Beau studies my face for a long moment, then leans down and kisses me. It’s not gentle—it’s deep and claiming and full of promise. When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“You hang here, we’ll draw the reporters away,” he says against my lips. “Don’t make me hunt you down, Willa.”
The comment sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
“I’ll be there,” I promise.
We make plans to meet by the staff entrance in one hour. And I can’t hide the nervous energy that fills me when they open the door to leave.
They file out reluctantly, Jake looking back twice, Charlie squeezing my hand one more time. As soon as the door closes behind them, I hear the roar of the crowd and cameras—they’re being swarmed by press immediately.
I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath.
TWENTY-SIX
willa
I waituntil there’s silence on the other side of the door. I think I need to go to the hotel.
Cracking it open, I’m met with an empty hallway. Small favors.
I head away from the screaming crowds and the arena.
The hallway stretches endlessly in front of me, and every step feels like wading through concrete.
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve clearly missed at least one heat cycle in the last few months, or because of what we all just did these past few days. But what normally would take days to slowly pull me under is riding me like a fucking tornado.
The clawing mindlessness of what’s to come is a lot closer than it should be, closer than I’m ready for. I’m not home. I’m in public. I have nothing with me—not a nest, not suppressants, not even a plan.
Fuck, we haven’t even talked about it. Will they want to be with me through a heat? I feel like they would, but that’s not an easy thing to throw at their feet. And if how I’m feeling now is any indication, it won’t be an easy one.
Another rolling cramp twists through my womb, a deep pulsing ache for release, and knots already driving at me with singular focus.
Just get to the bathroom. Just make it that far.
My skin is on fire. Not the pleasant warmth from earlier when I was watching Jake ride—this is different. It feels wrong, like I’ve been dipped in gasoline and someone’s holding a match too close. It takes me far too long to register my panting, my breath seesawing out of me. Sweat trickles down my spine, between my breasts, along my temples.
Another cramp hits, low and vicious. I have to stop. My hand slaps against the concrete wall beside me, and I brace myself as the wave of pain rolls through my pelvis. It steals my breath, makes my knees want to buckle.
“Fuck,” I gasp into the empty hallway. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The cramp eases enough for me to partially straighten, though the pain doesn’t subside fully. With another milder cramp, a gush of slick pours from my center.
Fuck, I’m a mess.
And that’s when I smell it—the perfume pouring off my skin, the thick scent of my slick. Sweet and cloying, unmistakably Omega, unmistakably heat. Buttercups and vanilla and honey, so concentrated it makes my own head swim.
Any Alpha within fifty feet is going to scent this. Going to know exactly what’s happening to me.
Dangerous. This is dangerous.
I need to get out of here. Now.
A deep sense of urgency escalates into full-blown panic. My first thought is the guys—call them, tell them, let them come get me. But my Omega immediately rejects that idea. They just publicly claimed me. They’re doing interviews, photos—all the things that matter for their careers. I can’t pull them away from that. Can’t be the needy Omega who ruins their moment.
Bad Omega. Demanding Omega. Inconvenient Omega.
My phone. I just need to call an Uber, get to the hotel, and lock myself in a room before this gets worse. The guys will be tied up for an hour, maybe more.
