Page 94 of Knotting the Cowboys

The changing room door opens, and every thought evaporates.

She stands there in the white romper, and it's like someone reached into my chest and squeezed. The fabric skims her body, innocent and alluring in equal measure, ending mid-thigh to reveal legs that go on forever before disappearing into the cowboy boots I'd chosen. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, auburn waves catching the light, and her cheeks carry a flush that could be embarrassment or heat or both.

"I... it's not a big deal," she says, smoothing the fabric with nervous hands. "Just a romper."

Just a romper. Like she isn't standing there looking like every sunrise I've ever wanted to wake up to, like temptation wrapped in white cotton and leather. My mouth goes dry, and I have to swallow twice before I can speak.

"You look..." Beautiful. Perfect. Like everything I've been trying not to want. "It suits you."

The compliment comes out strained, and her flush deepens. She shifts her weight, the movement making the romper's skirt swirl, and I track the motion helplessly. Twenty-four more hours. Twenty-four more hours of this exquisite torture.

"There's one more outfit," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "But I should... I need to check my accounts first. See what I can actually afford. I don't want to use the ranch money for personal things, and?—"

The anxiety in her voice cuts through my haze of want. She's wringing her hands now, that same worried gesture I've noticed when money comes up. Something cold settles in my stomach as I realize what this is about—not just finances, but worth. Someone taught her to measure her value in dollars, to feel guilty for having needs.

"Willa," I say softly, and her name tastes like prayer on my tongue. "Come here."

She hesitates, caught between the changing room and where I sit. I can see the war in her eyes—trust battling with ingrained lessons about obligation and debt.

But trust wins, like I hoped it would, and she takes those few steps until she's standing before me, close enough that her scent wraps around me like silk rope.

My hands move before my brain catches up, grasping her waist and tugging her down onto my lap in one fluid motion. She lands with a soft gasp, hands flying to my shoulders for balance, and the weight of her—Christ, the perfect weight of her settling against me—makes my vision blur at the edges.

"River!" Her voice comes out breathless, scandalized. "We're in a public changeroom. Someone could?—"

"Shh." I cup her face with one hand, gentle but firm, turning her to meet my eyes. The contact of skin on skin sends electricity racing up my arm, and I have to breathe through the urge to do more, touch more, claim more. "Look at me, Dandelion."

She does, those orange-gold eyes wide with surprise and something else—something that makes my cock twitch beneath her.

Her lips part slightly, and I force myself to focus on words instead of how badly I want to taste that mouth.

"When you're with us," I begin, keeping my voice low and steady despite the chaos in my chest, "when you're with me, you don't worry about money. Ever."

Confusion flickers across her features, her brow furrowing in that way that makes me want to smooth the lines with my thumb.

"But... that's not how it works. Blake always said—" She pauses, swallows hard. "The pack at Iron Ridge made it very clear. Omegas use their own earnings to buy things that appease their Alphas. It's our responsibility to look presentable, to afford the things that make us... desirable."

The words hit like cold water, and I feel my jaw clench hard enough to crack teeth.

My free hand tightens on her waist, not enough to hurt but enough that she feels the tension running through me.

Blake. Iron Ridge. Every new detail about her past makes me want to hunt down those bastards and show them what happens when you treat an Omega like a decorative expense.

"Listen to me," I say, and something in my tone makes her go still. "That's not how a pack works. That's manipulation, financial abuse wrapped in tradition." My thumb strokes along her cheekbone, trying to gentle the harsh truths. "A real pack? We take care of our Omega completely. Money, responsibilities, every burden—that's ours to carry, not yours."

"But I'm not—we haven't—" She stutters, color rising in her cheeks. "I'm not your Omega. Not officially."

"Aren't you?" The question comes out rougher than intended, and I watch her pupils dilate in response.

God, she's so close.Her scent wraps around me, sweet and needy despite the blockers, and every breath I take is torture. She shifts slightly on my lap, and I have to bite back a groan at the friction. My cock is hard enough to cut glass, trapped between us, and there's no way she doesn't feel it.

"River," she whispers, but I'm already moving, reaching up to free a strand of auburn hair that's caught on her lip gloss. The gesture is innocent enough, but my fingers tremble with the effort of keeping it that way. Her hair slides like silk between my fingers, and I wind it around my knuckle just to feel it against my skin a moment longer.

"In our pack," I continue, voice gone gravel-rough, "the Alphas provide. Not because the Omega can't—you're brilliant, capable, could probably buy and sell half this town if you wanted. But because caring for you is our privilege. Our purpose."

She's breathing faster now, little puffs of air that ghost across my face. Her hands still rest on my shoulders, and I feel her fingers flex slightly, like she's fighting the urge to grip tighter.

The knowledge that she wants to touch me as badly as I want to touch her nearly breaks my control.

---