Maybe the inducers were a bad idea.
Maybe all of this was a bad idea.
I collapse back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling.
Rest, Mason said.
Like fuck. Resting is easier said than done when every cell in my body is screaming for something I’m apparently not allowed to have.
And somewhere in the house, Mason is probably already regretting everything that just happened.
Just like he obviously regrets everything else about being close to me.
TWENTY-ONE
PHOENIX
If only thisnest could swallow me whole.
I burrow deeper into the blankets Mason scented, pressing my face into a pillow that still carries traces of chamomile and black pepper. The fabric is soft against my overheated skin, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache, a hollow throb that starts low in my belly and radiates outward until even my fingertips feel empty.
Mason kissed me.
The memory plays on repeat behind my closed eyelids. The way his hands felt on my waist. The sound he made when I rolled my hips against him—desperate and wanting and so completelyun-Mason-like that my chest aches just thinking about it.
And then he left.
I curl tighter around a pillow, pulling my knees to my chest. The position does nothing to ease the cramping, the restless energy crackling under my skin like static electricity looking for somewhere to ground. Every few minutes, another wave of heat crashes through me—not quite the full force of what’s coming, but enough to leave me gasping, fingers twisted in the sheets.
You have no idea how bad of an idea this is.
What does that even mean?
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, counting the hairline cracks in the old plaster.
God, I’m pathetic.
No, not just pathetic. Lonely.
The realization settles over me, heavy and suffocating. I’ve spent my entire adult life surrounded by people—agents, managers, assistants, co-stars, fans—but I’ve never felt anything other than alone. Because none of those people know me. Not really. They know Phoenix Riviera the brand, the product, the carefully curated image that’s been manufactured and marketed since I was six years old.
Except Mason. Mason knows me. Mason sees through all of it.
And he still walked away.
Another cramping wave hits my lower belly, stronger than the last, and I bite down on a moan that wants to escape. My skin feels too tight, too hot, like I’m being slowly cooked from the inside out. The nest that felt so perfect a few minutes ago now feels like a prison.
Because I’m in it alone.
Like always.
Because I’ve never let an alpha get within a hundred yards of me during a heat.
Not since Laurence Starling.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the memories it drags with it. I was seventeen. He was forty-three. A director with a reputation for “discovering” young talent, for launching the careers of the lucky actresses that manage to catch his attention.
My mother arranged the meeting. Said it would be good for my career. Said I needed to transition to adult roles, and Laurence was the man who could make that happen.
