8. Not Ours To Touch
Not Ours To Touch
~COLE~
T he October evening paints everything golden as I lead our group back outside, but all I can see is the way the dying light catches in Willa's hair.
Auburn, I'd thought at first, but that's too simple a word for the way copper and chocolate weave together, creating depths that shift with every movement.
She walks beside me, close enough that her scent— vanilla and maple with something uniquely her —winds around my senses like smoke. I force my eyes forward, focusing on the familiar path to the eastern pasture, but my body remains acutely aware of every breath she takes.
Christ, she's beautiful.
Not in the obvious way that demands attention, but in the subtle details that sneak up on a man.
The way her eyes—caught somewhere between orange and gold with flecks of green—widen when she spots the new irrigation system.
The delicate curve of her neck when she tilts her head to listen to River explain the grazing rotation.
The unconscious grace in how she moves, even exhausted and overwhelmed as she clearly is.
I'd expected... I don't know what I'd expected.
William's granddaughter, the one he worried about constantly, the woman we'd pulled from a burning house—somehow I'd built an image of someone harder, more brittle.
Broken, maybe. And she is damaged, that's clear in the careful way she holds herself, the shadows that cross her face when she thinks no one's looking.
But there's strength there too, steel under the soft curves.
And God, those curves.
I try not to notice, but I'm only an Alpha.
One who hasn’t dared go near an Omega in a long ass time, let alone wish to be with one as young as her…
The mere thought has my cock twitching with an odd sense of anticipation.
The thought of admiring her feeling forbidden…
She's not built like the skeletal models city Alphas seem to prefer—there's substance to her, a real woman's body with hips that would fit perfectly in my hands and breasts that strain slightly against her worn t-shirt.
But it's her ass that keeps drawing my gaze as she walks ahead to examine the garden gate.
Perfectly rounded, firm in a way that speaks of regular exercise. Not just cardio either— there's muscle definition in her thighs, a hint of strength in her shoulders. She takes care of herself, maintains her body with purpose rather than vanity.
"The tomatoes are still producing," she says, wonder coloring her voice as she peers through the garden fence. "In October?"
"Austin rigged up cold frames," I manage, grateful for the distraction from my inappropriate cataloging of her assets. "Extended the season by a good six weeks."
She turns back to me, and I swear the full force of her attention hits with the freight-train subtlety of a bull moose in rut.
The conversation around us blurs to static; my skin prickles, heat flooding my neck and radiating downward in a way that's embarrassingly primal, my cock swelling against the confine of my jeans. She isn't doing it on purpose—there’s a sort of startled innocence in the way her gaze lands on mine, as though she’s not used to being seen, much less admired, and she’s not sure yet whether to run or try to stare me down.
And holy hell, I want her.
Not just the body, though that's a miracle in denim and old tee shirts, curves begging for strong hands. I want her laugh— rare as it is, sharp and unguarded as a hawk’s call.
I want to know what makes her scowl, what stories she’d tell after the lights go out and the world shrinks down to just two breathing bodies under a warm quilt.
My body registers all of this in less than a heartbeat, reacting like the last wolf on earth who’s just caught the scent of his mate.
She doesn’t flinch away, not even when she catches how ravenous my eyes must look.
Instead, she tilts her chin and meets me head-on, challenge and curiosity warring in her expression. The tiniest muscle flexes in her jaw.
It's supposed to be her homecoming, and if I’m not careful, I’ll turn it into something else— something that responds to instinct instead of etiquette.
I drag my thoughts back to safe ground, but my mouth goes dry as she keeps looking, and I realize she’s waiting for a response not just to her question, but to her existence.
To the simple, devastating fact of her. She’s too close, the wind catching the whisper of vanilla and that strange, elusive spice that is nothing like any Omega I’ve known.
I’m rock hard now, legs rooted in place, and it takes everything in me not to step closer and bury my nose in the curve of her neck.
Those extraordinary eyes study my face like she's trying to memorize it, or maybe remember it from smoke-filled nightmares. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips—an unconscious gesture that sends heat straight to my groin.
Fuck. This is exactly what I can't do. She barely knows us. Knows me…tame it, Cole.
She's William's granddaughter, traumatized and vulnerable, processing the shock of learning we're the ones who saved her.
The last thing she needs is another Alpha viewing her as something to claim. But my instincts don't care about logic or propriety. Every breath brings her scent deeper into my lungs, and my body responds with single-minded purpose.
Mine. To protect, provide, and claim.
I force myself to step back, putting professional distance between us.
But she follows, moving closer to point at the greenhouse, and her breast brushes my arm.
The contact is brief, accidental, but electricity shoots through me like I've grabbed a live wire.
Her breath catches— she felt it too —and for a moment we're frozen, caught in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
"Cole?" River's voice breaks the spell, carefully neutral, but I hear the warning underneath. He knows. They all know. We've worked together long enough that they can read my body language like a book, and right now every line of me is screaming possession.
"We should check the barn," I say, voice rougher than intended. "New hay delivery came yesterday."
As we walk, I catch the others exchanging glances. Mavi's eyes narrow slightly, assessing threats like always, but this time I think he's evaluating me as the potential danger. Austin shifts Luna to his other hip, creating subtle distance between the baby and my barely leashed tension.
Only River maintains his usual calm, though his presence beside Willa feels more deliberate now—a buffer between her and my increasing loss of control.
She belongs here.
The certainty hits me as I watch her trail fingers along the fence posts, testing their sturdiness with unconscious expertise.
This isn't just William's granddaughter visiting an inheritance—this is someone coming home.
Every gesture, every delighted discovery, every moment of wonder at what we've built and maintained, tells me she's meant to be here.
With us. With me.
The thought should terrify me. We've built something good here, the four of us and Luna.
Complicated and unconventional, but it works.
Adding anyone new, especially an unmated Omega we're all connected to through trauma and obligation, could destroy the balance we've found.
But as Willa laughs at something Austin says, the sound bright despite her damaged throat, all I can think is how right she looks here.
How her presence fills spaces I didn't know were empty. How my hands itch to touch her, not just with desire but with the bone-deep need to ensure she's real, safe, ours.
Mine.
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms.
Control. I need control.
She deserves better than another Alpha overwhelmed by his sexual needs, viewing her as territory to mark.
Deserves patience, space, and the chance to choose without pressure or obligation.
Even if every instinct in me roars against the restraint.
Regardless of whether her scent is already winding through our home, marking it as surely as we've marked it.
No matter whether I can feel the future reshaping itself around her presence, inevitable as gravity.
She's here. After months of waiting, wondering, keeping faith with a dead man's wishes—she's finally here.
Now I just have to keep myself from fucking it all up by wanting her too much, too fast, too desperately.
Simple as that.
The barn doors roll open with the smooth silence of well-oiled tracks, and Willa's soft gasp of amazement shoots straight through my chest like an arrow finding its mark.
Six months we spent on this renovation, River and I working sunrise to sunset, replacing rotted beams and rusted hardware while maintaining the character William loved.
Now, watching her eyes go wide as she takes in the soaring space, every splinter and aching muscle feels worth it.
"This is... this isn't the same barn," she breathes, stepping inside with something close to reverence. The late afternoon sun streams through the new windows, turning dust motes into gold and catching the rich tones of the restored wood. "Grandpa's letters described it as barely standing."
"It was." I follow her in, maintaining careful distance even as her scent blooms stronger in the enclosed space.
Vanilla and maple, yes, but underneath something wilder—like honeyed whiskey with an edge of flame.
"Took some doing to save it, but the bones were good.
Just needed someone to care enough to do the work. "
She trails her fingers along the nearest stall door, and I track the movement like a predator watching prey.
Except she's not prey—she's something far more dangerous.
A catalyst.
A lit match in a barn full of dry hay, threatening to burn down everything stable we've built here.
"The woodwork," she murmurs, examining the carved details we painstakingly restored. "Grandpa made these. I remember him talking about learning carpentry from his father, how every cut had to be perfect."
"He taught me some of it." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Those last months, when his hands weren't steady enough for detail work. Showed me how to read the grain, work with the wood instead of against it."
Her eyes find mine, that extraordinary amber-gold gaze hitting like a physical touch.
"He taught you?"
"Said someone should know. That skills like that shouldn't die with him." I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "Guess he was preparing us to be caretakers before any of us knew it."
She turns back to the stall, but not before I catch the sheen of tears she's fighting.
The need to comfort, to pull her into my arms and promise everything will be alright, rises so strong I have to lock my knees to stay in place.
But she doesn't need another Alpha crowding her.
She needs space to process, to grieve, to discover what's been kept safe for her.
River appears in the doorway with his usual perfect timing, reading the tension like he reads everything else.
"The horses are eager to meet you," he says to Willa, but his eyes flick to me with a silent warning: Control yourself.
Easier said than done when she walks deeper into the barn and her scent intensifies, wrapping around me like a lasso.
Every breath pulls her deeper into my lungs, and my body responds with increasing urgency. It's not just attraction— though Christ knows there's plenty of that. It's recognition at a cellular level, my Alpha instincts identifying compatible Omega and screaming to claim before another does.
Which is ridiculous.
River, Mavi, and Austin are my pack, my family.
We share everything, including the responsibility of raising Luna.
But the primitive part of my brain doesn't care about modern pack dynamics.
It only knows that an unmated Omega who smells like heaven and home is standing in our territory, and I need to mark her before she disappears again.
"The tack room's through here," I manage, voice only slightly rougher than normal. "Austin reorganized the whole thing. Has a system for everything now."
"Let me guess," Willa says, a hint of smile playing at her lips. "Alphabetized and color-coded?"
"With laminated labels," River confirms, and her surprised laugh fills the barn like music.
That's when I notice the others watching me.
Austin has appeared with Luna, staying near the entrance but keeping sharp eyes on my every move.
Mavi lounges against a support beam with fake casualness, positioned where he can intercept if needed.
They know me too well, can see the control fraying with every passing moment.
The irony isn't lost on me. Months of waiting for William's granddaughter to arrive, preparing for every contingency except this—that I'd want her with an intensity that threatens everything careful we've built.
That her scent would bypass every wall and trigger instincts I thought I had mastered.
She explores the barn with increasing delight, exclaiming over the feed room's organization, the new automatic water system, the way we've honored her grandfather's design while modernizing for efficiency.
Pride wars with desire as I follow her progress, maintaining a careful six-foot distance that does nothing to dilute her scent's effect.
"You've made it better than new," she says, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "Grandpa would be so happy."
"That was the goal." The words come out steadier than I feel. "Preserve what mattered, improve what needed it. Same philosophy for the whole ranch."
She moves to the window overlooking the pastures, and the way the golden light silhouettes her figure tests every ounce of my control.
The curve of her hip, the line of her throat, the way she rises slightly on her toes to see better—every detail brands itself into my memory.
"Incoming," Mavi mutters, and I hear what he's noticed— Willa's breathing has changed, gotten shallower.
Her scent spikes with something sharp.
Anxiety. Fear.
The barn's enclosed space is triggering memories of other enclosed spaces, smoke and terror and ? —
"Let's check the garden before we lose the light," I say, already moving toward the door. "Austin's irrigation system is something to see."
She follows gratefully, and I catch River's approving nod. This is why we work—four different strengths balancing each other. When one of us stumbles, the others compensate.
Even when that stumbling is me losing my fucking mind over a woman we've waited months to meet.
Outside, she breathes deeper, and I pretend not to notice the way her hand trembles slightly.
Just like I pretend not to notice how my own hands ache to steady her, how every protective instinct roars to life at her distress.
Professional distance, I remind myself.
She's William's granddaughter, our responsibility, and not my potential mate.
No matter how much my body argues otherwise.