Page 24 of Run Wild Omega

My smile fades.

The urge to reach out and touch his hand is sudden and violent. I want to cover his fist with my palm, to feel his skin, to offer him whatever comfort he won’t ask for.

I stare at his hand, and a memory hits me so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of me.

We’re sixteen. The high school cafeteria is loud, echoing with the sounds of trays slamming and teenagers shouting. I’m sitting with the popular crowd, the other Omega girls, but I’m not listening. I’m watching Wyatt.

He’s sitting alone at a table in the corner, his head buried in a textbook. He’s wearing a hoodie that’s two sizes too big, the cuffs fraying. Every day, he skips lunch. I thought he was studying, or maybe just shy.

It wasn’t until later, when I dragged him out to his truck to “study,” that I realized the truth. He didn’t have lunch money. His dad had died two years prior, and his mom was working double shifts at the hospital. Every penny went to the mortgage and the electric bill. Wyatt was starving himself so she wouldn’t have to worry.

So, I started packing lunches. Two of everything. I’d tug on his sleeve in the hallway, pull him toward the parking lot, and we’d eat in the cab of his beat-up truck while the rain pattered on the roof. I’d make up excuses—Mom made too much, I’m on a diet and can’t eat it all—but he knew. He always knew.

Even then, I wanted to protect him. I wanted to wrap myself around him and shield him from the world that was so cruel to someone so good.

He was the Alpha. I was the Omega. By every law of biology and society, he should have been the one providing for me. He should have been the one taking care of me.

But with Wyatt, it was never like that. It was never about designation. It was about us. And God, I wanted to protect him then.

Looking at him now, his hand shaking on the table, I want to protect him just as much.

Fuck.

I curl my own hands in my lap, digging my nails into my palms. I need to get a grip.

“What are you doing here, Wyatt?” I ask, my voice harder now. “You came all this way, sat in my mom’s café, just to ask if I’m happy?”

He clears his throat, looking away from me. “I wanted to talk to you about the terrain on the south face. With the snow we got last night, I think it would be safest if your groups stay off the upper slopes for a few days.”

I watch him closely. His jaw is tight, the muscle feathering beneath the skin. He’s lying.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, a nervous tic he’s had since we were kids. He never could lie to me worth a damn.

“You could have called the office,” I point out. “You could have radioed Leo. You didn’t need to come down here and ambush me with coffee.”

He shrugs, a jerky movement. “I was in town.”

“Bullshit.”

“Tess—”

“What are you really doing here?” I lean forward, invading his space this time. “Why the sudden interest in my life?”

Wyatt sighs, the sound ragged. He looks back at me, and the walls seem to come down. He looks tired. So incredibly tired.

“He told me,” Wyatt says quietly. “About the station dinner. He invited you.”

My back stiffens. “Yeah. So?”

“So if you want to go… you should.”

I stare at him, completely taken aback. The audacity of him. The sheer, unmitigated gall.

I let out an incredulous laugh. “Excuse me? Since when do I need your permission to hang out with your friends? Since when do I need your approval to go to a charity dinner?”

“I’m not giving you permission,” he snaps, his voice rising slightly. A few heads turn in the café. He lowers his tone, leaning in. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what the fuck are you saying, Wyatt?” I hiss. “Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re telling me where I can and can’t go.”