Page 45 of Knotting the Cowboys

It's not intentional—at least I don't think it's intentional—but the effect is the same:I'm tuned to every subtle shift in his posture, each shallow inhale, every time his fingers flex around the stick shift. I have to remind myself how to breathe.

In the back seat, Wendolyn is talking a mile a minute, some story about a bake sale gone awry, but her words are barely registering.

The narrative thread slips through my fingers, replaced by the roar of blood in my ears and this gnawing, low-level ache that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin or maybe into someone else's.

"She's got a V8 diesel under the hood," Cole says, his voice carrying that particular brand of masculine pride men reserve for their vehicles. His hands move over the steering wheel with the same careful precision he uses for everything—splitting wood, mending fences, existing in space like he owns it. "Bought her used five years ago, rebuilt the engine myself. She'll pull anything we need around the ranch."

"She's got a V8 diesel under the hood," Cole says, his voice carrying that particular brand of masculine pride men reserve for their vehicles. His hands move over the steering wheel with the same careful precision he uses for everything—splitting wood, mending fences, existing in space like he owns it. "Bought her used five years ago, rebuilt the engine myself. She'll pull anything we need around the ranch."

From the backseat, Wendolyn leans forward between us, bringing her sweet pea and vanilla scent into the mix.

"I still can't believe you all maintain that whole ranch. It's like something out of a movie. Do you think—" She pauses, and I can hear the excitement building in her voice. "Do you think I could help with the horses sometime? I grew up riding, before the city swallowed me whole."

My stomach clenches at her easy enthusiasm.

Of course she knows horses. In fact, she'd be useful, capable, fitting into ranch life like she was born to it…unlike me, who can barely tell a halter from a bridle.

"River handles most of the horse training," Cole responds, but his eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror. "But we could always use extra hands. Right, Willa?"

The question hangs in the air, weighted with more than its simple words.

He's deferring to me—the owner, the one who should be making these decisions. Except I have no idea what the right answer is. Yes seems too permissive, like I'm opening doors I can't close.

No…it feels petty, jealous, and confirming every awful thing I think about myself.

"I..." My voice catches, and I clear my throat. "Sure. If River thinks it would help."

Wendolyn's delighted squeal fills the cab.

"Oh, this is perfect! I've been dying for an excuse to get out of town more. The shop practically runs itself these days, and I miss being around animals."

She chatters on about her childhood horses, show ribbons won, the way nothing compared to the connection between rider and mount.

Each word is another stone in my stomach, weighing me down with inadequacy.

Here's another Omega—unmated, independent, successful—who brings actual skills to the table. Who has her own business,her own life, her own easy confidence that doesn't require four Alphas to prop her up.

What do I bring?

Smoke-damaged lungs and a talent for making terrible life choices.

The ability to panic at unexpected noises and freeze when making simple decisions.

A body that responds to Alpha commands like a instrument perfectly tuned for submission, even when my mind screams resistance.

I'm getting the princess treatment because I own the deed, nothing more.

They're careful with me the way you're careful with cracked china—still functional but requiring delicate handling. The thought makes my chest tight, breath coming shorter.

I'm spiraling, I know I'm spiraling, but I can't seem to stop the mental freefall.

Wendolyn would be perfect here.

She'd match their competence, contribute meaningfully, probably have the horses eating from her hand within days. She wouldn't need Austin to show her how to make a bottle or River to talk her through breathing exercises or Mavi to check the locks twice because she's terrified of shadows. She wouldn't make Cole hesitate before speaking, choosing his words carefully like she might shatter.

The thoughts tangle and twist, feeding on themselves.

I'm so lost in my own head that I don't notice Cole's hand moving until it's there—warm and solid on my thigh, fingers spread possessively wide.

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