That knot has gotten me through so many heats. Has felt good, felt right, felt like enough.
But looking at it now, all I can think about is how it’s not real. How a real alpha’s knot would be warmer, would pulse, would lock inside me and stay locked while they filled me.
How Dax’s knot would probably be bigger. How Malik’s would be perfectly sized. How Jalen’s would stretch me just right. How Cole’s would?—
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, shoving another spoonful of ice cream in my mouth. “Stop thinking about their knots.”
But the image is there now, burned into my brain. Four alphas, four knots, all of them better than silicone could ever be.
The confusing part is how the thought makes me flush. Embarrassment? Yes. But also… heat. I shouldn’t be thinking about Jalen’s knot, or any of their knots. This is just the heat talking, just biology making me stupid.
But my omega is extremely interested in this line of thinking. She’s already planning exactly how we could take all four, one after another, letting them knot us in sequence until we’re so full and satisfied we can’t move.
“That’s not helpful,” I tell her.
She responds by sending another pulse of slick between my thighs and a flash of fantasy so vivid I have to close my eyes: Cole’s hands on my hips, his knot stretching me wide, his teeth at my throat while the others watch and wait their turn.
I eat more ice cream aggressively, trying to freeze out the heat.
It doesn’t work.
Another growl from somewhere in the house, followed by raised voices. I can’t make out words, but the tone is clear. Alphas trying to maintain control while their ruts push them toward instincts they’re fighting.
My body responds immediately. More slick, more heat, nipples going tight and sensitive.
This is bad. This is so bad.
Because my heat is intensifying, their ruts are clearly getting stronger.
I set down the ice cream and curl up in my nest, pulling pillows around me like armor.
The toy is still visible at the edge of my vision. Mocking me with its inadequacy.
I’m going to need it again soon. Maybe in an hour. Maybe less. The heat is building faster now, each wave stronger than the last.
And somewhere beyond my door, there are four alphas who could make all of this so much better.
I hear footsteps in the hallway. Catch a hint of cinnamon-glazed pecans. Cole. My body reacts with a fresh wave of need that has me biting back a whimper.
This is going to be an endless week.
And based on the way my body just responded to a scent and a distant growl, I’m not entirely sure I’m going to survive it with my dignity intact.
My omega helpfully suggests we could survive it much better if we just went out there and offered ourselves to those nice alphas who smell so good and are clearly suffering.
“Traitor,” I mutter into my pillow.
But I can still hear them. Still smell them.
Still want them.
And my purple silicone friend is already proving woefully inadequate for the job ahead.
I’m so screwed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jalen
