Page 142 of Run Wild Omega

“Eat,” I say.

He picks up his fork. We eat in silence, the quiet broken only by the scrape of metal on ceramic and the hum of the heater.

Wyatt pulls out his phone. “I should call Kyle. Check the perimeter.”

I nod. He dials and sets the phone on speaker. It rings twice.

“Hey, boss,” Kyle’s voice comes through, bright and steady.

“What’s the status out there?” Wyatt asks.

“Quiet. Snow’s coming down hard, but the station is clear. No visitors. No press. I’ve done three checks. The road to the pack house is clear, but nobody’s driven up except you. Fresh tracks are ours alone.”

“Rourke?”

“No sign. I ran his plates. His rental sedan is parked at the Pine Ridge Motel on Route 6. Hasn’t moved since yesterday.”

“He’s staying put,” I say.

“Looks like it,” Kyle confirms. “I’ve got eyes on the motel entrance. My buddy at the sheriff’s office is keeping a casual watch. If he moves, I’ll know.”

“Good,” Wyatt says. “Stay on it. Nobody gets near the house.”

“Copy that. Is Tess okay?”

Wyatt hesitates, looking at me. I give a brief nod.

“She’s resting,” Wyatt says.

“Good. Tell her I’m pulling for her.”

“Will do. Kyle, keep this between us for now. Texts only.”

“Got it. Stay warm.”

Wyatt hangs up and takes another bite of eggs. “Smooth so far.”

“For now.”

“You always prepare for the worst.”

“Because it usually happens.”

He almost smiles. The observation lands between us, and I let it sit. Somewhere over the past two weeks, the lines between us have blurred. Wyatt’s intensity has tempered my analytical framework, and the result is a pack functioning better than any model I could have designed on paper.

Footsteps sound in the hallway.

Tess appears at the kitchen entrance, leaning on her crutches. She wears Dylan’s shirt, the collar stretched wide to expose the raw edge of the bite mark on her shoulder. Her hair is matted, her face is flushed, and her eyes are heavy-lidded, but she moves forward.

Behind her stands Dylan. He wears boxers, his hair sticking up on one side, his hand hovering at the small of her back to catch her if she stumbles.

They move together in a synchronized way. His body adjusts before she even steps. She leans left, he shifts left. Her crutch wobbles, and his hand catches her elbow before her weight transfers. They operate on the same frequency now, the bond linking them completely.

There’s an achingly raw tenderness in the way he shadows her. Wyatt watches them, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth, an acceptance settling into his features.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.

Tess slides onto a barstool at the counter, propping her crutches against the wall. She blows a strand of hair out of her face.