Page 93 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Wildflower honey," Gus said immediately, his voice carrying the authority of someone who understood scent in all its complexity. "With base notes of vanilla and something green—like fresh rain on summer grass. There's also something floral, but not typical roses or jasmine. Something more delicate, more unique."
The detailed analysis made her blush, the realization that he'd been paying such close attention to her natural scent both embarrassing and oddly thrilling. To be known so specifically, to have someone notice and appreciate such intimate details about her...
"Exactly," Cypress agreed, and she noticed that he'd produced a small vial from his camera bag without her awareness. "Which is why I thought?—"
But before he could complete the sentence, Gus stepped forward, positioning himself between Cypress and Marigold in a movement that was protective without being aggressive. His usually gentle demeanor took on an edge she'd never seen before, though his voice remained perfectly polite.
"I respect you, Cypress," he said clearly, "but Marigold's scent isn't to be shared. That's not how this works."
The firmness in his tone, the way he claimed protective authority without being possessive, made something warm bloom in Marigold's chest. Here was someone who understoodthe intimate nature of Omega scent, who recognized that attempting to capture and commercialize it without explicit permission crossed important boundaries.
Cypress's eyes widened slightly, and he looked between them with what appeared to be genuine surprise. "Oh, I didn't mean to... I wasn't thinking about consent issues. You're absolutely right."
He put the vial away with movements that seemed slightly flustered, his professional confidence shaken by the correction. "I apologize if I overstepped. I won't pursue that idea."
"Thank you," Gus said simply, his protective stance relaxing but not disappearing entirely. "We should get going anyway. Evening responsibilities call."
He reached for Marigold's hand with natural ease, their fingers intertwining as they prepared to leave Cypress behind with his camera equipment and professional obligations. The gesture felt both possessive and supportive, claiming her presence while also offering comfort in what had become an unexpectedly tense situation.
As they walked away, Marigold found herself processing the encounter with confused appreciation. Gus had defended her autonomy without making her feel like an object to be protected, had recognized the violation inherent in Cypress's suggestion while still treating him with respect. It was exactly the kind of response she'd hoped for but never quite received from other Alphas in her life.
17
MENDING THE FENCE
~MARIGOLD~
The morning sun was already climbing toward its zenith when Marigold made her way to the north pasture where Meadow had mentioned needing help with fence repairs.
She'd spent the early hours doing laundry, finally tackling the pile of clothes that had been accumulating since her arrival in Willowbend. The washing machine in the cottage was small but efficient, and she'd hung everything on the line outside to dry in the fresh country air—a simple pleasure that still felt novel after years of sending everything to expensive city dry cleaners.
The problem was that she'd put nearly all her usual work clothes in the wash, leaving her with limited options for a day of manual labor. After digging through her remaining clean items, she'd settled on a pair of denim shorts she'd packed on impulse and a simple white tank top—clothes she normally reserved for sleeping or lounging around the cottage on rest days.
Standing in front of the mirror, she'd felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of skin showing. The shorts hit mid-thigh, revealing legs toned from years of ballet that she'd grown accustomed to hiding beneath practical work pants. The tank top was fitted but not tight, following the linesof her body without being provocative, yet something about the combination made her feel vulnerable in a way her usual modest attire never did.
"You're being ridiculous," she'd told her reflection. "It's just Meadow. He's seen you covered in dirt and horse sweat. A little extra skin won't kill anyone."
But as she approached the section of fence where she could see his familiar figure bent over his work, she found herself second-guessing the decision. The clothes felt foreign on her body, like a costume for a role she wasn't sure she knew how to play.
Meadow looked up at the sound of her approach, and she watched his expression shift from casual greeting to something more intense as he took in her appearance. His eyes traveled slowly from her face down to her legs and back up again, the assessment thorough enough to make heat crawl up her neck despite the morning coolness.
"What's the change in attire?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of something that made her stomach flutter with nervous energy.
Marigold groaned, her hands moving instinctively to tug at the hem of her shorts as if she could somehow make them longer through willpower alone. "I'm trying to look more... appealing maybe?" The words came out awkward and uncertain, not at all what she'd intended to say. "Actually, no, that's not right. I'm doing laundry and this is what I had in my emergency stash."
She gestured helplessly at her outfit, feeling heat flood her cheeks. "It probably looks horrible. I know it's not appropriate for ranch work, but everything else is hanging on the line and?—"
Her rambling explanation was cut short when Meadow moved closer, his approach deliberate and purposeful in a way that made her breath catch. Without warning, he reached up to brush a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail, his fingersgentle as they tucked it behind her ear. But instead of pulling his hand away, he let his fingertips trail down the side of her neck, following the column of her throat to the hollow at its base before continuing down to where the tank top revealed the upper curve of her chest.
"You look really good like this," he said quietly, his voice pitched low and rough in a way that sent shivers racing through her nervous system. The simple words carried weight beyond their literal meaning, appreciation and desire wrapped in careful control.
The touch was feather-light but electric, awakening every nerve ending along the path his finger traced. Marigold found herself frozen in place, caught between the desire to lean into the contact and the urge to step back from the intensity of her own response. Her skin felt hypersensitive where he'd touched her, as if he'd marked her with invisible fire.
Their eyes met and held, the space between them charged with the same tension that had been building during their ride through the flower fields. She could see the careful restraint in his expression, the way he was holding himself back despite the obvious effect her appearance was having on him. The knowledge that she could affect him so strongly with something as simple as changing clothes sent a thrill of power through her that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
The moment stretched between them, heavy with possibility and unspoken want. Marigold felt her lips part slightly, her breathing growing shallow as she became acutely aware of how close they were standing, of the way the morning light caught in his dark hair, of the subtle scent of his skin that made her want to lean closer and breathe him in.
The spell was broken by the harsh ring of Meadow's phone, the sound jarring in the quiet morning air. He stepped backreluctantly, his hand falling away from her skin as he fumbled for the device clipped to his belt.
