Page 26 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

Eleven months ago... Pinedale, Wyoming

I’d kill a rattlesnake with my bare hands, if necessary, but I hated fucking needles.

I followed the Eros representative across our ranch yard, my boots crunching on gravel as we made our way toward the sleek, mobile laboratory. My hands kept clenching and unclenching at my sides, betraying the nerves I couldn’t swallow down.

It was ridiculous—I’d taken down a bobcat threatening our herd twice before and, hell, I’d barely broken a sweat, but the thought of a tiny needle piercing my skin made my blood run cold. As we got nearer the modern mobile lab eyesore set against the rugged beauty of our rural ranch, my steps slowed involuntarily. I tried to convince myself that getting an Omega would make this worth it, but no matter how I sliced the cake, I couldn’t justify getting stabbed ten ways to Sunday.

"This way, Mister Atwood," the Beta woman said, her voice crisp and unaffected by my obvious hesitation. She probably dealt with reluctant Alphas all the time.

The sun beat down on my shoulders, warming the back of my neck. I pulled a leather tie from my pocket and gathered my hair at the nape of my neck, securing it in place. I ran my hand down the sleek strands, pulling the lengthy ponytail over my shoulder.

Behind me, I heard Wade and Wyatt muttering to each other. Despite their very different personalities, the twins had a way of communicating that unintentionally shut everyone else out. Cooper was a few feet ahead of me, radiating anxious energy that made my own worse. And Levi hung back, his hands fiddling with the Eros inscribed pen he’d pilfered after signing paperwork.

I couldn’t bring myself to be mad at Cooper.

I knew why he’d done this.

We needed it. We couldn’t keep denying the truth.

An Omega—the right Omega—could stabilize us, complete our pack in a way nothing else could. Without that balance, we'd keep sliding toward something dangerous. I should have known Cooper would do something like this.How many times had he rested in the circle of my arms lately, bringing up his childhood? How many times had voiced how terrible it was to live in an unhappy house, full of physical and emotional abuse? How many times had he worried for Levi, who’d also grown up buried in emotional muck and mire, combating neglect?

He was worried because we were all slipping sideways towards darkness.

I'd been feeling it lately, that creeping wildness at the edges of my consciousness. The way my temper flared quicker, and my control slipped faster. Stage one of Alpha ferality, the mental and emotional deterioration which occurred when Alphas went too long without proper pack bonds. It wasn’t enough to have my brothers, my Alphas. Fucking biology wanted more.

First the restlessness, then the aggression, then the periods where rational thought became secondary to primal urges. I wasteetering dangerously close to the edge on my worst days. My body stayed strong, but what I wanted to do with it became more brutal.

The others were holding steady, or they seemed to be. Wade had his books and his quiet contemplation. Levi had his numbers and organization. Wyatt channeled everything into running the ranch with military precision. Cooper had his hobbies and his naturally optimistic temperament. Me? I had the wilderness—when things got too intense, I'd disappear for days, living off the land, sleeping under stars, letting my connection to earth and sky wash away the feral energy building inside me.

My Arapaho great-Grandmother had taught my mother about that connection, and she'd passed it to me.“The land remembers us,"she used to say."When you forget yourself, it will remember for you."

The solo trips living off the land kept me sane, but they were becoming more frequent, and the time between them shorter. It was a temporary bandage at best.

I was mere feet away from the mobile lab, able to see through the open door. Its sleek white exterior made my skin crawl. Too clean. Too artificial. Nothing about it felt right—the antiseptic smell that wafted from inside, the humming of machines inside, the Beta lab techs in their pristine white coats moving efficiently around the narrow space.

"I can’t do this," I muttered, glancing back at him.

Suddenly, Cooper was beside me, wrapping his arm around my waist. “This is state-of-the-art, Boone. Only the best.”

“Of all the things, why’d it have to be needles.” I frowned at him.

“Just take a deep breath, Boone. You’ve got this.” He let go of my waist and slapped my ass. “Go first, get it over with.”

I stared at the few suspended steps and the open door. My heartbeat quickened.

“We appreciate your cooperation, Mister Atwood," the Eros woman added, misinterpreting my hesitation as simple reluctance rather than bone-deep fear. "The process is quite painless."

Painless. Easy for her to say.

My last experience with needles had been at sixteen, trying to donate blood during a drive on the reservation. I passed out cold, split my lip on the floor. Got a lot of cookies out of it at least. Before that, at ten, I'd needed stitches after a fall from a horse. I still remembered the burning sensation of the local anesthetic, the feeling of the thread pulling through my skin. I'd broken free of my father's hold, sent medical supplies flying across the room. They'd had to call in two more people to hold me down. After turning eighteen, I gave modern medicine the middle finger and opted for the reservation’s healer. Give me balsam fir tea and a mashed root poultice over pills and shots any day.

I didn’t think I’d ever conquer the demon inside. This weakness I didn’t like exposed to daylight. What kind of Alpha—what kind of man—was afraid of something so small?

A big man, apparently. Six-foot-four, two hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle, with tattoos and callused hands from years of hard work. A man who could build a shelter from fallen trees and moss, who could track an elk for miles, who could throw a hay bale like it was nothing more than a pillow.

Yet here I was, nearly shaking at the thought of what waited inside that lab.

But I loved my pack more than I feared needles. I loved Sagebrush more than I feared anything.