I bite my lip until I taste blood, refusing to scream.
Slick soaks into the chair cushion beneath me, warm and relentless.
I can't stop it.
I glance toward the bed, empty except for a thin sheet. I suddenly long to rebuild my nest for the first time since it was destroyed. I need it. I need safety. I need my alphas.
I can have none of those things.
I sit there shaking.
Time loses shape.
The cramps come in waves—tightening, twisting, releasing just enough for me to breathe, then slamming back. Sweat slicks my skin. My throat aches from panting. My walls clench around nothing, desperate, but are greeted only with emptiness.
My omega instincts roar louder with every wave.
Alpha.
Need alpha.
Need comfort.
I press my face into the blanket and sob silently.
They can't help me.
They're occupied.
It's only been two days. Marie will likely be in heat for days more.
My phone sits on the dresser, dark and silent.
I don't reach for it.
Who would I call? Who would come?
Hours pass.
Eventually the pain sharpens into something I can't ignore.
I can't breathe through it.
I can't rock through it.
I can't pretend I can ride it out alone.
I have to do something.
I stand carefully and stagger toward the bathroom.
The tiles are cold under my feet. I fumble the faucet and twist it all the way to cold. Water blasts into the tub.
I limp to the kitchen between waves, moving like an old woman. I open the freezer with shaking hands and yank out the ice bucket.
My knees buckle as a cramp hits mid-step.
I gasp, leaning against the counter, waiting it out.
