The pack is forming, and it’s not just a bond or a bite.
It’s something else. It’s a connection. A commitment. A family.
I close my eyes and breathe it in. I let myself fall into the feeling. I let myself belong.
Epilogue
KNOX
The phone rings just as I’m oiling my chaps. It’s Gary. I answer, leaning against the side of the bull chute.
“I’m in,” I say. “For the Bayou Circuit. I’ll take the contract, but only for the second half of the circuit.”
“Good,” Gary says. “I already sent the PDF over. Sign it, send it back. We’re good to go. Good luck today.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Speaking of beds,” Gary says, “how’s it going with your little vandal?”
He is, of course, talking about the reason we all almost lost our home a little over a month ago. West got a name. It was Regina Madsen. She’s the developer trying to snap up land for that new resort project over the pass. She hired a crew to sabotage the properties in the area to devalue them. She was planning to buy at auction once the county condemned them.
“Scheming bitch,” I mutter. “She’s being served with a restraining order as we speak. Saramaria confronted her in Denver yesterday. I don’t know the details, but word is my girl handled it.”
“Good. I’m glad that’s resolved,” Gary says. “And I know you weren’t happy about the Bayou circuit, but it’s good money andeven better exposure. You’ll be riding bulls twice a year and winning trophies just as much.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell your girl I said hey.”
A thrill of pride goes through me. Our girl.
She’s a shark when she needs to be.
“I will. Thanks, Gary.”
“Go win today, Knox. The coverage will be insane after that whole Jack thing—this is your chance to show all the sponsors why they need to bet on you instead.”
“I will.”
I hang up. I toss the phone onto the hay bale. I adjust my vest. The competition is in a few hours. It’s the relaunch of the APBRA season, the first big event since the scandal. It’s being held at the arena in town. The organizers are nervous. The riders are antsy. The energy is electric.
I walk back to the house to get ready. Saramaria’s rental is parked in the driveway. She just got back from Denver. She’s unloading a suitcase onto the porch, looking exhausted but fierce.
“You’re back,” I say.
“I’m back,” she says. “And I missed it. Did I miss anything?”
“Nothing yet, babe,” I say, grinning. “It’s in a couple of hours. The arena is packed. It’s going to be wild.”
Her eyes light up. “Are you excited?”
“I’m going to ride with my Omega cheering for me in the sidelines,” I say. “I’m ecstatic.”
She looks at me, then at my chaps, then back at my eyes. There’s a hunger there. A heat that has nothing to do with the competition and everything to do with us.
“Come inside,” she says. “I need to change.”
I follow her into the house. It smells like her. Vanilla and honey. It makes my blood heat up.
