I get out carefully, come around, and lift Esme out of the car. She weighs fucking nothing. She stirs, mumbles something,turns her face into my chest, and goes back under. I chuckle and kiss the top of her hair. Too damn cute.
I carry her to her door, juggle to dig her keys out of her bag, and let us in.
Her apartment’s small, warm and… full of her. There’s a fern on the windowsill. Kids’ drawings on the fridge. Books fucking everywhere, stacked on every surface, a reading corner. I stand in the middle of Esme’s space holding her, and my lips twitch because I feel like a giant in a dollhouse.
I carry her to her bedroom and lay her on the bed. She doesn’t move, just snuggles into the mattress. I take off her boots and pull the blanket around her shoulders. She sighs and burrows into the pillow, her hand finally uncurling from my shirt, like even asleep she doesn’t want to let go.
I stand over her for a long time. I want to climb into her human-sized queen bed and wrap myself around her soft, warm body. Inhale her scent. Nuzzle her skin. Lick her all over. Tear off her clothes and bury myself deep enough to… Fuck, I want this girl so bad my hands shake. I want to peel off my clothes, slide in behind her, curl my body around her and stay. Wake up with her and do it all over again every fucking night for the rest of my damn life. Every instinct in me is telling me to get in that bed. She’s right there. She’s mine. She wouldn’t even fucking mind. But I make myself step back. But fuck, I waited this long, I can wait a little longer.
I barely get any sleep. Getting used to that shit. I lie in my big, quiet house, fucking aching, staring at the ceiling, telling myselfsoon…between rounds of beating my dick raw.Pickle gives up on me around three and goes to sleep in the other room. At least I’ll see my girl tomorrow…
* * *
But Esme’s not at work the next day. I know it the second I walk in. Something feels off. And when I walk to her desk, I see there’s no coat over her chair, no coffee on her desk, the kids’ wing is dark and quiet. She’s probably just running late. It was a long night. She was tired. But by ten she’s stillnot here,and I’ve walked the floor twice for no fucking reason and snapped at everyone I encountered. Now I’m standing in my office, gripping the edge of my chair, trying not to do something insane like call the police station and nearest hospitals. I open my inbox for the third time in twenty minutes and… there it fucking is.
From: Esme Williams
Subject: Out today
I’m so sorry, Sven. I’m not feeling well. Nothing bad! Probably just too many churros, lol. I’m going to take the rest of the week and sleep it off. Sorry for the short notice. I’ll have the summer numbers ready by Monday!
My stomach drops. Esme’s sick, and she’s takingthe rest of the fuckingweek?!Alone in a city where she barely knows anyone? No family, no mother to dote over her, no one to bring her anything or check if she’s still fucking breathing… sick and by herself for a goddamn week. Not on my damn watch.
Too many churros,my ass.
My mate doesn’t do ‘alone’. Not while I’m breathing.
I’m on the move, halfway across the building in a few strides. Thinking about what to bring Esme. About whether she has a thermometer. About where to stop on my way to grab that electrolyte shit, ginger ale, crackers.And why the fuck didn’t she call me?!
I bulldoze out the front doors into the cold with my keys in my fist and my chest tight, my woman sick and alone and fucking joking about churros so I don’t fucking worry. I peel off the parking lot.
Thirteen
Esme
I wake up on fire. Not sick-fire. I know the difference. I’ve had the flu, I’ve had food poisoning, I know what a fever feels like, and this is not that. This is my whole body tight, drenched in sweat, andaching.My skin, oversensitive even for the sheets, slick soaks through my clothes and covers. An impossibly deep, hollow emptiness grows in my belly. And none of this shit has to do with any food I consumed last night.
I lie in my wet sheets as I do the math, and I want to fucking scream. My heat just kicked the goddamn door down three fucking weeks early!!
My cycle’s been steady since I was nineteen. I’ve been suppressed, scheduled, managed. Now all that’s cracked wide open, and I know exactly why; I know exactly whose fault this shit is. Weeks of being aroundhim!With his fucking scent everywhere. His hands on me. His mouth… his goddamnhugefingers, the way he fucking rumblesgood girlin my ear,took me to a damn fair because he saw I was excited by the idea. How he holds me, looks at me, scents me, makes me come over and overwithout ever giving me the real thing, all of him… My body got fucking tired of waiting. Done. So it fucking decided.
My omega wants Sven Greymark, solely, specifically, completely, NOW! And my body has cleared its entire schedule for him.
“Okay,” I say to the ceiling. Fuck, my voice is wrecked… “We’re not doing that.”
Because here’s the thing. I amnotcalling that alpha and telling him I’m in heat.
We’ve been on three dates. Three fucking dates. You do not, after date three, call the terrifying orc you work for and have been swooning over and sayhi, so, my body’s gone into a sex fever for you, mind coming over for a few days to handle things?There are rules. I still have my dignity. Fine, I have very little of it left when it comes to Sven Greymark, but I’m keeping my scraps!
So I decide I’ll do what I always do: handle it myself.
I drag myself up, change the sheets, drink water, and email Sven (as my boss!) before the worst of it hits, while I can still type…not feeling well, nothing bad, too many churros, taking the week.Light. Breezy. No big deal. A regular girl with a common bug. I hit send, and I’m more than a little proud of how normal it sounds. And I don’t let myself think about the fact that I’m lying to Sven, because the truth is way too mortifying to put in an email.
Then I get ready. I dragthe boxout of the closet and lay everything out on a towel: small, medium, and the big one I ordered online the very day I met Sven… felt pathetic about and am now extremely grateful for. The Savage Destroyer Warchief. Yes, that’s what it’s called. Yes, it’s exactly what I imagine Sven’s packing. And yes, I am fully aware of what that says about me as a person. Moving on. The Warchief is ten inches of girthy, green silicone with veiny ridges down the shaft, a thick, flaredhead, and a swollen knot at the base. I found it on a monster toy website at 1 AM the night I met Sven, added it to my cart with shaking hands, and felt like a complete degenerate when the package arrived. I drool every time I look at it…
I stock my nightstand with water, dark chocolate (gotta have a taste of my guy…), and protein bars. Then I open my laptop and pull upthesaved tabs, the ones with videos I’ve watched about a hundred times by now…
I have a system. I’m going to be fine… I last about two hours before I understand I’m not gonna be fine. None of this fake-ass shit works.
