God, I sound pathetic. Like some cautionary tale about desperate Omegas who make bad choices. But it's the truth, isn't it? I was desperate. I did make bad choices. And I'm still paying for them.
"My Heat was disastrous," I continue, unable to stop now that I've started. The words taste bitter, like medicine I don't want to swallow but know I need to. "When you realize your Alphas know nothing about caring for an Omega in Heat—in such a vulnerable situation where you need gentleness and patience and actual care—they treated it like an inconvenience. Something to handle quickly so they could get back to what actually mattered. Five minutes with Jasper just to keep me from being a 'liability' to pack stability. No nesting materials. No comfort. No check-ins to make sure I wasn't dying of fever or dehydration."
The memory makes my throat tight. That week was the lowest point of my life. Alone in a bedroom that smelled like strangers, my body burning with need that no one cared to satisfy properly, crying myself into exhaustion between waves.
I finish with his knot—fully deflated now under my continued attention—and pull my hand back, suddenly self-conscious about the intimacy of the gesture. About how much I've revealed. About how vulnerable I've made myself to this Alpha I barely know.
I shrug again, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. The gesture feels hollow. Performative. "So I vowed never to deal with that nonsense again. Started taking suppressants to avoid Heats altogether. Better to mess with my hormones than experience that nightmare again."
A blush creeps up my neck—I can feel it burning under my skin, spreading across my cheeks. "Actually, I ran out of suppressants about a week ago. Have to wait for my paycheck to afford more. They're expensive when you don't have insurance. So that could also explain why I'm such a horny mess tonight. My body's probably celebrating its temporary freedom from pharmaceutical intervention."
Great. Now he knows I'm broke AND desperate. What a catch I am.
But Theo just smirks—that dangerous, devastating smile that makes my stomach flip. He reaches out, his fingers gentle under my chin, lifting my face until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
"Why don't you stay off them?" he asks, his voice low and serious.
Is he serious? Does he have any idea what he's suggesting?
I smirk despite the heaviness of the conversation. "As appetizing as that sounds—experiencing Heat again, being that vulnerable, that needy—I'm not dealing with Heats and the agony of being disrespected by Alphas who don't care. Again. Would not recommend."
I mock a one-star review voice, trying to lighten the mood. "Zero stars. Terrible experience. Emotional damage included free of charge."
Then I add, more seriously, "Thankfully, you don't need to deal with that."
"Thankfully," he agrees. But then his expression shifts—concern replacing the playfulness. "But you shouldn't have todeal with that either. Plus, those suppressants aren't good for you long-term. They mess with your hormones, your bone density, your?—"
I nod, cutting him off before he can launch into a full medical lecture. "I know. I've read the warnings. Seen the studies."
But what's the alternative? Risk another Heat alone? Risk attracting Alphas who see me as an easy target? Risk falling into another situation like Kael's pack where I'm just a convenience?
I don't look at his eyes. Can't. Because if I do, he'll see how much this conversation is affecting me. How much I hate that he's right. How much I wish things could be different.
I can feel his gaze on me—intense, searching. Trying to read what I'm not saying. But he doesn't push. Doesn't try to fix me or tell me what to do.
It's not his place to lay judgment. He's not my Alpha. He doesn't own me in any way. We just had sex in a supply closet. That doesn't give him the right to have opinions about my reproductive health choices.
But still. Someone as pretty and probably talented enough to survive away from her pack in a small town like this—someone like me—deserves to have a long life. Deserves to manifest a proper pack that will adore her instead of using her. Someone told me that once. Maybe it was Hazel. Maybe I just need to start believing it.
"We probably only have about ten minutes left," I remind him, my voice deliberately bright. Changing the subject. "My break is an hour, and we've been in here for—what? Fifty minutes?"
Theo glances at his watch—a practical, military-style thing with too many functions—and frowns. "Eight minutes."
"Eight minutes," I repeat, trying to calculate in my head.Eight minutes to make myself presentable enough to go back towork. To fix my makeup, hide the sex hair, pretend I wasn't just thoroughly fucked against the supply closet counter.
I giggle—the sound is slightly hysterical even to my own ears. "Enough time for me to wipe down and say RIP to these pantyhose. They were good tights. Served me well through many shifts. May they rest in pieces. I'll hold a small funeral service later, perhaps write a eulogy about their dedicated service to my legs and my costume."
I look down at the destroyed nylon with something that might be fondness if pantyhose could inspire such emotions. Multiple runs creating a ladder effect from thigh to ankle, like someone took a marker and drew lines down my legs. The knife cuts are precise—clean slices through the fabric that somehow make them look artistic instead of just ruined. Deconstructed fashion.
Actually, they look kind of hot in a destroyed, post-apocalyptic way. Like something from an edgy fashion magazine. 'Deconstructed Holiday Chic: The Supply Closet Collection.' Maybe I should take a photo for my portfolio of 'outfits that have stories.'
"I'm sorry."
I blink, surprised. Look up at Theo, who's watching me with something that looks almost like guilt.
"What? Why are you apologizing?"
He gestures vaguely at my legs. "It was your property. I got into the heat of the moment and ruined it. That's not—I should have been more careful."
