14. Glimpse Of What “This” Can Be #2
She adapts without losing herself, finding her place in our world through determination rather than manipulation.
The way she handled Luna last night, calling Austin for help without shame.
The way she stood up for Wendolyn at the hardware store, protective instincts flaring over a woman she'd just met. The way she's slowly learning the ranch's rhythms, asking questions and absorbing information like she's planning to stay.
Like she's planning to make this home.
Preparing to stay with us…permanently.
To be OUR Omega…one that fits right in.
That fits just right as the final piece in our oddly mixed puzzle.
I want that.
Want her to stay, to let us show her what pack is supposed to be.
Want to wake up to her scent in the house, to teach her how to ride River's horses, to watch her confidence grow until that fierce dominant Omega I glimpsed in town becomes her default setting. Want it all with a desperation that should embarrass me but doesn't.
Our eyes stay locked, the air between us charged with possibility and promise and all the things we're not saying.
Somewhere in the distance, a door slams—probably Mavi finishing his rounds. Reality intrudes, reminding me that we're sitting in view of anyone who cares to look, that dinner's waiting, that I'm supposed to be the responsible one.
But for one more moment, I let myself look at her.
Let myself imagine a future where this tension finds its resolution, where the careful distance I maintain crumbles entirely.
Where I get to find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells, if her skin marks as easily as I imagine, if she makes those little whimpering sounds when she comes that have haunted my dreams since the day we pulled her from the fire.
Soon.
The word is a promise to myself, to her, to the inevitability building between us.
Soon, but not tonight.
Tonight we'll have dinner with our family, and I'll pretend my control isn't hanging by a thread. Tomorrow we'll work the ranch, and I'll teach her about the horses without backing her against a stall door.
But soon— very soon —I'm going to stop pretending this is just obligation or proximity or shared trauma. I’m going to boldly act and give up on denying myself what I whole heartily need.
I'm going to kiss her like I've been dying to since the moment she stood in our kitchen, defiant and damaged and absolutely perfect.
And God help us both, but I don't think she'll stop me.
"We should go in." Willa's voice cracks slightly on the words, breaking the spell that holds us frozen. "They're waiting for us."
The words are logical, responsible, everything we should be thinking.
But they come out breathless, undermined by the way her chest rises and falls too quickly, the way her fingers grip the edge of the seat like she needs an anchor.
She's trying to be the voice of reason while her body broadcasts the same need that's eating me alive.
"Yeah," I agree, the word rough as gravel in my throat. "We should."
Neither of us moves.
The dome light casts everything in soft focus, turning the truck's interior into something intimate and separate from the world beyond the windows.
That's when I notice it—a strand of her auburn hair has escaped whatever she'd done to tame it this morning, falling across her face in a way that makes my fingers itch. Such a small thing, but it breaks something in me.
The careful control I've maintained all day, the professional distance I swore I'd keep— it all crumbles at the sight of that single piece of hair catching the light.
"Hold still," I murmur, reaching across the center console before I can talk myself out of it.
She freezes, but not with fear.
This is anticipation, the same electric awareness that's been building between us since I put my hand on her thigh this morning.
My fingers find that errant strand, tucking it slowly behind her ear, letting my fingertips trail along the shell. Her skin is silk-soft and fever-warm, and I feel more than hear the tiny catch in her breathing.
"Cole." My name on her lips sounds like a prayer and a curse combined.
The lamplight from the ranch filters through the windshield, casting shadows that turn her eyes into pools of amber fire.
Those extraordinary eyes that see too much, that challenge and submit in equal measure.
Her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, and I can see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat like a trapped bird. Everything about her in this moment— the vulnerability, the want, the trust she's placing in me by not pulling away —it destroys the last of my good intentions.
I've tried to deny this.
Tried to tell myself she needs time, space, careful handling.
That the attraction crackling between us is just proximity and shared trauma, that it'll fade once she settles in.
But my body knows better…my cock surely knows what it wants to be deep inside with.
Every cell in me recognizes her as mine to protect, to pleasure, to claim in all the ways that matter.
The Alpha in me has been patient long enough.
"Fuck it," I breathe, the decision made between one heartbeat and the next.
I lean across the console, moving slow enough that she could stop me if she wanted.
My hand slides from her ear to cup her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
She makes a sound— half whimper, half purr —that shoots straight to my cock. Her scent spikes despite those damn blocking panties, vanilla and maple and pure, sweet arousal that makes my mouth water.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper, close enough now that my breath ghosts across her lips. "Tell me to back off, and I will. No questions, no hurt feelings. Just say the word, Willa."
She needs to know she’s the one in the driver’s seat with this.
That she’s in control and I’ll abid to whatever she wishes from me.
I may be a starving Alpha desperate to taste her, but her permission or denial would be respected, no matter how horny I am to enjoy every bit of her.
Her eyes search mine, and I see the war there— want battling caution, need fighting fear. But underneath it all, that defiant flame that made me hard in the hardware store, that makes her challenge societal expectations and face down her demons.
The fierce dominant Omega who's been caged too long, finally ready to break free.
"I don't want you to stop," she breathes, and her hands come up to fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. "I'm so tired of stopping, of being careful, of pretending I don't want?—"
I swallow the rest of her words with my mouth, and Christ, the taste of her.
Sweet like honey mead, with an edge of coffee from whatever she drank in town. But underneath, the unique flavor that's pure Willa—something wild and untamed that makes me groan into the kiss.
She gasps at the sound, lips parting, and I take the invitation to deepen the contact.
My tongue slides against hers, and she meets me with enthusiasm that destroys any thought of keeping this gentle. Her fingernails dig into my chest through the cotton, holding on like I might disappear if she lets go.
She makes these tiny, broken gasps—like every cell in her body just remembered how badly she’s allowed to want.
Maybe she’s always sounded like that when she let herself go, like there’s this secret language of hunger and hope hidden under her defiance, but hell if I’d ever heard anything better.
It’s not the breathy, practiced moaning of those barroom hookups who used to angle for a place in our bed and our will.
There’s no performance here, just pure, involuntary need, every sound stripped raw and sent straight to my nervous system.
The first whimper cracks open every piece of restraint I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours welding shut.
The second—high, sweet, and totally unselfconscious—settles in my gut like a grenade.
I want to swallow every one of her noises, to learn them by heart, to see how many different kinds I can pull from her the next time we’re alone and I’m not worried about who’s watching from the porch.
She’s trembling now, but not with fear. I can feel it in the way her lips catch and stutter against mine, the way her hips shift restlessly even held in place by the seatbelt.
It’s anticipation, it’s want, it’s the promise of what we could do to each other if I let myself off the chain.
Some part of me is vaguely aware that Mavi and River and Austin could walk by at any second and see their usually uptight, ironclad Alpha losing his goddamn mind for a girl he barely knows.
That should embarrass me, or at least stop me from chasing her taste like I haven’t eaten in weeks.
But it doesn’t. All I care about in this moment is the way Willa’s mouth opens for me, the way her pulse hammers under my thumb as I tighten my hold on her jaw, the way her hands tangle in the front of my shirt like she needs me to keep her afloat.
She’s letting me lead but she’s not letting me dominate; every time I try to set the pace, she meets me with equal force, pushing back with a stubbornness that makes me want to ruin her and build her up a thousand times in the same breath.
My brain is static, everything white noise except for the knowledge that she’s here, real, wanting this as much as I do.
I can taste it in her exhale—fear and hope and the faint, inexplicable sweetness of maple that clings to her skin even now.
If I weren’t so far gone, the softness of it might break my heart. Instead, it just drives me harder.
I angle her head to take the kiss deeper, my other hand finding her waist, pulling her as close as the console allows.
She arches into me, soft curves pressing against my chest, and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes.
The urge to haul her into my lap, to grind against her until she's sobbing my name, nearly overwhelms what's left of my control.