It’s not all sex. That’s the thing nobody tells you about Omega heats. There are lulls—periods where the fever breaks, where she sleeps so deeply we have to check her breathing, where she wakes up disoriented and hungry and embarrassed. During those lulls, we feed her. Silas makes his tea, and Damon heats cans of soup, and I hold her on my lap while she eats, her fingers curling into my chest like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Then the fever comes back.
It starts with a flush on her cheeks, a slight glassiness in her eyes. Her scent shifts, deepens, thickens until it coats the back of my throat and my cock goes hard without me touching it. She starts touching us first—her hands sliding over whatever skin is closest, her mouth finding a neck, a chest, a jaw.
“Please,” she whispers, the first time it happens. “I need—I can’t?—”
And then we’re on her.
We develop a rhythm. Not planned, not discussed—just organic, instinctive. When she needs to be fucked, one of us takes her while the others touch her, kiss her, hold her down. When she needs to be filled, we take turns, one after another, until she’s dripping with come and her thighs are shaking. When she needs to be held, we wrap around her, three bodies forming a cage of warmth and skin and scent.
The second night, Damon knots her on the floor of her bedroom while Silas fucks her mouth and I stroke myself beside them. The sight of her—stuffed from both ends, her body jerkingwith each thrust, her eyes rolled back in her head—is enough to make me come. I spill over my own fist, watching her choke on Silas’s cock while Damon’s hips lock against hers, his knot swelling inside her.
“Mine,” Damon growls against her throat. “You’re mine, sweetheart.”
She can’t answer—her mouth is full—but she reaches for me, her fingers finding my hand and squeezing. Holding on. Keeping me close.
The third day is the worst. The fever peaks, and nothing we do is enough. She begs for more, for harder, for deeper, and we give it to her until our bodies are screaming for rest. I fuck her against the wall of her shower, the water streaming over us, her legs wrapped around my waist. I pound into her until my knees buckle, until I have to brace one hand against the tile to stay upright. When I finally come, my knot barely swells—I’m too drained—but she doesn’t seem to care. She just clings to me, whimpering, her cunt still clenching around me.
Silas takes her after that. He’s gentler than the rest of us—or maybe just more controlled. He lays her on the bed and works her open with his fingers first, one, then two, then three, stretching her until she’s writhing. Then he pushes inside, slow and careful, and rocks into her with a patience I don’t possess. She comes twice before he does, and when he finally knots her, she sobs his name.
Damon and I watch from the foot of the bed. My cock is hard again, despite everything. Damon is stroking himself slowly, his eyes fixed on Caroline’s face, on the tear tracks sliding down her temples.
By the fourth day, we’re all marked. Bite marks bloom on Caroline’s skin—her neck, her shoulders, her inner thighs, the curve of her breasts. Some are mine. Some are Damon’s. A few are Silas’s, placed low on her hip where only we’ll ever see them.The marks have faded from angry red to a deep purple, and every time I look at them, something primal and satisfied purrs in my chest.
We’re scented too. All of us. My skin carries Caroline’s honey-and-cinnamon undernotes mixed with the clean woodsmoke of Damon and the dark spice of Silas.
She’s asleep in the nest again—rebuilt fresh this morning with clean clothes from our overnight bags, because the first one got too soaked through to salvage. Her face is peaceful, her breathing even. The flush has faded from her cheeks. The fever is breaking.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her, and I think about that girl in my truck. The one who laughed at me when I fumbled with her bra. The one who said, “We’ll get better at it.”
We did, sweetheart. We really did.
Spell of Heat:
Three parts daisy petals, one part ghost pepper, steep with a cinnamon stick. Drink under a full moon.
Iwake up in a nest of foreign fabric.
It takes me a moment to place where I am—my own bedroom, my own bed—but the sheets have been stripped and replaced with a haphazard pile of men’s clothing. Damon’s flannel, soft and worn from years of washing. Griffin’s T-shirt, carrying a trace of smoke and cedar. Silas’s button-down, still faintly crisp even after four days of chaos.
I’m naked underneath it all.
The memories surface in fragments. Not a flood, but a slow tide—pieces rising one by one, each one making my face burn hotter. Griffin’s hands on my hips in the shower. Damon pinning me to the mattress while I screamed his name. Silas’s mouthbetween my thighs, his tongue doing things I didn’t know a tongue could do. Three Alphas, four days, more orgasms than I can count.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my face into the nearest shirt. It smells like all of them. Like me, too. Like sex and sweat and something deeper.
The door opens. I don’t look up.
“It’s just me.” Griffin’s voice. “I brought water.”
I hear the soft thud of a glass being set on the nightstand. The mattress dips as he sits on the edge of the bed. His hand finds my back through the pile of clothes, his palm warm and broad, and he strokes down my spine in a motion so gentle it makes my throat tighten.
“You awake?”
“Mmm.”
“How do you feel?”
