Dakota Holt

The sun hung low, stretching shadows long over the dirt roads as he stepped into the bar. The place smelled like whiskey, sweat, and bad decisions—same as always. His pockets were heavy with gold, fresh off a good win from the earlier horse race. The kind of win that’d have most men grinning, throwing coin around like fools. But not him. Hat low, boots steady, he moved through the space slow and deliberate, barely sparing a glance at the crowd gathered at the far end. Something different. Something that had the usual drunks and gamblers more restless than usual. Didn’t matter.

He dropped into his usual chair, wood creaking beneath his weight.

Pint.

The glass slid across the counter, his fingers curling around it—rough, calloused from years of work. He lifted it to his lips, and then—that scent. Sharp. Sweet. Too damn potent. His grip slipped. A slow trickle of beer spilled onto his shirt, cold against his skin. He stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he wiped at the damp stain. His muscles tightened beneath his shirt, something raw and instinctive curling low in his gut. What kind of damn fool would walk into a lawless town—this town—dripping with heat?

The air shifted. A voice rang out. The bid starts at five hundred in gold. The crowd stirred. Voices rose, eager, hungry. He lifted his head. Gaze sharp. Assessing. There. The cage. And inside—A heat-drunk Omega. Swaying. Pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling too fast. Vulnerable. His fingers tapped once against the glass. His stomach turned. His jaw clenched. But still—he didn’t move.

How much.

His voice was low, rough, cutting through the noise like a blade. The man beside him scoffed, half-laughing, already caught up in the thrill of bidding, but his amusement faded the second he met the cowboy’s stare. He wasn’t playing the game. He wasn’t bidding. He wanted a price. A fixed one. No matter what it was, he’d pay it.