Page 11 of Saddle and Scent
I falter briefly beneath this aromatic assault; knees weakened as though suddenly boneless while my vision tips sideways for heartbeats longer than welcome.
The world tilts gently but inexorably around me like a game nearing its inevitable conclusion—the stakes too high to bear, yet irresistible all the same.
Bracing myself against this sensory onslaught, I attempt once more to grasp at reality—bend down again for that cursed saddle—but find coordination slipping away from fingers gone nerveless as they refuse cooperation amidst chaos internalized.
That’s when the wind shifts, and a new scent rides the current—heavy, predatory, so thick it might as well have its own zip code. Alpha, obviously. More than Alpha: a blend of sun-warmed leather, wild pine, charred cedar, and something so fundamentally male it feels like a dare. My knees go loose, my vision tilts for a fraction of a second.
Oh c’mon, Juniper! Just pick the saddle and let’s figure out how to get this truck out!
I go to grab the saddle again —because the third time has to be the charm, right? —but my arms refuse to coordinate, the world suddenly swaying with the slow inevitability of a doomed Jenga tower. I don’t even try to fight it this time around, realizing I’m destined to fall by the Omega Scent Gods for taunting me to this extent of mayhem.
Strong hands catch me around the biceps before I hit the dirt.
There’s a second—maybe two—where time stops, and all I can process is the heat of his palms and the scent that’s now a full-body assault.
“Easy, Bell,” a voice says. His voice is dry as fencepost splinters and twice as sturdy.
And far too fucking familiar…
I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
Callum Hayes.
I can’t fucking believe it…
Of all the Alphas in this godforsaken county, the one who spent half of middle school pretending I was invisible and the other half scaring off any boy who looked my way.
If you crossbred a human with a draft horse, you’d get Callum—built like he could bench-press a round bale, with arms that belong in a steel mill, not a shoeing shed. His dark chestnut hair is shoved under a trucker hat, his jaw dusted with stubble so symmetrical it looks like it was carved in a factory.
The eyes, though, are his best and worst feature:gold, clear, and so piercing they might as well come with their own warning label.
He steadies me, just long enough for me to find my feet again, then lets go.
It’s surgical. Precise.
Like he’s used to extracting wounded livestock from ditches, and I’m just another pitiful lamb.
Which simply pisses me the fuck off.
“I’m fine,” I snap, mustering every ounce of defiance my battered pride can conjure and shooting him a glare sharper than the biting wind. My voice is steady, sure, even if every molecule in my Omega-centered body screams otherwise. The words are meant to be a barrier—a wall around the vulnerable pieces—and they come out more like a challenge thrown at his feet: cross this line if you dare. But Callum Hayes—the man who seemed forged from solidified stoicism as much as muscle—doesn’t flinch.
“Fine,” I insist, voice rising just slightly over the wind that pleads for attention like a petulant child. His presence grates against my stubbornness, igniting an old irritation that flickers through the haze of my failed dignity—memories of schoolyardturf wars and unsaid words that filled summers of youthful animosity.
He doesn’t react to my glare or the sudden air of tension between us. His expression remains unreadable, carved in granite beneath that ridiculous trucker hat of his, eyes assessing—always assessing—like he’s weighing me against some unspoken standard.
The silence stretches—a taut string pulled tight between two points of stubborn resilience. It’s a standoff of sorts, neither willing to give ground, yet both aware that the universe around us has shifted.
I can feel Callum’s gaze sweep over me with measured scrutiny. It’s not judging exactly, but there’s an intensity to it akin to watching weather change; a thunderstorm gathering strength with each passing moment. He says nothing, but his demeanor speaks volumes—that I’m still here under my own power is enough to keep him on guard.
“Didn’t say you weren’t.” He stoops, plucks the saddle from the mud like it weighs nothing, and sets it gently in the bed.
The entire time, he’s eyeing me with this infuriating mix of curiosity and caution.
I pull my flannel tighter around me, suddenly aware that it’s half-unbuttoned and sticking to my ribs in all the wrong ways.
Not like he’s even the slightest bit interested in someone with my petite frame, barely scraping five foot two, which stands in stark contrast to his towering giant complex. Oh, sure, Callum seemed magnetic in a way that made anyone believe he could command the attention of an entire room without saying a word. But back in those days of awkward adolescence, when our paths intersected like mismatched train tracks leading nowhere, he showed about as much attraction toward me as a brick wall might toward wallpaper.
So, why would anything be different now? Why would he suddenly find appeal in the grown-up version of the girl who once wore braces and hid behind stacks of library books? My silver hair dances rebelliously down my shoulders, daring to transform into wild shades of lavender under the shimmer of sunlight—a manifestation of my defiant spirit. And as for my small, perky breasts—well, they’re still on my bucket list for an audacious piercing if I don’t find a pack by twenty-seven. Ironically, it had been twenty-six once upon a time, but I figured giving myself an extra leap year was only fair. After all, I’d rather avoid being judged by prospective packs for something as trivial and scandalous as pierced nipples than claim I did it solely for some misguided sense of empowerment.
