Mine. I say it again internally, and fuck, I love how it makes me feel, even as the word sends another wave of heat rolling through me.
I’m burning up. Have been all day. Chalked it up to the arena lights, the press of bodies, the stress of everything with Felton. But now, standing here watching Jake, I feel like I’m on fire from the inside out.
“Come on, Jake,” I whisper, my fingers gripping the railing so hard my knuckles are white. A bead of sweat trails down my spine despite the cool November air. The scent of popcorn and beer and thousands of bodies fills the arena, but underneath it all, I can still smell them.
My pack’s scent clings to my skin, sunk so deep into my pores that nothing could wash it away. Bergamot and leather. Sage and sweetgrass. Chocolate and warm spices.
The combined scent should be comforting. Instead, it’s making everything that much more intense—making my skin feel too tight, too sensitive. Making me want things I shouldn’t want in the middle of a crowded arena.
The gate explodes open.
Jake’s body moves like water, fluid and controlled, absorbing every violent twist and buck. Nitro is a beast—all rage and power—but Jake rides him like he was born to it. And there’s no way you could look at him and not know exactly who mentored him.
My breath catches with each jarring impact, but not just from fear. Every movement he makes, every flex of muscle, every display of Alpha strength and control sends another pulse of heat through my core.
My Omega is crying out—not in fear, but in want. Every time he’s thrown forward, every thrust of his hips, every time his grip tightens, all I can think about is those hands on me, him in me.
I bring my hand up to wipe at my overheated skin. What is wrong with me?
My chest tightens as Jake grips the rope. I press my hand against my sternum, trying to ease the pressure, but my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it pulsing in my fingertips.
Pride swells hot and fierce when he moves with perfect form—that’s my Alpha—but then terror claws up my throat when the bull spins hard. I want to scream. Want to cheer. Want to run. Want to?—
A sharp ache blooms low in my belly, unfamiliar and insistent.
I freeze, hand still pressed to my racing heart.
Wait.
When was my last full heat?
I count backwards. Three months? No, four. Maybe five? I’ve been on double suppressants since starting with APBRA, and they mess with my cycle, making everything irregular. But five months is… that’s too long, even with the medication.
The ache pulses again, deeper this time, and my breath catches.
Not now.
My legs feel shaky. My skin is buzzing like I’ve had too much caffeine, but I’m so tired I could collapse. The contradiction makes no sense—exhausted and wired, heavy and restless, all at the same time.
I shake my head, trying to clear it.Focus on Jake. Just watch Jake.
But my hand stays pressed against my chest, feeling my heart race, and that ache in my core refuses to fade even as I drag my attention back to Jake.
Please. Please be safe.
“Five seconds!” someone shouts nearby.
Just three more brutally long, agonizing seconds. The buzzer sounds, and Jake launches himself off, landing in a crouch and a slightly lopsided roll. He pops up with his arms raised, that cocky grin splitting his face, and the crowd goes wild.
Relief floods through me so intensely that I feel dizzy with it. He’s safe. He’s whole. He’s?—
His eyes find mine across the arena, even in this chaos, and the heat in his gaze makes my knees weak. Or maybe that’s just the fever burning through me. I grip the railing tighter, suddenly unsteady.
Then he smiles just for me—wide enough that I can see his dimple—and winks.
I laugh despite myself, shaking my head at his audacity, but the sound comes out breathless. Wrong. My hands are trembling against the metal railing.
I need to sit down. Need water. Need to cool off.
