I swallow hard and adjust my glasses, as if they might disguise the stiff line of my posture, the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice coming out low. I clear my throat. “The nurse said you asked for me?”
Her cheeks color faintly. “Yeah. I know it’s probably silly. It’s just some scrapes, and Beau already bandaged me up. But I thought… I don’t know. I wanted you to check.”
God help me. She could’ve let anyone handle this, but she asked for me.
I snap on a pair of gloves, grateful for the excuse to keep my hands busy. “Well,” I say, forcing a small smile, “he was right. You should be checked over properly.”
I move closer, and the scent of her—clean soap, faint flowers, and underneath it that telltale thread of Omega sweetness—slams into me.
My hands hover for a moment before I ease them down to her thigh, rolling the hem of her dress just enough to see the bruise blooming there. The skin is warm under my gloved fingers, tender.
She watches me quietly, her eyes tracking every move. Then, out of nowhere, she says, “Do you regret it?”
My head jerks up. “What?”
Her lashes lower, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “The heat. All of it. Do you regret it?”
For a moment, silence stretches, thick and sharp. My chest feels too tight. “No,” I answer finally, my voice rough.
Her lips part, a rush of breath leaving her. She tilts her chin. “Look at me when you say it.”
I do. And God help me, I let her see the truth in my eyes.
“Do you regret it?” I ask in return.
She shakes her head, quick, certain.
“Good.” The word slips out before I can stop it, quiet but weighted. “Good,” I say again, softer. I clear my throat, force my tone steadier. “I was expecting you to come in for bloodwork. To see if we can figure out why the suppressants failed.”
“I was going to,” she admits. “But… the meds are working again now. And Miss Thea gave me some balm that’s helpedtoo.” She pauses, then adds in almost a whisper, “And she gave me a contraceptive.”
The world tilts. My grip on her leg tightens for a second before I force myself to ease it.Pregnancy.My brain flashes back to every time we came inside her, every time instinct overrode reason.
Heat coils low in my gut, sharp and dangerous.
“That’s good,” I manage, though my collar feels stifling, my coat too heavy. “It doesn’t interfere with your other medication. You did the right thing.”
“Okay,” she says softly.
I focus on cleaning the scrape, but the air between us hums, charged.
She shifts slightly on the table, and then she says, almost shyly, “Can I confess something?”
I glance up. “Of course.”
Her eyes dart to mine, then down again. “I think about you three a lot more than I’d like to.”
My stomach drops, heat exploding through my veins. “Wren,” I rasp, her name scraping out of me.
She bites her lip. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
But I can smell it—the subtle rise of her arousal bleeding into the air, faint but unmistakable. My instincts clamor, pushing against the fragile wall of my control.
“Don’t apologize,” I say. I straighten, needing the space, needing the cool air. My gloves creak as I peel them off. “You’ll bruise for a little while. Nothing serious.”
She nods, her cheeks flushed.
