"She say anything about her past?" Reid's voice was even, controlled, but there was an edge underneath—the protective instinct that made him who he was, sharpening into something dangerous. His hands had curled into loose fists on the desk.
"We didn't talk much. She was ready to bolt the whole time. I didn't want to push." I leaned back, running both hands throughmy hair in frustration. "Reid, I've never... I don't know how to explain it. Something about her?—"
I stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence. Something about her made every instinct I had stand up and take notice. Something about her made me want to feed her and protect her and wrap her in my scent until she stopped looking at the world like it was going to hurt her.
I didn't say any of that. But from the look on Reid's face—the way his dark eyes had softened, the way his shoulders had dropped just slightly—I didn't have to.
"Yeah." He said it quietly, almost to himself, his gaze distant for a moment before it focused back on me. "I know what you mean."
We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what we weren't saying hanging between us. We'd talked about this—about pack, about finding an Omega, about building something real. But it had always been theoretical, someday, when the time was right.
This didn't feel theoretical. This felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at a future I couldn't quite see.
"Sawyer's been around more lately." Reid said it thoughtfully, his voice low, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "Helping with the calving. And Kol makes deliveries twice a week."
The other Alphas. The ones who'd been circling this almost-pack for years, waiting for something to pull them together. Sawyer with his quiet intensity and his auburn hair and his pale blue eyes that saw everything and said nothing. Kol with his restless energy and his easy charm and his desperate need to prove he belonged.
All of us orbiting around Reid, around Longhorn Ranch, around the idea of something we'd never quite been able to name.
"You think she's it?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. Could feel it in my bones, in the way my chest had gone tight the moment I'd caught her scent. My voice came out rougher than I intended. "You think she's the one we've been waiting for?"
Reid didn't answer right away. He stared at his desk, at the invoices he'd abandoned, his expression unreadable, his jaw working like he was chewing on words he couldn't quite say. When he finally looked up, there was something in his eyes I'd never seen before. Something raw. Something hungry.
"I think I need to meet her." He said it carefully, like he was testing the words, his voice low and rough. "Before I think anything else."
That was fair. Reid wasn't the type to jump to conclusions. He'd want to see her for himself, make his own assessment, figure out if what I was feeling was real or just some fluke of chemistry. I hoped it wasn't a fluke. I hoped—I cut that thought off before it could go anywhere. Hope was dangerous. Hope was what got you hurt.
"She's skittish." I warned him, holding his gaze, making sure he understood. "Don't crowd her. Don't push. Just..." I searched for the right words, my hands moving in the air between us. "Let her have space. Let her come to you. If you try to corner her, she'll run."
Reid's mouth quirked, the ghost of a smile tugging at one corner, his dark eyes glinting with something that might have been amusement. "You telling me how to handle an Omega?"
"I'm telling you how to handle this Omega." I held his gaze, dead serious, not letting him brush it off. "She's not like anyone I've ever met, Reid. Whatever happened to her, wherever she came from—it broke something in her. Or maybe it didn't break, maybe she just built walls so high she forgot there was anythingon the other side. Either way, if we push too hard, too fast, she'll be gone. And we'll never see her again."
The almost-smile faded from Reid's face, replaced by something more somber. He nodded slowly, absorbing that, his dark eyes thoughtful.
"I'll be careful." His voice was quiet but certain, and I knew he meant it. Knew that underneath the calm authority and the Alpha dominance, Reid was the kind of man who knew how to be gentle. Who knew how to wait. I stood, grabbing my kit from where I'd dropped it by the door. I had other calls to make, other ranches to visit, a whole afternoon of work waiting for me. But my mind was already back in that stable, back with pale green eyes and the ghost of lilacs.
"Nolan." Reid's voice stopped me at the door, low and quiet. I turned to find him watching me, those dark eyes seeing too much as always, his broad frame silhouetted against the window behind him. "You'll be back tomorrow?"
"Bella needs a follow-up." It was true, even if it wasn't the whole truth. Bella would be fine. I didn't need to check on her for another week at least. I'd be back tomorrow anyway. Reid knew it. I knew it. There was no point pretending otherwise.
"Tomorrow, then." Reid's voice was soft, and something passed between us—an understanding, an acknowledgment of what we were both feeling, even if neither of us was ready to say it out loud. He nodded once, a slight dip of his chin, and I returned it.
I walked out of the house and across the yard to my truck, the afternoon sun warm on my shoulders, the dust kicking up beneath my boots. As I climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, I found myself scanning the fields one last time, looking for a dark-haired figure among the fence posts and the cattle.
I didn't see her.
I'd be back tomorrow. And the day after that. And however long it took to figure out what this feeling meant, why a feral, half-starved Omega with pale green eyes had turned my whole world sideways in the space of a single morning. Something had shifted. I could feel it in my bones, in the way my chest ached with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
I'd told myself for years that hope was dangerous. That it was better to wait, to be patient, to let things unfold in their own time. As I drove away from Longhorn Ranch, the dust rising in my rearview mirror and the memory of lilacs still clinging to my skin, I couldn't help thinking that maybe—just maybe—the waiting was finally over.
CHAPTER FOUR
ASTER
Three days. That's how long I lasted before I stopped flinching every time someone walked past. Not that I relaxed—I don't think I knew how to relax anymore—but I found a rhythm. Wake before dawn, eat breakfast alone in the kitchen while the cook pretended not to watch me, report to Hank for my assignments, work until my muscles screamed, eat dinner with my head down, collapse into my bunk. Repeat.
It wasn't a bad rhythm. It was safe. Predictable. The kind of routine I could lose myself in, the kind that didn't require me to think or feel or want anything beyond the next task in front of me.
