Page 32 of Omega’s Fold

“Donna has the boys.”

“Mmm.”

Wyatt looks exhausted. There is a sheen of sweat at his temple already and the morning is cold enough that my breath is fogging between us.

“If you need anything,” I say. “Any kind of assistance. You know where I am.”

His eyes come up to mine. After a moment he gives me a small nod, then he walks past me to the gate. I watch him go.

9. Wyatt

I stay outside as long as I can, only coming back to the house after the sun has set behind the ridge.

Donna has been. There are two brown paper grocery bags on the kitchen table that weren’t there an hour ago, and a note folded underneath the salt shaker.

Julian isn’t in the kitchen. Usually, he’s sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop, his brow furrowed as he pays attention to whatever he is working on.

He said he would keep out of my way. Unless I need assistance.

Assistance. Does that mean what I think it does? I’ve never been good at reading people. Maybe he just means he’ll get groceries for me like Donna does.

Or maybe he means the other thing. That is why he is really here. I’m not stupid. I know why the Bureau is forcing this on us.

They want us to consummate the match. The thought pools low and hot in my belly.

My heat has been coming on harder and harder for hours now. I can feel it now behind the base of my spine, a heavy, hot, wrong kind of weight. My shirt is already sticking to me under the arms. I have been outside in the cold wind for twenty minutes and none of it has made any difference.

I grit my teeth.

I am not having sex with Julian Duffield. He looks at me like he thinks I need a bath. I know what city folk think of people like me.

Do not think of Julian. Except that it’s damned hard with his scent saturating the house.

I cross over to the table and pick up the note.

Groceries in the fridge. Bread and pasta in the pantry. I brought the heavy quilt down from the hall closet and put it on your bed. The boys are fine. Don’t do anything stupid. Call the cell.

I fold the note back up.

Julian is upstairs. I know exactly where he is, because my body knows. I can feel the pull toward him, like we are magnets unavoidably drawn together.

Get it together, Wyatt. It’s only a few days. You’ve always ridden out your heats alone. You can do it again.

I unpack the groceries into the fridge, fold the paper bags and put them under the sink. Then I run the cold tap and cup my hands under it and drink, the icy water sliding down my throat and into my burning belly.

It helps for all of five seconds before the heat rolls up again, higher this time. It goes through me like a slow hard wave. I put both hands on the edge of the counter and close my eyes until it passes.

I can’t stay down here all night. I walk the stairs slowly, and far too stickily considering the slick that is already beginning to pool in my jeans.

Upstairs, Julian’s bedroom door is shut, and there is a line of light under it. I go down the hall to my own room, close the door behind me, and put my back against it.

There is a sharp, undignified ache in my pants that I cannot make myself stop thinking about. I press the heel of my hand against it through my jeans and it gets worse and I stop.

It has never been this bad. I’m not even at the worst part of it yet and it’s already worse than any peak I have had on my own.

I sit down on the edge of the bed. There’s a heavy quilt on. I will want it later, when the fever breaks and I go cold, but I don’t want it now. I’m burning. I pull my shirt off over my head; it is soaked through at the back and under the arms, and I drop it on the floor and sit there in the undershirt and jeans and try to breathe.

And all I breathe in is him. I have been trying not to since he got out of the rental car in my yard. The heat is going to take the fight out of me altogether, soon, and then I will be in real trouble.