"You like her," I said.
"She's our surrogate."
"You like her more than you're letting on."
"I respect her. She's been through a lot, and she deserves—"
"Hastings."
He stopped, his gray eyes cutting to me.
"Just admit it."
His jaw worked. His thumb pressed harder against his lip.
"She looks hot," he said finally.
I blinked. "What?"
"In the feed. She looks hot."
"She is hot," I agreed. "She's gorgeous. She's funny—"
I looked back at the screen. Presley had moved away from the window and was now sitting in one of the plush chairs. She'd taken off her coat, and the cream jumper clung to her frame. She looked flushed, her cheeks pink, her movements slightly restless.
"I mean she looks hot, like her heat is starting."
The words hit me like a punchto the gut.
I looked at the screen again, cataloging the signs. The flushed cheeks. The restless movements. The way she kept adjusting her position like she couldn't get comfortable.
"Scheisse," I muttered.
"Her heat isn't due for another week." Hastings' voice was tight. "But stress can trigger it early. Or—"
He didn't finish the sentence, but it was clear what he was thinking.
Scent matching could trigger early heats.
"Etienne needs to get her home," Hastings said, already pulling up his phone.
"The match isn't over."
"I don't care. If her heat hits in that box with all those people—"
He didn't need to finish. The thought alone was enough to make my stomach turn.
An omega in heat surrounded by strangers. By alphas who weren't bonded to her. It would be chaos. Dangerous.
Hastings typed out a message, his fingers moving faster than I'd ever seen.
On screen, Presley shifted again. Her hand went to her throat, fingers pressing against her scent gland.
"Verdammt," I breathed. “Heats don’t come on this quick.”
"Call the coach and tell him to send Etienne home," Hastings said. "He needs to get her out of there now."
I was already dialing.
