I stand there, breathing hard, my knuckles throbbing. The silence in the store is heavy.
Clara Mae comes out from behind the counter. She walks over to the fallen salt licks and starts picking them up. Her hands are steady.
“You didn’t have to do that, Rhett,” she says, her voice calm.
“Yes, I did,” I say. I look down at my hand. There’s blood on my knuckles. His blood.
“He’s an idiot,” she says, dropping a salt block back onto the shelf with a thud. “But he’s not wrong about the rumors.”
I look at her. “What rumors?”
She stops and looks at me, her expression sympathetic but firm. “People talk. You three move onto the ranch. The owner shows up, a pretty, unmated Omega. You stay. She stays. There’s tension. The town loves a good story. They’ve decided the three of you have formed a pack with her.”
I feel a strange sensation in my chest, a mix of anger and something else. Something hot and uncomfortable. An image flashes in my mind—Saramaria standing in my cabin, looking at me with those green eyes. Saramaria in the truck yesterday, her hand in mine.
We aren’t. We definitely aren’t. But the idea of it... the thought that people see us that way...
It’s ridiculous. I’m done with packs. I’m done with Omegas.
“Let me get your feed,” Clara Mae says, turning back to the counter. “On the house. Consider it a tip for the entertainment.”
I want to argue, but she’s already moving. I stand there, staring at the empty doorway where the guy ran out.Guarding your bone.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. It’s nonsense.
I load the feed bags into the back of my truck. The weight is grounding. I slam the tailgate shut. I need to find Knox. I need to get out of my own head.
I find him at The Salt Lick, or rather, in the parking lot. The bar is still closed, the dark windows staring out like blinded eyes. Knox is leaning against his truck, smoking a cigarette. He looks like hell. His hair is a mess, and there are dark circles under his eyes that rival mine.
“Rough night?” I ask, walking up to him.
He flicks the cigarette onto the asphalt and crushes it under his boot. “You could say that. Gary called me at six this morning. He just got off a conference call with Marshall Lane.”
“Marshall Lane?” The president of the APBRA. That’s never good news.
“They’re thinking about it,” Knox says, his voice tight. “Postponing the whole circuit. Indefinitely.”
“Shit,” I say. “They can’t do that.”
“They can,” Knox says, pushing off the truck and pacing. “And they might. Lane is talking about ‘preserving the integrity of the brand.’ He says with the scandal, the sponsors are getting nervous. They don’t want their logos next to news about sexual assault investigations.”
I lean against the side of my truck, crossing my arms. “That would kill you. You miss a season, you lose momentum. You lose the rankings.”
“I know,” Knox snaps. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “Gary is trying to talk him down, but Lane is a politician. He cares about the money, not the riders. He’d sacrifice every single one of us to save a sponsorship deal.”
“And Jack? What happens to him?”
“He’s gone,” Knox says, his voice grim. “Lane made that clear. He’s out. But the damage is done. The stain is on the whole sport now.”
The stress radiates off him in waves. He’s a rider. He needs the circuit like he needs air. Taking that away from him is like caging a wild animal.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Wait. Sit here and go crazy while they decide my fate.”
I look at him. I think about the fight at Clara Mae’s. The blood on my knuckles. The rumors about Saramaria.
We are both wound tight. Springs ready to snap.
