Page 129 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

“You don’t have to ignore the ranch on my account,” I said sullenly. “I don’t need babysitters.”

“No, that you do not,” Wyatt slowly nodded, “but you sure as hell need bodyguards.”

I snorted. “Had plenty of those in Seattle. Bouncers slash security. They made sure Alphas like you didn’t get too handsy. I could handle my own most of the time though.”

“I thought you were a ballet dancer. A principal with a company called The Imperial?” This from Wade, who seemed genuinely confused.

I gritted my teeth, realizing I'd stepped right into a minefield I had little desire to navigate yet, which was why I’d redacted the earlier ‘pretending to be a Beta’ story. Eros only gave them the pretty details about me, apparently, not the gritty, less marketable ones. That was on brand, considering how they’d framed the Omegas as willing and able.

How would they react? Would they go from wanting me here, to realizing I was more defective than they’d ever imagined and booting me right back to Eros? If they did that, would I just end up waiting for another match? Would I go through all this trauma again?

"I was a principal ballerina," I said, crossing my arms defensively, glad I had the counter for support as my knees tried to buckle.But why? Why did the revelation I’d stripped bother me?I’d found a new life at Club Midnight. I’d grown to love being Lucky Star on that stage. I wouldn’t let anyone make me feel ashamed. I gathered myself and spoke with more confidence.

"Ballet ended for me with a loose ribbon and a bad landing." The memory still stung, a wound that would never fully heal. "Club Midnight paid better than barista work, not that I could get a job at a coffee shop.” I lifted my hand in the air, hand vertical, palm facing outward. I slid it through the air like I was tracing an imaginary billboard in the sky. “Nelly Shaw, former prodigy ballerina, turned unmated Omega no one wanted to hire."

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen. I could practically feel them processing this new information, calculating how it fit with whatever narrative Eros had sold them.

"You were a stripper?" Boone asked, his deep voice surprised.

Feeling defensive, oscillating between wanting these Alphas and hating them, I imagined that Boone’s tone of voice was tantamount to him sloughing off the part his pack had played in my mistreatment.

"Exotic dancer," I corrected automatically, though I hated myself for caring about the distinction in front of these men. "And it's none of your business what I did to survive. Me dancing half-dressed on a stage doesn’t mean I gave away my autonomy. What? Do you think I was selling my body, so it’s not that terrible that you bought me? News flash, I never gave out extras. My private dances stayed dances.”

I scowled at him. In that moment, I didn’t even care how fucking handsome he was.

“I would never think that, Nelly. I only meant?—”

Boone’s scrambling words were interrupted by Cooper’s return.

Good. I didn’t want to hear the flimsy excuses anyways.

Cooper looked back and forth from me to Boone, confused. He held a laptop in hand. "Not sure what’s going on, but the email’s sent," he announced. "Subject line: Contract dissolution options."

I eyed the computer suspiciously. "Let me see it."

He walked it over to me and turned the laptop screen in my direction without hesitation. I scanned the message, which was surprisingly straightforward and professional—requesting information about the process for nullifying the contract given "unexpected circumstances." He didn’t expand on whytheir pack wanted info on breaking the contract. He hadn’t complained about me. He’d kept it sterile and succinct.

“Great,” I grumbled. “If they try to say you can’t break it for some reason, just tell them you found out I was a lowlife stripper, and you’re not satisfied.”

Cooper frowned, closing the slim laptop and tucking it under one arm. “I think I missed something.”

“Just the fact that I danced naked for a bunch of Alphas. You bought damaged goods.” I held Cooper’s gaze, daring him to flinch away. All he did was quirk an eyebrow like he didn’t understand my animosity.

“Nelly,” Boone’s voice again, “No one called you a lowlife, and you’re not damaged goods. No one here is judging you.”

“Aren’t you?” I asked, mouth trembling.

All my worries about how my grandpa would feel over my choice of job, all my self-deprecation, came flooding back. I’d gotten over it after a few months of dancing at Club Midnight…or I thought I had.

"Don't play that game with me," Boone said, his voice somehow softer than before. "We all have pasts. We all had shit fall apart. All made mistakes."

"Yeah, well, mine's a lot more recent than yours probably is. And,” I looked at him defiantly, “I never said dancing at Club Midnight was a mistake.”

“No, you didn’t. I’m just saying that we aren’t the kind of people who judge others,” he insisted, swiping one hand in a practiced motion over his forehead, down behind his ear, then around the back of his neck to gather all his hair and pull it over the opposite shoulder. A girl could get jealous of those mile-long, lustrous locks. I fiddled with my own hair, frowning at how dry it felt. The shampoo they’d had was some strange brand with a horse on its label, and by the name, I was pretty sure it was meant for actual horses, not humans.

Silence fell, an ocean flooding through the kitchen. We were drowning and none of us could fight for air, let alone words.

It stretched, as the ocean tends to do, from horizon to horizon. Endless.