Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
beau
“So, Beau, congratulations on today’s ride!” The reporter—blonde, mid-thirties, wearing too much perfume—leans in with her microphone. “That score puts you solidly in position for the National Championship next month. If you ride well, that’s ten national Buckles. How does it feel?”
I flash my camera-ready smile, the one that’s been plastered across magazine covers and energy drink ads. “Feels good. Real good. Been working toward this all season.” I shake my head like I can’t quite believe it. “It’s what we dream about as riders.”
“And you’ll be riding tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” The bright lights positioned around the press area are hot enough that I can feel sweat starting to gather at my hairline. “Plan on retiring and don’t mean to miss a single ride.”
The reporters laugh, eating it up. Someone in the back shouts another question, but all I can think about is Willa. This insatiable need that has been my life since I first saw her.
“What about the Omega? Who is she?”
“Next question.” I keep my smile easy, deflecting. “Let’s keep this about the ride.”
“Fair enough.” The blonde adjusts her grip on the mic. “What bull did you draw for tomorrow?”
“Diablo.”
The reaction is immediate—a collective “ooh” from the gathered press, some nervous laughter, a few low whistles.
“That’s one hell of a draw,” someone says. “No one has scored off him in, what, six events?”
“Seven.” I grin. “But it won’t be eight.”
More questions fly. More answers. I dance around the ones about Willa, not wanting to share her with anyone. The whole time, I’m performing. Playing the role of Beau McCrea, playboy cowboy, Saint of the Circuit.
But there’s something nagging at the back of my mind. A tiny itch I can’t scratch.
“One more question—”
I shift my weight, the tightness in my chest nagging at me.
“—about your retirement plans after this season—”
The pressure increases slightly. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease it. Probably just tension. It’s been a long day. And I have plans for my sweet girl tonight.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about the future,” I answer on autopilot. “Got some opportunities lined up, endorsements, maybe some coaching.”
Another question. Another answer. I can feel sweat trickling down my spine beneath my shirt.
My hand goes to my chest without me meaning to, pressing against the growing ache there.
Something’s wrong.
The thought comes unbidden, and I try to push it away. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired. Stressed. It’s been an intense few days.
“Beau, about tomorrow—”
I need to see Willa. The thought slams into me with sudden urgency. Need to see her. Need to know she’s okay.
“—what’s your strategy for a bull like Diablo?”
“Sorry, what?” I force my attention back to the camera, to the microphone shoved in my face. The studio lights are too bright, too hot. My collar feels like it’s choking me.
“I asked about your strategy for tomorrow?” The reporter’s smile is wide and practiced, but all I can focus on is the pressure building behind my sternum and the alarm bells ringing in the back of my head.
“Uh, yeah. Strategy.” I clear my throat. “Stay on for eight seconds. That’s always the strategy.”
“One more question about the Omega—”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. “No more questions about her. We’re done here.”
“But Beau—”
“I said we’re done.” I’m off the podium, ignoring the confused look from the press coordinator. “Thank you all for coming.”
What the hell is wrong with me?
It feels like someone’s wrapped a fist around my lungs and is slowly squeezing. Like the air pressure has dropped, and I’m at altitude without oxygen. I’ve never felt anything like this before.
A surge of adrenaline floods me. Something is wrong.
The east entrance is three corridors away. I take the stairs two at a time, the sound of my boots echoing off the concrete walls. The crowd in the main concourse parts reluctantly in front of me, and I can hear the annoyed mutters as I push through.
When I round the corner into the meeting spot, I see Jake and Charlie leaning against the wall, but the space beside them where Willa should be standing is empty.
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
“Where is she?” The words come out harsher than I intend, sharper.
Jake straightens immediately, and I can see my own concern reflected on his face. “We thought she was with you.”
“What? No. I was still doing interviews. She said she’d meet us here.” I’m already pulling out my phone, my fingers clumsy on the screen. There’s nothing, no missed calls, no texts. I pull up her number and hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. Each ring feels like an eternity.
Voicemail.
“She’s not answering.” The pressure in my chest tightens another notch. Where is she?
Beau: Where are you?
Beau: Willa, answer your phone.
Beau: This isn’t funny.
The messages show as delivered but not read. The tightness in my chest becomes a vise.
“Maybe she got caught up talking to someone?” Charlie offers, but there’s no conviction in his voice.
His scent—usually such calming sage and sweetgrass—has gone sharp with anxiety.
The tension coiling in both my pack mates rides me hard through our bond.
Where is she? “With Eli? One of the other vets?”
“Call Eli.” I can’t stop this restless need to move. I pace the small area in front of the exit. “Is there anyone else here she knows? Anyone she might have—”
“No.” Jake’s already shaking his head, his brown hair falling into his eyes. “Not that I know of.”
Charlie’s on the phone now, his free hand raking through his hair as he speaks in low, urgent tones. I watch his face, watch the way his expression shifts from hopeful to grim, and I know the answer before he says it.
When he hangs up, the look he gives us confirms what I’ve already guessed.
“Eli hasn’t seen her, not since her shift ended. Says as far as he knew, she was with us.”
The vice around my chest becomes a crushing weight. I can feel my Alpha rising to the surface, can feel the control I usually maintain so carefully starting to slip.
“Something’s wrong,” Jake says, and having it out in the open doesn’t make it any better. “She wouldn’t just disappear. Not without telling us. Not after—”
He breaks off, but we all know what he means. Not after Felton. Not after the threats.
“The supply room,” I say suddenly. “Maybe she went back there?”
Maybe she’s waiting for us. Maybe she’s fine, and we’re all panicking over nothing.
But the weight in my chest says otherwise.
We make our way back through the corridors, and I’m hyperaware of every detail now, trying to catch even a little hint of her buttercup sweetness. But there’s nothing, just the smell of popcorn and beer and sweat from the arena mixing with the industrial cleaner they use on the floors.
The supply room door is closed. I wrench it open hard, but it’s just as empty as I knew it would be.
“Fuck!”
The space looks exactly like it did earlier—stacked chairs, equipment bins, that pile of tack. But no Willa.
“Willa?” Charlie calls out anyway, and I can hear the desperation creeping into his voice.
But I do catch something. Faint. Barely there. I move away from the room and start down the hallway, following it.
“It’s Willa. Can you smell it?”
Jake and Charlie both start to shake their heads, but are quick to nod when they pick up her scent.
“Her scent leads this way.” The hallway stretches ahead of us into the service area. Areas just for maintenance staff.
“What the hell would she be doing down here?” Charlie’s right behind me, his boots heavy on the concrete.
“Maybe she was trying to get outside?” Jake suggests, but there’s doubt in his voice.
“The scent is getting stronger.” With every step, her scent intensifies. And underneath the sweetness of buttercup and honey, there’s a rich, deep thickness that my Alpha recognizes as heat.
“This can’t be right. She smells like she’s in heat?” Something that makes my Alpha snarl with possessiveness. Our Omega is in heat without us, and the sour undertones I’m getting… definitely distress. Ours, and she’s not safe.
Fear. Terror. Panic.
“Why wouldn’t she call us?” Charlie asks, his voice tight with anxiety.
We round the corner, and I see a glint of something on the concrete floor about thirty feet ahead. It’s shiny and out of place.
Jogging over, I pick it up and recognize Willa’s phone. Her case—the rose gold one she showed me just yesterday—is dented. The screen is shattered into a spiderweb pattern, and when I pick it up, pieces of glass fall away.
“Someone else was with her,” Jake says.
“I know that scent. Felton.” Charlie’s voice is flat, and the murder in his eyes is unrelenting. “If he hurt her, I’m fucking ending him.”
Her scent is everywhere now—coating the walls, saturating the air. So thick I could follow it blind. And that acidic note of fear is stronger here, concentrated, like she stood in this exact spot and—
And what? Fought? Struggled?
“This way.” I take off at a jog, following the trail. The hallway narrows, the overhead lights spaced farther apart, so we’re moving through patches of shadow. Just gray cinderblock and exposed pipes and that overwhelming scent of my Omega in distress.
“Beau.” Jake’s voice is tight, strained. “Her scent. It’s— Fuck, it’s—”
“I know.” The words come out clipped. I know what he’s smelling. The sweetness ramping up, the heat pheromones so concentrated they’re making my Alpha claw at the inside of my skull. “She’s deep in pre-heat now. Maybe full heat.”
Alone. Vulnerable. Terrified.
The thought makes something primal and violent rise up in me. Something that wants to tear apart anything that might have touched her, hurt her, scared her.
There’s a sound ahead that doesn’t belong, and as we round the corner, I know why.
Felton stands at a door, trying to remove a metal chair that’s been wedged under the handle of a restroom door.
Everything slows to a singular truth.
He’s a fucking dead man.