I never know when I’m going to smell or taste his coffee again, so I might as well get as much as I can. If that means walking around like a gaping goldfish and possibly/definitely stealing another one of his shirts for old time’s sake, then I’m going for it. Just as long as I don’t spread my slick everywhere, it’s fine.
Though now that I’ve mentioned it…
I chuckle to myself to cover up the aching regret that twists in my gut. Because I’m all good, I’m golden. I chose this. I knew it was going to happen, so why should I be upset?
I just need to focus on what I came here to do. And I kind of just switch off as I start to pack up my stuff from the kitchen. If I just make my mind blank and ignore the fact that I literally feel like screaming because leaving my alpha’s house is wrong on so many levels. I pack away my favorite pans, my special knife set, and the pot of spoons, spatulas, and other utensils. I want to gag because this is just messed up.
It’s not just that I need to dismantle my nest, which I’m definitely going to cry like a little bitch over; it’s that someone else is coming in after me. They’re going to hire another nutritionist, who’ll sleep inmyroom, and they’ll get to see Timber in his tiny towels as he plods around sleepwalking and rubs his dick.
I groan as I lean over the counter next to the stove, pressing my palm flat against it as more pain twists through me. I have to stop thinking about it, but everything hurts more the longer I clear out my stuff.
I keep glancing at the living room door, where I can just see the stairs, and I’m about eighty percent sure I’m going to puke.
Kane called me after the TV show, quickly confessing what happened and insisting it wasn’t him. I thought I’d be angry, but he sounded so stressed and upset that I wanted to go and reassure him that I didn’t give two hoots now that I’m leaving. They didn’t get any shots of my face, so it’s probably fine, I guess.
Or I’m just so used to Kane’s games at this point.
I was serious about not being seen, but my heart is so numb from leaving Timber that, instead of doing my usual going back and forth between “I have to hide myself” and “fuck it, I’m horny” all I care about is getting away so I can end it properly.
It’s easier to think about that than wallow and sigh like an old captain’s wife. I’ve got better shit to do.
Though the weird breathing does seem to be helping with those trusty pangs of regret that keep hitting me whenever I think about Timber—which is constantly.
You’d think, at twenty-five, I’d have a clue.
But no. Because ten minutes later, I’m lifting a box near the stove when pain rips through me so viciously I bend double. I yell as it stabs from my pussy to my heart like someone’s sliding a knife through my guts.
“No! Fuck!” With another stab, my muscles spasm, legs collapse, and I tumble to the floor. Everything clatters to the ground, rolling away from me as my vision blurs.
Another stab, and I cry as I curl up, pulling my knees to my chest.
“Please don’t. Just give me a fucking break,” I whimper.
I’d been doubling up on my suppressants since I left so I could come off them in a few days and have my heat in my apartment—alone.
But my preheat is coming too fast. My melancholy ass was being all dramatic, thinking it was separation anxiety when it’s literally my body telling me to get the hell out of here.
I groan as another stab forces sticky-sweet perfume to pour out of me in a cloud of need.
I can’t take this. It shouldn’t hurt like this. Yeah, I get cramps like everyone else, but not in a way that feels like I’m getting a freaking hysterectomy.
A growl rips from me as I force myself to move. I can’t let this happen here. I have to get back to my car and lock myself in. I’ll call Noa to come and pick me up, and she can take me to my nest in my apartment, even though my beanbag bed won’t be there. She can ask one of our beta friends to bring me food and shit while I ride it out myself.
It doesn’t matter how much my omega side is tempting me; I still don’t want Timber to think I’m some conniving omega doing the whole slow-burn revenge thing.
Unfurling myself, I crawl forward, dragging my aching body along the kitchen tiles. If I can just get to the living room, I’ll make it to the garage door. That’s it. That’s all I need to do…
Yeah, Timber’s house is huge, but I don’t remember it taking five minutes to get from the stove to the door. But even though my mind is blown from the pain, there’s no way I’m giving up, no matter how much I’m slicking.
Snails ain’t got nothing on me as I finally reach the living room door.
I was supposed to save the crying untilafterI got to my nest.
But I grit my teeth as I grab the door frame and heave myself up, just as a wave hits me.
“Fuck you!” I yell as I hurl myself into the living room. Half at my body, half at my shitty drug dealer who’s never getting another dime from me.
Yeah, my heat cramps can be uncomfortable, but this is insane. But, I’ve also never put my heat off for so long with suppressants, and or had scent matches before, either. Preheats are supposed to last two or three days, but I can’t deal with this for that long.
