Page 29 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Becomes telling in all the ways that make my heart clench with old hurt and new hope in equal measure.

I try to act like the silence doesn't bother me, but it does.

It bothers me more than it should, more than I want to admit, more than is fair after ten years of building walls specifically designed to protect me from caring about their answers to questions like this.

"It's complicated," Wes finally mutters, and even unconscious, even pretending to sleep, I can hear the defeat in his voice.

Complicated.

The same word that's been following us around for a decade.

The same excuse, the same deflection, the same refusal to actually address what's broken between us.

"Then uncomplicate it," the woman counters, her tone sharp with impatience.

The suggestion seems to surprise them.

I can feel the shift in the room's energy, the way all three of them go still like they've been called out on something they weren't expecting to defend.

"It's not like we're not interested in her," Beckett says finally, and there's something careful in his voice, like he's testing the waters of a conversation he's not sure he should be having.

"No shit," the doctor replies with the kind of blunt honesty that makes me want to cheer. "That's pretty obvious with how you guys nagged me to do a home visit despite me having a twelve-month waitlist."

Twelve months?

They convinced a doctor with a twelve-month waitlist to make a house call?

How the hell did they manage that?

And more importantly, what did they say to her that made my situation sound urgent enough to bump everyone else in line?

"I'm thankful that you made it a priority to come at Beckett's father's request," Callum says, and there's genuine gratitude in his voice. "But things are complicated because this isn't a simple thing to fix. There's history, and hurt, and..."

He trails off, apparently unable or unwilling to finish the thought.

Unable to put into words the decade of damage that stretches between us like a chasm that might be too wide to bridge.

I hear the doctor huff, followed by the sound of her gathering things—the snap of a medical bag closing, the rustle of papers being shuffled.

"All you Alphas are the same," she says, and there's a weariness in her voice that speaks of experience with exactly this kind of situation.

"Let me guess. You douche bags were probably head over heels for this Omega, and you fucked it up.

Fucked it up so badly that she probably said 'fuck y'all' and ditched, and then you guys have been miserable ever since. "

The accuracy is breathtaking.

And devastating.

And somehow both validating and humiliating at the same time.

Because yes, that's exactly what happened.

But hearing it laid out so clinically, so matter-of-factly, makes it sound both more and less significant than it felt at the time.

When none of them answer— because what could they possibly say to that level of brutal honesty? —she sighs, and I can hear her moving toward what I assume is the door.

"I'll take my leave," she says. "Make sure she follows the medication schedule I've outlined, and call if her condition changes."

"Wait," Wes says, and there's something desperate in his voice that makes my chest tight. "How did you know that? About what happened between us?"

The doctor's laugh is short and humorless.

"Because you Alphas are all the same," she repeats.

"You get scared of commitment, scared of responsibility, scared of actually having to be worthy of the Omega you claim to want.

So you fuck around, waste time, make excuses, and then act surprised when the Omega gets tired of waiting for you to grow up. "

Her words hit directly like a shot fired at a target.

Bullseye.

Because those words are true.

They cut right to the heart of everything I've spent ten years trying not to think about.

Because they name the thing I've never been able to articulate—the way it felt like they were asking me to wait for something they weren't sure they wanted to give.

"It's good she ditched you guys," the doctor continues, her voice gaining momentum and heat. "Because you're so indecisive about what you want, you think wasting an Omega's youth is fun? You think putting her through years of uncertainty and mixed signals is somehow noble?"

"That wasn't our intention," Beckett argues, and there's pain in his voice that makes my heart clench. "We never intended to waste her time."

"Then how many years has it been since you guys were together?" the doctor asks, her tone suggesting she already knows the answer won't be flattering.

The silence stretches.

Becomes uncomfortable.

Becomes damning.

"Ten years," Wes finally mutters, the words so quiet I almost miss them.

Ten years.

A decade.

A third of my life spent in the aftermath of their decision to push me away.

A third of my life spent trying to build something new from the wreckage of what we used to be.

The doctor's groan is audible, filled with the kind of exasperated disbelief that suggests she's heard this story before but it never gets less infuriating.

"Ten years?!" she exclaims. "You Alphas really love to waste our time, don't you?"

"She could have been with another pack," Callum argues, and there's something defensive in his voice that makes me want to shake him. "We couldn't have known she was still..."

Still what?

Still single?

Still hoping?

Still carrying their mark on my heart like a scar that never properly healed?

"And don't you think she wants to be?" the doctor counters, her voice rising with indignation.

"Or in fact, hadn't tried? You think she just waited and waited after you guys probably did something so horrendously wrong that a sixteen-year-old just leaves her town to go somewhere so far away that none of you could chase after her? "

The accuracy is breathtaking.

And painful.

Because yes, I tried.

God knows I tried.

I spent years attempting to build something with other people, other Alphas, other possibilities.

But nothing ever felt right.

Nothing ever felt like home the way they had.

Nothing ever compared to the way it felt to be surrounded by their scents, their presence, their absolute certainty that I was worth protecting.

"We tried to find her," Wes argues, and there's genuine anguish in his voice. "We looked everywhere, called everyone we could think of. She just... disappeared."

"And failed," the doctor says flatly. "You tried and failed."

The words hang in the air like an indictment.

Because they did fail.

They looked, but not hard enough.

They searched, but not long enough.

They gave up, eventually, the way people always do when the thing they're looking for seems too hard to find.

And I let them.

I made sure they couldn't find me.

I changed my name, used my mother's maiden name, moved to cities where no one knew where I came from or who I used to be.

I made myself unfindable because I was seventeen and hurt and convinced that if they really wanted me, they would have fought harder to keep me in the first place.

Because I was seventeen and operating under the assumption that love meant never having to chase, never having to beg, never having to wonder if you were wanted.

Because I was seventeen and didn't understand that sometimes the people you love make mistakes so big they spend the rest of their lives trying to figure out how to fix them.

The doctor's sigh carries the weight of years, of countless conversations like this one, of watching the same patterns play out over and over again with different faces but identical heartbreak.

"I'm not trying to be harsh," she says, and there's something softer in her voice now, less cutting edge and more weary resignation.

"Especially when I don't know the true facts of your particular situation.

But you have to understand how tiring it is to witness not just one or two Omegas, but hundreds of Omegas all dealing with this same exact cycle. "

Hundreds.

I'm not special in my heartbreak.

I'm not unique in my decade of waiting and wondering and trying to move on from something that shaped me before I was old enough to understand what it meant.

I'm just another statistic in a pattern so common it has its own clinical terminology.

"One misunderstanding when the universe brought you guys together at the perfect moment," the doctor continues, her voice gaining momentum as she leans into what's clearly a familiar lecture.

"One screw-up, and now you've spent years wasted, messing around with different individuals.

You guys with different Omegas versus her having to try different packs because she thinks she was incompatible with her true match. "

The accuracy is devastating.

Because that's exactly what happened.

Years of first dates that felt wrong, relationships that never progressed beyond surface level, connections that left me feeling more alone than if I'd stayed single.Wondering what was wrong with me that I couldn't seem to connect with anyone the way I'd connected with them.

Thinking maybe I was broken, maybe I was too damaged by whatever had gone wrong to ever find something real again.

"We hadn't gone with anyone," Wes argues, and there's something defensive and raw in his voice. "At least, not for anything serious. Not for anything that mattered."

The admission hits me harder than it should.

They didn't move on either.

They didn't find their perfect Omega somewhere else or build the life they thought they needed to protect me from.

They just... existed.

In the same liminal space I've been occupying, going through the motions of dating and relationships without ever really investing in any of it.