"Stress can absolutely affect decision-making," Dr. Martinez says with the patience of someone who's dealt with panicked omegas before. "But Savannah, you need to stop taking those immediately. Suppressants can interfere with the natural bonding process and definitely explain why your cycle is irregular."
"Stop taking them," I repeat, like she's speaking a foreign language. "Just... stop?"
"Immediately. Your body is trying to sync with your pack's natural rhythms, and you've been essentially drugging yourself to prevent that from happening."
I look at the little white bottle sitting innocently on my counter, suddenly seeing it for what it is: evidence of my complete inability to adjust to having a pack.
"So that's why everything feels so screwed up," I say, more to myself than to her.
"Exactly. Stop the suppressants today, and your body should regulate within a week or so."
"A week," I repeat, my brain doing rapid calculations. "Emma's wedding is next Saturday. So if I stop today..."
"You'll likely go into heat sometime next week," Dr. Martinez confirms. "After the wedding."
I nearly drop my phone with relief. "After the wedding. Not during the reception. Not during the ceremony. After."
"That's right. Your body will need time to clear the synthetic hormones and sync with your alphas' natural cycles."
"Dr. Martinez," I say, my voice thick with gratitude, "I could kiss you right now."
She laughs. "Just promise me you'll start taking better care of yourself. Proper sleep, actual meals, and maybe trust your pack to help you through this transition."
"I promise," I say, whilst mentally rearranging my supplements routine. "Thank you for not making me feel like a complete moron."
"Stress makes us all do things that seem obvious in hindsight," she says gently. "Take care of yourself, Savannah."
I hang up and stare at the suppressant bottle like it's personally offended me. Three weeks of taking medication Ididn't need because I was too stressed and scattered to think clearly about my new reality.
But the timing... the timing is actually perfect. Stop taking them today, deal with Emma's wedding, then handle my first claimed heat in private next week when I can focus on figuring out what the hell I'm doing with three alphas who've been nothing but patient with my biological confusion.
I grab the bottle and dump the remaining pills down the garbage disposal, watching them disappear with a satisfaction that borders on therapeutic.
"Sorry, universe," I say to my empty kitchen, grinning despite myself. "I take back every curse I've thrown your way. This is actually going to work."
For once in my chaotic, overstressed life, the timing might actually be perfect. Emma gets her dream wedding without her planner disappearing into heat-induced chaos, and I get to figure out this whole claimed omega thing without an audience of wedding guests.
Thank you, universe, for a plan that's actually going to work.
26
XAVIER
Icheck my watch for the fourth time as I wait in the corner booth at Bella Vista. Seven-fifteen. Savannah's late, which isn't like her. At least, it wasn't like the Savannah I remember from eight years ago. People change, develop new habits, new patterns. I've learned not to make assumptions about who someone was versus who they've become.
I adjust the cuffs of my charcoal dress shirt, the fabric crisp against my wrists. The navy blazer hangs perfectly across my shoulders - Italian wool, tailored to fit. I'd debated the tie, ultimately choosing a subtle silk pattern in deep burgundy. Professional but not stuffy. Emma had mentioned this was an important tasting, and I believe in dressing for the occasion.
The restaurant's atmosphere is elegant with exposed brick walls bathed in warm amber light from Edison bulbs suspended on black iron fixtures. Soft jazz drifts from hidden speakers, mixing with the gentle clink of silverware and the subtle scent of rosemary and garlic drifting from the open kitchen. White tablecloths, fresh flowers, leather banquettes the color of dark chocolate. It's exactly the kind of place Emma would choose, sophisticated but not pretentious. The wine list is so fuckingexpensive, which makes me question who is paying for all of this. Between the extended guest list and the change of venue, maybe all this wedding will result in the pack having to sell their organs. They've gone in way over their heads.
I've positioned myself facing the entrance, a habit from years of medical training where awareness of your environment can mean the difference between life and death. The hostess station sits twenty feet away, staffed by a young woman in all black who's been glancing in my direction every few minutes with barely concealed curiosity.
Dax was supposed to be here for this tasting, but he'd shrugged it off with his typical "food is food" attitude. Sometimes I wonder how he and Emma work together - she obsesses over every detail while he can't tell the difference between filet mignon and hamburger. When Emma got stuck at school with parent conferences running late, and that lazy bridesmaid Cheryl predictably flaked out, I'd volunteered to step in.
It seemed logical. I know the difference between a cabernet and a merlot, and I can identify herbs by scent alone. Growing up, I was the kid who helped Mom plan dinner parties, who paid attention when she explained why certain wines paired with specific dishes.
The hostess approaches my table, her professional smile wavering slightly. "Dr. Reynolds? Your dining companion has arrived."
I stand as Savannah steps into view, and the sight of her stops whatever polite greeting I'd been preparing. She's wearing a black dress that skims her curves like a second skin - not tight, but perfectly fitted in a way that suggests expensive tailoring. The neckline is modest but the sleeveless cut shows off toned arms, and the hemline hits just above her knees, revealing legs that go on for miles in nude stockings and black heels thatadd three inches to her height. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the restaurant's warm lighting and making it look like spun gold.
