Page 58 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

SOPHIA

T hree days of nonstop planning, phone calls, and design work for the fundraiser.

My fingers are cramped from creating promotional materials, posters, social media graphics, donation trackers.

My voice is hoarse from coordinating with vendors, sweet-talking local businesses into sponsorships, explaining over and over why this matters.

I even managed to publish a detailed blog post to my followers, laying out exactly what the event is, why we’re fighting so hard, and how they can get involved.

But we’re making progress. The event is coming together piece by piece, and for the first time since the lawyers showed up with their devastating news, I feel like we might actually pull this off.

The house is quiet, too quiet. The kind that makes every small sound echo.

The guys left this morning before dawn to pick up a mechanical bull from a ranch over two hours away.

The one Ridge had been planning to practice on, the one Cash swore was in working condition, turned out to be broken beyond repair.

Rusted through at the joints, hydraulics shot, dangerous enough that even looking at it wrong might cause tetanus.

So all three of them piled into Cash’s truck with the trailer attached, promising to be back by evening.

Perhaps I should have gone with them, as I miss them terribly. But someone needed to stay and manage the social media campaign preparations. Respond to donation inquiries. Answer the phone. Keep everything moving forward because we have limited time to make this a success.

I’m in my room, my nest, arranging and rearranging the pillows for the hundredth time.

It’s a nervous habit I’ve developed, this compulsive need to perfect my space.

The sun streams through the windows, lighting up the room.

The hanging chair sways gently in the breeze from the cracked window, and Chonkarella and her kittens are running around somewhere in the house.

My laptop is open on the bed, showing the donation tracker we set up.

We’ve raised eight thousand dollars in three days.

It’s good, but nowhere near enough. I refresh the page obsessively, watching the number tick up in five- and ten-dollar increments.

Every donation feels like a tiny victory, but the mountain we need to climb is still impossibly high .

A sudden ache flutters low in my belly, different from menstrual cramps, different from hunger, different from anxiety. It’s deeper, primal, spreading through my core like someone lit a match in my bloodstream. My skin suddenly feels too hot, like I’m burning from the inside out.

Then comes the gush of slick, warm and sudden, soaking through my underwear and pajama shorts in an instant.

My hand flies to the wall for support, knees already trembling. The laptop slides off the bed, hitting the floor with a crack I barely register.

“Fuck. No. Not now. Not fucking now.”

I know this feeling. Know exactly what’s happening when my heat charges forward—it’s not approaching anymore. It’s here. Full force. No warning. No gradual buildup like usual. Just zero to a hundred in seconds.

My phone. Where’s my phone?

I fumble for it on the nightstand, knocking over a book in the process. It hits the floor with a thump. A moan escapes as another wave of need crashes through me, this one strong enough to bring me to my knees.

My fingers shake so badly I can barely unlock the screen. The numbers blur, swimming in and out of focus. Last number called. Walker. Thank God.

It rings once. My thighs are trembling, more slick pooling between them .

Twice. I’m panting now, short, desperate breaths that do nothing to cool the fire.

Three times. By the third ring, I’m on my knees properly, forehead pressed to the cool hardwood floor, phone clutched in a death grip.

“Hey, darlin’, everything okay? Did the donation site crash again?”

His voice, warm and steady, breaks something in me.

“Walker,” I whimper. “Heat. It’s here. Now. Full heat.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath, then muffled cursing as he must have pulled the phone away. I hear him telling the others.

“Sophia, baby, we’re coming. We’re on our way already. Right fucking now.”

“Why did you leave?” The words tear from my throat, irrational and desperate. I know it’s not their fault, but my Omega brain doesn’t care about logic. “I should have gotten suppressants. I knew it was close. God, it hurts so much.”

Another wave hits and I cry out, phone slipping from my sweaty palm. It clatters across the floor, but I can still hear voices. Someone else picks up.

“Sugar? Sophia, talk to me. Keep talking to me,” Cash says.

I reach for the phone, every movement sending sparks through my oversensitive skin. “Cash,” I sob, finally grabbing the device with trembling fingers. “Please. I can’t—I need?—”

“How bad is it, scale of one to ten?”

“Eleven. Twelve. Fuck, I don’t know!” My voice breaks on a moan as another wave crashes through me. “It’s never been this intense. Never this fast. How long until you’re here?”

There’s a pause that feels like eternity. I hear the truck engine roaring louder, tires squealing, Cash telling Ridge to drive faster.

“Less than an hour, sugar. Maybe forty-five minutes if Ridge keeps this pace. We’re doing ninety with a fucking horse trailer, but we don’t care.”

I whimper, and I hate how pathetic I feel. How needy. How desperate. “That’s forever. I need someone now. Need Alpha. Need touch, need knot, need?—”

“I know, baby. I know. God, I’m so sorry we’re not there.” His voice is wrecked, and I can hear Walker and Ridge talking in the background, their voices low. “Listen to me. Cold shower. Right now. It’ll help take the edge off until we get there.”

“Can’t move,” I protest, but I’m already trying to crawl toward the bathroom.

“You can do this. You’re strong. Strongest Omega I know.”

“Don’t feel strong,” I admit, using the bed frame to pull myself up. Standing makes my head spin, my vision going white at the edges. “Feel like I’m dying. Like I’m burning alive. ”

“You’re not dying. Your body’s just calling for us. We’re coming, sugar. Ridge is about to blow the engine, he’s pushing so hard. We’re coming.”

Part of me wants to beg them to drive safely, but my body just wants them here NOW. Wants their hands on me, their knots in me, their teeth in my neck.

“Cold shower,” Cash repeats. “Deep breaths. Think about… fuck, I don’t know, think about how good it’s going to feel when we get there. How we’re going to take care of you.”

There’s a shuffle with the phone on their side again, and someone might have growled. “Whatever you need. However you need it,” Walker states in a hurried tone.

I end the call and drop it before I crawl to the bathroom. My legs won’t support me properly, muscles trembling with need, with the biological imperative to present, to submit, to be filled.

The heat clinic had taught me about this. About managing the waves when they hit. They’d inject Alpha pheromones directly into your bloodstream to trick your body, take the edge off just enough to function. Not enough to satisfy, nothing but an actual Alpha could do that, but enough to survive.

Then you’d go to the red room with soft surfaces everywhere, sex toys of every size and shape, everything an Omega might need to ride out the heat alone.

The walls were soundproof because the screaming could get intense.

They’d check on you every hour, bring water and protein bars, even offer an Alpha staff member if you wanted to hire an Alpha for the session.

They had a whole roster of professional heat partners, clean and certified and willing.

I never could bring myself to accept. Not when I had Nolan. Even though he didn’t want to touch me, the thought of another Alpha felt like betrayal.

God, what I wouldn’t give for those pheromone injections now. Just something to take the edge off this burning.

I manage to turn on the shower, cranking it to the coldest setting. Then I drag my shirt over my head and toss it aside. My pajama shorts are next, then my underwear, every movement slow and clumsy, like my own body is working against me.

The shock of cold water makes me gasp, but it helps. Marginally. Like throwing a cup of water on a house fire, but at least it’s something.

I crouch low in the shower, letting the icy water run over my heated skin.

Every drop feels like tiny needles, sharp and clarifying, but it’s better than the burning.

My nipples are hard and aching, oversensitive to even the water’s touch.

Between my legs throbs with emptiness, clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.

Time becomes fluid. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Minutes? Hours? The water has turned my skin pink, then pale, then almost blue. I’m shivering and burning simultaneously .

I try to remember the breathing exercises from the clinic. In for four, hold for four, out for four. But every breath brings another wave of need, another gush of slick that the shower immediately washes away.

My hands wander without my permission, one sliding between my legs to try to ease the ache. But my own touch isn’t enough, could never be enough. I need Alpha hands. Alpha cock. Alpha knot.

Another wave hits and I moan, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles, loud and desperate and animalistic. My vision blurs, goes dark at the edges. The bathroom tile is cold against my heated forehead as I press against it, seeking any relief.

When I open my eyes, there’s someone in the doorway.

For a moment, my heat-addled brain sees Nolan. That cruel smile, those cold eyes that looked at me with such disgust during my heats. “You’re pathetic,” he used to say. “Like an animal.”

I flinch back, a whimper escaping, pressing myself into the corner of the shower.

But as my vision clears, it’s not Nolan.

It’s worse.

It’s Ronan.