Page 33 of Saddle and Scent
I don’t know what to do with this new version of Callum, the one who isn’t pushing, who isn’t trying to prove a point or take the upper hand.
It’s almost worse than if he’d come at me full throttle.
I watch him wipe the rain from his eyes, shake water from his hands, and I can’t help but notice the way the muscles flex and settle under his skin.
He looks like he was built for this weather, for this life—everything about him is so solid, so permanent, it makes me ache.
The horse stands beside him, nearly as massive as the man himself, and it watches me with the same inscrutable calm.
I wish I could stare back with half the confidence, but all I can do is fidget and try to keep the chill from making my teeth chatter.
Callum steps closer, careful not to crowd but not leaving any question about who owns the space between us.
He glances at the truck, at the horizon, at me, then shrugs.
“It’s not a weakness to ask for help,” he says, so quiet I almost miss it over the rain.
I want to say something biting, something that’ll put him back on his heels, but nothing comes.
I just stand there, exposed in every sense of the word, waiting for the next round of humiliation.
He pulls something from his saddle—a flannel shirt, red and blue, worn soft at the edges—and holds it out to me.
Not as a peace offering, but as an inevitability, as though it’s the logical next step and it’d be dumb to refuse.
I hesitate, but the cold wins. I take it, pull it on over the ruined tank top, and immediately the scent hits me: smoke, rain, the deep resinous note of pine, and underneath it all, the unmistakable warmth of Alpha.
It’s so overwhelming I almost sway.
Callum watches, unblinking.
He says nothing, but his eyes say everything—disappointment…or a softer emotion?Something like relief.
I hug the shirt tight around me, fighting the urge to bury my face in the collar and just breathe.
He turns to leave, then stops.
Looks back at me, rain running down his face like he’s made of stone and water.
“Do you need help?” he asks, and I’m left again with the confrontational reality that I don’t want to admit I need his assistance.
Their assistance.
I stand there a minute longer, shirt clinging, face burning, and try to decide if I’m angry, grateful, or just very, very tired.
At this point, it’s probably all three, but there I am bitting my bottom lip like a stubborn mule, unable to do what he’s asking of me.
As if submission is a death sentence for an Omega.
Which is why my silence lingers.
I trudge back to the truck, curl up in the cab, and let the sound of the rain drown everything else out.
Time doesn’t so much pass as thicken, caught in the slow churn of clouds overhead and the heavy press of Callum’s flannel clinging to my shoulders. The scent of him is everywhere—soaked into the fabric, swirling in the close, steamy air of the truck cab, and alive in every inhale.
Smoke and pine, woodsmoke and something under it that’s just raw Alpha, ancient and undeniable. It’s like being blanketed by a memory you never made, only more immediate: my skin prickles with every breath, as if the shirt itself is holding me together.
I expect him to ride off, to leave me stewing in my own embarrassment and wet socks, but he waits—leaning againstthe truck with his arms folded and his shirtless chest radiating the kind of calm you only see in wild animals right before they pounce. His horse, black and rain-streaked, stands sentinel beside him, eyes fixed on me as if I’m a misbehaving colt about to spook at a shadow.
