Page 86 of Knotting the Cowboys

Maverick lifts an eyebrow, deadpan.

"She’s got plenty of bite for someone so allegedly malnourished. Didn’t you nearly take off Cole’s hand last night when he tried to finish your fries?"

Cole acts wounded, clutching his imaginary injury.

"Those were her fries. Man learns respect after the first time," he says, and there’s a low ripple of amusement around the table. Even River looks up from the simmering sauce long enough to flash a smile in my direction, eyes crinkling at the edges with a warmth that makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

Wendolyn leans closer as I step into the kitchen, her voice pitched lower.

"Honestly? You’re still half the size you should be. I bet Iron Ridge put you on one of those nutrition plans, right? Something about controlling hormone balance, keeping Omegas ‘manageable’?"

I shrug, but my cheeks flare hot.

She’s not wrong.

Blake had opinions about Omega figures, opinions that included words like "delicate" and "maintained."

Another thing to unlearn, another freedom to claim.

We enter through the kitchen door to find organized chaos.

River stands at the stove stirring something that smells like heaven, while Austin chops vegetables with medical precision. Cole mans the grill outside, visible through the window, and Mavi... Mavi's setting the table, which should be normal except he freezes mid-motion when I walk in.

The glass in his hand hovers three inches above the table, his whole body going rigid.

His nostrils flare once, twice, and his eyes darken from forest to midnight in the space of a heartbeat.

"Shit," he breathes, the word barely audible.

River turns from the stove, and I watch his face change as my scent hits him. The easy smile falters, his throat working as he swallows hard. The spoon in his hand trembles slightly before he sets it down with excessive care.

"Willa," he says, voice rougher than I've ever heard it. "You're back."

Austin's knife stills on the cutting board. He doesn't turn around, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles go white around the knife handle. When he finally looks at me, his pupils are blown wide, the warm hazel barely visible around black.

"How was the appointment?" he asks, and oh, he's trying so hard to sound normal.

To be the sunshine one, the easy one, but his jaw clenches between words like he's fighting not to say something else entirely.

"I'll get Cole," Mavi announces abruptly, practically fleeing to the back door.

Through the window, I watch him grab Cole's shoulder, see Cole's whole body stiffen as Mavi speaks urgently in his ear.

When Cole enters, he moves carefully, like he's approaching a spooked horse. But his eyes—storm-gray gone almost silver—tell a different story.

They track over me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, cataloging every change, every sign of my body's betrayal.

"You need to sit," he says, pulling out a chair. "And explain what the doctor said."

I sink into the offered seat, hyperaware of how they've all shifted positions. Not crowding, not quite, but creating a loose circle where they can watch me while maintaining distance. Like planets orbiting an unstable sun.

"My blockers are failing," I start, voice huskier than ever from the combination of smoke damage and arousal I'm trying to ignore. "Dr. Sylvie switched me to natural ones, but there's an adjustment period. Forty-eight hours where I need to avoid..."

"Fucking?" Wendolyn supplies helpfully from where she's raiding the fridge. "She needs to avoid getting railed until her hormones settle. So hold your cocks and let an Omega adapt to actual medical care for once."

I can’t help but blush—no, not blush, because that’s far too dainty a word for the full-body ignition this moment produces. I look like I’ve been staked out in the Montana sun, every square inch of me pink and radiating off an embarrassing, involuntary heat signature. Wendolyn, meanwhile, just beams at the assembled men like she’s the proud owner of a prize-winning livestock auction and has no earthly idea what she’s done to the value of my dignity.

The four of them react like she’s detonated a smoke grenade in the middle of the kitchen, each Alpha responding with their own highly specific brand of physical discomfort. River’s hand tenses around the wooden spoon, enough to make it bow. Austin chokes on an inhale sharp enough to turn his face pinker than mine, while Maverick’s jaw clenches so violently I swear I hear enamel crack. Even Cole—usually the imperturbable one—freezes, his eyes doing a slow blink like he’s rebooting to process the news.

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