Page 106 of Run Wild Omega

Miles doesn’t laugh, but the corners of his eyes crinkle with deep, quiet amusement. He just nods sagely, keeping his eyes on the road. “No apology necessary, Tess. An accurate assessment of the situation, given the night.”

I let out a breathless, embarrassed giggle, dropping my hands back to my lap. I look over at him, the alcohol making me bold, stripping away my usual filters.

“Do you live too far?” I ask softly.

He glances at me. “My apartment? No, it’s about ten minutes from here.”

“Can I… can I just go to your place?” I ask, my voice small, almost pleading. “I just… I don’t want to be an invalid tonight. I don’t want to explain myself to my parents.”

Miles slows the car, pulling over to the side of the quiet, snow-covered road. He shifts into park and turns to look at me, his gaze thoughtful, warm, and entirely steady.

“I have a better idea,” he says quietly.

Miles

The glow of the dashboard lights casts soft shadows across Tess’s face as I turn into the gravel driveway behind the SAR station.

I pull up to the converted garage apartment—the makeshift pack house we built out as our central hub—and kill the engine. When I step around to open the passenger door, I realize immediately that I miscalculated.

She’s a lot more drunk than I thought.

“Up we go,” I say softly, catching her by the waist as her good leg buckles slightly under her weight.

She leans heavily against my side, giggling as I guide her up the wooden steps. I hold her crutches in one hand while supporting her entire frame with my other arm, her body heat radiating through my coat.

Inside, the apartment is warm and quiet. The subtle, mingled scents of Wyatt, Dylan, and me hang in the air, grounded by the cedar beams overhead. I help her down onto the deep leather sofa, leaning her crutches against the armrest.

Tess blinks, her head tilting back as her eyes slowly trace the exposed brick and the framed topographical maps on the wall.

“I don’t… I don’t remember much from the last time I was here,” she murmurs, her voice thick and slow as she squints at the ceiling.

“You were a bit distracted,” I reply gently, shedding my heavy coat and setting a bag of potato chips and two glasses of ice water on the coffee table.

She curls her good leg up under her, unzipping her jacket and letting it slump around her elbows. She reaches into the bag, crunching on a chip with a quiet sigh of contentment.

“It’s nice here,” she says, watching the condensation drip down her glass. She gestures vaguely at the room. “Not like… polished. Everything back near the city felt so rigid. Fake.”

“Believe me, I know the type,” I say, leaning back against the cushions. “My parents were both literature professors. Quiet, intellectual, completely indoors. I was reading Nietzsche by age ten, but I’d never even camped in a backyard.”

Tess turns her head, her blue-gray eyes wide. “Nietzsche at ten? That sounds exhausting.”

“It was,” I admit, a small, wry smile touching my lips. “In a house full of Alphas shouting over dinner—my brother’s a political pundit now—I just learned to fade into the background. It made me a great observer, but a pretty invisible kid.”

“So how’d you end up out here in the snow?”

“A field study in the Rockies when I was twenty-two,” I tell her. “Got caught in a brutal storm. First time out of a library, and instead of panicking, everything just… clicked. I realized I didn’t want to analyze the world from behind a desk. I wanted to be in it.” I look at her softly. “What about you? Before all the pack mess… what did you want?”

Tess stares down at her lap, her thumb tracing the hem of her shirt. “I was good at school,” she whispers. “I always thought… maybe I’d be a teacher. Something simple. Real.”

“Did that change because of Marcus?” I ask gently.

She nods, a single tear spilling over her lash line.

Seeing her break pulls something tight in my chest. I lean in, raising my hand, and gently sweep the pad of my thumb across her cheek, wiping the tear away.

“No one gets to take that away from you, Tess,” I tell her, low and steady. “Not Marcus. Not Rourke. Your life is yours.”

My thumb lingers on her skin, sliding down the curve of her cheek until it brushes softly against her lower lip. Tess freezes, her breath hitching as her lips part slightly under the pressure.