He makes a face. “Ew. No.”
“Try having one sip, please, Lucy,” I suggest. There’s an odd wisp in my voice that I haven’t heard before. Something indulgent where something hard usually lives. “It will stop you from getting a headache from caffeine withdrawals.”
To my surprise, he takes the mug from my hands begrudgingly and takes a small sip, swallowing with a little shudder that lets me know his appetite is truly lost and the next stage of his heat is approaching.
“Twenty-four hours to go,” I tell him. “Give or take anhour or two.”
He glares at me, and as he does it, I notice the tiniest shift in him. It affects his posture. Parts of him tense, pulling as tight as the string of a bow. He’s been like that for days, but now, in addition, something has gone lax. His body is ripening. His ligaments have started to loosen.
It won’t be long until he’s dancing for me.
A wild, inner part of me wakes. My dick thickens more.
A loud, jarring thud sounds above me.
Common sense says it’s snow falling from a branch of a tree and landing on the roof. We’re in the middle of a snowstorm, and it’s been dumping down for days. It’s to be expected. Instinct tells me something or someone is approaching my mate. Rage and fury bloom in my chest. Their force is sudden and shocking in strength. I react instinctively, leaping in front of Lucien, growling and snarling as I bare my teeth at nothing.
It dawns on me distantly that what I thought earlier is no longer true. If there were some way someone could get to him now, to take him back to the city and away from me, I wouldn’t let them.
That time is over.
That time has passed.
If anyone tries to get near Lucien now, they’ll have to come through me to do it.
8
Lucien
I’mhotterthanhell,and sadly, I mean that literally. I’m so hot that I can’t remember a time I wasn’t. So hot that spontaneous combustion feels like a very real possibility.
To make things worse, that’s not even my biggest problem anymore. I opened my eyes this morning and was greeted by horniness unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It’s so different, so rampant, horniness hardly begins to describe it. It’s like the heat that’s been flowing through my veins for days has had gasoline injected into it. It’s more than arousal. More than desire. It’s a pull. A physical pull. Something is reaching into my core and making it writhe. Making it twist. Making it arch. Making it so I can’t think of anything but sex.
My stomach was upset during the night, as expected. I knew it would be. I hadn’t needed Branson to tell me itwould happen. Everyone knows that’s part of going into heat. I felt like hell, and the worst of it was that all I wanted to do was go to Branson’s room and get into bed with him. I found myself standing at his door, at three this morning, inhaling pathetically at the crack where the door meets the casing, trying to get a hit of his scent.
It’s mortifying.
Thank God he didn’t hear me.
I’m feeling horrendous today, achy inside and so pent up that if I could touch my dick without screaming, I’d shoot in two seconds flat. My ass feels different when I walk. Still slick, but engorged now too. Sensitive. Desperate for touch. Every time I move, it’s another step on the tightrope between pleasure and too much.
What I’d like to do is curl up in bed and not move, but my room is so far away from everything. Everyone. It’s all the way down the hall, and Branson’s here in the living room, lying on the sofa with a pillow under his head and his legs crossed. He’s reading a book, looking relaxed and happy.
The heat swimming in my veins tugs at me. A deep pull that makes it impossible to be away from him. I wait until I’m sure he’s not looking at me, and then slink onto the sofa, as close to him as I can get without touching him. I curl my legs under me and try not to squirm. Myinsides have developed a life of their own. My hips and spine becoming harder and harder to control.
Seconds before I lose the battle and start writhing, I launch myself off the sofa and all but sprint to my room. I dash to the bathroom and splash my face with water. Obviously, it doesn’t help in the slightest, but as I do it, I notice something in the mirror. My reflection scowls back at me, standing stock still, or at least, trying to. My spine arches without any intention from me. Hard. Hard enough to thrust my chest forward and leave my clavicles exposed. I watch, half in disbelief, half in horror, as my hips get in on the action. They buck, tilting slowly backward and forward, even as I do everything in my power to keep still.
The heat dance.
I’m doing it. Me. Lucien Leigh.
I’ve seen the dance in heat porn, obviously. Everyone has—and people who say they haven’t are lying. It’s just that I always thought it was exaggerated for cinematic effect.
It’s a shock to see myself like this.
There isn’t an omega alive that hasn’t been mocked for the heat dance at some point in their lives. Alphas are known to love seeing omegas like this, but for some reason, many of them enjoy shaming us for it. Some alphas loveseeing omegas like this so much that they take pleasure in denying omegas in heat their cocks, in order to make them dance longer and harder. In the old days, it happened a lot. Many omegas suffered, some landing in the hospital, or worse, for the entertainment of alphas.
A familiar flash of rage finds me when I think about it, this time mingled with something new: fear.
