Emery’s room is at the end of the hall. The door is closed but not locked. I knock. Once, soft. The answer is a whimper—small, muffled, but not in pain. More like the sound of someone who can’t make herself speak.
I push the door open.
The main light is off but the whole place is lit by fairy lights, pink and blue and purple, so soft it makes the air look wet. The first thing that hits me is the heat—she’s got the window closed, so the room is a sauna, which is insane considering how naturally warm she probably feels right now. I head over to the window and open it, also so fresh air can thin the absolutelythickscent of cotton candy and sex.
It’s only then I find Emery herself, curled in a corner of the nest, her knees drawn up to her chin. She’s wearing a tank top and underwear, nothing else. Her skin is flushed all over. Her hair is plastered to her neck and her body is slick with sweat. There’s a small patch of wet on the sheets under her. Slick. A lot of it.
I freeze where I stand.
Emery just watches me. She’s shivering. One hand is between her legs, but not doing anything—just holding on, like she’s afraid she’ll split open if she lets go.
I stand there, the world spinning, until I can make myself move.
“Emery,” I say, and my voice cracks on the first syllable.
Emery stirs. She looks up at me, eyes huge and glassy and dark. There are tears on her cheeks, old ones, dried in sticky tracks.
She tries to say my name, but it comes out as a soft, cracked sound.
“Hey,” I say, gentle, “I just… came to check on you.”
Emery blinks, then shivers again, and I realize she’s not cold—she’s desperate. Her body is running on empty, eating itself from the inside out. The omega part of her is screaming for what her body needs, and the human part is just along for the ride. She’s been brought food and water this entire time but those are not the things her body craves right now.
I move to the edge of the nest, careful, like I’m approaching a wounded animal. She’s so small like this. Small, but burning.
“Do you need water?”
She shakes her head, a tiny, miserable motion.
I kneel. The mattress sags under my weight, and she whimpers again, softer. Her scent is mind-bending up close. It was before her heat, too, but this is different. Every instinct I’ve ever had is lighting up, redlining. My mouth waters.
I swallow hard.
“You want me to go?” I mean it. She can send me away and I’ll go. I’ll run laps around the block until I forget how to want.
But she shakes her head again, faster, and then her hand reaches for my wrist. It’s barely a touch, more a suggestion than a grip, but it’s enough.
Emery says, “Don’t leave me,” and it’s so small I almost miss it.
I nod. “Okay.”
I look for a safe place to sit, as if such a thing exists. I spot the towels in a heap by the bed, the empty bottle of Gatorade, the half-finished sketch of Bastion that she’s torn in half. I sit at the edge, next to her, and wait.
Emery just breathes, shallow and fast, for a long time. I don’t move, don’t even blink.
Then she says, “It hurts.”
I know she doesn’t mean pain. I know what she means, but the words fail her. I let them hang there. “I can help.”
She shivers again, eyes closing tight.
“Is that—” I start, but stop. I’m not sure what I’m asking. Is that okay? Is that safe? Is that what you want, or what you’re about to regret in the morning?
She nods anyway.
I reach out, slow, and touch her hair. It’s damp, softer than I expect. She leans into it, almost purring, and her mouth falls open just a little.
I stroke her head, then her shoulder, and she melts into the touch. The tremor in her bones settles, just a bit.
