“Since I’m here…” She hesitates, then looks at me with startling directness. “Could you draw my blood now? Maybe you’ll figure out why the suppressants failed in the first place.”
Relief tangles with dread. At least this is something I can cling to—something clinical, something grounded.
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll get a nurse to?—”
“Can’t you do it?” she interrupts, her voice softer, her eyes steady.
The air stalls in my lungs.
I shouldn’t do it. Every rational fiber in me says no. She’s asking me directly, and it’s the kind of line I’ve sworn I wouldn’t cross—drawing her blood myself when I’m already half feral for her.
But the way her green eyes hold mine, steady and expectant, makes it impossible to look away. She doesn’t want anyone else touching her right now. She wants me.
“Fine,” I say quietly. My voice scrapes lower than I intend.
I prep the kit with hands that are far too aware of the moment: tourniquet, alcohol swab, needle—all motions ingrained from years of repetition. But my chest is tight, my heartbeat too loud in my ears.
“Relax your arm,” I tell her, my tone deliberately calm. She rests it on the edge of the table, her skin pale against the blue pad I’ve laid out.
I swab the inside of her elbow, the alcohol scent sharp, mixing with the subtler undercurrent of her Omega sweetness. My fingers brush over her skin, finding the vein.
I insert the needle smoothly and precisely, just as I’ve done thousands of times. A flash of red fills the tube, the proof of life I’m so used to collecting—but with her, it feels intimate, too intimate, like I’m holding a piece of her essence.
She watches me. Not the needle, not the blood, but me. Her gaze is steady, heavy, and it makes the back of my neck prickle.
I pull the needle free, tape a small gauze square over the puncture, and set the vial aside. “All done,” I murmur, disposing of the sharps.
She nods, quiet, waiting.
I label the vial, slip it into the small rack to send to the lab later. Then I reach for her chart, forcing myself to focus on the familiar scrawl of notes.
Anything to ground myself. Anything to remember who I’m supposed to be in this room.
But my hand doesn’t move. I stare at the page, pen hovering uselessly, until the words tear out of me before I can stop them.
“I have a confession.”
Her head tilts slightly, hair brushing her shoulder. “What kind of confession?”
I drag in a breath. My throat is tight. “When you were in heat… I took a few pictures. At first, I told myself it was for clinical reasons so that I could study them later. Understand your symptoms, your body’s reaction. But I haven’t been able to open them.”
Her brows knit. “Why not?”
I meet her gaze head-on. “You know why.”
Her lips part, a soft inhale. And then, with more weight than she could understand, she whispers, “Simon.”
The sound of my name on her tongue guts me. My pen clatters uselessly against the desk as I turn to her fully.
“We can’t do this,” I say hoarsely.
“Why not?” She shakes her head, stubborn.
“Because—” I stop, step closer before I can talk myself out of it. “Is this what you even want?”
Her eyes flash. “I’m not clouded by heat now. Am I?”
Fuck.
