Page 102 of Run Wild Omega

“Why does it need to be less predictable?” Tess asks.

“Because if someone’s watching—if they’re tracking the pattern—predictability is a vulnerability.”

The room goes quiet. No one wants to say what everyone is thinking: that the threat isn’t just online anymore. That the packs circling have resources and patience and the ability to turn a small town into a surveillance zone without anyone noticing.

“We’ll randomize,” I say. “I’ll generate a schedule each morning and distribute it through the group chat.”

“Of course you will,” Leo mutters, but he’s smiling.

The bell above the café door chimes.

I don’t look up immediately—I’m adjusting my glasses, reviewing tomorrow’s SAR data on my tablet—but I feel the shift in the room. It’s subtle. A tightening of shoulders. A pause in conversation. The particular quality of silence that falls when someone unexpected enters a space where they don’t belong.

I look up.

A man is standing just inside the doorway. Tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair swept back from a sharp, angular face. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was tailored, which it almost certainly was, and a dark overcoat that’s too expensive for Sweet Creek. His shoes are polished black leather, pristine despite the salt and slush on the sidewalks outside. He looks like he stepped out of a corporate headshot and landed in the wrong zip code.

He’s also standing very still, taking in the room with a calm, assessing gaze that moves from face to face before landing—lingering—on Tess.

I see her stiffen. It’s a full-body reaction, her shoulders pulling back, her chin lifting, her hands gripping the edge of the table. The color drains from her face, then rushes back in a flush that I can’t read as fear or anger or both.

Mara has gone very still beside Daniel. Her hand has found his arm, her fingers digging in.

Margaret is already moving from behind the counter, her posture shifting from hostess to something far more formidable. She positions herself between the door and the booth, her arms crossed, her chin raised.

“Can I help you?” she asks. Her voice is pleasant. Her eyes are not.

The man smiles. It’s a practiced smile—smooth, calibrated, designed to project warmth while revealing nothing. “I’m looking for Tess Hartwell. I was told I might find her here.”

“And who are you?”

“Jason Rourke.” He produces a business card from his coat pocket and holds it out, but Margaret doesn’t take it. He sets it on the nearest table instead. “I’m here on behalf of a party that’s been following Miss Hartwell’s situation with great interest.”

I’m on my feet before I consciously decide to move.

Wyatt rises from his chair with a fluidity that looks casual and isn’t—every muscle in his body is coiled, his weight shifting forward onto the balls of his feet. He doesn’t say a word. He just places himself between the door and Tess’s line of sight, a human wall of tension and barely contained force.

Jason Rourke’s gaze slides from Margaret to Wyatt to me, and something in his expression shifts—a flicker of recognition, maybe, or calculation. His gaze settles back on Tess.

“Miss Hartwell,” he says, addressing her directly, as if the rest of us don’t exist. “I’ll keep this brief, as I’m sure you’d prefer. I represent the Ashford Pack out of Connecticut.”

The Ashford Pack. One of the three names I’d had flagged in my briefing. Wealthy. Politically connected. One of the most influential packs on the Eastern Seaboard.

“They’ve been watching your coverage on the national news,” Rourke continues. “The avalanche survival, the rescue, your biological profile, the public discourse around your designation. Personally, I don’t really get what the men in the family see in you. But my job is simply to represent the pack’s interests, and to them, you represent a very valuable match.”

“A match,” Wyatt says, his voice flat and warning.

“A business transaction that benefits everyone,” Rourke corrects smoothly, leaning back slightly against the door frame. “The Ashfords have recent public relations issues back east, and taking in a brave, nationally celebrated Omega who survived a high-altitude slide gives them an incredible image boost. If you agree to meet with them and accept this pairing, the Ashfords will make that bogus negligence lawsuit against Sweet Creek Adventures vanish overnight. They’ll also write a very generous donation check to the town and your local search and rescue unit.”

“That’s a bribe,” Daniel says from the booth, his voice cold and lethal.

“It’s an arrangement,” Rourke counters with a slight shrug. “Miss Hartwell gets legal protection, unlimited financial security, and the structured environment that an unbonded Omega genuinely needs. Sweet Creek keeps its business. SAR gets new gear.”

“I’m not unbonded,” Tess says. Her voice is steady, but I can see her hands shaking under the table.

“Legally, you are,” Rourke says. “And legally is what matters. A scent mark and a scar don’t constitute a bond, Miss Hartwell. They constitute a performance. The Ashfords understand the difference, and so, I suspect, do you.”

Wyatt moves.