Page 1 of Saddle and Scent
PROLOGUE: MIRROR MIRROR
~JUNIPER~
If I die here, the headline will be something like:
"Woman Found in Puddle of Own Fluids After Losing Battle with Heat Flare."
I can already see it.
Juniper Bell, 26, survived by one feral mule, three horses with names I can't remember, and a reputation for never asking for help even when a meteor was aimed at her face.
Probably two weeks before anyone notices, if I'm being realistic.
Maybe Pickles would stage a rescue.
More likely he’d just eat my favorite flannel off the corpse and move on with his day.
Instead of dying, I ride out the wave, face mashed into the pillow, sheet wound so tight around my ankle I can feel my pulse beating against the fabric.
My hair is a disaster:stuck to my cheeks, sticky and wet, like I fell asleep in a humidifier.
The worst is the slick—how it soaks through my underwear and pools under my hips, as if I’ve sprung a leak. I can feel every drop, every inch of sweat and salt and pheromone-laced misery clinging to my skin, amplifying the need until my muscles twitch in protest.
Maybe if I ignore it, it'll go away…
This is a lie I tell myself every three hours, minimum.
Of course, that’s the moment the old farmhouse floor groans out a warning. Heavy steps, too solid to be a horse but not deliberate enough to be a prowler. I peel my face off the pillow just enough to make out the hunched shadow in the doorway, the outline backlit by the guestroom lamp.
Callum.
Him of all the Alphas.
That would be my luck:melt down completely in front of the only person on the property who might actually know what to do.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Surely, he’ll just walk away. Pretend he saw nothing.
Or I’ll spontaneously combust and leave only an oil stain as evidence.
But Callum, being Callum, just stands there.Unmoving.
He’s got this uncanny knack for merging into the scenery, as if he's a part of the walls themselves, even when he commands half the space with his presence. It’s peculiar, really; here’s this towering, robust figure capable of blocking out the hallway's glow with merely his shadow—all while maintaining a silence more profound than the draft slipping through the cracked window pane. His clothing choice is almost absurdly fitting; clad in jeans and a snug thermal shirt, he looks prepared to tackle anything from chopping a cord of wood to wrestling a grizzly.
Yet, despite all that potential energy coursing through him, Callum simply lingers at the threshold, a bastion of patience where urgency should stand.
The pause stretches between us like taffy—an elastic silence that holds an entire dialogue unsaid. That’s probably due to neither of us knowing exactly how to break it. Or the more obvious reality that I’m in no condition to do more than lie there wrapped in my misery and defeat, while he radiates calm strength as if he has all the time in the world. My brain scrambles for what feels like eternity, trying to claw its way back from the slick-induced fog, desperate to form words or actions that make sense.
But I find myself paralyzed by indecision.
Callum doesn’t push nor pry; he gives me space within his presence, which paradoxically feels more comforting than solitude itself. It’s a different kind of torment—a gentle nudge rather than a shove—that makes me hyper-aware of every tremor rippling through my body under the blanket's inadequate shield.
His eyes hold stories untold, rooted in empathy rather than pity.
In any other scenario, facing him would feel like standing before an immovable mountain—daunting and insurmountable—but right now it’s more like standing at the edge of something vast and uncharted yet full of promises not yet revealed.
Finally, I summon just enough strength to croak out words that are meant to be braver than they sound.
