The thought hits me out of nowhere, sharp as a slap.
Am I supposed to…clean her up?
I took a class in high school—Omega Healthcare Sciences.It wasn’t mandatory for betas like me. Just alphas.But I signed up anyway, mostly because I heard it was an easy A and had no final exam.
There was a whole unit on post-rut hygiene. Diagrams. Charts. How to bathe an omega properly—male and female. Where fluids can pool, what to watch out for. The importance of not letting stuff sit too long. Infection risks. Scent bonding. Emotional recovery. All that shit.
But the part that still sticks in my head now—clear as anything—is how theyshowedus how to clean between an omega’s legs.
How to use warm water and soft cloths.
How to be gentle.
How to wipe away the mess without making the omega feel shamed or exposed.
I swallow hard.
There’s no warm water here.
No soap.
No clean towels.
Not even a damn baby wipe in sight.
And there’sno wayI’m asking this poor girl—thisstranger—to lie back and spread her legs so I can wipe her down like some clinical exam.
I wouldn’t know where to start. What to say. Where to look…or not look.
Besides, she doesn’t seem bothered or uncomfortable. Maybe she’s fine.
I think I’ll wait.
We’ll figure it out when we get home. Maybe I’ll show her to the bathroom and let her take care of it herself. That feels more respectful. Less weird.
“Okay,” I say, voice still rough with embarrassment. “Let’s, uh…get these pants on.”
She nods. Still calm. Like all of this is fine. Like it’s not awkward or strange at all.
I wish I had her chill.
Instead, my hands shake as I reach for the extra pair of sweatpants I brought just in case.Thank god I brought them.
I hold the sweats open at the waist and Skyla steps into them, one foot, then the other. Her balance wobbles and I steady her elbow before I can think twice. Her skin is warm against my fingers, soft, and I jerk my hand back too fast, pretending it never happened.
Once the pants are up around her hips, I drop to my knees to fix the cuffs, tugging them over her ankles. Then I grab the socks—two pairs, like Knox said. She lets me roll them onto her feet, no hesitation or complaint. I try not to think about how intimate this feels, kneeling in front of her like this, dressing her piece by piece.
The hoodie’s the last piece. I hold it open, and she slides her arms through the sleeves. Her curls tumble free from the collar, a messy halo of blonde spilling around her face. Her cheeks are still pink from the cold, lips soft, almost flushed.
She smooths the front of the hoodie down, and something deep in my gut gives a hard kick. It’s my hoodie—big and dark, swallowing up her small frame—and somehow that makes her look even sexier. Like she’s actually mine. Ours.
Skyla gives me the faintest smile. “Thanks.” And my chest squeezes.
I can’t stop staring. She looks like a dream in my clothes, hair all wild, shoulders lost in the hoodie. Dreamlike and breakable at the same time.
It’s only when her gaze flickers away thatI realize I’ve been staring too long. My throat goes dry, and suddenly I forget what to do with my hands—whether to shove them in my pockets or cross my arms or let them hang there like an idiot.
“So...How’re ya doing?” The question stumbles out of my mouth, clumsy and too loud, and I instantly hate myself for it. Of course, she’s not doing great. After everything she’s been through? She has to feel like absolute shit. Right?
