"Yeah." The word came out rough, and I had to clear my throat before I could continue. "It sounds fair."
Hank nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin that seemed to settle the matter. "Good. Come on, then. I'll show you where you'll be sleeping." He turned and started walking toward a long, low building on the far side of the yard, not bothering to check if I was following. "Dinner's probably done by now, but Cook keeps a pot of something on the stove for stragglers. You look like you could use a meal."
I bristled at that—at the implication that I looked as pathetic as I felt—but I bit my tongue and followed him across the hard-packed dirt. He wasn't wrong. I could use a meal. I could use about a dozen meals, truth be told.
"Name?" Hank asked without turning around.
"Aster."
"Hm." He didn't comment on it, didn't ask for a last name, didn't demand identification or references. Just filed it away and kept walking. "Most of the hands are Betas. A few Alphas work the ranch too, but they keep to themselves mostly. You shouldn't have any trouble."
Something about the way he said it made me think he'd noticed more than he was letting on. Maybe he could smell me—faint as my scent was, some people could still pick it up if they got close enough. Or maybe he was just good at reading people. Either way, the implicit reassurance settled something in my chest.
Shouldn't have any trouble.
We'd see about that.
The bunkhouse was exactly what I'd expected—a long wooden building with a row of windows along each side, a covered porch running the length of it. Inside, Hank showed me to a small room with two sets of bunk beds, a single dresser, and a window that looked out over the pastures. Three of the bunks were clearly occupied, personal items scattered around them, but the fourth—a bottom bunk near the window—was bare.
"That one's yours." Hank jerked his chin toward the empty bed. "Sheets and blankets are in the closet at the end of the hall. Bathroom's that way. Kitchen's in the main building—Cook'll feed you if you show up hungry, but don't expect anything fancy." He paused in the doorway, giving me one last assessing look. "Work starts at five. Don't be late."
Then he was gone, his boots heavy on the wooden floor as he walked away.
I stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, just breathing. The air smelled like dust and wood and the faint musk of the Betas who slept here—nothing threatening, nothing that made my hackles rise. Through the window, I could see the last rays of sunlight painting the pastures gold and orange, cattle moving like dark shadows against the grass.
One night. That's all this was. One night with a roof over my head and food in my belly, and then I'd see.
I dropped my backpack on the bare mattress and went to find the kitchen.
The main building was bigger than the bunkhouse, older too, with a large common area that served as a dining hall and a kitchen that smelled like heaven. Or at least like beef stew and fresh bread, which was close enough.
The cook was a stout Beta woman in her forties with flour on her apron and a no-nonsense expression. She took one look at me—at my hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes and the way my clothes hung too loose on my frame—and wordlessly ladled out a bowl of stew big enough to feed two people.
"Bread's on the counter," she said, jerking her chin toward a cutting board with a half-sliced loaf. "Butter too. Don't make a mess."
"Thank you." I meant it, probably more than she realized. She just grunted and went back to scrubbing a pot, leaving me to find a seat at one of the long wooden tables. A few other workers were scattered around—Betas, all of them, eating or talking quietly or playing cards in the corner. None of them paid me much attention, which was exactly how I liked it.
I ate slowly, forcing myself not to wolf down the food even though my stomach was screaming at me to shove it all in at once. The stew was good—better than good, actually, rich andthick with chunks of beef and potatoes and carrots. The bread was fresh, still warm from the oven. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a meal this good.
By the time I finished, the sun had fully set and exhaustion was dragging at my bones like lead weights. I returned my bowl to the kitchen, nodded my thanks to the cook, and made my way back to the bunkhouse in the gathering dark.
The ranch was quieter now, the sounds of work fading into the gentler noises of evening—cattle lowing in the distance, crickets chirping in the grass, the soft whinny of a horse from somewhere near the stables. Alpha scent still hung in the air, stronger near the main house and the big barn, but I gave those areas a wide berth.
My roommates weren't back yet when I reached the bunkhouse. I found sheets and a thin blanket in the closet, made up my bunk with quick, efficient movements, and sat down on the edge of the mattress to unlace my boots. My feet were blistered and aching from the eight-mile walk, but I'd had worse. I'd survive.
I always survived.
The mattress was thin but clean, the pillow flat but serviceable. I lay down on my back and stared at the bottom of the bunk above me, listening to the sounds of the ranch settling into night. Somewhere outside, footsteps crunched on gravel—workers heading to bed, probably. Voices murmured, too far away to make out words.
Underneath it all, that constant Alpha scent, drifting in through the window on the evening breeze. Multiple Alphas, I was pretty sure. Strong ones. The kind of scent that should have sent me running.
Instead, something in my chest stirred. Something small and traitorous that wanted to lean into that scent instead of away from it.
I crushed it before it could take root.
Tomorrow, I would work. I would keep my head down and my mouth shut and my back to the wall. I would do whatever needed doing, and I would not cause trouble, and maybe—maybe—I could stay here for a while. Long enough to save some money. Long enough to figure out where to go next.
That's all this was. Another temporary stop on the way to nowhere.
