Page 142 of Saddle and Scent
"I'm sorry," Wes says with exaggerated politeness. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. Though from what I understand, you're the charming fellow who thought telling your Omega to sleep outside in a tent was appropriate behavior."
The direct challenge catches Marcus off guard, his practiced smile faltering for just a moment before reasserting itself.
"That wasn't punishment," he says with a laugh that sounds forced. "That was privilege. Getting to sleep in the same radius as me, even if it's outside in the depths of winter—she should have been grateful for the opportunity."
The casual cruelty in his tone, the complete lack of understanding about how wrong his behavior was, pushes something inside me past its breaking point. Because I've spent too many years letting his version of events influence how I see myself, too much time wondering if maybe I really was toodifficult, too demanding, too ungrateful for the "opportunities" he offered.
But standing here surrounded by three men who would rather sleep on the ground themselves than let me spend a single cold night alone, I finally understand the difference between love and possession, between protection and control.
"That's enough," I say, my voice cutting through his self-satisfied laughter with surprising authority.
The command in my tone seems to surprise everyone, including myself. But something about being back in my hometown, surrounded by people who actually care about my wellbeing, has awakened a confidence I didn't know I possessed.
"You need to leave, Marcus," I continue, stepping forward so I'm no longer hidden behind my protective trio. "Whatever business you think you have here, whatever development plans you're trying to push through, they're not welcome."
"Now, sweetheart," he says, his tone taking on the patronizing quality that used to make me feel small and insignificant. "Let's not make a scene. I'm here on legitimate business, conducting perfectly legal negotiations with local officials. Your personal feelings don't really factor into economic development."
"My personal feelings?" I repeat, anger finally overriding the fear that's been keeping me quiet. "You think this is about personal feelings?"
By now, our raised voices have attracted attention from other people in the square. I can see curious faces turning in our direction, families pausing their activities to observe what's clearly becoming a public confrontation. But instead of feeling exposed or embarrassed, I feel supported by the attention—like the entire community is witnessing this moment and will remember it.
"This is about a community that doesn't want or need whatever you're selling," I continue, my voice gaining strength with each word. "This is about people who've built something beautiful and sustainable here, something that doesn't require your improvements or your vision or your money."
"Please," Marcus scoffs. "This place is dying on the vine. No economic opportunities, no cultural amenities, no future for young people with actual ambition. What I'm proposing would bring jobs, revenue, growth—everything a smart community should want."
"What you're proposing would destroy everything that makes this place worth preserving," I counter. "You want to turn it into another generic shopping center surrounded by chain restaurants and big box stores. You want to erase the character and history and community connections that actually matter to the people who live here."
"And what's your alternative?" he asks, his tone becoming more aggressive as he realizes I'm not backing down. "Poverty and nostalgia? Watching young people leave because there's nothing here worth staying for?"
Before I can respond, Callum steps forward, positioning himself slightly in front of me with the kind of protective stance that speaks to instincts older than civilization.
"The alternative," he says, his voice deadly quiet, "is supporting the people and businesses that are already here. Investing in what we've built instead of tearing it down for profit. Creating opportunities that serve the community instead of replacing it."
"Oh, please spare me the small-town philosophy," Marcus says with obvious disdain. "You people are so short-sighted. You can't see the bigger picture, the long-term benefits of modernization and progress."
"We can see exactly what your kind of progress looks like," Wes interjects, his earlier amusement replaced by something much more dangerous. "We've seen what happens to communities that sell their souls for the promise of economic development. They lose everything that made them special and end up with nothing but strip malls and traffic congestion."
"And we've seen what happens to people who get in your way," Beckett adds quietly, his calm tone somehow more threatening than raised voices. "The intimidation tactics, the legal pressure, the way you try to make people feel like they don't have choices."
Marcus's expression shifts as he realizes he's not dealing with the easy targets he expected. These aren't naive small-town residents who can be impressed by his wealth and sophisticated presentation. These are men who understand exactly what he represents and aren't interested in what he's selling.
"You're making a mistake," he says, his tone taking on the kind of edge that suggests consequences for continued resistance. "All of you. This development is going to happen whether you support it or not. The economic forces are already in motion, the political support is building, and fighting it will only make things more difficult for everyone involved."
"Is that a threat?" I ask, surprised by how calm I sound despite the adrenaline coursing through my system.
"It's a reality," he responds. "Business is business, sweetheart. Nothing personal."
"Everything about this is personal," I shoot back. "You came here because you knew I was here. You targeted this community because you wanted to prove some kind of point about power and control. This isn't about economic development—it's about your ego."
For the first time since the conversation started, Marcus's mask slips completely. The polished charm disappears, replacedby the kind of naked fury I remember from our worst arguments. His face flushes with anger, and his hands clench into fists at his sides.
"You arrogant little bitch," he snarls, apparently forgetting that we're in the middle of a public square surrounded by witnesses. "You think you can just walk away from everything I offered you and play house with these small-town losers? You think you're better than the life I could have given you?"
The verbal assault lands with the force he intended, but instead of making me feel small and ashamed, it crystallizes everything I've learned about the difference between his version of caring and what I've found here.
"I think I'm better than the life you would have forced on me," I say clearly, making sure my words carry to the growing crowd of observers. "I think I deserve better than sleeping in a tent because I had opinions you didn't like. I think I deserve better than being treated like property instead of a partner."
"You don't know what you deserve," he spits. "You never did. That's why you needed someone like me to make decisions for you, to show you what real success looks like."
