Minutes later, I’m standing outside the APBRA office trailer, hands in the pockets of my coat, bag on my shoulder, trying to force down the swirling pit of vipers taking up residence in my belly.
My hand freezes on the door handle. I could leave. Turn around, get back in the car, drive back to California where nobody knows who my father is or what Mark Felton tried to do to me. I could find another internship, another path, another dream.
But I’ve spent six years building up to this moment, and I’m tired of being afraid. There’s something insidious about fear when it burrows so deep inside you that you forget it’s there. Itbecomes part of your DNA, this low-grade hum of anxiety that colors everything. Makes you second-guess yourself when you meet a new guy. Makes your stomach clench on the first day of a job. Makes coming home feel like walking into a minefield.
And fuck if it doesn’t pack a punch when it finally rears its ugly head.
Well, I’m done shrinking myself to fit into the safe little box fear built around me.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and knock.
“Come in,” says a bright voice I don’t recognize.
I push the trailer door open, and I’m greeted by a friendly Beta with kind eyes and a clipboard. “You must be the new vet! I’m Carrie, the office coordinator—for now, at least. We’ve been expecting you.”
She takes my paperwork with genuine warmth, her eyes widening as she takes in the details.
“Wow, Dr. James—well, almost Dr. James—these are impressive. UC Davis, Dean’s List, published research on equine respiratory disorders…” She looks at me with something close to awe. “You know, we had over four hundred applicants for this position. Your credentials really stood out.”
The praise makes my cheeks warm, but I keep my voice steady. “Thank you. I’m excited for the opportunity. Just call me Willa.”
She leads me to her office at the back of the trailer.
“So what drew you to rodeo specifically? Most vets go into small-animal practice or the usual large-animal work.”
“I grew up around it. My father was a bull rider, so I spent a lot of time at events. Just developed a taste for it, I guess.” I keep it simple—no need to mention the complicated family dynamics or the years I spent trying to escape this place.
Carrie laughs. “Well, you picked an interesting field. Fair warning—you’re going to have every cowboy within a fifty-mileradius trying to impress you. Occupational hazard of being a smart, pretty woman in a male-dominated sport.”
I force a smile. “I don’t date cowboys. Being an Omega in this environment…” I shrug. “It’s just easier to keep things professional.”
“Smart woman.” She sits with a sigh and motions to the chair across her messy desk. Then she bends to dig through the drawer to her right, pulls out a large folder, and hands it to me.
“These are our scent-blocking protocols. Mandatory for all Omega staff during events. Not that we’ve had many Omegas… We provide the blockers, but you’ll need to sign off that you understand the requirements. We have medical personnel on staff just for this part of the contract. Safety thing, you understand. Lots of Alphas, lots of adrenaline—things can get… intense, for all parties.”
“Makes sense.” I nod, scanning the documents. Standard stuff, mostly. I’ve been on suppressants since first presenting, but I’ve read up on the effects too many Alphas can have on an Omega, and I welcome any extra insurance in that department. “Where do I go to pick up everything?”
“There’s a little pharmacy on Main Street, next to the tack store, but please be aware they can have… small-town hours, and it is mandatory to be on the blockers during events and all arena business. So make sure you don’t run out.”
“Okay, that all sounds good. I’ll keep on it.”
“Any questions about—” she starts to say, but the door opens behind us, cutting her off.
When I turn around, I get a clear view of the tall, middle-aged Alpha who walks in, his too-ripe scent overpowering even from here. It’s cloying and immediately gives me get-the-fuck-out-of-here vibes.
Mark Felton walks in, all professional smiles and circuit-director authority.
“Hey, Carrie…” he says, and I can see her tense a little. He goes to his desk and straightens some papers, acting like he doesn’t see me.
“Miss James?” Carrie says, and I flinch.
That draws his attention. I can feel his stare crawling along my skin like spiders, and my chest starts to tighten.
Breathe, I tell myself.You’re not seventeen. You’re not trapped. You can leave anytime you want.
But my Omega doesn’t give a shit about logic. She knows danger when she smells it, and every instinct is screaming at me to run.
He walks over unbothered and gives me a quick once-over. But I don’t miss the awareness in his eyes. Everything in me is demanding I do something, anything to stop occupying the same space as him.
