15. Learning To Trust #3
Still, even on the worst days, Hayden never let anyone outside the pack see a crack in our alliance. In front of outsiders, he was my loudest supporter. The only one who came close to matching that intensity was Jude.
Jude, the pack’s enforcer, was supposed to be all muscle and stoicism, a man who resolved conflict with his fists when words failed.
For the first month I lived at Iron Ridge, I barely heard him say a full sentence.
He watched everything from the periphery, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, a living warning sign hung over every conversation.
It took me weeks to realize he was not actually angry, just careful—a man so used to being the last line of defense that he’d forgotten how to stand down.
It was after my first major win—the renegotiation with the feed supplier, where I’d shaved forty percent off our annual costs and stopped the hemorrhaging—that he finally spoke to me directly.
The house was quiet, everyone else out celebrating, and I’d stayed behind to double-check the figures.
Jude appeared in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, silent for so long I almost startled when he finally cleared his throat.
“Thank you,” he said. Just that.
I blinked, unsure what to say back. This was a man who’d broken a rival’s nose for less than a perceived slight; I half-expected him to throw me out for daring to touch the books.
But he just nodded slowly, as if coming to terms with something he’d already known.
“You didn't just save the ranch,” he continued, voice quieter now, “you saved the pack. Most of us had nowhere else to go.” He looked down at his scarred hands—visible even in the dimness, reminders of every fight he’d won and lost—and then up at me.
“We’re not good at saying things, around here.
But you—” he hesitated, searching for the right word—“you did good by us, Willa. We won't forget.”
From that moment on, something changed between us.
If Hayden was the showman, Jude was the anchor—steadfast, silent, and unshakable in his loyalty.
He never tried to claim credit for my ideas, never needed to be seen as the architect behind every success.
Instead, he made sure I had the space and time to do what I needed: he’d intercept angry ranch hands before they reached my office, chase off politicians hoping to cut backroom deals, or just stand guard at the bonfire parties, a silent sentinel making sure no one got too rowdy on my watch.
More than once, I found a mug of tea waiting for me on late nights at the books, the cup still steaming, a silent gesture from a man who measured affection in action, not words.
Jude’s loyalty was a gift I never expected.
In another world, maybe we’d have been friends, or something closer—if I’d been a different kind of Omega, the kind who craved safety over challenge.
As it was, I just tried to deserve it, doing my work as quietly and thoroughly as I could, hoping he’d never have to clean up a mess I’d made.
The thing about being a “secret weapon” is that you’re only as valuable as your next victory.
The moment you slip, you’re just another liability, another failed investment the pack can’t afford to keep.
I lived with that knowledge every day, tucked behind my smile at meetings and the careful way I rationed my opinions on the ranch.
Even at my most confident, a part of me always waited for it to fall apart—the moment when I’d disappoint them all, become too much trouble, and find myself back at zero.
It’s funny, looking back, how desperate I was to keep earning my place. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I made myself essential, maybe I’d finally be safe. Maybe I’d even be loved, not for what I could do, but for who I was underneath it all.
But that’s not how it worked at Iron Ridge.
There, love was always transactional, always contingent on what you brought to the table.
And if you ever stopped delivering, it was only a matter of time before you were replaced by the next shiny new thing.
They'd all been cut from the same cloth, I realize now.
Same build— tall, broad, conventionally handsome in that aggressive Alpha way.
Same backgrounds— ranching families with more pride than business sense.
Same approach to affection— calculated touches designed to spark my Omega instincts without ever truly satisfying them. They'd been interchangeable parts in the machine of pack hierarchy, each filling their role without deviation.
Here at Cactus Rose, the differences between the men are stark as winter and summer.
Cole with his controlled intensity and careful hands.
River's gentle strength and connection to growing things.
Austin's sunshine personality hiding depths of care.
Mavi's sharp edges protecting a loyalty that runs bone-deep.
Each utterly unique, utterly themselves, utterly unlike the cookie-cutter Alphas who'd nearly destroyed me.
My men.
The thought slips through before I can stop it, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. They're not mine. I'm the boss here, the owner, the obligation they're stuck with. The kiss doesn't change that. Can't change that. I've been someone's property before, and I won't —can't —do that again.
But my traitorous mind supplies the memory of Cole's hand cupping my jaw, the reverent way he'd touched me like I was something precious.
The way he'd asked permission, waited for my answer, put the power in my hands even as his Alpha instincts must have been screaming to take control.
"Tell me to stop," he'd said, and meaning it.
Meaning it in a way Blake never had, never could have.
Because Blake's pack had seen my submission as their right, my resistance as a challenge to be overcome.
But Cole?
Cole had held himself back until I pulled him closer, until I chose what happened next.
Control I’ve dared to earn for…craved…would beg for in a pack.
My omega instincts, s o long suppressed they'd nearly atrophied, had surged to life in that truck. Not the trained responses Blake's pack had conditioned into me— perform submission, accept domination, exist for their pleasure.
But something wilder, truer.
The urge to claim as much as be claimed.
To take what I wanted instead of waiting to be given scraps of affection.
I'd kissed Cole like I was starving because I was. Starved for touch that didn't come with strings, for desire that didn't feel like debt, for an Alpha who saw me as more than a useful acquisition. And he'd given me that, given me everything in those stolen moments before reality intruded.
My body shivers at the memory, heat pooling low in my belly as I remember the solid weight of him, the barely leashed control in how he'd held me.
What would have happened if Mavi hadn't been watching?
If we'd had true privacy? The possibilities make my breath catch, make my thighs clench together against the sudden ache between them.
I can't think like this, right? Not want something so fragile and risky like this?
Not when I'm still learning how to exist without a pack's control. When these men deserve better than an Omega too damaged to trust properly. Certainly not when Luna needs stability more than I need to chase feelings I don't understand.
But even as I think it, I know I'm lying to myself.
Because last night, pressed against Cole in that truck, I'd felt more like myself than I had in years.
Not the performed version Blake's pack had demanded. Not the broken thing that had crawled from the ashes of their betrayal. But someone real and whole and worthy of being kissed like the world was ending.
My men.
The thought comes again, stubborn as a weed in concrete. Maybe not yet or ever.
But here in the morning light, with my body still humming from remembered touch and my heart racing with possibility, I let myself imagine it.
Just for a moment.
My thoughts tangle like wild vines, growing thick and untamed as I imagine what those lips could do beyond kissing, and my body becomes a perpetual crooked line of want that I'm tired of denying.
The fantasy unfolds without permission—Cole's mouth trailing down my throat, his stubble rasping against sensitive skin, those careful hands becoming demanding as they map territories I've kept hidden for too long.
In my mind, we never left the truck.
In my mind, he lifts me over the console with that easy strength, settling me in his lap where I can feel exactly how much he wants me. His cock presses against me through our clothes, hard and insistent, and I grind down because in fantasies I'm brave.
In fantasies, I take what I want without apology or fear.
"Been thinking about this," fantasy-Cole growls against my collar, teeth scraping where shoulder meets neck. "Want to taste every inch of you, Willa. Want to lay you out in the truck bed under the stars and lick you until you scream."
The image sears through me—naked under the Montana sky, his dark head between my thighs, those storm-gray eyes watching my face as his tongue works magic I've only imagined. My hips shift restlessly against the sheets, and I can feel how wet I've become just from thinking.
The slickness between my legs is undeniable evidence of needs too long ignored.
I slide my hand down my stomach, hesitating at the waistband of my sleep shorts.
When was the last time I touched myself like this? Not quick, furtive moments in the shower, but really let myself feel pleasure without shame?
Blake had made it clear early on that Omega self-pleasure was "unnatural," a sign of an unsatisfied pack.
Liam had been blunter— "Why would you need to touch yourself when you have four Alphas ready to serve?"
But they'd never served.
They'd taken, demanded, performed just enough to trigger my Omega responses without ever satisfying the deeper craving.