Page 17 of Run Wild Omega

I blink, surprised. “To the fundraiser?”

“Yeah.” He laughs, the sound bright and unselfconscious. “I know, sounds thrilling, right? Burnt burgers at the firehouse, but it’s for a good cause. We need new equipment. And it’s also a chance for all of us to hang out. I was hoping to see you there.”

He holds my gaze, his eyes a warm, molten brown. There’s no pressure in his scent, no aggression. Just… interest. Pure and simple.

My Omega instincts, usually so wary, don’t bristle. They don’t scream danger. They just… hum. It’s confusing. He’s part of Wyatt’s pack. He’s like the brother of the man who broke my heart. I should feel guarded.

But I don’t. I feel seen.

“I don’t know, Dylan,” I say slowly. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

“I figured you’d say that.” He pushes off the wall, his grin widening. “So I’ll make you a deal. Come for ten minutes. If you hate it, I’ll personally walk you out and buy you a beer afterward. My treat.”

He leans in a fraction, close enough that I can smell the woodsmoke again.

“What do you say, Tess? Give us a chance?”

I look at him—this golden, easy Alpha who doesn’t make me want to run, who doesn’t make me feel like a project. It’s terrifying and wonderful all at once.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

“That’s all I ask.” He steps aside, clearing the path to the bathroom. “Enjoy your night, Tess.”

“You too, Dylan.”

I slip into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I stare at myself in the mirror.

Give us a chance.

He wasn’t just talking about the dinner. I know it. He knows it.

And the worst part is, for the first time in two years, I actually want to.

Wyatt

The whiteboard in the conference room is a mess of red and black marker. Wind shear data, snowpack telemetry, GPS coordinates from today’s probe tests—it looks like a war plan.

I lean back in my chair. My back aches, a dull throb that starts at the base of my spine and works its way up to my neck. Five hours on a ridge in high winds will do that to you.

“And the temp on the north face is dropping faster than the models predicted,” Miles says, tapping the whiteboard with the cap of his marker. He looks tired, his glasses slipping down his nose, but his focus is razor-sharp. “If we get another two inches tonight, the slide risk goes from considerable to high by 0600.”

I nod, rubbing a hand over my face. “We pull the permits for the North Trail in the morning. Notify the Forest Service. I don’t want any tour groups up there until we do a controlled blast.”

Miles writes it down, precise letters.

I’m the head of Search and Rescue. It’s a title that comes with a lot of paperwork and a salary that surprises most people in a town like Sweet Creek. After my discharge, the county courted me hard. They wanted a name, a veteran hero to put on the brochures, to secure federal funding. I didn’t want the glory, but I took the job because it was the only thing I knew how to do.

Officially, I report to the County Sheriff’s Department—Sheriff Reddick is my boss on paper—but out here, in the snow and the ice, no one tells me what to do. When the helicopter can’t fly and the clock is ticking, I make the calls. The pay is good, better than I expected, but it’s meaningless when you’re pulling a body out of a ravine.

“What about the group you encountered today?” Miles asks, not looking up from the board. “The tech guys.”

“Tess handled them.”

The room goes quiet. Miles freezes for a fraction of a second, the marker hovering over the board. He knows the rule. We talk about wind, snow, ice, and gear. We don’t talk about her.

Not since the wedding.

“Right.” Miles clears his throat. “Good. Did they give you trouble?”