Page 7 of Secret Heart
“It is.” He nods but doesn’t pull away. “But you know I’m not scared of hard work.”
His thumb is soft where he runs it across my cheek and over the shell of my ear. I can’t help but shiver, goosebumps rising on my skin in the wake of his touch.
“A hard launch is going to make people talk even more than just me being pregnant will.”
Beau shrugs again, unbothered by the gossips in town. “You done giving me reasons to leave you here before you risk getting hurt?”
My mouth falls open, indignation blistering through my veins. He only smirks.
“I know you,” he whispers. “If I leave now, before it all gets any more real, you can continue on in your bubble, convinced it doesn’t hurt and that you can do it all alone—that youlikedoing it all alone.” He twists a strand of my hair around his finger. “But you don’t like doing it all on your own. You never have, even when you were taking over Monroe Ranch from your dad before Brandon died.”
He kisses me, his lips soft. Before I can really respond, he pulls away.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, “so stop trying to come up with ways to give me an out, all right? I’m not taking them.”
A soft thread of…somethingweaves around the indignation, softening my resolve. Slowly, I nod once.
“Hard launch us, firecracker.” His grin is brighter than the sun on a July afternoon. It crinkles the skin around his eyes,those small lines that have developed over the last couple years deepening for a heartbeat. “It’s practically a Pierce tradition at this point.”
Eighteen Months Later
Chapter Four
TRISTON
The small pill burns where it sits just under my tongue, taking a literal decade to dissolve. The temporary pens clang in the distance—one of the bulls already restless—and the metallic clattering sends a stabbing ache behind my eyes that I ignore. I’ve learned over the last several years, even when I was only semi-pro, that trying to hide from the overstimulation just makes getting out there and lasting the full eight seconds ten times harder. Especially when my heat’s trying to break through my suppressors. My hands shake as another wave pulses through my body, and I will the breakthrough, heavy-duty medication to work faster, be stronger, before the staging area of this arena fills with the other competitors.
Lance closes the distance between us with long, clipped strides, his eyes locked on me and his lips drawn in a thin line. He might be a Beta, but he knows the dangers of me dropping into a heat surrounded by so many Alphas hyped up on adrenaline and testosterone. At least one of them is on a rut-amplifier, too, in an attempt to help his performance. It’s theonly enhancement drugnotbanned by the NBRA—National Bull Riding Association—at the moment.
One of the bulls calls out, and the metal fencing rattles again. I can’t help but shudder. The sound’s worse than nails on a chalkboard. Then a different kind of shudder races down my spine. I don’t dare close my eyes, knowing it’ll just make everything even more heightened. Instead, I pop the second emergency pill from the foiled packaging and shove it under my tongue, too. Clearly, I didn’t medicate this heat early enough, and now I’m going to pay for it.
Not until after my ride, I mentally order my body.
I haven’t endured nearly eight months worth of longing and homesickness since the last competition cycle ended to miss this opportunity at the last possible moment.
Most of the other competitors walk through the large doors that lead to the parking lot, laughing and chirping at each other in that way alphas do when they’re not quite friends but not entirely enemies, either. Their collective noise just makes my skin crawl, even worse than typical. Michael, the only Beta among those of us who’ve made it to the final rodeo of this cycle, walks a bit behind the rowdy group of Alphas, his hands in his pockets. He’s already got his vest on, and his helmet is tucked against his side, held in place with his elbow. He lifts his chin in silent greeting, a movement I mirror. Then I adjust my hat, drying my forehead with my arm before focusing on Lance. He holds out a small paper cup filled halfway with gatorade—or whatever sports drink is actually a sponsor of the National Bull Riding Championship.
Both pills finally dissolve, and I groan as I clean out the residual taste with the sticky yellow drink. You’d think they’d figure out a way to make the medications used by omegas worldwide to force their heats into submission less of a nightmare to take. At least it’s just the add-on medicinethat tastes that rancid. My standard, low grade suppressor is blessedly flavorless every morning.
“You good?” he asks without fanfare.
“Fine,” I say.
He frowns but doesn’t actually call me out on it. Not tonight, at least. Nothing’s getting between me and this last ride tonight to cement the championship. I make it eight seconds in just about fifteen minutes? I’ll be the first omega to manage it in just two seasons and only the fifth to manage it at all in that time frame. That belt buckle will look really nice next to my rookie award from last year.
My heat can fuck right off tonight, thank you very much.
“Blockers?” Lance twists so the others can’t read his lips.
“Got ‘em.”
I never, ever risk being anywhere near this group of guys without them.
“You need another dose?”
Shaking my head, I shrug into my own vest, zipping it and rolling back my shoulders to settle into the weight of it.
If I need another dose, there’s no way I’m managing to get onto the back of a bull tonight.
