Page 26 of Knot the Stray

Watching a meteor flare across the darkness, the first true crack forms in my defensive armor.

The three-month clock ticks in the back of my mind. I expect the familiar, overwhelming urge to run to appear. Instead, a terrifying realization hits me. I don’t want to leave his arms.

The lack of a flight response leaves me in a haze of confusion. I stay awake under the Colorado sky, caught in a lingering battle between my ingrained survival habit of fleeing and this brand-new, terrifying desire to stay.

Acts of Service

Edward

Autumn wind whips the fallen leaves across the asphalt. I navigate my truck down Main Street, enjoying the crisp chill of the late September air. The mature oak trees lining the sidewalks display vibrant shades of orange and red, signaling the changing season. We hit the thirty-day mark of her three-month contract today. Time moves way too fast, and a ticking clock echoes in the back of my mind.

The past few weeks blur together in a haze of mind-blowing dates and intense nights. She invites all three of us into her bed with zero hesitation. The sex burns hotter than anything I ever experienced. We spend hours tangled in her sheets, exploring every inch of her skin. We share a connection that runs deep down to the bone. Her sweet vanilla scent saturates my clothes and settles permanent roots in my brain. I crave her presence the second she leaves a room.

Yet, a persistent ache sets up camp in my chest. She gives us her body, but she keeps a solid wall constructed around her heart. She holds back, guarding her emotions like a cornered animal anticipating a trap.

She laughs at our jokes, she shares our bed, but she avoids talking about the future. Mentioning next year or even next month makes her shut down. Proving we want a forever with her remains an uphill battle. We need her to trust us with her life, not just her nights. I want her to look at Willowside and see a home.

Tonight is my turn for a one-on-one date. A paper bag of warm takeout from her favorite local Italian place rests on the passenger seat. The aroma of roasted garlic, rich marinara, and melted mozzarella fills the cab. I planned a quiet, intimate dinner in her studio apartment. I want to spend hours talking with her, learning her secrets, and watching the exhaustion of the workday fade from her eyes.

I park my truck in the gravel lot behind the building, killing the engine. The clinic looks dark from the outside, save for a single light burning in the back. I grab the warm bag and head for the rear entrance. I expect to find her wiping down the stainless steel counters, locking up the medicine cabinets, and getting ready to clock out for the night.

I push through the thick metal door and walk into absolute chaos.

Bright fluorescent lights flood the treatment room, blinding in their intensity. The chaotic energy of a trauma emergency overpowers the sterile scent of clinic bleach, hitting my nose the second I cross the threshold. A cacophony of noise assaults my ears.

A panicked cattle dog scrambles against the slick surface of the center exam table. A frantic local rancher leans over the steel, pinning the dog down with his thick forearms to keep the animal from falling off the edge. Dark crimson stains cover the front of the man’s faded flannel shirt. The poor dog whimpers, a distressed sound that echoes off the tile walls.

“He chased a stray calf right through a rusted wire fence.” The rancher’s voice cracks with stress, his words tripping over each other. “I tried to call him back. I swear I tried. The gate broke, and he just bolted.”

Jessie stands on the opposite side of the steel table. Her blue scrubs bear fresh smears of crimson.

“Hold his front shoulders down, Frank.” She readies a plastic syringe of sedative, dodging the thrashing paws of the terrified dog. “Keep your weight right over his chest so he stops moving. I need a clear vein to knock him out.”

“I brought him right over, Doc.”

“You did the right thing.” She uncaps the needle, her gaze locked on the dog’s front leg. “Just keep him pinned for two more seconds.”

The glaring lack of a veterinary technician or a receptionist screams at me. She answers the phones, cleans the kennels, and performs complex surgeries with zero backup. She runs this entire high-stress operation on her own, bearing the weight of every emergency without a safety net.

Every single instinct in my system roars to life. My muscles lock into rigid lines. I want to stride across the linoleum, shove the rancher out of the way, and handle the chaos for her. My nature demands I take control of the situation, shield her from the stress, and fix the problem. Watching my Omega struggle triggers a protective rage that burns hot in my veins.

Jake’s promise from the other day rings loud in my ears. We swore we wouldn’t interfere with her career. We promised to treat her like a capable professional, not a fragile liability. Stepping in and taking over right now breaks that trust. It proves her fears right. It turns us into the controlling Alphas she spent her life outrunning.

I force the roaring instincts down, locking them in a tight mental box. I take a slow breath, forcing my heart rate to steady. I cross the room in quiet, measured strides, staying out of her workspace.

Jessie glances up from the syringe. Her wide, stressed eyes lock onto mine. The frantic energy in the room pauses for a fraction of a second. She expects me to take over. She expects the posturing and the demands. She braces for an Alpha to step in and undermine her authority.

Clenching my jaw, I trap the rising commands behind my teeth. I plant my boots on the linoleum, giving her the space she needs. Meeting her stressed gaze across the chaotic room, I offer her a single, grounded nod.

I’ve got your back. You run the show.

A subtle shift changes her posture. Her spine straightens, and her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. The panic bleeds out of her expression, replaced by a calm, authoritative determination. She turns her attention back to the dog, the brilliant professional ready to go to work.

I keep a firm grip on the paper bag of takeout, refusing to set the food down in her sterile workspace. I turn around and go to work. Steering clear of the metal trays and medical supplies, I give Jessie total command of the surgical space. Respecting her expertise means letting her handle the medical trauma while I manage the chaotic environment.

Jessie depresses the plunger on the plastic syringe, her gloved hands steady. The sedative works fast. The thrashing cattle dog goes limp against the steel table, his ragged breathing evening out into a deep sleep.

“He’s under now, Frank.” Jessie offers the frantic rancher a gentle, reassuring smile. She strips off her contaminated gloves, tossing them into the trash bin to snap on a fresh, sterile pair. “You did a great job keeping him on the table. I need to get this wound cleaned up now, so I need some room to work.”