In addition to the unseasonable warmth running through my veins, a ravenous hunger no amount of food seems able to stave off, a boner that won’t go away, can’t be relieved, and is becoming harder to ignore by the minute, I feel a quick, harsh rip of rage.
I glare at him. “Are you trying to explain having the shits to me?”
“No,” he says, sounding unsure if he’s asking a question or answering one.
I’m in no mood for his height, his facial hair, or his strong jaw right now. The last thing I need is an alpha talking down to me. “Because if you are, I’ll have you know, I knowexactlyhow my body works, and then some.”
“No,” he says, firmly this time, raising his hands to show me his palms. “I’m absolutely not trying to explain anything to you.”
He gives me as wide a berth as possible, slinking around the kitchen, silently preparing strange concoctions of food and placing them within arm’s reach. The peanut butter and pickles, especially, is a combination that infuriates me when he offers it, but ends up being surprisingly satisfying.
Now and then, Branson eyes the glass of water he placed on the counter for me with clear meaning, but there are no strenuous attempts to make me drink it. Wise of him.
Whatever is happening in my body right now feels exactly the same as being furious about something you can’t quite remember, and waiting, justwaiting, for the right moment to have an epic loss of temper about it.
When my hunger is somewhat sated, I steal down the hall and surreptitiously search Jensen’s bedroom for a knot dildo. I don’t find one. Honestly, he’s lucky the signal is down. If it wasn’t, I’d be on the phone to him right now, giving him absolute hell for not anticipating that I might need one.
What kind of host is he?
What kind of host invites an omega to a cabin in the middle of goddamn nowhere, in snow season no less, and doesn’t even consider the possibility that they might go into heat while there?
I’m furious with Jensen, and I’m going to let him know all about it as soon as I get hold of him. Mark my words, he’s going to regret talking me into coming on this trip.
Actually, that might be a little unfair.
It’s not Jensen’s house. It’s Branson’s. He owns it. He renovated it with his own bare hands if the photos he posted of himself wielding an axe on Instagram were anything to go by. He’s the one who should have thought to provide a knot dildo. I should give him a piece of my mind.
Yes. That’s what I’ll do.
I stalk back to the kitchen with serious intent but become severely distracted by the fact that Branson is sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, a long roasting stick in his hand, and a packet of marshmallows and a slab of chocolate on the floor next to him.
“Are you making s’mores?” I ask, voice lilting up happily. “For me?”
He looks up, brows raising in a way that makes him look rather frightened. “Yeah, I thought a little something sweet might…help.”
I’m floored by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. So much so that my chest swells with warmth. It travels up my body, all the way to my eyes, and almost spills over. “What a nice thing to do,” I say, with a slight quiver in my voice. “Ican’t believe how thoughtful that was of you. It’s so lovely. So,sonice.”
“Fluctuations in mood are perfectly normal,” he says calmly. “They're to be expected.”
And like that, my rage is back in full force.
I’m in the guest bathroom, on my hands and knees in front of the vanity cabinet, sweating profusely. I have now—unsuccessfully—searched every room in the cabin for a knot dildo. All the physical activity has made me hotter than hell. That, and the fact I’m certifiably, one hundred percent, going into heat. Nothing else could possibly explain what’s happening in my body. My blood is boiling. Literally cooking. I’m so hot I can’t breathe through my nose.
My lips are ajar and I’m breathing in and out fast.
Fuck me. I’m panting. That’s what I’m doing.
As I get to my feet, something feels off when I move. My joints feel different. Looser somehow. When I walk, my gait is smoother than usual. It takes me a second to work out what’s different, but the more I move, the clearer it becomes. My ass cheeks aren’t rubbing together in the unnoticeable way they usually do. There’s something fluid about my movements. Slippery, almost.
Not slippery. Slick.
Holy fuck! I’m leaking slick.
Needless to say, I race back into the bathroom, lock the door, and use half a roll of paper to try to rectify the situation.
It does nothing to help.
When I’ve composed myself as much as a man in my position possibly can, I go back into the living room, the attempt to hold my head high not all that successful.
