He hasn't.
Not once.
I've seen them in fragments—like ghosts moving through my peripheral vision. A door cracking open. A shadow passing the end of the hall. Drake slipping out to grab water, head down, scent so saturated with Marie that my stomach rolled. Eli appearing for a handful of food, eyes glassy, posture rigid, gone again before I could even speak.
None of them come to check on me.
None of them knock.
I tell myself it's because Marie needs them.
Because she's their scent match.
Because heat is urgent and instinct makes monsters of everyone.
The excuses are thin, but they're all I have.
By late afternoon, the house feels like it's pulsing. My head aches. My mouth is dry. My stomach is hollow in a way that isn't hunger so much as emptiness.
Water, I tell myself.
Just water.
I step into the hallway and immediately flinch at the scent.
It's stronger out here.
Heat has leaked under the door like smoke, creeping into every room. Even if I sprayed every inch of the house, my omega instincts don't need details to react. My body knows what heat smells like. It knows what rut smells like.
My knees go weak for a second.
I grip the wall, breathing shallowly, and force myself forward.
The kitchen is bright when I flick the light on. Too bright. I fill a glass and drink too fast, swallowing hard as the cold hits my throat.
I'm halfway through when footsteps pad behind me.
The scent hits first.
Drake.
Not Drake as I remember him.
This Drake is drenched.
Marie's scent clings to him like oil, heat-sweet and sharp, threaded through everything. It's so thick my stomach flips. I gag before I can stop myself and turn my head away.
Drake stops short.
"Oh," he says, startled. "Vee."
Like I surprised him by existing in my own kitchen.
Like he forgot there are two omegas in this house.
Drake moves past me toward the cabinets, pulling out snacks with one hand.
"How're you doing?" he asks, casual, the question tossed over his shoulder as if it's a formality.
