Page 108 of Saddle and Scent
And Wes smells it too.
His nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, and his gaze snaps to me with laser focus. The easy grin fades from his face, replaced by something much more intense, much more dangerous.
His pupils dilate.
His jaw clenches.
His own scent—cedar and musk and pure, unfiltered Alpha—begins to respond to mine in ways that make the air between us feel electric.
"Juniper," he says carefully, his voice taking on a different quality. "Come with me. Right now."
It's not a request.
It's a gentle but firm command from an Alpha who recognizes that his Omega is spiraling and needs immediate intervention.
I don't argue because I can't—my throat has closed up with emotion and overwhelming sensation, and all I can do is nod mutely and follow him.
He leads me out of the barn and through the back entrance of his veterinary clinic, past examination rooms and supply closets to a small washroom marked "Staff Only." His movements are controlled, professional, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he's breathing through his mouth instead of his nose.
He's fighting his own biology just as hard as I'm fighting mine.
And losing the battle just as spectacularly.
The washroom is small and utilitarian—white tile, industrial sink, the kind of harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look slightly corpse-like.But when Wes flicks on the tap and gently tugs my blood-stained gloves from my hands, it feels like the most intimate space in the world.
"You did amazing out there," he says softly, guiding my hands under the warm water. His touch is gentle but firm, professional but unmistakably caring. "I know that was intense. I know it was a lot."
"I'm sorry," I whisper, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. "I didn't mean to—my scent just—I can't control it?—"
"Junebug." He says my nickname like a grounding spell, his voice dropping to that particular register that always makes my insides turn to liquid. "You just helped deliver a breech foal. That's not nothing. Most people would have fainted or run away or thrown up. And your scent?"
He pauses, his hands stilling on mine.
"Your scent is honest. It's beautiful. It's you responding to something incredible and overwhelming, and there's absolutely nothing to apologize for."
The way he says it—with such complete acceptance, such utter lack of judgment—makes my chest tight with emotions I don't know how to name.
He continues washing my hands with careful attention, working soap between my fingers, up my wrists, along my forearms where blood had splattered. His touch is methodical, soothing, but I can feel the barely restrained tension in his movements.
He's holding himself back.
Fighting every Alpha instinct that's telling him to comfort his distressed Omega in much more primal ways.
When he's satisfied that I'm clean, he reaches for a soft towel and begins patting my hands dry with the same careful attention he'd shown to the newborn foal. But then he does something that makes my breath catch in my throat.
He leans forward and presses his face into the crook of my neck.
Just rests there for a moment, breathing me in.
"Fuck," he whispers against my skin, the word barely audible. "You're gonna ruin me, Junebug."
His lips brush my pulse point—barely a kiss, more like a promise or a prayer.
I should pull away.
I should maintain some semblance of boundaries and professionalism.
Instead, I find myself tilting my head to give him better access.
