Page 26 of Knotting the Cowboys

They settle me at the kitchen table like I'm made of spun glass, and maybe I am—fragile and see-through, all my careful walls shattered by recognition.Cole's hand stays on my shoulder a beat too long, and the weight of it sends conflicting signals through my body.

Safety and danger all tangled up in the scent of pine and leather that's suddenly so much stronger than before.

Now that I know—now that my mind has connected past and present—their scents assault me differently.

Not just four attractive Alphas anymore, but four saviors who pulled me from death.

My body responds to that knowledge with a visceral Omega reaction that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

Gratitude and phermones mixing into something that feels too much like submission.

"Tea," Austin says, setting a mug in front of me with careful hands. "Chamomile with honey. Good for the throat after—" He stops himself, but we all know what he means.

After panic attacks.

After smoke damage makes breathing feel like drowning.

After remembering the worst night of your life.

The mug is warm between my palms, grounding me in the present even as their scents create a cocktail that makes my hindbrain purr.

I hate it.

Hate how my body softens without my permission, how my breathing syncs to theirs, how every Omega instinct screams that these are good Alphas,safe Alphas, Alphas who've already proven they'll walk through fire for me.

Yet, how do you trust again after such immense betrayal?

When you planned your whole future.

Imagine the little babies who’d cry and you’d cradle to bed, singing lullabies and daydreaming of whom they’ll become in our society.

How do you simply snap your fingers and hop into that state of hope and belief when your world came crashing down by the same men that promised you everything and more?

You don’t.

"I don't remember," I admit, watching steam rise from the tea. "Not clearly. Just fragments. The smoke was so thick, and Blake had—" My voice catches on his name, but I force through. "The drugs he'd given me made everything fuzzy. Then the smoke on top of it..."

"Rohypnol," Mavi says quietly from his position by the door. "In your system when they brought you in. Made you suggestible, compliant. Also affects memory formation."

Of course he'd know.

Former law enforcement would recognize the signs, the drug of choice for Alphas who want compliant Omegas. My stomach turns, but under the nausea I dare acknowledge the other sensation—relief that there's a reason for the gaps, that I'm not just broken.

River resumes chopping vegetables, the rhythm soothing.

"You kept trying to thank us. Even half-conscious, smoke inhalation severe enough that you should've been focused on breathing, and you kept saying thank you."

"Polite even while dying," Cole adds, and there's something in his voice—frustration, maybe, or old anger carefully controlled. "More worried about being a bother than staying alive."

He's moved to lean against the counter where I can see him, and the casual pose doesn't hide the tension in his shoulders.

None of them are as relaxed as they're pretending.

They're all watching me, cataloging my recovery like they've been doing it for months.

Which they have, I realize.

Waiting. Watching. Keeping my grandfather's ranch perfect while I healed and fought divorce proceedings and tried to piece my life back together.

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