The smear campaign might be propaganda, but propaganda works best when it contains a grain of truth.
And the truth is, I can barely control my own body right now. The truth is, I've been fucking Carter Crane for weeks and I can't stop. The truth is, I'm about to beg my enemy for help, and some part of me is glad.
The train pulls into my station. I push through the crowd and up the stairs and out into the cold evening air.
It hits my overheated skin and I gasp. Actually gasp, like I've been holding my breath for hours.
I walk home fast, head down, arms wrapped around my stomach.
The apartment is quiet when I let myself in.
I make it as far as the couch before my legs give out. I curl onto my side, arms wrapped around my middle, and stare at nothing. The cramps roll through me in waves. They’re not unbearable yet, but getting there and getting worse with every hour.
I don't know how long I lie there. Long enough for the light to change, the sunset glow through the windows fading to grey.
Footsteps. The creak of the floorboards.
"Jamie?"
Akari stops in the living room doorway. I hear her inhale. Hear the way her breath catches.
"Oh," she says quietly.
"Yeah."
She crosses to the couch and crouches down, putting herself at eye level. Her face is a blur. My vision's gone soft at the edges, heat-fog creeping in.
"When?"
"Soon. Tomorrow, maybe."
"Jesus." She rocks back on her heels. "That's fast."
I don't answer. We both know why it's fast.
“You need to call him.”
“I know,” I say but when she passes me my phone, I just put it down in front of me. I’m not ready yet.
Later, in my room, I lie on my bed and stare at the wall.
The cramps have settled into a steady rhythm. Not peaking, not fading. Justthere, a constant reminder of what's coming.
I could handle this alone.
I've done it before. The heat I had two years ago, after my mom died, I rode that one out by myself, locked in this room for three days, biting my pillow to keep from screaming. It was miserable. It was agony. But I survived.
I could do that again. I could suffer through it and come out the other side with my dignity intact.
Except even as I think it, my body rebels against the idea. The ache in my belly sharpens, demanding something I refuse to name. Slick is gathering, slow and insistent, and I know that if I try to do this alone, it won't be like last time.
Last time, I wasn't scent-matched.Prime-matched.
Last time, I hadn't spent weeks being fucked by an alpha whose smell makes me lose my mind.
Last time, my body didn't know what it was missing.
Now it does.
