The bathroom is at the end of the hall, past the research department and the conference rooms. I walk there with my hands in my pockets and my jaw clenched, nodding at people who smile at me, acting like everything is fine.
The door swings shut behind me. I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed. There's sweat at my hairline, despite the aggressive air conditioning. My pupils are too wide for the harsh fluorescent lighting, dark and wrong.
No. Not now. Not fucking today.
I've been ignoring it for two days. Blaming stress. Blaming nerves about the new job. Blaming Carter fucking Crane for making me horny.
But standing here, under these unforgiving lights, I can't pretend anymore.
The ache in my belly isn't nerves. The heat under my skin isn't stress. And the way my scent is shifting—sweetening—isn't something I can explain away.
My heat is coming.Damn it.
I splash cold water on my face. It doesn't help. The flush stays, pink and damning across my cheekbones.
Two days, I think.Maybe less.
My cycle hasn't been regular years. Suppressants and stress and the chaos of chasing the Crane story kept it at bay. I haven't had a proper heat since before I started the investigation.
But my body has been different lately. Since the David Glass programme. Since Carter.
I grip the sink harder. Scent matches can trigger heat cycles. I know this. Every omega knows this. When your biology locks onto someone, it starts preparing: resetting rhythms and amplifying responses.
My body has locked onto Carter Crane. It just wants what it wants.
I stare at my reflection. I’m flushed and sweating, my pupils blown. I hate everything I see.
You're fine, I tell myself.You can get through today. Just get through today.
I’ll have to ask for heat leave, not ideal after just starting a new job but they’re hired an omega. They know I’ll need to ask for it occasionally. It was even covered in the orientation meeting earlier.
The problem is how I am going to handle this heat. I’m going to need Carter. I could get some agency alpha. I could try handle it on my own.
But I already know neither of those are going to work. If I can’t say no to Carter Crane when I’m not in the middle of a heat,there is no fucking way I am going to stop myself from begging him for it while I am.
And the heat is going to make me stupid. So far, we’ve got lucky. The hotels have been picked for easy anonymity. That’s going to be harder if I’m there for a week and with Carter coming and going.
He’s sure as hell not going to come to my apartment and I’m certainly not going to turn up at his family estate demanding he satisfy me.
We’re going to need to plan for this so that we don’t take an unnecessary risk and have someone see us and notify the tabloids.
I take a deep breath, then wash my face in cold water until it’s one o’clock and time for me to meet Laura for lunch.
She takes me to a restaurant across the street. It appears to be a regular hangout because the servers greet her by name and she doesn’t even look at the menu before ordering.
She recommends the basil pesto tagliatelle and I take her up on it.
"So," Laura says, once our drinks arrive. Water for me. The thought of alcohol makes my stomach turn. "Let's talk about what comes next."
I start telling her about the leads I’ve had in and she listens, nodding.
"You've got real momentum," she says, finally. "This is the moment to capitalize on it."
I nod and try to look engaged. Under the table, my hands are clenched in my lap, fingernails cutting crescents into my palms.
"I have to ask," Laura says. Her tone shifts, softens. "How are you holding up? With everything else?"
