Chapter 8 #2
"You're not fired." He said it simply, matter-of-factly, like he was commenting on the weather or telling me what time dinner was served.
His dark eyes held mine, steady and calm, his voice soft but certain.
His expression didn't waver, didn't shift—just that same patient steadiness.
"You're not in trouble. You didn't do anything wrong. "
I stared at him. The words didn't make sense. They didn't fit with anything I knew about how the world worked.
"I growled at him." My voice came out strangled, disbelieving, the words scraping against my throat. I could feel my eyes going wide, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. "I bared my teeth. Like an animal. You saw—"
"I saw someone react to an unexpected touch.
" Reid's voice was still calm, still gentle, but there was something fierce underneath it now—something protective that made his words ring with conviction.
His jaw tightened slightly, a muscle flexing beneath his weathered skin, and his dark eyes blazed with an intensity that stole my breath.
"Someone who's had to protect herself for a long time.
Someone whose body learned to fight before her mind could catch up.
" He paused, his gaze searching my face like he was looking for something.
"That's not something to be ashamed of, Aster. That's survival."
I didn't know what to say. Didn't know what to do with an Alpha who looked at my worst moment and called it survival instead of savagery.
"Dan shouldn't have touched you without warning.
" Reid's voice hardened slightly, not at me—at the situation.
His shoulders squared, his whole posture shifting into something more protective, more Alpha.
His hands curled slightly at his sides, not into fists but close, and his scent sharpened with something that smelled like anger held tightly in check.
"That's on him. I'll talk to the crew, make sure everyone knows to give you space. It won't happen again."
"It's not his fault." The words came out automatic, defensive, my voice rough and too loud in the quiet barn.
I shook my head, my tangled hair falling across my face.
"He was just trying to help. He didn't know I was—" I stopped, swallowed hard past the lump in my throat. "He didn't know I was broken."
"You're not broken." Reid said it with such certainty, such conviction, that I almost believed him.
His dark eyes burned with an intensity that made my breath catch, his voice low and rough with emotion.
He took a step closer, slow and careful, telegraphing the movement, and his scent washed over me—whiskey and woodsmoke, steady and warm and grounding.
"You're wounded. There's a difference." Another step, close enough now that I could see the individual threads of silver in his hair, the tiny scars on his hands from years of ranch work, the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"Wounds heal, Aster. Given time. Given safety. Given people who won't hurt you."
My eyes were burning. I blinked hard, fighting against the tears that wanted to fall.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" The question came out rough, almost angry, frustration bleeding through the cracks in my voice.
My hands clenched tighter, nails biting into my palms. "I just proved I'm exactly what everyone thinks feral Omegas are.
Dangerous. Unpredictable. Why would you want someone like that on your ranch? "
Reid was quiet for a moment, considering the question. His dark eyes never left mine, steady and patient, his expression thoughtful. I watched his jaw work slightly, like he was choosing his words carefully.
"Because I've been where you are." His voice was soft, barely above a murmur, carrying a weight that made my breath catch.
His expression shifted, something old and painful flickering behind his eyes, and for just a moment he looked younger, vulnerable—like the walls he'd built had cracked just enough to let me see through.
"Not the same situation, but the same feeling.
The same certainty that you're too broken to be worth anything.
The same expectation that everyone's going to leave when they see the real you.
" He paused, his jaw working slightly, swallowing something down.
His voice dropped even lower, rougher. "Someone gave me a chance when I didn't deserve it.
Saw something in me when I couldn't see it in myself. I'm just trying to do the same."
I didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to process the idea that Reid—steady, solid, in-control Reid—had ever felt anything like what I felt.
"Take the rest of the day." His voice was gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. He straightened slightly, the vulnerability disappearing behind his usual calm authority, but his eyes remained soft. "Go see Bella and Hope. Get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day."
"But the hay—" My voice was weak, the protest half-hearted at best.
"Will still be there tomorrow." A ghost of a smile crossed his weathered face, softening the hard lines, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. The expression transformed him, made him look almost gentle. "The ranch won't fall apart because you took an afternoon off, Aster. I promise."
I stood there for a long moment, my hands still trembling, my heart still racing.
Part of me wanted to argue, to insist on finishing the job, to prove I wasn't as weak as I felt.
But the larger part—the part that was so tired, so raw, so desperately in need of the safety Reid was offering—couldn't find the words.
"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper, rough and uncertain, my voice cracking on the single word. "Okay."
Reid nodded, that same small dip of his chin I was starting to recognize—the gesture that seemed to carry more weight than a simple nod should. He stepped back, giving me a clear path to the door, his body language open and non-threatening.
"And Aster?" His voice stopped me as I reached the doorway, warm and low, carrying across the dusty space between us. I turned back to look at him, silhouetted against the dusty light of the storage barn, his broad shoulders haloed by floating dust motes, his dark eyes catching the light.
"Yeah?" My voice was still rough, still shaky.
"What happened today doesn't change anything.
" His dark eyes held mine, steady and certain, his voice carrying the weight of a promise.
He stood tall, solid, unmovable—a mountain of a man making a vow.
"Not for me. Not for anyone here. You're still welcome here.
You're still wanted here." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Don't forget that."
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe around the tightness in my chest. So I just nodded, once, and walked out of the barn on legs that felt like they might give out at any moment.
The afternoon sun was warm on my face, the air crisp with the smell of hay and horses and dust. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone I passed, my shoulders hunched against the weight of their stares.
I was halfway to the stable when footsteps fell into stride beside me. I tensed, ready to snap, but the scent that reached me was familiar—sun-baked grass and wind, something wild and free.
Sawyer.
He didn't say anything. Didn't try to touch me or talk to me or ask if I was okay.
He just walked beside me, matching my pace, his presence solid and silent and somehow comforting.
His auburn hair caught the sunlight, gleaming copper and rust, and his pale blue eyes stared straight ahead, giving me the gift of not being watched.
We walked like that all the way to the stable, not speaking, not touching, just... together.
At the stable door, Sawyer stopped. I stopped too, turning to look at him. His pale blue eyes met mine, sharp and clear as a winter sky, and something passed between us—understanding, maybe. Recognition. The acknowledgment of one feral creature to another.
"It gets easier." His voice was low, rough, barely above a murmur—like gravel tumbling over river stones.
His pale eyes held mine, steady and knowing, his weathered face giving nothing away except quiet understanding.
His broad shoulders were relaxed, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans.
"The fighting instinct. Learning when you're safe.
" He paused, his jaw working slightly like he was chewing on the words before letting them out, his auburn stubble catching the light.
"Took me two years before I stopped reaching for a weapon every time someone walked up behind me. "
I stared at him, my throat too tight to speak.
Sawyer nodded once, that short, sharp gesture I was starting to recognize—a dip of his chin that carried understanding and dismissal and solidarity all at once.
Then he turned and walked away without another word, his boots crunching on the gravel.
His auburn hair caught the afternoon light, gleaming copper and rust, and I watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the barn.
Two years. He'd been like me once. Fighting, feral, unable to trust that he was safe. Now he was here. Part of something. Part of them. I went inside the stable, to Bella and Hope, to the one place on this ranch where I felt like I could breathe.
Hope was sleeping when I arrived, curled up in the straw with her impossibly long legs folded beneath her. Bella stood over her, watchful, protective—a mother guarding her child. She nickered softly when I entered the stall, her big brown eyes warm with recognition.
I sank down into the straw beside the sleeping filly, my back against the rough wooden wall, my knees pulled up to my chest. The familiar smells of hay and horse and warm animal wrapped around me, and I finally let myself fall apart.
The tears came hard and fast, silent sobs that shook my whole body.
I cried for the girl who'd learned to bare her teeth before she learned to trust. For the years of running, of hiding, of being too broken for anyone to want.
For the terrifying, impossible hope that maybe—maybe—this time could be different.
Bella lowered her head and nuzzled my hair, her breath warm against my scalp, her soft nose brushing against my temple.
Hope stirred in her sleep, one ear flicking toward me, then settled again with a soft sigh.
I sat there until the tears ran dry, until the shaking stopped, until the afternoon light slanting through the stable windows turned golden with approaching sunset.
Reid's words kept echoing in my head. You're not broken. You're wounded. Wounds heal.
I wanted to believe him. Wanted it so badly it hurt.
For the first time in nine years, I let myself try.