If I try to ride this out alone, I won't just be miserable. I'll be destroyed.
Fine, I think.A service, then. Professional. Discreet.
There are agencies for omegas like me. Heat partners you can hire: clean and anonymous. They show up, they do their job, they leave. No strings. No complications.
The thought of a stranger’s hands makes bile rise in my throat. My body would reject them before they even touched me. I'd spend the entire time wishing it was Carter.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. The pressure helps, a little.
The cramps hit harder. I curl in on myself, breath hissing through my teeth.
Fuck.
I don't know how long I lie there before I reach for my phone.
The screen glows in the darkness. I scroll to our message thread and stare at it.
Addresses. Times. Single-word confirmations. That's all there is. Two months of secret meetings, hours of fucking, and our entire digital record fits on one screen without scrolling.
We've never even said hello to each other. Not in text, not in person. We just show up, take what we need, and leave.
Every word the trolls say about me is true.
Obsessed omega. I am. I'm obsessed. I've been fucking Carter Crane for weeks and I respond to his texts within minutes and I've never once said no. Never even hesitated.
Desperate for attention. That too. Why else would I keep going back? Why else would I be lying here right now, phone in hand, already knowing what I'm going to do?
Can't control himself around alphas. I press my thighs together, feeling the slick that's gathered there, and want to scream.
They're right. The propaganda machine is right. The only lie is that I fabricated the exposé. That part is solid. But the rest?
The rest is exactly what they say it is.
I'm an omega who can't stay away from the alpha who's destroying him.
I type the message before I can talk myself out of it.
We need to talk. Actually talk.
My thumb hovers over the send button. One tap. That's all it takes.
I think about Carter's hands pinning me to a hotel wall. Carter's teeth on my neck. I tap send.
The message goes through. I watch the screen, barely breathing.
One minute passes. Two.
Then:About what?
He responded in under two minutes. I notice that. I hate that I notice that. I hate the way my heart rate spikes, the way my body interprets his quick response asinterest.
I type:My heat is coming. Soon. I need
I can't finish the sentence. I don’t know what to say. I want you. I want sex. I want help.
I backspace and delete theI need, then press send.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
