Page 90 of Run Wild Omega

A ghost of a smile crosses his face—faint, fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appears. He takes a breath, holds it, lets it out slowly. His hands steady.

He brings the blade to her neck.

The cut is small, no more than an inch long. Tess hisses through her teeth, her fingers tightening on his shoulders, but she doesn’t pull away. A thin line of red wells up from the cut, bright against her pale skin.

Wyatt sets the blade aside. He presses his thumb over the cut—not hard enough to hurt worse, just enough to apply pressure—and then he leans in and puts his mouth over the wound.

The sound she makes isn’t a whimper this time. It’s something deeper, something that resonates in her chest and travels through the air and hits me in the sternum. Wyatt’s jaw works as he holds the position—suction, pressure, the instinctive motion of an Alpha sealing a mark. His eyes are closed, and the expression on his face is so raw, so exposed, that I have to look away.

When he pulls back, the wound is sealed. A thin red line remains, already beginning to scab. It sits on her mating gland like a signature.

Wyatt sits back on his heels, his lips stained with her blood.

Tess touches the mark with tentative fingers. She winces, then lets her hand fall.

“It’s done,” she says.

I don’t know if she’s talking to us or to herself.

The hospital parking lot is fuller than it was yesterday. Daniel’s press conference bought us a cycle, but the media is persistent—they’ve settled in like they plan to stay, satellite trucks lined up along the curb, reporters huddled in clusters, cameras ready.

Wyatt parks in the VIP section near the east entrance—the hospital arranged it after Daniel’s legal team sent a strongly worded letter about patient access and media harassment. I pull in beside him. Miles takes the spot on the other side.

We get out and open Tess’s door. She swings her injured leg out first, then reaches for the crutches that Miles has pulled from the back seat. She’s moving better than yesterday—still slow, still painful, but with a determination that turns each hop into a statement of defiance.

She’s wearing a high-necked sweater that covers the mark. Strategic. The scenting, though, that’s obvious to anyone who gets close. The three of us walking on either side of her, our scents layered on her skin, our body language forming a clear perimeter—that’s the message.

Wyatt takes point, opening the east entrance door and scanning the hallway before gesturing Tess through. I flank her right side. Miles walks behind, close enough to deter anyone who might think about approaching.

The hallway is clear—Maggie’s influence, again. She’s had security posted at every entrance, and the hospital administration has been cooperative since Daniel’s legal team made it clear that patient privacy violations would result in litigation.

We make it to the imaging department without incident. The technician, a young woman with purple streaks in her hair and a no-nonsense demeanor, gets Tess set up on the table and positions the machine for the tibial X-rays.

“The doctor wants to check rod alignment,” she explains, adjusting the angles. “This shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. You can wait in the hallway.”

We wait.

The hallway is quiet. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The persistent smell of antiseptic mixes with the lingering evidence of the scenting—Tess’s alpine sweetness intertwined with all three of ours, a combined scent that’s already starting to settle into something cohesive.

Pack scent. That’s what it’s called. When a pack consistently scents the same Omega, their individual markers merge over time into something distinct—a blended signature that signals bonded pack to anyone with a functioning nose.

We haven’t been doing this long enough for the blend to form naturally. But the artificial overlay of three scents applied in quick succession will read as pack scent to a casual observer. Close enough to pass. For now.

Wyatt is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring at nothing. Miles is pacing—three steps left, three steps right, a restless, caged rhythm that he can’t seem to stop. I’m standing still, watching the door, but my mind is back in that bedroom.

The sound she made when Wyatt sealed the mark.

The way her fingers gripped his shoulders.

The look on Wyatt’s face when he pulled away—like he’d just been given something he didn’t deserve and was terrified it would be taken from him.

This isn’t fake.

Not the way it’s supposed to be, anyway. The plan is strategic—Miles laid it out, Daniel signed off, we all agreed. But the execution—the trembling hands, the shuddering breath, the sound she made—none of that was in the briefing.

I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if it changes anything. But I know what I felt when I pressed my mouth to her throat and breathed her in, and it wasn’t strategy.

The imaging room door opens and the technician peeks out. “We’re done. You can come get her.”