Page 48 of Run Wild Omega

I need to know if he’s okay, if he made it down.

“He and Dylan are outside dealing with the aftermath of the storm,” Miles says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “The passes are closed, the power is out in half the town, and the main road is blocked by a drift that’s already ten feet high and climbing.”

He tells me this with a calm certainty that makes me feel small, realizing the scope of the weather that nearly killed me.

As if on cue, a fresh spike of pain shoots through my leg, making me arch my back against the mattress and bite down on my lip to keep from screaming again.

Sweat breaks out instantly on my forehead. My heartbeat is frantic. The room spins, the throb in my leg taking on a rhythm that drowns out everything else.

I grip the sheets, my knuckles turning white, wishing for the numbness of the snow again, anything to make this fire stop.

“Easy, breathe through it,” Miles says, his hand applying a gentle pressure to my shoulder that helps center me. “We set the bone and got you splinted, but it was a nasty break, Tess. The trauma is going to keep the pain level high for a while.”

He moves to the small table and mixes something in a cup, the liquid sloshing gently. The sound amplifies the quiet tension in the room.

Just then, the door to the room pushes open, and Dylan walks in, carrying a basin of water and a washcloth. His presence instantly fills the small space with an energy that is vibrant and warm despite the exhaustion that clearly hangs off his shoulders. His face lights up when we lock eyes, the relief washing away the lines of worry around his mouth.

“She’s back with us,” he says to Miles, crossing the room to set the basin down on the nightstand, his movements efficient as he reaches out to check the pulse point in my wrist with gentle, competent hands. “How is the pain level? On a scale of one to ten, and don’t lie to me because I’ll know.”

He looks at me with an intensity that is surprising, seeing past the bravado I usually wear like a cloak.

“Seven,” I whisper, because it feels like the truth, a constant, thrumming background noise to my existence that makes it hard to think. “Maybe eight.”

His jaw tightens in response, empathy radiating off him in waves.

“We can up the dosage a little,” Dylan says, nodding to Miles, who disappears into a kitchenette area I hadn’t noticed in the corner to retrieve a paper cup. “You’re safe here, Tess. The storm has locked down the town, so you’re stuck with us for a day or two until they get the plows through to the main highway.”

“Stuck,” I repeat, the word feeling like a cage, even if the bars are made of snow and circumstance. “I can’t go home.”

The thought of my apartment, my sanctuary, being inaccessible makes me feel oddly vulnerable, stripping away the independence I’ve fought so hard to rebuild.

“Not in that Jeep, you can’t,” Dylan says gently, smoothing my hair back from my forehead with a hand that is warm and callused. His touch is devoid of the pity I expected, which makes my throat ache with unshed tears. “And you certainly can’t hike out on that leg. So you’re staying here for a little bit. Try not to look devastated about it.”

He grins, trying to lighten the mood, and I manage a weak smile back, appreciating the effort.

But the smile feels fragile, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of it, the fact that I’m alive, that I’m warm, that I’m not lying in a frozen grave on the side of a mountain.

The people I have been avoiding are the ones who saved me, and the irony sits heavy in my chest, displacing the fear that had taken up residence there. They didn’t leave me; they came for me when I needed them most.

Footsteps echo in the hallway outside the room, and then Wyatt is turning the corner into the doorway, his phone still pressed to his ear as he barks an order into it about sandbags or road closures. He stops dead the second his eyes land on mine, the conversation dying on his lips as he takes in the sight of me sitting up. He looks wrecked, his aura of command crumbling into relief.

There’s dried blood on his temple, a dark crust against his pale skin, and his uniform is torn at the shoulder, the dark green fabric stained with mud and ice. But none of that matters when compared to the look in his eyes, which is wild and desperate and entirely focused on me. He ends the call without saying goodbye, letting the phone drop from his hand and hit the floor with a thud that neither of us acknowledges.

“Tess,” he breathes, his hands hovering over me like he wants to touch me but is terrified of hurting me more. “You’re awake. Thank God. Can you breathe? Does your head hurt? Does anything else hurt?”

He’s checking me over, his eyes scanning every inch of my face like he’s memorizing me, cataloging my injuries.

“I’m okay,” I say, though the tears are suddenly spilling over my cheeks, hot and fast, tracking down into my ears. The stress of the last hours, the fear, the pain, it all breaks loose now that he’s here. “My leg… it hurts, Wyatt. It hurts so much.”

I reach out, needing to anchor myself to something real, something solid.

“I know,” he says, one of his hands finally coming to rest on top of the blankets, right over my heart. The heat of his palm bleeds through the fabric, searing into my skin and settling the frantic rhythm of my pulse. “I’m organizing a heli transfer. The weather window is opening up tomorrow morning, and I’m going to get you to Glenwood Springs Hospital. They have an ortho team there. You need a real surgeon, Tess, not field medicine.”

“You came for me,” I say, the realization hitting me with the force of a physical blow, knocking the breath out of me. “I saw you. In the crevice. You came.”

I remember the dream, the confusion, and the absolute certainty of his presence saving me from the dark.

“I’ll always come for you, babe,” he says, the endearment slipping out so naturally it feels like he’s been saying it every day for the last ten years.