Page 64 of Knotting the Cowboys

Sometimes I wondered if he was making them up as he went, moving the goalposts just to see how far I’d chase them, how willing I was to contort myself into the perfect version of what he wanted.

If I passed, he'd reward me with a flash of his perfect, predatory smile—sharp, knowing, infuriatingly satisfied—as if I'd become incrementally more worthy in his estimation, another notch on a scoreboard only he could read.

Liam, on the other hand, was the master of subtle sabotage—a compliment tipped just enough to cut, a lingering touch that never quite matched the warmth in his words.

He’d brush my hair behind my ear the way you’d unsnarl a snagged thread, like he was fixing something broken in me, then later say,"You always look prettiest when you don't try so hard, Willa."

The implication hung there:don't try to outshine me, don't let anyone see you sweat, don't forget who plucked you from anonymity in the first place.

At night, he’d soften, become almost gentle—fingers tracing circles along my collarbone, pressing his scent into my skin with the patience of someone marking their territory—but every gesture came with an aftertaste of performance, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

Hayden was the jokester, the one who could make me laugh until my stomach hurt and then, with surgical precision, slice me open with a few words.

He’d hold court at the dinner table, making everyone forget the seriousness of being a pack, and for a moment I could almost believe we were just friends, a found family.

Then, when conversation lulled, he'd lean in—close enough for only me to hear—and say something that burrowed right under my skin:"You’re good at pretending. You’ll fit in just fine."

The message was clear: don't get too comfortable, don't let the mask slip, or someone will notice you don’t belong.

Jude only acted as a shadow, rarely speaking, but his silence was a force field that kept me guessing what he was thinking. He’d linger at the edge of rooms, eyes narrowed, studying every interaction as if cataloging weaknesses.

When he did talk to me, it was always in riddles, or questions that sounded like accusations."Do you ever miss your old life?"Or,"Is this what you pictured, when you said you’d do anything for family?"

Sometimes I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking, and the intensity of it made my skin prickle. Like he was waiting for my illusions to crack.

The four of them together were a machine—smooth, relentless, and impossible to escape. I learned quickly that kindness was currency, affection a controlled substance.

Even the good moments were transactional, weighted with the certainty that the bill would come due eventually. Every day felt like running an obstacle course where the obstacles smiled and told you they loved you, then moved the hurdles when your back was turned.

They'd spent weeks circling me like wolves at a kill, hands on my hips, mouths on my skin, always careful to leave just enough of my dignity intact that I wouldn't run. As if my exhaustion was the prize they were all after.

They'd spent weeks circling me like wolves at a kill, hands on my hips, mouths on my skin, always careful to leave just enough of my dignity intact that I wouldn't run. As if my exhaustion was the prize they were all after.

And I let them.

I played the game, wore the smile, learned to anticipate the pressure of desire without ever truly feeling it. I even told myself I liked it, because what was the alternative?

To admit that sex was something you survived, that pleasure was just a rumor for Omegas like me?

Even now, the memory of Blake's teeth at my throat, the practiced timing of his hands, makes my stomach twist with something equal parts longing and revulsion. He never kissed me the way Cole did.

None of them did.

I was a means to an end—a peacekeeping treaty signed in flesh and pheromones, not a person made for worship or wonder.

And then, as if waking from a fever dream, I'm back in this bed, the echo of last night's hunger trembling in my thighs, inmy throat, in the tips of my fingers. Because what Cole gave me was nothing like that.

There was no calculation, no ledger of debts to be settled. It was heat, sure, but it was also a kind of awe—a trembling reverence that made me feel, for the first time, like I wasn't just a body to be conquered.

Cole kissed me like I was air and he was drowning, like I was precious and powerful and worth the risk of everything.

Dinner afterward exists in fragments—River's quiet concern as he served the chili, Austin's determined cheer that didn't quite mask the knowing looks, Mavi's smirk that said he knew exactly what happened in that truck. And through it all, Cole's careful distance, like he was giving me space to process while his storm-gray eyes promised this wasn't over. I remember Luna reaching for me constantly, remember the men taking turns holding her so I could eat, remember feeling surrounded by care that didn't demand payment.

My mind drifts back, unbidden, to those early days with Iron Ridge.

When I'd thought I'd found my place, my pack, my purpose.

The memory tastes bitter now, tainted by everything that came after, but God, those first months had felt like destiny.

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