Chapter 10 Desperation And Declarations
DESPERATION AND DECLARATIONS
~CALDER~
My heart hammers against my ribcage with enough force to crack bone, adrenaline flooding my system in waves that make rational thought nearly impossible.
She could be anywhere.
The thought has been circling my skull for the past hour, growing more frantic with each passing minute, each unanswered call, each text that delivers but receives no response.
Sweetwater Falls is supposed to be small—barely five thousand residents, Main Street you can walk end-to-end in twenty minutes, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone's business.
But when you're searching for one specific Omega who has a talent for finding trouble, the town suddenly feels vast as a metropolitan sprawl.
Where the fuck is she?
I'd started at her rental cottage—empty, truck gone, no note explaining her departure.
Then Cactus Rose Ranch, where one of the ranch employees had informed me she'd left hours ago for supply runs. The hardware store, the feed shop, Rosie's Diner where Miss Rosie had given me the kind of pitying look reserved for men who've clearly lost their minds over a woman.
"Haven't seen her today, dear. But if I do, I'll tell her you're looking."
Helpful. Absolutely fucking helpful when Wendy could be literally anywhere, doing literally anything, probably endangering herself because that's apparently her new hobby.
My phone had buzzed with the emergency alert—structure fire, heritage building, east district—and every instinct I possessed had screamed that she'd be there.
No doubt.
Zero question.
Wendolyn Murphy doesn't hear about fires and stay away.
She runs toward them like a moth to flame, consequences be damned.
Getting there had required commandeering a horse from Cole's stable—Luna, a palomino mare who'd tolerated my rusty riding skills with admirable patience.
Because Sweetwater Falls, in its infinite backwards wisdom, maintains horse-friendly infrastructure throughout downtown while treating automobiles like temporary inconvenience.
Small-town logic at its finest.
The ride had felt endless, Luna's hooves pounding against packed dirt roads, wind whipping past as I urged her faster, each second stretching like taffy while my imagination supplied increasingly horrific scenarios.
Wendy trapped again.
Wendy injured.
Wendy unconscious in another burning building while I'm too far away to help.
The explosion had been visible from a mile out—massive fireball erupting from the heritage building's roof, sending debris and smoke mushrooming skyward in ways that made my stomach drop to somewhere around my ankles.
She's in there.
She's definitely in there.
She ran into an exploding building because saving lives is more important than self-preservation.
Luna had taken the final stretch at full gallop, my barely-adequate horsemanship skills tested by speed and panic and the overwhelming need to reach Wendy before—
Before what?
Before she dies?
Before I lose the only person who makes this isolated existence bearable?
The scene that greeted my arrival was organized chaos—fire trucks positioned with tactical precision, crews moving with coordination I hadn't witnessed from Sweetwater Falls' department ever, ambulances clustered at safe distance, police establishing perimeter while civilians huddled in shocked groups.
Professional.
Efficient.
Completely transformed from the disaster crew I'd witnessed during previous calls.
But none of that mattered because my entire focus narrowed to single point.
Wendolyn Murphy, emerging from smoke and flames like avenging angel, turnout gear covering her frame, small child secured protectively against her chest.
Alive.
Safe.
Impossibly, miraculously, infuriatingly safe.
Relief hit so hard it made my knees wobble, made Luna sidestep nervously beneath me, made the world tilt on its axis while my brain struggled to process that she was here, whole, breathing.
Then she started stripping.
Not completely—unfortunately—but enough that my body responded with enthusiasm completely inappropriate for emergency scene.
The turnout coat fell open, revealing white tank top beneath that clung to every curve like second skin, soaked through with sweat that made the fabric translucent in places I absolutely shouldn't be noticing.
The suspenders holding up her turnout pants created striking visual—thick red straps against white cotton, emphasizing her waist, drawing attention to the way the oversized gear hung from her hips in ways that made my mouth water.
Focus, Hayes.
She's injured.
Again.
The bandages on her back were visible even from distance—white gauze soaked through with blood in places, evidence of burns sustained earlier today mixing with previous injuries that hadn't fully healed.
She went back into a burning building.
With existing burn injuries.
Without waiting for medical clearance.
The fury mixing with my relief creates toxic cocktail, makes my hands shake where they grip Luna's reins, makes breathing difficult past the lump of terror lodged in my throat.
She could have died.
Could have burned.
Could have been lost while I was riding around town like idiot searching for someone who was busy being hero.
I dismount without grace, barely remembering to secure Luna's reins to nearby fence post before my feet carry me forward with single-minded determination.
Everyone around me becomes background noise—civilians, firefighters, police officers all fade into irrelevance while my world narrows to the woman standing thirty feet away looking exhausted and magnificent and completely unaware of how close I am to completely losing my shit.
Another Alpha has his hand on her arm.
Big bastard, easily 6'4", built like he could benchpress small vehicles.
The sight makes something primal snarl in my chest, territorial instinct flaring hot and immediate despite my usual ability to control such impulses. Because that's my Omega he's touching, my Wendolyn he's showing concern for, my—
Except she's not mine.
Not really.
Not in any way that grants me actual claim or right to jealousy.
But rationality has abandoned me approximately three hours ago when she stopped responding to messages, when I realized she could be anywhere doing anything dangerous, when the possibility of losing her became real enough to taste.
I move before conscious thought catches up, body operating on instinct and need and overwhelming urge to touch her, confirm she's solid and real and here.
The world narrows further, peripheral vision darkening until there's only Wendolyn—red hair catching afternoon light, green eyes tracking scene with professional assessment, freckled skin flushed from heat and exertion.
Mine.
The word thunders through my system with possessive certainty, Alpha biology demanding acknowledgment even as higher brain functions recognize I'm about to make spectacle of myself.
Don't care.
Let them watch.
Let everyone see that she's mine, has been mine, will continue being mine regardless of temporary arrangements or pack complications.
A scent hits me then—familiar, devastating, carrying memories I've spent three years trying to bury.
Cedar and black amber.
Aidric Hawthorne.
My ex, the Alpha I'd thought could replace my need for Omega in my life, the relationship that had burned so spectacularly we'd both fled California to escape the wreckage.
Not now.
Deal with that complication later.
Wendy first. Always Wendy first.
I reach her while she's mid-conversation with the big Alpha, my hands cupping her face with tenderness that belies the chaos screaming through my nervous system.
Her skin is warm beneath my palms—too warm from proximity to flames, from exertion, from being Wendolyn Murphy and running headlong into danger without backup.
Her eyes widen as she registers my presence, shock flickering across features usually so controlled.
Good.
Be shocked.
Be surprised that I found you, that I'm here, that I can't let another second pass without confirming you're alive.
I tilt her head up, angle that lets me see her properly, lets me catalogue every detail—soot smudges on her cheeks, exhaustion around her eyes, the set of her jaw that suggests she's running on adrenaline and stubbornness rather than actual energy reserves.
Then I kiss her.
Pour everything into it—terror and relief and fury and love and possessiveness and every emotion currently rioting through my system. My mouth claims hers with desperation barely disguised as passion, tongue demanding entry she grants after single heartbeat of resistance.
She tastes like smoke and determination.
Like danger and home.
Tastes like everything I need and nothing I deserve.
She's rigid initially, shock freezing her muscles, awareness of their public audience probably making her hesitate.
But then she melts—that's the only word for it—her body going pliant against mine, hands coming up to clutch my shirt, returning the kiss with enthusiasm that makes my Alpha instincts purr with satisfaction.
Mine.
She responds to me.
Knows me, wants me, chooses me despite everything.
I break the kiss before I completely lose control, before I do something truly inappropriate like strip her remaining gear off right here in front of god and emergency responders and whoever else is witnessing this display.
My forehead rests against hers, both of us breathing hard, her vanilla-wildflower scent mixing with my pine-bourbon in ways that make my body scream for closer contact.
"What utter foolishness did you get yourself into?" The words emerge rough, scraped past vocal cords tight with emotion.
Her smirk is immediate, that particular expression that means she's about to say something that will simultaneously charm and infuriate me.
"Well," she drawls, looking up through lashes with practiced innocence, "I could explain, but I'm kind of working right now."
Working.