Page 1 of Wild Omegas
CHAPTER 1
Josie
When life gives you troubles,turn to Wild Skies for help. That was the family motto that kept Wild Skies Ranch running for generations. My grandparents’ grandparents didn’t intend for Wild Skies to become an escape, I don’t think. At least, not like the one my own grandparents are allowing me for the moment.
“Go to Wild Skies,” Grandmother said. “You’ll be safe from prying eyes there, little cell service. No one will know.”
She left out how “no one will know” mostly because a city-dweller like me would probably never be caught dead out in the country. I haven’t been to Wild Skies Ranch since I was a kid.
But as a packless omega on the run from an alpha crime lord, who am I to argue?
“Thank you, Grandmother.” I left it at that because I had packing to do.
Two flights and a bumpy ride in a sedan that could do with being a Jeep later, I find myself thunderously winding down a long dirt road between endless fields. My Camry desperately needs a new muffler, and the car is so loud that I wonder for a second if Damien simply would need to only follow its roars to find me.
I mentally add “new muffler” to my to-do list while at Wild Skies Ranch.
Mountains rise in the distance. They loom tall and ancient over the valley. Protectors of a sort, I guess, if you’re into that.
I hope they can protect me. Not just from Damien Malova. But from myself. It’s hard not to look at the burn marks on my fingers as I drive—a constant reminder of why I need to run in the first place.
My bakery in New York, a fire. Insurance money or a dark exit from all of life’s troubles.
And Damien.
I swallow hard as if that’ll remove the memory of his furious face as he pulled me from the fire by my throat three months ago.
Three months.
May two flights and many long dirt roads be enough to keep me from Damien’s reach.
The long dirt road winds around natural obstacles low to the ground—larger boulders as old as this valley, collections of leafless bushes, and cattle fences as far as I can see. Wild Skies Ranch sits about a half hour from Fairwater Falls, the largest town for miles. I made sure to stop there to load up on basic supplies. Grandma said the house would be stocked but her idea of “basics stocked” is a far cry from my definition. Especially in the kitchen.
Just because I burned down my bakery in New York doesn’t mean I hate cooking. In fact, I love it. It’s theonlytherapy that’s every worked for me.
Until it didn’t.
I swallow hard as dread starts coiling tight around my chest. No one gets to the point I was at on purpose. Things pile and pile and then…
Wild Skies Ranch’s large wooden sign comes into view, arching across the road and supported by two massive wooden pillars engraved with images of horses and cowboys.
I am finally here. Nostalgia grips tight. My grandparents no longer live here full-time but Grandma’s favorite petunias are potted out front and memories of my cousins and I placing our hands in wet concrete to forever mark our presence here swim in my mind. Summers chasing fireflies, springs catching other bugs. We grew up in Fairwater Falls, but I spent most of my childhood summers here. Memories build and swarm my mind. But as much as this place feels like home thanks to the history it’s built on, I know it’s just nostalgia.
My cousins and grandparents aren’t here. It’s just me.
The feeling of home strikes me hard anyway, and so very unexpected. Wild Skies Ranch will always feel familiar in a deep way I cannot explain or ever remove from myself. But honestly, I don’t have a home anymore.
I made sure of that when I burnt it to the ground. And my parents made sure I couldn’t gohometo them when their voiced their utter disappointment in me and my life choices—even before the fire. I fell in with a pack to whom I was not scent-matched and they left me for anothermatchedomega after years together.
I am packless at thirty-years-old. I am a nomad. I have no job prospects. If Damien finds me or I can’t make Wild Skies Ranch more of a lucrative home over the next year, even my grandparents’ very generous last-ditch effort to help me won’t save me.
I’ll have run out of chances.
I lost my bakery because business dwindled. I won’t let that happen to Wild Skies. Especially not after my grandparents stepped in over absent parents to help me out.
Wild Skies Ranch has large pastures stretching for miles on end. One for cattle and one for sheep. There’s a generous garden behind the barn and a massive main house with two wings, one for our family and the other for ranch staff who’d prefer to stay on-site. I remember my grandmother’s kitchen being large and that’s about the only thing lifting me out of this thought-spiral of what I’ve left behind.
No. What Iranfrom. It’s better to be honest with myself.
