Even the hoodie I’d put on earlier felt like too much now. I stripped it off and threw it across the back of the couch, one bare arm wrapping around my ribs like I could hold myself together.
Touch-hunger, they called it.
I’d heard other omegas talk about it, years ago. Whispered, half-mocking stories about their first heat after suppressants—how their brains short-circuited when they couldn’t scent anyone else, couldn’t feel the comfort of a bond or pressure of skin-on-skin.
I’d rolled my eyes at the time.
But now?
Now I couldn’t sit down because the couch didn’tholdme. Couldn’t stop moving because the air was too empty. Couldn’t stopachingbecause my body didn’t want space—it wanted contact.
Not sex.
Not yet.
Just…touch.Heat. Scent.Them.
I closed my eyes and immediately regretted it.
Because I couldfeelthem again.
Roan, all silent presence and iron will, scent like cold smoke and snow-damp cedar.
Jay—sharp, clean, quiet. A whisper under the chaos. A blade sheathed in silk.
Rhett—loud and sun-warmed, always moving, always two steps from wrapping himself around someone like it was his job.
My hands curled into fists. My breath caught.
This wasn’t fair.
I’d fought so hard to keep distance. To be neutral. To staycontained.Yet, here I was and my body was rebelling like it had never agreed to any of those terms in the first place.
I made it to the bed out of exhaustion more than intent. Curled on top of the covers with another bottle of water beside me, half-finished. My legs tangled. My body burned. My thoughts refused to stay quiet.
The window was cracked, letting in a sliver of night air to cool the rising heat. I closed my eyes again and told myself I’d just rest for a minute. Just long enough to reset.
Sleep didn’t come gently.
It came like drowning.
The dream startedin the arena.
Empty. Echoing.
The lights above the ice humming like insects.
I stood barefoot at center rink.
And then they were there.
Roan first—helmet off, skates half-unlaced, watching me like I was the only thing in the building.
Jay, gliding silent from the bench, gloves off, eyes too dark to read.
Rhett, breathless and grinning, already close, scent thick and teasing, curling around my ankles like smoke.
“You ran,” he said, brushing my hair off my neck. “You didn’t have to run.”
