Chapter Three
~ Burke ~
I could never get the Black Butte Ranch control room to stop smelling like burnt coffee and solder, no matter how many times I overhauled the wiring or “deep cleaned” with half a bottle of Purell.
Maybe it was haunted by the ghosts of a hundred failed DIY projects—mine, mostly—or maybe my nose had just gotten too good for its own damn good.
Either way, the only thing thicker than the smell was the buzzing in my skull, which made it impossible to focus on anything except the memory of Danny’s skin—specifically, the way it looked under industrial lighting when you got close enough to see the faint golden fuzz on his neck.
I was supposed to be re-routing the feed from the new barn cam, but my fingers kept slipping on the tiny, bastardly screws. So I did what any tech wizard with a complex about appearing weak would do: I jammed the connector until it fit, zapped myself, and swore in three languages.
The blue spark made my vision go staticky.
“Jesus, Burke. You trying to fry yourself again?” Rawley’s voice boomed through the open door, a human warning siren with a limp.
I didn’t look up. “Some of us have to create our own excitement, since you won’t let us keep explosives on the property.”
Rawley filled the doorway, arms folded across his chest like a ref at a cage match.
If you ignored the ranch jeans, the battered tee, and the visible contempt for civilian life, you could almost picture him in uniform again.
He scanned the table, the half-assembled screen, the loose wires, and—most damning—the cup of untouched coffee going cold by my elbow.
“Thought you said you’d have the system up by lunch,” he said, a note of real disappointment under the bravado.
“I did. Technically, it’s already up.” I pointed at the flickering monitor, which cycled through night vision shots of the silo, the chicken run, and—because I never missed a chance for performance art—the inside of the liquor cabinet. “It’s just not… optimal.”
He grunted, not buying it for a second. “What’s eating you?”
I risked a glance at him, hoping he’d be distracted by the monitor’s pornographic view of the whiskey stash. No such luck. Rawley had that “concerned officer” look, which was only slightly more annoying than his “annoyed brother-in-arms” look.
I debated for half a second how to play it. Denial? Overkill? The truth, wrapped in a joke and dipped in sarcasm?
“Nothing. Just tired. Too much tomato talk with Jojo, and you know how that scrambles my critical faculties.”
He arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.
I sighed, propped my feet on the desk, and spun the chair a lazy half-turn. “Fine. You want the real answer? I’ve got this omega in my head, and he’s not paying rent. It’s screwing with my sense of purpose.”
Rawley’s expression barely flickered, but I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You mean the one at the garden center? I figured as much. You only get like this when there’s a ‘project’ you can’t fix.”
He made air quotes around project, which was rich coming from a guy who’d turned ranch management into a military-grade obsession.
“It’s not a project,” I said, more defensive than intended. “He’s just—”
“—different?” Rawley finished, knowing damn well that was the word I’d been using in my head since Saturday.
“Yeah. But also…” I trailed off, thinking about the shape of the bruise under Danny’s sleeve and the way he’d flinched when I’d touched it. I could still smell his fear, sharp as vinegar, even though it had been over a day. “Never mind.”
Rawley didn’t press. That was one thing I respected about him—he knew when to let a silence hang. I filled it anyway, because I hated loose ends.
“You know what bugs me? Every time I think about seeing him again, my brain tries to logic its way out of it. Like, what’s my endgame? I don’t do relationships. I don’t even do breakfast with people unless there’s a hangover involved.”
“So don’t see him,” Rawley said, as if that was an actual option.
“Can’t,” I said. “It’s a… scent thing.”
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.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, running through half a dozen plans for what to do if the night went sideways. Not that it mattered. The real decisions were always made in the gut, not the brain.
I watched the minutes tick by, heart rate steady even as the rest of me vibrated with the urge to move.
Every time the building’s doors cracked open, I scanned for Danny’s silhouette.
It took three false alarms—two women in padded parkas, one bearded guy who looked like he’d once eaten a calculus professor—before I finally saw him.
He walked fast, head down, a backpack clutched so tight I thought the straps might snap.
Under the sodium lights, his hair looked paler than ever, almost silver.
Even at a distance, I could sense the tension in his frame, the way he tried to fold in on himself, smaller and smaller, like maybe the world would forget he was there if he just didn’t make a sound.