I stumble to the mirror. My pupils are blown wide. My lips are flushed.
My scent balm bottle is empty on the counter. My emergency vial is in my purse. Gone. My hand trembles as I open the medicine cabinet.
Only three pills left.
I’ve taken suppressants daily since I was fourteen. Since the first time I went into heat during finals week and cried in the school nurse’s office for four hours.
My father called it hysterics. Said Omegas in his pack learned discipline.
That night, he took me to Hazel and Vine. Miss Thea didn’t ask questions, just handed over a bottle of amber pills and a tea that tasted like wilted roses. I’ve never missed a dose since.
Until now.
I swallow one, force it down with a shaky sip of tap water.
But it’s too late.
The wave hits. My bodyscreams. I drop to my knees, forehead against the cool tile. My thighs are soaked. Slick pools between them, viscous and humiliating. My stomach cramps. My core pulses, desperate and empty.
“Help,” I whisper.
I call Rob. Voicemail.
I try again. And again.
“Please.”
No answer.
I consider 911. But what would I even say? That I’m having a heat spiral? That my boyfriend touched me and my scent receptors exploded?
I open my phone. Google: “Emergency heat suppressant doesn’t work.” The top result is a clinical blog from another Omega.
If nothing works… climaxing can sometimes reset the spiral.
My hand shakes so badly I nearly drop the phone.
My body is aching for physical contact. Notsomeone—not that Alpha, not Rob—butrelief. Release.
The drawer beside the bed holds my vibrator. I’ve used it before, of course. Quick, practical, empty. But never like this. Never when I’m gasping, crying, pressing my hand between my legs like I might die if I don’t.
I grab it.
Crawl into the bathroom.
Back against the wall. Cool tile. My body is slick and desperate. I push my underwear aside, legs trembling as I slide the vibrator against my aching clit. It’s already wet. Too wet. The moment it touches me, I burst into tears.
I don’t want this.
But I need it.
I close my eyes. Try to block everything out—the boardroom, the betrayal, Rob’s voice calling me needy.
I picture pine trees. Fog. A growl in the darkness.
My thighs quake.
And Ilet go.
