Full, biological heat—not just a blip of stress-triggered imbalance. This is real. This isnow.
It’s too early. I haven’t had a proper cycle in so long. My suppressant dosage has always worked. Always.
I stagger back into the bedroom and collapse onto the edge of the mattress, fingers fumbling for my phone. It takes two tries to pull up the prescription from Simon.
I haven’t filled it yet. I was waiting. Telling myself I’d be fine.
Stupid.
I scroll through my contacts, hovering over Norah’s name. I almost call her. But what would I even say?
Hey, I’m drenched in pheromones and might start humping my own pillow in thirty minutes. Wanna help?
No. She has enough to deal with. And she’s not a doctor.
Simon is.
My thumb slides over to his contact.
But then I picture his face. The way he watched me in the clinic. Not leering. Just… focused. Like he was dissecting every molecule of me without trying to.
If I call him now, he’ll know. He’ll hear it in my voice. He’ll smell it the moment I step near him.
And Beau?—
God.
The thought of him hits me like a blow to the sternum. His voice. That stupid coffee. His hand on the small of my backwhen he guided me through the café kitchen last week, barely touching, but it still burned.
I’d told myself it was nothing.
But now…
Now I can’t stop imagining what his mouth would feel like against my throat. What his weight would feel like pressing into me, heavy and sure. That low rumble of his laugh, right at my ear. His scent catches fire on my skin.
I groan and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
No. No. I won’t let my body trick me.
This is just chemicals—just biology trying to bait me into bad decisions.
I could call Levi. He is a paramedic. He could help get me someInvisira.But then he would tell Simon, right?
The pack would know I was going into heat.
I crawl back into bed, teeth clenched, heart racing. I bury my face in the pillow, breathing shallow, trying not to think and trying not to feel. But it’s useless.
My thighs rub together unintentionally, seeking friction. My hips shift. Every part of me aches. Not with pain—withneed.Primal. Consuming. Stupid.
The worst part is—I know what would fix it.
An Alpha.
Not love. Not comfort. Just a hard, claiming rut to chase the symptoms down and burn them out. That’s what my body’s asking for.
But I won’t give it what it wants.
I won’t be my mother, smiling through bruises. Pretending biology is a bond. Excusing every betrayal because it was “instinct.”
