Because that's what I am, isn't it? What I'm becoming.
An omega in heat. A creature designed to be bred.
I make it to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, but it does nothing for the fire building between my legs. If anything, the cold makes me think of him—of ice-pale eyes and freezing fingers that could cool this fever burning through my veins.
In the mirror, my eyes look wild. Desperate. My skin has a shimmer to it that wasn't there yesterday, like frost under moonlight. Magic radiates from my pores, turning the air around me visible with glittering particles.
And God help me, I want him. Want his cold hands on my burning skin, want his voice telling me what to do because thinking for myself hurts too much. Want him to pin me down and take what's his until this awful emptiness finally stops.
The admission makes me dizzy with shame and need.
I slide my hand between my legs without meaning to, and the relief is so intense I nearly collapse. I'm dripping wet, so swollen and sensitive that the lightest touch makes me gasp. My clit is a hard little pearl that throbs with my pulse, and when I barely graze it with one finger, electricity shoots through my core.
But it's not enough. My fingers are too small, too soft, too warm. Nothing's going to be enough except the thick stretch of alpha cock, the claiming bite that will mark me as owned, the knot that will lock me in place until I'm properly bred.
"No." I jerk my hand away, stumbling backward. "I won't. I won't give him the satisfaction."
But my body doesn't care what I want. It knows what it needs, and it's going to make me suffer until I stop fighting. The omega in me has been awakened, and she has only one goal—find the alpha and submit completely.
I spend the morning pacing my rooms like a caged animal, trying to ignore the building pressure. Every step sends jolts ofsensation through my core. Every breath carries his scent deeper into my lungs, making the ache worse.
My skin feels too tight, like I'm going to burst out of it. My breasts are heavy and tender, nipples so sensitive that even the soft cotton of my chemise makes me whimper. And between my legs, the constant throb of need is driving me insane.
By afternoon, I'm touching myself constantly. Not even on purpose—my hands just drift there, seeking relief that never comes. I'm so sensitive that the slightest pressure makes me whimper, but nothing actually helps. My body wants something specific, and my fingers aren't it.
The empty ache is getting worse. Like something's missing. Like I'm incomplete without something inside me, stretching me, filling me completely. Something thick and hard and knotted, designed specifically to plug an omega's desperate hole.
I know what my body wants. Who it wants.
My alpha. My cruel, beautiful alpha who could end this suffering with one touch.
The thought makes me sob with frustration and need.
Memories surface unbidden—the way his hands felt during my spanking, firm and controlling. The sound of his voice when he's pleased with me, warm honey over winter steel. The scent of him when he held me against the wall, pine and danger and something that made my omega hindbrain purr with satisfaction.
Each memory sends another wave of slick gushing from my pussy, my body responding to even imagined contact with its chosen mate.
That evening, frost starts spreading from wherever I touch. The bedsheets turn to ice under my fevered hands. The walls shimmer with crystalline patterns that look almost like words in a language I don't understand—like my magic is trying to call out to its opposite, ice seeking ice.
My power is leaking out, wild and desperate. Just like me.
The ice formations are beautiful but disturbing—spirals and flowers and geometric shapes that pulse with inner light. They remind me of the patterns that bloomed on the kitchen wall when he had me pinned, when my arousal first awakened the magic sleeping in my blood.
Even unconsciously, my body is calling for him.
I curl up in bed, knees drawn to my chest, and try to sleep. But every time I close my eyes, I see him. Feel phantom hands on my skin, phantom breath on my neck. My pussy clenches around nothing, so empty I could cry.
In my half-dreams, he's touching me. Ice-cold fingers trailing over my burning skin, leaving frost patterns in their wake. His voice in my ear, commanding and gentle:"Submit to me, little omega. Stop fighting what you need."
I wake up grinding against the mattress, desperately seeking friction that won't come.
---
Day thirty-two is worse.
I wake up with my hand between my legs, three fingers deep in my pussy, riding them desperately. I must have been doing it in my sleep because my wrist aches and the sheets are soaked with slick. The scent of my arousal fills the room, sweet and musky and utterly shameless.
But it's still not enough. Nothing I do to myself is enough.
