CHAPTER ONE
ASTER
The bus smelled like stale coffee and desperation. I pressed myself into the corner of the back seat, shoulder blades against the window, eyes on the aisle. Two exits—the front door and the emergency hatch three rows up. The driver was a Beta, mid-fifties, didn't look twice at me when I dropped my crumpled bills into the fare box. The only other passenger was an old woman near the front, knitting something yellow, her needles clicking in a rhythm that set my teeth on edge.
I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. Hadn't eaten in twenty. The last of my money was in my pocket—forty-three dollars and some change—and I had no idea where I was going.
Again.
The bus lurched around a curve, and I caught my reflection in the grimy window. Dark hair escaping from its braid, shadows like bruises under my eyes, cheekbones sharper than they should be. I looked like what I was: a stray. Something nobody wanted to keep.
Thornwood, the sign had said. Population 2,847. I'd picked it because it was the end of the line, because the ticket was cheap, because I needed to get far away from the last town and the Beta woman who'd made damn sure I knew I wasn't welcome anymore.
"She's always sniffing around Marcus. I see the way she looks at him."
I hadn't looked at her Alpha any kind of way. I'd kept my head down, done my job, stayed invisible like I always did. But it didn't matter. It never mattered. I was an Omega—even with my scent faded to almost nothing, even keeping to myself, even working twice as hard as anyone else—and that made me a threat.
Three months. That's how long I'd lasted at the warehouse job. Three months of loading trucks and keeping my mouth shut and pretending I didn't notice the way Marcus's nostrils flared whenever I walked past. I hadn't encouraged it. Hadn't wanted it. But his Beta girlfriend saw what she wanted to see, and now I was on a bus to nowhere with everything I owned in a backpack between my feet.
The story of my life.
The bus groaned to a stop, and the old woman gathered her knitting and shuffled toward the front. Through the window, I could see a main street—if you could call it that. A handful of brick buildings, a diner with a flickering sign, a general store with faded awnings. Pickup trucks parked at angles. A dog sleeping on a porch.
Thornwood. End of the line.
I waited until the old woman was off before I moved, slinging my backpack over one shoulder and making my way down the aisle. The driver didn't look at me. Nobody ever looked at me unless I wanted them to, and I never wanted them to.
The afternoon air hit me—dry and hot, carrying dust and the green smell of open land. Different from the city I'd left. Different from anywhere I'd been in a while. I stood on the sidewalk and let the bus pull away, leaving me in its wake of exhaust and grit.
Now what?
My stomach cramped, reminding me that twenty hours without food was pushing it, even for me. I needed to eat. Needed to find somewhere to sleep. Needed to figure out if this town had any work for someone with no references, no address, and no skills beyond manual labor and keeping her head down.
The diner seemed like a place to start.
I crossed the street, cataloging details without meaning to. Two Alphas outside the general store, both older, both giving off that settled, mated scent that meant they weren't a threat. A Beta woman pushing a stroller. A group of teenagers who didn't even glance my way. So far, so good.
The diner was called Rosie's, and it smelled like grease and coffee and something sweet baking in the back. I slid into a booth near the rear, back to the wall, eyes on the door. The vinyl seat was cracked and patched with duct tape. The menu was sticky. It felt like home—or as close to home as I ever got.
"What can I get you, honey?" The waitress appeared at my elbow, a Beta in her sixties with gray hair pinned up in a messy bun and kind eyes that had seen too much to judge. She held a notepad in one hand, pen poised, her expression patient in the way of someone who'd spent decades dealing with all kinds of people.
"Coffee and the soup, please. And a bread roll if it comes with it." I kept my voice flat, neutral, giving nothing away as I handed back the sticky menu.
"It does." She scribbled on her notepad, not commenting on how I'd ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, not raisingan eyebrow at the backpack stuffed under the table. She just nodded and walked away, her sensible shoes squeaking against the linoleum.
I wrapped my hands around the coffee mug when it came, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. The soup was watery but hot, and I had to force myself to eat slowly, to not hunch over the bowl like someone might snatch it away. Old habits. Bad habits. The kind of habits you develop when you spend your teenage years fighting for every scrap.
"Passing through?" The waitress was back, coffeepot in hand, something knowing in her expression. She refilled my mug without asking, the dark liquid steaming as it hit the ceramic.
"Maybe." I didn't offer more, just wrapped my fingers tighter around the warm cup and watched her over the rim.
She didn't push, didn't pry, just stood there with the coffeepot balanced on her hip like she had all the time in the world. "If you're looking for work, you might try out at the ranches. It's calving season, and most of them are hiring extra hands." She paused, her eyes flicking over my worn clothes, my too-thin frame, before settling back on my face. "Longhorn Ranch especially. They're always taking on strays."
Something about the way she said it made me think she wasn't just talking about cattle.
"Longhorn Ranch." I repeated the name, testing it, filing it away.
"About eight miles out on the old county road. Can't miss it—big iron gate with a longhorn skull on top." She tucked her free hand into the pocket of her apron, her expression shifting to something almost gentle. "Ask for Hank when you get there—he's the foreman. Does most of the hiring for the ranch hands. Good man. Fair. Doesn't ask too many questions if you work hard and don't cause trouble."
