Page 60 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

MIRROR MIRROR MY SWEET BELL

~CALLUM~

T he scent hits me before I even reach her door.

It's unmistakable—that particular cocktail of distress and arousal that only comes from an Omega in heat.

Sweet like wildflower honey, sharp like summer rain on hot asphalt, and underneath it all, something uniquely Juniper.

Something that makes my jaw clench and my hands curl into fists at my sides.

I've been pacing the kitchen for the last hour, trying to convince myself it's none of my business.

That she's made it crystal clear since arriving at the ranch three months ago that she doesn't need anyone's help, least of all mine.

But the floorboards overhead have been creaking with her restless movements, and now that scent is seeping through the old farmhouse like smoke through cracks.

Fuck.

I grab a glass of water—an excuse, really—and head upstairs before I can talk myself out of it.

Each step on the worn wooden stairs feels heavier than the last. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, interested in a way that's both inconvenient and inevitable.

I've kept him on a tight leash since Juniper arrived, all sharp edges and stubborn independence wrapped in curves that make my mouth water.

The hallway stretches before me, lit only by the amber glow from the guest room at the end.

Her door is cracked open, just enough for that intoxicating scent to pour out in waves.

I pause outside, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing, the rustle of sheets, a barely suppressed whimper that goes straight to my cock.

Turn around. Walk away. Let her handle it.

Instead, I push the door open wider and step into the doorway.

The sight that greets me nearly brings me to my knees.

Juniper is a tangle of limbs and twisted sheets, her silver-white hair with those purple tips plastered to her face and neck with sweat.

She's wearing next to nothing—a tank top that's more suggestion than coverage and shorts that have ridden up to reveal the curve of her ass.

The bed beneath her is soaked, dark patches spreading outward from where her hips grind desperately against the mattress.

She hasn't noticed me yet, too lost in her misery to register my presence. Her face is buried in the pillow, muffling sounds that alternate between frustrated growls and needy whines. Every muscle in her body is taut, fighting against what her biology demands.

I've seen Omegas in heat before. Hell, I've helped more than a few through it over the years.

But something about seeing Juniper like this—proud, stubborn, independent Juniper reduced to pure need—hits different.

Maybe it's because I've watched her these past months, throwing herself into ranch work like she has something to prove.

Maybe it's because she looks at me like I'm either furniture or an adversary, never anything in between.

Or maybe it's because my wolf has been half in love with her since the day she showed up, all fierce determination and hidden vulnerability.

The floorboard creaks under my weight, and her head snaps up. Those violet eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, are glazed with fever. For a moment, we just stare at each other. I can see the war playing out across her face—mortification battling need, pride wrestling with desperation.

I should leave. Should give her privacy to suffer through this alone like she clearly wants. But I can't. Not when every instinct is screaming at me to help her, to ease her suffering, to give her what she needs even if she's too stubborn to ask for it.

"Do you need something?" she croaks, voice wrecked and defensive.

Yes, I think. You. Under me. Around me. Mine.

But what I say is, "Was going to check if you needed anything."

She shifts, and I catch a fuller glimpse of just how bad it is. Her thighs are slick, glistening in the lamplight. The scent intensifies, and I have to breathe through my mouth to keep from doing something stupid. Like crossing the room and putting my mouth on her until she screams.

"I'm fine." The lie is so transparent it's almost insulting. "It's just the flu."

I lean against the doorframe, trying to look casual when every muscle in my body is coiled tight. "I've had the flu, Juniper. That's not flu."

Her glare could strip paint, but it lacks its usual force.

She's shaking now, fine tremors running through her frame as another wave hits.

I watch her bite her lip hard enough to draw blood, watch her hands fist in the sheets, watch her fight against her own body with a stubbornness that's both admirable and pointless.

"I'll get you some water," I say, though I already have the glass in my hand. I step inside, close the door behind me—giving us privacy from the rest of the house—and set the water on the bedside table.

The room is thick with her scent now, so potent I can taste it. My cock is painfully hard, pressing against my jeans, but I ignore it. This isn't about me. It's about the woman currently trying to melt into her mattress rather than admit she needs help.

"How long has it been?" I keep my voice conversational, like we're discussing the weather instead of her biological imperative to fuck.

She wipes her face with the sheet, a gesture that's both practical and heartbreaking. "Started last night. Just got worse. It's—" She stops, searching for words that don't exist. "Intense."

I nod, understanding more than she knows. "Happens sometimes. Body resets after a change."

Moving to a new place, taking on the ranch, dealing with loss—any of it could have triggered this. But knowing the why doesn't help with the what now.

"Nothing I can't handle," she says, chin lifting in that way I've come to recognize as pure Bell stubbornness.

"Doesn't mean you have to handle it alone, Juniper."

I sit on the edge of the bed, careful to maintain distance even as every instinct screams at me to pull her into my arms. To cover her with my scent, my body, my protection. To give her everything she needs and more.

She looks at me for a long moment, and I let her.

Let her see that I'm not judging, not pitying, not even hoping.

Just here. Just available if she needs me.

I catalog every detail—the flush spreading down her neck, the way her back arches involuntarily, the death grip she has on the sheets like they're the only thing keeping her grounded.

"Do you want help?"

The words hang between us, heavy with possibility. I watch her struggle, watch pride war with need, watch her teeter on the edge of surrender. When she finally nods, just once, something primal and possessive surges through me.

"Fine. Help." The words are grudging, but they're enough.

"Lie back. You're overheating."

She does, and I get my first real look at just how far gone she is.

The tank top clings to every curve, transparent with sweat.

Her nipples are hard points against the fabric, begging for attention.

The shorts have ridden up impossibly high, revealing the junction of her thighs where everything is wet and swollen and ready.

My mouth waters. My hands itch to touch. But I stay still, stay calm, even as my wolf howls for action.

"It's just a flare," I tell her, voice steadier than I feel. "But you have to let yourself have it."

She looks at me like I've suggested she set herself on fire. But I know what I'm talking about. Fighting it only makes it worse, makes it last longer, makes the suffering pointless when relief is within reach.

I watch her hands slowly unclench from the mattress. Watch her try to relax muscles that have been wound tight for hours. When I peel the sheet away from her death grip, she lets me. The gesture exposes more of her—that gorgeous thigh, the evidence of her arousal that makes my head spin.

"It helps if you breathe," I say, folding the sheet with careful precision. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep from reaching for her.

"Hard to breathe when my lungs are melting."

The dry humor surprises a near-smile out of me. Even desperate and suffering, she's still Juniper. Still fighting even as she surrenders.

"Slow, then. In and out."

She tries, but it turns into a gasp that goes straight to my cock. Every point of contact between her body and the bed seems to spark, making her shift and squirm. She presses her knees together, but I can see it just makes things worse.

I know my eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide with want. I can feel it, the way my control frays at the edges. But I hold steady. For her.

"You can touch yourself, if you want," I say, keeping my voice neutral. Clinical. Like I'm not imagining my own fingers in place of hers.

Her hand shakes as it travels up her thigh. I watch, transfixed, as she finally makes contact. The sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—nearly undoes me. Her hips buck against her palm, seeking friction, seeking relief, and I've never seen anything more beautiful than Juniper Bell coming undone.

"That's good," I manage, voice dropping despite my best efforts. "Don't fight it."

She presses harder, chasing sensation with single-minded focus. Her back arches off the bed, legs spreading wider, and for a moment I think she's forgotten I'm here. Then her eyes find mine, and the raw need there nearly breaks my control.

Want floods through me—hot and demanding and absolute.

"You're doing perfect, Juniper." The words come out rougher than intended, but they seem to help. "Let it happen."

I watch her fingers work against herself, watch the flush spread across her chest, watch her mouth fall open on silent pleas. My name is on her lips, barely voiced, and it takes everything I have not to answer that call with my hands, my mouth, my cock.