That low hum behind my ribs hasn’t gone away—not since I overheard those women talking about the Alphas. Not since Beau brought me that coffee and stood too close to me. Not since I saw the way Simon looked at me when I left the clinic.
Like I was made of something breakable.
Or edible.
I shake it off.
I go through my routine like muscle memory. Hair pulled loose from its knot. Face washed with the mint cleanser I’ve used since college. A fresh tank top, clean underwear, and cotton joggers.
I sweep the floors out of habit, check the windows, and fluff the cushions on the lumpy old loveseat in the living space. Everything feels just out of sync, like the apartment isn’t calibrated to the air outside.
Or maybe it’s me. Perhaps I’m the one who’s off.
I prepare Pancake’s food and watch him eat it as I stand at the counter, watching the darkness settle against the bakery windows.
When I finally crawl into bed, it’s not even nine. But sleep doesn’t come easily.
I lie in the dark listening to the wind scrape against the eaves. My legs feel too warm under the quilt, too restless. The scent of my own skin keeps shifting—like it can’t decide what it wants to be.
There’s a sweetness there now, something syrupy and dense, layered under my usual chamomile and citrus balm. And it’s stronger. Sharper. Like bruised fruit left too long on the counter.
I press a hand to my stomach and try to breathe through it.
Simon said it could happen. Hormonal realignment. Early symptoms.
But this doesn’t feel early. This feels like a match catching.
Around midnight, I wake drenched in sweat.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but my tank top is plastered to my chest, and the sheets are twisted around my hips like they’ve tried to tie me down.
My skin feels too tight. Too hot. There’s pressure between my legs that wasn’t there when I closed my eyes. Not arousal—something more primitive.
Moreinsistent.
I sit up and push the quilt off, gasping for air.
The room smells like me. But notme.Not the normal, day-to-day, washed-linen-and-vanilla me. This is different. Muskier. Ripe.
My scent’s blooming in waves I can’t suppress, curling up into my throat and settling there like a stone.
I feel raw. Thinned out from the inside, like my body’s rewriting itself cell by cell.
This is not normal.
I pad to the bathroom and flick on the light. My reflection looks half-wild—flushed skin, eyes glassy, lips parted.
I don’t evenfeelflushed, but there it is. A fever-sheen on my collarbones. A faint shimmer of sweat under my jaw.
My thighs are damp. My scent’s sticking to me like honey.
I press my hand flat against the cold porcelain of the sink and try to steady my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. “I’m fine, I’m fine?—”
But my voice catches on the last syllable. Trembles. That’s when I know.
I’m going into heat.
