The door’s locked, but Beau’s got some way of getting it open—one quick flick and we’re inside. The place smells faintly of sawdust and fresh paint, but underneath that…
Oh man.
It’s her. Her scent hits like a physical thing—sweet, molten, Omega—threaded through with desperation. My body reacts before my brain can stop it, heat curling low in my spine.
Without thinking, we all move toward the stairs.
Upstairs, the bedroom door’s ajar.
She’s in bed.
And for a second, none of us moves.
She’s naked except for a dark gray Henley I recognize instantly—Beau’s—and it’s plastered to her skin with sweat. The fabric’s darker in spots, damp with… not sweat.
Her hair’s a wild halo on the pillow, skin flushed high with fever, nipples flushed pink and tight. The scent of her heat hits me like a punch to the gut—sweet, sharp, dizzying.
“You came,” she whispers, her voice wrecked.
Simon lets out a low whistle. “Well. That answers the question about whether theInvisiraworked.”
They step into the room while I stay rooted to the doorway. My body’s already reacting, every nerve ending lit up and tuned to her.
“How are you feeling?” Simon asks, his tone still professional but softer now.
Her gaze flicks between us. “Like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.”
Nobody moves for a beat. The air’s too thick with pheromones, our Alpha instincts scraping against the edges of control. I can see the fine tremor in her hands, the rise and fall of her chest. The tight peaks of her nipples. The soft curve of her stomach.
Simon clears his throat. “We can try another dose ofInvisira?—”
She shakes her head, fast. “No.”
“An IV, then,” he suggests.
“I think I can get some from…” I start to say, but she cuts me off.
“Don’t go,” she says, and it’s not a request. Her pupils are wide, her voice wrecked.
Beau shifts, pressing a hand low against his own abdomen, and I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s trying to keep himself in check.
“Fuck!” And then she moves—rolling slightly onto her stomach, tilting her hips just enough that it’s impossible to mistake what she’s offering. Presenting.
Every muscle in my body locks. I’ve seen Omegas present before, but this is Wren. Her thighs part a little, her hand sliding between them, circling her clit in slow, wet strokes. The sound of it makes my teeth grind. I hear Simon’s sharp inhale, Beau’s muttered curse.
“If I can come, it’ll feel better,” she pants. “I need to feel better.”
The way she’s moving—small, desperate rolls of her hips—makes it hard to think straight.
“Eating her out would help,” I hear myself say, my voice rougher than I intend.
I hear one of us groan—it might be me.
I kneel on the bed beside her, brushing my fingers over the damp curve of her back. “You need to concentrate, Wren,” I tellher, my voice low but steady. “Say what you want. Who do you want to help?”
“I don’t fucking care,” she whimpers, eyes glassy. “Someone do something.”
For a second, no one moves. Then Simon mutters, “Fuck it,” and sets his glasses on the nightstand. He kneels on the bed behind her, his hands firm on her hips as he lowers his mouth.
