12. The Pulsing Tension Of Jealousy
The Pulsing Tension Of Jealousy
~WILLA~
T he inside of Cole's truck smells like him—pine and leather and something indefinably male that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
I press myself against the passenger door, trying to maintain some distance in the confined space, but there's no escaping his presence. Every gear shift brings his hand dangerously close to my thigh, and I find myself holding my breath each time, waiting for contact that doesn't come.
Clearly I’m just a horny Omega lately…
I am every single stereotype rolled into one— some cliché, slick-palmed Omega who can't even share a two-hour car ride without getting her wires crossed by the scent of sweat and aftershave.
It's mortifying, but also a little exhilarating, the way my body reacts before my brain has time to catch up or scold.
If I think about it too much, I risk spiraling into a shame loop, so instead I stare out the windshield, counting fence posts as they whip by, praying for rain or a small tornado or honestly any weather event that would forcibly extract me from this stew of pheromones and awkward longing.
Cole glances over, his eyes sharp but his expression gentle, like he knows exactly how every nerve ending in my body is misfiring and he's perfectly content to let me squirm.
It's not intentional—at least I don't think it's intentional—but the effect is the same: I'm tuned to every subtle shift in his posture, each shallow inhale, every time his fingers flex around the stick shift. I have to remind myself how to breathe.
In the back seat, Wendolyn is talking a mile a minute, some story about a bake sale gone awry, but her words are barely registering.
The narrative thread slips through my fingers, replaced by the roar of blood in my ears and this gnawing, low-level ache that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin or maybe into someone else's.
"She's got a V8 diesel under the hood," Cole says, his voice carrying that particular brand of masculine pride men reserve for their vehicles.
His hands move over the steering wheel with the same careful precision he uses for everything—splitting wood, mending fences, existing in space like he owns it.
"Bought her used five years ago, rebuilt the engine myself.
She'll pull anything we need around the ranch. "
"She's got a V8 diesel under the hood," Cole says, his voice carrying that particular brand of masculine pride men reserve for their vehicles.
His hands move over the steering wheel with the same careful precision he uses for everything—splitting wood, mending fences, existing in space like he owns it.
"Bought her used five years ago, rebuilt the engine myself.
She'll pull anything we need around the ranch. "
From the backseat, Wendolyn leans forward between us, bringing her sweet pea and vanilla scent into the mix.
"I still can't believe you all maintain that whole ranch. It's like something out of a movie. Do you think—" She pauses, and I can hear the excitement building in her voice. "Do you think I could help with the horses sometime? I grew up riding, before the city swallowed me whole."
My stomach clenches at her easy enthusiasm.
Of course she knows horses. In fact, she'd be useful, capable, fitting into ranch life like she was born to it…unlike me, who can barely tell a halter from a bridle.
"River handles most of the horse training," Cole responds, but his eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror. "But we could always use extra hands. Right, Willa?"
The question hangs in the air, weighted with more than its simple words.
He's deferring to me—the owner, the one who should be making these decisions. Except I have no idea what the right answer is. Yes seems too permissive, like I'm opening doors I can't close.
No…it feels petty, jealous, and confirming every awful thing I think about myself.
"I..." My voice catches, and I clear my throat. "Sure. If River thinks it would help."
Wendolyn's delighted squeal fills the cab.
"Oh, this is perfect! I've been dying for an excuse to get out of town more. The shop practically runs itself these days, and I miss being around animals."
She chatters on about her childhood horses, show ribbons won, the way nothing compared to the connection between rider and mount.
Each word is another stone in my stomach, weighing me down with inadequacy.
Here's another Omega— unmated, independent, successful —who brings actual skills to the table. Who has her own business, her own life, her own easy confidence that doesn't require four Alphas to prop her up.
What do I bring?
Smoke-damaged lungs and a talent for making terrible life choices.
The ability to panic at unexpected noises and freeze when making simple decisions.
A body that responds to Alpha commands like a instrument perfectly tuned for submission, even when my mind screams resistance.
I'm getting the princess treatment because I own the deed, nothing more.
They're careful with me the way you're careful with cracked china—still functional but requiring delicate handling. The thought makes my chest tight, breath coming shorter.
I'm spiraling, I know I'm spiraling, but I can't seem to stop the mental freefall.
Wendolyn would be perfect here.
She'd match their competence, contribute meaningfully, probably have the horses eating from her hand within days.
She wouldn't need Austin to show her how to make a bottle or River to talk her through breathing exercises or Mavi to check the locks twice because she's terrified of shadows.
She wouldn't make Cole hesitate before speaking, choosing his words carefully like she might shatter.
The thoughts tangle and twist, feeding on themselves.
I'm so lost in my own head that I don't notice Cole's hand moving until it's there—warm and solid on my thigh, fingers spread possessively wide.
"Besides," he says, his voice dropping into that register that bypasses my brain and speaks directly to my hindbrain, "we gotta finish training with the Boss of Cactus Ranch first."
The words are casual, directed at Wendolyn, but his thumb strokes once along the inseam of my jeans. The touch is lightning through my system, making me bite back a gasp.
Boss. He called me Boss, but the way his hand claims my thigh suggests something far different from professional hierarchy.
"Of course," I manage, proud when my voice comes out steady. "Training first."
Inside, I'm anything but steady.
His hand is a brand through the denim, each point of contact sending signals my body receives loud and clear. My thighs want to part, to invite more than this careful touch.
My breath wants to catch, to let him know exactly what he's doing to me.
But I hold still, grateful for the millionth time this week that I invested in scent-blocking underwear.
The expensive kind that actually works, keeping my arousal from perfuming the air with obvious need.
Don’t need my horny business spreading through town.
I have a feeling Wendolyn wouldn’t spread the word, but small towns are known for their gossip, so I can’t be contributing to it when I’ve just arrived.
Wendolyn chatters on about horses and schedules, blissfully unaware of the tension crackling in the front seats. Or maybe she's not unaware— maybe she's giving us the gift of background noise, a buffer against the weight of Cole's touch and what it means.
His fingers flex slightly, not quite a squeeze but enough to remind me they're there.
As if I could forget.
As though every nerve ending in my body isn't currently rerouting to that five-inch span of contact.
The truck rumbles on toward town, but all I can focus on is the heat of his palm, the careful control in how he holds me—firm enough to claim, gentle enough not to frighten.
This is what I was afraid of.
Not them, but this— my body's eager betrayal, the way it responds to the slightest provocation.
Cole's hand on my thigh shouldn't feel so at home with such a possessive touch, but it does.
It shouldn’t make me want to crawl into his lap and find out if his control extends to other activities… but it does.
I dare to envision what could happen if I surrendered to the moment— if my hand crept just an inch to the left, brushing the back of his knuckles, inviting all that heat and promise to slide higher and stake its claim.
I imagine the windows fogging up with our breathing, bodies angled awkwardly in the bucket seats, denim and cotton stretching and giving way under the press of palms and mouths, and the world beyond the windshield blurring into irrelevance.
If it was just the two of us and no highway, no chaperone Omega in the backseat, no self-imposed rules or broken glass memories… If it was only Cole’s hand on my thigh and the thick thrum of his voice rumbling in my ear, saying my name like it was a password or a prayer.
The fantasy is so vivid it almost aches…
A split-second reel of him pulling over on some gravel turnout, the truck idling in the hush, and me climbing over the console to straddle his lap, legs shaking, lips parted and hungry.
I’d kiss him bruising and desperate, wanting to see if he’d lose that legendary self-control for once, if he’d pin me with all that slow-burning Alpha force and leave marks where no one else could see.
In the fantasy, he’s greedy and gentle all at once, and I’m bold—bolder than I’ve ever been—untangling every knot of caution and letting my body decide what happens next.
And I know he’d take it slow, even if I begged for fast. He’d treat me like something wild and half-healed, and I’d hate how much I loved it, how much I wanted someone to see me as vulnerable and precious instead of just convenient or needy.
I want to be seen, claimed, chosen for something beyond my fragile usefulness—a wanting so raw it trembles in my bones.
But when I snap back to reality, the lines are too clear, the distance too wide.
We’re not alone.