Page 2 of Knotting the Cowboys

I stopped fighting. A strange calm settled over me as the ceiling began to crack and groan above my head. If this was the end, at least the pain of Blake's betrayal would end with it. At least I wouldn't have to live knowing how completely I'd been used.

The wedding photo on my nightstand curled and blackened in the heat—me in white, Blake standing proud beside me. I'dbeen so young then, so painfully hopeful. Twenty-three and thinking I was saving not just Blake and his pack's legacy, but my own future too.

What a fool I'd been.

Just as the edges of my consciousness began to fade, the bedroom door crashed open with a splintering of wood. Through the smoke and flames, silhouettes appeared—broad-shouldered and moving with purpose. Alpha scents cut through the burning, four distinct notes that somehow reached me even through the chaos.

Strong arms lifted me. Someone worked at the handcuffs, metal giving way with a snap that I felt more than heard. Words were shouted around me that I couldn't quite make out through the roaring in my ears.

And then I was being carried, my face pressed against the protective gear of a firefighter whose heartbeat I could feel even through the thick material. The steady thump-thump grounded me as my world dissolved into smoke and heat.

"Stay with us," a deep voice commanded, the Alpha tone impossible to ignore even in my fading state. Something in me responded to that voice, reached for it like a lifeline.

Four scents surrounded me, different yet harmonizing in a way I'd never experienced before. Each one distinct, each one calling to something deep inside me that I'd always believed was broken:

Pine and leather, like a forest after rainfall. Rain-soaked earth and sun-warmed hay, the scent of living things growing. Smoke and cinnamon, warmth and spice and danger all mixed together. Clean linen dried in mountain air, simple and pure and safe.

As the firefighter carried me from the burning ruins of my past, something broken inside me reached instinctively towardthose scents. But the darkness was pulling me under too quickly to hold on.

The last thing I remembered was being placed on a stretcher, oxygen pressed to my face, and those four scents beginning to fade as consciousness slipped away.

I didn't know their names. I didn't see their faces. I didn't get to say thank you.

But somewhere in the deepest, most primal part of my being, my Omega recognized something my conscious mind wouldn't understand until much later.

This wasn't the end of my story.

It was only the beginning.

The Return

~WILLA~

The engine coughs its last breath just as I coast into what might generously be called downtown Sweetwater Falls.

Steam hisses from under the hood like an angry snake, and I white-knuckle the steering wheel as my ancient Honda lurches to a stop beside a weathered sign proclaiming:

"Welcome to Sweetwater Falls-Where Every Heart Finds Home."

The irony isn't lost on me.

My hands are shaking—from exhaustion, from the adrenaline of nursing this dying car for the last fifty miles, from the knowledge that my bank account is gasping for air almost as desperately as this engine.

I sit there for a moment, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, breathing in the acrid smell of overheated metal and my own desperation.

The late afternoon sun beats through the windshield, turning the car into an oven, but I can't seem to make myself move. Moving means facing whatever comes next, and I'm so tired of “next” and world that doesn’t want to work in your favor.

So tired of running, of starting over, of pretending I'm stronger than I feel.

When I finally force myself out of the car, the door creaks in protest—or maybe sympathy.

The October air hits me like a slap, cooler than I expected, carrying the scent of woodsmoke that’s distinctly “small-town vibes” that makes my chest tight with a longing I can't afford.

Main Street stretches before me, all brick storefronts and American flags, pickup trucks angle-parked in front of a diner called Rosie's. It's picturesque in that aggressive way small towns have, like they're trying to prove something to the big cities that forgot them.

Then again, what would I know. I’ve only went to a few small towns in my life time and they weren’t as radiant and established as this…

My legs wobble as I pop the hood, though I know it's pointless. Black smoke billows out, making me cough—a harsh, rattling sound that reminds me my lungs still aren't right, might never be right again.

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