Page 88 of Run Wild Omega

“Agreed,” Miles says.

“And the marking.” Her voice is steady, but I can see her pulse jumping in her throat—the faint, rapid flutter of a heartbeat that’s faster than she wants it to be. “That has to happen before the registration. The marking is what makes the claim credible. A registered bond without visible marks raises questions. With marks, no one questions it.”

“When?” Wyatt asks. His voice is careful, controlled, but I can hear the undercurrent beneath it.

“Now. Before the hospital.” She takes a breath. “If we show up at the hospital already marked, it’s a fait accompli. No lead-up, no anticipation, no opportunity for rumors to start before the evidence is right there on my skin.”

She looks at the three of us.

“We do it here. Mom and Dad know we’re discussing the claim—they don’t need to know the specifics.”

I stand up from the bed. “Are you sure?”

“No,” she says honestly. “But I’m done waiting for sure.”

Dylan

The room is still. The morning light filtering through the curtains is gray and soft, turning everything the color of old silver.

Tess has taken off the flannel, leaving her in a thin tank top that exposes the lines of her collarbones and the curve of her shoulders. Her skin is pale in the cold light, almost translucent, and I can see the blue thread of veins at her throat, the faint shadow of her pulse.

She’s trembling. Not from cold—from adrenaline.

“Come here,” she says.

I go first. I sit on the edge of the bed beside her, and she turns toward me, tilting her head to expose the long line of her neck. The instinct that surges through me is not strategic. It’s not calculated. It’s primal—a bone-deep drive to press my nose to that skin and breathe her in.

I don’t let it take over. Not entirely.

I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull back. She doesn’t. I bring my mouth to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder and I inhale. She still smells a little like the hospital soap, but beneath that is her. Alpine meadows. Something green and alive, like new growth after rain. And something else—fear, sharp and metallic, but also want, warm and sweet.

I press my lips to her skin and exhale. Letting my breath carry my scent into her pores, into the fabric of her, marking the territory with something no camera can capture.

My hand comes up to rest on her waist. Her fingers find my thigh and grip, holding on.

I drag my mouth along the column of her throat, up to the spot just below her ear. My stubble scrapes her skin, leaving a faint redness that will fade. I linger there, breathing her in, letting my scent settle, and I feel her lean into me.

“Dylan,” she whispers, and my name in her mouth is a sound I want to keep forever.

I pull back. My chest is tight. My hands are steady, but barely.

Wyatt takes my place. He cups her face in both hands, tilting her head, and just looks at her for a moment. His thumbs trace her cheekbones, and I see his eyes—dark, burning, full of something that’s been locked away for a very long time.

He leans in and presses his forehead to hers. Just breathing. Just being close.

Then he lowers his mouth to her neck.

The sound she makes—a small, soft exhale that’s almost a whimper—goes through me like a current. Wyatt’s lips are parted, and I can see the effort it costs him to keep this controlled. His hands slide from her face to her shoulders, then down her arms, pulling her forward slightly so her body is angled toward his.

He marks the other side of her neck—the left, where her pulse is hammering—and then he moves lower, to the hollow of her throat. His breath shudders out of him in a way I’ve never heard from Wyatt Callahan.

Controlled, composed, unshakable Wyatt is… shaking.

His hands find her hips. His fingers press into the soft fabric of her sweatpants, and I can see the tension in his forearms, the corded muscles standing out as he forces himself to stop.

He pulls back. His chest is heaving.

Miles approaches the way he does everything—with precision. He sits on her other side and takes her wrist in his hand, turning it palm-up, exposing the thin, delicate skin on the inside of her forearm. He brings her wrist to his nose and inhales, his eyes closing.