Page 88 of Knotting the Cowboys

"No making you scream our names into pillows," Wendolyn supplies with unholy glee. "No finding out what other surfaces in this house can support two bodies. Or discovering if Willa's a biter when she comes."

"Jesus Christ," Mavi groans, covering his face.

"Wendolyn," Cole warns, but his voice catches on her name.

"What? We're all thinking it." She bites into an apple with a satisfied crunch. "The pheromones in here are thick enough to bottle. Could probably make an online business selling this stuff like aromatherapy perfume and become a millionaire faster than you lot get cracking on making my girl your Omega wife.” I’m choking on my own saliva, Luna looking at me with delight as she giggles at my coughing fit. “Might as well acknowledge the four of you want to worship Willa like the goddess she is, but can't because modern medicine requires patience."

Ugh.

She may be grilling us — or more so them — but at the end of the day, she’s hitting the center of the darting board.

"Not helping," Austin says through gritted teeth.

"I disagree," I find myself saying, surprising everyone, including myself. "Acknowledging it makes it... less. If wepretend the attraction isn't there, it gets bigger. But if we can laugh about it, maybe we can survive two days."

River turns from the stove, something soft and amazed in his expression.

"You're remarkable, you know that?"

His praise makes my head spin, but I try not to fully grasp how his pride makes me feel.

"For needing medical care?" I try to deflect, but he shakes his head.

"For facing it head-on. For trusting us to respect the boundaries. For being brave enough to admit what's between us, even when you can't act on it."

The words settle over me like a blanket, warm and encompassing.

Because he's right—I am trusting them.

Trusting them to honor my medical needs over their obvious desire. I trust them not to use my vulnerability against me. Trusting them to be the men I'm starting to believe they are.

"Lunch is ready," River announces, breaking the moment before it can get too heavy. "And everyone needs to eat, hormones or no hormones."

We settle around the table, careful to maintain space but unable to stop the lingering glances, the accidental brushes of fingers when passing dishes. The meal is delicious—some kind of stir-fry that River apparently learned from his grandmother—but I barely taste it through the awareness thrumming in my veins.

Two days. Forty-eight hours of this exquisite torture, surrounded by men who look at me like I'm precious and untouchable in equal measure.

Men who respect my boundaries even as their bodies scream to cross them. Men who might—if I'm brave enough, if we're allbrave enough—become something more than employers when those forty-eight hours are up.

"So," Wendolyn says around a mouthful of rice, "who wants to help plan Willa's first nesting experience? Because that's happening this weekend, medical restrictions or no medical restrictions."

And just like that, the tension breaks into something manageable. We're still aware—God, are we aware—but we're also a family of sorts, planning and teasing and existing in this space between what is and what might be.

Two days. I can survive two days.

Probably.

Ride The Worries Away

~WILLA~

The October sun has no business being this hot, but here it sits on my shoulders like a weight, making my tank top cling to the small of my back with sweat that feels too much like the slickness gathering between my thighs.

I press the cold latte glass against my neck, letting condensation trickle down my collar as I sit alone on the café's patio, trying to pretend I'm just another local enjoying an unseasonably warm morning instead of an Omega fleeing the suffocating cloud of Alpha pheromones that's turned Cactus Rose into my personal torture chamber.

The foam on my latte forms a heart—because of course it does—and I destroy it with my spoon before anyone can see. My body thrums with awareness, every nerve ending hypersensitive as the new blockers work their plant-based magic through my system.

Dr. Sylvie warned me about the adjustment period, but she didn't mention how I'd feel everything. The rough wood grain of the table under my palms, the slight breeze that makes my nipples tighten beneath thin cotton, the way my pulse beats hot and insistent in places I'm trying very hard not to think about.

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