Page 5 of Knot the Stray

I watch her; a genuine smile transforms her face, erasing her reserved customer-service mask. The sight sends a heavy ache straight to my chest. I want to see that smile directed at me. I want to get to know the woman hiding behind the desk.

Nolan crouches down to put on Duke’s collar and leash. “Come here, buddy. No more solo road trips for you.”

Nolan rubs the dog’s muddy ears, keeping a tight grip on the lead. Edward stands up and brushes a paw print off his jeans. He looks right at Jessie. His voice drops a full octave, a low, rumbling Alpha timber slipping into his tone.

“We owe you one. You saved our asses today.”

Jessie holds her ground, refusing to retreat or act intimidated by Edward’s size or his proximity. “Just keep him out of the road. That’s thanks enough.”

She maintains her professional boundaries without breaking a sweat. She steps to the side, gesturing for us to follow her back to the lobby. I admire her quiet strength. She holds her own around three Alphas with zero effort.

We walk back to the front desk. I reach for my wallet again. “What’s the damage for the impound and the exam? I’ve got cash or a card.”

Jessie waves a hand in the air, shutting the gesture down fast. “Put the leather away, Officer Hayes. I don’t charge an invoice for keeping a golden retriever off my bumper.”

“You run a business. We take up your time, we pay for it.”

“Consider it a public service.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “But take a piece of professional advice. If that dog clears your fences, you need to hook him up to a long lead when you leave him outside unsupervised. Next time he hops the property line, he might not meet a driver with fast reflexes.”

I appreciate her genuine care for the dogl’s wellbeing. It adds another layer of attraction to the pile.

We have no more excuses to linger in her clinic. I turn toward the door. “Thanks again, Doc.”

My eyes stay on her face for a long, searching second. I inhale deep, hoping to catch a slip of something underneath the perfume. I want a hint of a scent match.

I get nothing but roses and musk. The floral scent burns the inside of my nose. I push past the irritation, my brain still trying to find the source of the pull keeping my boots glued to her floor.

She offers a polite nod and returns her focus to a stack of paperwork on the desk. A clear dismissal.

The three of us walk out the front glass door. The bell chimes behind us. We step onto the sidewalk in a collective daze. The cool afternoon breeze does nothing to shake the heavy, lingering distraction she caused. I stop on the pavement and look back through the glass. I catch a glimpse of her dark hair before she disappears into a back room.

Edward and Nolan stand beside me, staring at the brick building. A heavy silence stretches between us. We just met a Beta who threw our instincts into a tailspin, and none of us have a damn clue what to make of it.

Burying Head in Sand

Jessie

The brass bell above the front glass doors chimes as the three men step out into the afternoon heat. The door swings shut, catching the latch with a soft click. I drop the polite, customer-service smile. I turn my back to the front windows and head straight for the hallway leading to the treatment rooms.

Out of sight, I exhale a long, shaky breath and brace both hands flat against the cool stainless steel of an exam table. My knuckles turn bone-white against the metal. I kept my cool, professional mask in place while those Alphas stood in my lobby, but now, the adrenaline crash hits me hard. My knees shake under my cargo pants. I close my eyes and force air into my lungs, trying to steady my breathing.

My morning suppressant pill keeps my slick, sweet scent hidden from the world, but the drugs do nothing to dull my olfactory senses. I smell everything. The moment those three men walked through the doors, my inner Omega jerkes awake. The physical reaction hits me like a freight train. I recognize the scent profile the second it washes over me. The air inside the small building still hangs heavy with the rich, dark base note of ripe fig. That specific aroma acts as the unmistakable signature of a bonded Alpha pack. It ties them together.

Interwoven with that grounding base are the distinct, individual undertones that make my head spin. I catch the earthy bite of vetiver from the police officer. The warm, dark spice of clove radiates from the massive guy in the work boots. The comforting, steeped aroma of black tea lingers from the guy with the dark frames.

The combination creates a flawless, complementary scent match. It hits every single receptor in my brain. It acts as the ultimate Omega compatibility. Omegas spend their entire lives chasing this. Finding a perfect match guarantees a seamless Heat and a stable pack dynamic.

Instead of joy, a wave of unadulterated terror washes over me.

A scent match means instinctual demands. It means an overwhelming, undeniable drive to submit, to be claimed, and to put down permanent roots. My hard-wiring screams at me to run out into the parking lot and bare my neck. The urge makes my skin crawl. Every survival instinct I developed bouncing through the foster system flares to life, warning me to run.

I learned a long time ago that attachments lead to vulnerability. Relying on an Alpha pack means giving up the hard-won independence I built my entire career around. I refuse to give up my power. I rely on myself. I pay my bills, I drive my van, and I pack my bags the second things get complicated. I spent years fighting tooth and nail to build a life where I answer to no one. I refuse to let my nature dictate my future and turn me into a submissive housewife stuck in a small town.

Desperate to clear my head and burn off the panic, I push away from the exam table. I march down the hallway to the supply closet. I grab a heavy plastic scrub brush, a pair of thick yellow rubber gloves, and a gallon jug of industrial bleach.

Heading straight back to the kennel area, Duke left a mess of mud and loose golden fur all over the bottom run. I throw myself into the physical labor. I dump a generous splash of thick bleach onto the linoleum floor of the enclosure. The harsh, toxic chemical smell burns the inside of my nose. I welcome the sting. It overrides the fig and spice, clouding my brain.

I pull the rubber gloves on, drop to my knees on the wet floor, and scrub the chain-link gate. I put all my weight into the brush, attacking the dried mud on the bars. The harsh bristles scrape against the metal, a loud, grounding noise in the empty clinic. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. I scrub the floor tiles, working the stiff bristles into the grout until my shoulders burn and my arms ache. I focus on the pain in my muscles. The burn in my biceps feels real and manageable.