"It's my signature charm."
She laughs. It's a fragile sound, like glass about to break, but it's still a laugh. And the sound of it, after six years of silence, makes my alpha rumble with satisfaction.
I'll take it. I'll take any sound she makes and hoard it like treasure.
I move to the counter and set down the clipboard. Put some distance between us because if I don't, I'm going to do something stupid. Like close the space between us and pull her into my arms and tell her she's safe now. That I've got her. That I'll protect her from whatever made her run.
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my coat pockets.
"So." I keep my voice clinical. Professional. Every word costs me. "Omega transition symptoms. Tell me what's been happening."
She looks down at her hands. Twists them together in her lap. The nervous gesture makes my chest tight.
"About three weeks ago I started feeling strange—different. I thought it was wedding stress, but the symptoms kept building. Then my suppressants ran out a couple of days before the wedding."
She pauses. Probably expecting a reaction from me. There is none. Damn, where's Carlos when you need him? He would come up with a joke, cut the atmosphere, make it lighter, but that's not me.
She clears her throat. "Anyway, it's been three days without them, and everything's overwhelming. My sense of smell is crazy. I just don't feel like me."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"I wanted to.” Her voice drops so quiet I have to lean in to hear it. And leaning in means getting closer to her scent, to the warmth radiating off her skin, to everything I want and can't have.
"So you didn't go."
"No."
"And the symptoms got worse."
“Not exactly. I was .”
"And you're experiencing them now. Right now. In this room."
She looks up at me, and I see it. Her pupils are dilated, swallowing up the hazel until there's just a thin ring of color left. There's a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, making her skin glow under the fluorescent lights. And her scent is getting stronger by the minute flooding the small space until I can barely think straight.
"Everything feels too loud," she whispers, and the vulnerability in her voice guts me. "Too bright. My skin feels like it's on fire. And there's this pressure building and I don't know what to do with it."
I know what it is. I've seen it before in other late-presenting omegas. The body trying to cram years of hormonal development into weeks. The system flooding with estrogen and omega pheromones that have been suppressed for over a decade.
I also know what's coming next. And the thought of Jessica going through her first heat alone, confused, in pain, makes something primal and possessive rise up in my chest.
"I need to examine you," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat. Try again. "Check your vitals. Run some tests. Is that okay?"
She nods.
This is torture. That's all I can think as I move closer. This is actual, literal torture.
I press my fingers to her wrist to check her pulse, and the warmth of her skin against mine sends electricity straight up myarm. Her pulse is racing under my fingertips. Fast and fluttery, like a bird trying to escape a cage.
"Elevated," I murmur, mostly to myself. Professional. Clinical.
My thumb is still on her pulse point. I should move. I don't move.
I can feel her heartbeat. Can feel the blood rushing through her veins. Can feel the heat of her skin seeping into mine, and every alpha instinct I have to never let go.
"Is that bad?" she asks.
Her voice snaps me back to reality. I force myself to release her wrist, even though my fingers don't want to. They want to slide up her arm, wrap around her, pull her close.
