Imake it exactly three steps away from Sierra’s door before I have to stop and brace myself against the wall.
My hands are shaking. Actually shaking, like I’m some pubescent alpha who’s never been around an omega in heat before.
Except I have been. Multiple times. I’ve helped fellow cadets through heats back in our ROTC program, provided support, and maintained perfect control. It’s one of the things I was actually good at. Staying calm when everyone else was losing their minds. Being the steady presence that omegas needed during vulnerable moments.
But this is Sierra Smith. The omega who actually competes with us business-wise where none other can.
The same omega I’ve had a secret crush on for... I don’t even know how long anymore.
Sexy, smart Sierra Smith.
And I just caught the scent of her slick while standing outside her door. It’s taking every ounce of willpower I possess not toturn around, break down that door, and give her exactly what her body is begging for.
The image is burned into my brain: Sierra in her nest, trying to stay quiet, working herself toward relief with her hand or a toy or?—
I press my forehead against the cool wall and try to breathe through it.
Her voice when she thanked me. Wrecked. Breathless. The slight catch that told me exactly what she was doing when I knocked.
The scent of her heat is everywhere now. So thick in the air I can taste it. My rut-brain is screaming at me to go back, to offer help, to give her my knot and make all that desperate need stop.
I force myself to move. Down the hallway, away from temptation, back toward the living room where my pack is probably also losing their minds.
The house suddenly feels too small. How are we supposed to survive a week of this? Her in heat, us in rut, all of us pretending we can maintain control while our biology screams at us to claim and knot and breed.
This is what I get for being observant. For noticing things other people miss. It’s served me well in event planning. I catch the small details. I can read a room and adjust accordingly. But right now, all those carefully honed observation skills are working against me because I can’t stop cataloging every tiny detail about Sierra’s heat.
The way her scent changed throughout our discussion. The flush that started at her collarbones and spread upward. The shift in her breathing pattern.
I noticed all of it.
I just wanted to walk over, run my hands into her soft brown hair, tilt her head back, those light-brown eyes locked with mine as I lean in and press my lips along that line of heat until she was panting my name.
And now I can’t stop noticing the scent of her slick lingeringin the hallway, the sound of her movement in the bedroom, the way the house itself seems to hum with tension.
I enter the living room and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Dax is pacing, all that controlled energy from earlier completely gone. His scent is pouring off him. Burned caramel so thick and aggressive it makes my own alpha instincts bristle with the urge to either submit or challenge.
Malik is on the couch, but his usual composed demeanor is cracking. His jaw is clenched tight enough to shatter teeth, and his hands are gripping the couch cushions like he’s restraining himself from going down the hall.
Cole is by the window, his head tilted, listening to the storm hammer against the metal shutters. The sharp, spicy heat rolling off him is almost frantic. He’s practically vibrating with barely contained energy.
All three of them turn when I walk in, and the look in their eyes makes me stop in my tracks.
“How is she?” Dax asks, voice rough.
I have to clear my throat twice before I can answer. “She wanted ice cream. Rocky road. I left it outside her door.”
“Rocky road,” Cole repeats slowly, then lets out a strangled laugh. “With marshmallows. She has a thing for marshmallows, apparently.”
He’s looking directly at me when he says it, and I feel my face heat despite everything.
“Not the time,” I mutter.
My scent has always been a source of amusement for the pack. Toasted marshmallows and spiced cider? Cole claims it smells like childhood nostalgia, which is equal parts flattering and irritating. Sierra once mentioned during one of our forced interactions at an industry event that it reminded her of campfires, which did absolutely nothing to help the inconvenient attraction I’ve been nursing.
Not that I’ve acted on it. I learned a long time ago that being the quiet one, the observant one, means people don’t alwaysnotice what you’re feeling. It’s a useful skill in business. Clients love that I remember their preferences, that I anticipate their needs without being asked. But in love? It just means I’ve gotten really good at pining in silence while everyone assumes I’m just being my usual reserved self.
