Rawley’s look softened, just a hair. “Didn’t know you were one of those.”
“Neither did I.” I shrugged, as if it was no big deal, but the back of my neck prickled. “It’s stupid. Must be a defective gene.”
He snorted. “Tell that to my kid. He can’t go five minutes without crying if Jojo leaves the room.”
I smiled, thinking of the baby with Rawley’s deep gray eyes and Jojo’s mop of curls. “Well, I’m not a baby, so I’m gonna fix it with technology or not at all.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” Rawley said, and limped back out, already dialing his phone for the next crisis.
I returned to the wiring, but my hands wouldn’t cooperate. The room felt too small, the air too thin. Every time I bent over the workbench, the memory of Danny’s scent snuck up on me, like a radio signal tuned just for my nervous system.
It was starting to get embarrassing.
Ten minutes later, Macon appeared. He moved so quietly I didn’t notice him until the back of my neck tingled with the certainty of being watched.
I spun around in the chair, gave him my best “you interrupted my genius” glare. He stood just inside the door, boots planted wide, arms crossed over his chest. If you put him next to Rawley, it’d be like comparing a sledgehammer to a scalpel—both deadly, but for very different jobs.
He sniffed the air, face blank as always. “You reek of omega,” he said, voice flat as an EKG line.
My ears went hot. “Thanks, asshole. Must be the aftershave.”
He ignored the jab. “You going to do anything about it or just mope in here until Rawley has you replaced with a robot?”
I tried to brush him off, but the comment landed too close to the bone. “Since when do you give a shit about my romantic life?”
“Don’t,” he said, expression still carved out of wood. “But Rawley does, and I’m tired of listening to him whine about morale.”
I snorted, but Macon’s words hit home. He was like that: zero filter, always three steps ahead in the social chess game, but never playing unless he thought the move mattered. If Macon said I “reeked” of omega, I probably did.
“Maybe I just like the smell,” I said, folding the wire between my fingers until it bit into the skin. “Maybe I like it so much I want to roll around in it like a dog.”
Macon shrugged. “Not my business, but if it was me, I’d stop acting like it’s a problem you can debug. Go see him. Or don’t. But quit making everyone else live in your pheromone soup.”
He turned and left before I could come up with a comeback. I stared at the empty doorway, half-mad, half-impressed.
Truth was, Macon wasn’t wrong. I’d been stuck in “what if” mode for so long that the idea of just going after something felt reckless. And maybe it was. But what the hell was the point of being an alpha if you never acted on instinct?
I looked at the monitor, watched as the camera cycled through empty pasture and darkening fields. If I left now, I could make it into town by nightfall. Maybe catch a glimpse of Danny closing up the garden center, maybe say something stupid enough to break the spell.
Maybe, for once, I’d stop second-guessing and just let gravity pull me wherever it wanted.
I grabbed my keys, left the wiring job half-finished, and let the door slam behind me. If anyone asked where I was going, I’d tell them I had a supply run, but I knew better.
And so, probably, did everyone else.
The drive into Black Butte after sundown always felt a little like sneaking into enemy territory. The town lost half its population to the lake in summer, the rest to bad TV and worse whiskey in winter. But the night itself was alive, dark as spilled ink and cut sharp by the glint of frost on the grass.
I let the truck idle along the main drag, windows cracked just enough to let in the scent of wood-smoke and last year’s snow melt.
I told myself I was only here to pick up some cable. Maybe restock on the jerky Jojo liked so much. It was the kind of lie that worked on anyone but myself, especially since the store closed at six and my clock said seven-forty.
Truth was, I wanted to see him. Even if it was from a distance, even if he had no idea. Just needed to check the perimeter, make sure nobody else had broken through his defenses.
I found a spot across from the little community college, the one that looked more like a repurposed funeral home than an actual school. The lot was half-lit by flickering sodium lamps, which made the row of cars look like Halloween decorations. I watched the front doors, feeling like a creep, but unable to stop.
That’s when I saw it: the Jenkins truck. Or more accurately, the hunched shape of Dennis Jenkins, slouched behind the wheel, engine running even though the temperature wasn’t more than forty. The way he sat—too still, too focused—made my hackles go up.
Predators knew each other on sight.
