Page 121 of Run Wild Omega

He’s wearing a dark henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and his hair is damp like he showered recently. His jaw is clean-shaven, and he looks rested.

He looks up when I appear in the doorway, and his eyes find mine with a quiet, focused intensity that makes my stomach flip.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Sleep well?”

“Like the dead,” I lie, sliding into the chair across from him.

Mom sets a plate of stacked blueberry pancakes in front of me. She tops them with a pat of butter and presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

“Eat up. Your father and I are heading to the café. Inventory day.”

“Need help?” I ask, already reaching for the syrup.

“Not with that leg. You rest.” She points a spatula at Wyatt. “Make sure she eats all of them.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

Dad folds his newspaper, tucks it under his arm, and guides Mom toward the front door. I hear them talking in the hallway, Mom’s voice carrying her usual stream of instructions about the register and the produce delivery. The front door opens and closes.

Silence settles over the kitchen.

I take a bite of pancake. Wyatt watches me. The quiet is thick, charged with everything unsaid.

“I was heading out with Miles,” he says, setting his mug down. “Another pass at the debris field. Leo needs photos for his lawyer. But I wanted to see you first.”

“Me specifically, or was this a convenient detour?”

“You specifically.” He leans forward, forearms resting on the table. “I wanted to scent you before I left.”

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “Scent me.”

“Yeah.” His gaze drops to my neck, and I watch his nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. “You smell like…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the way his pupils blow wide tells me he can detect exactly what I woke up drenched in. The shower helped, but Omega slick has a way of clinging to the skin, seeping through pores, marking the body in ways that soap can’t fully erase.

I set the fork down. “I had a dream.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “About?”

“Dylan.”

The name sits between us. Wyatt doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scowl. Something passes over his face, raw and hungry, and then he pushes his chair back and stands.

“Come here,” he says.

I grab my crutches and cross the kitchen. He meets me halfway, his hands finding my waist, lifting me off my feet with an ease that makes my breath catch. He sets me on the edge of the kitchen table, my crutches leaning against the wall, my cast dangling.

“I’ll be seeing you later, yeah?” he asks, his thumb brushing the curve of my jaw.

“Saturday,” I whisper. “At the pack house.”

“Before that.” He steps closer, his hips pressing between my knees. “I’ll see you before that.”

He leans in, his nose tracing the line of my jaw from ear to collarbone. He inhales, and a sound rumbles in his chest. My hands find his shoulders, gripping his henley.