It was comfortable. Familiar. The kind of routine I could lose myself in.
The Alphas gave me space, mostly. Reid checked in once a day, standing in the stable doorway with his hands in his pockets, his broad shoulders filling the frame as he asked after Bella and the foal with that low, calm voice. Nolan came by every morning to examine Hope, his green eyes crinkling at the corners when the filly tried to chew on his stethoscope, his laugh soft and warm in the quiet stable air. Sawyer I saw less often—glimpses of auburn hair across the yard, a brief nod when our paths crossed, those pale blue eyes acknowledging me without demanding anything.
I was starting to think I could do this. Stay, I mean. Build something here that wasn't temporary.
The thought terrified me, but I was getting used to being terrified.
It was a Thursday afternoon when the delivery truck pulled up to the main barn. I was mucking out stalls at the far end of the stable, my arms aching pleasantly from the work, sweat dampening the back of my shirt and making my hair stick to my neck. The rumble of an engine made me look up, and I watched through the open stable door as a faded blue pickup backed up to the loading dock, its brakes squealing slightly as it came to a stop.
The driver's door swung open, and a man jumped down with the easy grace of someone who'd done it a thousand times. I couldn't see his face from this distance, but something about the way he moved made my stomach tighten. Quick, restless energy. Like he couldn't stand still if his life depended on it. His body seemed to vibrate with it, even from fifty feet away.
I went back to my work, keeping one eye on the doorway. None of my business. Just a delivery guy. Ten minutes later, footsteps echoed down the stable aisle, and a new scent rolled over me like a wave.
Alpha.
Different from the others—lighter, brighter, like citrus and sunshine and something sweet underneath. Orange blossoms and warm honey, with a hint of something electric, like the air before a storm. It made my skin prickle, made something in my chest flutter in a way I didn't understand. My body couldn't decide if it wanted to run toward the scent or away from it.
I straightened up from the stall I was cleaning, my fingers tightening on the pitchfork handle until my knuckles went white, my body automatically shifting into a defensive stance. My back found the wall without conscious thought, positioning myself so nothing could come at me from behind.
The man who appeared in the aisle was young—younger than the others, maybe late twenties. Honey blonde hair that fell in messy waves to his jaw, like he'd been running his fingers through it all day, sun-streaked and gleaming in the afternoon light that slanted through the stable windows. Golden skin, sun-kissed and warm, with a dusting of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. He was lean where Sawyer was broad, all long limbs and restless energy, his body practically vibrating with it even as he stood still. He wore a faded t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders and jeans that hung low on narrow hips, work boots scuffed and well-worn.
It was his eyes that caught me. Amber, the color of whiskey held up to the light, bright and warm and dancing with something that looked like mischief. They found me immediately, scanning the dim stable until they locked onto my corner, and his whole face lit up with a grin that was equal parts charm and trouble. The kind of grin that said he knew exactly how good-looking he was and wasn't above using it.
"Well, hello there." His voice was warm, musical, with a slight drawl that stretched the vowels into something almost playful. He leaned against the stall door across from me, crossing his arms over his chest in a pose that was probablymeant to look casual but came across as deliberately posed, practiced. His amber eyes swept over me with undisguised interest, that honey blonde hair falling across his forehead as he tilted his head. "You must be the new girl everyone's been talking about."
Everyone. My stomach clenched at the word. The thought of people—Alphas—talking about me when I wasn't there made my skin crawl.
"I'm just a ranch hand." My voice came out flat, wary, carefully stripped of anything that could be mistaken for invitation. I didn't move from my position against the wall, didn't lower the pitchfork. My eyes tracked his every movement, cataloging exits, calculating distances. The main door was thirty feet behind him. The side door was closer, but he was between me and it.
"That's not what I heard." He pushed off from the stall door and took a step toward me, his amber eyes bright with curiosity, practically glowing in the dim stable light. His movements were fluid, almost bouncy, like he had too much energy to contain. His honey blonde hair swung forward as he moved, falling into his eyes before he pushed it back with an impatient hand, his grin widening. "I heard you saved Bella's foal. Stayed up watching over her. Pretty heroic, if you ask me."
I hadn't asked him. I tightened my grip on the pitchfork, my jaw setting, my shoulders hunching up toward my ears. My breath came faster, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He must have seen something in my face, because he stopped mid-step, his whole body going still in a way that seemed unnatural for someone so restless. His hands came up in a gesture of surrender, palms out, fingers spread. The grin faded from his face, replaced by something more genuine—concern, maybe, or understanding. His amber eyes softened, the mischiefdraining out of them, leaving something almost vulnerable behind.
"Hey, sorry. I'm coming on too strong, aren't I?" His voice was softer now, the playful drawl smoothing into something gentler. He took a deliberate step back, putting more space between us, his amber eyes watching me carefully, reading my body language the way Nolan read nervous animals. One hand came up to rub the back of his neck, ruffling the honey blonde hair at his nape. "I do that sometimes. Get excited, forget my manners. My mom always said I was raised by wolves." He let out a self-deprecating laugh, his shoulders hunching slightly, his whole posture shifting from confident to sheepish. "Or maybe she said I raised the wolves. I forget which."
Despite myself, I felt my grip on the pitchfork loosen slightly. There was something about him—something earnest underneath all that restless energy, something almost puppyish—that made it hard to stay on full alert. He didn't feel dangerous, exactly. He felt... overwhelming.
"Who are you?" The question came out rougher than I intended, sandpaper over gravel, my voice still tight with wariness even as my body started to relax.
"Kol." He said it with another grin, this one smaller, more careful, like he was testing to see if a smile was welcome. He didn't try to move closer, just stayed where he was, giving me space, his hands dropping to his sides where I could see them. His amber eyes were warm, hopeful, watching my face for any sign of acceptance. "I do deliveries for the feed store in town. Been supplying Longhorn Ranch for about three years now." His eyes sparkled, some of that mischief creeping back in despite his best efforts, the corners crinkling with barely contained energy. "Which means I know all the gossip. And trust me, you're the most interesting thing to happen around here in a long time."
I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what to do with this bright, bouncing Alpha who looked at me like I was something fascinating instead of something to be wary of. His scent kept washing over me in waves—orange blossoms and honey, warm and sweet—and it was doing strange things to my head. Making it hard to think.
"I should get back to work." I turned away from him, back to the stall I'd been cleaning, my shoulders hunched. I picked up the pitchfork and started shoveling again, putting my back to him in a way that should have felt dangerous but somehow didn't. My movements were jerky, too fast, betraying my agitation.
"Sure, yeah, of course." Kol's voice was easy, unbothered by my dismissal, but I could hear something else underneath it—disappointment, maybe, or wistfulness. His tone had lost some of its bounce, gone quieter, more subdued. I heard him shift behind me, his boots scuffing against the hard-packed dirt floor of the stable. "I've got to unload anyway. Reid's probably wondering where I wandered off to." A pause, and then, softer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, barely above a murmur: "It was nice to meet you, Aster. Really."
I didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge the way my name sounded in his mouth, warm and sweet like the honey in his scent. I just kept shoveling, kept my back to him, kept my walls up. His footsteps faded down the aisle, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My hands were trembling on the pitchfork handle. I set it down before I could drop it.
Four. There were four of them now.
I didn't see Kol again for the rest of the afternoon, but I couldn't stop thinking about him. About that grin, that restless energy, those amber eyes that seemed to see right through my defenses. He was different from the others—louder, brighter,more in-your-face—and something about that should have made him more threatening.
Instead, it just made him confusing.
I finished my work in the stable, checked on Bella and Hope one more time, and headed toward the bunkhouse as the sun started to sink toward the horizon. The sky was painted in shades of orange and pink, the kind of sunset that made everything look soft and golden, and the air had cooled enough to be pleasant against my sweat-damp skin.
