Page 27 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

"Let's get this over with," I said, squaring my shoulders and forcing my feet to move up the steps, which bobbed under my weight, rocking the lab truck.

To push myself, I mentally repeated one sentence?—

My pack needs this.

My pack needs this.

I paused at the door of the mobile lab, taking a deep breath. The scent of my pack brothers surrounded me—grass and earth and sky, each with their own distinct notes. We were family, not by blood but by choice. For them, I could do this.

"Let’s rip the scab off.” I turned around at the lab’s threshold. My voice sounded stronger than I felt.

Cooper gave me a double thumbs up and mouthed ‘love you’. Wyatt and Wade nodded simultaneously. Levi just watched, his lavender eyes assessing, maybe calculating the comfort I’d require after.

I entered the lab, walking into my own execution. Cool air hit my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. I swallowed hard, steeling myself.For the pack. For Sagebrush. For our future.

The interior was even worse than I'd imagined—gleaming metal surfaces, the sharp antiseptic smell burning my nostrils, and equipment I couldn't name but instinctively feared lined up on a narrow counter. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to punch its way out. Sweat gathered at my lower back, despite the blasting air conditioning.

"Just have a seat right here, Mr. Atwood," said one of the techs, a middle-aged Beta with thinning brown hair and glasses that kept sliding down his nose. He gestured to what looked like a modified dentist's chair in the center of the space.

I lowered myself into it, the vinyl squeaking under my weight. The chair was clearly not designed for someone my size—my knees pressed awkwardly against the metal tray attached to the front, and my shoulders barely fit between the armrests.

"Nice setup you've got here," I said, trying to sound casual while my voice came out unnaturally tight. "Do you folks travel all over the country for this?"

The tech smiled politely while preparing something on his tray that I deliberately didn't look at. "We travel wherever necessary to accommodate our clients."

"Must see some beautiful country," I continued, desperate to keep talking about anything except what was about to happen. "Ever make it up to Yellowstone?"

“Occasionally.” The tech glanced up. I tried to smile at him pleasantly, but his eyes widened slightly. I caught sight of my reflection in a metal cabinet opposite the chair. I was baring my teeth and looked psychotic. I stopped trying to smile.

A second tech approached, a younger woman with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. "We'll need to collect several vials for the complete genetic and hormonal profile," she explained, all business. "And then we'll need to sample your scent glands."

I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak again. My mouth had gone dry, and I could feel a tremor starting in my left leg, my heel tapping rapidly against the floor. I focused on breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth. I was going to have a damn panic attack, hadn’t had one in years. Why? Because I avoided shit like this.

"I'll need you to roll up your sleeve, please," the male tech said, now holding a tray with vials, tubes, and a thin package I knew contained a needle.

My fingers felt numb as I pushed up the sleeve of my flannel shirt, exposing my forearm. The tattoo there—a sagebrush design intertwined with an eagle feather—rippled over muscle as I clenched and unclenched my fist.

"Good veins," the woman commented clinically, wrapping a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm and pulling it tight.The pressure was uncomfortable, making my hand tingle. She swabbed the crook of my elbow with a freezing alcohol pad.

I fixed my gaze ahead, on a small dent in the otherwise pristine wall surface. I could hear the rustling of packaging, the soft murmurs between the techs, the distant sounds of my pack brothers talking outside. The sun streaming through the small window created a patch of warmth on my shoulder, and I tried to focus on that sensation instead of what was happening.

"Just a small pinch now," the male tech said, and I made the mistake of looking down.

The needle glinted in the fluorescent light, impossibly long and sharp. It was probably standard size, but to my eyes, it looked like something meant for livestock, not humans. A vivid memory flashed—me at seven years old, the doc coming at me with a syringe, the sharp point slamming into my arm, the needle yanked back out, no pressure applied, blood spurting on his white coat like a horror movie scene.

Before I could stop myself, I was on my feet. My body moved without conscious thought, a primal reaction to perceived threat. I felt my arm connect with something—someone—and heard a startled cry. The male tech flew backward, his slight frame no match for the force of my involuntary movement. He slammed into the cabinets with a sickening thud, the tray of supplies clattering to the floor, vials rolling in every direction.

"Shit!" I gasped, horror replacing fear as I realized what I'd done. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to?—"

The tech was slumped against the cabinet, looking dazed but conscious. The woman rushed to his side, her professional demeanor cracking as she checked him for injuries.

"What the hell happened?" The Eros representative's sharp voice cut through the chaos as she appeared in the doorway.

"It was an accident," I said quickly, still frozen in place, afraid to move and cause more damage. "I just—I reacted?—"

The commotion drew attention from outside. Heavy footsteps pounded up the metal steps. The mobile lab tilted from weight imbalance. The Eros rep quickly stepped out of the way as both Cooper and Levi shoved inside, eyes wide with concern.

"Boone? You okay?" Cooper squeezed into the narrow space, with Levi right on his heels.