Chapter 13
thirteen
AUGUST
I leaned against the dented quarter panel of the ranch truck, crossing my arms over my chest, and waited.
The morning air was still holding onto the last of the mountain chill, crisp and clean.
Behind me, the house was quiet. The others had dispersed after the kitchen standoff, returning to their chores or nursing their wounded pride.
I didn’t gloat. Gloating was for men who needed an audience.
I just needed the woman who was currently upstairs getting ready.
The front door swung open, and the rhythmic tap of the boots she was still breaking in sounded against the porch.
I pushed off the truck. I didn’t mean to stare, but my eyes locked onto her anyway.
She had swapped the dress from last night for a pair of fitted dark jeans that hugged her curves exactly right, paired with a soft, cream-colored sweater.
Her dark hair was down, falling past her shoulders in glossy waves.
She looked out of place against the weathered timber of the porch, and yet perfectly right at the exact same time.
My chest tightened. I took a slow breath, expecting the hit of bright neroli and the warm, dark rush of black cherry that had gutted me in the den last night. I waited for the scent that meant she was close. The scent that told me how she was feeling before she said a word.
Nothing arrived.
I frowned, taking a deeper pull of the air as she crossed the gravel. Still nothing. Just the typical fragrance of the ranch and an underlying bite of something sterile.
The closer she got, the more wrong it felt. Her natural scent was gone, smothered beneath a flat, artificial barrier.
“Everything okay?” she asked, stopping a few feet away. She caught my expression, her brown eyes tracking my face with that assessing intelligence I loved so much about her.
Glancing down, I noticed the small, unlabeled plastic bottle sitting half-exposed in the side pocket of her leather purse. “You don’t smell like yourself,” I told her quietly.
Julia shifted her weight, a defensive stiffness creeping into her shoulders.
She reached down, adjusting her purse so the strap covered the bottle.
“Scent-canceling lotion. It’s a batch I mixed myself.
The OMA’s stuff is terrible and leaves a film.
” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “I know Alphas hate it. But it only lasts three or four hours, tops. I just... I need it if I’m going to be in a crowd. ”
I stared at her. My instincts clawed at the inside of my ribs, aggressively rejecting the flat, chemical void where her signature should be.
It felt like a theft. Last night, she had climbed into my lap and rubbed her cheek against my throat, marking me until my skin tingled with the absolute certainty that she belonged to us.
But as I looked at the tension locking up her spine, my rational brain pinned my Alpha down.
She was an unbonded Omega. They were painfully rare, relentlessly sought after, and I knew exactly what kind of monsters existed outside this ranch.
There were Alphas out in the world lower than the dirt under my work boots who would happily take advantage of a woman like her.
Even bonded Omegas faced risks, but an unclaimed one in a crowded public square? It was dangerous.
Until my teeth—until our mark—rested permanently on the curves of her neck, she wouldn’t truly be safe out there. She wasn’t hiding from me. She was just putting on her armor.
“I don’t hate it,” I said, my voice dropping to a rough rumble as I reached out and opened the passenger side door for her. “It helps keep you safe, so I’m all for it, even if I miss your scent already. Just don’t forget to tell me if you’re hungry or cold. I can’t read it if I can’t smell you.”
Julia paused. The rigid tension drained out of her frame all at once, leaving her looking at me completely unguarded.
She didn’t offer a sarcastic joke or try to brush it off.
Surprisingly the hell out of me, she pulled me down right as she popped up onto her toes and planted a gentle kiss along my scruff covered jaw before she climbed up into the cab.
Stunned, I shut her door and walked around to the driver’s side all while touching the spot her lips had pressed.
Goddamn. If I wasn’t smug before, I sure as hell was smug now.
I slid behind the wheel feeling lighter than I ever had.
The truck rumbled to life, the heater kicking on to chase the chill out of the cab.
I didn’t push her to talk during the drive into town.
I just let the radio play low, keeping the truck steady on the winding county road.
Every few miles, I’d catch her looking out the window at the passing fields, marveling at the sight of the sprawling landscape.
I loved that she was comfortable sharing my space, and that the silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt right. Comfortable.
The Coldwater Creek farmers market was set up in the town square, a cluster of white tents and pickup trucks parked on the grass. The morning crowd was moderate—mostly locals, ranchers, and families.
I parked the truck and walked around to her side, but she was already hopping down before I could get her door, her boots hitting the dirt.
“Alright,” Julia said, rubbing her hands together and looking over the rows of vendors. “Where are these tomatoes hiding?”
“This way.” I put my hand at the small of her back. I kept a deliberate inch of space between my palm and her shirt. Just a boundary. Just trying to be a gentleman.
She stopped. Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes dropped to that empty inch of air. For a second, I saw that familiar, stubborn tilt of her chin.
Then she surprised the hell out of me. She took a half-step backward, pressing her spine flush against my open hand.
It hit me then—my gut feeling from day one had been right.
She’d been out there living in the world entirely scent-deprived.
Pack-starved. She wasn’t just leaning into me to be bold; her inner Omega was soaking up the heavy physical contact like parched earth.
And my Alpha was practically vibrating with the satisfaction of being the one to give her exactly what she needed.
She didn’t stop there. Julia slipped her arm around my waist, tucking herself tight against my side.
Any restraint I was trying to hold onto evaporated. My fingers flexed, gripping the lush curve of her hip to hold her exactly where she’d put herself.
“You’re allowed to touch me, August,” she murmured. A highly satisfied little smirk crossed her face before she faced forward and started walking.
I didn’t say a word. I just kept my hand exactly where it was, letting her set the pace as we moved through the crowd together.
We found the plant vendor at the far end of the row, and I stood back and let her work, content to watch her and drink her in.
Surprisingly, she didn’t just pick the first ones she saw.
She inspected the leaves, checked the stems for strength, and asked the vendor specific questions about the variety and the soil.
“These three,” she finally declared, pointing to a trio of healthy-looking Roma tomato plants. “And these.” She pointed to a couple Heirloom varieties before adding, “And that basil.”
I pulled my wallet out before she could even reach for her purse. I handed the cash to the vendor, taking the cardboard flat holding the plants.
“I could have paid for those,” she argued weakly, linking her arm loosely through my free one as we turned away from the stall.
“Not a chance,” I countered smoothly. “Besides, I’m the one who told Ransom I needed them.”
A genuine laugh spilled out of her. “Right. The great tomato deception. I’m pretty sure he’s still plotting his revenge back at the ranch.”
“Let him.” I steered her around a group of slow-moving teenagers, keeping her close to my side. “It was worth it.”
My inner Alpha was pleased when she cuddled closer.
She was so damn small against me, I wanted to haul her up and carry her around just for fun.
Inhaling deeply, I tried to scent her before I remembered the lotion.
The lack of scent with the chemical tang was still jarring, especially since I couldn’t smell her happiness, but the weight of her arm through mine was real. That was enough for now.
We carried the flat of plants back to the truck, settling them safely on the floorboards, before heading back into the maze of the market.
I didn’t have an agenda. I just wanted to be near her. As she browsed the various stalls, I walked a half-step behind her, keeping myself positioned between her and the bulk of the crowd like her own personal bodyguard. I let my size do the talking for anyone who thought about getting too close.
She stopped in front of a wide booth displaying blocks of beeswax, glass jars of raw shea butter, and rows of tiny, amber-colored bottles filled with essential oils. Her hands reached out, hovering over the items. She picked up a bottle of sweet almond oil, reading the label.
“This is good quality,” she noted, almost to herself.
“You need some?” I asked, stepping up to her side.
Julia set the bottle down, her expression suddenly shuttering. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she looked away from the table. “No. It’s fine.”
I didn’t move. My gaze flicked over the raw materials, then back to her. “Gideon let us all take a look at your OMA file,” I told her quietly. “He said you make lotions and candles. Custom stuff.”