Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
TRISTON
“ Y ou took the last month away from the spotlight. What can you tell us about the break?”
I can’t help but smile even though we’re on at least the twentieth question of this interview. Marsha, the interviewer sitting across from me, smiles, too. She adjusts her notecards and crosses her ankles, her gaze flicking to the two cameras to my right that are recording our conversation.
“I went home,” I say simply. “It was time.”
Marsha nods. “Home to Creek Falls?”
The part of me that struggles with lights and sounds wants to curl into a dark corner with one of my blankets from my nest. I do my best to keep the desire off of my face, though. I set one ankle on my other knee, using the adjustment as a way to recenter myself.
“Yes.”
“How are you feeling looking ahead to the next season on the circuit?”
“Confident,” I answer easily enough. “Ready to keep proving how much I’m capable of.”
The urge to mess with my hat makes my fingers tingle, but I push it down, clasping them on my crossed knees instead. Marsha looks over some of her notecards, glances up at me, and then taps them on her knee.
“And these rumors about a pack…” she trails off.
My focus flits to Lance where he stands just behind the cameras, his arms crossed.
His expression is dark, angry. It’s not a look I’ve seen often from him, not outside of someone trying to get too close to me and blowing past all kinds of boundaries.
My stomach clenches. He raises an eyebrow and then shrugs, leaving the choice of how much I say up to me.
“Knot Weekly first broke the story last Friday,” Marsha offers. “Since then, it’s been the most-searched topic all weekend.”
I blow out a breath and nod. “The rumors are true.”
Marsha’s quiet tapping pauses, a look of shock flashing across her face before her professionalism kicks back in.
Making sure my voice is full of warmth so people watching the clip this will inevitably become don’t think I’m unhappy, I say, “When I returned home, I reconnected with two people who mean the world to me. We filed to register last week.”
Marsha raises an eyebrow even as she smiles. “And your daughter?”
Now my smile is even brighter despite the lingering worry over bringing her into the spotlight. “My daughter,” I say. “She means everything to me, too. I can’t describe the happiness I feel knowing I have her and my partners.”
“That’s fantastic,” Marsha says with what seems to be genuine warmth. Then she looks toward the cameras. There’s movement, and someone yells, “Cut!”
Marsha reaches across the space, holding out her hand, and I shake it easily. “Thank you so much for your time,” she says. “We appreciate it.”
I ease my hat from my head and slowly stand. “Of course.”
Then, without missing a beat, I cross the small set to Lance.
He’s still irate, his eyes dark with a storm of emotion.
He hands me my phone, and I quickly double-check that nothing has come through on it.
There aren’t any calls or texts from Emily and Beau, and some of nervousness fades.
I frown as I see the new social media app notifications.
When did those get put on my phone? I haven’t had access to my own social media in nearly two years.
“I added them,” he says without waiting for me to say anything. “You don’t have to keep the notifications on or open them at all, but I wanted them to be on your phone from now on.”
After adjusting the settings, I slip my phone into my back pocket.
“We need to talk,” Lance says, almost whispering the words. “Now.”
My stomach twists, but I don’t say a word as I follow him into the green room we’d used to get me prepped for the photoshoot earlier today. Once the door is closed, Lance leans against it, that miasma of anger radiating off of him nearly as effectively as an Alpha’s volatile scent.
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t bother sitting. Instead, I prop a hip on the small vanity against the wall.
“I figured out who’s responsible for you not getting those messages from Emily,” he says without preamble.
Dread blends with anticipation. I set my hat on the vanity beside me so I don’t pick at the seams.
“You did?”
He gives a curt nod. “I’ve removed them from your team, and the agency’s working on the paperwork today to have him fired entirely.”
“Thank you.” The words are choked.
His mouth tightens.
“I don’t want you to go anywhere alone until you’re on that plane back to Creek Falls,” he says. “I’m very concerned he might retaliate.”
“Done,” I agree easily.
He finally blows out a heavy breath and his shoulders relax.
“Okay. Good. Good.” He stretches his neck. “Sorry, I know I’m coming across like an asshole.”
I quickly shake my head. “No, you’re not. Thank you for figuring out who it was. It means a lot.”
“Of course,” he says. Then he looks at his phone. “Let’s go grab some dinner before getting you headed back home.”
The restaurant Lance picked is quintessential Montana rustic charm.
The lights are turned low enough that all the wood paneling feels even darker than the dark oak stain.
The tables are a thick butcher block, stained a shade lighter than the walls and flooring.
Along most of the walls are framed photos of country music stars and rodeo athletes.
I recognize most of them, including Nathan Brooklight—the man who holds the record of most NbrA championship wins.
The waitress smiles as she passes by us, dropping the small appetizer on our table with a practiced ease.
“I finalized everything for the junior rodeo in Nashville,” Lance says before taking a bite of the deep-fried piece of onion. “Just working on the flights. Once I have them booked, I’ll get everything synced up with you.”
“Thank you.”
He nods and grabs another piece. “I’m warning you now, I’m booking you all in first class. Nashville is way longer of a flight than the ones to get you here. And I figured you’d appreciate having more room with Penny.”
I can’t help but smile even as I shake my head.
A large group enters the restaurant, bringing a wave of noise that almost has my head aching.
Despite my better judgement, I glance over at the group.
Most are dressed in the same outfit I’m wearing—worn Levis and cowboy hats that don’t seem to be touched by the sun at all.
Two of the women are wearing denim skirts rather than jeans, but they’re still clad in dark brown boots.
One of the guys shows his phone to another.
Even with the rest of the conversations separating us, I can hear what he says.
“Can’t believe you got to see him ride! That was even better than his championship ride in April, I swear.”
Lance’s gaze is a bit too keen as I duck my head and focus on the appetizer.
“I’ll be back,” I mutter, standing from the table.
I don’t grab my hat, knowing it’s one of the most iconic things about me at this point. Of course, any custom piece by that particular designer is bound to turn heads.
The bathroom, thankfully, is quiet and still.
I prop my hands on the counter and close my eyes, breathing carefully.
Those nerves that have been building most of the day slowly ebb, draining out of me at long last. Less than a day apart, and I’m already aching for Emily’s touch and scent to soothe away the rough edges of being so noticeable in public.
It wasn’t this bad before… but I hadn’t been worried about protecting Emily and Beau’s privacy.
Or Penny’s. It’s only a matter of days probably before she starts getting plastered everywhere.
The true lifestyle reporters that follow the rodeos are required by agreement to get written permission before posting photos of the children of athletes.
But places like Knot Weekly? They aren’t constrained by that.
Another deep breath.
I can handle a dinner out and about. I can handle the attention. Emily and Beau swore up and down they could handle the attention, too. And even if I feel like I might not be able to… I have two more years on my contract. It doesn’t really matter how I feel.
I press off the counter and stretch my neck.
My phone vibrates, and I swipe open my lock screen, anticipation rising that it’s Emily or Beau.
I smile at the picture of Penny eating a strawberry in her high chair, Beau cleaning something in the kitchen behind her. The text from Emily is short and sweet.
Missing you. Love you.
The sound of steps behind me pull my focus away from the message.
Tyler stands just inside the door, though I hadn’t heard it open. His eyes are dark and stormy, and his scent is a whirlwind around him, the watermelon tinged with anger and determination. I can’t help but swallow even as I turn around, looking at him directly instead of in the mirror.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He sneers. “What’s wrong ?” His voice rumbles through the small space, bouncing off the tiles on the wall and the floor.
My body locks down on instinct to the combination of his scent and his angry tone, fear rising in a tidal wave.
“What’s wrong is you got my ass fired. What’s wrong is you decided to stick your cock in an Alpha that doesn’t deserve you, and now I’ve lost everything I’ve worked for the last four years. ”
Confusion bleeds through my limbs before a rush of understanding follows swiftly afterward.
“You’re the reason I didn’t get the messages from Emily?”
A muscle feathers in his jaw.
Now my own anger spikes as I relive that day in the barn earlier this month, all the shame and horror at realizing I’ve missed an entire year of my daughter’s life. For a moment, it overrides the fear that’s hazing my mind from the volatile cocktail of his scent that’s filling the bathroom.
“Why didn’t you say something when they came through?” My voice is more fragile and hoarse than I want it to be, but there’s no taking back the question. “She was on the list of people I had everyone swear up and down would get forwarded to me.”
His scent crashes around me as he takes two steps into the small space, caging me against the counter.
Without looking down, I swipe open the emergency contact app Lance put on my phone.
My heart pounds in my ears, so loud I miss the low growl that’s vibrating through his chest until he presses his entire body against mine.
“Because I’m the one you’re supposed to be with,” he snarls.
His eyes are wild, full of an unhealthy obsession I’ve only ever seen in documentaries about stalkers.
His scent fluctuates again, edging with madness.
“I’ve spent four years getting close to you, making sure you wouldn’t want anyone else.
And then you had to go and fuck that whore mere weeks before I was going to be able to have you in truth? ”
What the hell?
I press the button again, but he notices my movement this time.
He slaps the phone out of my hand. Even with his growl buzzing in my ears, the shattering of the screen is distinct.
I swallow down a cry, terrified if I make any noise at all he’ll do something more dramatic than pin me here and break my phone.
“I’ll fix it, though. I’ll make sure you always want me.”
Before I can react, there’s a sharp, stinging pain in my left forearm. I jerk away from him, but he only brackets my throat, squeezing the pressure points until my vision blurs.
“Let’s give it a minute, though, just to make sure it really kicks in,” he says, all malicious venom. “We don’t want that bitch to think this was my idea, after all.”
My heart races in my ears again, different than before.
My mind is fuzzy, and I want to scratch my skin right off my bones.
My breathing is choppy. Even as I try to figure out what’s happening, my body slowly goes languid, like…
like when I’m in the early stages of my heat.
Slick coats my thighs, soaking my scent blockers.
I need a knot, and I need it now . I need vanilla, my vanilla.
But that doesn’t make sense. I’ve not had any of the symptoms that mean my heat is imminent.
I glance down, trying to figure out what’s happened.
A small needle lays on the floor near my foot. I lift my wrist even as another wave of complete and utter need fills my veins. There’s a small trickle of blood trailing down the back of my arm and toward my wrist.
“You… you triggered me?” I gasp out the words.
A trigger shot is even more potent than the pills Omegas can take to jumpstart their heat cycle. The effect is nearly instantaneous rather than the ten to twenty minute lead-in that the pills require.
His hold on my throat tightens, and I whine.
“Made sure no one else would interrupt this time,” he says. “Montana is a whole lot more boring than California, but I’ll take what I can get. And now I’m getting you.”
This… time?
I try to think back to April, to that beer that didn’t quite taste right, but the thoughts drift away under a blanketing wave of desire.
I try to pull away from him, but his hold only tightens more, enough I’m sure there will be bruises later.
There’s a pounding that hurts my ears, but I can’t tell if it’s just my heartbeat.
It feels like just my heartbeat. There’s one more agonizing minute where all I can see are Tyler’s angry, bloodshot eyes as need pours through me, obliterating all common thought, and then his hold on my throat tightens too much.
All at once, the entire world goes dark.