My breasts felt heavy, swollen. The lace of my bra suddenly became too rough against nipples that had begun to harden without my permission.
I pressed my thighs together as I walked, trying to ignore the heat building between them.
Why aren’t my suppressants working?
I'd read about the biological response omegas experienced when exposed to compatible Alpha pheromones. Pupil dilation. Elevated heart rate. Increased blood flow to erogenous zones. The body's preparation for mating, triggered entirely by scent.
But that was supposed to happen tootheromegas. Unsuppressed ones. Ones who hadn't spent twelve years chemically castrating their own biology.
I'd walked past Alphas my entire adult life and felt nothing. My suppressants had been a fortress, impenetrable, reliable. Now those walls were crumbling, and I didn't understand why.
Another wave of Rook’s scent hit me.
Stronger this time.
My step faltered.
No.
I caught myself against the wall, pressed my palm flat against the burgundy paint, and for a moment I just stood there, breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Each inhale made it worse.
Oh God.
I could feel it now—slickgathering, dampening my underwear, my body producing lubrication for a coupling I hadn't consented to.
Please. Not now.
I'd never experienced slick before. I'd only read about it, the way Omegas in heat produced this slippery, thick, natural lubricant to ease penetration, to prepare their bodies for knotting.
I'm not in heat. I can't be in heat. My suppressants. . .
But my pills clearly weren't working. That much was obvious. The question waswhy?
Against all logic, I forced myself to keep walking.
With every step, Rook's scent intensified.
My breasts ached forhistouch.
He’s a serial killer for God’s sake. Calm down.
My inner walls clenched around emptiness.
Hungry for filling.
For stretching.
For a cock’s knot I'd only ever read about in medical journals.
