Emery
Three weeksafter Bastion’s car crash, his stitches are gone and he walks with the stride of someone who’s either forgotten their own mortality or decided to mess with it on purpose. And then there’s the fact we haven’t kissed again.
It’s not for lack of opportunity. I linger. I make the first move. Sometimes I think he wants to, too, but the air always breaks, and the urge dies in the liminal space between a dare and a disaster. I don’t blame him. If I were an alpha, I’d be afraid of me, too.
Instead, I’m up at dawn most days, elbows-deep in prep for the exhibition, which is now less than a week away. If I could just hibernate until then, I’d do it, but there’s a lot of work to be done. My parents sent me a care package—mostly snacks, some fancy pens, a spa mask I’ll never use, and a note that just says “FINISH STRONG.” I taped it to the fridge for irony. No one but me finds it funny.
I’ve made it my mission to out-nice the Everhart Pack. Every morning I bake cookies. Every other day, I order fresh flowers for the manor’s rooms. On the weekends, I deep clean the communal kitchen, leaving the coffee pot ready for Wyatt and Ranier and a neat little pyramid of muffins for the house staff.
It’s not just the house that’s gotten a glow-up. My nest has doubled in size. At first, it was just one duvet and two pillows, but now it’s a palatial sprawl: eight pillows, four blankets, and a rotating cast of stolen sweatshirts. Each one is “borrowed” from a different alpha. I don’t know if this is standard omega behavior or the start of a tragic addiction, but the comfort is real and it’s mine.
I know I’m going into heat before it happens, but I don’t admit it until it’s too late. The first sign is that every brush of fabric against my skin feels like static. Every word out of my mouth is met with an undertow of thirst, and I can’t stop eating—berries, carbs, cheese, even raw cookie dough, which I hate. I spend a whole day rearranging my art supplies by color, then by shape, then by the sound each tube of paint makes when I squeeze it.
It’s late, and I’m supposed to be finishing a landscape commission for one of the Councilors. I lean across the table to grab my favorite brush, elbow catches the edge of the palette, and the whole tray tips. Paint pours across my desk like a toxic river. The sharp, chemical hit of oil pigment slaps me in the face and, suddenly, my knees go out. I’m on the floor before I realize what’s happening, one hand clutching the edge of the chair, the other sticky with blue and gold and a hint of red.
The world wobbles, then steadies, then spins again. The room smells like a candy factory on fire. My head is swimming, and my body is, too, only the water is hot and the current is dragging me under.
I must make a sound—a yelp, maybe, or a grunt of pain—because a moment later there’s a knock, then a second, then the soft rush of someone entering my room.
It’s Wyatt.
His hair is a disaster and he’s wearing pajamas with a pattern of little sharks, and I hate how adorable he is, especially whenhis green eyes go wide at the sight of me collapsed and paint-stained on the rug.
He drops to one knee like he’s responding to an actual emergency. “Shit. Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to say, “It’s just paint,” but what comes out is a tiny moan. The mortification is instant, bright, and hot, and for a moment I wish I could crawl under the nest and suffocate.
Wyatt hesitates, scans my face, and then—fuck, his pupils are huge, blown out so the green is just a thin ring—he reaches for my shoulder. “You’re… you’re burning up,” he says. The panic in his voice is not the usual Wyatt brand, but a new, rawer version that vibrates in my teeth.
I try to roll away, but my limbs are too heavy, and my body is moving in two directions at once—toward him, and away from every ounce of self-respect I have left.
“Don’t touch me,” I manage, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
Wyatt ignores that. He hoists me up under the arms, bridal-style, like it’s no effort at all, and deposits me on top of my nest. The blankets are cool at first, then not, then so hot I kick them off with a burst of energy that’s one-part adrenaline, one-part shame.
“You’re in heat,” Wyatt says, more to himself than to me. “Shit. What do I—should I get Bastion? Or—” He stops, realization hitting him like a brick. “Ranier will kill me if I even look at you right now.”
“Then don’t look,” I snap, but the snap is ruined by the tremor in my voice.
Wyatt swallows hard and sits on the edge of the bed, his knees jiggling like he’s fighting the urge to bolt. “Do you want water? Ice? The emergency Council omega kit?” He laughs, but it’s brittle, and I know he’s one wrong word away from spiraling.
I sit up and clutch my knees. My face is wet, but I refuse to believe it’s tears. “Just—” I gesture vaguely at the door. “Go away, unless you’re here to make it worse.”
Wyatt doesn’t move. Instead, he fidgets, looking at the ruined art supplies and the tangle of my nest and the way my thighs are pressed tight together. I can smell myself, too—sugar, salt, a hint of something ripe and electric—and the fact that he doesn’t immediately run out means it’s probably worse for him.
His voice goes quiet. “Is it… is it bad?” He means the heat, but maybe also everything else.
“Bad is relative,” I say. I want to make a joke, but my head is pounding and my body is cranking up the volume on every sense. “If you stay here much longer, it’ll be worse for both of us.”
Wyatt looks at me, really looks, and for a second I think he’s going to do something wild, like grab my face and kiss me or throw himself out the window.
Instead, he says, “You’re not alone, you know. Even if it feels like it.”
“That’s the problem,” I say. “I don’t want to be alone. But none of you want me.” I don’t mean for it to sound so small, but it does.
Wyatt reaches out and touches my hand, just barely. The contact sends a bolt of heat up my arm and I gasp. He flinches away, color rising to his cheeks.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, desperate.
