"We need to help her nest," I said.
"I know."
But when we tried to arrange the pillows around her, she pushed them away with a weak growl.
"No. Wrong. All wrong."
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" I asked gently.
"Not yours." Her eyes were glazed with heat, barely focused. "Need yours."
Understanding hit me. "She needs our scent. These are all new. They don't smell like us."
"Our rooms," Rowan said.
"Our rooms," I agreed.
We went to retrieve blankets from our beds, shirts from our closets, anything that carried our scent. Brought them back to her. The moment she smelled them, she made a sound of relief and started grabbing, pulling, arranging them around herself with desperate, jerky movements.
"Help her," I said. "Open packages. Get rid of the tags and plastic. Make it easier."
We worked together, tearing open the new pillows and blankets, removing anything that didn't belong, letting her take what she needed.
She built her nest with single-minded focus—high walls, a deep center, everything arranged just so. Our shirts went in themiddle, right where her head would rest. When she was finally satisfied, she looked up at us with eyes that were more Omega than human.
"Shower," she rasped. "Need shower."
"Okay," Rowan said. "Can you walk?"
"No."
He lifted her again and carried her to the ensuite bathroom. I followed, already turning on the water, adjusting the temperature.
When we undressed her, we realized she wasn't just covered in sweat. She was soaked in slick. It coated her thighs, her underwear, everything. Three days of heat with no relief. No wonder she was in agony.
"Jesus," I muttered.
"In," Rowan instructed, guiding her into the shower.
She stood under the spray, shaking, while we cleaned her. Our hands were gentle, clinical, this wasn't about pleasure. This was about care. But I felt her body responding anyway. Felt the fresh wave of slick that followed our touch.
"Hurts," she whimpered. "Everything hurts."
"I know. We're going to fix it."
We dried her carefully and she stumbled back to her nest, crawling into the center and curling up with our shirts pressed to her face. Then she started to cry. Not heat-driven tears. Real, broken, defeated tears. Rowan and I exchanged a look. Something was very wrong.
We'd both cleaned up quickly, showered in our own bathrooms, dressed in loose pants and nothing else. Standard protocol for helping an Omega through heat. But when we approached the nest, she didn't look relieved. She looked destroyed.
"Naomi?" I said gently.
She looked up at us, tears streaming down her face. "I need help." Her voice was so quiet I almost missed it. "Please. I need you to help me."
"That's why we're here," Rowan said.
"I know." Her breath hitched. "I didn't want this. I didn't want to need you. I didn't want to be in heat." She broke off, sobbing.
Understanding crashed into me. She didn't want our help. She felt forced into accepting it. Forced into vulnerability. This wasn't relief. This was defeat. And that knowledge hit me harder than any physical blow could have.
