“Mmhmm,” June hums, a small, triumphant smile touching her lips for the first time since the meeting started. “Just keep an eye on her. A friendly face goes a long way in times like these.”
“She’s an Omega,” August counters, though his voice lacks conviction. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, you know she would be better off with an Alpha.”
The mention of Alphas sends a jolt through me, a pulse of heat that spreads from my core outward in a dizzying rush. I press a hand discreetly to my stomach, trying to quell it.
It’s just stress. The long day. The crowded, overheated room. The proximity of so many anxious people.
It has to be.
“Go home, June,” I say, pushing myself off the counter. My legs feel unsteady, and I grip the edge for a moment to regain my balance. “You’re running on fumes. Both of you, get some rest. We can deal with the fallout tomorrow.”
June opens her mouth to argue, then takes a good look at me. Her brow furrows. “Are you okay, Caroline? You look a little flushed.”
“Just tired.” I force a smile, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels. “It was a lot. Go on. I’ll lock up.”
She studies me for a moment longer, her eyes missing nothing. Then she nods, a reluctant dip of her chin. “Fine. But you call me if you need anything. Anything at all. I mean it.”
“I will,” I promise.
After they leave, the silence of the shop feels all-consuming. I go through the motions of locking the door, the deadbolt sliding home with a thud. I turn off the main lights, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp over the counter, which casts shadows across the floor.
My familiar is usually weaving around my ankles by now, complaining loudly about the lateness of his dinner. But he’s nowhere in sight.
“Thistle?” I call out, my voice sounding thin and reedy in the empty room. No response. Just the hum of the refrigerator in the back.
I walk into the small storage room at the back of the shop, my movements slow. The heat is getting worse. It’s not a comfortable warmth; it’s a cloying blanket that seems to emanate from my very bones.
I strip off my cardigan, letting it fall to the floor, then kick off my shoes. The thin fabric of my shirt is already sticking to my skin, damp and uncomfortable.
I go to the kitchen sink and drink a glass of water, then another, gulping it down. The cold liquid doesn’t do a thing tocool the fire building inside me. If anything, it feels like pouring water on a grease fire, making it hiss and spit with renewed fury.
My skin prickles, hypersensitive. I can feel every thread of my shirt, every seam of my jeans, the slight roughness of the countertop under my palms. It’s a sensory overload that makes my head spin and my thoughts scatter like dust motes in a sunbeam.
I stumble into the staff room and throw open the window, my fingers fumbling with the stiff latch. I’m hoping for a breeze, for the cool night air to work its magic.
The air that rushes in is cool, but the moment it touches my feverish skin, it feels like it’s being absorbed, devoured by the heat radiating from my body. It’s a fleeting, tantalizing relief that’s gone in an instant, leaving me feeling even hotter than before.
It’s not helping. It’s getting warmer.
A wave of dizziness washes over me, so intense it makes my stomach clench. I grip the windowsill, my knuckles white, and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for it to pass. My scent… I can smell it now, rising from my skin in thick, cloying waves.
It’s not the usual cinnamon and honey. It’s stronger, sweeter, almost sickly, like spun sugar caramelizing and burning on a stove. And underneath it, something else. Something wild and musky and terrifyingly recognizable.
The scent of my heat.
But it’s not time. It’s not supposed to be for another two weeks. It can’t be time. Panic, cold and sharp, begins to prickle at the edges of the fever.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound is loud, cutting through the fog in my head with surgical precision. It’s coming from the front of the shop.
“We’re closed!” I shout. I don’t move from the window. I can’t. The room is tilting on its axis, the floor feeling like it’s dropping away beneath my feet.
“I know,” someone calls back. It’s a man’s voice, with a clipped, precise accent I can’t quite place. This must be a stranger. “I need to speak with June Finch.”
“She’s not here,” I yell back, my heart starting to pound a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. “Come back tomorrow. We open at nine.”
“I’m afraid my business is time-sensitive.” He sounds calm and unperturbed, as if I haven’t just shouted at him. “It’s regarding her rather clever wards.”
