Possible realization dawned on them in a wave of scent.
The smell in the room changed. The sharp, acrid tang of their fear spiked with something else. Something muskier. Heavier. Dark chocolate melted into a bittersweet syrup. Bourbon warmed in the glass, intoxicating. Bread rising in a hot oven.
"She's…" Simon’s voice cracked. He tried to pull his hand back, but I whined, a high, keen sound of loss, and clamped my legs tighter around his wrist. The roughness of his calloused fingers against my sensitive inner thigh made my toes curl. "Anders, she's reacting to the stimuli."
"She's delirious," Anders stated, though his voice was strained, tighter than a piano wire. I could hear the crack in his rigid armor. "This is a biological misfire. Her system is confusing pain signals with?—"
"I don't care!" I sobbed, arching my back, forcing my chest up against Anders' hand, desperate for the contact, for the weight, for anything to stop the sensation of floating in the void. "Don't stop. Don't look at me, just… make it stop."
I was grinding against them now. Shameless. Animal.
The hallucination had shattered. The graduation stage was gone. I knew, with a terrifying, fever-bright clarity, that these weren't security guards. They were Alphas.
Three of them.
And I was an Omega in the middle of a withdrawal storm, naked on the floor, surrounded by their expensive, intoxicating scents.
"So empty," I wept, the words bubbling up from the bottom of the well. "It burns. Why won't you help me?"
I reached down, my hands clumsy and desperate, trying to shove Daniel’s arm harder against my cramping womb. I tried to drag Simon’s hand higher, towards the slick, molten heat that was killing me.
"Jesus Christ," Daniel breathed, his heavy body going rigid above me. "Tessa, sweetheart, don't. You don't know what you're doing."
"I do!" I screamed, the anger flaring hot and bright. "I am dying! I am hollow! Fill it! Fix it!"
I writhed, snake-like, twisting in their grip. The cooling pads were slipping, sliding on the slick sweat of my skin, losing their purchase.
"Restrain her properly," Anders ordered. His voice was a whip-crack, the tone of a man used to producing outcomes, but I could hear the tremor in it. "If those pads come off, her temperature spikes again. We lose her."
"I can't hold her like this with her… with her moving like that," Simon hissed, his scent filling the room. "It feels like taking advantage."
"It is medical triage!" Anders shouted, losing his composure for the first time. "Grab her wrists! Pin them above her head. Daniel, lock her legs down. Do not let her create friction."
"No!" I begged as Simon’s long, ink-stained fingers wrapped around my wrists. He dragged my arms over my head, stretching me out, leaving me completely open. "No, please, I need it. I need the friction. Don't stop!"
Simon leaned over me, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his face a mask of tortured conflict. He pinned my wrists to the cold concrete. He looked down at me, not at my face, but at the way my body was arching, slick and pale and desperate. His eyes were black holes, devouring the sight of me.
"I’m sorry," Simon whispered, his voice rough. "We can't, Tessa. You're sick."
"I hate you," I hissed, baring my teeth, tears streaming hot into my ears. "All of you. You just watch. You always just watch."
Daniel moved then, shifting his monstrous weight until he was straddling my thighs, effectively pinning my lower body to the floor. The pressure was immense, crushing, and completely immobilizing.
It should have been terrifying.
Instead, my traitorous body slumped, a jagged whimper escaping my lips. The weight. The sheer, immovable mass of him. It compressed the empty ache, soothing the frantic nerves for a microsecond. The scent of yeast and spice enveloped me, promising a safety I didn't deserve.
"Shhh," Daniel hummed, placing a large, warm hand over my erratic heart. "We've got you. We aren't going anywhere."
"Make it stop," I whispered, my voice breaking into a thousand pieces. I looked up at Anders, the King in the Charcoal Suit, standing over me with the cooling pad in his hand. I saw his eyes, blue ice, but burning with a terrified fire. "Anders. Please. Rule 45. Medical emergency. Take care of it."
Anders froze. His jaw worked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He smelled like a storm warning, ozone and regret. For a second,I saw the boy who had sat behind me on the stage, the one who had frozen when I fell.
He dropped to his knees beside me. He didn't touch me with his skin. He reapplied the gel pad to my stomach, right over the cramping knot of my womb, holding it there with the force of his guilt.
"Hold her," Anders commanded, his voice devoid of air. "We ride it out."
I screamed again as the cold hit, struggling against the artist’s hands and the giant’s weight, grinding myself against the unyielding stone of their restraint, burning alive in the ice, waiting for the fever to break or the fire to consume me whole.
