Page 13 of Run Wild Omega

“I know.” Dad pats my hand. “I just hate that it drags on. It keeps the wound open for her.”

“She’s strong, Dad. She has Leo. And Daniel and Gray. She’s okay.”

“And you?” He looks at me. “How are you doing, Tess?”

I open my mouth to give him the standard answer—I’m fine, work is good, the Jeep is running—but the words get stuck.

“I’m…” I pause. “I’m okay. Really. I like the apartment. I like the work.”

I don’t tell him about the dreams. I don’t tell him about the pills.

Mom slides a plate in front of me—a fluffy omelet dotted with green spinach and creamy feta. “Eat. You’ll need the energy for those city boys.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

I eat quickly, savoring the food. It tastes like safety. It tastes like home.

“I need to get back up there,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “The group is probably already in the lobby complaining about the Wi-Fi.”

“Be safe,” Mom says. “The wind is picking up.”

“I always am.”

I leave the warmth of the café and brave the wind again. By the time I get back to the Lodge, the black Sweet Creek Adventures van is parked in the driveway. The guests have arrived.

I find them in the lobby, hovering near the massive stone fireplace. They’re wearing pristine brand-name gear. One of them has tags still hanging off his pants.

They’re talking in low tones as they tap on their phones with impatient thumbs.

The lead guy, Miller, sees me approach. He’s an Alpha—the posturing, the loud cologne, and the way he looks through me instead of at me give it away instantly.

“You’re the guide?” he asks, checking his watch. “We were told 9:00 a.m.”

“It’s 9:00 a.m.,” I say pleasantly. “I’m Tess. Grab your packs. We leave in five minutes.”

“We need to discuss the route,” Miller says, stepping closer, invading my personal space. “We paid for the summit experience. We need to be back by 3:00 p.m. for a conference call.”

I don’t step back. I stare him down. “The summit depends on the weather and the group’s pace. It’s not a timetable, it’s a mountain. If we make it, great. If not, we turn around when I say so.”

“We’re in good shape,” Miller says dismissively, puffing out his chest. “We do CrossFit. We don’t want a tourist walk.”

“Excellent.” I fake a smile. “Then you won’t mind carrying the emergency gear.”

I turn and walk out before he can reply.

The hike starts easy enough, winding through the dense pine forest at the base of the mountain. The snow is fresh, about six inches deep, and I take the lead, breaking trail.

It’s hard work. My thighs burn, my lungs expand in the cold air, and I feel the residual stress of the morning—the dream, the pills, the conversation with my dad—begin to fade with every step.

This is what I’m good at. This is real.

After an hour, the trees thin out. The incline sharpens significantly. The wind picks up, cutting through my thermal top. Miller and his team start huffing and puffing. The CrossFit confidence evaporates quickly at ten thousand feet where the air is thin.

“Watch your footing here!” I call back, raising my voice over the wind. “The drifts are deep!”

We crest a small ridge about two hours in. This is the turnaround point for most day hikes, but Miller’s determined. He pulls out his phone, checking the time, scowling.

“This is too slow,” he shouts over the wind. “We need to push for the summit!”