The memory flashes—Felton’s breath hot against my ear, the way he crowded me against the wall, his voice dropping to something possessive and cruel. “I can smell it on you, little Omega. All that sweet arousal. Wonder what—or who—got you all worked up?”
When I told him to fuck off, he tried to grab my arm. Would have, if I hadn’t twisted away fast enough.
I have to swallow the sudden rise of bile in the back of my throat.
He’s been dropping hints every time he sees me that he’ll have me, even though his pack already has an Omega. He’s clearly not opposed to looking outside the pack for… what? A side piece?
God, I feel sorry for whoever ended up as the Omega for his pack.
It’s men like him that made me swear I’ll never join a pack. That make me wish—again—that we had better laws to protect Omegas. Even if it is supposed to be illegal to marry off Omegas at sixteen, it doesn’t stop assholes like him from trying. From thinking they have a right to us just because of a designation.
The way he looked at me. Leaned into me. The hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with biology and everything to do with power and possession.
I’m going to have to be extra careful.
I have a sick feeling that the problem of Mark Felton is not going away anytime soon, no matter how hard I shut it down. No matter how many times I tell him no.
Men like him don’t hear “no.” They hear “convince me,” or “try harder,” or “I’m just playing hard to get.” They never hear what we’re actually saying: Leave me the fuck alone.
A growl rumbles low in my throat as another shiver of disgust crawls over my skin. How does he still make me feel like that powerless kid again? How does he strip away years of growth and independence with just a look, just a word?
Because trauma doesn’t care about time. It doesn’t care that you’re not seventeen anymore. It just sits there in your bones, waiting to remind you that you were never really safe.
The mare flicks her tail, shifting her weight. The movement jerks me back to the present. I steady my breathing and press my palm against her fetlock, grounding myself in the familiar warmth beneath my fingers.
“It’s okay, pretty girl,” I whisper, forcing my voice calm. “There you go. Good girl. Just let me see.”
Her hoof tips into my hand, hesitant but trusting. I prop it between my knees and brush away the sawdust clinging to the underside.
“See? Not so bad, pretty girl. Quick peek, just checking why it hurts, then you can go back to pretending you hate me.”
I let out a soft laugh. It sounds small in the cavernous barn, swallowed by the hum of heaters and the rustle of hay.
I settle into the routine of work. The mare has been favoring her left back leg since yesterday morning, and I’m happy to find that she doesn’t seem to have any tissue or structural problems.
But when I pick up her back foot, I can see the problem right away. A stone has lodged itself in her hoof—somehow, she managed to get it wedged between the shoe and the center of the hoof. I’ll need to call the farrier over when he’s done with the bulls.
And with that thought, my mind flashes to Beau again.
Stop it.
But I can’t. The awareness of him sets my nerves tingling even when he is nowhere near me. I feel hyperaware of his presence somewhere on this fairground, like my Omega has developed some kind of Alpha-seeking radar specifically tuned to those ice-blue eyes and that devastating smile.
My heart beats faster, and a nervous, silly sensation takes up residence in my belly.
This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous.
I’m a grown woman with a doctorate and a career and absolutely zero interest in complicating my life with an Alpha—especially not one as high-profile and undoubtedly complicated as Beau McCrea. He probably has Omegas throwing themselves at him every night. Probably has a different one in every city on the circuit.
And you’re thinking about him, why exactly? Because he’s pretty? Because he made your teenage heart flutter? Grow up, Willa.
The mare knickers and reminds me that there are more pressing things to worry about. I go back to cleaning out her hoof the best I can.
“What have you been getting into, love? No more off-roading for you for a few days.”
Talking out loud helps—helps them and helps me—even if it makes me sound crazy. It keeps my nerves steady and grounded when my brain won’t stop. I’ve always been an over-thinker.
I scrape gently at the hoof, tilting my head for a better look.
