Whatever this is—imagined or otherwise—I’d rather enjoy every moment I can.
Clarity enters his eyes as I slip from inside of him, gently lowering his body to the floor so that he is curled against his Alpha. His hand grips my wrist when I start to pull away. “Stay.”
He offers too much, yet I cannot find it in myself to deny him.
His head shifts to rest over my heart, the unsteady beat thudding beneath his ear. “Tell me about yourself,” he asks.
My brows furrow as I press a palm to his temple. He’s still feverish, but he’s coherent. Moreso than an Omega usually is this early into their heat. He must sense my confusion because his fingers begin to trace patterns over my stomach. “It’s weird, right? The way I’m so lucid. It’s always been like this, ever since my first heat.”
I hum, moving my fingers up to play with his sweat-soaked hair. A shower will definitely be on the schedule tomorrow. “No two people are truly the same,” I tell him. “It’s interesting that your brain doesn’t enter a haze the way we’re taught Omegas do, but I wouldn’t say it’s weird. I’ve seen Omegas so lost to the haze it’s like they’ve been drugged. Why wouldn’t it make sense for there to be Omegas who experience the opposite?”
His lips twitch against my skin, and I think he might be smiling. “I’ve never considered Omega lucidity to be a spectrum. Though I suppose it makes sense. Most things in life have a sense of fluidity.”
“To answer your original question, I’m thirty-six. A middle child in a pack with six children. And I love music. Every genre, no favorites.”
He laughs, head shaking. “I can’t agree with the last part. I like music, but there are some genres I cannot get into.” His voice is sleepy now, his hand still on my stomach. I keep talking, telling him way too much about my passions and my life, until soft snores puff against my skin and he’s fast asleep.
Part of me feels bad for cuddling with his Alpha so close. Like I’m committing some unspoken sin by taking his Omega’s attention. Foster hasn’t shifted away; he was the one to ask me to stay, but that feeling doesn’t fade. It isn’t supposed to be like this. I’m not part of their pack, just help they hired to make sure their basic needs are met during the heat.
My heart doesn’t agree. Despite only knowing them for a few hours, my soul feels at ease here. I feel like I belong, and that is as terrifying as it is relieving.
Blankets and pillows fly past me to smack against the wall and pile onto the floor. Three days into his heat, Foster started losing it, crying and tearing the nest apart, muttering about how it isn’t right. Something is missing, but I don’t know what.
Turning to Shepherd, I watch him speak quietly into his phone. Whoever is on the other line must be important to them, because he has the same soft look on his face that he gives Foster.
“Someone will deliver a bag in twenty minutes; can you run down and grab it from the front desk?” he asks after the call ends. I’m enraptured as he scrubs a hand through his short hair, muscles flexing and showing off how toned his upper body is.“I’ll take Foster in to soak in the bath and get him settled until it arrives.”
Quickly agreeing, glancing over my shoulder at the distraught Omega before heading into the smaller bedroom to soak myself in descenter and get dressed. Dragging Foster’s heat scent down to the hotel lobby is too dangerous to chance.
Sitting in a plush chair, I watch the hotel doors, waiting for their delivery to arrive. My knee bounces, restless to get back to the suite and help care for my Galán. Every time someone walks in, I jolt upright, but it’s only been a steady stream of guests and employees. Until a familiar face appears. Nebula Graves stops mid-stride and heads toward me with determined steps. A large tote bag is gripped in one of his hands, the other shoved into his pants pocket.
“Manny.” He gives me a bro-nod and shakes my hand.
Nebula and his pack are in a band I run production for. They’re a group of masked rock stars with emotion-fueled lyrics and heavy beats. I love working with them because they don’t fit into one singular genre. Questions about his sudden appearance sit on the tip of my tongue, but they fade when he pushes the tote bag into my arms.
“Tell Shepherd not to worry about giving the bag back. And good luck with the rest of Foster’s heat.”
They know the Wilson pack? I’m curious and want to ask more, but my questions can wait for another day. My only priority right now is getting this back up to the suite to help Foster shake the spiral he’s in. “Thanks. I’ll pass the message along.”
He leaves at the same time I do, and I find myself grateful for his understanding. His pack recently had their Omega move in with them, so I suppose he knows what heats are like. Given how rough their courtship journey has been, he might not have been allowed to experience a heat with her. The image of her pale skinand lost green eyes haunted me for days after she came to the studio with them.
All thought of the other Omega flees my mind as I walk back into the suite and am wrapped in Foster’s lemony scent. I peek into the nest, but both men are still in the bathroom, so I leave the bag outside the door and head into my room to shower. Descenter isn’t worn inside a nest because some Omegas have a sensitivity to it. Not knowing if Foster does, I don’t want to risk offending him when his mind is already fragile.
By the time I’ve finished, I can hear them moving around in the nest. I open the door a few inches and pop my head inside. Clear aquamarine eyes meet mine. A flush spreads up Foster’s chest and neck, turning his skin the prettiest shade of pink.
“Your delivery is here,” I tell them. “I didn’t want to bring it into the nest because the bag smells like Pack Graves.”
“That’s so thoughtful of you, Manny,” Foster murmurs. “Can I have what’s inside, please?”
Dipping back out of the room, I open the tote and find a vacuum-sealed bag. It’s heavy in my hand as I slip into the nest and knee-walk across the floor. I don’t move back as Foster undoes the seal, which turns out to be an amazing choice when the scent of tart cherries and smooth almonds fills the air. It’s faint, most likely from a Beta. A blanket unfolds between us, and I can’t hide my smile when his face buries in the fabric with a pained groan.
Shepherd watches me over his mate’s shoulder, studying me with an intensity that raises the hairs on my arms. His attention has been focused on his Omega, but there have been moments as we’ve cared for Foster together where tension snapped tight between us.
“Sorry,” Foster says. I drag my eyes off the rugged Alpha and look at his handsome Omega. “We’re Fate-matched mates.” He motions between him and Shepherd, and my stomach drops. Ofcourse, they are. The intensity of their love should have told me this before he mentioned it aloud. “A few months ago, we met another of our mates. A female Beta. She’s pregnant, due within the next few weeks, so she couldn’t take part in this heat.”
Keeping a smile on my face is difficult. They already have a Beta mate. One who carries their child. His words cement the worry constantly looping through my mind: I’ve imagined the connection between us.
I wasn’t blessed with any type of Fated connection, and therefore cannot be their mate. Fated packs do not open their arms to outsiders. For good reason. The bonds between them would never be as deep as the ones they share with the mates who are Fate-matched to them.
