Bea
I'm on my hands and knees in my childhood bedroom, trying to build a nest that won't cooperate.
Every blanket is wrong. Every pillow feels like sandpaper against my overheated skin. My scent—baked apple and brown sugar, thick enough to choke on—fills the small room until I can barely breathe.
"It's wrong." I yank another blanket off the bed, frustrated tears burning my eyes. "Why is everything wrong?"
The door opens. Mom slips inside, her vanilla-lavender scent cutting through my panic like a lifeline.
"Oh, sweetheart." She kneels beside me, not touching, just present. "Your heat's starting."
"I know." My hands are shaking. "But I can't—this room is too small and it smells like childhood and nothing feels safe?—"
"Because it's not the right space." Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact. "You can't have your first heat in your childhood bedroom with your brother across the hall, honey. You need privacy. You need room to fall apart."
The tears spill over. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"That's why you have a pack." She strokes my hair, careful and soothing. "Have you talked to your alphas about where you'll be?"
Before I can answer, Ben appears in the doorway. He's got one hand clamped over his nose and mouth, looking absolutely miserable.
"Seth's here," he says, voice muffled. "Says he needs to see Bea. Like, now."
Mom helps me to my feet. My legs are shaky, slick soaking through my underwear with every movement. "Go. I'll pack you a bag."
Dad and Papa are waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Neither of them tries to get close—smart alpha instincts when an omega's scent is this overwhelming—but the love on their faces nearly undoes me.
"You chose a good pack," Dad says. His voice is steady, grounding. "That takes courage, Bea. Trusting someone with this."
Papa's eyes are wet behind his glasses. "We love you. You know that, right? No matter what."
"I'm terrified," I whisper.
"That's okay." Dad's smile is gentle. "But you're going anyway. That's brave."
Seth is pacing on the front porch, but the second he sees me through the screen door, he goes still. His brown eyes track over my face, cataloging.
Then he opens the door and steps inside, moving with purpose.
"Hey." His voice is different. Calmer than usual. Confident. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I'm dying." It comes out as half-sob, half-laugh. "My room—I tried to nest but nothing worked and?—"
"I know." He catches my hand, and his touch is cool against my burning skin. "That's why we're going to my place. Right now."
"Seth—"
"I have everything ready." He's already guiding me toward the door. "River and Grayson stocked the room this morning. Blankets, pillows, everything you need. But Bea, we need to go. Your heat's coming fast."
The deputy voice. The crisis management tone. It cuts through my panic better than anything else could.
This isn't shy, stuttering Seth who blushes when I tease him. This is Deputy Monroe—calm, focused, in control. It's weirdly hot seeing him like this, all take-charge and confident.
"Okay," I breathe. "Okay."
The truck is running in the driveway. He helps me in, then circles around to the driver's side. His scent—clean rain and cedar and fresh-baked bread—fills the cab, and I want to crawl into his lap and never leave.
Actually, I want to lick his neck. I want to taste his skin. I want to bury my face in his throat and breathe him in until his scent is the only thing I know.
