually rest."

Ours.

The word sits between us, heavy with implication. I should protest, should establish boundaries, should do something other than melt under his touch like chocolate in the sun. Instead, I duck my head, overwhelmed by the casual declaration of care.

"Are you hungry?" He changes the subject smoothly, probably sensing my emotional overload. "There's a place⁠—"

"I'm fine," I say quickly, not wanting to impose more than I already have. "We should probably just head back⁠—"

My stomach chooses that moment to release a growl so loud it echoes in the truck's cabin. We both freeze, staring at my midsection like it's personally betrayed me. Which, honestly, it has.

"That," Mavi says slowly, "did not sound fine."

I groan, covering my face with my hands.

"My body has no sense of timing or loyalty."

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm.

"Restaurant we passed is closed by now, but there's this ice cream whisky bar that has the best chicken wings. If you're up for it?"

"Chicken wings?" The words come out almost reverent, and I peek at him through my fingers. "I don't even remember the last time I had actual wings."

"Then we're going." He's already reaching for the ignition, decision made. "Fair warning though—they're messy. Hope you don't mind getting your fingers dirty."

"Are you kidding? Eating wings with a fork and knife is..." I search for the right word, "diabolical. Absolutely diabolical. Some kind of crime against food."

He actually cringes at the thought, whole body shuddering.

"Who even does that?" Then he catches himself, rolling his eyes. "Never mind. We're not acknowledging that as a possibility. We ain't doing that shit, period."

I laugh again—when did I become someone who laughs so easily?—and start to shift upright. His arm tightens around my shoulders, keeping me in place.

"Rest a bit more," he says, starting the engine with his free hand. "Place is a little ways out. Twenty minutes, maybe."

"As long as you don't let me sleep for eternity," I bargain, already settling back against him. It's too easy, this surrender to comfort. Too tempting to just exist in this bubble where I'm allowed to be tired and taken care of.

"Deal." His thumb traces a pattern on my shoulder through the silk dress, and I close my eyes, not to sleep but just to feel. To memorize this moment of simple kindness, of being held without expectation or demand.

Twenty minutes.

I can give myself twenty more minutes of this before reality intrudes again. Twenty minutes of pretending this is my life now—men who play Candy Crush and declare me worth any budget, who let me drool on their shirts and feed me chicken wings. Who hold me like I'm precious instead of problematic.

Maybe I'm still dreaming. But if I am, I don't want to wake up just yet.

The giggle escapes before I can stop it, high and bright and absolutely ridiculous.

Everything seems hilarious right now—the way the bar lights fracture into starbursts, how Mavi's eyebrow does that thing where it climbs toward his hairline, the fact that I just knocked back my third shot like it was apple juice instead of something that tastes like smoke and bad decisions.

"Handle alcohol my ass." Mavi shakes his head, but I can see him fighting amusement. His eyes track my movements like I might topple off the barstool at any moment, which is insulting and probably accurate. "You said you could pace yourself."

"I totally can!" I insist, then have to grab the bar when the world tilts slightly. "And you're just jealous because I ate your ice cream fair and square."

"Fair and square?" He leans back, arms crossing over his chest in a way that makes his shirt stretch interesting across his shoulders. Not that I'm noticing. Much. "You cheated."

"How?" I demand, offended on behalf of my definitely-legitimate ice cream victory. "How does one cheat at ice cream bets?"

He points an accusing finger at my face.

"You gave me those damn puppy eyes. One look and it was over. Completely unfair advantage."

The information settles into my tipsy brain like a gift.

"Awww," I draw out the word, batting my lashes dramatically. "My eyes are your weakness? Interesting."

He groans, dropping his head into his hands.

"I should not have told you that."

"Too late! Information absorbed and filed away for future use." I tap my temple, nearly poking myself in the eye. "Strategic intelligence gathered."

"You're a menace," he mutters, but he's smiling as he slides cash across the bar. More cash than necessary, I notice, even through my pleasant whisky haze.

The bartender—a mountain of a man with kind eyes and salt-and-pepper beard—grins as he collects the bills.

"You two need anything else? Water for the lady, maybe?"

"Water's for quitters," I announce, then immediately reconsider. "Actually, water sounds nice. Room temperature though. Not cold. Cold water is aggressive."

Both men stare at me.

I stare back, wondering why this is controversial.

"Room temperature water and the check," Mavi says finally. He leans in closer to the bartender, voice dropping. "And if you tell Cole about any of this, I'm shutting this whole establishment down."

The bartender laughs, deep and rumbling.

"Your secret's safe with me, Cross. Though if you need to crash, suite upstairs is empty tonight. On the house."

"Appreciate it." Mavi glances at me as I attempt to drink water with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. "Might take you up on that, considering there's no way I'm driving with this disaster."

"Disaster?" I set the water down with exaggerated care. "Who's the disaster? You?" I gesture at myself with both hands, nearly knocking over my glass. "Because I'm too sexy of a package to be close to a reckoning."

The words make perfect sense in my head.

Out loud, apparently not so much, because Mavi starts choking on nothing, coughing and sputtering while his ears go that pink color I'm beginning to recognize as his tell.

"What does that even mean?" he manages between coughs.

"It means," I say with great dignity, "that I'm very attractive and therefore cannot be disastrous. It's basic math."

"That's not how math works."

"That's how girl math works."

He stares at me for a long moment, something soft and incredulous in his expression.

Then he's standing, shaking his head with resigned fondness.

"Alright, we're going. Up you get."

"I can walk," I insist, sliding off the barstool with complete confidence. My legs have other ideas, going wobbly like a newborn colt's. "Mostly."

"Nope." Before I can process what's happening, he's bending down and scooping me up, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back. "Not dealing with you face-planting on these stairs."

"This is kidnapping," I inform him, but I'm already wrapping my arms around his neck because the world is spinning and he's very solid. "Alpha kidnapping. That's probably double illegal."

"You can file a complaint in the morning." He nods to the bartender and heads for a door marked 'Private' that leads to a narrow staircase. "Right now, you're going upstairs without breaking your neck."

I consider protesting more, but being carried is actually nice. His shirt smells like him—smoke and cinnamon and that particular scent that makes my hindbrain purr with contentment. So instead of fighting, I occupy myself with lightly kicking my legs, watching my feet move through the air like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.

"You're being very still," he observes as we reach the top of the stairs. "That's concerning."

"I'm being have," I correct, then frown. "I'm behaving. Being have. Having been good."

"Sure you are." He manages to open the suite door while still holding me, which is impressive. The room is clean and basic—queen bed with white linens, small seating area, everything in shades of beige and brown. "Bathroom's through there."

He sets me down carefully, hands lingering on my waist until he's sure I'm steady.

The room only spins a little, which I count as a victory.

"Go pee," he instructs, gently steering me toward the bathroom. "And whatever else you need to do so you can sleep."

"You're very bossy," I inform him, but I'm already heading for the bathroom because he's right and I do need to pee. "Bossy Alpha with your carrying and your instructions and your stupid pretty eyes."

"My eyes are stupid?"

"Stupidly pretty. It's different." I wave him away from the bathroom door. "Go away now. I need privacy for human things."

He shakes his head, but he's smiling as he steps back.

"I'll be right here. Don't fall in."

"I'm not that drunk," I protest, closing the door with as much dignity as I can muster.

The bathroom is blessedly normal—white tile, clean towels, no spinning. I handle my business, wash my hands twice because I forget I already did it the first time, and catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Oh boo.

My dress is wrinkled beyond salvation, there's a suspicious stain near the hem that might be barbecue sauce from those wings, and I smell like a combination of bar, truck, and desperation.

When did I become this person? This messy, giggly disaster who gets carried up stairs and admits out loud that her Alpha has pretty eyes?

"Shower," I decide, already struggling with the dress zipper. "Quick shower, then sleep, then tomorrow I'll be mortified like a proper person."

The dress puddles on the floor, followed by everything else. The water is perfect—not too hot, not cold, just right for washing away the film of the day. I use the complimentary shampoo that smells like nothing, scrub myself pink with the tiny bar of soap, and feel marginally more human by the time I shut off the water.

That's when I realize my crucial error.

"Towel," I mutter, staring at the rack where one lonely hand towel hangs. "Where are the body towels?"

I check the cabinet under the sink, behind the door, even the shower itself in case I missed them. Nothing. Just the one tiny towel that might dry approximately one arm if I'm lucky.

"Okay. Okay, it's fine." I use the hand towel to get the worst of the water, then crack the door open. "Mavi? Slight problem."

"What's wrong?" His voice is closer than expected, like he's been hovering.

"No towels. But it's fine! I'll just..." I trail off, realizing I have no end to that sentence.

Air dry? Put the dirty dress back on? Hide in the bathroom forever?

Before I can decide, survival instincts take over.

I dart out of the bathroom, making a beeline for where I remember seeing the bed. If I can just get under the covers⁠—

"Jesus Christ, Willa!"

I freeze mid-stride, suddenly very aware that I'm completely naked and dripping water on the carpet.

Mavi has his back to me, one hand over his eyes for good measure, his whole body rigid with tension.

"I'm trying to dry off!" I defend, hands attempting to cover things that definitely need more than hands to cover. "It's a process!"

"You're gonna slip and break something," he says through gritted teeth. Without looking, he reaches for something on the chair—his flannel from earlier—and holds it out behind him. "Put this on before you hurt yourself."

I scurry forward and snatch the shirt, pulling it over my head gratefully. It falls to mid-thigh, soft and warm and smelling so strongly of him that my knees go weak for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.

"Is it safe?" he asks, still facing away.

"Define safe," I mutter, but louder I say, "Yes, I'm decent. Ish."

He turns slowly, like I might be lying, and something flashes across his face when he sees me drowning in his shirt.

His jaw works, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Better," he manages. "Now go sit on the bed like a good girl before you find more trouble."

The words shoot straight through me, making me shiver.

"Yes, Alpha," I say, and I definitely don't mean for it to come out so breathy, don't mean to look up at him through my lashes like that.

He groans, running a hand through his hair. "You're gonna be the death of me, woman."

But there's fondness mixed with the exasperation, warmth beneath the frustration. I climb onto the bed, tucking my legs under me, feeling oddly proud of myself for reasons I can't quite articulate.

Maybe it's the whisky or it's the way he looks at me like I'm driving him crazy in the best way.

It's just nice to be someone worth going crazy over.

He approaches the bed with the measured steps of someone approaching a wild animal, or maybe a bomb—something dangerous and unpredictable that might explode if handled wrong. His eyes never leave mine, green gone dark in the low light of the single lamp.

Every step closer makes my heart beat faster, makes the shirt feel thinner, makes me hyperaware of how much skin is bare beneath the soft flannel.

"You going to sleep like a good Omega?" His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear the strain underneath, the way he's holding himself back.

I pout, an exaggerated expression that I've never let myself make before—too childish, too manipulative, too Omega. But here, now, with whisky courage and his shirt warm against my skin, I let my lower lip push out, eyes going wide and pleading.

"Not tired anymore," I say, and it's true. Every nerve is singing, every cell suddenly, brilliantly awake. I tilt my head, looking up at him through my lashes, giving him those eyes I've discovered are his weakness. "Don't want to sleep."

His hands clench at his sides, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Willa." My name comes out like a warning, like a prayer. "If you keep looking at me like that..."

"What?" I challenge, pupils dilating further, making my eyes go soft and wanting. "What will happen?"

"I'm going to have to see how you look with my cock deep in your mouth." The words are rough, stripped of any pretense or gentleness.

Raw want bleeding through his careful control.

Instead of shocking me, instead of making me pull back, the crude promise sends heat flooding through my body. I've been good for so long, careful and controlled and everything a proper Omega should be. But proper got me locked in a burning building. Proper got me a pack that saw me as property.

Could it be time to be improper.

I let my smile curve slow and deliberate, maintaining eye contact as I deliberately make my eyes go even softer, even more pleading.

"What if that's what I want?"

He breaks.

One moment he's standing there fighting himself, the next his hands are framing my face and his mouth crashes into mine. This isn't like the possessive kiss in front of Blake—this is desperation distilled into action. His lips are demanding, tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that steals my breath.

I moan into his mouth, hands coming up to fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.

"This side of you," he pants against my lips, "is super fucking effective."

Then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, one hand tangling in my still-damp hair while the other grips my hip through the shirt. I can taste the whisky on his tongue, feel the way his control frays with every sound I make. When he nips at my lower lip, I gasp, and he takes advantage, licking into my mouth like he's trying to devour me whole.

My hands find their way under his shirt, palms flat against his abs, feeling the way his muscles tense under my touch.

He's so warm, so solid, and when I rake my nails lightly down his stomach, he groans into my mouth.

"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at me. His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing. "You're going to wreck me."

"Good," I whisper, and then I'm sliding off the bed, dropping to my knees in front of him.

His whole body goes rigid. "Willa⁠—"

"Shh." I look up at him through my lashes, hands already working at his belt. "Want to taste you. Want to see if you lose control when I use my mouth for something other than talking."

"Jesus fucking Christ." His hands hover near my head, not quite touching, like he's afraid to influence my choices. "You don't have to⁠—"

"I want to." The belt comes free, and I work his jeans open with fingers that only shake a little. "Been thinking about it. How you'd feel, how you'd taste, what sounds you'd make."

His cock springs free when I pull his boxers down, already hard and leaking. He's bigger than I expected, thick enough to make my mouth water with anticipation and just a hint of nerves. But the way he's looking at me—like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once—gives me courage.

I lean forward, maintaining eye contact as I run my tongue along the underside from base to tip. His whole body shudders, a broken sound escaping his throat.

Encouraged, I do it again, slower this time, learning the shape of him, the way his breath catches when I flick my tongue over the sensitive head.

"Those fucking eyes," he groans, one hand finally coming to rest gently in my hair. "You have any idea what you look like right now?"

I hum in question, then take him into my mouth, just the tip at first, swirling my tongue around the crown.

His hips jerk forward involuntarily before he catches himself, muttering an apology.

"Don't apologize," I pull back to say, voice already rough. "Want you to feel good. Want you to show me how you like it."

His control cracks a little more. The hand in my hair tightens, not forcing but guiding, and I follow his lead eagerly. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my hand to work what doesn't fit. Every groan, every curse, every time his thighs tense under my free hand sends heat pooling between my legs.

I look up at him again, those same puppy eyes that apparently destroy his resistance, and deliberately take him as deep as I can. The stretch makes my eyes water, but the sound he makes—desperate and wrecked—is worth it.

"Fuck, fuck, Willa—" His hips start moving in tiny thrusts, careful not to choke me but unable to stay still. "So good, so fucking perfect, those goddamn eyes⁠—"

I hum around him, the vibration making him curse creatively.

My jaw aches but I don't care, too lost in the power of reducing him to this—trembling and swearing and looking at me like I'm simultaneously salvation and damnation.

His movements get more erratic, breathing harsh.

"Gonna—fuck, need to⁠—"

I pull back just enough to speak, lips still brushing his cock.

"Want it. Want to taste you."

That's all it takes. He comes with a shout that's probably too loud for a hotel, hips stuttering as I swallow around him, taking everything he gives. His hand in my hair gentles, petting me through the aftershocks, whispering praise that makes me preen.

"Come here," he demands once his breathing steadies, pulling me to my feet. "Need to⁠—"

Whatever he needs gets lost as he kisses me again, deep and filthy, tasting himself on my tongue. His hands are everywhere—pushing the shirt up, gripping my thighs, spreading me open. When his fingers find how wet I am, we both groan.

"This what I do to you?" He backs me toward the bed, fingers sliding through my folds with devastating skill. "Get you this desperate just from sucking my cock?"

"Yes," I gasp, beyond shame or pretense. "Please, Mavi, need⁠—"

He doesn't hesitate—not when he crawls onto the bed, not when he gathers me up like I'm both heavier and lighter than air, not when he wrenches my thighs apart in his hands with a kind of brute gentleness that makes my heart trip over itself.

"I know what you need," he growls, but the words are honeyed, promise and threat braided together. His hands brand my hips, and when he looks down at me, his pupils are blown so wide the green is just a ring of wildfire. "Gonna give you everything, sweetheart. Gonna make you forget every Alpha who didn't worship you properly."

I want to make some smartass quip about how he's laying it on thick, but I can't, because then he's all the way on top of me—body caging mine, one strong hand at the back of my neck, the other dragging slow up my thigh to hook my knee high around his waist.

He grinds against me, bare and hot, heavy cock dragging through my slick folds until I'm arching into him, shameless. He lines himself up, the head nudging right where I need it, and pauses.

"Tell me you want this," he says, voice raw and unsteady, forehead pressed to mine. "Tell me to stop and I will."

I stare at him, struck dumb for a second by the contradiction—the absolute dominance in the way he's holding me down, the total deference in his eyes. I lick my lips, taste the salt and the honesty, and tell him, "Don't stop. Not unless you want to find out how loud I can get."

That does it. He laughs, shaky, and then the laugh dies in his throat when he pushes inside me in one smooth, relentless stroke.

It feels like being filled for the first time, like every time before this was just a practice run, like my body was only ever waiting for this exact moment to be truly, completely used.

He's thick, stretching me open, and it's that sweet ache between pain and pleasure that I forgot was possible. My hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails digging in, desperate for an anchor. He curses, the sound guttural and low, and rocks forward, sinking the last inch until our hips are flush and I swear I can feel him everywhere.

He doesn't move right away. Just watches me—really watches, like he's cataloguing every twist of my face, every shuddering breath, every little noise. His hand at my nape rubs slow circles, grounding me, and I realize I'm trembling.

"Still breathing, Omega?" There's a smile tugging at his mouth, but it's soft, worried. "Didn't mean to blow your circuits this fast."

I bite my lip, clench around him just to see what he'll do, and he hisses through his teeth, grip tightening on my thigh. "You cocky bastard," I manage, and it comes out as a moan. "Move. Please."

Permission granted, he pulls back and thrusts in again, this time harder, deeper, like he's trying to erase the gap between us. My body bows off the mattress, chasing him, wanting more. Every thrust is a slow-motion collision, relentless and perfect, grinding right against the places that make me see sparks. The rhythm is ruthless, but his hand never leaves my neck, fingers massaging gently, a strange counterpoint to the rough snap of his hips.

He buries his face in my hair, breathing in the scent and exhaling it back against my ear. "Fuck, Willa, you take me so good," he murmurs, voice half-dazed. "So fucking good for me."

The praise turns everything sharp and bright, and I whimper, rolling my hips up to meet him, greedy for every inch. He gives it, matches me thrust for thrust, each one getting harder, faster, until the bed frame slams against the wall in time with my pulse.

I'm loud. I know it and can't help it, each moan and gasp uncensored, unashamed, echoing off the cheap wood paneling. I want the whole damn town to hear, want every ghost of every Alpha who ever doubted me to listen, because this is what it feels like to be worshipped.

He’s getting close—I can feel it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his hand knots tight in my hair, the ragged edge to his breathing. He slips a hand between us, finding my clit with ruthless efficiency, circling it in time with his thrusts. The sensation is white-hot, searing through me, and I tumble over the edge so fast it rips the sound from my throat.

I come hard, full-body, clawing at his shoulders as everything clenches and convulses around him. He follows with a shudder, holding my gaze as he buries himself one final, brutal time and comes with a noise that’s half growl, half gasp, all surrender.

He collapses over me, careful not to crush, but refusing to let me go. For a minute all I can hear is our breathing, tangled together, until he lifts his head and brushes a sweaty strand of hair from my face.

"You good?" he asks, a little sheepish now, like he's uncertain.

I laugh, because it's ridiculous—because I feel better, more alive, more present in my body than I have in years. "I'm amazing," I tell him, and mean it. "You?"

He grins, sharp canines and all, and gives my thigh a proprietary squeeze. "I’m gonna be sore in the morning, but worth it."

"Alpha," I tease, voice lazy with afterglow, "you going soft on me?"

His eyes flicker, heat kindling again despite everything. "Never," he promises, shifting to kiss me slow and sweet, like he’s got all the time in the world.

The stretch burns perfect, just the right side of too much, and when he starts moving I can only hold on and let him take me apart.

The rhythm he sets is deep and demanding, each thrust driving me higher. His mouth finds my neck, sucking marks that will definitely show tomorrow, but I don't care. I want them, want evidence of this on my skin, want to look in the mirror and remember how it felt to be wanted this desperately.

"So tight," he groans against my throat. "So perfect. Take my cock so well, like you were made for it."

The praise makes me clench around him, drawing another curse from his lips. He shifts the angle, hitting something inside that makes me see stars, and I can't control the sounds spilling from my mouth—his name and please and incomprehensible syllables of pleasure.

My orgasm builds fast, that familiar tension coiling tighter with each thrust.

He must feel it because his hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy.

"That's it," he encourages, circling in tight, perfect movements. "Let go for me. Want to feel you come on my cock, want to watch you fall apart."

The combination of his words, his touch, the feeling of being filled so completely—it's too much. I shatter with a cry that he swallows with another kiss, my body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash through me.

He doesn’t let up, not even a fraction, not for the trembling in my limbs or the strangled way I gasp his name through the aftershocks. He fucks me straight through it, through the wild twitch of every muscle and the disbelieving, animal noise that claws up my throat. Oversensitivity hits like floodlights—every thrust ricochets inside me, sharp as lightning, sweet as agony, melting my bones and shattering any last sense of control. My hands fly to his chest, not to push him away but to hold on, like if I could dig deep enough I might anchor to the center of the earth itself.

Each time he slides in, the fullness feels impossible, and the relief when he pulls out is a knife-edge—sharp, short-lived, and replaced instantly by the desperate want to have him back inside. My thighs quake with the effort to stay open for him, but his body never lets me close up; his weight, his hands, the solid press of him everywhere holds me wide and helpless.

He watches the wreckage he’s made of me with this greedy, nerveless smile, the kind you’d see on an addict at the moment of overdose. The rhythm he pounds out is unforgiving, a deep relentless piston from hips that know exactly what they’re doing, and he mutters my name like a curse, like a prayer, like a thing that will keep him tethered to this world if he only says it enough.

“Fuck, baby, look at you,” he rasps, voice frayed with awe, with hunger, with something close to reverence. “Didn’t know you could get tighter, Christ⁠—”

Each time my body clenches, he groans, then rears back and slams in harder, like he’s chasing some secret within me. My vision goes white at the edges, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes—not from pain, not really, but from the exquisite violence of being taken apart and put back together over and over. I’m crying and laughing and begging wordlessly, and maybe he wants that, maybe that’s the whole point, because when I start to sob in earnest, he cups my jaw and kisses the wetness away, whispering, “That’s it, Willa, that’s my girl, give it all to me.”

He never stops moving, never lets up, building the heat in my belly back to unbearable, feeding his own need with every desperate sound I make. It’s ruthless, and it’s mercy, and it’s the first time I’ve ever felt truly, beautifully wrecked.

"One more," he demands, never slowing his pace. "Give me one more, sweetheart."

I don't think I can, but his thumb is relentless and his cock hits that spot with every thrust and suddenly I'm coming again, harder this time, vision whiting out as my body convulses around him.

He follows me over the edge with a shudder so seismic it threatens to buckle the world beneath us, his whole body arching and then caving as he spills into me, each hot pulse its own aftershock. He presses in as deep as he can go, like there might be some secret place left in me to claim, and when the wave finally crests for him, it's with my name torn from his throat like a confession.

We’re fused together, every inch of me trembling, every cell greedy for the vanishing electricity. For a second, neither of us breathes. It’s just the relentless hammer of my pulse in my ears and the echo of his release, both of us straining for oxygen like we’ve run for miles, like we’re on the far side of something neither of us will ever be able to fully explain.

My legs feel welded around his hips, my arms numb and useless from clutching at his back, but I don’t want to let go. He doesn’t seem in a hurry, either—refuses to even ease out, choosing instead to cradle my head in his palm and run shivery, grounding passes over my scalp. His nose nuzzles my temple, his breath loud and uneven, every exhale damp and honest against my hairline.

“Fuck,” he whispers, but almost reverently, like he’s afraid the word might break the spell. He keeps his forehead pressed to mine, eyes shut tight, as if he’s trying to absorb the last of whatever just detonated between us. I listen to the scattered rhythm of his heartbeat, feel it slow from panic to surrender, feel his cock softening but still impossibly thick, keeping us joined.

I want to say something, make a joke about being hunted or marked or whatever power games we’re playing, but I can only make this raw, shaky sound that’s half laugh and half sob. The feeling is too tidal, too much. I never believed in anything like a mate bond—never wanted to—but now I’m drowning in this sense of being completely, irrevocably known. The world narrows to the points of contact: his fingers at my nape, our chests mashed together, the slick mess between my thighs, the way he murmurs my name again and again like he’s worried I’ll vanish if he stops.

We stay locked in that way for what could be seconds or centuries, body heat pooling under the sheets, all the little aches and bruises from before subsumed by this vast, ringing quiet. Every breath I draw tastes like home. Every time I blink I see his face, all the edges gone soft, mouth parted, eyes so vulnerable it almost hurts to look.

He holds me like I’m something precious, not a mess of broken pieces, not a problem to be solved. Just a girl in a stranger’s bed, pinned to the mattress by the weight of everything that just happened and unable—unwilling—to move.

At last, he lets his forehead fall to my shoulder, and for a moment his whole body sags, exhausted. He makes a little sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a moan, and then he lets out a breath that’s so purely relieved I want to bottle it and drink it every day for the rest of my life.

Slowly, almost apologetically, he slips out, careful not to jar me. The loss is so immediate, so total, I shudder and chase him instinctively, hips arching up in wordless protest. He hushes me with kisses, soft and slow, then rolls us onto our sides and tangles our legs together until there’s no telling where I end and he begins.

I’m still shaking, still floating, when he starts peppering my face with tiny, ridiculous kisses—my jaw, my cheekbone, the tip of my nose. Every press is gentle, reverent, and so at odds with the brutal way he just fucked me that it makes me start to cry all over again.

He notices, of course—he always notices. “Hey,” he says, thumb smoothing the tears away before they have a chance to fall. “You okay? Did I hurt you?” The question is so raw, so honest, I almost start laughing. Instead, I turn my face into his hand and just breathe him in, pine and leather and the ghost of sweat, and nod.

“No, you idiot,” I choke out, voice ruined from screaming. “You didn’t hurt me. You—fuck. You fixed me.”

His whole face transforms, a smile starting in his eyes before it reaches his lips. He kisses my forehead, then my eyelids, and I’m so full, so complete, I think I might burst from the pressure.

We lie there, cocooned in warmth and the smell of sex and a contentment so fierce it nearly scares me. I can’t remember the last time I felt safe. I can’t remember if I ever did, but in that moment, flat on my back with this impossible man wrapped around me, I know that I am.

My hands, still trembling from aftershocks, reach without thinking, guided not by intellect but the animal certainty of what he needs. He's still locked inside me, cock swollen at the base, so thick it feels like my body is built around it. The knot—it’s not just a word, it’s a living thing, pulsing at the threshold where we join, making every twitch and pulse a reminder that he is still claiming me, even as the rest of our bodies collapse. I wrap my palm around that bulge, fingers slick with the evidence of what we’ve made together, and squeeze gently, the way a memory once taught me, the way I dreamed someone might, someday, have the guts to want me this openly.

He lurches on top of me, the pressure dragging a desperate curse from his lips, but even more a sigh of gratitude too deep for words. I can feel the tension run through him, from shoulders to spine in a single tremor, and then his hand—still so steady, always so fucking steady—covers mine, guiding my rhythm, teaching me how to help him bear what his body demands. Every movement is a negotiation: his hips jerking into my grip, my thumb catching the slick ridge of the knot and drawing it out with slow, relentless circles. He buries his face in my neck, teeth just grazing but not breaking the skin, and I sense the fight in him, that paradox of Alpha restraint and wild hunger, his pulse as frantic as mine.

For a wild minute I wonder if it hurts, if this need of his is too much to even be bearable, but then he groans into my ear, a sound so raw and unguarded that it flays me open in turn. “Don’t stop,” he rasps, the words stretched thin with pleasure, “Just—fuck, just like that. Good girl.”

The phrase should insult but instead it floods me with pride so sharp I could bleed from it. I want to be good for him, want to help him through this, and the more he lets go, the more I feel the strange kinship of our ruin. There is something sacred about the shared collapse, how we’re both lost to it, how the act of caring for his need is somehow the way I claim my own. I grip harder, twist my wrist just slightly, a little mean, and he shudders so hard that his whole body bows over me, pinning me down with the weight of his surrender.

When the knot finally begins to ease, his body starts to shake in earnest—not with pain, but with a fierce, shaking afterglow that leaves him gasping. I stroke him gently, soft reassurance for both of us, until at last he loosens his grip and lets his forehead fall to mine. Our noses bump, eyes wet and blurry, and he lets out a broken laugh that tells me he’s still here, that I didn’t destroy him, not really.

I realize then how badly I wanted to be good at this, how much I needed to prove—to him, to myself—that I could meet and match this need and not be afraid of it. I lift my hand to his cheek, smearing sweat and tears in the process, and he just closes his eyes and leans into it. His knot is already shrinking, the connection in my grasp going soft and slippery, but the echoes of it keep me lit up wondering about the near future and when I’ll be able to take each of their knots and enjoy it all.

Finally he collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest.

I'm boneless, satisfied in a way I didn't know was possible, every nerve ending singing with completion.

His arms wrap around me, holding me close like I might disappear, and I burrow into his warmth gratefully.

"Still think you can handle alcohol?" he asks eventually, voice rough with satisfaction.

I laugh, the sound muffled against his chest.

"I think I handled everything just fine."

"More than fine," he agrees, pressing a kiss to my hair. "Fucking perfect."

And lying there in his arms, wearing his shirt and marked by his mouth, I almost believe him.

Twinkling Acceptance Of Us

~WILLA~

The ranch house swallows us in darkness and silence, a stark contrast to the hotel room we left behind with its tangled sheets and the echo of my cries still hanging in the air.

My bare feet whisper against the wooden floors, and I have to concentrate on each step because my body feels like it's been taken apart and reassembled by someone who lost the instruction manual halfway through. Everything aches in that delicious way that makes me want to both collapse and do it all over again.

A yawn cracks my jaw wide, the third one since we pulled into the driveway, and I lean heavily against the doorframe while Mavi locks up behind us. His flannel hangs to mid-thigh on me, soft and worn and carrying his scent so strongly I feel wrapped in him even though he's three feet away.

My dress is somewhere in his truck, probably crumpled beyond salvation, along with my dignity and any pretense that I'm not completely, utterly wrecked by what just happened.

"This is your fault," I mumble through another jaw-popping yawn, rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my hand. "Every bit of it."

Mavi huffs, a sound caught between amusement and indignation as he pockets his keys.

"You ain't blaming the alcohol but me. That's not nice." His voice carries that particular rough edge it gets when he's tired but trying to stay alert, probably from years of late-night surveillance or whatever mysterious things occupied his time before fate dumped me on his doorstep.

"The alcohol was also your fault," I point out, though the words come out slurred with exhaustion. "You bought it. You let me drink it. You..." Another yawn interrupts my litany of accusations. "You did things that made me very, very tired."

Even in the darkness, I can feel his smirk.

"Things, huh? That what we're calling it?"

Heat floods my cheeks despite my exhaustion.

"Shut up. I'm too tired to be embarrassed right now. Ask me again in the morning when my brain works."

His hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers threading through mine with a certainty that makes my chest tight.

"Come on, troublemaker. Let's get you to bed before you fall asleep standing up."

I shuffle along beside him, my body operating on muscle memory more than conscious thought.

The house wraps around us like a living thing, all creaking boards and settling wood, the particular silence that comes from multiple people sleeping under one roof. It's different from the aggressive quiet of Iron Ridge, where silence meant someone was angry or planning something. This is peaceful, protective, like the house itself is standing guard while its occupants rest.

My nose picks up the familiar scents as we move through the living room—Cole's leather and pine lingering on his favorite chair, the faint sweetness of the formula Austin mixed earlier for Luna, River's earthier scent clinging to the couch where he probably fell asleep watching one of those nature documentaries he pretends he doesn't love.

Each scent is a thread in the tapestry of this place, and I'm beginning to realize my own is weaving in among them, becoming part of the whole.

"Careful," Mavi murmurs, steering me around the coffee table I'd definitely have walked into. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, a absent gesture that sends warmth spreading up my arm. "Three more steps to the hallway."

I count them off in my head, one-two-three, like a child learning to walk.

Which isn't far from the truth—I'm learning to walk through this new life, to navigate spaces where I'm wanted rather than tolerated. My free hand trails along the wall, fingers finding the edge of picture frames I can't see but have memorized. Cole and River at some rodeo years ago. Austin's nursing school graduation. A candid shot of all four men with Luna that makes my heart squeeze every time I look at it.

"Do you think everyone's asleep?" I whisper, though I'm not sure why I'm whispering. Something about the darkness makes raised voices feel sacrilegious.

"Probably," Mavi answers just as quietly. "Cole passes out by eleven like clockwork. River might be up reading, but he uses those noise-canceling headphones. Austin..." He pauses, considering. "Actually, Austin's probably up with Luna. She's been fussy at night lately."

The mention of Luna sends an unexpected pang through my chest. I've been gone less than six hours, but I miss her weight in my arms, the way she smells like baby powder and innocence, how her tiny fingers curl around mine with absolute trust.

When did I become someone who misses a baby? Or thinks of this place, these people, as home?

"I miss her," I admit, the words surprising me with their truth. "Is that weird? Missing a baby I've known for less than a week?"

Mavi's hand tightens around mine.

"Not weird at all. She has that effect on people. Drew us all in, one by one, until we couldn't imagine life without her." His voice softens. "Kind of like someone else I know."

My throat closes up at the implication, at the easy way he includes me in their circle.

I want to say something, to acknowledge the gift of it, but another yawn steals my words. My eyelids feel weighted with lead, and I'm grateful for Mavi's steady presence guiding me through the darkness.

The hallway stretches before us, longer than I remember, or maybe that's just my exhaustion distorting distance.

Our joined hands swing slightly between us, and I'm struck by how natural this feels. Not the careful distance I maintained with Blake, always aware of boundaries and expectations. Just two people holding hands in the dark, one leading and one trusting enough to follow.

"Almost there," Mavi promises, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Think you can make it, or do I need to carry you again?"

"Don't you dare," I threaten without heat. "I've been carried enough for one day. My dignity can't take anymore."

"Your dignity seemed fine an hour ago when you were⁠—"

"Finishing that sentence will result in violence," I interrupt, though we both know I'm too tired to follow through on any threats. "Slow, calculated violence when I'm capable of movement again."

His chuckle vibrates through our joined hands, and I find myself smiling despite my exhaustion. This is what I missed all those years with Iron Ridge—this easy affection, the teasing that comes from fondness rather than cruelty, the simple pleasure of being guided through the dark by someone who actually cares if I stumble.

My bedroom door looms before us, and I prepare myself for the simple pleasure of falling face-first into my bed.

Just a few more steps, then blessed unconsciousness where I don't have to think about everything that's changed, everything I want, everything that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.

Mavi's hand on the doorknob pauses, and he turns to look at me in the darkness. I can barely make out his features, but I feel the weight of his gaze, the consideration in it.

"What?" I ask, swaying slightly on my feet.

"Nothing," he says after a moment, but his thumb makes another pass over my knuckles before he turns the handle. "Just... welcome home, Willa."

The words sink into my bones, settling next to all the other impossible things I'm beginning to believe might be true. Home. The concept feels foreign and perfect on my tongue, even if I don't say it out loud.

One day, when I'm brave enough to claim it.

The door swings open, and I have to blink several times because what I'm seeing doesn't compute with the simple bedroom I left this morning.

Soft fairy lights crisscross the ceiling like captured stars, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that makes the space feel like something out of a dream. My exhaustion evaporates in the face of pure shock, my mouth falling open as I try to process the transformation.

The room glows with warmth that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with care.

Where my simple bed used to be, there's now a massive cushioned area that takes up half the floor space, piled high with pillows and blankets in soft creams and pale blues.

Fresh flowers—wildflowers from the meadow behind the barn—fill mason jars on every surface, their sweet scent mixing with something else, something that makes my omega instincts purr with contentment. Plush toys peek out from between pillows, and is that—yes, that's definitely a stuffed bear wearing a tiny cowboy hat.

A baby's squeal cuts through my stupor, high and delighted, and my eyes fly to the source.

Austin stands near the window, Luna bouncing in his arms with her chubby hands reaching toward me like I'm her favorite toy come to life. She's in a onesie covered in little moons and stars, her mismatched eyes bright with excitement despite the late hour.

The sight of her, safe and happy and reaching for me, makes something crack open in my chest.

"There she is," Austin says, his smile soft and knowing as Luna continues her happy babbling. "Someone refused to sleep until you got home. I think you've been officially claimed, Willa."

My gaze sweeps the room, taking in details my overwhelmed brain initially missed.

River sits cross-legged on the floor near the cushioned area, his old acoustic guitar resting across his lap. His fingers are still poised over the strings like he was mid-song when we walked in. He offers me one of those gentle smiles that makes me feel seen in ways that should be uncomfortable but aren't.

"Hey, sunshine," he says, voice warm as honey. "Was just practicing that lullaby Luna likes. The one about the horses."

Movement in the corner catches my eye, and I have to bite back a laugh.

Cole is slumped in an oversized armchair that definitely wasn't here this morning, his head tilted back at what has to be an uncomfortable angle. He's snoring softly, the sound almost drowned out by Luna's continued excited squeaks. Even in sleep, he looks exhausted, shadows under his eyes and his clothes rumpled like he's been working non-stop.

"Of course the old man couldn't stay up. Pathetic." Mavi's groan is all fond exasperation as he guides me fully into the room, closing the door behind us with a soft click. "We've been home for two minutes and he's already failing at the grand reveal."

River rolls his eyes, the gesture so dramatic I can see it even in the soft lighting.

"He worked himself half to death setting all this up. Cut him some slack." His fingers absently pluck a few notes, the melody sweet and sleepy. "You should've seen him earlier—measuring everything twice, adjusting pillows like the fate of the world depended on perfect cushion placement. I've never seen anyone take nest building so seriously."

"He even made a diagram," Austin adds with a laugh that makes Luna giggle in response. "An actual diagram, Willa. With measurements and optimal scent distribution patterns. I think he might have used some of his old firefighting tactical planning."

The image of Cole, gruff and practical Cole, carefully diagramming pillow placement makes my throat tight with emotion I'm not prepared to handle. These men who barely know me, who have no obligation to care, spent their evening creating this space. For me. The girl who showed up on their doorstep like a stray cat, all sharp edges and trust issues.

"Got it all on video too," Austin continues, shifting Luna to one hip with practiced ease. "For the family memories. Figure Cole will want to see your reaction even if he couldn't stay awake for it." He grins, mischievous and boyish. "Plus, future blackmail material is always valuable."

"You're recording this?" I squeak, suddenly aware that I'm standing here in Mavi's flannel shirt and nothing else, hair probably a disaster, eyes red from exhaustion and other activities I don't want to think about with an audience.

"Just on my phone," Austin assures me. "Nothing fancy. Just... we don't get many firsts anymore, you know? First time seeing your nest seemed worth documenting."

My nest.

The words hit me like a physical blow, and I have to reach for the doorframe to steady myself. This isn't just a transformed room—it's a nest. Something I never had, never knew I needed, never thought I deserved.

I stand frozen in the doorway, my legs suddenly unable to remember how movement works. The fairy lights blur in my vision, and I realize with mounting horror that I'm about to cry. In front of everyone. My emotional regulation is shot to hell lately, walls I spent years building crumbling like tissue paper in the rain.

"What's this for?" The whisper escapes before I can stop it, small and vulnerable and nothing like the capable woman I try to project.

My voice cracks on the last word, and I have to swallow hard against the lump building in my throat.

The room goes quiet except for Cole's soft snores and Luna's happy burbling.

River's fingers still on the guitar strings, Austin's playful expression softens into something tender, and Mavi's hand finds the small of my back, warm through the flannel.

They're all looking at me with expressions I can't decode—or maybe I can, and that's what's making it hard to breathe.

"It's for you," River says simply, like that explains everything and nothing all at once.

The fairy lights catch on the glass jars, sending tiny rainbows across the walls. Every detail screams thoughtfulness—from the color scheme that matches my eyes to the way the pillows are arranged in a perfect circle, creating a cocoon of softness. There are blankets I recognize as belonging to each of them, their scents mingling into something that makes my omega instincts want to burrow in and never leave.

Someone cleared out an entire corner for what looks like a reading nook, complete with a small bookshelf already half-filled with worn paperbacks.

A silk robe hangs from a hook near the closet—not my ratty old one, but something new and beautiful in a shade of amber that probably cost more than I want to know. There's even a small electric kettle on the dresser, boxes of tea arranged beside it like soldiers.

"You did all this today?" My voice sounds strange, thick with unshed tears. "While I was gone?"

"Started planning it the moment Cole got back from town," Austin says, bouncing Luna gently when she starts to fuss. "He was like a man on a mission. Dragged us all into it, not that we minded."

"River contributed the flowers," Mavi adds, his thumb rubbing small circles on my back. "Austin handled the comfort items. I managed the lighting because apparently, I'm the only one who understands ambiance."

"And Cole?" I glance at the sleeping Alpha, noting the way his hand still loosely holds what looks like a pricing tag from one of the pillows.

"Cole did everything else," River says with quiet admiration. "Drove to three different stores for the right kind of cushions. Spent an hour arranging and rearranging until everything was perfect. Pretty sure he interviewed the sales staff about thread counts."

The tears win.

They spill over despite my best efforts, tracking hot down my cheeks as I stand there in the doorway of a room transformed by love I don't know how to accept.

Luna makes a distressed sound at my tears, reaching harder for me, and that breaks the spell holding me in place.

"It's a nest," Austin says gently, as if I might spook if he speaks too loud. "Cole told us that Iron Ridge never taught you about nesting, never let you have one. That's..." He pauses, jaw working like he's biting back words that want to be violent. "That's neglect, Willa. Criminal neglect. Every omega deserves a safe space to rest, to feel secure, to be surrounded by pack scents when they need comfort."

River nods, his dark eyes serious in the fairy light glow.

"The moment Cole told us, we knew we had to fix it. You've been running on empty, trying to sleep without the basic comfort your biology needs. No wonder you're exhausted all the time."

"But this is—" I gesture helplessly at the transformed room, at the obvious expense and effort. "This is too much. You didn't have to⁠—"

"Yes, we did." Mavi's voice brooks no argument, that Alpha edge creeping in. "You're ours to care for now. That means giving you everything you need, everything you should have had from the beginning."

Austin steps forward, and I finally give in to Luna's demands, reaching for her with shaking hands. She practically launches herself into my arms, immediately snuggling against the soft flannel with happy little sounds.

Her weight grounds me, familiar and perfect, and I have to bury my face in her dark hair to hide the way my shoulders shake with suppressed sobs.

"It's past your bedtime, star girl," I murmur, my voice thick with emotion as Luna giggles and rubs her head against my chest. She smells like baby shampoo and that particular sweet scent that's uniquely hers, with undertones of each of her fathers clinging to her onesie. "Way past. What are you doing up, hmm?"

"Waiting for you," Austin says softly. "She absolutely refused to sleep. I think she knew you were coming home. Babies are intuitive like that."

Luna makes a contented sound, her tiny fist catching the edge of the flannel and holding tight.

Already her eyes are drooping, the excitement of my arrival giving way to exhaustion now that she's where she wants to be.

River and Austin exchange one of those weighted looks that makes my stomach tighten with apprehension. There's more coming, something they need to tell me, and I can see them silently debating who should speak first.

"Cole told us," River finally says, each word careful and measured. "About Blake showing up today. About the things he said."

My body goes rigid, embarrassment flooding through me hot and sharp.

Of course Cole told them. They all know how Blake stripped me bare in the middle of town, announced my failures as an omega for everyone to hear. The fairy lights suddenly feel too bright, the room too warm, and I want to run but Luna's weight keeps me anchored.

"We ain't giving up on you," River continues, his voice gentle but firm as granite. "Whatever poison that man put in your head, whatever lies he told you about yourself—none of it's true. You hear me? None of it."

"River's right," Austin adds, moving closer until I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Blake's a pathetic excuse for an Alpha who wouldn't know how to care for an omega if someone gave him detailed instructions. Which, frankly, someone should have. Preferably with a two-by-four to the head."

The violent sentiment from gentle Austin startles a wet laugh out of me.

Luna stirs at the sound, making a sleepy protest before settling again. Her breathing is already evening out, tiny body going limp with approaching sleep.

"There's something else," Mavi says, and I watch as he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out an official-looking document folded in thirds. The paper looks crisp and new, some kind of government seal visible even from here. "We did something without asking you first. Normally I'd feel bad about that, but given the circumstances..."

"What is it?" My voice comes out smaller than intended, anxiety spiking despite the men's gentle demeanors.

He unfolds the paper with careful movements, like it's something precious.

"Our approved application to register as a pack. We filed it three days ago, the morning after you arrived."

The words don't compute.

I stare at the document in his hands, trying to make sense of what he's saying.

"You... what?"

"We've been tracking your ex-pack's movements," Mavi continues, his tone shifting into something more professional, the investigator showing through. "Blake's been making noise about contested assets, trying to find legal loopholes to challenge the divorce settlement. River has contacts in the legal system who've been keeping us informed. We knew he'd show up eventually, trying to stake some kind of claim."

My knees feel weak. I sink onto the edge of the massive cushioned area, careful not to jostle Luna.

"You've been tracking them?"

"Of course we have." River's voice carries a protective edge that makes my omega instincts purr despite my shock. "Did you think we'd just let you face them alone? After what they did to you?"

"But a pack registration—that's—" I can't finish the sentence. It's too big, too much, too everything.

"It's technically temporary until you sign to finalize it," Mavi explains, moving to crouch in front of me so we're at eye level. The document rests on his knee, innocent-looking for something that represents such a massive commitment. "But it's considered an engagement period, so no other Alpha can make a claim on you. It gives you legal protection while you decide if this is what you want."

"It also means Blake can go fuck himself," Austin adds with vicious satisfaction. "He shows up here again talking about claims and rights? We can have him arrested for harassment of a pack-bonded omega."

I stare at them, these three incredible men who've upended my entire world in less than a week.

"You guys did this for me?" The whisper barely makes it past the lump in my throat. "You filed pack paperwork, made yourself legally responsible for me, without even knowing if I'd want⁠—"

"You're our world in all aspects." They say it in unison, like they planned it, though knowing them it's probably just their pack bond making them synchronous. The words hit me like a physical blow, sending fresh tears cascading down my cheeks.

"Oh, sweetheart," River murmurs, reaching out to thumb away the tears. "Don't cry. This is supposed to be a good thing."

"They're good tears," I manage, hiccupping around the words. "I just—I never thought⁠—"

"We know," Austin says simply. "That's why we did it. So you'd never have to wonder again if you're wanted. You are. Desperately."

Luna chooses that moment to fully surrender to sleep, going completely boneless in my arms.

Her soft snores join Cole's in a bizarre little symphony that makes me laugh through my tears.

This is my life now—fairy lights and baby snores and men who file paperwork to protect me before I even know I need protecting.

I shift Luna carefully to one arm, freeing a hand to reach for each of them in turn. River first, pulling him down so I can press a tearful kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," I whisper against his skin, feeling him shiver at the contact. "For the flowers, for tracking Blake, for not giving up on me."

"Never," he murmurs back, catching my hand and squeezing gently.

Austin next, having to stand on my tiptoes even with him bending down. His arms come around me and Luna both, careful not to wake her.

"Thank you," I breathe into his ear. "For recording this, for fighting for me, for calling me sweetheart like you mean it."

"I do mean it," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Every time."

Finally Mavi, who's still crouched in front of me, watching with those intense green eyes. I lean forward, Luna secure between us, and rest my forehead against his.

"Thank you," I whisper into the space between us. "For the protection, for the lights, for carrying me when I couldn't walk on my own anymore."

"Always," he says, the word a vow. "As many times as you need."

I turn to look at Cole, still dead to the world in his chair. Even in sleep, he looks like he's standing guard, positioned where he can see both the door and the window.

My protector, even when unconscious.

"Can you—?" I gesture to Luna, and Austin immediately understands, taking her from my arms with practiced ease. She doesn't even stir, just transfers her grip from my shirt to his, tiny fist holding tight.

I pad across the room on silent feet, the new cushions soft under my bare soles. Up close, I can see the exhaustion written in every line of Cole's face, the way his hand still clutches that price tag like evidence of his dedication.

This man who growled at Blake in the middle of town, who defended me with crude words and perfect timing, who then came home and built me a nest because I never had one.

I lean down, careful not to wake him, and press the softest kiss to his temple. His skin is warm under my lips, and he smells like leather and sawdust and home.

"Thank you," I whisper against his temple, letting my lips linger for just a moment. "For everything. For seeing me. For claiming me in front of the whole town. For knowing what I needed before I did."

He doesn't wake, but something in his expression softens, the worried crease between his brows smoothing out.

I allow myself one more moment, just breathing him in, then straighten to find the other three watching me with expressions so tender it makes my chest ache.

"Welcome to the pack," River says softly, and even though I haven't signed anything, haven't made it official, I feel the truth of it settle into my bones.

I'm theirs. They're mine.

And for the first time in my life, I have a nest to prove it.

First Thankful Taste Of Home

~WILLA~

The oven timer beeps just as I ease the turkey onto the stovetop, twenty-two pounds of golden-brown perfection that fills the kitchen with the scent of rosemary and butter.

My hands shake slightly as I set down the roasting pan, not from the weight but from the magnitude of what I'm attempting here. The meat thermometer reads exactly 165 degrees—I've checked it three times because apparently when you've never cooked a whole turkey before, paranoia becomes your sous chef.

Steam rises from the bird in delicate wisps, and I breathe it in, letting the familiar smell of sage and thyme calm my racing heart. The kitchen looks like a bomb went off, but a productive bomb—the kind that leaves behind green bean casserole and sweet potato pie instead of destruction.

Every burner on the stove has been working overtime, pots and pans rotating through like some complicated dance I've been choreographing since dawn.

I wipe my hands on the apron Cole bought me last week, the one with 'Queen of the Kitchen' embroidered across the front in ridiculous cursive. He'd presented it with such seriousness that I couldn't tell if it was a joke or not, but the way his ears turned pink when I actually wore it told me everything.

Now it's streaked with flour and splattered with cranberry sauce, battle scars from a day spent trying to create something I've never had.

That's the thing about growing up in a pack that treats you like furniture—you miss out on things other people take for granted.

Thanksgiving was just another Thursday in Iron Ridge, with Blake insisting that "successful packs don't take breaks for arbitrary holidays." I'd spend the day cleaning while he and his inner circle worked deals, the smell of other families' dinners drifting through windows like a taunt.

But not today. Today, I woke up at five in the morning with a determination that surprised me.

Today, I commandeered this kitchen like it was my personal kingdom, following recipes from the cookbook River's mother left behind, the pages yellowed and splattered with evidence of holidays past.

Today, I'm creating something from nothing but stubbornness and a desperate need to give these men who've given me everything a memory worth keeping.

The kitchen tells the story of my ambition and inexperience in equal measure. Mixing bowls tower in the sink like a precarious skyline, each one bearing the remnants of a different dish.

Potato peels overflow from the trash can because I definitely underestimated how many potatoes six people could eat. The cookbook lies open on the counter, held flat by a stick of butter, turned to a pie recipe that I followed with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.

Flour dusts most surfaces despite my best efforts, and there's definitely stuffing stuck to the ceiling from an incident I'm choosing not to think about.

But the counters—God, the counters are beautiful in their chaos.

The green bean casserole bubbles gently, those crispy onions on top golden and perfect. Mashed potatoes wait in Cole's largest pot, whipped with enough butter and cream to cause a cardiac event. The sweet potato pie cools on a rack, its surface only slightly cracked because I might have opened the oven door too many times to check on it. Gravy simmers on the back burner, and I've tasted it so many times I've lost all sense of whether it needs more salt.

The cranberry sauce gave me the most trouble. Who knew something so simple could be so vindictive? The first batch burned. The second refused to gel. The third looked perfect until I added orange zest with the enthusiasm of someone who didn't understand that a little goes a long way. The fourth batch, currently chilling in the fridge, might actually be edible.

Maybe.

Through the window, I catch the dust cloud that signals their return before I hear the engines.

Two trucks today—they'd split up this morning for various errands, leaving me with the perfect opportunity to execute this plan.

My stomach flips with a combination of excitement and terror.

What if they think this is too much? What if I've overstepped? What if the turkey is dry or the stuffing is bland or⁠—

The rumble of engines cuts off my spiral. Truck doors slam, and I hear Austin's voice carrying across the yard, something about Luna's check-up going well. My hands automatically smooth down the apron, tuck loose strands of hair behind my ears.

I grab the turkey platter with hands that definitely aren't steady and position myself where the afternoon light from the window will hit just right.

The front door opens with its familiar creak, and Austin enters first, Luna balanced on his hip in a pink dress that's already sporting suspicious stains. She lights up when she sees me, hands reaching with that baby determination that suggests she thinks she can fly if she wants it badly enough.

"There's our girl," Austin starts to say, then stops dead in his tracks. His hazel eyes go wide, tracking from the turkey in my hands to the feast spread across every available surface. "What in the⁠—"

River nearly walks into Austin's back, grumbling something about doorways not being parking spots before he too freezes.

Cole and Mavi crowd in behind them, and for a moment, they all just stand there, staring at the kitchen like they've walked into the wrong house.

The silence stretches long enough that my arms start to ache from holding the turkey platter.

Luna breaks it with a delighted shriek, pointing at the golden bird like it's the most amazing thing she's ever seen.

Her enthusiasm seems to snap the men out of their trance.

"Is that—" Cole's voice comes out rough. He clears his throat, tries again. "Willa, did you cook all this?"

I shift my weight, suddenly feeling exposed despite the armor of my apron.

"Did you all forget what today is?"

They exchange looks—the kind of guilty, caught-with-their-hands-in-the-cookie-jar expressions that would be comical if my heart wasn't lodged somewhere in my throat.

"Thanksgiving," River says slowly, like he's remembering the word from a foreign language class. "Today's Thanksgiving."

"Shit," Mavi mutters, running a hand through his hair. "I saw the date this morning and it didn't even register."

"Everything's open in town," Cole adds, something like wonder creeping into his voice. "Bank, post office, even the diner. Sweetwater just... doesn't really do Thanksgiving. Never has, least not since I've lived here."

"We used to," Austin says quietly, shifting Luna to his other hip. "When Mom was alive. But after..." He trails off, and the others nod, understanding passing between them in that wordless way packs have.

I set the turkey down carefully on the trivets I'd arranged earlier, my movements deliberate to hide the way their admission makes my chest ache.

"I've never really celebrated either. In my old pack, holidays were just... regular days. Everyone worked. No one cooked special meals or gathered around tables or—" My voice catches, and I have to pause, pretending to adjust the platter. "But I wanted to. Always wanted to. So when you all had errands today, I thought maybe I could..."

"You did all this yourself?" Cole steps further into the kitchen, his steel-gray eyes taking in every dish, every detail. "Willa, this must have taken all day."

"Started at five," I admit, twisting my hands in the apron. "The turkey took forever, and I might have burned the first batch of cranberry sauce. Actually, the first three batches. And there's stuffing on the ceiling that I couldn't reach, and I'm pretty sure I used every dish we own, but⁠—"

"It's perfect," River interrupts, his voice thick with something I can't name. "It's absolutely perfect."

Luna makes another grab for me, and Austin finally crosses the kitchen to hand her over.

She immediately goes for my hair, probably drawn by the smell of food that's seeped into every part of me.

"Hi, star girl," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. "Did you have a good check-up? Tell me all about it while I finish getting dinner ready."

She babbles enthusiastically, syllables that might be words or might just be baby enthusiasm for the feast before her. The men still seem frozen by the doorway, and I can feel their eyes following my movements as I bounce Luna gently.

"Well?" I aim for lightness, though my voice wavers. "Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to wash up for dinner? Everything's ready, and Luna's probably starving. Growing girls need their turkey."

That breaks the spell.

They scatter like startled deer—River heading for the downstairs bathroom, Mavi taking the stairs two at a time, Cole moving to help Austin wash Luna's hands at the kitchen sink. The sudden bustle of activity makes the kitchen feel alive in a way it hasn't all day, when it was just me and my determination and the ghosts of holidays never celebrated.

"You didn't have to do this," Cole says quietly as he runs a soft cloth over Luna's face. She protests the cleaning with sounds of outrage that make Austin chuckle. "But I'm glad you did."

"Someone should cook for you all," I say, focusing on Luna's grabby hands rather than the weight of his gaze. "You take care of everyone else. Someone should take care of you too."

The look that passes between Cole and Austin makes my cheeks heat, but before either can respond, River's calling from the dining room about needing help with something, and the moment passes.

But the warmth of it lingers, settling into my bones like the satisfaction of a perfectly roasted turkey.

After all, this is what holidays are supposed to feel like.

Inviting warmth in our loving home.

The dining table looks nothing like the magazine spreads I used to flip through at the grocery store, but somehow that makes it better.

I arrange the last fork—part of a set Cole inherited from his parents that doesn't match anything else we own—and step back to survey my handiwork. Mismatched plates create a rainbow of ceramic across the dark wood, some chipped at the edges, others faded from decades of use.

The water glasses are an exercise in chaos theory: mason jars mixed with actual glassware mixed with one coffee mug because we're apparently short on drinking vessels.

The centerpiece makes me smile every time I look at it.

This afternoon, while the turkey rested, I'd wandered the property with an old basket, collecting pinecones and late-blooming wildflowers, arranging them with sprigs of sage from the herb garden River pretends he doesn't tend obsessively. It's nothing fancy—no florist would claim it—but it smells like the ranch and looks like autumn decided to take up residence on our table.

"Our table." The words slip out before I can catch them, and I have to press my hand to my chest where something flutters like a caged bird. When did I start thinking of things in terms of "ours"?

"Looks beautiful," Austin says from the doorway, Luna perched on his hip like she owns the place. Which, honestly, she does. "Very homey."

"Homey is code for 'I had no idea what I was doing,'" I admit, adjusting a fork that doesn't need adjusting. "Martha Stewart would weep."

"Martha Stewart can bite me," Cole rumbles as he carries in the turkey platter. The sight of him in his good flannel—the dark green one without any visible stains—handling my attempts at poultry with such care makes my throat tight. "This is better than anything from a magazine."

River and Mavi appear with various dishes, and suddenly the table transforms from my makeshift attempt at festive to something that actually looks like Thanksgiving. Steam rises from the dishes in delicate spirals, carrying scents that make my stomach growl despite the fact that I've been taste-testing all day.

"Let's get the princess situated," Austin says, moving to Luna's high chair.

What follows is a production worthy of Broadway—Luna decides she doesn't want to sit, arching her back and making sounds of protest that echo off the walls. River tries distraction with a spoon. Mavi makes faces. Cole attempts reasoning with her like she's a tiny adult who understands logic.

"You're all ridiculous," I mutter, hiding my smile as I approach with secret weapon: a small piece of turkey.

Luna's protests cease immediately, her mouth opening like a baby bird.

"See? Simple."

"Bribery," River says solemnly. "The foundation of all good parenting."

Once Luna's secured and happily gumming her turkey piece, I start serving.

This feels important somehow, ladling food onto their plates, making sure everyone has what they need. In Iron Ridge, omegas served because it was expected, demanded. Here, I serve because I want to see their faces when they taste what I've made, want to be the one who provides this comfort.

I catch myself giving Cole extra stuffing because he mentioned once that it was his favorite. River gets the crispy skin from the turkey because I've seen him sneak it when he thinks no one's looking. Mavi gets the biggest helping of mashed potatoes because the man has an unholy relationship with carbs. Austin gets a little of everything because he'll eat whatever's put in front of him with genuine enthusiasm.

Luna gets a dollop of everything soft enough for her developing teeth, arranged on her tray like a painter's palette of beige and orange foods. She immediately smashes her palm into the sweet potatoes, giggling at the squish between her fingers.

"Hands," Austin says once I've served myself and taken my seat. "Family tradition."

My breathing hitches as they all extend their hands. Cole's calloused palm engulfs mine on one side, River's gentle grip on the other. The circle completes with Austin reaching across to Mavi, Luna included by virtue of Austin's other hand resting on her tiny shoulder.

We're connected, all six of us, and I have to blink hard against the sudden burn in my eyes.

"I'll keep it short," Cole says, his voice dropping into that register that makes my omega instincts purr. "We're thankful for this food, for this home, for this pack." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "For new beginnings and second chances. For family, both blood and chosen."

"For Luna," River adds softly. "Who brought us together."

"For Willa," Austin continues, and I have to look down at my plate. "Who makes us complete."

"For all of us," Mavi finishes. "Broken pieces that somehow fit."

"Amen," we say in unison, though it comes out wobbly on my end.

The first bite of turkey renders them silent.

Cole's eyes close as he chews, something like reverence crossing his features. River makes a sound that's borderline indecent. Mavi just stares at his plate like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"Holy shit," Austin breathes, then immediately glances at Luna. "I mean, holy shirt. This is incredible."

"You brined it," Cole says, not a question but a statement of wonder. "You actually brined the turkey."

"The cookbook said to," I admit, fidgeting with my fork. "Is it okay? I worried it might be too salty, or maybe not salty enough, and the timer went off but the thermometer said⁠—"

"Willa." River's voice cuts through my rambling. "It's perfect. Everything is perfect. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "I didn't. I mean, I can follow a recipe, but this is my first time making most of these dishes. I might have watched seventeen YouTube videos about gravy alone."

"Seventeen?" Mavi loads his fork with mashed potatoes. "That's dedication."

"That's insanity," I correct. "Do you know how many ways there are to supposedly make perfect gravy? Everyone has opinions. Flour or cornstarch, butter or drippings, to strain or not to strain⁠—"

"You went with butter and flour," Cole interrupts, already reaching for the gravy boat. "Good choice. Traditional. Like my mom used to make."

The compliment settles warm in my chest.

We eat in comfortable conversation, topics flowing from Luna's check-up results — perfectly healthy, hitting all her milestones — to ranch business — hay delivery scheduled for next week— to town gossip — Mrs. Henderson is apparently dating the new pharmacist, scandal of the century.

Luna provides entertainment between bites.

She's discovered that mashed potatoes make excellent art supplies, painting abstract expressionism across her tray, her face, and somehow the back of her head. Sweet potato ends up in her ear. Green bean casserole becomes a hat.

Through it all, she babbles happily, occasionally offering food-covered fingers to whoever's closest.

"Luna, sweetheart, that's not how we eat green beans," Austin says, trying to intercept her before she can stick one up her nose.

"Let her explore," River argues, camera phone already out. "It's sensory development."

"It's a mess is what it is," Cole grumbles, but he's smiling as Luna offers him a fistful of something unidentifiable.

"I'll get more napkins," I start to rise, but Mavi's already moving.

"Sit," he orders gently. "You've done enough. Let us take care of things for a bit."

And they do.

That's what strikes me as the meal continues—how seamlessly they work together.

River notices my water glass is empty and fills it without being asked. Cole carves more turkey when the platter runs low, making sure everyone gets the pieces they prefer. Austin manages Luna's chaos with practiced ease, somehow eating his own meal between cleanup attempts. Mavi clears empty dishes as they accumulate, keeping the table from becoming cluttered.

There's no hierarchy here, no rigid roles or expectations.

They move around each other like dancers who've long memorized the steps, each contributing what's needed when it's needed.

Even Luna plays her part, her joy infectious enough to keep everyone smiling despite the sweet potato now decorating the wall behind her chair.

"Pass the stuffing?" River asks, and Cole's already handing it over before the words fully form.

"Anyone want the last of the turkey?" Austin offers, and Mavi's plate appears beneath the serving fork.

It's like watching a well-oiled machine, except machines don't laugh at baby antics or tease each other about portion sizes or share quiet smiles over successful recipes.

This is organic, natural, the way puzzle pieces don't force themselves together but simply fit.

This is how a pack is supposed to be.

Not the rigid structure of Iron Ridge where every interaction was weighted with politics and power plays. Not the constant jockeying for position, the careful calculation of who served whom and in what order.

Not Blake's iron fist disguised as leadership, making everyone dance to his tune or face consequences.

This is partnership. Mutual support. Care given freely without expectation of payment or submission.

"You okay?" River asks quietly, and I realize I've stopped eating, fork suspended halfway to my mouth.

"Yeah," I manage around the lump in my throat. "Just... taking it all in."

His dark eyes soften with understanding. "First real Thanksgiving is always emotional."

But it's more than that.

It's the first time I've seen what I was missing all those years. The first time I've experienced pack dynamics based on love rather than control. The first time I've felt like a contributor rather than a servant, valued for more than my designation or what I could provide.

"Thank you," I whisper, not sure if I'm talking to River or all of them or the universe itself. "For this. For letting me do this."

"Thank you," Cole counters firmly, "for giving us something we didn't know we needed."

Luna chooses that moment to sneeze, sending mashed potatoes flying in an impressive radius.

The spell breaks as everyone scrambles for damage control, but the warmth remains, settling into my bones like a promise.

This is pack. This is family. Finally…this is home.

And I'll be damned if I let anyone take it away.

The migration from dining room to kitchen happens without anyone discussing it, like we're all responding to some inaudible signal that says 'time to clean up.'

River starts clearing plates while Austin wrestles Luna out of her high chair, both of them covered in enough food to constitute a second meal. Mavi's already at the sink, filling it with hot soapy water that sends steam curling toward the ceiling.

Cole brings in the turkey platter, what's left of the bird looking well-loved and picked over.

"You wash, I'll dry?" River suggests to Mavi, who nods and hands him a dish towel.

"I'll handle leftovers," Cole announces, already pulling storage containers from the cabinet. "This stuffing is not going to waste."

"Bath time for the princess," Austin declares, holding Luna at arm's length. She's managed to get gravy in her hair, a feat of physics I can't quite comprehend. "This requires professional intervention."

"Use the good shampoo," I call after him as he heads for the stairs. "The tear-free stuff that smells like lavender."

"On it," he calls back, Luna's happy shrieks echoing through the house.

I find myself at the second sink, the one usually reserved for vegetable washing, filling it with fresh hot water. My hands move automatically—rinse, wash, rinse again—muscle memory from years of being the one who cleaned up after pack meals. But this is different.

This is voluntary, shared, without the weight of expectation or the threat of punishment if something isn't done to specification.

"That was incredible," River says, accepting a clean plate from Mavi. "Seriously, Willa. I haven't had a meal like that since my grandmother was alive."

"You have a grandmother?" The question slips out before I can stop it. We've all been so focused on the present, on surviving each day and building something together, that the past rarely comes up.

"Had," River corrects gently. "She passed when I was fifteen. But she could cook like nobody's business. Used to say the way to hold a pack together was through their stomachs."

"Smart woman," Cole adds, carefully portioning turkey into containers. "Food is love in action."

The simple statement hits harder than it should. Food as love. Not as obligation or another checkbox on the endless list of omega duties, but as an expression of care.

My hands still in the soapy water as the thought settles.

"You okay over there?" Mavi glances at me while passing another dish to River.

"Yeah, just thinking." I resume washing, focusing on a particularly stubborn bit of dried sweet potato. "It's nice, you know? All of us working together like this."

"Better than nice," Cole rumbles. "It's right."

Right.

Such a simple word for something that feels revolutionary. In Iron Ridge, cleanup was segregated—omegas in the kitchen while alphas conducted "important business" elsewhere. Usually that business involved Blake holding court in his office, dissecting everyone's performance at dinner, deciding who'd pleased him and who'd failed.

I'd stand at a sink much like this one, hands pruning in cooling water, wondering what arbitrary rule I'd broken this time.

The memory slides into my consciousness like oil on water, dark and spreading. Blake never helped with dishes. Never carried a plate to the kitchen or wiped down a table or even threw away his own napkin.

That was omega work, beneath him, beneath any alpha worth their designation.

My hands tighten on the casserole dish I'm scrubbing. The rough texture of baked-on cheese grates against my palms as I work harder, pushing the memory down. But it won't stay buried. Not tonight, not when I've just experienced what pack life should be.

"He'd hate this," I mutter, not meaning to speak aloud.

"Who'd hate what?" River asks, hanging his towel on the oven handle.

I realize they're all looking at me—River curious, Mavi watchful, Cole's expression darkening like he already knows where my thoughts have gone.

"Nothing," I say quickly, focusing on the dish. "Just thinking out loud."

But I can't stop the spiral now that it's started.

Blake would hate everything about this evening.

The casual mingling of alphas and omega in the kitchen. The lack of hierarchy in who serves whom. The way Luna was included as an equal participant rather than hidden away with a nanny. The mismatched plates he'd call "poor" and the centerpiece he'd deem "amateur."

Most of all, he'd hate how happy I am.

The dish slips in my soapy hands, and I catch it before it can shatter. My knuckles are white where they grip the edge, tension radiating up my arms into my shoulders. Because that's what this is really about, isn't it?

Blake can't stand the thought of me happy without him.

Can't accept that I've found something better, something real, something he could never give me because he never saw me as more than property with a pulse.

"Son of a bitch," I breathe, scrubbing harder.

The casserole dish is long clean, but I can't seem to stop the mechanical motion.

Scrub, rinse, scrub again, like I can wash away the taint of his memory if I just try hard enough.

He wants to ruin this.

The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity. He wants to destroy this kitchen where I cooked my first Thanksgiving. This table where we joined hands like a real family. This house where Luna's laughter rings from the walls and no one flinches at the sound of footsteps.

This pack that sees me as a person rather than a designation.

The dish creaks ominously in my grip.

Water sloshes over the edge of the sink, soaking the front of my apron, but I barely notice. My vision has narrowed to the suds swirling down the drain, but what I'm seeing is Blake's face that day in town.

The cruel twist of his mouth as he stripped me bare with words. The casual arrogance of a man who thinks he owns something just because he once put his hands on it.

"Willa." Cole's voice comes from directly behind me, low and careful. "Put the dish down."

I blink, returning to the present to find my knuckles bloodless where they grip the casserole dish. Everyone's stopped what they're doing. River hovers nearby like he wants to help but isn't sure how. Mavi watches with those sharp eyes that miss nothing.

"I'm fine," I insist, but my voice comes out high and tight.

"No," Cole says simply, "you're not."

His hands come around me from behind, gently prying my fingers from the dish. I resist for a moment, some primitive part of me afraid to let go, afraid that if I stop moving I'll shatter like poorly fired ceramic. But his touch is patient, persistent, and eventually my hands release their death grip.

"There we go," he murmurs, setting the dish safely in the drainer. His arms come around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. "That's better."

I'm suddenly aware that I'm shaking. Fine tremors run through me like aftershocks, and Cole just holds me tighter, becoming an anchor in the storm of my thoughts. He smells like leather and turkey and home, and I want to sink into him until the rest of the world disappears.

"He's not going to ruin this," Cole whispers against my ear, and I realize I must have been talking out loud again. Bad habit I've developed lately, letting my thoughts spill out when my guard drops. "I won't let him."

"You don't know Blake," I whisper back, my wet hands clutching at his forearms where they cross my stomach. "He doesn't let go of things. Ever. He'll keep coming, keep pushing, keep trying to destroy everything good because he can't stand losing."

"Then he'll learn." Cole's voice carries that edge of barely controlled violence that reminds me these men aren't just gentle caretakers. They're predators when they need to be, protectors with teeth. "The hard way, if necessary."

River and Mavi exchange looks over my head, some silent communication that makes Mavi nod and quietly leave the kitchen. River follows, and suddenly it's just Cole and me and the cooling dishwater and the weight of everything unsaid.

"Breathe," Cole instructs, his chest expanding against my back in demonstration. "In through your nose, hold for four, out through your mouth."

I follow his lead because it's easier than fighting. In for four, hold for four, out for four.

His breathing guides mine, steady as a metronome, until the shaking starts to subside.

"He won't let go until he gets what he wants," I confess on an exhale. "Him and Iron Ridge Pack themselves. They're all like that—taking and taking until there's nothing left."

Cole turns me in his arms, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His hands come up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize had fallen.

The calluses on his palms are rough against my cheeks, working man's hands that have built and protected and saved.

"We're prepared for that," he says, steel in his voice. "River's been tracking their finances—did you know they're bleeding money? Bad investments, worse management. They need your ranch to stay afloat."

"That's why Blake married me," I admit, the words tasting bitter. "For the inheritance he knew was coming."

"And now they're desperate." Cole's thumbs make another pass across my cheekbones. "Desperate men make mistakes. We're ready to counter whatever they try."

He searches my face like he's trying to read my thoughts, those steel-gray eyes intense with concern.

"Can you trust us to handle it? Can you genuinely trust this pack to protect you?"

The question hangs between us like a challenge. Trust. Such a small word for such a monumental ask. Trust means letting go of the hypervigilance that kept me alive. Trust means believing these men are different, that this pack is different, that I can have something without it being ripped away.

I open my mouth to answer—to say yes, of course I trust them, how could I not after everything—but my phone buzzes against my hip, loud in the quiet kitchen. We both freeze, some instinct warning that this interruption isn't coincidence.

"Check it," Cole says quietly, but his hands don't leave my face.

I pull the phone from my pocket with trembling fingers. Unknown number, but there's a photo attached.

My stomach drops as I open it, the image loading with painful clarity.

Legal documents. Official seals. Blake's signature bold across the bottom.

The text below is brief:

Hope you enjoyed your last Thanksgiving on MY ranch. Divorce contested. Filing for full custody of all marital assets, including property. See you in court.*

The phone slips from my numb fingers, but Cole catches it before it hits the floor. He read the message, and I watch his face transform from concern to fury so pure it makes the air feel electric.

"Willa," he says, and my name sounds like a vow. "Look at me."

I force my eyes up to his, expecting to see pity or worry or that careful distance people maintain when they realize just how complicated your baggage really is.

Instead, I find determination so fierce it takes my breath away.

"He just made his last mistake," Cole says quietly. "Trust us. Trust me. We've got this."

But staring at those legal documents, at Blake's confident signature claiming ownership of the only home I've ever known, I can't silence the voice in my head that sounds too much like Blake himself:

*You always were too trusting, Willa. That's what made you so easy to break.*

The dishes sit forgotten in cooling water, Thanksgiving's warmth already feeling like a distant dream.

Outside, November wind rattles the windows, and I shiver despite Cole's warmth surrounding me.

The war for Cactus Rose Ranch has officially begun.

Legal Troubles In Cozy Paradise

~WILLA~

The law office smells wrong—all leather polish and old paper and that particular brand of aggressive air freshener that screams 'we're trying to hide something.'

I shift in the too-soft chair, missing the worn kitchen stools at home where at least the discomfort is honest. My fingers twist in my lap, finding and releasing the same fold in my jeans over and over while Attorney Margaret Pierce adjusts her reading glasses and spreads another stack of documents across her mahogany desk like she's dealing cards in the world's worst poker game.

Everything here is designed to intimidate. The walls lined with leather-bound books no one's touched in decades. The certificates framed in gold that probably cost more than our monthly feed bill. The way Ms. Pierce—"Call me Maggie," she'd said, though her severe gray suit suggests she's never been a Maggie in her life—peers over those glasses like she's dissecting our souls for billable hours.

"The bad news," she begins, and I already want to run, "is that Mr. Harrison has retained Caldwell & Associates. They're... aggressive. Known for dragging cases out, bleeding the opposition dry through legal fees alone."

Cole's hand finds mine under the desk, his calluses rough against my palm. The contact grounds me, keeps me from bolting for the door like my omega instincts are screaming to do. On my other side, River shifts closer, his knee pressing against mine in silent support. Behind us, Mavi and Austin form a wall of presence, their scents mingling into something protective and fierce.

"The worse news," Ms. Pierce continues, sliding a document toward us, "is that Montana law gives him grounds to contest. The ranch being inherited property acquired during the marriage creates a gray area. If he can prove he contributed to its maintenance or improvement..."

"He never lifted a finger," I interrupt, heat flashing through me. "He saw it as beneath him. Manual labor was omega work."

Ms. Pierce's expression softens fractionally. "I believe you. But believing and proving in court are different animals. Especially in small-town circuits where everyone knows everyone." She taps a manicured nail on the papers. "Iron Ridge Pack has connections in three neighboring counties. Judges who owe favors. Court clerks whose kids got scholarships from pack foundations."

River leans forward, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from his shoulders. "What kind of legal fees are we looking at?"

The number she quotes makes my stomach drop through the floor. It's more than the ranch makes in six months. More than these men should ever have to spend on my mistakes.

"I have savings," River says immediately. "From my time with the forestry service. It's not much, but⁠—"

"My parents left me some bonds," Austin adds from behind me. "And there's Mom's jewelry. I was keeping it for Luna, but this is more important."

"No." The word tears from my throat, raw and desperate. "No, you can't—I can't let you⁠—"

"The hell you can't," Cole growls, his hand tightening on mine. "We're pack. Your fight is our fight."

But the guilt is already spreading through my chest like spilled ink, staining everything it touches. I hunch forward, making myself smaller, the same instinct that kept me safe in Iron Ridge now trying to minimize the damage I'm causing here. These men who took me in, who built me a nest, who gave me a home—and this is how I repay them? By draining their accounts and pawning their memories?

"There might be another angle." Mavi's voice cuts through my spiral, sharp with the kind of focus I've only heard when he's in full investigator mode. "I've got contacts. People who owe me favors from my time working arson cases. If Blake's pack is as dirty as I think they are..."

Ms. Pierce's eyebrows climb toward her steel-gray hairline. "Mr. Cross, I can't advocate for anything illegal⁠—"

"Nothing illegal," Mavi assures her, though his smile has too many teeth to be comforting. "Just thorough. Very, very thorough background investigation. The kind that might turn up interesting patterns in insurance claims or financial records."

"Hypothetically," Ms. Pierce says carefully, "if such patterns existed, they could certainly influence negotiations. No one wants a messy public trial. Especially not people with things to hide."

The hope that flickers is almost worse than despair. Hope means disappointment waiting to happen. Hope means letting these men risk more for me when I've already cost them too much.

"I never meant to bring this trouble to your door," I whisper, the words barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "You had a good life before I showed up. Peaceful. Now you're talking about spending your savings, selling your mother's things..."

"Willa." Austin moves into my line of sight, crouching beside my chair. His hazel eyes are fierce with determination that looks wrong on his gentle features. "You didn't bring trouble. Blake did. There's a difference between running from a fire and being the arsonist."

The metaphor hits too close to home. I flinch, remembering smoke and flames and the certainty that I was going to die in that house.

Ms. Pierce clears her throat, drawing our attention back to the immediate problem. "I'll need a retainer to get started. File our response, begin discovery. But I want you to understand—small-town politics make these cases unpredictable. If Blake's pack has the influence I suspect, we could be looking at an uphill battle."

"Then we climb," Cole says simply. "Whatever it takes."

The next twenty minutes blur together in a haze of legal terms and strategy discussions. Ms. Pierce outlines our options with clinical efficiency—contest the filing, counter-sue for attempted murder given the fire, seek restraining orders for harassment. Each option comes with its own price tag, its own risks, its own ways Blake could twist the system against us.

Through it all, the men never waver. River takes notes in his careful script, asking pointed questions about precedent. Austin mentally calculates what he can liquidate, his lips moving slightly as he does math in his head. Mavi's already on his phone, thumbing through contacts with the kind of focus that probably terrifies criminals.

And Cole—Cole just holds my hand, his thumb rubbing steady circles on my knuckles like he's trying to wear a promise into my skin.

When we finally leave, the late afternoon sun feels too bright after the office's artificial lighting. I blink against it, disoriented, and suddenly they're around me. Not surrounding me like I'm fragile, but positioning themselves like a shield against the world. Cole at my right, River at my left, Austin and Mavi flanking us like guards.

"Lunch," Austin declares. "You barely ate breakfast, and stress on an empty stomach is asking for trouble."

"I'm not hungry," I protest, but River's already steering us toward the diner across the street.

"Tough," Mavi says, holding the door open. "We eat, we plan, we fight. In that order."

I catch Cole's reflection in the diner window as we enter. The strain shows in the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes scan the street like threats might materialize from thin air. He's carrying the weight of this, same as me, but he won't admit it. None of them will.

They're too busy protecting me to protect themselves.

And that terrifies me more than any legal threat Blake could manufacture.

The blue glow from six monitors turns my security office into an underwater cave, all shadows and electric current. I've been at this for four hours now, following digital breadcrumbs through databases I'm not supposed to have access to anymore. Funny how people forget to revoke permissions when you leave law enforcement on good terms. Funnier still how many favors stack up when you've spent years being the guy who catches the bad guys nobody else can find.

My third cup of coffee sits cold and forgotten beside a legal pad filled with connections that make my skin crawl. Blake Harrison isn't just an abusive alpha—he's part of something systematic, something that stinks of organized crime wrapped in pack politics. The kind of operation that destroys lives and calls it business.

The phone rings, and I snatch it before the second ring. Can't wake the house. Can't let them see me like this, consumed by the hunt the way I used to get when a case hooked its claws in deep.

"Cross," I answer, voice pitched low.

"Mavi, you magnificent bastard." Jake Torres, formerly of the Montana State Police Financial Crimes unit, sounds entirely too cheerful for midnight. "You were right about those insurance claims. Three properties in the last five years, all owned by Iron Ridge pack members or their associates. All mysterious fires. All paid out in full."

"Let me guess," I say, fingers already flying over the keyboard to pull up property records. "All investigated by the same adjuster?"

"Gregory Mitchum. Who just happens to be mated to Blake Harrison's cousin." Jake's voice drops. "This is big, Mavi. RICO big. Why didn't you stay with the force? We could use you on this."

"I've got my reasons." My eyes flick to the baby monitor on my desk, Luna's sleeping form just visible in the green-tinted screen. "Send me everything you can without getting yourself fired."

"Already in your encrypted folder. And Mavi? Be careful. These aren't the kind of people who play nice when cornered."

The line goes dead, and I'm already opening the files. Financial records unfurl across my screens like a map of greed. Blake Harrison's name appears again and again—property transfers, insurance beneficiary, co-signer on loans that defaulted right after insurance payouts. It's money laundering 101, so obvious it's insulting.

But it's the other names that make my blood run cold. Three women. All omegas. All married into Iron Ridge pack in the last decade. All dead within two years of their marriages.

"Accidental fire." I read the coroner reports with growing fury. "Accidental drowning. Accidental fall."

Accidents. Right. Just like Willa's fire was supposed to be an accident.

The door creaks open, and I'm halfway to my feet before I catch Willa's scent—honey and hay and that undertone of anxiety she can't quite shake. She's carrying two mugs, steam rising in delicate spirals, and wearing one of River's old t-shirts that hangs to her knees.

"Couldn't sleep," she says softly, setting a fresh mug beside my cold one. "Saw your light on. Figured you could use caffeine that doesn't taste like motor oil."

I should minimize the screens. Should protect her from what I've found. Should keep her innocent of just how deep this rot goes. Instead, I find myself frozen, watching her face in the monitor's glow. She looks so young sometimes, especially like this—barefoot and drowning in borrowed clothes, bringing coffee like it's normal to care for someone working through the night.

"Mavi?" She tilts her head, catching something in my expression. "What's wrong?"

"You should sit." I pull out the second chair, the one I bought specifically for when Austin comes to review security footage of Luna. "There's something... I found some things."

Her hands tremble slightly as she lowers herself into the chair, but her voice stays steady. "About Blake?"

"About his whole fucking pack." The words come out rougher than intended. I scrub a hand over my face, trying to find a way to soften this. There isn't one. "Willa, they're not just abusive. They're criminals. The fire—it's not the first time."

I turn the monitor toward her, watching her face as she reads. Color drains from her cheeks with each line, her coffee mug forgotten on the desk. When she reaches the part about the other omegas, a sound escapes her—small and wounded, like something breaking inside.

"Three others," she whispers. "They did this to three others before me."

"At least three." I pull up more files, bank statements showing systematic draining of accounts, property transfers that happened days before 'accidents.' "This is how they operate. Find omegas with assets—inheritance, property, savings. Marry them into the pack. Drain everything. Then..."

"Then kill them." Her voice is hollow, matter-of-fact in a way that makes me want to hunt Blake Harrison down tonight. "Make it look accidental. Collect the insurance. Move on to the next target."

She's shaking now, fine tremors running through her whole body. I want to comfort her, but I need her to see everything first. Need her to understand what we're really fighting.

"Your grandfather's ranch," I continue, pulling up property assessments. "Worth three times what anyone would guess. Prime development land if someone wanted to break it up, sell to developers. Blake married you for that ranch."

"And when I wouldn't sell..." She touches the screen where the fire report is displayed. "God, I actually thought he just lost his temper. That it was a crime of passion or whatever. But this—this was planned?"

"Every detail." I show her the insurance policy Blake took out six months before the fire. "He was always going to kill you, Willa. The only variable was when."

The mug slips from her nerveless fingers, shattering on the concrete floor. Coffee spreads in a dark pool, but neither of us moves to clean it. We're both staring at the evidence of what should have been her death, documented in black and white across my screens.

"I need—" She starts to stand, sways, and I catch her before she falls. She's ice cold despite the warm night, shock settling into her bones. "I think I'm going to be sick."

I guide her to the small bathroom attached to the office, hold her hair back while she dry heaves over the toilet. When nothing comes up—when did she last eat?—I wet a washcloth with cool water, press it to the back of her neck.

"I'm sorry," she gasps between shuddering breaths. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" I crouch beside her, keeping the cloth in place. "For surviving? For not knowing you married a serial killer?"

"For bringing this to your door." She turns to look at me, eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "They kill people, Mavi. They kill people and now I've made you all targets and Luna—oh god, what if they come for Luna?"

"Hey." I catch her face between my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Look at me. They won't get near you or Luna again. Ever."

"You can't promise that."

"Watch me." The thing inside me that made me good at hunting predators unfurls, all teeth and purpose. "I've put away men like Blake before. The only difference is this time it's personal."

She searches my face, looking for something. "You've been betrayed too. Haven't you?"

The question catches me off guard. But looking at her, seeing my own ghosts reflected in her eyes, I find myself nodding. "Different kind of betrayal. But yeah. I know what it's like to trust the wrong person. To realize everything they said was a lie."

"Does it get easier?"

I think about the partner who planted evidence, nearly destroyed my career because I wouldn't look the other way. Think about the cases that went cold because someone higher up the chain decided justice was negotiable. Think about why I really left law enforcement—not for a simpler life, but because the betrayal went too deep to fix from the inside.

"No," I tell her honestly. "But you learn to trust better people."

She laughs, wet and broken. "Like a pack of broken alphas raising a baby?"

"Exactly like that." I help her to her feet, steadying her when she wavers. "We're all damaged goods here, Willa. That's what makes us safe. We know the cost of betrayal. We won't inflict it on each other."

The broken mug still glitters on the office floor, coffee seeping into the concrete. Tomorrow I'll clean it up. Tomorrow I'll file reports with contacts who can actually do something about Blake Harrison and his pack of killers. Tomorrow I'll build a case so airtight God himself couldn't find a loophole.

But tonight, I just hold Willa while she shakes, my promise echoing in the blue-lit darkness: They won't get near you or Luna again.

Even if I have to become the monster that hunts monsters to ensure it.

The barn doesn't smell like hay and horses anymore. Mavi's converted it into something between a gym and a dojo, all padded floors and equipment I don't recognize but that makes my stomach flip with nervous energy. Afternoon light filters through the high windows, catching dust motes that dance like witnesses to what I'm about to attempt—learning to fight back.

My bare feet sink slightly into the blue mats as I follow Mavi to the center of the space. He's changed into workout clothes that shouldn't be distracting but absolutely are—a tank top that shows off arms corded with lean muscle, shorts that reveal legs built for pursuit. I'm in borrowed clothes again, Austin's old sweatpants and one of Cole's t-shirts, swimming in fabric that smells like safety while I prepare to learn violence.

"The goal isn't to win a fight," Mavi says, turning to face me with an instructor's precision. "It's to create opportunity to escape. Blake's bigger than you. Stronger. But that doesn't make him invincible."

Just hearing Blake's name makes my skin crawl after what I learned last night. Three other omegas. Three other 'accidents.' The knowledge sits in my chest like shrapnel, sharp and impossible to ignore.

"I've never hit anyone," I admit, wrapping my arms around myself. "Never even wanted to. Iron Ridge said violence was for alphas, that omegas should be soft, yielding..."

"Bullshit." The word cracks like a whip. Mavi steps closer, his intensity making the barn feel smaller. "That's not omega nature—that's conditioning. Control. Making you easy prey."

He's right. I know he's right. But twenty-eight years of training doesn't vanish overnight.

"We'll start simple," he continues, reading my hesitation. "Stance first. Everything builds from how you hold your ground."

He demonstrates, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced. I try to copy him, feeling awkward and exposed. His hands hover near my hips, asking silent permission before adjusting my position. The contact is clinical, professional, but my body doesn't care about context. Every place he touches lights up with awareness.

"Better. Now, if someone grabs you from behind..." He moves behind me, arms coming around in a loose hold. "What's your instinct?"

"Freeze," I whisper, hating the truth of it. "Submit. Don't make it worse."

"Natural trauma response. But we're going to rewire that." His breath is warm against my ear as he guides me through the motion. "Drop your weight. Turn into me, not away. Use your elbow here—" He taps my side, "—against soft targets. Stomach, groin, throat if you can reach."

We practice the movement slowly, his arms barely touching me. Drop, turn, strike. Again. Again. Each repetition builds muscle memory and something else—a new awareness of my body as capable rather than just vulnerable.

"Good," he murmurs after the tenth repetition. "Now faster."

The next round has more contact, his arms actually holding though still gentle. I practice breaking free, using the techniques he showed me. My elbow finds his stomach (softly), my heel his instep (carefully). Each successful escape makes me feel a little less like prey.

"You're holding back," he observes after I execute a particularly tentative escape. "Afraid of hurting me?"

"I don't want to⁠—"

"I can take it." Something shifts in his expression, goes darker. "And Blake won't hold back. If he comes for you again, he won't care if you don't want to hurt him."

The reminder sends ice through my veins. He's right. Blake tried to kill me. Would try again if given the chance. My next escape attempt has more force behind it, catching Mavi by surprise. He grunts, a sound that shouldn't make heat pool in my belly but does.

"Better. Again."

We continue, intensity ramping up with each round. His holds get firmer, more realistic. My escapes get more desperate, more violent. Sweat begins to bead on my skin, making Cole's t-shirt cling. Mavi's not unaffected either—I can see the sheen on his arms, the way his breathing has deepened.

"Now we're going to ground work," he says, and my stomach flips for entirely different reasons. "Most attacks end up on the ground. You need to know how to fight from your back."

He demonstrates the position, lying on the mats with knees up, hands ready. I copy him, hyperaware of how vulnerable this feels. Then he's above me, knees on either side of my hips, weight carefully balanced to not crush me.

"If someone's on top of you like this," he explains, but his voice has gone rough, "you have options. Buck your hips, try to throw them off balance. Go for the eyes. Use your nails."

I try to focus on the instruction, but he's so close. I can see the gold flecks in his green eyes, count his eyelashes, smell his scent intensified by exertion—smoke and cinnamon and male arousal that he's trying to hide but can't, not when we're this close.

"Try it," he orders, but the words come out strained.

I buck my hips as instructed. He rocks forward, catching himself with hands planted beside my head, and suddenly his face is inches from mine. We freeze, both breathing hard, and not just from the exercise. His pupils are blown wide, and I know mine match. The air between us crackles with electricity that has nothing to do with self-defense.

"Again," he manages, but he doesn't move back.

This time when I thrust upward, trying to dislodge him, our bodies align in ways that make us both gasp. He's hard—I can feel it through the thin fabric of his shorts, pressing against my stomach. My own arousal spikes in response, wetness gathering between my thighs.

"Mavi," I breathe, not sure if it's protest or plea.

"You need to know this," he grits out, but his hips press down slightly, increasing the friction. "Need to be able to protect yourself."

"Is that what we're doing?" The question comes out breathless, challenging. "Protecting?"

His control visibly frays. The next moment happens in fragments—his hand tangling in my hair, my legs wrapping around his waist, our mouths crashing together in a kiss that's all teeth and desperation. He tastes like coffee and danger, and I moan into his mouth, pulling him closer.

We're not practicing anymore. We're grinding together on the mats like teenagers, hands roaming, boundaries dissolving. He pins my wrists above my head and I arch into him, feeling powerful in my surrender. His mouth finds my throat and I see stars, my body singing with want so sharp it borders on pain.

"Fuck," he gasps against my skin. "We shouldn't—you're learning⁠—"

"I'm learning I want you," I interrupt, rolling my hips deliberately. "That's still educational."

He groans, catching my mouth again, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. His tongue traces mine, mapping me like territory to be claimed. I nip at his lower lip and his grip on my wrists tightens, sending sparks down my spine.

"Dinner's ready!" Austin's voice carries from outside, closer than expected. "Unless you two would rather skip food for more... training."

We spring apart like we've been electrocuted. I scramble to sitting, trying to smooth my hair, acutely aware of how wrecked I must look. Mavi's no better—chest heaving, lips swollen, arousal still visibly straining against his shorts.

"Be right there," Mavi calls back, voice impressively steady.

Austin's laughter fades as he heads back to the house, leaving us in charged silence. Mavi runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at me.

"That was⁠—"

"Educational," I supply, climbing to my feet on shaky legs.

A smile tugs at his mouth despite everything. "Very."

We walk back to the house in loaded silence, bodies carefully not touching. But I can still feel everywhere he pressed against me, still taste him on my lips, still want with an intensity that makes me understand why Iron Ridge feared omega desire.

Because this? This could burn down kingdoms.

The porch swing creaks a rhythm that matches my heartbeat—slow, steady, trying so hard to be calm. Night has settled over the ranch like a blanket, bringing with it the distant call of coyotes and the closer chirp of crickets hiding in the garden. Cole sits beside me, close enough that I feel his warmth but far enough that we're not quite touching, both of us staring out at the darkness like it might have answers.

Luna went down an hour ago, milk-drunk and content after fussing through dinner. The house behind us has gone quiet, that particular stillness that comes when everyone's settled into their evening routines. River's probably reading in his room. Austin's definitely passed out already—the man keeps teenage hours. And Mavi... I don't let myself think about Mavi and what happened in the barn this afternoon.

"Can't sleep?" Cole asks, his voice pitched low to match the night.

"Too much in my head," I admit, pulling my legs up under me. I'm wearing one of his flannels over my nightgown, the fabric soft with age and smelling like leather and safety. "You?"

He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "Same. Been thinking about... things I don't usually let myself think about."

The swing continues its gentle motion, and I wait. Cole's not one for being pushed. He'll share when he's ready or not at all, and I've learned to be patient with these men and their carefully guarded wounds.

"You asked once why I left firefighting," he says finally, hands clasped between his knees, studying them like they hold secrets. "Told you it was burnout. That was... partially true."

"But not the whole truth?"

He shakes his head, jaw working like he's chewing on words that don't want to come out. "There was a fire. Apartment complex on the north side of Helena. Middle of the night, building fully involved by the time we got there." His voice has gone clinical, reporting facts like that might make them hurt less. "I was on search and rescue. That was my job—go in, find people, get them out."

I shift slightly closer, not touching but offering presence. He doesn't pull away.

"Third floor was bad. Smoke so thick you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. But I heard her—young woman, maybe early twenties, crying for help." His hands clench and unclench. "Found her in a back bedroom. Door had warped from the heat, trapped her inside. She was... she was still conscious when I got to her."

The pain in his voice makes my chest tight. I want to tell him he doesn't have to continue, but I sense he needs this. Needs to let the poison out.

"Got the door open. Got her into my arms. She was so light—couldn't have weighed more than you do." He glances at me briefly, then away. "Made it halfway to the stairs when the ceiling started coming down. Burning chunks of insulation, support beams. I tried to shield her, but⁠—"

His voice cracks. I reach out instinctively, my hand covering his. He turns his palm up, threading our fingers together, holding on like I'm anchoring him to the present.

"Her hand went limp in mine just as the ceiling collapsed completely. The impact knocked me forward, down the stairs. Somehow I kept hold of her, got her outside, but..." He shakes his head. "She was gone. Twenty-two years old. Sarah Chen. Had just started graduate school."

"Cole," I breathe, squeezing his hand.

"I was two minutes too slow." The words come out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "If I'd been faster finding her, if I'd taken a different route, if I'd⁠—"

"Stop." I turn to face him fully, reaching up with my free hand to cup his jaw, forcing him to meet my eyes. "You can't carry that. You tried. You risked everything to save her."

"But I didn't save her." His steel-gray eyes are bright with unshed tears. "That's what mattered. Not the trying. The result. And I failed."

"You didn't fail. The fire failed her. The building failed her. The universe failed her. But not you." I stroke my thumb across his cheekbone, feeling the day's stubble. "Never you."

He leans into my touch, eyes closing. "When I found you in that fire, when I pulled you out..." His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "It felt like redemption. Like maybe the universe was giving me a second chance. You were breathing. You were alive. You stayed alive."

"Because of you," I remind him. "You saved me."

"You saved me too." His eyes open, intensity stealing my breath. "Every day since, you save me. Make me believe maybe I deserve that second chance."

The space between us has shrunk to nothing. I can feel his breath on my face, see the gold flecks in his gray eyes, count every line that stress and sun have carved into his skin. My hand is still on his face, and his free hand comes up to cover it, pressing my palm more firmly against his cheek.

"Willa," he says, and my name sounds like a prayer.

"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm alive. I'm not going anywhere."

Something breaks in his expression—all that careful control crumbling like a dam giving way. His hand slides into my hair and then his mouth is on mine, desperate and hungry and tasting of redemption sought in the dark.

This kiss is nothing like the playful ones I've shared with Mavi. This is drowning and breathing at the same time. It's years of guilt and pain and loneliness pouring out, seeking solace in connection. His lips move against mine like he's trying to memorize the shape of being saved, and I kiss him back just as fiercely, trying to show him he already is.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, and the swing rocks with our movement. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, tasting coffee and desperation and Cole—essentially, perfectly Cole.

He pulls me into his lap without breaking the kiss, my nightgown riding up as I straddle his thighs. His hands span my waist, holding me like I might evaporate if he loosens his grip. I nip at his lower lip and he makes a sound that's half growl, half plea, his hips rocking up slightly.

"Wanted this," he gasps between kisses. "Wanted you. Felt so guilty for wanting⁠—"

"No guilt," I manage, trailing kisses along his jaw. "Never guilt. Not for this."

His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through thin fabric. I arch into the touch, shameless in my need, and⁠—

Luna's cry pierces the night, sharp and demanding.

We freeze, both breathing hard, bodies humming with interrupted desire. Cole's hands tighten on my waist briefly before he starts to lift me off his lap.

"I should⁠—"

"I got her!" Mavi's voice calls from inside. "Little star and I are going for a walk. Someone's got energy to burn."

We hear footsteps, the front door opening. Mavi appears with Luna bundled against his chest in her carrier, her cries already softening to hiccups. He takes in our position—me still in Cole's lap, both of us thoroughly disheveled—and his grin is wicked.

"Don't mind us," he says, adjusting Luna's blanket. "Just taking the princess to count stars. We'll be gone at least an hour. Maybe two." He winks. "House is all yours."

He's down the porch steps before either of us can respond, Luna's babbles fading as he heads toward the pasture. The night swallows them, leaving Cole and me alone with the sound of crickets and our own harsh breathing.

"He did that on purpose," I say, not moving from Cole's lap.

"Definitely." Cole's hands slide up my back, pulling me flush against him. "Question is, do we take the gift he's giving us?"

I answer by kissing him again, slower this time but no less intense. When we finally break apart, both of us are trembling.

"Inside?" he asks, voice rough with want.

"Inside," I agree, climbing off his lap on unsteady legs.

He stands, takes my hand, and leads me toward the door. Toward privacy. Toward whatever comes next in this second chance we're both so desperate to get right.

The swing continues its gentle rhythm behind us, marking time in the darkness, holding the secret of confessions and first kisses and the promise of more.

Cole's hand in mine feels like a lifeline as he leads me through the darkened house, our footsteps quick but quiet on the old wooden floors.

The air between us crackles with intention, with promises made by kisses on the porch swing. My nightgown whispers against my thighs with each step, and I'm hyperaware of every sensation—the warmth of his palm, the way his thumb strokes across my knuckles, the controlled tension in his shoulders.

We barely make it to my bedroom door before he's pressing me against the wall beside it, his mouth finding mine with renewed hunger. This kiss is different from the desperate one outside—deeper, more certain, like he's made a decision and plans to follow through. His hands frame my face, holding me like something precious while his body cages mine against the wall.

"Been wanting this," he murmurs against my lips, trailing kisses along my jaw. "Watching you build a life here, seeing you with Luna, the way you take care of us⁠—"

"You take care of me too," I interrupt, my hands sliding under his shirt to find warm skin and hard muscle. "All of you do."

He makes a rough sound, catching my wrists and pinning them above my head with one large hand. The dominance of it should frighten me after Blake, but this is Cole—Cole who saved me, who built me a nest, who just bared his deepest wound on the porch. I trust him with my body the same way I trusted him with my life.

"Let me," he says, using his free hand to trace the collar of my nightgown. "Let me take care of you properly."

I nod, words beyond me as he releases my wrists to lift me, carrying me the last few steps into my room. The fairy lights are still on, casting everything in that warm golden glow. He sets me down beside the bed, stepping back just enough to look at me, and the reverence in his expression makes my throat tight.

"You're so beautiful," he says, hands moving to the hem of my nightgown. "May I?"

"Please," I breathe, lifting my arms so he can pull the fabric over my head.

I'm bare underneath except for simple cotton panties, nothing special, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like a goddess. His hands ghost over my skin, barely touching, mapping the geography of scars and softness. When he brushes the faint marks on my wrists from the handcuffs, his jaw tightens.

"Never again," he promises, pressing kisses to each mark. "No one hurts you again."

"Cole," I whisper, overwhelmed by the tenderness.

He strips his own shirt off, revealing the firefighter's build I've admired from afar—broad shoulders, defined chest, a tattoo over his heart I've never seen before. It's a phoenix rising from flames, detailed and beautiful, and I trace it with trembling fingers.

"Got it after I left the department," he explains, voice rough. "Reminder that sometimes things have to burn down to be reborn."

I lean forward, pressing my lips to the inked skin, feeling his sharp intake of breath. His hands tangle in my hair, not forcing, just holding, as I map his chest with kisses. Each scar tells a story—this one from a ceiling collapse, that one from flying glass, all of them evidence of a man who runs toward danger to save others.

"Bed," he manages when I nip at his collarbone. "Need you on the bed."

We tumble onto the nest together, the pillows and blankets they arranged with such care cradling our bodies. Cole hovers over me, weight on his elbows, and the look in his eyes makes me understand why people write poetry.

"Tell me if anything—if you need me to stop⁠—"

"I need you not to stop," I interrupt, pulling him down for another kiss. "I need you. Just you."

He groans into my mouth, his control fraying at the edges. But even as passion takes over, he's careful with me, each touch a question I answer with arches and sighs. When his mouth finds my breast, I see stars. When his hand slides between my thighs, I forget my own name.

"So wet," he murmurs against my skin, fingers exploring with devastating skill. "So perfect. All for me?"

"All for you," I gasp, hips rocking against his hand. "Cole, please⁠—"

He takes his time anyway, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me beg. By the time he finally removes the last barriers between us, I'm trembling with need so acute it borders on pain. He pauses at my entrance, forehead pressed to mine, and we breathe together in the fairy light glow.

"You saved me too," he whispers, echoing his words from the porch. "Let me show you how much."

When he slides inside, it's with a reverence that brings tears to my eyes. We move together slowly at first, learning each other's rhythms, building something that's more than physical. His hands worship every inch they can reach while his mouth speaks praise against my skin—how good I feel, how perfect we fit, how he's never letting go.

The desperation builds gradually, inevitable as sunrise. Our movements become urgent, chasing something that feels bigger than pleasure. When I fall apart in his arms, it's with his name on my lips and the taste of redemption on my tongue. He follows me over, my name a broken prayer as he buries his face in my neck.

We lie tangled afterward, both of us shaking with the intensity of what just happened. Cole pulls a blanket over us, tucking me against his chest where I can hear his heart still racing. His arms band around me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he loosens his grip.

"That was..." I trail off, not finding words big enough.

"Yeah," he agrees, pressing a kiss to my hair. "It was."

We're quiet for a while, just breathing together, letting the reality settle. Outside, I hear Mavi's voice in the distance, probably pointing out constellations to Luna. The normal sounds of our unconventional family carrying on while Cole and I have shifted something fundamental between us.

"The pack's going to fight for you," Cole says suddenly, his voice rumbling through his chest where my ear is pressed. "Whatever it takes, whatever it costs. We're going to make sure Blake never touches you or this ranch again."

"I don't want you to bankrupt yourselves for me," I protest weakly.

"Too bad." His arms tighten. "You're ours now. Pack. Family. That means your fights are our fights. Your enemies are our enemies." He pauses, then adds more softly, "Your victories are our victories too."

I prop myself up on an elbow to look at him. His gray eyes are serious in the fairy light, all that earlier vulnerability transformed into determination.

"I've already lost too much to fire," he continues, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "I won't lose you too. None of us will."

"You won't," I promise, catching his hand and pressing it to my cheek. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home now. You're my home."

Something shifts in his expression, wonder mixing with the determination. "Say that again."

"You're my home," I repeat, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "All of you. This place. This life we're building. Home."

He pulls me down for a kiss that's gentle and fierce all at once, sealing the promise between us. When we break apart, I settle back against his chest, tracing idle patterns on his skin.

My fingers find the phoenix tattoo again, following the lines of wings spread in flight. Rising from ashes. Being reborn. It feels like a metaphor for all of us—burned by our pasts but building something new from the ruins.

"We should get dressed," Cole says eventually, though he makes no move to release me. "Mavi will be back with Luna soon."

"Five more minutes," I bargain, burrowing closer.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. "Five more minutes," he agrees, pulling the blanket higher.

But we both know it's a lie. Five minutes or five hours or five years—it'll never be enough. Not when we've finally found what we've been looking for all along.

Safety. Home. Second chances that actually stick.

And a love strong enough to fight dragons for, even when the dragon wears an expensive suit and files legal briefs instead of breathing fire.

Especially then.

Blake’s Escalation To Acquire The Present

~WILLA~

The December farmers market spreads through Sweetwater Falls' main square like a promise of normalcy I'm desperate to believe in.

Canvas awnings flutter in the morning breeze, their cheerful stripes at odds with the knot of anxiety that's lived in my chest since Thanksgiving.

Luna babbles from her carrier strapped to Austin's chest, tiny mittened hands reaching for the colorful displays while I pretend to examine Pearl Chen-Morrison's selection of winter squash, letting the familiar rhythm of small-town Saturday morning wash over me like a protective spell.

"The butternut's especially good this year," Pearl says, her weathered hands arranging the gourds with the same meticulous care she brings to her store. "Would make a lovely soup for that baby."

I smile, genuine warmth cutting through my vigilance for a moment. "She's started on purees. Loves sweet potato, tolerates carrots, acts like green beans are poison."

"Sounds about right." Pearl's eyes crinkle with the kind of knowing that comes from raising three kids of her own. "My youngest lived on nothing but sweet potato for six months straight."

Cole appears at my elbow with a cup of coffee from the stand three stalls down, the steam curling between us like a secret. His presence settles something in me, that solid warmth that says I'm not alone, not anymore. River and Mavi flank us casually, but I recognize the formation—they're creating a perimeter without making it obvious, their protective instincts humming just beneath the surface of this peaceful morning.

That's when I see him.

Blake emerges from between the craft booths like a nightmare wearing expensive clothes, three Iron Ridge pack members trailing behind him in a V formation that screams intimidation. My body reacts before my mind catches up—muscles tensing, breath catching, that old familiar cocktail of fear and fury flooding my system. The squash in my hands creaks under my suddenly white-knuckled grip.

"Well, well." Blake's voice carries across the market with calculated volume, ensuring an audience. "If it isn't my wayward wife, playing house with her collection of strays."

Cole moves before I can blink, stepping smoothly in front of me like a wall of protective fury. But he doesn't touch Blake, doesn't give him the excuse for violence he's clearly seeking. Behind me, River's hand finds the small of my back, warm and steadying, anchoring me to the present instead of the past where Blake's voice wants to drag me.

"Harrison." Cole's voice could freeze hell. "You're violating the restraining order."

Blake's laugh is all performance, playing to the gathering crowd of market-goers who've stopped pretending to shop. "Temporary restraining order, Montgomery. And it's fifty-one feet, which I'm carefully maintaining." He pulls out his phone, makes a show of checking something. "GPS doesn't lie. Unlike some people."

"What do you want?" The words scrape past my throat before I can stop them, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

His smile sharpens, predator scenting weakness. "Just exercising my legal rights, sweetheart. See, my lawyer's filing for visitation rights to the ranch property. Marital asset, you understand. Can't have you making major decisions about our shared investment without my input."

"The ranch is mine." Each word costs me, but I force them out. "Inherited property. You have no claim."

"That's for the courts to decide." He takes a step closer, still maintaining that careful distance that keeps him technically legal while feeling like a violation. "Amazing how much money I invested in that place. Improvements, repairs, general upkeep. My lawyer has receipts."

River's hand presses harder against my back, and I realize I'm shaking. Not with fear—with rage. Because I know those receipts are fabricated, know Blake never spent a dime on the ranch except what he stole from my accounts.

"Quite the setup you've got here." Blake's gaze slides over my men like oil. "Playing omega to four alphas. Very modern. Very... opportunistic."

Austin shifts Luna higher on his chest, angling her away from Blake's line of sight. The movement is subtle but speaks volumes—even our baby isn't safe from this man's attention. Mavi's hand drifts toward his pocket, hovering over something I suspect is either a weapon or a recording device. Maybe both.

"Nothing to say?" Blake continues, voice dripping false concern. "I worry about you, Willa. Four alphas, one omega—that's a lot of pressure. A lot of competing demands. The courts might question whether you're making sound decisions about the property under such... influence."

"The only influence she was under was yours." Wendolyn's voice cuts through the tension as she emerges from her flower stall, arms crossed and chin raised. "And we all know how that turned out."

Pearl Chen-Morrison abandons her squash to flank my other side. "Got a problem with how we do things in Sweetwater Falls, Harrison? Because we protect our own here."

"Is that a threat?" Blake's eyes narrow, but I catch the flicker of uncertainty. He didn't expect community support. In Iron Ridge, omegas were isolated, left to fend for themselves.

"It's a promise." Buck Jennings appears like he materialized from the earth itself, all six feet four inches of former rodeo champion radiating menace. "You're not welcome here, boy. Best remember that."

Blake's packmates shift restlessly, clearly uncomfortable with the way the town is closing ranks. But Blake himself just smiles wider, snake-charming his way through the confrontation.

"How touching. The whole town playing protector." His gaze finds mine through the wall of bodies. "But towns don't decide custody battles. Courts do. And courts like evidence."

He pulls out a manila envelope, thick with documents. "Know what this is? Surveillance logs. Seems you've been making some interesting decisions, Willa. Leaving the baby with virtual strangers while you..." His pause is obscene with implication. "Pursue other interests. Judges frown on negligent parenting."

"You son of a—" Austin starts forward, but River catches his arm.

"He's baiting you," River murmurs, but his own control is wire-thin. I can smell the rage rolling off all four of my men, alpha pheromones thick enough to choke on.

Blake notices too, and his smile turns triumphant. "Please, by all means. Assault me in front of thirty witnesses. My lawyer would love that."

Maverick moves so fast I barely track it, intercepting Blake's hand as he reaches toward me with the envelope. Not touching, just... there. A barrier of barely controlled violence.

"Careful," Mavi says softly, and something in his tone makes Blake's packmates step back. "Accidents happen at markets. People trip. Coffee spills. Bones break."

"Are you threatening me, Cross?" But Blake's voice has lost some of its smugness.

"I'm educating you." Mavi's smile is all teeth. "About cause and effect."

Blake jerks his hand back, tossing the envelope at my feet instead. "Three weeks, Willa. That's when the court date is set. Better hire a good lawyer. Oh wait—" His gaze sweeps our group with calculated cruelty. "That would require money you don't have anymore. Shame about those legal fees."

He starts to turn away, then pauses with theatrical timing. "Beautiful baby, by the way. Luna, isn't it? Such delicate features. She must take after her mother." His eyes find mine, and the malice there steals my breath. "Be a shame if the courts decided she needed a more... stable environment. Iron Ridge Pack has excellent resources for raising special needs children."

The word explodes from all four men simultaneously: "WHAT?"

But Blake's already walking away, his pack closing ranks behind him. He throws one last comment over his shoulder, voice carrying across the now-silent market: "See you in court, sweetheart. All of you."

They disappear between the stalls, leaving behind a vacuum of tension that makes my ears ring. Luna whimpers, picking up on the distress radiating from her fathers. Austin bounces her automatically, but his face has gone pale except for two spots of color high on his cheeks.

"He threatened her." Cole's voice is barely human. "That bastard just threatened our baby."

"Not here," River says urgently, glancing around at our audience. Some faces show sympathy, others curiosity, but all are watching. "We need to get home. Now."

I bend to pick up the envelope with numb fingers. Through the manila, I can feel the weight of whatever evidence Blake's manufactured, whatever weapons he's planning to use against us. My hands shake as I straighten, and suddenly Cole's there, taking the poison from my hands.

"Don't," he says roughly. "Not here. Not until we're somewhere safe and can go through it properly."

But safe feels like an illusion now, evaporating like morning mist. Blake knows where we live, knows our routines, has been watching us. And now he's made it clear that not even Luna is off-limits in his war to reclaim what he thinks is his.

The market continues around us, noise and color and life flowing back into the spaces Blake's presence had frozen. But I can't shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted, that the illusion of our hard-won peace has been shattered beyond repair.

As we make our way to the trucks, accepting murmured support from neighbors and friends, one thought circles my mind like a hungry vulture:

He's not going to stop. Not until he destroys everything I've found here. Everything I love.

Unless we stop him first.

The floor knows my path by now—twelve steps from the fireplace to the window, pivot at the bookshelf, avoid the squeaky board near the couch. I've worn a circuit in the past twenty minutes, unable to sit still while Blake's words echo in my skull like wasps trapped behind glass. Beautiful baby. Special needs children. The envelope sits on the coffee table like a bomb waiting to detonate, but it's Maverick's laptop that holds my attention as he connects cables with movements too precise for comfort.

"Willa, you're going to wear a hole in the floor." River's voice carries that forced calm that means he's anything but. He's claimed the armchair, but his knuckles are white where they grip the armrests, and his usual mediator energy has sharpened into something more dangerous.

"Let her pace," Cole growls from where he's stationed himself by the window, keeping watch like Blake might materialize from the December afternoon. "Better than the alternatives."

The alternatives being violence, screaming, or complete collapse. I appreciate him not listing them out loud. My hands won't stop shaking, and every time I close my eyes I see Blake's snake smile, hear the casual way he threatened Luna like discussing the weather.

"Almost ready," Mavi mutters, fingers flying over his keyboard. The coffee table has transformed into a command center—laptop, external drives, cables snaking everywhere. His green eyes reflect the screen's glow, cold and focused in a way that reminds me he used to hunt arsonists for a living. "Need you all to see this. Need you to understand what we're dealing with."

Austin hasn't put Luna down since the market. She's content for now, gumming on a teething ring while he rocks her in the kitchen doorway, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps checking her like Blake might have left some invisible mark. The gentle healer energy that defines him has gone rigid with protective fury.

"Okay." Mavi turns the laptop to face us. "Started noticing patterns about a week ago. Installed additional cameras after Thanksgiving, just to be safe." His jaw tightens. "Should have done it sooner."

The screen fills with footage—grainy but clear enough. A dark sedan creeping past our front gate at 5:47 AM. The timestamp jumps: same car at 2:23 PM. Again at 7:15 PM. Always slow, always pausing just long enough for someone to observe without being obvious about it.

"That's Blake's car," I whisper, sinking onto the couch because my legs won't hold me anymore. "The Lincoln he bought last year."

"With your money," Cole adds darkly.

Mavi clicks to another file. "It gets worse." This footage shows the side of the house, the view capturing part of the wraparound porch. There—a figure in dark clothes, hood up despite the relatively mild weather. They're not approaching, just... watching. Standing in the shadows where our property meets the tree line, still as a predator waiting for prey to relax.

"Jesus Christ," River breathes. "How long?"

"This particular footage? Forty-three minutes." Mavi's voice could freeze flames. "Just standing there. Watching."

My stomach churns as I recognize the angle of observation. "That's... that's my bedroom window. He was watching my room."

"Our room," Cole corrects firmly, but his hands have curled into fists that speak of barely controlled violence.

Mavi pulls up another file, this one a spreadsheet that makes my head spin. Times, dates, patterns mapped out with investigative precision. "He knows our routines. When Cole leaves for the hardware store on Wednesdays. When River does his evening rounds at the clinic. When Austin takes Luna for her afternoon walk." His finger traces one particular pattern that makes bile rise in my throat. "When Willa hangs laundry on Tuesday mornings. Alone."

The crack of wood splintering makes us all jump. Cole's fist has gone through the coffee table, leaving a spider web of fractures across the surface. He stares at the damage like he's surprised by his own violence, then slowly extracts his hand. Blood wells from his knuckles, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Cole—" Austin starts forward, healer instincts overriding everything else.

"I'm fine." The words come out ground between teeth. "Table's not. Sorry."

"Fuck the table," River says quietly, and hearing mild-mannered River curse makes the situation feel even more dire. "We need to change everything. Every routine, every pattern. Starting now."

"Already on it." Mavi minimizes the surveillance footage, pulling up what looks like a military-grade planning document. "Motion sensors for the perimeter—infrared, not the cheap hardware store variety. Cameras with night vision covering all angles. Randomized schedules for leaving and returning. Safe room protocols."

"Safe room?" I echo, the words tasting foreign. "This is a ranch, not a bunker."

"It's whatever it needs to be to keep you and Luna safe," Cole says flatly, examining his bloody knuckles with detachment. "If that means turning it into Fort Knox, so be it."

"This is my fault." The words tumble out before I can stop them, guilt and self-loathing making my voice thick. "I brought this to your door. Blake's fixation, his threats—you were all fine before I⁠—"

"Stop." Austin's voice cuts through my spiral with uncharacteristic sharpness. "Don't you dare."

"But it's true⁠—"

"No." River rises from his chair, crossing to kneel in front of where I'm huddled on the couch. His dark eyes hold mine, intense with conviction. "What's true is that Blake Harrison is a predator who latched onto you when you were vulnerable. What's true is that he tried to kill you rather than let you leave. What's true is that none of that is your fault."

"You're pack," Cole adds simply, like that explains everything. "Our omega. Our family. His threats don't change that—they just clarify what needs to be done."

Luna makes a happy gurgling sound, reaching for Austin's face with chubby fingers. He catches her hand gently, pressing a kiss to her tiny palm, but his eyes stay on me. "She loves you. We love you. That's not something you apologize for, Willa. That's something we protect."

Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. This isn't the time for emotional breakdowns, not when Blake's shadow looms over everything we've built. "What about the legal stuff? The evidence he claims to have?"

"Fabricated bullshit," Mavi says with complete certainty. "I've seen his financial records, remember? Every receipt will be forged, every claim a lie. Margaret Chen will tear it apart."

"But mud sticks," River points out quietly. "Even lies, if repeated enough in court, can influence perception."

"Then we make sure our truth is louder." Cole flexes his injured hand, seemingly satisfied that nothing's broken. "Starting with documenting every violation, every threat, every moment of stalking."

"The security system goes in tomorrow," Mavi continues, scrolling through his planning document. "I've got contacts coming from Helena—people I trust. Discrete installation, professional grade. Austin, I need you to vary Luna's routine. No more predictable nap times on the porch. River⁠—"

"Already thinking about it," River interrupts. "I'll coordinate with the clinic, stagger my shifts. Maybe crash there some nights, make it harder to track patterns."

"No." The word rips from my throat with surprising force. "No splitting up. That's what he wants—to divide us, make us vulnerable. We stick together."

Something passes between the four men, a silent communication I'm only beginning to understand. Agreement, maybe. Or recognition that I'm right—Blake's counting on fear to fracture us.

"Together, then," Cole agrees. "But smart. Cautious. No unnecessary risks."

"I can help," I offer, needing to contribute something beyond being the source of danger. "I know how Blake thinks, how his pack operates. Their weak points."

Mavi nods slowly. "That could be useful. Tomorrow, after the security installation, we sit down and you tell us everything. Every detail about Iron Ridge's structure, their business dealings, their hierarchies. Information is ammunition."

Luna yawns hugely, tiny fist rubbing at her eyes. It's past her bedtime, the market chaos and subsequent tension keeping her up well beyond normal. Austin shifts her against his chest, humming something low and soothing.

"I should put her down," he says reluctantly. "But⁠—"

"We're not letting her out of our sight," Cole finishes. "Nursery's too isolated. She sleeps with us tonight."

Us. Not someone specific, but the pack as a whole. The word warms something in my chest even as the circumstances that necessitate it chill my blood. But before anyone can respond, the doorbell chimes through the house.

Everyone freezes.

It's 9:47 PM on a Saturday—too late for casual visitors, too early for true emergencies. The bell rings again, followed by firm knocking.

"Were we expecting anyone?" River asks quietly.

"No." Cole's already moving, phone in hand as he pulls up the security app. The current cameras only cover the driveway and front gate, not the porch itself. His frown deepens as he studies the screen. "Two figures. Can't make out faces from this angle."

"Police cruiser in the drive," Mavi observes, peering out the window. "Lights off, but definitely official."

The knocking comes again, and a female voice calls out:

"Mr. Montgomery? It's Chief Reyes. I'm here with Wendolyn Murphy. We need to talk about Blake Harrison."

The tension in the room shifts but doesn't dissipate. Police could mean safety or trouble, depending on their intentions.

Cole looks to me, silently asking permission to answer.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Stay back," he tells me quietly, then moves to the door. His hand hovers over the locks for a moment before he checks the phone one more time. "It's definitely Wendolyn's car behind the cruiser."

He opens the door carefully, body positioned to block any direct line to the living room.

To me. To Luna. Always protecting, even when the threat might be wearing a badge.

"Chief," Cole says evenly. "Ms. Murphy. Late for a social call."

"This isn't social." Chief Reyes's voice carries the kind of authority that comes from years of not taking anyone's shit. "May we come in? What I have to say shouldn't be discussed on doorsteps."

Cole glances back at us, a silent question in the look. River nods slightly, and Cole steps aside. "Of course."

They enter like opposing forces—Wendolyn all worried energy and fluttering hands, Chief Reyes moving with the controlled precision of someone who's walked into too many volatile situations. She's younger than I expected, maybe early forties, with silver threading through black hair pulled into a severe bun. Her uniform is crisp despite the late hour, and her dark eyes sweep the room with professional assessment, cataloging exits, positions, threat levels.

"Willa." Wendolyn rushes to me, ignoring protocol to pull me into a fierce hug. She smells like vanilla and stress, her usually perfect makeup smudged around the eyes. "I'm so sorry about the market. If I'd known Blake was going to show up⁠—"

"It's not your fault," I manage, returning the hug even as my body stays tense.

"No, it's his." Chief Reyes positions herself where she can see everyone, hand resting casually on her duty belt. Not threatening, just ready. "Mr. Harrison made quite a scene. Multiple witnesses have already given statements about his behavior."

"Statements?" Mavi shifts his laptop, suddenly interested. "Official ones?"

"Very official." The chief's smile is sharp as a blade. "Seems your ex-husband miscalculated how Sweetwater Falls feels about outsiders threatening our residents. Pearl Chen-Morrison was particularly detailed in her account."

"He stayed fifty-one feet away," I say, hating how defensive it sounds. "Technically, he didn't violate⁠—"

"The restraining order, no. But Montana has stalking laws, Ms. James. Harassment laws. And what Mr. Harrison did today?" She pulls out a small notebook, flipping through pages. "That's textbook intimidation."

Luna fusses in Austin's arms, picking up on the room's tension. He bounces her automatically, but his attention is fixed on the chief. We're all coiled springs, waiting for the next blow to fall.

"You said you have something we need to hear," Cole prompts when the silence stretches too long.

Chief Reyes nods slowly. "But first, I need to see what you have. Wendolyn mentioned you've been documenting things. Security footage?"

Mavi and Cole exchange glances, some silent debate happening in the space between them. Trust the cops or handle it themselves—I can read the conflict in their faces. Finally, Mavi turns his laptop toward the chief.

"Started noticing patterns about a week ago," he says, pulling up the first file. "Black Lincoln, license plate partially obscured, making regular passes."

Chief Reyes leans forward, and I watch her expression harden as Mavi walks her through the footage. The repeated drive-bys. The figure watching from the tree line. The mapped patterns of our routines that Blake has clearly been tracking.

"Forty-three minutes," she murmurs when Mavi shows the timestamp of Blake lurking outside my window. "Premeditation. Planning. This is..." She pauses, choosing words carefully. "This is escalation behavior."

"Escalation toward what?" Austin asks, though we all know the answer.

"Violence." The word drops like a stone into still water. "In my experience, when an abuser starts surveillance at this level, they're planning something."

Cole's fist hits the coffee table with enough force to crack the wood. The sound makes everyone jump—Luna starts crying, Wendolyn gasps, and the chief's hand moves instinctively toward her weapon before she catches herself.

"Cole—" I start, but he's already pulling his hand back, staring at the damage like it surprised him.

"I'm fine," he grits out, though blood wells from his knuckles. "Table's not. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Chief Reyes says quietly. "I'd have broken more than furniture if someone was stalking my family."

Family. The word hits different coming from an outsider, official acknowledgment of what we are to each other. Mavi continues showing footage while Austin soothes Luna and River quietly retrieves the first aid kit for Cole's hand.

"We're implementing additional security tomorrow," Mavi explains, outlining his plans with military precision. "Motion sensors, infrared cameras, randomized schedules⁠—"

"Good start," the chief interrupts. "But you'll need more. Official documentation of every incident. Regular check-ins with my department. And—" She pauses, something shifting in her expression. "There's precedent you need to know about."

The room goes still again, even Luna's fussing quieting as if she senses the weight of what's coming.

"Chief," Wendolyn says softly, a warning or encouragement, I can't tell which.

"They need to know." Chief Reyes straightens, authority settling around her like armor. "For their safety and for legal preparation." She turns to address all of us, but her eyes find mine. "We're implementing official protective protocols around this property. Increased patrols, direct emergency line, the works."

"That seems—" River starts.

"Necessary," she cuts him off. "Because we're not having a repeat of what happened to Celeste."

The name hits the room like a lightning strike. All four men go rigid—Cole's bandaged hand clenches, River's breath catches audibly, Mavi's typing stops mid-keystroke, and Austin pulls Luna tighter against his chest. The reaction is so visceral, so immediate, that my skin prickles with awareness.

"Who's Celeste?" My voice comes out smaller than intended.

Heavy silence fills the space, the kind that speaks of old wounds and carefully guarded secrets. Chief Reyes looks between my men, reading something in their faces that makes her expression soften with understanding. She glances at someone I hadn't noticed before—a deputy who'd entered silently behind her, positioning himself by the door. He's older, grizzled in the way of career cops, with kind eyes that have seen too much.

The deputy steps forward at some invisible signal from his chief.

"Celeste Torres was Luna's mother," he says gently, each word measured. "An omega who was killed in a fire set by her abusive pack."

The world tilts sideways. I stare at Luna—sweet, perfect Luna with her mismatched eyes and happy babble—then at her fathers who suddenly won't meet my gaze. My mind races, connecting dots I didn't know existed. Another omega. Another fire. Another death that brought them together.

"Set by," I repeat numbly. "You mean⁠—"

"Murdered," Chief Reyes confirms. "The official report ruled it accidental, but we know better. Just like we know what your ex-husband intended when he locked you in that burning house."

My legs give out. I sink onto the couch, hands shaking as the parallels crash over me. No wonder they were so ready to take me in. No wonder they understood without explanation. They'd walked this path before—found another omega fleeing abuse, given her shelter, tried to protect her.

And failed.

"You never said." The words come out accusing, though I don't mean them to. "All this time, and you never⁠—"

"It wasn't our story to tell," River says quietly. "Celeste was... private. Guarded. She'd been running for so long, trust came hard."

"Sound familiar?" Austin adds, bouncing Luna when she starts to fuss again. "Scared omega shows up out of nowhere, wrapped in secrets and old wounds?"

The comparison stings because it's accurate. How many times have I deflected questions about my past, changed subjects when they got too close to painful truths? But this—this feels like a betrayal of a different magnitude. They let me walk blind into a situation they'd lived before.

"We were going to tell you," Cole says roughly. "When things were calmer. When you felt safer. But then Blake⁠—"

"Blake knows, doesn't he?" The realization hits like ice water. "His comment at the market about Luna taking after her mother. He knows what happened to Celeste."

"Probably," Mavi confirms, jaw tight. "Abusive packs share information. Success stories and failures both. What works, what doesn't, how to avoid consequences."

"Which is why we're not letting history repeat itself," Chief Reyes interjects firmly. "My department failed Celeste. The system failed her. But we learn from our mistakes."

Through the window, headlights sweep across the yard—slow, deliberate. We all tense, but the car continues past without stopping. Just someone heading home, but the reminder of our vulnerability hangs heavy in the air.

"She named us," Austin says suddenly, pressing a kiss to Luna's head. "In her will. Said we were the only pack she'd ever trusted. The only alphas who saw her as a person instead of a possession."

"We tried to protect her," River adds, pain threading through his voice. "Thought we had. She left to keep us safe—said her past was too dangerous, that she couldn't risk it following her here."

"But it found her anyway," Cole finishes. "Three states away, starting fresh, and they still found her."

The weight of their failure sits heavy in the room, shaping everything that's happened since. Their immediate acceptance of me. The fierce protection. The way they look at me sometimes like they're seeing a ghost.

"I'm not her," I say quietly. "I'm not Celeste."

"No," Cole agrees, meeting my eyes finally. "But you're facing the same kind of monster. And we'll be damned if we lose someone else to male pride and possessive rage."

Chief Reyes clears her throat.

"Which brings us to immediate concerns. Mr. Harrison's behavior today, combined with this surveillance evidence, gives us grounds for enhanced protective measures. But I need complete honesty from all of you. No cowboy justice, no taking matters into your own hands. We do this legally, or we risk giving him ammunition."

"Legally didn't save Celeste," Mavi points out, an edge to his voice.

"No," the chief agrees. "But that was a different department, different time. I run things differently." She stands, authority radiating from every line of her body. "Patrol units will do hourly passes starting tonight. Any suspicious activity, you call immediately. Don't confront, don't engage. Let us build the case."

"And if he escalates before you can build it?" Cole asks what we're all thinking.

Chief Reyes meets his gaze steadily.

"Then we'll be ready. I've got officers trained in domestic violence response, omega protection protocols, pack dynamics. This isn't some backwoods department that looks the other way."

As if to punctuate her words, another set of headlights appears in the distance. This time they slow as they approach our gate, and everyone tenses. The car idles for a long moment—ten seconds, twenty—before continuing on.

"Could be nothing," the deputy offers. "Could be rubbernecking."

"Or it could be reconnaissance," Mavi counters, already typing something into his laptop.

Chief Reyes nods.

"Which is why we start protocols tonight. Deputy Martinez will do the first perimeter check, establish baseline normal for your property. Tomorrow, we'll have a full security assessment."

She turns to me, expression softening slightly.

"Ms. James, I know this is overwhelming. But you're not alone in this. Not anymore."

The echo of what my men keep telling me, now backed by a badge and the weight of law. But all I can think about is Celeste—another omega who thought she'd found safety, who had these same men promising protection, who died anyway.

Outside, that darkness feels alive with threat, Blake's presence poisoning even the sanctuary of home. Luna babbles something that sounds almost like "mama," and my heart cracks a little more.

Because now I understand the weight these men carry, the ghost that haunts their every protective instinct. And I understand why Blake's threats hit them so hard.

They've failed before.

And the cost was everything.

Wendolyn shifts her weight, the movement breaking the suffocating silence that followed the revelation about Celeste. She clutches a leather portfolio to her chest like armor, knuckles white against the dark material.

"That's actually why I'm here," she says, voice steadier than her hands. "Well, part of why. I brought someone who can help."

She glances at Chief Reyes, who nods permission, then continues.

"After what happened at the market today, I made some calls. Dr. Sylvie agreed to share her documentation with law enforcement. She's... she's been keeping very detailed records."

"Dr. Sylvie?" I frown, surprised she’d be here this late. "Iris, the Omega Health Specialist?"

"And also a Clinical Psychologist," Wendolyn adds gently. "Trauma specialist, and surprisingly, she's the one who treated you that first night in the hospital after you were brought in from the rescue."

The memory surfaces hazily—those first hours after Cole pulled me from the burning house, everything smoke-blurred and shock-cold. A woman with gentle hands and careful questions, documenting bruises I'd forgotten existed, recording symptoms of long-term abuse I hadn't even recognized as abnormal.

"She's been documenting everything," Wendolyn continues, opening the portfolio with reverent care. "Your physical condition upon arrival. Behavioral markers of sustained abuse. Clinical observations that paint a very clear picture of what Blake Harrison put you through."

Chief Reyes leans forward, professional interest sharpening her features.

"May I?"

Wendolyn hands over the portfolio, and I watch the chief's expression darken as she flips through pages.

Whatever Dr. Sylvie wrote, it's clearly damning.

River moves closer to read over her shoulder, and his sharp intake of breath makes my stomach clench.

"Malnutrition," Chief Reyes reads quietly. "Chronic sleep deprivation. Hypervigilance consistent with ongoing threat assessment. Scarring on wrists consistent with restraint marks." She looks up at me. "This is from your first night here?"

I nod, unable to find words. Austin pulls Luna closer, like he can protect her from the words hanging in the air. She babbles contentedly, oblivious to the way her fathers have gone still as stones.

"There's more," Wendolyn says, pulling out a second folder. "Dr. Sylvie also documented the progression of your recovery. Weight gain, improved sleep patterns, decreased startle response. Clinical proof that removing you from Blake's influence had immediate positive effects."

"This is evidence of systematic abuse," Chief Reyes states flatly. "Combined with the financial records Mr. Cross uncovered and today's incident, we're building a strong case for criminal prosecution."

"Building," Cole repeats, the word bitter in his mouth. "While he's out there watching. Planning."

"Which is why we implement protective protocols immediately." The chief's voice brooks no argument. "Deputy Martinez is already beginning the perimeter assessment. By tomorrow morning, we'll have a complete security evaluation."

She pulls out her own notebook, shifting into tactical mode. "First, we establish safe zones within the property. Primary residence, barn, any outbuildings you use regularly. Motion sensors at all entry points, panic buttons in each zone."

"I've already ordered the hardware," Mavi interjects. "Military grade, with redundant systems."

"Good. Second, we vary all routines effective immediately. No predictable patterns, no regular schedules that can be tracked. Third, check-in protocols. You miss a scheduled contact, we respond like it's an emergency."

"Seems excessive," River murmurs, though his tone suggests he knows it's not.

"Celeste thought so too," Chief Reyes responds quietly. "Said we were overreacting, that her ex had moved on. Three weeks later, she was dead."

The comparison lands like a punch. Luna fusses, picking up on the spike in tension, and Austin stands to walk her around the room. His movement breaks the frozen moment, lets us all breathe again.

"There's something else," Wendolyn says, producing a business card from her pocket. "Dr. Sylvie wants to offer ongoing documentation. Regular sessions to establish a clear record of recovery, any incidents of harassment, psychological impact of Blake's actions. Pro bono."

"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why would she⁠—"

"Because she's seen this before." Wendolyn's eyes are too knowing. "Different faces, same story. And because Sweetwater Falls takes care of its own."

Through the window, Deputy Martinez's flashlight sweeps across the yard. He's methodical, checking fence lines and shadowed corners, establishing what normal looks like so any deviation will stand out. It should feel comforting, but instead it emphasizes how much our lives have changed in a single day.

"I need honesty from all of you," Chief Reyes says, closing the portfolio of evidence. "Any previous incidents you haven't reported. Any threats, no matter how minor they seemed. We need everything."

The men exchange glances, and I see the weight of unspoken experiences. How many small violations have they absorbed, thinking they were protecting me from worry?

"He called," Cole admits quietly. "Three times last week. Blocked number, but it was him. Asked about the ranch, made comments about pack structure."

"Someone left a dead rabbit on the fence post," River adds. "Tuesday morning. Could have been coyotes, but..."

"But it was positioned too deliberately," Mavi finishes. "Displayed, not dropped."

Each revelation feels like another stone added to the weight in my chest. All these threats I didn't know about, dangers they've been quietly handling while I played house and pretended we were safe.

"You should have told me," I whisper.

"We handled it," Cole says, but there's apology in his tone.

"Like you handled Celeste's situation?" The words escape harsh and accusing, and I immediately want to take them back. But they hang in the air like smoke, impossible to reclaim.

Cole flinches like I've slapped him. River's hands clench into fists. Even Austin stops his pacing, Luna whimpering at the sudden stillness. The comparison is cruel but accurate—they're making the same mistakes, thinking protection means keeping me in the dark.

"That's not fair," Austin says quietly, but there's no heat in it. Just hurt.

"Isn't it?" I stand, needing movement, needing distance from the suffocating weight of their good intentions. "You're doing exactly what you did before. Deciding what I need to know, when I need to know it. How did that work out?"

"Willa—" River starts, but I'm not done.

"I'm not a child. I'm not fragile. I survived years with Blake and his calculative pack, survived that fire, survived starting over with nothing." My voice cracks, betraying the strength I'm trying to project. "I deserve to know when I'm being threatened. I deserve to be part of protecting myself."

Heavy silence follows my outburst. Luna's soft whimpers are the only sound until Chief Reyes clears her throat.

"She's right," the chief says simply. "Protective isolation often enables predators. Information sharing is crucial for safety."

"We were trying—" Cole begins, then stops, running his bandaged hand through his hair. "Fuck. We were trying not to scare you."

"I'm already scared," I admit, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it came. "Have been since the day I married Blake. At least when I know what's happening, I can prepare. Can fight back."

Austin returns to the couch, settling Luna against his chest. She grabs for my hand with perfect baby timing, and I let her tiny fingers wrap around mine. The touch grounds me, reminds me what we're really fighting for.

"No more secrets," River says firmly. "No more protecting you from hard truths. You're pack, you deserve full disclosure."

"All of us together," Cole agrees, meeting my eyes with something like understanding. "No more split decisions."

Chief Reyes nods approvingly. "Good. Unity is your best defense. That and the law." She stands, radiating authority despite her smaller stature. "Deputy Martinez will finish the perimeter check, then maintain presence until the morning shift. Tomorrow, we'll have officers on rotation."

"Thank you," I manage, meaning it despite the fear still coursing through my veins.

She pauses at the door, looking back at our ragtag pack clustered in the living room. "We failed Celeste Torres. That's on us, on the system that should have protected her. But we learn. We adapt. And we don't fail twice."

Wendolyn hugs me goodbye, whispering fierce promises about the whole town having my back. Dr. Sylvie's card burns in my pocket, a lifeline I didn't know I needed. They leave together, Chief Reyes already on her radio coordinating increased patrols.

We watch through the window as their vehicles disappear down the drive, leaving us alone with the weight of everything we've learned. Deputy Martinez's flashlight continues its steady sweep, a small beacon against the pressing darkness.

"She never told us about the calls either," Austin says suddenly, Luna drowsing against his shoulder. "Celeste. Found out after she died that her ex had been calling for weeks. Escalating. Making specific threats she never shared."

"She was trying to protect us," River adds quietly. "Said we'd done enough, that she could handle it."

The parallel hits too close, and I sink back onto the couch. These strong, capable men who've already lost one omega to pride and secrets and misplaced protection. No wonder they hover. No wonder they track every threat with obsessive detail.

"We can't change what happened to her," I say finally. "But we can learn from it. All of us."

Cole settles beside me, careful not to crowd but close enough that I can feel his warmth. "Together," he agrees. "No more isolation. No more⁠—"

Headlights sweep across the window, cutting off his words. We all tense, tracking the slow approach of a dark sedan. It pauses at our gate—longer than curiosity would warrant, not long enough to be obviously surveilling. The engine idles, a predatory purr in the quiet night.

Mavi's already at his laptop, fingers flying. "Can't get a clear plate from this angle. But the make and model..."

"It's Blake's car," I whisper, ice flooding my veins. "Or one just like it."

The sedan sits for another ten seconds—a clear message that he knows we're watching, that he wants us to know he's there. Then it continues past, disappearing into the darkness like it was never there at all.

"Martinez is moving to intercept," Cole reports, watching his phone's security feed. "But they'll be long gone."

"He's showing us he can get close," River interprets grimly. "That our protections don't matter."

"Or he's testing response times," Mavi counters. "Seeing how fast law enforcement reacts."

Either way, the message is clear: Blake Harrison isn't done with us. Not by a long shot.

Luna stirs in her sleep, making soft distressed sounds like even unconscious she senses the danger circling our home. Austin rocks her gently, humming something low and soothing, but his eyes track the windows like a sentry.

"We should take shifts tonight," Cole decides. "Two awake, two resting, rotate every three hours."

No one argues. The time for pretending we're safe has passed, swept away by black sedans and old ghosts and the promise of violence lurking just beyond our property line.

I think about Celeste, another omega who sat in this room feeling protected, making plans for a future that would never come.

Did she have moments like this, surrounded by these same men, believing love could overcome obsession?

The thought chills me more than Blake's surveillance ever could.

Because sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes the monsters win. And sometimes the only victory is in learning from the ashes of those who came before.

"I won't be her," I whisper, not sure if I'm making a promise or a prayer. "I won't be another ghost in this house."

"No," Cole agrees fiercely, pulling me against his side. "You won't."

Outside, Deputy Martinez's flashlight continues its steady arc, a small defiance against the gathering dark. But we all know the truth—the real danger isn't out there in the shadows.

It's in the patterns we're doomed to repeat, unless we find the strength to break them.

Celeste’s Unraveling Past

~WILLA~

The nursery smells like sawdust and Luna's baby powder, a combination that shouldn't work but somehow does.

Morning light filters through the gauze curtains Austin hung last week, painting everything in soft focus that makes the world feel less sharp-edged than it has since Blake's appearance at the market.

My knees protest against the hardwood as River and I work to secure the loose floorboard that's been creaking every time someone walks past the crib—a sound that inevitably wakes Luna from her afternoon naps.

"Hand me that smaller hammer?" River's voice is gentle, the same tone he uses with skittish horses and crying babies. We've fallen into an easy rhythm over the past two weeks since that night of revelations, each of us finding our place in the careful dance of hypervigilance and attempted normalcy.

I pass him the tool, our fingers brushing in the exchange. He doesn't flinch anymore when we touch accidentally, and I count that as progress. We're all learning to live with casual contact again, to trust that hands reaching toward us mean comfort, not control.

"This whole corner needs reinforcing," River observes, running his palm along the boards. "Probably original to the house. Your grandfather built things to last, but even hundred-year-old wood has its limits."

"He'd have fixed it himself if he'd lived to see Luna here," I say, picturing my grandfather's weathered hands working these same boards. "Would have been out here with his toolbox the first time it squeaked."

River's smile is soft with understanding. "He'd have loved her. Probably would have carved her a whole set of wooden toys by now."

The image makes my chest tight with loss and possibility intertwined. Luna gurgles from her playpen in the corner, surrounded by the soft toys the men have accumulated for her like dragon's hoard. She's attempting to stuff an entire plush horse in her mouth, a feat of baby physics that defies logic.

"That can't taste good, star girl," I tell her, but she just grins around the soggy fabric, those mismatched eyes bright with mischief.

River shifts position to examine the corner where the boards meet the wall, and I follow, crouching beside him. My fingers trail along the wood grain, feeling for gaps or weakness, when I notice it—a space where the board doesn't quite meet its neighbor, too uniform to be natural warping.

"River, look at this." I wedge my fingernails into the gap, feeling the board give slightly. "It's loose, but differently than the others. Like it's meant to come up."

He leans closer, our shoulders touching as we both examine the spot. "You're right. It's been cut. See the edges? Too clean for a break."

Working together, we pry at the board until it lifts free with surprising ease. Beneath is a cavity in the floor, deliberately carved out, and nestled inside like a secret waiting to be discovered is a wooden box. My breath catches as I recognize the craftsmanship—the same delicate rose pattern that decorates the kitchen cabinets, the bathroom mirror frame, all the little touches my grandfather added to make this house beautiful.

"Oh," River breathes, and the sound is pain and recognition combined. His hands shake as he reaches for the box. "Oh, Celeste."

"This was hers?" My voice comes out whispered, like speaking too loud might make the box disappear.

"She had it with her when she first came. Said it was the only thing she grabbed when she ran." River lifts the box with reverent care, cradling it like the precious thing it is. "I helped her find hiding spots for her important papers, but I never knew she'd hidden this."

My heart pounds as I watch him trace the rose pattern with one finger. This woman I never met but whose ghost shapes so much of our present, who loved these men and trusted them with her daughter but not all her secrets. Just like me.

"We should—" River starts, then swallows hard. "The others should be here."

I nod, understanding instinctively that this is a pack moment, not something to be discovered in isolation. "I'll get them."

But River's already calling out, his voice carrying that particular note of urgency that brings people running. "Cole! Mavi! Austin! You need to come here. Now."

The thunder of feet on stairs makes Luna look up from her horse-chewing project, eyes wide with interest. Cole appears first, taking in our positions on the floor and the box in River's hands with quick assessment.

"Is that—" He stops, recognition flooding his features. "Celeste's box."

Maverick and Austin crowd into the nursery behind him, Austin automatically moving to check on Luna before his attention catches on what we've found. The way their faces change—surprise to recognition to grief—tells me everything about how much this simple wooden box means.

"Where did you find it?" Austin asks, voice hushed as he scoops Luna from her playpen and settles cross-legged on the floor beside us. She immediately reaches for the box, drawn by that mysterious baby radar for things they shouldn't touch.

"Hidden under the floorboard," I explain, watching their faces. "River recognized it."

"She was always hiding things," Maverick says roughly, dropping to join our impromptu circle on the nursery floor. "Notes, pictures, anything that mattered. Said she learned not to keep precious things where they could be taken."

The words hit too close to home. How many times have I done the same, secreting away pieces of myself where Blake couldn't find them to destroy? Even here, even safe, I still hide my grandfather's letters under my mattress, still keep my mother's ring in a sock at the back of my drawer.

Cole kneels between River and me, his solid presence anchoring our little circle. "Should we—can we open it?"

River's hands tremble on the box lid. "She's gone. It's not violating anything if—she'd want us to know. She'd want Luna to have it."

"Then open it," Austin says softly, adjusting Luna on his lap so she can see. "Let's meet the parts of her she couldn't share while she was alive."

River lifts the lid with infinite care, as if the contents might evaporate if handled roughly. The scent that escapes is lavender and old paper, somehow still holding the essence of the woman who treasured these items enough to hide them beneath our feet.

Inside, everything is arranged with meticulous care. Bundles of letters tied with ribbon that might once have been purple but has faded to gray. A stack of Polaroid photos held together with a worn rubber band. A tiny hospital bracelet, the kind they put on newborns, so small it seems impossible Luna ever fit into it. And beneath it all, what looks like a journal, its cover worn soft with handling.

"Letters," River says unnecessarily, lifting the first bundle with shaking hands. "She wrote letters."

Luna makes a sound—not quite word, not quite babble—and reaches toward the papers with determined baby hands. River looks at her for a long moment, this child who carries her mother's eyes if not her coloring, then carefully unties the ribbon.

"If we're doing this," he says quietly, "we're doing it together. All of us."

I shift closer to Austin, who's managing Luna while she attempts to investigate everything at once. My hand finds his shoulder in silent support as River unfolds the first letter. The handwriting is careful, precise, like someone who learned that even words on paper could be used as weapons if you weren't cautious.

"My dear friends," River reads, voice already thick with emotion. "If you're reading this, then something has happened and you found my hiding spot. I hope it's because Luna was jumping on the bed and broke through the floor—she has your stubborn streak, Austin, I'm sure of it."

Austin makes a sound between laugh and sob, pressing a kiss to Luna's dark hair. She babbles something that sounds almost like agreement, still reaching for the letters with grabby hands.

River continues, his voice finding steadiness in the rhythm of Celeste's words. "I came to you broken, though I hid it well. That first night, when the storm drove me to your door and Cole answered looking like he'd wrestle the thunder itself to keep it from frightening me—I knew I'd found something special. You didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Just offered soup and a warm bed and the kind of safety I'd forgotten existed."

I watch Cole's face crumple slightly, watch him fight to maintain composure. These strong men undone by words on a page, by the ghost of someone they couldn't save. My eyes burn but I blink back tears, needing to be present for this moment, to witness their grief and love tangled together like the faded ribbon in River's hands.

"Should I—" River asks, looking around our circle. "Should I keep reading?"

"Yes," Maverick says roughly. "We need to hear it. All of it."

River nods, finding his place again. The letter continues, detailing those first weeks at the ranch, how each of the men showed her kindness in different ways. How River taught her to gentle the horses. How Maverick installed new locks without being asked. How Austin shared late-night tea and listened to her fears. How Cole stood between her and every perceived threat, appointing himself guardian without making her feel weak.

Luna's babbling provides a strange counterpoint to her mother's words, like she's adding her own commentary to the story. When she finally manages to grab the edge of the paper, River doesn't pull it away. Instead, he lets her touch it gently, this tangible piece of the mother she'll never remember but whose love shaped the life she knows.

"Read the next one," Cole says when River finishes the first letter. His voice is gravel and glass, but determined. "We need to know what she couldn't tell us."

River reaches for the next bundle, and I settle in closer to Austin and Luna, my heart heavy with the weight of secrets revealed too late and love that transcends death. Outside, December wind rattles the windows, but here in this nursery filled with sawdust and sorrow and unexpected grace, we're about to meet Celeste again through the words she left behind.

Luna pats the letter with one chubby hand, and I swear I feel something shift in the air—like approval, like blessing, like a mother's ghost saying yes, finally, let them know who I really was.

Let them forgive themselves for not being able to save me.

I wonder if the bundle of letters feels heavier in River's hands, or maybe it's just the weight of anticipation pressing down on all of us.

Luna has settled against Austin's chest, somehow sensing this is a moment for quiet, though her little fingers still reach occasionally for the papers that smell like her mother's secrets.

"This one's dated two weeks after she arrived," River says, unfolding the aged paper with careful fingers. The afternoon light has shifted, painting golden stripes across the nursery floor where we sit like children at story time, if children's stories came with this much grief.

"'I can't stop thinking about that first night,'" River reads, his voice finding the rhythm of Celeste's words. "'The storm was so violent I thought my car would flip. Every lightning strike felt like him finding me, like the sky itself was angry I'd dared to run. When I saw your porch light through the rain, I almost didn't stop. What right did I have to bring my darkness to someone else's door?'"

River pauses, swallowing hard, then continues. "'But Cole answered like he'd been waiting for me. Not just that night, but all his life. He took one look at me—soaked, shaking, probably half-feral with fear—and said 'You're safe now' with such certainty I almost believed him. He didn't know me, didn't know what I was running from, but he stood in that doorway like he could hold back the whole storm if it tried to follow me inside.'"

I glance at Cole, watching his hands clench and unclench where they rest on his thighs. His jaw works like he's fighting words that want to escape, and I shift slightly closer, letting my knee touch his in silent support. He doesn't pull away.

"'He made me tea,'" River continues reading. "'Said his mother used to say that all problems looked smaller through steam from a proper cup. His hands were so gentle, setting the mug in front of me, never moving too fast or getting too close. Like he knew without being told that I'd been taught to fear quick movements and reaching hands.'"

"She noticed everything," Cole says roughly. "Even that first night, terrified and exhausted, she was cataloging exits and reading body language and—" He stops, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I should have known then she was running from something serious."

"You gave her what she needed," I say softly. "Safety first, questions later."

River shuffles to the next letter, dated a month later. "'The horses know I'm broken,'" he reads. "'River says that's nonsense, that they just recognize someone who understands what it's like to be scared. But I see how they settle when I'm in the barn, how even that half-wild mare in stall seven will take carrots from my hand now. River watches from the corners, pretending to fix tack or measure feed, but I know he's making sure I'm okay. He moves like water, all smooth motion and careful distance, never making me feel trapped even in enclosed spaces.'"

River's voice catches on his own name, and I watch him blink rapidly. "She helped me gentle that mare. Said broken things recognized each other, knew how to be patient with the healing process."

The next letter makes Maverick shift uncomfortably before River even starts reading. "'I found the new locks this morning. Maverick must have installed them during the night—I never heard a thing. Two deadbolts on my bedroom door, the kind that lock from inside. A chain too, positioned where I can reach it easily. He didn't say anything, didn't make a production of it. Just left the keys on my dresser with a note: 'Your space. Your control.' I cried for an hour.'"

Maverick's looking at the floor, shoulders rigid with tension. "She'd been checking the windows obsessively. Testing the doors. I could see her jumping every time the house settled."

"So you gave her control," Austin says softly. "Without making her ask."

"Everyone deserves to feel safe in their own room," Maverick mutters, but I hear the pain underneath the practicality.

River finds another letter, this one with Austin's name prominently mentioned. "'Austin makes tea at 2 AM like it's perfectly normal to find someone crying in the kitchen. He never asks why I'm awake—just puts the kettle on and pulls out the chamomile. Last night he told me about his rotation in the burn unit, how he learned that healing isn't linear. 'Some days you progress, some days you just survive,' he said. 'Both are victories.' I wanted to tell him then about the bruises that took months to fade, about the words that left scars no one could see. Instead, I just drank my tea and let him refill my cup three times without comment.'"

Austin presses his face into Luna's hair, and I can see his shoulders shaking slightly. Luna pats his cheek with one tiny hand, offering baby comfort with innocent grace. The parallel to my own late-night kitchen encounters with Austin isn't lost on me—how many times has he sat with me, offering tea and quiet company while I battled demons he didn't fully understand?

"There are photos," River says, setting aside the letters to reach for the small stack of Polaroids. The rubber band disintegrates as he touches it, perished with age, and the photos fan out across the floor like memories made manifest.

The first shows Celeste by the stables, smiling at something off-camera. Her dark hair catches the light, and even in the faded photo, I can see the careful way she holds herself—ready to run if needed. But there's peace in her expression too, the kind that comes from finally feeling safe enough to lower your guard.

"I took that one," River says quietly. "She'd just gotten the mare to eat from her hand for the first time."

Another photo: Celeste in the kitchen with Austin, both of them flour-dusted and laughing. A mixing bowl sits between them, and Luna's baby quilt is visible in the background—they must have been baking while planning for her arrival.

"Mavi's birthday cake," Austin identifies, voice thick. "She insisted on making it from scratch. Said store-bought didn't show proper appreciation."

There's one of her on the porch swing with Cole, wrapped in what looks like his flannel shirt. Another with Maverick, both of them focused on something he's showing her on a laptop—probably the security system he was installing. Each image shows a woman slowly coming back to life, finding her place in this makeshift family.

I trace my finger over her face in the photos, this woman whose path I'm following in ways I never anticipated. Luna makes a grab for one, and Austin lets her touch it gently, watching as she pats her mother's face with innocent recognition.

"Read the last one," Cole says gruffly. "The one at the bottom."

River retrieves a letter that's been folded and refolded so many times the creases are soft as cloth. His hands tremble as he opens it, and I can see it's longer than the others, covered in Celeste's careful script.

"'My beloved pack,'" River begins, then has to stop, clearing his throat. "'I know that's not what we are officially. Four alphas and an omega without bonds or ceremonies or any of the traditional markers. But in my heart, you became my pack the moment you chose protection over possession, kindness over control.'"

My own throat tightens at the words, at how perfectly they capture what I've found here too. River continues, voice growing stronger: "'I'm pregnant. I found out this morning, and I've spent all day walking the property, trying to find the right words. This child—our child, because I already think of her as ours—will know a different life than I did. She'll know that strength comes in many forms. That gentleness is not weakness. That love doesn't require ownership.'"

"She knew it was a girl?" Maverick asks, voice rough. "She never told us she knew."

"'I'm scared,'" River continues reading. "'Not of you, never of you. But of what I might bring to your door. Of who might come looking. Of whether I'm selfish for wanting this child to know the safety you've given me. But then I watch you all—Cole standing guard without realizing it, River teaching patience through horses, Maverick creating security that feels like care, Austin healing with tea and quiet words—and I know. This child will be loved. Will be protected. Will grow up knowing that real alphas build safe spaces instead of cages.'"

Luna babbles something that sounds almost like words, reaching for the letter with determined hands. This time River lets her have it, watching as she crumples the edge with baby enthusiasm. Somehow it feels right—Celeste's daughter claiming her mother's words, making them real and present instead of just memory.

"She trusted us," Austin whispers, adjusting Luna against his chest. "With everything. With her daughter."

"And we failed her," Cole says flatly.

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend, making everyone look at me. "No, you gave her something she'd never had before. Safety to choose. Love without conditions. Time to heal, even if it wasn't enough time." I meet each of their eyes in turn. "She knew the risks. She writes it right there—she was afraid of what might follow her. But she chose to trust you anyway. That's not failure. That's faith."

River carefully gathers the letters, photos, and tiny bracelet, handling them like the treasures they are. Luna watches with solemn baby eyes, occasionally patting the papers like she's saying goodbye. Or hello. Or both.

"There's one more thing," River says, reaching into the box. He pulls out a small velvet pouch, the kind that might hold jewelry. "Should we⁠—"

"Open it," Austin says. "She wanted us to find this. All of it."

River tips the pouch into his palm, and we all lean forward to see. It's a ring—simple silver with a small moonstone that catches the light. Nothing expensive or flashy, just quietly beautiful.

"Her mother's," Cole breathes. "She told me once it was the only thing of her mother's she managed to save."

"For Luna," River says with certainty. "She left it for Luna."

We sit in silence for a moment, surrounded by the pieces of a life cut short but not unloved. Luna yawns hugely, finally tired from all the emotion and exploration. The afternoon light has gone amber, painting us all in warm tones that feel like blessing.

"We should keep these safe," Maverick says finally. "For Luna. For when she's old enough to understand."

"The box goes back where we found it," River decides. "Celeste chose that spot for a reason. It's protected there."

As they carefully repack the treasures, handling each item with reverent care, I think about the patterns we're all trapped in. Celeste running from an abusive alpha, finding safety here, leaving behind these words of love and trust. Me following the same path, finding the same men, building the same connections.

But maybe that's not a pattern to break. Maybe it's a legacy to honor—the knowledge that some places, some people, will always open their doors to those seeking shelter from storms.

Luna's eyes drift closed as Austin rocks her gently, and I reach over to smooth her dark hair. Somewhere in these letters and photos and treasured objects, her mother's love lives on. And somewhere in this ranch, with these men who understand that protection and possession aren't the same thing, we're all finding our way toward healing.

Maverick's hands still as he lifts one final envelope from the bottom of the box, this one sealed with wax like something out of another century. The red seal bears the impression of a rose—Celeste marking her most important words with the symbol that decorates this house. Unlike the other letters with their soft, worn edges, this one looks barely touched, as if even Celeste couldn't bear to revisit what she'd written.

"It's addressed to all of you," I observe, reading the careful script across the front: 'For Cole, River, Maverick, and Austin—My Chosen Pack.'

"The seal's never been broken," River says quietly. "She wrote this and hid it away, meant for⁠—"

"For after," Cole finishes grimly. "She knew. Somehow she knew we'd be reading this without her."

Maverick breaks the seal with careful fingers, the wax crumbling like dried blood. The letter inside is several pages, covered in Celeste's handwriting, but this time the words seem rushed, urgent, like she was racing against time or fear or both.

"Dated three weeks before she left," Maverick notes, his investigation instincts cataloging details even through emotion. He clears his throat, adjusts Luna where she's drowsing against Austin, and begins to read.

"'My beloved pack, if you're reading this, then my past has finally caught up with me. I pray you never have to, that I'm being paranoid, that the shadows I keep seeing are just memories. But I know better. I've always known this day would come.'"

The temperature in the room seems to drop, and I wrap my arms around myself as Maverick continues. "'His name is Marcus Webb. Alpha of the Ironwood Pack out of northern Wyoming. I was given to him when I turned eighteen—not mated, never that, he liked me too much as a victim to make it permanent. For three years, I lived in hell polished to look like heaven.'"

My breath catches at the familiar pattern—young omega, possessive alpha, abuse hidden behind pack dynamics. But Celeste's story carries details that make my blood run cold.

"'He collected omegas,'" Maverick reads, voice hardening. "'Never bonding, just... keeping. Training, he called it. Breaking us into perfect submission. I was his favorite because I took the longest to break. Because I kept fighting even when the others begged me to submit, to make it easier on all of us.'"

"Jesus," Austin breathes, pulling Luna tighter. She stirs but doesn't wake, safe in the circle of his arms while her mother's nightmare unfolds in words.

"'The night I ran, he'd killed one of the others. Sweet Iris who couldn't have been more than nineteen. She'd smiled at a beta in town, just smiled, and Marcus—'" Maverick has to stop, jaw working. "Fuck."

"Keep reading," Cole says, though his knuckles are white where he grips his knees. "We need to know."

Maverick nods, finding his place. "'I knew I was next. He'd been escalating with me, angry that I still had what he called 'sparks of defiance.' So I ran. Stole his car, drove until it ran out of gas, then walked until I found another to steal. For six months, I zigzagged across the country, never staying anywhere long enough to leave a trail.'"

"But she stayed here," River says, understanding dawning in his eyes. "She stayed with us for over a year. She let herself stop running."

"'Because of you,'" Maverick continues reading, answering River's observation. "'For the first time since I was eighteen, I found alphas who didn't want to own me. Who saw my strength as something to nurture, not destroy. Who gave me space to heal and choices to make and never once made me feel like I owed you anything for your kindness.'"

I think of my own first weeks here, how they gave me the same gifts—space, choice, kindness without debt. The parallel is so exact it makes my chest ache.

"'Which is why I need you to understand what I'm about to ask,'" Maverick reads. "'I'm pregnant. This child is—was—conceived in violence, but I choose to see her as my victory. Proof that Marcus didn't break the part of me that can love. And I need her to have what I never did—protectors who understand that strength isn't about control.'"

"She never told us about the conception," Austin whispers, horror clear in his eyes. "We knew she was pregnant, but⁠—"

"She didn't want pity," I say with certainty. "Didn't want you to see the baby as damaged or lesser because of how she came to be."

Maverick nods at my words, then continues. "'I name you all—Cole Montgomery, River Stone, Maverick Cross, and Austin Bishop—as guardians for this child. Not because you're alphas, but because you're good men. Because you've shown me that protection doesn't require possession. Because you understand that sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let someone choose their own path.'"

Luna makes a soft sound in her sleep, tiny fist clutching Austin's shirt. The timing feels deliberate, like even unconscious she knows we're talking about her origin story, the love that brought her to this moment.

"'I know this is a tremendous burden,'" Maverick's voice cracks slightly but he pushes on. "'Four men who never asked for a child, suddenly responsible for an infant. But I've watched you. Cole, who stands guard without making others feel imprisoned. River, who teaches patience and trust to creatures who've known neither. Maverick, who creates safety in practical ways, understanding that security is its own form of care. Austin, who heals with presence and acceptance, never forcing recovery to follow his timeline.'"

"She saw us," River murmurs. "Really saw us."

"'You four became my family,'" Maverick continues, each word landing like a physical weight. "'The pack I chose rather than the one that was forced upon me. And choosing—that's the gift you gave me. The ability to choose. So now I choose you for her. To raise her with the same freedom you gave me. To teach her that her worth isn't tied to her designation or her biology or anyone else's desires.'"

Tears run freely down Austin's face now as he rocks Luna gently. Cole's jaw is granite, but his eyes shine with moisture. River's hands shake where they rest on the scattered photos. And Maverick—Maverick reads like the words are cutting him, each syllable a fresh wound.

"'I'm leaving because I think Marcus has found me. Three weeks ago, I saw a car that looked like one of his pack's vehicles. Last week, someone asked about me at the diner—description matched one of his enforcers. I can't risk bringing that violence to your door. Can't risk him finding out about the baby. So I'll run again, one last time. Draw him away from here, from you, from her.'"

"But she didn't draw him away," Cole says hollowly. "He found her anyway. Three states away, and he still⁠—"

"'If something happens to me,'" Maverick pushes on, needing to finish, "'know that it's not your fault. You gave me sixteen months of peace. Sixteen months of healing. Sixteen months where I remembered what it felt like to be human instead of prey. That's more than I ever thought I'd have.'"

The letter trembles in Maverick's hands as he reads the final paragraph. "'Tell her about me, but not just the sad parts. Tell her I loved growing things, that the garden flourished under my care. Tell her I sang while I cooked, badly but with enthusiasm. Tell her I was brave enough to choose joy even when fear said I didn't deserve it. Tell her that her mother loved her from the moment she existed, saw her as hope instead of harm. And tell her that in choosing you four as her fathers, I gave her my greatest gift—the chance to grow up surrounded by love that doesn't seek to own.'"

"'All my love, Celeste.'"

The silence that follows is complete, even Luna's breathing seeming to pause in respect for the moment. Then Austin speaks, voice wrecked but determined.

"We won't let her down," he whispers to the letter, to Luna, to Celeste's memory. "Your daughter will know everything you wanted her to know. Will have everything you wanted her to have."

"She'll know her mother was a warrior," Cole adds roughly. "That she survived hell and still chose hope."

"She'll be free," River promises. "To choose her own path, make her own mistakes, become whoever she's meant to be."

"And she'll be protected," Maverick finishes, still holding the letter like it might disappear. "Not owned, not controlled, but protected. From men like Marcus Webb. From anyone who thinks they have the right to cage another person."

I lean forward, drawn by instinct and emotion, and place my hand gently on Maverick's arm. The touch grounds us both, connects me to this moment of promise and pain. "From men like Blake," I add quietly. "Because the patterns don't have to repeat. Because we choose differently."

Luna stirs then, those miraculous mismatched eyes blinking open. She looks around our circle with baby solemnity, then reaches out with both hands—not for any one person but for all of us, those grabby baby gestures that mean 'closer' and 'comfort' and 'mine' all at once.

She pats Maverick's face with one tiny hand while the other clutches at the letter, and I swear there's understanding in her gaze. Too much understanding for a baby, but then Luna's always been extraordinary. Born from trauma but raised in love, carrying her mother's strength and her fathers' protection in equal measure.

"We should frame this one," Austin suggests, voice steady again. "The guardian letter. Put it somewhere safe but visible, so she always knows how much her mother loved her. How much thought went into choosing her family."

"The office," Cole decides. "In the safe with the legal documents. But we'll make copies first. One for each of us."

They begin discussing practicalities—preservation methods, safety deposit boxes, digital backups—but I watch Luna. She's fully awake now, those impossible eyes taking in everything with that unnerving baby wisdom. When she looks at me, I see Celeste's courage reflected there, the strength to choose love over fear.

"You're going to be amazing," I whisper to her. "Just like your mama."

Luna grins, gummy and perfect, and reaches for my hair with typical baby enthusiasm. The men pause their planning to watch us, and I see the same thought reflected in all their faces: Celeste's daughter will know she was chosen. Will know she was loved. Will know that family isn't about blood or bonds or biology, but about the choice to show up, stay present, and build something worth protecting.

Even when the storms come calling again.

Sunset paints the ranch in shades of amber and rose, the kind of light that makes everything look blessed. I stand on the back porch with Luna warm against my chest, watching as the men arrange this impromptu memorial with the same care they brought to reading Celeste's letters. The air smells of approaching winter and freshly turned earth where Cole has begun digging beside the porch steps.

The keepsake box sits on the small table Austin dragged outside, its rose-carved surface catching the dying light. Next to it, a rosebush waits in its nursery pot—River disappeared for an hour after we finished with the letters, returning with this living memorial that seems perfect in its simplicity. The leaves are deep green tinged with purple, and even dormant for winter, I can see the thorns that promise protection alongside beauty.

"Deep enough?" Cole asks, pausing in his digging to gauge the hole. Soil streaks his forearms where he's rolled up his sleeves, and there's something ancient in the image—a man preparing the earth to hold something precious.

"A little more," River suggests, setting aside the watering can he's prepared. "Roses need room to spread their roots. To really anchor."

Cole nods and returns to digging, each shovelful deliberate. There's ritual in this, though none of us have named it as such. We're creating something sacred in the ordinary—a grave marker for someone whose actual resting place is three states away, a living monument to a woman whose greatest fear was being forgotten.

Luna babbles against my shoulder, tiny hands playing with the ends of my hair. She's been remarkably content since we found the letters, as if some restless part of her has settled now that we know her mother's story. Or maybe that's me projecting, seeing meaning where there's only baby contentment. Either way, her presence feels essential to whatever we're doing here.

"That's good," Austin declares, leaving his post by the box to inspect Cole's work. "She would have liked this spot. Right by the house, where she could see it from the kitchen window."

"She loved that window," Maverick adds quietly. He's been standing guard at the porch rail, watching the property line with habitual vigilance, but even he's been drawn into the gentleness of this moment. "Said it was the first kitchen window she'd ever looked out of without fear."

Such a simple thing—a window, a view, the ability to daydream while washing dishes without constantly checking for threats. But I understand the profound gift of that ordinariness. My own kitchen window here has become a favorite spot, somewhere I can watch the seasons change without calculating escape routes.

"Ready?" River asks, lifting the rosebush with careful hands. The pot releases it reluctantly, roots and soil holding the shape of their former container before River loosens them gently. "Come see, little star. This is for your mama."

He crouches down to Luna's level, and I shift her in my arms so she can see properly. Her eyes track the movement as River shows her the plant, those impossible mismatched irises bright with interest.

"It's called a Celeste rose," River explains to her solemnly, as if she can understand every word. Maybe she can—Luna's always seemed to comprehend more than her age suggests. "It'll bloom pale pink in the spring, like sunrise clouds. Your mama would have loved that it shares her name."

Luna reaches out with one chubby hand, patting the leaves with surprising gentleness. River smiles, the expression soft with grief and purpose combined. "That's right. Gentle touches. It's going to grow strong and beautiful, just like you."

Austin clears his throat, pulling a small leather journal from his pocket. Unlike the hidden letters, this is something I've seen before—Celeste's garden journal, left openly on the bookshelf where anyone could read her thoughts on soil and seasons. "I marked a passage," he says quietly. "From last spring, when she was planning what to plant."

He opens to a page marked with a pressed flower—a wild rose, its petals faded but still holding their shape. His voice wavers slightly as he reads: "'I want Luna to grow up surrounded by living things. To understand that growth takes time and patience and the right conditions. To know that even plants that seem delicate can be surprisingly strong, that thorns exist not from meanness but for protection. I want her to put her hands in soil and understand that we're all just tending gardens, trying to leave beauty behind.'"

"She did," Cole says roughly. "She left beauty behind."

Austin continues reading, this passage more personal: "'Sometimes I dream about the garden I'll plant when I'm truly free. Roses for beauty, herbs for healing, vegetables for sustenance. Luna will toddle between the rows, getting dirt under her tiny fingernails, learning that the best things require both tenderness and strength. The boys will help—Cole building raised beds, River managing the water systems, Mavi installing protection from pests, Austin choosing medicinal plants. My chosen family, helping me grow something that can't be destroyed by one man's rage.'"

He closes the journal, pressing it briefly to his chest. "She never got to plant that garden. But we can plant this piece of it."

Maverick abandons his watch to join us, forming a loose circle around the prepared hole. Without discussion, River lowers the rosebush into place, its roots spreading into the space Cole created. The symbolism isn't lost on any of us—Celeste planting roots here even after death, becoming part of the ranch she loved.

"We should each..." Cole starts, then pauses, searching for words. "In Jewish tradition, mourners help fill the grave. It's participation in the burial, in the goodbye. Maybe we could..."

"Yes," River says simply, understanding immediately. He scoops a handful of loose soil, letting it fall around the rose's roots. "For Celeste, who found peace with the horses."

Cole follows, his larger hand carrying more earth. "For Celeste, who trusted us with her daughter."

Maverick's movements are precise, almost military in their contained emotion. "For the trust she placed in us, even when trust seemed impossible."

Austin's hand shakes as he adds his portion. "For Luna's mother, who chose love over fear."

They look to me then, and I understand this is my moment too. I've become part of this story, another woman fleeing abuse, finding shelter with these same men. I shift Luna to one arm and scoop the soil with my free hand, the earth cool and slightly damp against my palm.

"For Celeste," I say, letting the soil fall slowly, "who left us all a roadmap to freedom."

The bush stands sentinel in its new home, surrounded by the earth we've each touched. River produces the watering can, circling the plant with careful attention to saturation. The water darkens the soil, settling everything into place.

"One more thing," I say, inspired by sudden certainty. I kneel carefully, still holding Luna, and guide her tiny hand to pat the freshly watered earth. "So you're part of it too, star girl. So you know you helped plant something beautiful for your mama."

Luna pats enthusiastically, getting soil on her pink sleeper, making happy sounds at the texture. The men watch with soft expressions, this baby who carries all their hopes and Celeste's legacy in her tiny form.

As the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of pink that echo the roses to come, we stand together in silent witness. The rosebush looks small and vulnerable in its new home, but I know from my grandfather's teachings that roses are survivors. They sink deep roots, endure harsh winters, and bloom despite adversity.

"She's part of the ranch now," River says quietly. "Celeste. Through this rose, through Luna, through the changes she made in all of us."

"Part of us," Cole agrees, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, drawing me and Luna into his warmth. "Family, always."

A cold breeze stirs, reminding us that December has teeth despite the golden evening light. Luna shivers, and Austin immediately reaches for her. "Inside, little one. Your mama would never forgive us if you caught cold at her memorial."

We file back into the house, leaving the planted rose to begin its work of settling in, spreading roots, preparing for spring. But I linger for a moment on the porch, looking back at what we've created. Such a small thing—one plant beside the steps. But it feels monumental, this physical marker of a life that mattered.

Through the kitchen window, I can see the men moving around inside, Austin heating Luna's bottle while the others clean up from our impromptu ceremony. The domesticity of it strikes me—how seamlessly we've become a unit, how naturally we move around each other. Celeste saw this possibility, named it in her letters. Chose it for her daughter.

"Thank you," I whisper to the evening air, to Celeste's memory, to whatever force brought us all together. "For trusting them. For paving the way. For showing me that running toward something can be as important as running away."

The rosebush stands silent in its new earth, but I imagine I can already see it blooming—pale pink flowers opening to the spring sun, thorns protecting delicate beauty, roots spreading deep and strong through Montana soil. A living reminder that love can bloom from loss, that families can be chosen, that even in death, a mother's fierce devotion can shape the world her daughter inhabits.

Luna's laughter draws me inside, back to warmth and light and the complicated blessing of our assembled family. Tomorrow will bring its challenges—Blake's threats, legal battles, the constant vigilance our situation demands. But tonight, we've honored someone who walked this path before me, who loved these men and trusted them with everything precious.

Tonight, we've planted hope in the form of a rose, and declared with soil-stained hands that some things are worth protecting, worth nurturing, worth believing in despite all evidence to the contrary.

The golden light fades to purple, then gray, and stars begin their nightly emergence. But the rose remains, standing guard beside the steps, promising beauty to come.

The Beauty In Karma

~WILLA~

The porch steps creak under my weight, each footfall heavier than the last as December's cold seeps through my bones.

My body aches with the kind of exhaustion that comes from constant vigilance—a week of jumping at shadows, checking locks, scanning tree lines for black sedans that may or may not be there. Luna's warm weight against my chest is the only thing keeping me upright as I fumble with the door, her soft breaths puffing against my neck in tiny clouds of contentment.

Inside, the house wraps around us like a blanket, warm and sage-scented from whatever Austin's been burning in the kitchen. I can hear water running upstairs—probably River showering after evening rounds. Cole's at the hardware store for another half hour, Mavi's installing cameras at the back perimeter. Normal sounds, normal routines, but nothing feels normal anymore. Not since Blake reminded us that safety is just an illusion we tell ourselves.

Luna stirs as I navigate the hallway, making soft complaints about the change in temperature. "Shh, star girl," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her dark hair. "Almost to your bed."

The nursery door swings open silently—Mavi oiled the hinges last week, eliminating another potential warning sound. Moonlight streams through the gauze curtains, painting everything in silver and shadow. The fairy lights strung around my nest glow soft amber, a constellation of safety the men created when my nightmares got too bad to sleep alone.

I lower Luna into her crib with practiced care, my muscles protesting the movement. She fusses once, tiny fist reaching for me, before settling back into sleep. The sight of her there—safe, warm, surrounded by the soft toys and blankets chosen with such love—makes my chest tight with fierce protectiveness.

My body chooses that moment to remind me of another pressing concern. Heat prickles along my skin, a warning flush that has nothing to do with the warm house. I press the back of my hand to my forehead, feeling the telltale warmth that says my heat is approaching despite the natural blockers I've been taking. Three months of suppressants from Dr. Sylvie have bought me time to heal, to settle, to figure out what I want. But biology doesn't care about trauma recovery timelines.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to steady myself against the wave of want that crashes through me. It's different than before—with Blake, heat was something to endure, to survive. Here, surrounded by alpha scents that promise protection instead of possession, my body responds with embarrassing eagerness. Even exhausted, even terrified, some primal part of me recognizes safety and wants to celebrate it in the most basic way possible.

That's when I smell it.

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

The scent hits my nostrils like a slap—expensive cologne failing to mask the rot underneath, alpha pheromones cranked to domination levels. My body knows before my brain catches up, every muscle tensing as fight-or-flight floods my system.

I spin toward the nursery door, and there he is. Blake Harrison, standing in Luna's room like he has any right to breathe the same air as her. His perfect suit is rumpled, his usually styled hair disheveled, but his eyes—his eyes burn with the kind of rage that precedes violence.

My fist connects with his face before conscious thought engages. The punch Mavi taught me—weight behind it, twist from the hip, follow through. Blake's head snaps back with a satisfying crack, blood immediately streaming from his nose.

"You fucking bitch!"

But I'm already moving, muscle memory from those training sessions taking over. Drop low, go for the knees, create distance. My body flows through the movements even as my mind screams about Luna, about getting him away from her crib.

Blake recovers faster than I expect, alpha strength and fury driving him forward. He blocks my knee strike, grabs my wrist when I swing again. We grapple, crashing into the wall, and I manage to rake my nails down his face before he pins my arms.

"Did they teach you that?" he snarls, blood dripping onto his expensive shirt. "Your collection of broken alphas playing at pack? Think a few self-defense lessons make you strong?"

I slam my forehead into his already-broken nose, feeling savage satisfaction at his howl of pain. But he doesn't let go. If anything, his grip tightens, and now I can smell his rage pheromones mixing with something else—planning. Purpose.

We struggle across the nursery, me trying to keep him away from Luna's crib, him using his superior strength to control the fight. I manage to get one arm free, swing for his throat, but he catches my fist and twists until I cry out.

"I should have killed you properly the first time," he whispers, pressing me against the wall next to Luna's crib. She's stirring now, tiny whimpers that will soon become full cries. "Should have made sure you burned with that shithole house. But this is better."

His hand comes up with something white—a cloth that smells sickly sweet. I thrash, trying to knock it away, but he's got my arms pinned with one hand now, alpha strength making a mockery of all my training.

"My next revenge will be far better," he continues conversationally, like we're discussing the weather instead of my murder. "You'll stay alive a little longer. Long enough to really suffer."

I hold my breath, turning my face away, but he follows with patient persistence. The cloth presses over my nose and mouth, and eventually, biology wins. I have to breathe.

The drug hits fast, making the world go soft around the edges. My struggles weaken as my muscles stop responding to commands. Behind Blake, Luna's beginning to cry in earnest, and the sound breaks my heart even as consciousness fades.

"Cole," I manage to whisper against the cloth, a prayer and a plea combined. "Find us."

Blake's laugh is the last thing I hear before the darkness swallows me whole.

Consciousness returns in waves—first the pounding in my skull, then the raw ache in my throat, finally the cold metal circling my wrist. My body knows this feeling too well: drugged, chained, discarded like an object that's outlived its usefulness. But this time, rage burns through the fear before it can take root.

My eyes snap open, scanning frantically in the dim light. Not the ranch. A barn—old wood and hay bales, neglected tack hanging from rusted hooks. Moonlight filters through gaps in the boards, painting silver stripes across the dirt floor. And there, blessed sight that makes my heart restart—Luna.

She's in a portable cot ten feet away, still sleeping despite everything. Her tiny chest rises and falls with healthy rhythm, one fist curled near her face in that way that means she's deep in baby dreams. Relief hits so hard I almost sob, but I swallow it down. No time for breakdown. Only assessment and action.

The chain attached to my wrist is looped through a metal ring bolted to what looks like a converted stall. My right hand is free, left secured—Blake either didn't remember I'm right-handed or didn't care. Sloppy. The kind of mistake that comes from rage clouding judgment.

I test the chain quietly, feeling for weakness. Solid, but the wood of the stall shows its age in places. My fingers explore the grain, finding soft spots where moisture and time have done their work. Not enough to break through quickly, but maybe...

That's when I smell it.

Smoke. Not the clean wood smoke of a fireplace or the acrid chemical smell of Blake's cigarettes. This is smoke with intent—accelerant and old hay, planned destruction. My throat tightens, remembering too well how it feels when smoke replaces oxygen, when heat makes breathing impossible.

He's going to burn us. Again. The twisted poetry of it would be laughable if Luna weren't here, if this weren't his idea of justice. But I'm not the same woman who froze in her bedroom while flames ate the walls. Mavi's training drums through my muscles—assess, plan, act. River's patient lessons about staying calm under pressure. Austin's teachings about breath control. Cole's fierce insistence that I'm stronger than I know.

My free hand searches the floor around me, fingers sifting through loose hay and dirt. There—a nail, probably fallen from the deteriorating walls. Not much, but tools don't have to be complex to be effective. I palm it, already working it against the lock mechanism of the shackle.

The smoke smell grows stronger, and I can hear something now—the crackle of hungry flames finding fuel. Not close yet, but coming. Blake's probably watching from somewhere safe, waiting to see panic set in. He always did like an audience for his cruelties.

"Come on," I whisper to the lock, forcing my hands steady despite the urgency screaming through my veins. The nail slips, catches, slips again. I've watched Mavi pick locks during his security demonstrations, explaining how most restraints are about psychology more than physics. Make someone believe they're trapped, and they'll trap themselves.

Luna stirs in her cot, probably sensing the smoke on some primal level. Her little face scrunches in displeasure, but she doesn't wake. Not yet. I need to get free before she does, before her cries might draw Blake back to gloat or escalate.

I close my eyes, picture Cole's face when he realizes we're gone. He'll know immediately—the man catalogs my breathing patterns from across the room. River will track scents with that uncanny skill of his. Mavi's already got surveillance on every route off the ranch. Austin will keep them centered, focused on finding us rather than tearing Blake apart.

They're coming. I know this like I know my own heartbeat.

But fire doesn't wait for rescue.

The nail finds purchase in the lock mechanism, and I feel rather than hear the tiny click of progress. My fingers are slick with sweat despite the cold, making the work harder. Smoke creeps under the barn door now, visible tendrils that speak of time running out.

If I can't get free—if the lock won't give—I have options. Terrible ones that make my stomach clench, but options nonetheless. The chain is short but not that short. I could reach Luna, could shield her with my body, create a pocket of air like firefighters teach. Could buy precious minutes for rescue.

Or.

My left thumb finds the joint where it meets my hand. Dislocating it would hurt like hell, might damage nerves permanently, but a thumb is narrower than a wrist. With enough force, enough determination to push through the pain...

"Please," I whisper, not sure if I'm talking to the lock, the universe, or the men I trust to find us. "Please, please, please."

The lock clicks again, mechanism shifting. I can feel it giving way, just need another moment, another tiny adjustment. But the smoke is thicker now, and Luna's starting to make those pre-cry sounds that mean she's swimming up from sleep.

I think of Celeste, dying in fire while trying to protect her daughter. Think of Luna growing up without her mother's voice, her mother's hands, her mother's fierce love made manifest in daily care. Think of four alphas who've already buried one omega they couldn't save.

"Not again," I growl, channeling every ounce of stubborn survival that got me through three years with Blake. "Not fucking again."

The nail twists, the lock protests, and then—freedom. The shackle falls away with a clatter that seems impossibly loud. I'm moving before it hits the ground, scooping Luna from her cot as smoke begins to fill the barn in earnest.

She wakes with a startled cry, but I'm already pressing her against my chest, using my shirt to cover her nose and mouth. "Shh, star girl. Mama's got you. We're getting out of here."

I assess exits with Mavi-trained precision. Main door—too obvious, probably where the fire started. Gaps in the walls—too small. But there, in the back corner where the smoke hasn't reached yet—a feed room door, barely visible in the shadows.

"Cole's coming," I tell Luna as we move, staying low where the air is clearer. She whimpers against my shirt, tiny body trembling with confusion and fear. "Your daddies are coming, and they're going to be so mad at the bad man who took us. But first, we're going to save ourselves, okay? Because that's what strong girls do."

The feed room door is locked from the outside—of course it is—but the wood is even older here, weathered by decades of Montana seasons. I turn my shoulder to it, remember Cole teaching me that sometimes the best solution is the direct one.

"Hold on, baby," I whisper to Luna, then throw my full weight against the door.

Once. Twice. On the third hit, I feel it give.

We're not victims anymore.

We're survivors.

And we're getting out of here.

Victorious Righteousness In The Depths Of Smoke

~COLE~

The siren screams through my skull like a living thing, each wail another second Willa and Luna have been gone, another moment they might be—no.

I grip the truck's grab bar hard enough to crack bone, forcing my mind into the practiced calm that's saved lives before. But this isn't just any life. This is everything.

"Two minutes out," River's voice crackles through the radio from the truck behind us. He's got Austin with him while Mavi rides shotgun beside me, already checking his gear with methodical precision. We'd grabbed the emergency equipment from the ranch—kept it maintained even after I left the department because old habits die hard. Thank Christ for paranoia.

The speedometer pushes past ninety on the empty rural road, engine roaring protest that I ignore. Every instinct screams to go faster, but rolling the truck won't save anyone. The thin line between speed and control—another lesson learned in blood and failure.

"Visual on smoke," Mavi reports, voice steady despite the death grip he's got on his helmet. Through the windshield, an orange glow paints the horizon like false dawn. Too much fire. Too fast. "Structure's fully involved."

My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth. Fully involved means the whole building's burning. Means oxygen is being consumed at a rate that⁠—

"She's smart," Mavi says, reading my spiral. "And she's a fighter. She'll protect Luna."

The words are meant to comfort, but they twist the knife deeper. Because I know exactly how Willa will protect Luna. The same way she held her body between Blake's fists and anything breakable. The same way she nearly died in that house fire rather than leave without checking every room. Self-sacrifice as instinct, protection at any cost.

The truck barely stops before we're moving, muscle memory taking over where emotion wants to shut me down. Bunker gear secured, masks ready but not on yet—need to assess the scene first. The barn rises before us like a vision from hell, flames already breaking through the roof in multiple places. Old wood construction, decades of dried hay in the loft, probably accelerants if Blake was feeling thorough. A death trap designed by someone who wanted to watch the world burn.

"Full protective search pattern," I bark, falling into incident commander mode because it's that or lose my mind. "Mavi, you're with me on primary search, upper level. River, Austin—take the ground floor and work clockwise. Maintain radio contact every thirty seconds."

They move without question, trust built through years of working together even if not always in burning buildings. River's already got the medical kit slung over his shoulder—ever the optimist, believing we'll need it. Austin's checking his radio, lips moving in what might be prayer or medical protocols or both.

The heat hits like a physical wall when we approach the entrance. Training kicks in—feel the door with the back of your hand, check for superheated metal, watch for signs of backdraft. All clear, just regular nightmare fire instead of explosive nightmare fire. Small mercies.

"Masks on," I order, pulling my own SCBA into place. The familiar weight of the air tank settles across my shoulders, and for a moment I'm back in Helena, back in the job that defined me until it broke me. But this time, failure isn't an option. This time, I know exactly who I'm saving and why they matter.

We enter in formation, staying low where the smoke hasn't completely banked down yet. The interior is a maze of stalls and farm equipment, visibility dropping to zero within seconds. I click on my flashlight, the beam barely penetrating the black smoke.

"River, status," I call through the radio.

"Southwest corner clear, moving along the wall. Smoke's thick but manageable down here."

Mavi and I work the opposite direction, checking each stall methodically even as urgency screams through my blood. Every second counts but missed spaces cost lives. The smoke gets thicker as we move deeper, and I can't stop thinking about Willa's lungs. The damage from the last fire, how she still coughs sometimes in the morning. How much smoke can she take before⁠—

"Austin, check in."

"Eastern wall clear, found fresh footprints in the dirt heading toward the back."

Fresh footprints. Hope flares hot as the flames around us. She got free. Of course she did—probably picked the lock with pure stubborn determination. My fierce, brilliant survivor.

That's when I hear it.

Faint through the roar of flames and crash of failing timber—a baby's cry. And underneath it, barely audible, someone singing. My heart stops, restarts at double speed. I know that voice, have heard it humming lullabies at three AM, singing off-key in the shower, whispering reassurances to Luna during storms.

Mavi's eyes meet mine through our masks, and we move as one toward the sound. No more methodical searching—this is sprint and pray. The stairs appear through the smoke like something out of a nightmare, wooden treads already burning, handrail gone completely. The songs coming from above, but the path might as well be made of tissue paper and hope.

"I've got point," I say, already testing the first step. It groans but holds. "You stabilize what you can."

"Cole—" Mavi starts, but I'm already climbing.

Each step is a gamble, wood cracking and shifting under my weight. Halfway up, a tread gives way completely and I catch myself on what's left of the rail, splinters driving through my gloves. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the voice getting clearer with each foot of elevation gained.

The loft opens up into a storage area, smoke so thick it's like swimming through tar. But there—movement by the far wall where a hole in the roof is providing just enough ventilation to create a pocket of cleaner air.

"Willa!"

She turns at my voice, and my heart breaks and soars simultaneously. She's holding Luna up and away from her body, arms shaking with the effort, positioning the baby where the air is cleanest while she takes the brunt of the smoke. Her face is streaked with soot and tears, left wrist bent at an angle that screams broken, but her eyes—her eyes are fierce with determination.

"The brave... little star," she's singing, voice cracked and raw, "shines through... darkest night..."

Luna's crying has softened to whimpers, tiny fists waving in distress but still responsive, still fighting. Just like her mother. Both of them.

"Cole," Willa croaks, and I can see her strength wavering, exhaustion winning its battle against will. "I knew... knew you'd come."

"Always," I promise, already calculating angles and options. "Hold on, sweetheart. We're getting you out."

She tries to smile, this broken warrior woman who picked a lock and found high ground and sacrificed her own air to save a baby. The smoke swirls between us like a curtain, and in that moment I see everything with perfect clarity. Not just that I love her—that's been true since she stood in our kitchen covered in soot and defiance. But that she's the strongest person I've ever known. That Sarah would have loved her. That second chances aren't about redemption but about recognizing what's right in front of you.

"Mavi!" I call into the radio. "Need that ladder. Now. We've got them—they're alive."

Alive. The most beautiful word in any language. Alive and fighting and mine to protect, not because they're weak but because they're precious. Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone else help carry the weight.

"Coming up," Mavi's voice crackles back, and I can hear the relief beneath his professional tone.

"Hear that?" I tell Willa, moving closer, testing each board before I commit my weight. "Cavalry's coming. You did it, baby. You saved her. You saved yourself. Now let us help."

She nods, tears cutting fresh tracks through the soot, and I've never seen anything more beautiful than Willa James standing in hell itself, holding hope in her shaking arms.

The ladder appears through the smoke like salvation itself, Mavi's face grim with determination behind his mask as he braces it against the burning structure. Every second counts now—I can hear the building's death rattles in the groaning timbers above, feel the floor beneath us growing soft with heat.

"Luna first," I tell Willa, already reaching for the baby. Her arms shake with exhaustion but she resists for a moment, maternal instinct warring with logic.

"I've got her," I promise. "Trust me."

She nods, transferring Luna's tiny weight to my arms with infinite care despite the urgency. The baby's cries strengthen now that she's moving, and I've never been so grateful to hear a child scream. Crying means breathing. Breathing means alive.

I descend three rungs, just enough to pass Luna to Mavi's waiting arms. He tucks her against his chest with practiced ease, all those nights walking her through colic paying off in muscle memory. "River!" he calls through the radio. "Coming out with the baby. Need immediate medical assessment."

"Copy. Ready and waiting."

I turn back to Willa, who's swaying on her feet now that Luna's safe. Her left wrist is definitely broken, held tight against her chest, and each breath sounds like she's pulling air through wet cloth. But she's trying to climb onto the ladder herself, stubborn to the end.

"Let me help," I say, moving behind her to guide her onto the rungs. "Lean back against me. I've got you."

She does, and I feel the moment her strength finally fails. Her full weight sags against my chest as I basically carry her down the ladder, her good hand gripping the rungs while I support everything else. The structure shudders around us, a warning that time's up.

"Move, move, move!" Mavi shouts from below, and we're sliding more than climbing the last few feet.

My boots hit dirt and I scoop Willa into my arms properly, her head lolling against my shoulder. Mavi's already sprinting ahead with Luna, and I follow, feeling the heat chase us like a living thing. The barn screams its final protest—wood splintering, metal shrieking, decades of neglect finally claiming its due.

We burst through the exit into blessed cold air just as the world explodes behind us. The roof caves with a sound like thunder, sending a wall of superheated air and debris shooting out after us. I curl my body around Willa, shielding her as we stumble-run the final yards to safety.

"Medical!" I'm shouting before we even stop moving. "Need medical now!"

But Austin and River are already there, having set up a triage area by the trucks with the efficiency of long practice. Austin's got Luna, running gentle hands over her tiny form while she screams her displeasure at the world. River's reaching for Willa before I can even set her down.

"Don't put me down," she whispers against my neck, arms tightening around me with surprising strength. "Please. Not yet."

So I don't. I sink to my knees on the cold ground, keeping her cradled against my chest while River works around us. His hands are gentle but thorough, checking her breathing, her pulse, cataloging injuries with quiet efficiency.

"I did it," Willa breathes, and I realize she's not talking to me but to herself. "I protected Luna. Got her out. We survived."

"You did," I confirm, pressing my face into her smoke-scented hair. "You're the bravest woman I've ever known."

"Broken wrist, smoke inhalation, various contusions," River reports. "But stable. Both of them are stable."

The relief hits like a physical blow. I'm vaguely aware of sirens approaching—multiple vehicles from the sound of it. The real cavalry arriving now that we've done the hard part. Typical.

"Boys," Austin says, and something in his tone makes us all look up. "We've got company."

Chief Reyes's SUV leads a parade of law enforcement vehicles, lights painting the scene in reds and blues. But it's the chief's voice on the bullhorn that catches my attention: "Stand down! All personnel stand down immediately!"

That's when I see them. Blake Harrison and three of his Iron Ridge pack, emerging from the tree line in full tactical gear like they're playing soldier. The fury that rises in my chest is volcanic—they weren't just here to watch. They were waiting. Planning something.

"Cole," Willa whispers, and I follow her gaze to Blake's face. Even from this distance, I can see his rage at finding us alive, at being caught.

The chief's officers move with practiced precision, weapons drawn but not aimed, creating a perimeter that leaves no room for escape. "Blake Harrison, Marcus Webb, Thomas Chen, Jeffrey Park—you're under arrest for attempted murder, kidnapping, terrorism, and about fifteen other charges I'll enjoy reading at the station."

Terrorism. The word hangs in the air as the reality sinks in. The tactical gear, the timing—they were planning to ambush the rescue. To finish what the fire started.

"Set her down," Blake snarls as the handcuffs click around his wrists. His eyes are locked on Willa, promising violence even in defeat. "Should've burned properly the first time. Should've⁠—"

"That's enough," Chief Reyes cuts him off, nodding to her officers. "Get them processed. I want every piece of gear cataloged, every weapon documented. The FBI's going to have a field day with this."

But Blake's not done. Even as they drag him toward the patrol cars, he's twisted around, staring at Willa with a hatred that should burn. "This isn't over. You're still my⁠—"

"Nothing," Willa says, and her voice is stronger than it has any right to be. She pushes herself up in my arms, meeting his gaze steadily despite everything. "I'm nothing to you. Never was. I belong here. With them. With my pack."

The transformation is stunning. This woman who arrived broken and running, who flinched at shadows and alpha voices, standing tall (metaphorically, since she's still in my arms) and claiming her place. Claiming us.

Blake's face contorts with rage, but the officers are already shoving him into the patrol car. The door slams on whatever threats he wanted to make, cutting off his poison before it can spread.

"Luna?" Willa asks, attention immediately shifting back to what matters.

"Perfect," Austin assures her, bringing the baby close enough for Willa to see. "Scared and probably going to have some cough from the smoke, but she's perfect. Just like her mama."

Willa starts crying then—not the desperate tears from the fire but something cleaner.

Release.

Relief.

Realization that it's actually over.

I think about that first night, pulling her from flames while she fought to go back in.

How she was all sharp edges and desperate protection, unable to trust that anyone would help without hidden cost. Now she melts into our combined embrace as River and Austin press close, as Mavi returns from giving his statement to the police, completing our circle.

"Home," she whispers, like she's testing the word. "We're home."

I look around at the scene—the barn collapsed into glowing embers behind us, patrol cars carrying away the threat that's haunted her for months, our makeshift pack huddled together on the cold ground while Luna complains about the disruption to her sleep schedule. It shouldn't feel like home. It should feel like disaster, like trauma, like another close call to add to the collection.

But Willa's right. Somewhere between that first rescue and this one, between her broken arrival and her fierce protection of Luna, between learning to accept help and learning to give it—we became home. All of us, together.

"Yeah, sweetheart," I agree, pressing a kiss to her temple while she burrows closer. "We're home."

Sweetwater Falls fills with more sirens—ambulances River called, fire trucks to manage the barn's remains, probably half the town coming to check on their own.

Because that's what this place does.

It claims you, protects you, makes you family whether you planned on it or not.

Willa tips her face up to mine, and despite the soot and tears and exhaustion, she's smiling. Really smiling, with her whole heart in it. "I love you," she says simply. "All of you. My pack. My family. My home."

And there, surrounded by chaos and smoke and the echoes of violence finally ended, we built something new from the ashes.

Not just survival, but life. Not just safety, but belonging. Not just a hideaway, but a home worth fighting for.

Blake thought fire would be our ending. He was wrong.

Fire is just where we learned to rise.

To Embrace Being An Omega

~WILLA~

Immense warmth presses against me like a living thing, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, I can't remember where I am.

My skin burns—not the sharp bite of fever but a raw depth of warmth, as if my bones themselves have turned to coal.

The sheets beneath me are soaked through, twisted around my legs like restraints, and when I try to kick them free, my muscles refuse to cooperate properly. Everything feels wrong...and too much.

My nest. I'm in my nest at the ranch, safe, but⁠—

The scent hits me then, rolling off my skin in waves that make my head spin. Sweet like overripe fruit, heavy like summer storms, unmistakably omega-in-heat.

My stomach clenches with recognition and dread. The natural blockers Dr. Sylvie prescribed were supposed to give me more time. Three months, she said.

Time to heal, to settle, to decide what I wanted without biology making demands.

But my body has other plans.

I push myself upright, nightgown plastered to my skin with sweat, and the movement sends a pulse of need through me so intense I whimper. My breasts ache, nipples hard and oversensitive against the damp fabric. Between my legs, I'm already slick, my body preparing for what it craves even as my mind rebels against the loss of control.

"No, no, no," I whisper to the empty room, but my voice comes out breathy, desperate. The twins shift inside me, responding to my distress, and their movement only heightens the sensitivity of my skin. Every nerve ending feels exposed, raw, demanding touch.

I need—God, I need⁠—

The thought fragments before it can fully form, but my body knows. It wants alpha hands, alpha scent, alpha everything. The rational part of my brain that knows I'm safe here, that my pack would never hurt me, is rapidly losing ground to the primal omega instincts flooding my system.

I have to get out. Have to find—someone. Anyone. The need builds like pressure behind my sternum, making it hard to breathe normally. When I swing my legs over the side of the bed, they shake like a newborn colt's. Standing takes three tries, and even then I have to grip the bedpost to keep from crumpling.

The hallway stretches before me like a tunnel, lit only by moonlight through the windows. I don't know where I'm going—my feet move without conscious direction, following some instinct older than thought. My nightgown clings uncomfortably, the sensation of fabric against hypersensitive skin almost painful. I want to tear it off, to be free of even that slight restriction, but my hands won't cooperate enough to work the buttons.

Each step sends aftershocks through my core. The normal ache of late pregnancy is nothing compared to this hollow need, this emptiness that demands to be filled. I've been through heat before, with Blake, but those were exercises in endurance, in surviving until it passed. This—this feels different. Deeper. Like my body recognizes safety and wants to celebrate it in the most primal way possible.

I make it halfway down the hall before my legs give out entirely. The wall catches my fall, cool plaster against my burning cheek, but the relief is momentary. A sound escapes me—part sob, part moan—as another wave of need crashes through my system. Slick coats my thighs now, the scent of it filling the hallway like an announcement, a beacon, a plea.

"Willa?"

Austin's voice cuts through the haze, and I turn toward it like a flower toward sun. He stands at the top of the stairs, wearing only sleep pants, his hair mussed from bed. But his eyes—his eyes are wide and dark as he takes in my state, nostrils flaring as my scent reaches him.

"Austin," I manage, though it comes out more whine than word. "I need—the blockers stopped working—I can't⁠—"

He's moving before I finish, crossing the distance between us in quick strides. His hands hover near my shoulders, not quite touching, and I can see the war in his expression—medical concern battling alpha instinct.

"How long have you been in heat?" His voice stays carefully controlled, but I can hear the strain underneath.

"Don't know. Woke up—everything burning—please⁠—"

The please breaks something in his expression. His hands finally make contact, one sliding behind my knees, the other supporting my back, and the relief of his touch makes me cry out. He lifts me easily despite my pregnant bulk, cradling me against his chest where his heartbeat hammers against my cheek.

"Back to your nest," he murmurs, already moving. "You need to be somewhere safe, somewhere that smells like you."

But I don't want safe. I want him. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling myself closer, and when I press my face into his neck, his scent—clean linen and mountain air—makes my whole body clench with want.

"Austin, please," I beg against his skin. "It hurts. Everything hurts. Need you to⁠—"

"I know, sweetheart. I know." But his steps falter as I mouth at his throat, tasting salt and alpha and home. A growl rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my lips. "Willa, you're not—we should wait for⁠—"

"No waiting." I bite down where his neck meets his shoulder, not hard enough to mark but enough to make my point. "Need you now. Please. It's you I want. You I trust."

He kicks open my door, three strides to my nest, but when he tries to set me down, I refuse to let go. My legs wrap around his waist, my pregnant belly pressed between us, and the friction makes me moan into his neck.

"Willa—" But whatever protest he planned dies as I rock against him, seeking relief from the ache that's consuming me from the inside out. His hands tighten on my hips, and I feel the moment his control snaps.

He doesn't put me down so much as follow me into the nest, our bodies still tangled together. His weight settles over me carefully, mindful of the twins even as his eyes go dark with need. When he kisses me, it's nothing like his usual gentle exploration. This is claiming, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine as his hands finally, finally touch me the way I need.

"Clothes off," I gasp between kisses, already pulling at his shirt. "Need to feel you."

He helps me struggle out of my nightgown, the fabric catching on my sweat-damp skin before finally giving way. The cool air against my overheated flesh makes me shiver, but then his hands are there, mapping every inch like he's memorizing me by touch. His palms curve around my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples with just enough pressure to make my back arch off the bed.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, voice rough with want. "Look at you, all flushed and needy. Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Tell me how to help."

"Touch me," I beg, spreading my legs wider in invitation. "Everywhere. Make it stop hurting."

His hand slides down my body, over the swell of my belly, pausing just above where I need him most. Our eyes lock, and in his I see the last thread of his restraint.

"I'll take care of you," he promises, and then his fingers find my center, sliding through the slick with a reverence that makes me sob. "So wet for me already. Your body knows what it needs, doesn't it?"

I can only nod, words lost as he explores with medical precision combined with alpha instinct. He finds my clit with his thumb while two fingers press inside, curling to hit that spot that makes me see stars. My hips buck against his hand, chasing the pressure, the friction, the promise of relief.

"That's it," he encourages, adding a third finger when I clench around him. "Take what you need. I've got you."

But I need more. The emptiness goes deeper than his fingers can reach, demanding something only an alpha can provide. I pull at his sleep pants with clumsy hands, whimpering when I finally free him. He's hard and thick, precum already beading at the tip, and the sight makes my mouth water.

"Please," I whisper, guiding him to where I need him. "Austin, please. I need you inside me."

He enters me in one smooth thrust, and the relief is so profound I nearly cry. This is what my body's been screaming for—the stretch, the fullness, the perfect friction as he starts to move. Each thrust sends shockwaves through my system, pleasure building on pleasure until I can't tell where I end and he begins.

"Perfect," he groans against my neck, his usual gentle rhythm giving way to something more primal. "You feel perfect. Taking me so well."

His words push me higher, along with the snap of his hips and the way he angles to hit that spot inside me with each thrust. When his thumb finds my clit again, circling with just the right pressure, I shatter. The orgasm rips through me like lightning, every muscle clenching as waves of pleasure crash over me again and again.

He follows me over, my name on his lips as he pulses inside me. For a moment, the heat retreats, satisfied by this first coupling. We lie tangled together, breathing hard, his weight carefully balanced to avoid my belly.

"Better?" he asks, pressing soft kisses to my temple.

"For now," I admit, already feeling the heat beginning to build again in my bones. "But⁠—"

"I know," he soothes, not moving from inside me yet. "This is just the beginning. But we'll get you through this. All of us. Together."

The door opens quietly, but in my hypersensitive state, it might as well be thunder.

River's scent—petrichor and sun-warmed hay—mingles with the thick arousal already permeating my nest. Through heavy-lidded eyes, I watch him take in the scene: Austin and me still joined, sweat cooling on our skin, the rumpled disaster of my bedding.

"Started without me?" River's voice carries that easy calm he uses with skittish horses, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his nostrils flare as my heat scent hits him full force. His eyes darken from warm brown to something deeper, older, as they track over my flushed skin.

Austin stirs against me, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before carefully withdrawing. The loss makes me whimper, that empty ache already returning despite the orgasm he gave me minutes ago. My body doesn't care about recovery time or rational thought—it only knows there's an emptiness that needs filling, a burning that needs quenching.

"She's deep in it," Austin tells River quietly, helping me settle against the pillows when I try to follow his movement. "The blockers failed completely. Temperature's elevated but not dangerous. She's coherent, just..."

"Needy," I finish for him, not even embarrassed by the truth of it. My hands reach for both of them, trying to keep Austin close while drawing River nearer. "Please don't go."

Austin catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. "Just going to clean up and rest, sweetheart. River's going to take care of you now." He glances at River with something like relief mixed with reluctance. "She needs more than I can give right now."

"I've got her," River assures him, already moving closer to the bed. "Go. Eat something. Hydrate. We're going to need stamina for this."

Austin leaves with one last kiss to my forehead, and then it's just River and me and the weight of need pressing against my skin. He doesn't rush to touch me, though. Instead, he moves around my room with quiet purpose, adjusting the fairy lights to cast softer shadows, opening the window just enough to let in fresh air without chilling the space.

"River," I protest, shifting restlessly against the damp sheets. "I need⁠—"

River’s lips curve into the tiniest smile, as if he’s reading my mind—or at least tracking every tremor of want in my skin. There’s a steadiness about him that somehow sharpens the frantic edge of my heat even as it soothes. Like the eye of a storm; peaceful, but only because he’s holding back winds strong enough to tear the house apart.

He’s not in any hurry. No, not River. He disappears into the shadows near my dresser, and for a moment I’m writhing in the sheets, half-mad with the certainty that if he doesn’t touch me soon, I might actually combust. But instead of climbing onto the bed, he produces something unexpected—a mirror, its edges filigreed with tarnished silver and wild rose motifs that probably predate the house itself. It’s heavy, the kind of artifact that could shatter a skull or become a family heirloom depending on how it’s wielded.

He moves deliberately, setting the mirror at the foot of the bed, angling its surface with the grave precision of a surgeon or a jeweler. He tucks an old book beneath one edge until the glass faces me exactly—a full, unbroken line of sight from the pillows, where I’m sprawled and still catching my breath, straight down the length of my own body.

At first I don’t understand. My mind is too fogged with pheromones and pain and want, all the desperate little signals my body keeps firing. But then I see the setup: River, shirt off, jaw tense, hands planting firmly on the quilt. Me, flushed to the collarbones, hair wild around my face, lips swollen from Austin’s kisses. And soaked through, dark wet on white sheets—evidence of heat and need, almost embarrassing if I weren’t too needy to care.

He sits beside me on the edge of the mattress, one leg folded up beneath him, the other braced on the floor like he might need to ground himself against the undertow. He doesn’t touch me yet. Instead, he leans forward, arms loose across his thighs, and watches the way I watch myself in the glass.

"Take a look," he says, soft but inflexible, and I do. I see myself as he does—a body made for wanting, wanting him. My skin goosepimpled despite the sweat, eyes huge and dark, mouth parted around a helpless, keening sound I didn’t know I was making. My whole being a signal fire, visible down every backroad of Sweetwater County.

"You ever get to see yourself like this?" River asks, not waiting for an answer. "I want you to—really see, Willa. Not just what you feel. See."

I don’t know what the hell he means, but I’m too strung-out to argue. My thighs shiver as I prop myself higher on my elbows, unable to look away from the image in the glass. River’s hand comes up at last, stroking the hair back from my face with infinite patience, like he’s teaching a mustang to accept a bridle. His touch is cool and soothing on my fevered skin.

"Heat turns everything inside out," he murmurs, eyes flicking from the mirror to my face and back again. "Makes you forget you’re more than a mess of hormones." He leans in, voice dropping to a private whisper. "But you are. You’re so much more. You’re beautiful, even when you’re drowning in it."

I’d roll my eyes if I could, but the words land somewhere vulnerable and unexpected. Because no one’s ever said that to me—not in the middle of this, not when I’m all sweat and scent and wild want. My breath hitches, something shivery running through me that isn’t just physical.

His hand trails down, tracing the collarbone, sliding over the swell of my breast. He doesn’t maul, doesn’t grope. Just explores, cataloging every response, every intake of breath. In the mirror, my skin flushes even darker around his touch, beads of sweat gleaming on my sternum. I watch his fingers skim the side of my belly, avoiding the most sensitive places, but the anticipation sets off a thousand tiny aftershocks just beneath the surface.

"You keep thinking you’re just a body, Willa," he says, and his gaze catches mine in the glass. "You forget you’re a story. Every mark on you—these scars, these freckles, the way you move when you’re about to come apart—that’s all part of it. And people crave the story, not just the sex. That’s what makes it real."

I want to protest, to tell him I’ve been reduced to a body for so long that maybe that’s all I am. But his hands won’t let me. He shifts behind me, bracing my shoulders with strong, gentle arms, and for a second I’m weightless, like he could hold me up forever if he wanted.

Then he helps me up onto my knees, very slowly, very carefully, as if I’m something fragile. My belly, heavy and awkward, threatens my balance, but River is already moving pillows into place, stacking them until the pressure against my abdomen eases and I’m supported in all the ways I didn’t know I needed. My hands dig into the comforter, but his palms stay warm and steady at my hips, guiding me into position without ever once making me feel forced.

In the mirror, I see the transformation: I’m no longer just writhing in selfish need. I’m an animal—powerful, desperate, alive—back arched, thighs trembling, hair cascading in wild tangles down my shoulders. And River, behind me, a steadying presence, eyes locked on mine. He looks at me not like a thing to be used up and discarded, but like a work of art he’s lucky enough to handle for a while.

"You see it?" he asks, quiet but insistent. "You see how gorgeous you are like this?"

My lips form a yes, half-word and half-moan, and for the first time, I believe it.

Different sounds like torture when every cell in my body screams for immediate satisfaction, but River's hands are gentle as he helps me onto my hands and knees. The position feels vulnerable with my pregnant belly hanging heavy beneath me, but he supports me with pillows, making sure I'm comfortable before he even thinks about pleasure.

"Good girl," he murmurs when I settle into position, and those two words send heat straight to my core. "Now, I want you to watch. See what I see when I look at you."

I lift my head to meet my own gaze in the mirror, startled by what I find. My hair is wild, my skin flushed and glowing with perspiration. My eyes are dark with need, lips swollen from Austin's kisses. I look thoroughly debauched, claimed, wanted. Beautiful in a raw, primal way I've never seen in myself before.

"That's it," River says, his hands finally making contact with my overheated skin. He starts at my shoulders, long strokes down my spine that make me arch like a cat. "See how responsive you are? How every touch makes you light up?"

His hands work lower, massaging the tension from muscles I didn't realize were clenched. When he reaches my hips, he grips them firmly, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine. The pressure is just right, grounding me even as need spirals higher.

"River, please," I beg, watching our reflection as he positions himself behind me. He's shed his clothes at some point, his lean muscle and sun-bronzed skin a beautiful contrast to my paler softness. "I can't wait anymore."

"You can," he counters, running one hand down my spine while the other guides himself to my entrance. He slides just the tip inside, barely breaching me, and the tease makes me sob. "Breathe for me, Willa. Deep breaths."

I try to push back, to take more of him, but his grip on my hips prevents it. In the mirror, I can see his face—the concentration, the careful control, the banked heat in his eyes that says this restraint costs him too.

"Why are you—" The question dies as he slides in another inch, still maddeningly slow.

"Because you deserve to be worshipped," he says simply, pulling back until just the tip remains before sliding forward again, barely deeper than before. "Because pleasure should be savored, not rushed. Because I want you to remember this."

Each word is punctuated by those shallow thrusts that give me just enough to keep me on edge but never enough to push me over. In the mirror, I watch myself fall apart—the way my mouth opens on silent pleas, how my back arches seeking more, the flush that spreads down my chest as he plays my body like an instrument he's spent years learning.

"Dandelion," he whispers, and the pet name breaks something in me. My eyes fly to his in the mirror, finding them locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Let me see you let go."

He slides deep then, finally giving me what I've been begging for, and the relief makes me cry out. But he doesn't pound into me like my body demands. Instead, he sets a rhythm that's slow and deep and devastating, each thrust measured to drag against every sensitive spot inside me.

"Watch," he commands when my eyes start to close. "See how perfectly we fit? How your body welcomes me?"

I force my eyes open, taking in our joined reflection. There's something deeply erotic about watching him disappear inside me, seeing the way my body stretches to accommodate him. His hands span my hips, guiding the rhythm, and when one slides around to circle my clit, I nearly collapse.

"Not yet," he says, stilling the motion. "You can take more. I know you can."

The denial makes me whimper, but he's relentless in his patience. He builds me up again and again, bringing me to the edge with those deep, measured thrusts and clever fingers, only to ease back just before I tumble over. Sweat drips down my spine, tears stream down my face, and still he continues his exquisite torture.

"River, please," I sob, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "I can't—I need⁠—"

"What do you need?" His voice remains maddeningly calm even as his thrusts pick up pace slightly. "Tell me."

"I need to come," I gasp out, shameless in my desperation. "Please let me come. I'll do anything⁠—"

"Anything?" He leans forward, his chest pressed to my back, changing the angle in a way that makes me see stars. "Then look at me while you do it. Let me watch you fall apart."

His fingers return to my clit with purpose this time, circling with exactly the pressure I need while his thrusts finally, finally speed up. The dual stimulation combined with the prolonged denial creates a perfect storm of sensation. I maintain eye contact in the mirror as ordered, watching his face as intently as he watches mine.

"Now, dandelion," he whispers against my ear. "Come for me now."

The permission destroys me. The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, so intense my vision whites out at the edges. I feel myself clench around him, hear his groan as my body milks his, but I can't look away from his eyes in the mirror. He watches me shatter with something like awe, his own control finally breaking as he follows me over.

The world goes soft and hazy as aftershocks ripple through me. River catches me before I collapse completely, turning me gently and gathering me against his chest. His hands stroke through my sweat-damp hair as I slowly come back to myself.

"That was..." I can't finish the sentence, don't have words for what he just did to me.

"Just the beginning," he promises, pressing a kiss to my temple. I can already feel the heat building again beneath my skin, but for now, I'm content to rest in his arms. "Mavi should be here soon. Rest while you can."

And wrapped in his scent and steady presence, I do.

The door doesn't open this time—it bangs against the wall with enough force to rattle the mirror River so carefully positioned. Maverick fills the doorway like a storm given form, his usual controlled facade completely shattered. His clothes are disheveled, shirt half-unbuttoned, and the bulge in his jeans leaves no question about his state of mind.

"Out," he growls at River, never taking his eyes off me.

River doesn't argue. He presses one last kiss to my forehead, whispers "Good luck" with a knowing smirk, and evacuates like a man who recognizes a predator ready to pounce. The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final.

Mavi stalks toward the bed, each step deliberate, measured despite the wildness in his green eyes. The careful control he maintains like armor has cracked, and what shows through makes my breath catch. This isn't the man who patiently taught me self-defense moves or installed locks with methodical precision. This is an alpha who's reached the end of his restraint.

"Do you have any idea," he says, voice low and dangerous, "what it's been like? Watching you writhe for them through the cameras? Hearing you beg?"

Heat floods my face—not embarrassment but arousal at the thought of him watching, wanting, waiting his turn. My body responds to his intensity, fresh slick coating my already-wet thighs as another wave of need crashes through me.

"Mavi," I breathe, reaching for him, but he catches my wrists in one hand.

"No." The word cracks like a whip. "You don't get to control this. Not this time."

He flips me onto my stomach in one smooth motion, and I barely have time to brace myself on my elbows before he's pinning my wrists above my head. The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed, completely at his mercy—and my omega instincts sing with recognition. This is what they've been craving beneath the gentle care and patient worship. The raw claiming of an alpha who's done asking permission.

"Spread your legs," he commands, and my body obeys before my mind processes the words. "Wider."

The first thrust buries him to the hilt without warning or preparation—not that I need it, soaked as I am from the previous attention and my own renewed arousal. He's thick, maybe thicker than the others, and the stretch borders on too much before my body adjusts, welcomes, demands more.

"Fuck," he snarls against my neck. "So wet. So ready. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to take your pack."

I can only moan in response as he sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me into the mattress. His free hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise, holding me in place for his use. The angle has him hitting deep, almost too deep with my pregnant belly pressed into the bed, but when I try to adjust, his teeth find my shoulder.

"Don't move," he growls around the bite. "Take it just like this."

The dominance in his voice shoots straight to my core. I go limp beneath him, submitting completely to his control, and am rewarded with a sound of approval that vibrates through his chest into my back. His teeth release my shoulder only to find another spot, then another, marking me with a possessiveness that should frighten me but only makes me wetter.

"Mine," he says with each bite. "Ours. No one else will ever touch you again."

"Yes," I sob into the pillow, beyond pride or hesitation. "Yours. Please, Mavi⁠—"

"Please what?" He releases my wrists to grab my hair, pulling my head back enough that I can meet his eyes in that damned mirror. His face is wild, beautiful in its intensity. "Tell me what you need."

"Harder," I beg, pushing back against him as much as his grip allows. "Mark me. Claim me. Make me forget everything but you."

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition. Then his hips snap forward with even more force, driving into me like he's trying to merge our bodies permanently. The hand in my hair tightens, keeping my back arched, forcing me to watch our reflection.

"I've been watching you for months," he confesses, the words pouring out between harsh breaths. "Every time you touched yourself in your room, thinking you were alone. Learned exactly how you like your clit rubbed. How you always need two fingers curled just right when you're close."

The confession should disturb me. Instead, it sends lightning through my veins. The thought of him studying me, learning my pleasure while denying himself, adds another layer to my arousal.

"Did you—" I gasp as he shifts angles. "Did you touch yourself while watching?"

"Every fucking time." His hand leaves my hair to slide around my throat—not squeezing, just present, possessive. "Came watching you fall apart, imagining it was my hand making you scream."

The image makes me clench around him, drawing a growl from deep in his chest. He pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and whining, but before I can protest, he's flipping me onto my back. His eyes rake over me with undisguised hunger—my marked skin, swollen lips, the mess between my thighs.

"Look at you," he breathes, spreading my legs wider to see where his cock has left me open, dripping. "Thoroughly fucked and still begging for more. What am I going to do with you?"

"Whatever you want," I answer honestly, reaching for him again. This time he lets me touch, lets me pull him down for a kiss that's all teeth and desperation. "Just don't stop."

He enters me again with a groan, this position letting him go even deeper. I wrap my legs around his waist, using the leverage to meet his thrusts, and his control fractures further. His hands are everywhere—gripping my thighs, palming my breasts, tangling in my hair. He can't seem to decide what he wants to touch most, so he tries for everything at once.

"The camera in here is off," he says suddenly, catching my chin to make me look at him. "Has been since you arrived. I'm not—I wouldn't—not without permission."

The consideration in the middle of such primal claiming undoes me. I pull him down for another kiss, softer this time, trying to convey what words can't capture. When we break apart, his expression has shifted to something vulnerable beneath the dominance.

"I know," I whisper. "I trust you. Even when you're watching. Especially then."

He makes a sound like I've hit him, then redoubles his efforts. One hand finds my clit with the exact pressure he learned from his surveillance, the other grips the headboard for leverage as he drives into me with single-minded focus. The dual stimulation combined with the emotional intensity pushes me rapidly toward climax.

"That's it," he encourages, watching my face with the same intensity he must have brought to those security feeds. "Show me. Show me what I've been missing."

The orgasm builds differently this time—deeper, starting in my core and radiating outward like ripples in a pond. When it crests, I arch off the bed completely, only his weight keeping me grounded as pleasure whites out everything else. I'm dimly aware of screaming his name, of my nails raking down his back, of the way he follows me over with a roar that probably wakes the whole house.

We collapse together, a tangle of sweaty limbs and harsh breathing. He's careful even in exhaustion, rolling to avoid crushing my belly, but keeps me tight against his side. I can feel the marks he left throbbing in time with my heartbeat—shoulders, neck, probably hips from his grip. Instead of shame, I feel claimed. Protected. Owned in the way that means belonging, not possession.

"Jesus," he mutters into my hair. "I didn't mean to—the watching thing⁠—"

"Was hot," I finish, turning to press a kiss to his jaw. "Knowing you wanted me that much. That you studied me like one of your security puzzles."

He huffs a laugh, but I can feel his relief in the way his arms tighten around me. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Just three more to go," I remind him, already feeling the heat build again beneath the satisfaction. "Think you'll survive?"

"Cole's going to knot you," he says instead of answering. "We can all smell it on him—the need to claim you completely. You ready for that?"

I think about Cole's careful control, the way he's held himself back even while the others gave in to their needs. Think about how it will feel to have that control finally snap, to be locked together in the most primal way possible.

"Yes," I whisper, and mean it completely. "I'm ready for all of it."

Mavi presses a kiss to my temple, and we lie quietly as my body prepares for the final round. Outside, I can hear footsteps—measured, patient, inevitable.

Cole's coming.

And with him, the completion of something that started the night he pulled me from a burning house.

Cole doesn't knock.

He simply opens the door and stands there, filling the frame with his presence in a way that makes my breath catch. Unlike the others who arrived in various states of undress or urgency, he's fully clothed, movements deliberate as he steps inside and closes the door with quiet finality.

His eyes—those storm-gray depths that first made me feel safe—take in the scene with careful assessment.

Me, marked and thoroughly claimed, sheets tangled and stained with the evidence of my heat.

Mavi, protective even in satiation, arm still curved around my waist.

"It's time," Cole says simply, already unbuttoning his shirt with steady hands. No rushing, no frenzy, just methodical revelation of the body I've craved since this heat began. Each button reveals more—the broad chest with its dusting of dark hair, the defined abs that speak of physical labor rather than gym vanity, the V of muscle that disappears beneath his jeans.

Mavi presses a kiss to my shoulder, right over one of the marks he left. "Remember what I said," he murmurs, then extracts himself from our tangle with obvious reluctance. As he passes Cole, they share a look—some silent communication between alphas that ends with Mavi gripping Cole's shoulder briefly.

"She's ready," Mavi says quietly. "We all are."

Then I'm alone with Cole, who continues his measured undressing as if we have all the time in the world. My body disagrees, the final wave of heat crashing through me with intensity that steals my breath. I've been claimed by three alphas, found release more times than I can count, but something deep in my omega instincts knows this is different. This is the one that matters most.

"Cole," I breathe, reaching for him, but he catches my hands gently.

"Let me look at you first." His eyes travel over me with reverent intensity, taking in every mark, every sign of claim. Instead of jealousy, I see satisfaction in his expression. "My pack took good care of you."

"Need you too," I whisper, squeezing his hands. "Need all of you, but especially—" I can't finish, can't articulate the bone-deep certainty that he's the missing piece.

"I know." He releases my hands to finish undressing, and when he's finally bare, I lose my breath entirely. He's magnificent—all controlled power and leashed strength, his arousal evident in the hard length of him, the tension in his muscles. "I've known since the first night. Felt it when I pulled you from that fire."

He kneels at the foot of the bed, hands gentle but firm as he arranges me how he wants—legs spread, pillows supporting my back and belly. The position leaves me completely exposed, vulnerable in a way that should trigger old fears but only makes me wetter.

"First," he says, voice dropping to that register that makes my insides clench, "I'm going to taste you. Taste them on you. In you. Make sure you understand that this isn't about erasing their claim—it's about completing it."

His mouth descends without further warning, and the first swipe of his tongue makes me cry out. He's not gentle, not hesitant—he devours me like a man starved, tongue delving deep to taste the mingled evidence of my previous claiming. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open when I try to close them against the overwhelming sensation.

"Cole, oh god, Cole—" His name becomes a chant as he works me with lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. When he sucks my clit into his mouth while thrusting three fingers deep, I shatter instantly. The orgasm rolls through me in waves, each pulse drawing groans of approval from him as he works me through it.

"Perfect," he says against my sensitive flesh, placing gentle kisses on my inner thighs. "So responsive. So ready." He crawls up my body with predatory grace, pausing to nuzzle my belly. "Still doing okay in there, little ones? Daddy's about to make it official."

The casual claim of fatherhood breaks something in my chest. Tears spring to my eyes—not from pain or fear but from the overwhelming rightness of this moment. When he reaches my face, he kisses away the salt tracks with infinite tenderness.

"Happy tears?" he checks, though his knowing smile says he already understands.

"The happiest," I confirm, pulling him down for a proper kiss. I can taste myself on his lips, along with hints of the others, and the combination makes me moan into his mouth. "Please, Cole. I need—I don't even know what I need, but⁠—"

"I do." He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of him pressing just inside. "You need your alpha. Your pack. Your knot." Each word accompanied by a shallow thrust that makes me writhe. "You need to belong completely."

"Yes," I sob, trying to pull him deeper, but he maintains that maddening control. "All of that. All of you. Please."

He slides home in one smooth thrust, and the relief of finally having him inside me nearly makes me come again immediately. He's big—maybe not quite as thick as Mavi but longer, hitting places that make me see stars. When he's fully seated, he stops, holding himself still despite the way I clench around him.

"Look at me," he commands, and I force my eyes open to meet his. The intensity there steals my breath—possession and protection and love all tangled together. "This is forever, Willa. Once I knot you, once our bond completes, there's no going back. You'll be ours, and we'll be yours, for life."

"Good," I manage, rolling my hips to encourage movement. "That's what I want. What I choose. You, them, us—all of it."

Something shifts in his expression, the last wall crumbling. When he moves, it's with purpose—long, deep strokes that claim every inch of me. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks as he watches every expression that crosses my features.

"Mine," he says, but it's not possessive like Blake's claims used to be. It's a promise, a vow, a declaration of intent to protect and cherish. "My omega. My mate. Mother of my children."

"Yours," I agree, then gasp as I feel something change. He's swelling inside me, the base of his cock expanding in a way I've never experienced. "Cole, is that⁠—"

"My knot," he confirms, voice strained with the effort of control. "It's okay. Your body knows what to do. Just breathe through it."

The stretch is intense, borderline painful, but my omega instincts sing with recognition. This is what I've been craving, what my heat has been building toward. I force myself to relax, to accept the invasion that's really a joining, and am rewarded as the discomfort shifts to pleasure.

"That's it," Cole praises, still swelling, locking us together. "Such a good girl. Taking your alpha's knot so perfectly."

The praise combined with the sensation pushes me over again, but this orgasm is different. It starts where we're joined and radiates outward like golden light, touching something deeper than physical pleasure. I feel it—actually feel it—as our bond snaps into place. Not just with Cole but with all of them, four distinct threads weaving together into something unbreakable.

Cole roars his own release, pulsing inside me as the knot locks us completely. We're one being now, joined in the most primal way possible.

"Do you feel it?" Cole asks against my neck, his body shuddering with aftershocks. "That sense of completion."

"All of you," I whisper in wonder. "I can feel all of you."

As if summoned by my words, the door opens. Austin, River, and Mavi file in, drawn by the completion of something they're all part of. Without discussion, they arrange themselves around us—Austin to my left, River to my right, Mavi by our feet. Their hands find skin wherever they can touch, anchoring the bond with physical contact.

"Pack," River murmurs, and the word resonates through all of us.

"Family," Austin adds, pressing a kiss to my temple.

"Forever," Mavi confirms, hand warm on my ankle.

"Home," Cole completes, still locked inside me, surrounded by our chosen pack.

The heat finally, truly breaks, leaving me exhausted but profoundly complete.

I'm covered in sweat and marks, thoroughly claimed and knotted, carrying twins from this pack that chose me as much as I chose them. Six months ago, I arrived here broken and running. Now I'm whole, rooted, surrounded by men who see strength in survival and beauty in the broken places.

"Sleep," Cole murmurs as his knot finally begins to soften. "We'll clean up later. For now, just rest."

And surrounded by my pack—my family, my home, my everything—I do exactly that.

The last thought before sleep claims me is of Celeste, and how she knew. Somehow, she knew these men could offer what I needed most: not just safety, but belonging. Not just protection, but partnership.

Not just survival, but a life worth living.

Epilogue: The Perfect Legacy Of Hope

~WILLA~

The kitchen smells like contentment—coffee brewing strong enough to wake the dead, bacon crackling in Cole's cast iron skillet, and the faint sweetness of the cinnamon rolls Austin insisted on making from scratch.

I lean against the counter, hands wrapped around my favorite mug, watching my pack move through their morning dance with the easy rhythm of a life we've finally learned to trust.

Three months since the fire, two months since Blake's sentencing, six weeks since the last nightmare that had me checking Luna's crib at 3 AM. Time measured now in small victories and quiet mornings instead of survival and fear.

"More?" River appears at my elbow with the coffee pot, already reaching to top off my cup before I can answer. He knows my rhythms now—the way I need that second cup before I'm fully human, how I take it with just a splash of cream when I'm happy, black when I'm stressed.

Today definitely calls for cream.

My stomach flutters with more than just the secret I'm carrying. The pregnancy test hidden in our bathroom trash confirmed what my body's been whispering for weeks—the tenderness, the heightened senses, the way certain smells suddenly make me queasy. But standing here in our sunlit kitchen, surrounded by the men who've become my everything, the words stick in my throat like honey.

Luna bangs her spoon against her high chair tray, sending pureed peaches flying. "Mama! More!" Her vocabulary has exploded lately, though her table manners remain decidedly baby-like. Maverick swoops in with a damp cloth, cleaning her face while she giggles and tries to eat the washcloth.

"Little monster," he says fondly, tweaking her nose. "What are we going to do with you?"

"Love her unconditionally while teaching appropriate boundaries," Austin supplies from where he's pulling his cinnamon rolls from the oven. The smell hits me like a wall—usually my favorite, but today my stomach does a slow roll that has me setting down my mug.

Cole notices immediately, because Cole notices everything. "You okay, sweetheart? You look a little pale."

And there's my opening, served up on a silver platter by the universe and Cole's perpetual protectiveness. I take a breath, let it out slowly, and square my shoulders. "I'm pregnant."

The kitchen freezes like I've hit pause on reality. Cole's spatula hovers mid-flip over the bacon. River's coffee pot tilts dangerously. Austin stands holding his tray of cinnamon rolls like he's forgotten what hands are for. Even Maverick stops mid-wipe of Luna's face.

Then Luna breaks the spell with delighted squealing, clapping her peach-covered hands together. "Babies! Babies!" She bounces in her chair, somehow understanding even at barely-talking age that this is celebration-worthy news.

"You're—" Cole starts, then stops, his eyes dropping to my still-flat stomach like he can see through cloth and skin to confirm.

"About six weeks along," I confirm, watching their faces cycle through shock, joy, and then—inevitably—turn toward Cole with suspicious synchronization.

"It can't be me," Cole protests immediately, defensive before anyone's even accused him. "We've been careful. We've all been careful."

"Your father had twins," Maverick points out with investigative precision. "And your uncle. And your cousin in Wyoming."

"That doesn't mean⁠—"

"Statistically speaking," River adds, warming to the topic with his veterinarian's understanding of genetics, "the tendency for twins does run stronger in certain bloodlines."

"We don't even know it's twins!" Cole's voice climbs an octave, which would be funnier if I wasn't starting to feel like a forgotten side character in my own pregnancy announcement.

Austin sets down the cinnamon rolls with careful precision. "The ultrasound will tell us. But regardless of whether it's one or two, or whose genetics are involved—" He pauses, looking at the others meaningfully. "Aren't we forgetting something?"

The bickering stops as they turn back to me, and I watch realization dawn across four faces simultaneously. The transformation is immediate and would be comical if it wasn't so sweet—four powerful alphas suddenly looking like kids who forgot to do their homework.

"Shit," Maverick breathes. "Willa, sweetheart⁠—"

"Congratulations!" River bursts out, setting down the coffee pot with a clatter.

"We're having a baby," Cole says, wonder replacing defensiveness in his voice.

Austin crosses the kitchen in three strides, lifting me off my feet in a spin that has me laughing despite my rolling stomach. "Another baby. Our baby." He sets me down gently, hands immediately going to my shoulders like I might break. "How are you feeling? Any morning sickness? Have you been taking prenatal vitamins? We need to call Dr. Sylvie⁠—"

"Let her breathe," River cuts in, but he's already pulling out his phone. "Though we should discuss dietary adjustments. Increased folic acid, proper omega-3 ratios, limiting mercury exposure⁠—"

"The nursery," Cole interrupts, his mind clearly spinning in construction directions. "We'll need to expand. Or reconfigure. Luna could move to the room next to ours, and we could turn the current nursery into⁠—"

"Security upgrades," Maverick adds, because of course that's where his mind goes. "Additional cameras for the expanded nursery. Better baby monitors. Maybe those movement sensors for the cribs."

I put my hands on my hips, trying to look stern but probably failing given the smile tugging at my lips. "Are you four going to let me get a word in about my own pregnancy?"

They stop mid-planning, looking properly chastised. Luna takes the opportunity to fling more peaches, this time hitting Maverick square in the chest. "Babies!" she announces again, clearly the only one maintaining proper priorities.

"Come here," I say softly, and they converge on me like moths to flame. Cole's arms wrap around me from behind, his large hands settling protectively over my stomach. River and Austin flank me, while Maverick scoops up Luna and joins our huddle.

"Another baby," River murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. "Or babies."

"Definitely babies," Cole mutters against my neck, resignation already creeping into his voice. "With my luck and genetics."

"Luna's going to be a big sister," Austin says, smiling at her as she pats my stomach with sticky hands, babbling "babies" over and over like she's casting a spell.

"Best big sister," Maverick agrees, kissing her peach-scented hair. "She'll teach them everything—how to escape their crib, how to wrap their daddies around tiny fingers, how to make a mess of biblical proportions."

Luna beams at him, then leans over to pat my stomach more enthusiastically. "Babies in!" she declares with toddler certainty.

"That's right, star girl," I tell her, covering her little hand with mine. "Babies in Mama's tummy. You'll have to help us take care of them."

"I help!" she agrees immediately, then adds, "Share toys?"

"We'll get them their own toys," Cole assures her, already calculating lumber needs for toy storage.

"After the prenatal appointment," Austin insists. "First trimester care is crucial, especially with potential multiples."

"And we're adjusting your diet starting today," River adds. "I'll research the best nutritional plans for twin pregnancies."

"We don't know it's twins!"

"The security system can wait until after the first ultrasound," Maverick concedes. "But I'm ordering those upgraded monitors today."

I lean back into Cole's solid warmth, surrounded by my pack's familiar chaos of protective planning. His hands spread wider across my stomach, like he's already shielding what's growing there. "You realize you're all going to drive me insane for the next eight months, right?"

"Seven months and two weeks, technically," Austin corrects, then grins sheepishly when I shoot him a look. "But who's counting?"

"All of you, apparently." But there's no heat in it. How can there be when I'm standing in our kitchen, safe and loved and carrying new life? When Luna's patting my stomach like it's her job, when my men are already redesigning our entire life around babies that are barely bigger than sesame seeds?

"We love you too," Cole murmurs against my ear, reading my thoughts as always. "All of you. However many that ends up being."

"Babies!" Luna shouts one more time, just in case anyone forgot the morning's headline news.

And surrounded by laughter and love and the controlled chaos of our pack, I let myself believe in this future we're building—one baby (or two) at a time.

My hand rests on the small swell of my belly as I watch my men transform our dining table into a command center of dreams and blueprints. Twelve weeks along now, and the morning sickness has finally eased enough for me to think about something beyond crackers and ginger tea. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, illuminating their plans like holy documents—which maybe they are, in their own way.

"The main therapy building should go here," Cole says, his finger tracing lines across the largest blueprint. "Far enough from the main house for privacy, but close enough that residents feel connected, not isolated." His construction foreman experience shows in every precise measurement, every carefully considered angle. "I'm thinking craftsman style to match the existing structures. Big windows for natural light—studies show it helps with healing."

The table groans under the weight of possibility. Architectural drawings compete for space with River's veterinary journals, Mavi's security catalogs, and Austin's medical supply lists. Luna plays in her expanded playpen nearby, alternating between stacking blocks and demolishing them with enthusiastic glee—a fitting metaphor for what we're trying to build.

"We'll need at least six stalls for the horse therapy program," River adds, pulling out his own sketches. "Different horses for different needs—some people respond better to the gentle ones, but sometimes it's the difficult horses that create breakthroughs. Shared brokenness recognizing itself." His voice carries the weight of personal experience, all those hours he spent with Celeste in the stables.

"What about dogs?" I ask, shifting to find a more comfortable position. These days, comfortable is relative—the twins Cole swears we're having seem determined to rearrange my internal organs. "Therapy dogs could stay with residents who aren't ready for the horses."

River's face lights up. "I've already reached out to a trainer in Helena. She works specifically with rescues, teaching them to be emotional support animals. Giving purpose to dogs who've been abandoned or abused."

"Everything comes back to second chances," Austin murmurs, looking up from his medical protocols. "Which is perfect for what we're building."

Maverick spreads out his security proposals with the same care Cole showed with the blueprints. "Protection without imprisonment," he says, pointing to various features. "Cameras at entry points but not in personal spaces. Panic buttons in every room that connect directly to a security office—staffed 24/7, but by people trained in de-escalation, not force."

"No locks on the outside of doors," I add quietly, remembering my own terror at being trapped. "Ever."

"Never," Mavi agrees firmly. "Every door opens from the inside. Every window functions as an emergency exit. The secured areas are to keep threats out, not to keep residents in."

Cole reaches over to squeeze my hand, understanding the weight of those specifications. His thumb traces circles on my palm as Mavi continues outlining his vision—motion sensors that track approach, not departure. Safe rooms that lock from inside only. A security system designed by someone who understands that sometimes the real danger comes from those who claim to love you.

"The medical wing needs to be more than just an infirmary," Austin says, taking his turn. "Full trauma-informed care means understanding that healing isn't just physical. We need spaces for therapy—individual and group. Quiet rooms for when everything becomes too much. Medical staff trained to recognize panic attacks versus drug-seeking behavior."

He pulls out a folder thick with research, statistics, certifications. "I've been talking to Dr. Sylvie about partnering. She's willing to do rotations, train other staff in omega-specific trauma responses. And Dr. Whitehorse wants to volunteer for general medical care."

"The whole town wants to help," I realize, warmth spreading through my chest. "This isn't just our project anymore."

"Never was," Cole says gruffly. "Sweetwater Falls takes care of its own. And everyone who comes here for healing—they become ours too."

Luna chooses that moment to knock over her block tower with particular enthusiasm, shouting "Down!" with glee. We all turn to watch her, this bright spot of joy who has no idea she's the seed from which this whole idea grew.

"Speaking of which," I say, taking a breath as I prepare to voice the thought that's been building since we started planning. "I think we should call it the Celeste Torres Foundation."

The room goes still, that particular quality of silence that comes when grief and love collide. River's hands freeze over his sketches. Austin sets down his pen with careful precision. Cole's fingers tighten around mine, and Mavi—Mavi stares at the security plans like they hold answers to questions he's afraid to ask.

"Willa," Austin starts, voice thick with emotion.

"She never got to build her garden," I continue, one hand on my belly where new life grows. "Never got to see Luna grow up. Never got to know that her trust in you four would create all this. But we can honor her. Every person who finds healing here, every woman who learns she's worth protecting, every child who grows up knowing love doesn't require ownership—they're all flowers in Celeste's garden."

River makes a sound—half sob, half laugh. "She would have loved this. Would have been right in the middle of it all, probably trying to plant herbs between the therapy buildings."

"Singing off-key while she worked," Austin adds, tears flowing freely now. "Making everyone help even if they didn't know a rose from a daisy."

"Hiding encouraging notes for residents to find," Mavi contributes, his voice rough. "Little reminders that they're stronger than they know."

Cole clears his throat, but his eyes shine with moisture. "The Celeste Torres Foundation. It's perfect. She saved us all, in her way. Brought us together. Made us see what family could really be."

"Wait," River says suddenly, pushing back from the table. "I need—just wait."

He disappears upstairs, footsteps heavy with purpose. We sit in weighted silence, Luna providing a soundtrack of happy babble as she begins rebuilding her block empire.

When River returns, he's carrying something with infinite care—a framed photo I've never seen before.

It's Celeste in the garden, soil-stained hands holding a pot of blooming roses. Her smile is radiant, unguarded in a way that speaks of a perfect moment of peace. The photo itself is slightly worn at the edges, like it's been held often, treasured through grief.

"This was taken two weeks before she left," River says quietly, setting it on the table among all our plans. "She'd just gotten those roses to bloom—said it was proof that broken things could still create beauty."

We all stare at the photo, this woman whose death brought us together, whose daughter brought us purpose, whose memory now shapes our future. Luna crawls over to investigate, patting the table leg with chubby hands.

"Mama?" she asks, though she's looking at me, not the photo.

"That's your first mama," I tell her gently, lifting her so she can see. "Celeste. She loved you so much she made sure you had four daddies and a new mama to take care of you."

Luna studies the photo with that serious expression she gets sometimes, like she's seeing more than a toddler should. Then she pats the frame gently. "Pretty mama."

"Yeah, star girl," Maverick agrees, voice wrecked. "The prettiest. And the bravest."

River props the photo against the blueprints, and suddenly all our plans feel blessed. Celeste Torres presiding over the foundation that will bear her name, watching over the dreams we're building from the ashes of loss.

"She would have loved this," River repeats, stronger this time. "Would have been so proud that her story becomes hope for others."

"Then let's build her something worthy of that pride," Cole says, determination replacing tears. "Every board, every brick, every life we help save—it's all for her. For Luna. For everyone who needs what we needed."

I lean back in my chair, both hands cradling my growing belly while my chosen family plans salvation for others. The sun slants lower, painting Celeste's photo in golden light, and I swear I can feel her approval in the warmth.

We're building more than a therapy center. We're building a monument to survival, a temple to second chances, a garden where broken things can bloom.

And somewhere, I know Celeste is smiling.

The ranch sounds like hope being hammered into existence. Power tools whir, volunteers call measurements across the construction site, and someone's radio plays country music that mingles with the rhythmic pounding of hammers. I adjust the cushion behind my back, grateful for the shade of the old oak tree where Austin insisted I set up my supervision station. At six months pregnant, my center of gravity has shifted enough that standing for long periods feels like a Olympic sport I'm destined to lose.

"Mama, look!" Luna points with a juice-sticky finger at the organized chaos before us. "Daddy Cole build!"

She's right—Cole stands atop the frame of what will be the main therapy building, directing crews with the easy authority of someone born to create rather than destroy. His tool belt sits low on his hips, and even from here I can see the satisfaction in every line of his body. This is Cole in his element, building something that matters with hands that have learned gentleness through necessity.

"Higher!" someone shouts, and I recognize Pearl Chen-Morrison's voice. The seventy-year-old store owner stands below, directing the placement of support beams like she's been in construction her whole life instead of running the general store. "My husband built half this town, God rest him. I know a crooked beam when I see one!"

Cole grins and adjusts the beam to her specifications, no trace of condescension in his deference to her experience. That's Sweetwater Falls for you—everyone has expertise, and wisdom comes in unexpected packages.

Across the site, River works with a group of volunteers to set up the fencing for the therapy paddocks. His movements are sure and gentle as he shows them how to properly tension the wire, how to ensure no sharp edges could harm horse or human. Three of his veterinary clients have shown up with their own tools, returning the care he's shown their animals by helping build this space for healing.

"The gate needs to swing both ways," River explains patiently to a teenage volunteer. "Sometimes people need to leave quickly. Feeling trapped can trigger panic attacks, so every exit has to work flawlessly."

The kid nods solemnly, adjusting his work with newfound understanding. That's the beautiful thing about this project—it's teaching the whole town about trauma, about healing, about the thousand small considerations that make a space feel safe instead of confined.

Maverick's voice carries from the main building where he's installing the security system with the help of two off-duty deputies. His explanations are clear, professional, but I catch the emotion underneath when he describes the panic buttons. "Silent alarm straight to the security office," he says. "But also a choice of alerts—sometimes people need help without sirens."

Because he understands that sometimes the cavalry arriving can be as triggering as the threat itself. Every detail thought through by people who've lived these fears, who know the weight of needing help but being afraid to ask for it.

"Where do you want the medical supplies?" Dr. Sylvie calls out, arriving with a truck full of donated equipment. Austin emerges from the medical wing, already dusty from organizing treatment rooms, his smile bright with purpose.

"Treatment room first," he directs, jogging over to help unload. "We've got three residents starting next month—want to be fully operational before they arrive."

Three residents already. Word has spread through channels I don't fully understand—omega networks, survivor underground railroads, whispers of a place where broken doesn't mean worthless. We haven't even officially opened and already the calls come daily, tentative voices asking if it's real, if there's space, if hope comes with a price tag.

It doesn't. That's the point. Healing shouldn't be a luxury available only to those who can afford it.

"Quite the operation you've got here."

I turn to find Father Michael Torres approaching, his clerical collar slightly askew, dust on his black shoes from the construction site. His eyes are already finding the building taking shape, and I see the moment he understands what we're creating in his cousin's name.

"Father," I greet, starting to stand, but he waves me back down.

"Please, don't get up on my account. Austin would never forgive me if I disturbed his carefully orchestrated prenatal rest schedule." His smile is gentle, but his eyes shine with unshed tears as he takes in the scene. "The Celeste Torres Foundation. She would have been... overwhelmed."

"In a good way, I hope," I say softly, watching Luna toddle over to investigate this new person.

"Up!" she demands, arms raised imperiously. Father Michael chuckles and obliges, settling her on his hip with practiced ease.

"Hi!" Luna chirps, patting his face with her usual lack of personal space awareness. "You nice!"

"Thank you, little one. You know, you have your mother's eyes. Different colors, but the same spirit. The same way of seeing right through to people's hearts."

He carries Luna closer to the construction, and I follow slowly, one hand supporting my belly. Workers pause to greet him—Father Michael has been part of this community far longer than we have, baptized half the volunteers, married the other half.

"Tell me about it," he says quietly, eyes taking in every detail. "Tell me how you're honoring her."

So I do. I tell him about the therapy programs, the security that protects without imprisoning, the medical care that treats the whole person. I explain how each of my men has poured their expertise into creating something that would have saved Celeste if it had existed then. How the whole town has rallied to build what should have been.

"She wrote about you," Father Michael says suddenly, still watching the construction but clearly seeing memories. "In her letters. Said you were the family she chose, the ones who showed her that alphas could be protectors instead of predators."

"She saved us too," I tell him, meaning it completely. "Brought us together. Gave us Luna. Showed us what we could be."

He nods slowly, then shifts Luna to one arm and pulls out a worn prayer book. "I'd like to bless the foundation, if you'll allow it. Not just when it opens, but now, while it's being built. Foundations matter, in buildings and in life."

"We'd be honored."

He raises his voice, and work gradually stops as people notice. "Friends, if you could spare a moment?"

They gather—construction workers and volunteers, my pack abandoning their various projects to form a protective semi-circle around Luna and me. Wendolyn appears from somewhere with her flower shop crew, Buck Jennings climbs down from a ladder, even Chief Reyes emerges from where she's been consulting on safety protocols.

"We gather to bless not just buildings, but purpose," Father Michael begins, Luna still perched on his hip like she belongs there. "To honor Celeste Marie Torres, whose journey through darkness lights the way for others. To celebrate those who build with hammers and hearts alike."

His words wash over the assembled crowd, speaking of sanctuary and second chances, of wounds that become wisdom, of love that transcends death. When he mentions Celeste's name, I see tears on weathered faces, see hands reach for each other in shared purpose.

"May these walls shelter the scared," he continues. "May these doors open to hope. May every soul who enters broken leave believing in their own worth. And may Celeste's daughter—" he bounces Luna gently, making her giggle, "—grow up seeing her mother's love made manifest in every life saved here."

"Amen," the crowd murmurs, and then Buck Jennings adds loudly, "Now let's build something Celeste would be proud of!"

The cheer that goes up could probably be heard in town. Work resumes with renewed energy, but now there's something sacred in it. Every nail driven is a prayer, every board placed an offering to the woman whose death demands this answer.

"Thank you," I tell Father Michael as he hands Luna back to me.

"Thank me by filling this place," he says simply. "By proving that tragedy doesn't get the final word. Celeste believed that, even when believing seemed impossible." His eyes find the building again. "Make her faith real."

As the afternoon wears on, more townspeople arrive. The diner sends lunch for all the workers. The hardware store delivers supplies "on account," which everyone knows means donated. High school kids show up after classes to help with painting. The garden club arrives with plans for therapeutic plant spaces.

This is Sweetwater Falls at its finest—a town that knows community isn't just a word but a verb, requiring action and presence and the choice to show up for each other.

"You built something bigger than a therapy center," Wendolyn tells me as the sun starts its descent toward the mountains. "You built proof that belonging is possible. That families can be chosen and communities can heal."

I watch my men—Cole now consulting with the electrical crew, River training volunteers on horse handling, Mavi triple-checking every security feature, Austin organizing medical supplies with obsessive care. They move with purpose that goes beyond construction, building redemption one board at a time.

Luna plays in the dirt nearby, "helping" by moving small rocks from one pile to another with toddler determination. My twins shift inside me, future additions to this unlikely family, this chosen pack that refuses to let pain have the last word.

"We all built it," I correct Wendolyn. "That's the only way it works."

And as the mountains turn purple with approaching evening, as the framework of Celeste's legacy rises from Montana soil, I know it's true. We're building more than sanctuary.

We're building home—not just for us, but for everyone who needs to remember that broken doesn't mean worthless, that survival can become thriving, that sometimes the most profound act of rebellion is choosing to heal.

The stage ribbons flutter in the mountain breeze like prayers made visible, their soft yellow matching the late spring wildflowers that Wendolyn's team arranged around the podium. Every chair holds someone who helped build this dream—weathered ranchers next to teenage volunteers, shop owners beside off-duty officers, the whole tapestry of Sweetwater Falls gathered to witness what we've woven from loss.

I stand at the podium's edge, one hand supporting my heavy belly where the twins perform their daily acrobatics. Eight months along now, and every movement feels monumental. But I wouldn't miss this for anything—not when Celeste's photo watches from its place of honor, wreathed in the roses that finally bloomed from the bush we planted by the porch.

"You ready for this, mama?" Cole murmurs beside me, his hand warm on my lower back. He's traded his usual work clothes for his dress uniform from his firefighting days, the crisp lines making him look both official and achingly handsome.

"Ready," I confirm, though my voice wavers with emotion rather than nerves. Behind us, River adjusts Luna's dress for the tenth time while she squirms with toddler impatience. Austin checks his notes one more time—he'll speak after me about the medical programs. Mavi scans the crowd with habitual vigilance, though today his protective instincts seem more relaxed, trusting.

Chief Reyes steps to the microphone first, her uniform sharp in the morning sun. "Ladies and gentlemen, neighbors and friends, welcome to the grand opening of the Celeste Torres Foundation." Applause ripples through the crowd, and I see tissues already coming out of pockets. "Before we begin, I want to acknowledge that we stand on ground made sacred by loss but sanctified by love. What you've built here—what we've all built together—stands as proof that our community refuses to let violence have the final word."

She steps aside, gesturing for me to take the podium. The walk feels both endless and too quick, my body ungainly with late pregnancy but my purpose crystal clear. The microphone adjusts easily—Cole made sure of that earlier, testing everything twice.

"Good morning," I begin, my voice carrying across the gathered crowd. "My name is Willa James Montgomery-Stone-Cross-Bishop." Soft laughter at the quadruple surname, which we've decided to embrace rather than untangle. "Eight months ago, I arrived in Sweetwater Falls running from a man who tried to kill me rather than let me leave. I was broken, terrified, certain that safety was a luxury I'd never afford again."

I pause, finding faces in the crowd. Pearl Chen-Morrison, who sold me supplies that first week with aggressive kindness. Buck Jennings, who taught me to ride when my hands shook too hard to hold reins. Dr. Sylvie, who documented my healing with patient precision.

"But this town, these people, my pack—you all taught me different. You showed me that surviving violence doesn't define your worth. That trauma might shape you but doesn't have to limit you. That choosing to heal is the ultimate act of rebellion against those who tried to break us."

My hand finds my belly as the twins shift, probably responding to my elevated heartbeat. "What was meant to destroy us has instead given us purpose. Every beam in these buildings was placed by someone who understands that shelter is sacred. Every safety feature was designed by people who know what it costs to feel trapped. Every program exists because someone said 'never again' and meant it."

I can see tears flowing freely now—Wendolyn's mascara is already a lost cause, and even Buck's weathered face shows moisture. But these are tears of recognition, of release, of understanding that pain shared becomes strength multiplied.

"Celeste Torres came to Cactus Rose Ranch seeking shelter and found family. She trusted four men with her daughter, believing they could show Luna that protection doesn't require possession, that love doesn't demand ownership. She was right." I turn slightly to look at my men, standing in formation like honor guards for this moment. "These four alphas, along with all of you, have proven that true strength lies not in dominance but in creating spaces where others can discover their own power."

Luna chooses that moment to escape River's hold, toddling over to wrap herself around my leg. "Mama speech!" she announces to the crowd, generating warm laughter. I stroke her hair, continuing without missing a beat—we've learned to integrate her interruptions into life's rhythm.

"The Celeste Torres Foundation stands as a living memorial to a woman who refused to let abuse define her story. But more than that, it stands as a promise. To every omega who's been told they're property. To every person who's been convinced their only value lies in submission. To every survivor who wonders if healing is possible." My voice strengthens with each word. "We promise you shelter without shame. Healing without judgment. Time to remember who you were before someone tried to remake you in their image."

The silence that follows is complete, sacred, heavy with recognition and resolve. Then Father Michael stands in the front row, his applause ringing out clear and strong. Others follow, the sound building like thunder, like acclaim, like collective commitment to the vision we've built.

"Thank you," I say when the applause finally fades. "Thank you for believing that broken people deserve beautiful things. Thank you for building Celeste's garden with your own hands. Thank you for proving that community means showing up, again and again, especially when it's hard."

I grip the scissors Cole hands me—specially chosen for being easy to handle with swollen fingers. The yellow ribbon stretches across the entrance to the main building, bright as hope against the weathered wood Cole insisted on using. "I officially declare the Celeste Torres Foundation open for healing, for hope, for home."

The ribbon parts cleanly, floating to the ground in two pieces that Luna immediately pounces on. The cheer that goes up could probably be heard in the next county, but I'm lost in Cole's arms as he helps me down from the stage, in River's kiss to my temple, in Austin's gentle squeeze of my hand, in Mavi's protective hover as we move toward the buildings.

"Tours begin now!" Austin announces, taking over MC duties with his natural warmth. "Small groups, please. Our residents arrive next week, so this is your chance to see everything before privacy protocols go into effect."

We separate to lead different groups, though Cole stays close to me—no one argues with an alpha protecting his heavily pregnant omega, even if I could probably still take down threats with the moves Mavi taught me.

The therapy rooms come first, designed with soft colors and natural light. "Every room has multiple exits," I explain to my group. "Windows that open fully, doors that lock only from inside. The furniture is comfortable but deliberately lightweight—nothing that could be used to barricade or trap."

"Smart," someone murmurs, and I recognize a woman from the grocery store whose eyes carry the same shadows mine once did.

River leads his group through the animal areas, enthusiasm brightening his whole demeanor. "We have six horses so far, all rescues with their own stories of survival. The connecting path between the barn and the therapy building is covered—weather protected but open-sided, so no one feels trapped while transitioning between spaces."

His group includes several young people who've already volunteered to help with the animals. I can see their dedication in how they listen, absorbing not just the practical details but the philosophy behind them.

Austin's medical wing tour draws the most questions. "Trauma-informed care means understanding that healing happens at different paces," he explains, showing off treatment rooms that feel more like cozy dens than clinical spaces. "We have traditional medical equipment, of course, but also quiet rooms for processing, art therapy spaces, movement areas for those who need to physically work through their experiences."

"Is it true you're the new medical director for the whole town?" someone asks, and Austin's blush is visible even from across the courtyard.

"The clinic offered, and I accepted," he confirms. "But the Foundation remains my primary focus. Healing trauma is my calling—the town position just helps fund it."

Mavi's security tour is perhaps the most powerful, showing how protection can exist without imprisonment. "Every camera feed is encrypted and auto-deletes after 72 hours unless specifically saved for legal reasons," he explains. "The security office is staffed 24/7, but our guards are trained in de-escalation, not force. Many are survivors themselves who understand the difference between safety and control."

"And you're the new head deputy?" Chief Reyes asks with a knowing smile, though clearly she's asking for the crowd's benefit.

"Someone has to keep this town in line," Mavi replies dryly, generating laughter. "But yes, I've accepted the position. Protecting and serving takes many forms."

As the tours conclude, people drift through the grounds with the quiet reverence usually reserved for churches. And maybe that's what we've built—a temple to second chances, a cathedral of becoming, a place where resurrection happens one small choice at a time.

"Cole's the new volunteer fire chief," someone mentions as groups reconvene. "River's expanding the vet clinic to serve the whole valley. Austin's running the medical center. Mavi's head deputy. And Willa⁠—"

"Is growing the next generation," I interject, hands cradling my belly. "And managing the Foundation. Ensuring Celeste's vision stays centered in everything we do."

"You've become pillars of this community," Pearl observes, her ancient eyes bright with approval. "From refugees to leaders in less than a year. That's the Sweetwater Falls magic—we recognize quality when it shows up on our doorstep."

As the afternoon shadows lengthen and the crowd begins to disperse, I find myself back at the podium, looking out over what we've built. The buildings stand strong against the mountain backdrop, purpose-built for healing. Gardens already take shape between structures, Wendolyn's contribution to creating beauty alongside function.

The whole property hums with potential, with promise, with the peculiar energy of dreams made manifest through community effort and stubborn refusal to let trauma win.

"We did it," I whisper, not sure if I'm talking to my pack, to Celeste's memory, or to the twins swimming inside me.

"No," Cole corrects gently, his arms wrapping around me from behind. "We're doing it. Present tense. This is just the beginning."

He's right. Tomorrow, the real work begins. Lives to shelter, stories to hold, healing to facilitate. But today—today we celebrate the audacity of hoping, the courage of building, the miracle of turning our worst moments into someone else's lifeline.

The sun paints everything golden as the last guests depart, and I swear I can smell roses on the breeze.

The blanket beneath us has seen better days—worn soft from countless picnics, stained with memories of Luna's first attempts at self-feeding, one corner permanently wrinkled from the time River used it to wrap an injured fawn. But here on the highest hill of our ranch, with the Rockies painted in shades of amber and rose by the setting sun, it feels like the finest tapestry ever woven.

I lean back against Cole's chest, his solid warmth the perfect support for my aching back. The twins have been particularly active today, probably inspired by all the ceremony excitement, and every position except this one—surrounded by my pack—seems to make them practice their eventual soccer careers against my ribs.

"Comfortable?" Cole murmurs against my ear, his arms adjusting to better support my weight. His hands span my belly with protective tenderness, feeling each movement of the lives we've created together.

"Perfect," I assure him, though comfortable might be stretching the truth at eight months pregnant with twins. But comfort is relative, and being held by Cole while our family spreads around us transcends any physical discomfort.

Luna sits in my lap, her small weight barely noticeable compared to my passenger load. She's abandoned her fancy ceremony dress for her favorite overalls—the ones with embroidered stars that Austin found at a craft fair. Her attention fixes on the sky with that intensity she brings to everything, those impossible mismatched eyes tracking the first brave stars emerging in the darkening canvas above.

River sits to our left, guitar across his lap, fingers finding quiet melodies that blend with the evening breeze. He's not playing any particular song, just letting the music flow like water over stones, creating a soundtrack for our sunset that feels both improvised and inevitable. The golden light catches in his dark hair, and when he glances up to smile at us, I see none of the haunted shadows that used to live in his eyes.

"See that bright one?" Austin points from his position on our right, tracing patterns in the sky for Luna's benefit. "That's Venus. Not actually a star at all, but a planet like Earth. Just reflects the sun's light so brightly we can see it before full dark."

"Venus!" Luna attempts, though it comes out more like "Veenus." She points with chubby fingers, delighted by this new word. "Pretty star-planet!"

"Exactly right, clever girl." Austin's praise makes her beam, and she settles deeper into my lap to await the next astronomical revelation. He's endlessly patient with her questions, her mispronunciations, her toddler logic that makes perfect sense in her developing mind.

Maverick maintains his post slightly apart from our tight cluster, but still within arm's reach. Even here, in our safest space with no threats for miles, his instincts keep him partially alert. But I can see the relaxation in his shoulders, the way his usual rigid posture has softened into something approaching peace. His eyes scan the property below—the main house, the new Foundation buildings, the paddocks where River's therapy horses graze—with satisfaction rather than suspicion.

"All quiet?" I ask him, knowing he needs the acknowledgment that his vigilance is noticed, appreciated.

"All perfect," he corrects, allowing himself a small smile. "Perimeter secure, motion sensors functioning, and approximately zero threats unless you count the rabbit trying to breach the garden fence."

"The criminal," River murmurs with mock severity, fingers never pausing in their guitar exploration. "Shall we post wanted posters?"

"Luna make poster!" our girl offers enthusiastically. "Draw bad bunny!"

The laughter that ripples through our group is easy, unforced, the kind that comes from deep contentment rather than humor. These are the moments that heal us—not the grand gestures or dramatic rescues, but the quiet evenings when we're just a family watching the sky change colors.

"Did you ever imagine we'd end up here?" Cole asks, his breath warm against my neck. The question seems prompted by nothing and everything—the view, the peace, the impossible journey from that first fire to this moment.

I consider the question, watching the sun sink lower toward the mountain peaks. "When you pulled me from that burning house? No. I couldn't imagine anything beyond the next breath, the next day without Blake finding me." My hand covers his on my belly. "But maybe some part of me hoped. Even then, covered in soot and terror, some tiny voice said 'these men are different.'"

"We were already yours," River says quietly, his music gentling to match the moment. "From that first night. Just took us a while to figure it out."

"Took Celeste to show us," Austin adds, and her name brings the familiar bittersweet ache. "Her trust in us, even when trusting seemed impossible—that changed everything."

"Made us a pack," Maverick contributes from his watchpost. "Gave us purpose beyond ourselves."

Luna yawns hugely, the excitement of the day finally catching up with her. She turns in my lap, burrowing against my chest with the boneless trust of a secure child.

"Sing, Mama?" she requests sleepily.

"Which song, star girl?"

"The brave star song. Mama Celeste's song."

I can’t help but smile, beginning the song I know will be passed down, through their family, generations, and within this beautiful sweet town that I can officially call my home sweet home.

F.I.N.

Knotting the Cowboys may be over, but a new journey begins…

Preorder Wendolyn’s story,

KNOTTING THE FIREFIGHTERS

She thought she left the danger behind.

Now Wendolyn Rae helps out at Cactus Rose Ranch, healing from the past and staying far away from the pack of Alphas she no longer trusts — especially the one she rejected for cheating on her...

But her ex and pack didn’t take no for an answer.

And when they return to finish what he started—with fire—it’s the new captain of Station Fahrenheit who pulls her from the flames.

She wasn’t looking for a pack.

But fate keeps lighting matches...

Knot Academy is a joke.

A dumping ground for society's rejects, right in the middle of Harlem.

The government wishes we’d just vanish, but they need the Alpha Omega system to keep the world running.

That’s where I come in.

I’m Elizabeth Abercrombie — Harvard’s finest dropout Omega, and if one glance at me doesn’t scream trouble, the illegal tattoos covering my skin sure do.

Five years at this chaos-fueled academy, and not one pack has dared to claim me.

I’m the “Forgotten Omega,” and I’m fine with that.

Or at least I was—until they arrived.

Carter. Felix. Holmes.

The Tainted Trinity.

Ex-mafia drug lords with bounties on their heads, sent here to rot unless they claim an Omega and prove they belong. Without that bond, they’re dead men walking.

And somehow, I’ve become their only shot at survival.

One semester.

That’s all we’ve got to prove we have chemistry, or we’re all screwed.

If we pull this off, they get to live, and I’m finally free from this place.

If not? Well, let’s just say we won’t be around to talk about it.

No pressure, right?

READ BOOK ONE NOW:

HARD KNOT

Prologue: Heated Turbulence

~ELIZABETH~

“Don’t you dare go into Heat on this plane, Abercrombie!”

Holmes hisses, his voice low but sharp enough to pierce the claustrophobic tension in the tiny airplane bathroom. His breath is hot against my neck, while my hands are still pressed on top of his eyes, as if to stop him from seeing my body, when he’s honestly seen me butt naked after these last chaotic weeks of utter madness.

All of this is an atrocity of absolute chaos.

“Then stop touching me!” I snap back, though my voice trembles more than I’d like.

Stop touching me? As if Holmes would ever listen to a damn order I’d give him.

He’s far too cocky and ruthless for that shit.

Like listening to anyone’s opinion or request.

Holmes doesn’t even pretend to heed my warning.

Instead, his hips press harder against mine, his groin grinding against my soaked panties with deliberate precision. The scent-blocking material isn’t doing shit at this point. I’ve soaked through them so thoroughly that they’re ineffective in being a savior in this unexpected situation.

Hell, it’s contributing to my obvious demise here.

I bite back a moan, and I have to move my hands from his face so my nails can dig into the cheap plastic wall behind me, instead of into his flesh. Anything to try to anchor myself and not use him as a form of stability.

His lips quirk into a smug smirk, that infuriating one he always wears when he knows he’s in control. And God, I hate him for it. Hate how he always gets under my skin, how his scent—a maddening mix of cedar and spice—is making my head spin.

Hate that, no matter how much I despise him, my body doesn’t seem to care.

"I'm not the one dripping slick, my Rebellious Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice still mocking but with an undercurrent of genuine concern that makes my heart stutter. "Your body seems to like my touch just fine."

I glare at him, but the heat building inside me makes it hard to maintain my anger.

"You're an ass," I manage, though the insult loses its bite when my breath hitches, his thigh pressing against me in a way that makes my knees buckle.

"And you're a brat," he returns, but his smile has lost its predatory edge, becoming something more intimate. "But that doesn't seem to stop you from grinding against me like you want more."

The warmth spreading through my body is different now—not just the uncomfortable heat from before, but something deeper, more primal. My Omega instincts are screaming at me to submit, to let go, to trust.

And that's what terrifies me most.

"This isn't happening," I whisper, memories of my last Heat threatening to surface. "This can't be happening."

"It is," he says simply, but his hands gentle on my hips, grounding rather than restraining.

“Why aren’t you stopping yourself?” I fire back, my voice sharper than I feel.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even try.

Instead, he closes the distance, his mouth crashing into mine with a ferocity that knocks the air from my lungs. His kiss is angry, almost punishing, like he hates me as much as I hate him.

And maybe he does.

But that doesn’t stop me from kissing him back, my fingers tangling in his hair as if I can’t bear to let go. He growls against my lips, his teeth scraping against my bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. His hands slide lower, gripping my ass and pulling me flush against him.

I can feel the hard length of him pressing against me, and it’s enough to make me gasp, my head falling back against the wall.

We hate each other.

Absolutely despise one another.

And yet, here we are, 37,000 feet above, making out in a cramped airplane bathroom like we can’t get enough.

Like we haven’t been the perfect set of cats and dogs, scratching and biting at one another’s throats since the day I walked into his office and saw who the leader of the Tainted Trinity was.

As though he’s lost track of the fact that I’m a Forgotten Omega and he’s one of the untouchable Alphas who sees me as nothing but a complication in this equation that should have ended after one semester.

"You're going to regret this," I warn, but there's no real conviction in my voice.

His lips trail down my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there in a way that makes me shiver.

"The only thing I'd regret," he murmurs against my throat, "is not meeting you earlier all those fucking years ago.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat through me, and this time I don't fight the way my body responds. My scent grows stronger, sweeter, filling the tiny space with unmistakable pheromones of Heat.

His own scent spikes in response, but it's not just dominance now—there's protection there, possession mixed with something that feels dangerously close to love.

A sharp knock on the door jolts us both.

"Is everything alright in there?" a flight attendant calls, her tone more suspicious than concerned.

I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp, my wide eyes meeting Holmes's. His lips are swollen from our kisses, his visible eye dark with desire, but there's also amusement dancing there.

This isn't how I expected this flight to go—trapped in a tiny bathroom with an Alpha who's become so much more than an enemy, trying not to completely unravel while his pack mates sit obliviously nearby.

On a fucking plane at that.

Holmes smirks, leaning close enough for his lips to brush my ear.

"We're not done, Abercrombie," he promises, his voice rough with need.

Despite everything we’ve been through, I’ve learned one thing about Holmes.

He always keeps to his word.

Forever An Ugly Duckling

~ELIZABETH~

The polished hardwood whispers beneath my pointe shoes as I take my starting position.

Deep breaths. Posture. Graceful execution.

Get lost in the music and the emotion, Elizabeth.

Cancel out the noise.

Years of muscle memory guide my limbs into place – back straight, chin lifted, arms gracefully curved. In the mirror-lined walls of Hard Knot Academy's performance hall, I catch glimpses of my reflection — the forbidden tattoos visible through my white mesh dance top like shadows of past rebellion.

They still bring me pride, especially when the rest of the world despises their existence against my peachy flesh.

I can hear them whispering in the wings, their voices carrying easily to me as I wait for the music to commence. It’s a ballad of an intro that carries haunting traits to its melody. “Do You See Me Now,” from the show Sweetpea.

How I love incorporating tidbits of my joys in music and horror into my lifestyle.

Laughter in an attempted muffle of giggles and shushes pierces through the potential silence, but I remain still and calm – my face a mask like a porcelain doll. I wouldn’t let anything crack the perfection of my mannequin-like face with my painted dark red lips that give off the projected theme for the challenging dance.

They think they're being subtle, these pristine Omegas with their perfectly pressed uniforms and regulation-length hair. Their envy is so obvious, while they do everything in their power to state how ugly and imperfect I must be to think I can stand on the same stage as them.

I almost want to laugh.

The music begins, with the haunting beats that have a repetitive beat in the background and a choir-like build of voices. My body moves on instinct, having done this routine for so many days in a row, I can do it with my eyes closed.

Or maybe I am without realizing it.

I embrace the darkness temporary blindness brings. A privilege in my mind to be able to open my eyes and see the beauties of this world, despite it being so cruel to an Omega like me.

An outcast at best.

Closing my eyes only heightens the world around me — a comfort I seem to gain haven from when I get lost in the music building around me.

A senior used to tell me that dance is far more healing than many think.

To simply get lost in the movement without needing to think. To dare allow your body to be free in this tangled web of mesmerizing serenity. We take advantage of what our body can do in our youth, and when we’re slowly stripped of that ability due to the various challenges Omegas face…

Well…you begin to feel like a trapped dove in a gilded cage.

The lyrics begin to echo through the vast hollow space, and how I’ve repeated these words in my mind again and again as if this is my anthem in this sinister world of repetition and rejection.

“Swallow my tongue. Back of my throat. Like it’s finite. Only so long I can chew till I choke.”

I push deeper into accentuating each executed move, making sure when I do have to make eye contact with the crowd, it’s solely on those with pens in their grasp and clipboards propped in anticipation for their plentiful commentary of judgment.

“Hide in plain sight. What have you done? My rabbit run. Caught in the headlights.”

My flowing hands follow with twirls and leg lifts.

"Look at her, trying so hard." The voice belongs to a first-year, still shiny and new. "The Mangy Wolf, still howling for attention."

I focus on my breathing, on the familiar stretch of muscles as I maintain my position. The three judges at their table watch me with cold, assessing eyes, red pens hovering over their scoring sheets like weapons ready to strike.

Motivation.

I let the music flow through me as the words echo with so much merit.

My favorite part.

“And I’m bigger now. And I’m bigger now. So say my name like I’m 10 feet tall. Bow your head like I’m royal.”

Bow down to this Forgotten One. As I’m a royal of gold none of you pretty pennies can touch.

My body moves with practiced precision, each gesture a statement of defiance wrapped in classical grace. I execute an arabesque, feeling the perfect line of energy from my lifted foot through my extended fingertips.

More whispers reach me from the shadows.

"Five years," someone explains in a stage whisper. "Can you believe it? Five years, and not one pack has claimed her."

I channel the words into fuel, using them to power my movements as the music begins to shift. The haunting strings give way to a pulsing beat, and I let my classical form dissolve into something rawer, something that belongs more to the streets than this pristine academy stage.

“And every day that I get older. I guess my blood’s running colder…”

My pointe shoes strike the floor in sharp staccato as I transition from ballet to hip-hop. I've practiced this fusion for months, drilling the transitions until they felt as natural as breathing.

The gasps from the judges' table tell me I've achieved the shock value I was aiming for.

"Show off," someone mutters as I drop into a perfect freeze, balanced on one hand while my legs create geometric shapes in the air.

They're not wrong.

I am showing off.

Every move is a carefully calculated display of what I can do, and what I've become in my five years at this academy. I'm not the same scared Omega dropout who arrived here fresh from Harvard, thinking my academic credentials would somehow make up for my other...deficiencies.

If you can even call them that.

Little Elizabeth with all those hopes and dreams died long ago.

Defiant Abbie who thrives for herself in a world that gives nothing in return is here…and will remain.

I vowed to never cower like someone’s prey.

I’ll always keep that promise to myself.

The whispers grow more venomous as I move through my routine.

"I heard she tried to bribe a pack last year."

"Really? I heard she begged them on her knees."

"Pathetic. Some Omegas just aren't meant to be claimed."

The words should hurt.

Maybe somewhere deep inside, they do. To that girl with the big blue eyes like her mother’s and platinum blonde hair like her father. The freshmen straight out of high school with a 4.0 GPA and over 2 million in offered scholarships.

The golden child of the Abercrombie Family, destined to be a millionaire by twenty-two and be a rich housewife who cooks, cleans, and ensures her husband gets everything he desires from his obedient wife.

A painted lie of hopes and dreams, groomed by parents who decided that revealing to their daughter her “Omega” status wasn’t an important memo to give before she got hit with her first heat.

In the middle of Harvard’s courtyard during an assembly.

Guess I should be thankful we were forced to leave behind our phones that day, or I would have been the golden trending Omega racing away from every Alpha I could.

And then…what’s supposed to be some glorious moment filled with love and support from a group of Alphas who wish to pleasure you became nothing of the sort.

So far from the idea painted in books and read to us like some sort of fairytale.

All that did was make me never want to experience my heat again.

Never.

No one will hurt me like that again.

Five years to build up my armor, to transform their cruelty into motivation. I pour their spite into my movements as I begin the routine's final sequence.

The music builds to its crescendo, strings, and bass battling for dominance just like the two sides of my nature – the classical training and the street-learned swagger.

My breath comes in controlled bursts as I prepare for the final combination.

"She'll never land it," someone says with quiet certainty. "Even Marina Collins needed ten years to master that sequence."

They're right about one thing – only one other Omega has ever successfully performed this combination in the academy's history.

It's a sequence that demands everything: perfect timing, absolute control, and just enough madness to attempt it in the first place. The best part is making sure it hits on the lyrics’ final repetition.

“What have you done, my rabbit run!”

I begin the fouettés en tournant, each rotation faster than the last. My spot is perfect, my core locked tight as I whip through turn after turn. The final repetition of lyrics blares loudly into the echoing space, pounding in my head as if the very lyrics speak to me.

“So say my name like I’m 10 feet tall! Bow your head like I’m royal!”

The music reaches its peak, and I launch into the final element – a grand jeté that seems to defy gravity, my body perfectly splits in the air, before I land and melt into a hip-hop freeze that marries classical grace with urban power.

“And every day that I get older. I guess my blood’s running colder…”

The silence that follows is absolute.

I hold the pose, feeling a single drop of sweat trace down my spine. My heart thunders against my ribs, but my breathing remains steady.

I don't move until the last note fades from the air.

Perfection.

Rising into first position, I meet the center judge's gaze.

She's a Beta with steel-gray hair and lips pressed into a thin line. Her red pen taps against her scoring sheet in a rhythm that matches my pulse.

"Well," she says, her voice carrying in the hushed room. "That was...unexpected."

I maintain my position, keeping my expression carefully neutral despite my trembling muscles. I've put everything into this performance – every ounce of anger, determination, and defiance I've accumulated over five years of rejection.

The whispers start again, but now they carry a note of grudging respect mixed with their usual disdain.

"How did she even learn that sequence?"

"Probably spent all her sad, lonely nights practicing. What else does she have to do?"

"Still won't help her find a pack. Who wants an Omega that...intense?"

I keep my chin lifted, my posture perfect.

Let them talk. Nothing I do or say will meet their standards. They’ll always look at me like the ugly duckling I am. All because I’m a forgotten omega.

At the end of the day, I didn't perform for them.

I didn't even perform for the judges.

This was for me – proof that being unclaimed doesn't mean being broken.

I catch fragments of the judges' murmured conversation:

"...technical perfection..."

"...but the attitude..."

"... an unprecedented fusion of styles..."

"...still, five years..."

The Beta judge looks up, her eyes sharp as she dissects every aspect of my presence.

"Miss Abercrombie," she says, each syllable precise as a pinprick. "Your technical execution was..." She pauses, and I can feel the other Omegas holding their breath. "...flawless."

I don't let my expression change.

Experience has taught me that praise usually comes with a sting in its tail.

"However," she continues, right on cue, "technical perfection isn't everything. An Omega must also demonstrate... appropriateness. Suitability. Your choice to incorporate such...urban elements into a classical piece shows a concerning lack of judgment."

And there it is.

The familiar knife, twisted with surgical precision. I've prepared myself for this, but it still takes everything I have to maintain my composed expression.

"While we acknowledge your skill, Miss Abercrombie, we must question whether this type of performance truly serves your primary goal – finding a suitable pack."

Poorly suppressed laughter drifts from the wings.

I keep my eyes forward, my spine straight, as she delivers the final blow.

"Perhaps if you focused more on traditional presentations, you might have better luck in that area."

Five years of rejection, wrapped up in one perfectly polite suggestion.

I hold my position for three more heartbeats, then execute a textbook curtsy.

"Thank you for your feedback," I say, making sure my voice carries clearly. I straighten, allow myself one last look at the judges, and then walk off the stage with measured steps.

I don't run.

I don't flee.

I don't give them the satisfaction of seeing me affected by their words.

The whispers follow me, but I maintain my pace until I reach the sanctuary of the dressing room.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I examine my reflection. My stage makeup has run slightly, creating dark smudges under my eyes that mirror the intricate tattoos visible through my dance clothes.

I look wild, untamed – everything an Omega isn't supposed to be.

No wonder no pack wants you…

I try to ignore the treacherous whisper that creeps into the back of my mind.

Pushing it away with practiced ease, I allow myself to take a few deep breaths.

This will pass. Next time.

Another opportunity…

I stopped caring about being wanted long ago. Or at least, that's what I tell myself as I begin to change out of my dance clothes, methodically removing all traces of my performance.

I'm wiping off the last of my makeup when the dressing room door bursts open, admitting a flood of chattering Omegas. They fall silent when they see me, their eyes sliding away as if I'm invisible.

All except one – the fourth-year who's been leading the commentary during my performance.

"Nice try, Carrion Crow," she says, her smile sharp as broken glass. "But we all know how this ends. Some Omegas just aren't meant to be claimed."

I meet her eyes in the mirror, letting a slow smile spread across my face.

"You're right," I say, watching satisfaction bloom on her face before adding, "Some of us are meant for something better."

Grabbing my bag, I walk out, leaving them to choke on their whispers and speculation.

Let them call me whatever names make them feel better about their own desperate scramble to be claimed.

I'm Elizabeth Abercrombie – Harvard dropout, tattooed disgrace, and the only Omega in Hard Knot Academy's history to successfully merge classical ballet with hip-hop in a single performance.

I don't need a pack to prove my worth.

But as I walk through the academy's shadowed halls, I can't quite silence that small voice in the back of my mind that whispers:

Not yet, anyway.

The worst part is, I'm starting to believe it might be right.

Forever an ugly duckling.

READ BOOK ONE NOW:

HARD KNOT

About the Author

Cinder Blaze

is a debuting author in dark contemporary omegaverse.

Cin was inspired to begin her author journey after spending hours on TikTok and wanting to create steamy dark contemporary romances.

She finally made her vision a reality.

If you enjoyed her work, follow her social media platforms!

Also by Cinder Blaze

CATCUS ROSE RANCH

(Standalone Series)

Knotting the Cowboys

Knotting the Firefighters (Oct 2025)

Knotting the Officers (Dec 2025)

FORGOTTEN OMEGAS: INITIATION

(Standalone Series)

Hard Knot

Dead Knot

Ruthless Knot (Oct 2025)

Savage Knot (Dec 2025)

THE OMEGA REBELLION

(Standalone Series)

Knot Their Omega

Knot Their Arrangement

Knot Their Safe Haven (Sept 2025)

HEARTLESS BILLIONAIRE

(COMPLETE)

Knot Heirs: Serenity’s Reign

FORGET ME KNOT

(COMPLETE)

SCARLETT