Page 83 of Knotting the Cowboys

Wendolyn's cherry-red hatchback bounces over another pothole, and I press my palm harder against my stomach, as if I could hold back the inevitable through sheer pressure. The blockers I've relied on for two years are failing, and the proof pulses through me with each heartbeat—a slow, insistent ache that whispers of heat coming too soon, too fast, too much.

"You're going to love Dr. Sylvie," Wendolyn says, her copper waves catching morning light as she navigates Sweetwater Falls' main street. "She's only been here six months, but she's already revolutionized how this town handles Omega healthcare. No more Alpha doctors making decisions about our bodies, no more 'prescriptions' that just happen to benefit whoever's courting you."

I try to focus on her words instead of the way my skin feels too tight, how every bump in the road sends uncomfortableawareness through parts of me that have been dormant for years. "How did she manage that?" My voice comes out huskier than usual, smoke damage and anxiety creating a rasp that makes me sound like I've been screaming. Or moaning. God, don't think about moaning.

"By being absolutely brilliant and taking no shit whatsoever." Wendolyn's grin is wicked with admiration. "First week she was here, some Alpha tried to access his Omega's medical records without consent—you know, the usual 'I need to monitor her cycle for her own good' bullshit. Dr. Sylvie not only refused, she reported him to the medical board and got his veterinary license suspended for ethics violations."

"Veterinary license?" I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make me hyperaware of the growing slickness between my thighs. Wrong. This is all wrong. My heat isn't due for another three weeks.

"Oh yeah, that was the other thing—before Dr. Sylvie, Omegas here had to see the regular doctor who also happened to be the large animal vet. Because apparently we're livestock." She rolls her eyes hard enough to sprain something. "But our Doc shut that down real quick. She's got a proper Omega-focused practice now, with actual privacy laws and everything. Anyone tries to interfere with an Omega's medical autonomy, they get the hammer."

The image of a tiny doctor wielding an actual hammer makes me smile despite my discomfort. "Why didn't anyone stop this before? The veterinary thing seems..."

"Barbaric? Degrading? Probably illegal?" Wendolyn supplies cheerfully. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when every position of power is held by Alphas who benefit from the system. But that's changing too. Wait 'til you meet our new police chief—Chief Hazel Martinez. She's scarier than Dr. Sylvie, if that's possible."

I clutch my stomach tighter as another wave of pre-heat symptoms washes over me. My skin prickles with hypersensitivity, every brush of fabric against my body sending mixed signals of discomfort and need. "Police chief? That's unusual." Understatement of the century—female Omega police officers are rare enough, but a chief?

"Built her reputation in Denver first," Wendolyn explains, turning onto a tree-lined side street. "Took down some major trafficking ring, made enemies of all the right people. When Sweetwater Falls' old chief finally retired—and by retired I mean got caught taking bribes from pack leaders to look the other way on consent violations—the town council practically begged her to come here. Smart move, too. First month, she arrested three Alphas for harassment. Actual arrests, not just warnings. Nobody wants to fuck with their career by crossing her."

The trees blur past my window as I process this information. Two powerful Omegas in positions that directly challenge Alpha control—medical and law enforcement. It's like Sweetwater Falls is becoming a haven for those of us tired of the old ways.

"It's refreshing," I manage, though my voice catches as another cramp rolls through me. "Seeing Omegas in power who actually use it to protect other Omegas instead of..." Instead of becoming enforcers for the same system that oppressed them, I don't say. Instead of being like the female Alpha doctor at Iron Ridge who told me I was "too dramatic" about my pain, who said good Omegas didn't complain.

"Instead of being pick-me girls for the patriarchy?" Wendolyn finishes with characteristic bluntness. "Yeah, we don't do that here anymore. Dr. Sylvie and Chief Martinez made sure of that. They've got each other's backs, and they've got ours. It's a whole new world, baby."

A whole new world. One where I might actually get medical care that isn't designed to make me more convenient for Alphas.One where my strange biology might be treated as variation instead of defect. One where?—

Another cramp hits, stronger this time, and I can't suppress the whimper that escapes. Wendolyn's eyes dart to me with concern.

"Almost there, hon. Just another minute."

The clinic appears like salvation—a modest building with sage-green trim and windows that actually have curtains for privacy. The sign reads "Sweetwater Women's Health" in elegant script, with "Dr. Iris Sylvie, Omega Health Specialist" below. No mention of veterinary services, thank God.

Wendolyn pulls into a parking spot near the door, and I take a shaky breath. Whatever's happening to my body, at least I'll be facing it with a doctor who sees me as a person, not livestock or property. That has to count for something.

Even if my treacherous body is already preparing for a heat that could destroy everything I've started to build at Cactus Rose Ranch.

The clinic door opens to reveal an interior that defies every medical space I've ever known.

Instead of harsh fluorescents and antiseptic assault, soft lighting warms walls painted in soothing earth tones.

Lavender—real lavender, not artificial spray—mingles with something herbal and calming.

There's actual art on the walls, abstract pieces in blues and greens that make me think of water, of flow, of things that move naturally instead of being forced into rigid channels.

"First time?" The receptionist, a Beta woman with kind eyes, smiles without the judgment I'm braced for. "Dr. Sylvie will be right with you. There's tea in the corner if you'd like some while you wait."

Tea. At a doctor's office. For Omegas. I sink into a chair that's actually comfortable, trying to process this alien world where medical care comes with comfort instead of humiliation. Wendolyn plops down beside me, already flipping through a magazine about sustainable farming that definitely wasn't chosen to reinforce traditional Omega roles.

"Willa James?" A woman appears in the doorway to the exam rooms, and I know immediately this is Dr. Sylvie. She's shorter than me but carries herself like she's seven feet tall, with sharp brown eyes behind designer glasses and silver streaking through black hair pulled back in an efficient bun. Her scent is subtle but distinctive—mint and steel, Omega notes wrapped in professional authority.

The exam room continues the theme of actual care for patient comfort. The table has a proper cushion, the stirrups are padded, and there's a heating pad already warmed and waiting. Dr. Sylvie washes her hands while I change into a gown that actually closes properly in the back—another small dignity I didn't know I was missing until it was offered.

"Tell me what's happening," she says, settling onto a rolling stool with a tablet instead of a clipboard. "In your own words, at your own pace."

So I do. The failing blockers, the symptoms that started this morning, the fear that's been eating at me since I felt that first tell-tale cramp. She listens without interrupting, occasionally making notes, her expression neutral but attentive. When I finally run out of words, she nods thoughtfully.

"Let's take a look. I'll explain everything I'm doing before I do it." And she does, narrating each part of the examination likeI'm a person who deserves to know what's happening to my own body. Revolutionary concept, apparently.

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