I grip the kitchen counter,watching the coffee drip into the pot.
I’m not thinking about the cattle. I’m not thinking about the parasite, or the treatment, or the fact that in three days this nightmare might be over.
I’m thinking about the barn.
Because I can hear them.
The bunkhouse is close, but the barn is closer. The wind is carrying the sound right through the open window above the sink.
It’s a distinct sound. A rhythmicthud. Wood creaking under pressure. And then, a groan.
Deep. Male. Familiar.
Seth.
My brother.
I wait for the rage. I wait for the red haze to descend, the Alpha instinct to rip through my chest and send me barreling out the door to tear him off her.
That’s what should happen. That’s what biology dictates. Another Alpha touching what’s mine.
But the rage doesn’t come.
Instead, an electric jolt shoots down my spine. It settles low in my belly, hot and heavy. My cock twitches in my jeans.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I close my eyes, and I’m transported back years, to the Dusty Boot on a Friday night. I’m twenty, maybe twenty-one. Young and stupid.
I had gone out back to the alley to take a leak, and I saw them against the brick wall. Two ranch hands I didn’t know. And a woman.
She was sandwiched between them, her head thrown back against one guy’s shoulder while the other guy had his hand up her skirt.
They were moving together, a grind of hips and hands. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
I had frozen then, just like I freeze now.
I watched for thirty seconds. I saw the way her mouth fell open. I saw the way the two men worked in tandem, knowing exactly how to push her buttons.
The bouncer had chased me off, yelling something about privacy. But I never forgot the image. I never forgot how it made me feel.
Hungry.
Now, standing in my kitchen, listening to Seth groan as he kisses the girl I was supposed to marry, I feel that same hunger. It’s a twisted, gnawing thing.
It tells me I should be in there. It tells me I should be part of it.
I hear a whimper, high and breathless.
My Sedona.
I grip the counter tighter. The coffee pot gurgles, finishing its cycle. I pour a mug, my hand shaking slightly.
I take a sip. It burns my tongue. I welcome the pain.
The screen door opens behind me.
“Is that coffee ready?”
