I'm only a few feet away when I hear Eli's voice through the door.
It isn't his usual soft tone.
It's gone—occupied, deep with alpha rut, rough: "That's it baby. You come hard for your alpha. You milk your alpha's knot hard like a good omega."
It doesn't take more than a few words, a few guttural noises, to eviscerate any hope I had that Eli might be my salvation. I want to believe it could be different. I want to believe that he could compartmentalize, that he could make space for me the way he always promised he would, even when things were bad. But heat is not a time for logic. Heat is not a time for promises.
Eli is gone, just like the others, overtaken, buried under the avalanche of scent and rut and instinct. There is nothing left of the gentle, careful man who once curled his body around mine after nightmares, who used to touch my hair while we watched old movies, who remembered how I like my tea and the exact moment to pull me close when the world felt too much. He’s not there. Not now.
I feel the loss like an organ being torn out. It's an almost physical sensation: my chest caving inward, my ribs crushing my lungs, my hands tingling with the pins-and-needles numbness of shock. I can't process the sounds coming from the other side of the door, can't reconcile them with my memory of Eli. I want to call his name, to plead for him to remember me, to see me stranded in the hallway, but my tongue is caught between my teeth and my body is too busy shuddering.
He is not available. He is not safe. He is not mine.
The reality of it sends me reeling backwards, a cold, clean slice of pain through the haze of heat. I stop crawling, just kneel on the carpet, letting my head hang, hair falling into my eyes. My breathing grows ragged, the sobs startingsomewhere deep in my chest and vibrating outward through my raw, over-sensitive nerves. I remember every time Eli used to say nothing could keep him from me, that he would always know if I needed him, that he was the one person in the house I could count on. The first time he brought me a weighted blanket after a panic attack. The way he used to tuck my hands inside his sleeves if they were cold. The time he sat on the floor with me for six hours because I couldn't leave my room, telling stories until I forgot what I was afraid of.
All of it is useless now. All of it is erased by the wet, desperate sound in his voice, the way he says Marie's name like it's a prayer, the slick, obscene noises of bodies locked together behind the door. He is gone. He is gone. He is gone.
The word echoes in my head until it drowns out even the cramps. My omega keens for comfort, for an alpha’s touch, but there is nothing for me here except the memory of it, the bitter aftertaste of abandonment. I want to crawl into the walls, into the floorboards, to disappear entirely rather than suffer this humiliation.
Still the pain pulses through me, relentless, every cramp a reminder that I am alone in this. That there is no one coming. That I am nothing compared to the person in that room, nothing compared to the scent match who gets everything I ever wanted and destroys it without even knowing.
I stay there, kneeling, for I don't know how long. Time fractures around me, splintering into blurry fragments of agony and longing. I barely hear the next set of moansfrom the room. I barely feel the slick soaking into the fabric of my shirt, pooling under my thighs.
I only know that my body is shutting down. My heart is beating too fast and my head is light and my hands are cold. I am losing myself.
I want to scream, or hit something, or run away, but all I can do is kneel and shiver.
Eventually I realize I am not breathing right. My breaths are short and shallow and my stomach is twisted into a knot of pain. My eyes are dry and burning.
I have to move. I have to get away from the sound of Eli's voice.
I don't look at the door, don't let myself imagine what’s happening inside. I don't let myself remember how his hands used to feel when they held me.
I push off the carpet with numb fingers and turn my face away, crawling in the opposite direction, each movement slow and mechanical, my body moving on instinct rather than willpower.
If I can't get help from them…
Then I need something else.
Cold air.
Space.
Anything.
I fumble the front door open with shaking hands and spill outside.
The night air hits my overheated skin like mercy.
Cool wind brushes my wet arms, my damp hair. I inhale greedily—clean air, grass, anything but heat and rut.
I barely make it to the back porch before my body gives out.
I collapse onto the wooden boards, curling on my side as another wave slams into me. Slick spills out, soaking the wood beneath me.
I scream.
The sound tears out of me raw and broken, echoing into the night. I clutch my stomach, trying to anchor myself to something solid.
