Prologue #3
It felt dangerous and perfect, like stepping off a ledge you’d spent your whole life avoiding.
When we broke apart, I was shaking. Not from fear, but from the weird rush of being wanted. Of being chosen.
He pressed his forehead to mine, hands braced on either side of my face. “You smell like rain,” he murmured, and I laughed, stupidly, because I didn’t know what else to do.
“So do you,” I said, and he grinned, quick and wild.
Outside, the storm had moved on. But inside, in the half-dark, the air between us was charged with something that felt a hell of a lot like hope.
And for the first time in a long time, I wanted more.
He kissed me again, this time like he’d been waiting years for the chance, and maybe he had. I didn’t know the language of bodies the way he did, but I was learning, and fast.
His hands were everywhere—my jaw, my neck, the line of my spine through the thin thermal shirt. I was grateful for the thickness of the horse blanket, because I would have sunk through the hay bale if he’d pressed any harder.
The barn was all shadow and flickering lamplight, but Macon O’Reilly could have made a gas station toilet romantic if he wanted.
He angled us so we slid off the hay bale together, landing on the rough mats that lined the empty stall.
The floor was cold, but his hands on my waist were warm enough to make me forget.
He paused, chest heaving, just long enough to search my face. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I won’t,” I said, too honest, too fast. My voice came out higher than usual, but if he noticed, he didn’t comment.
He braced his forearms on either side of my head, crowding out the rest of the world.
There was nothing delicate about the way he kissed—he owned every inch of my mouth, tongue probing, beard scraping, lips insistent.
He tasted like bitter coffee and smoke and some animal thing that must have been his alone.
He pressed his knee between my legs, parting them. The movement wasn’t rough, but it was absolute. I let him, every muscle in my thighs going loose, my cock stirring against the inside of my jeans. I’d never wanted to be undone this badly before, had never let myself want it.
Macon pushed my shirt up, exposing the cold strip of skin above my waistband. He bit my lower lip—hard—and growled, “You have any idea what you do to people?”
I shook my head, breathless. “No. Never.”
He licked the line of my jaw, following it to my ear. “You’re killing me, Carter.”
I shivered at the sound of my name. He could have said anything; I’d have believed it.
He slid a palm under my ass, lifting me off the mat, grinding our hips together. His cock was hard—no, huge—straining against his fly. I moaned, the noise ridiculous and too loud in the barn, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he pressed harder, grinding the head of his cock against my inner thigh.
“You want this?” he asked.
I couldn’t even lie. “Yes. Please.”
He yanked my pants down—no pretense, no patience—and left them bunched at my knees. My own cock snapped free, already leaking, so hard it hurt. He ran a callused hand over it, thumb swiping the head. “Beautiful,” he said, almost reverent. “Goddamn.”
He was out of his shirt in a second, baring his chest and the tattoos that ran like rivers over his skin. His arms were corded with muscle, chest dusted with dark hair. I wanted to trace every inch of him, to memorize it, but he was already working my underwear down, his teeth at my hipbone.
He spat in his palm and stroked me, slow at first, then faster. The friction was perfect, the calluses on his hand catching at the head of my cock with every stroke. I bit my wrist to keep from screaming.
He pushed my legs apart with his forearm, exposing my ass to the barn air. Then he dipped down, mouth hot against my hole. He ate me out with an intensity that bordered on religious, tongue pushing inside, beard rasping my thighs. I clamped both hands in his hair and held on for dear life.
“Fuck, Macon—” I gasped, voice breaking.
He grinned against me, tongue fucking me harder. The sensations blurred together: the scratch of straw, the cold of the air, the heat of his mouth, the tremor in my thighs. Every nerve ending was awake and hungry.
He came up for air, eyes glazed, mouth shining. “You taste sweet, Omega.” The word hit me like a gut punch. I’d never liked being called that, not until now. In his voice, it was a crown.
He rummaged around the tack box, came up with a tube of lube. I could have laughed—of course he was prepared, of course he had every contingency covered. He squeezed a fat dollop on his fingers, worked them together, then slicked my hole in slow, careful circles.
He slid in one finger, then two, opening me up with military efficiency. But he never lost the gentleness—he waited for me to relax, stretching me until I was gasping and grinding against his hand. He curled his fingers inside, found the spot, and I saw white.
He lined up the head of his cock, slick and thick and so fucking hot. “You ready?”
“Please,” I said again, because nothing else was possible.
He pushed inside, slow at first. The burn was sharp, but it was the kind that promised something better.
He held himself there, letting me get used to the stretch, his hands clamped around my thighs.
His cock filled me in a way I’d never felt before, a pressure that bordered on pain but never quite tipped over.
“Relax,” he said, voice husky. “Let me in.”
I exhaled, shoulders dropping, and he bottomed out, balls tight against my ass. The feeling was overwhelming. I’d never been this full, never been this open for someone.
He started to fuck me, long, deliberate strokes. At first, I couldn’t process the pleasure, too lost in the sensation. But then my body took over, hips tilting to meet every thrust, my cock leaking all over my stomach.
He bent down, lips at my ear. “Good boy,” he whispered, and I almost came right then.
He set a brutal rhythm, pounding me into the mats. The barn filled with the wet slap of skin, my moans, his grunts. Every time he slammed into me, he angled his cock to hit that spot, making me see stars.
I reached up, grabbed at his back, dug my nails into the muscle there. He growled and fucked me harder, rutting into me like he needed it to breathe.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said, breath hot against my cheek.
“You’re not,” I gasped. “Don’t stop.”
He kissed me, messy and rough, teeth knocking together. Then he went back to my neck, biting at the skin until he’d leave marks.
The orgasm built slow and mean, like a thunderhead gathering on the horizon. When it hit, I saw nothing, heard nothing, except the sound of my own name in his voice. My hole clenched around his cock, milking him, and he shuddered, pumping his cum deep inside.
He didn’t pull out right away. Just collapsed over me, all that muscle and weight pinning me down in the best possible way.
We stayed like that, tangled and panting, for what felt like hours. The barn was quiet now, storm faded to memory, only the soft bleating of the goats and the sound of our hearts slowing to a normal beat.
He finally rolled to the side, pulling me with him, so I ended up tucked against his chest. He stroked my hair, fingers gentle now. “You good?” he murmured.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You’re perfect,” he said, and for once, I believed it.
We fell asleep like that, wrapped together under the horse blanket, the barn smelling of hay and sex and the ghost of lightning. For the first time, I didn’t feel invisible.
I felt real. I felt wanted.
And if this was what being an Omega meant, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
There’s a hush that settles after a storm, a kind of negative sound, like the world is holding its breath. The only movement was the steady rise and fall of Macon’s chest under my cheek as I woke up, his arm draped heavy and protective around my shoulders.
I should have felt self-conscious—splayed naked and filthy on a barn mat, skin flushed and tacky with sweat and cum—but I didn’t. I felt claimed. I felt safe.
He pressed lazy kisses into my hair, lips lingering just above my ear. His beard scratched, but not enough to hurt. If anything, it just made everything feel more real. Like maybe I’d wake up and find this was all a weird, feverish daydream, except he was still here, solid as the beams overhead.
I traced the curve of his pectoral with one finger, following the line of a tattoo that vanished over his shoulder. He didn’t flinch or shy away, just grunted, low and content. He ran a hand down my back, then up again, fingers mapping every ridge of my spine like he was learning me by heart.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice soft enough for only me.
“Yeah,” I said. “More than okay.”
He squeezed me tighter, his palm warm against my ribs. “Didn’t scare you off?”
“Nope.” I grinned against his chest. “I’d let you do it again right now if you wanted.”
He barked a laugh, deep and surprised, then bit the top of my ear, not hard enough to hurt. “Careful what you wish for,” he said.
“I’m not careful,” I said, and the line sounded stupid and cocky, but he smiled anyway.
He shifted, rolling me onto my back, but kept our legs tangled. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me for a long time, eyes roving over my face, my neck, down to my chest. It should have been invasive, but it wasn’t.
I wanted to be memorized.
He ran a thumb along my jaw. “Never met an omega like you.”
I swallowed. “Is that a good thing?”
He nodded, and the motion was almost shy. “Yeah. It’s a real good thing.” Then, quieter, “Didn’t think I’d get a chance to find out.”
The words hit somewhere deep and hollow in my chest. For a second, I wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. Instead, I just pulled his hand to my mouth and kissed the knuckles, one by one.
I wanted to ask what this meant, if it meant anything at all, or if I was just another body, another ghost in a long line of ghosts. But then he said, “Gonna take care of you, okay?” and it didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a vow.
“Okay,” I said, because anything else would have been a lie.
He bent down and kissed me again, slow and unhurried, and I let myself melt into it. There was nothing frantic about it this time—no desperation, just a warmth that filled every gap inside me.
Outside, the world was dripping, puddles pooling under the barn doors, the wind a tired sigh instead of a threat. The animals were asleep. The house was empty.
For once, I didn’t care.
We dozed, waking now and then to shift or kiss or just touch. At some point, he rolled over to the tack box, pulled out a canteen, and pressed it to my lips. “Hydrate,” he said, mock-serious, and I laughed, water spilling down my chin.
He wiped it with his thumb, then licked it clean. “You’re a mess,” he said, but the words were tender.
“So are you,” I shot back.
He pulled me close again, and I let my head rest on his chest. The steady thump of his heart anchored me, a beat I could trust. I traced his scars, the puckered line at his shoulder, the ridge on his left bicep. He shivered under my touch but didn’t stop me.
“Will you be here in the morning?” I asked, surprised by how small my voice sounded.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, Carter. I’ll be here.”
My eyes stung, but not in a bad way. I let myself believe it, just for tonight.
He tucked the blanket higher around our bodies, then pressed a kiss to my temple. “Sleep,” he ordered.
I closed my eyes and let the sound of rain on the roof lull me under.
This time, when I dreamed, I wasn’t invisible at all.
* * * *
When I woke, the light was gray and thin, like the world had been wrung out overnight and left to dry.
The barn was freezing. My breath hung in the air, white and fragile, and the horse blanket was twisted around my hips, half-sliding off onto the dirty straw.
The first thing I noticed was that I was alone.
Macon was gone.
For a second, I told myself he’d just stepped out, maybe to piss, maybe to check the goats.
But the spot where he’d been—pressed so close to me I could feel his heartbeat hours ago—was cold.
There was no dent in the blanket, no trace of his scent except the fading aftertaste of sweat and sex and hay.
Just me, sticky and sore, shivering in the morning.
I sat up, waiting for the world to tilt back into place.
It didn’t.
My throat ached, tight with something I refused to call grief. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, felt the grit from the floor scrape my cheekbone, and pulled my knees to my chest.
I’d dreamed about him, dreamed about being wanted, about being seen. And he’d promised, “I’ll be here.”
I didn’t know what was worse: that he’d lied, or that I believed him.
I got dressed without thinking, each motion precise and clinical, as if I could scrub last night from my skin with enough effort.
My underwear was inside out, and I left it that way.
My shirt smelled like barn and Macon, and I almost stripped it off and left it in the stall, but I couldn’t.
Instead, I yanked it tighter, as if it could hold me together.
The goats were awake, clustered near the gate. They eyed me with their alien, sideways pupils, indifferent to my heartbreak. Beyoncé tried to chew my cuff as I fumbled with the latch, and the brush of her fur against my knuckles made my eyes sting.
“Good morning,” I said, voice thin and papery.
They didn’t answer. Of course they didn’t.
The storm had scrubbed the world clean. Outside, the pastures were streaked with puddles, the river swollen and wild. The sky was empty, a washed-out blue, and the old house hunched at the top of the hill like it was bracing for bad news.
I walked back alone, each step heavier than the last. There were no cars in the drive, no sign that anyone but me had ever existed out here.
I waited for a car to appear at the end of the drive, for Macon to come striding up through the mud, sheepish and beautiful, maybe with an apology or an explanation or a reason.
I waited for the universe to right itself.
It didn’t.
I knew better than to wait for anyone, but that didn’t stop me from hoping. Or hurting.
I pressed my nose to my shirt that still smelt faintly of Macon and sex and tried to remember the feeling of his arm around me, the sound of his voice in my ear, the way he made me feel real.
But it was already fading.
I convinced myself it was better this way. Safer. I’d always been a ghost, even before last night.
And ghosts don’t need anyone.