Page 32 of Saddle and Scent
Worse, the cold and the shock make my scent spike again, a spike so sharp and clear it’s almost tangible: Omega, embarrassed and angry and running at a dead sprint from vulnerability. I’m trying to figure out how I’ll escape this stream of badluck, while wondering how those mustangs even got out.
Whether it was an accident or maybe on purpose, how would I even know?
With a frustrated huff, I try to tame my wild scent that’s only getting strong, the distress like some siren call that I’m sure won’t end well if I can’t get myself home. If I thought that would keep the Alphas at bay, I was out of my goddamn mind.
They’re on me before I can even think about hiding.
The herd of mustangs are back, less wild and more tamed as they sweep past, driven by the three men, all of them shirtless, soaked, and skin gleaming with rain and effort.
The horses’ breath fogs the air, the heat of their bodies colliding with the chill of the storm.
Beckett rides by first, chestnut horse kicking up mud and water, and there’s this moment—so brief I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it—where his gaze snaps to mine, softening at the edges, and he gives a lopsided smile. Not the smirk of someone amused by my predicament, but the gentle, knowing smile of a man who’s seen a thousand storms and survived all of them.
He tips his head, almost a bow, and I catch the cinnamon warmth of his scent, even through the wet and the wind.
Wes follows, bay mare dancing under him like she’s got electric wires for legs. He rides with one hand, the other held high in a wild, boyish wave, and his laugh is bright enough to cut through the entire shitshow of my day.
“Hell of a look, Junebug!” he shouts, voice nearly lost in the thunder. “Could’ve used a white flag if you wanted to get our attention!”
He rides on, laughter trailing behind him like a comet tail. It’s hard to not roll my eyes at him, knowing this playful boyish side is one of the traits I actually liked about him.Not to serious. A breath of fresh hair and balance, especially in their pack dynamic.
Then comes Callum, and he’s not just passing by—he’s aiming straight at me, like a bullet with my name etched into the casing.
His horse is a beast, black and monstrous, and he rides it with a single-mindedness that’s almost threatening.
He reins in hard, mud spraying everywhere, and for a second the only thing between us is a wall of hot, fogging breath.
There’s lightning behind him—literal lightning, split-forking the sky, illuminating the valley in a wash of white.
It turns his silhouette into something mythic, half-man, half-animal, and he doesn’t even flinch as the thunder chases it, rumbling so deep it rattles my teeth.
He’s just…there.
Present.
And I dare admit in the depths of myself how badly I wished he could be mine…
His eyes rake over me, and I can feel the heat in them, the way they take in every inch of my body: the soaked tank top, the curve of my arms clamped tight across my chest, the flush of my cheeks, probably redder than a barn roof.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches.
I cross my arms tighter, shivering from cold and anger and the rawness of being seen.
“What?” I snap, louder than I mean to. “You gonna lecture me about accepting help again?”
He blinks, slow, like the words have to work their way through a labyrinth before they find purchase.
“No,” he says.
The word is a brick, dropped flat.
I wait. The rain pours down, flattening the world around us, turning the road into a slurry of rock and gray water.
“No?” I repeat, thrown off balance.
He swings down from the horse in one motion, barely breaking stride as his boots hit the mud.
“Figured you learned your lesson already,” he says, voice so calm it’s disarming.
