Page 8 of Omega’s Fold

“What’s his name?”

“Wyatt Briggs.”

She starts peppering me with questions that I can’t answer. I know nothing about this man other than his name, where he lives and that he doesn’t want to meet me.

Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll arrive there and he’ll chase me off his land with a shotgun. Even the Bureau won’t expect me to comply in those circumstances.

I can only hope.

3. Wyatt

I’m pulling wire on the south fence line when I hear the engine.

Caleb’s on the far side of the post, hammer in his hand. He looks up. So do I. The car is too quiet to be anything local. It sounds electric. Must be a rental.

“Ray?” Caleb says.

“Not in that.”

“Delivery?”

“Not on a Friday.”

I straighten. The car clears the last dip and comes into view. It’s silver, picking its way up my dirt road at a crawl.

My chest goes tight. My scalp prickles. I’ve been telling myself that the Bureau thing was nothing, that deleting the notification was the end of it.

I know anyway.

The car rolls up beside us on the road and stops. The engine cuts. For a second there’s only the wind and the pumps a mile off, and then the door opens and a man gets out.

He’s taller than me. He has dark hair cut short at the sides. His eyes meet mine, and the wind shifts, and I stop breathing.

He smells incredible. I don’t have any other word for it. His is a scent I have never encountered in my life. I recognize it deep in my core like I’ve been looking for it.

It hits the flat of my sternum and spreads outward. My knees lock. My stomach pulls low and hot in a way I have never felt in broad daylight, not once, not ever. My jaw clamps so hard a tooth clicks and I bend at the waist, slow, and set the coil of wire on the ground because my hand has started to shake.

No.

Absolutely not.

The man has gone still. Very still. His chin has come up. He is staring at me, and his shoulders have set in a way that tells me his body has done to him what mine is doing to me.

“Wyatt,” Caleb says, low.

Oh God. I forgot Caleb is here.

I swallow. “I see him.”

The alpha closes his car door without looking at it and starts walking. He stops ten feet short of where the fence line comes down to the drive. He does not step onto the pasture.

“I’m sorry to turn up like this,” he says. His voice is deep. It reverberates through me. “I’m Julian Duffield. You were supposed to meet me yesterday.”

My mouth is dry. I work my jaw once. Maybe there are words somewhere inside of me, but I’ll be damned if I can get them out now.

“The Bureau insisted I come out,” he continues. He pauses and picks his way through the next sentence. “Because apparently we’re a prime match.”

Behind me, Caleb inhales and doesn’t exhale.