“I’mnot.” He drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling against his stubbled jaw. “My suppressants are military-grade. I take them like clockwork. Every single day. There is no possible way…”
Atticus settles back on his heels, one hand resting on his knee, expression shifting from concern to something more measured. More clinical.
“Mason.” His voice is careful. “You and Judah are bonded.”
Mason’s head snaps up.
“Don’t—“
“The bond is dormant, not dead. It never went away. And Phoenix just spent three days flooding this house with omega heat pheromones.” Atticus holds up a hand before Mason can interrupt. “On top of that, you and Judah have been under the same roof for the first time in a decade. The separation ending, the pheromone exposure, the emotional stress—any one of those might not be enough on its own. But stack all three together? Even military-grade suppressants aren’t enough to prevent this perfect storm from landing.”
The color drains from Mason’s face so fast I’m afraid he might actually pass out. His fingers dig into the pillow pressed against his chest, knuckles bone-white against the fabric.
“That’s not—it can’t?—“
“Your bond with Judah is trying to reassert itself,” Atticus says quietly. “Your body is responding to his proximity the way it was always supposed to.”
“I am NOT in heat.” Mason’s eyes squeeze shut, and he curls forward with a sound that’s half gasp, half whimper. His hands find the nearest pillow—one I scented with my own vanilla-citrus two days ago—and he pulls it against his chest, pressing his face into the fabric. “Oh,” he breathes against it. “Oh, that’s… that smells so nice.”
Atticus and I exchange a look.
“Sure, buddy,” I say, dropping onto the mattress beside him. “You’re definitely not in heat. I bet your next one is months away.”
Mason lifts his head from the pillow just long enough to glare at me with bloodshot gray eyes. The effect is somewhat undermined by the fact that he’s clutching my scented nest-pillow like a child with a security blanket, his body already instinctively burrowing deeper into the tangle of blankets.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he insists. “Maybe I’m coming down with something. The flu. Food poisoning. That oatmeal at the Seafoam was a biohazard.”
“You ate that oatmeal three days ago,” I point out.
“Maybe this is a delayed reaction.”
Atticus presses the back of his hand against Mason’s forehead. Mason flinches but doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into the touch.
“He’s burning up,” Atticus confirms, settling back on his heels. “This isn’t a crisis. We handled your heat. We can handle his, too.”
The confidence in his voice loosens something tight in my chest. But beneath the relief, guilt coils like a snake.
Because I’m suddenly, horribly sure this is my fault.
My manufactured heat, pumping omega pheromones through every room of this house for nearly three days. Mason has been sleeping down the hall, breathing in my scent, surrounded by my hormonal signals. Suppressants aren’t infallible. Not when you’re being bombarded by another omega’s full-blown heat cycle at close range.
Cycles syncing when omegas live in close proximity is supposed to be a myth. But what other explanation is there?
The realization must show on my face because Atticus reaches across the bed and catches my wrist. His thumb presses against my pulse point, grounding.
“Whatever you’re spiraling about…stop,” he says quietly. “This is going to be fine.”
Mason moans into the pillow again, his body curling tighter around it. His scent fills the room—chamomile and black pepper, richer and deeper than I’ve ever experienced it, layering over the remnants of my own heat-scent until the air feels thick enough to swim through.
I crawl closer and brush the damp hair from his forehead.
His eyes flutter open.
“I hate this,” he whispers.
I smooth my palm across his burning cheek. “It’s going to be okay.”
Atticus moves first, hooking his hands under Mason’s arms and shifting him toward the center of the nest. Mason’s head lolls, his body going loose and compliant in a way I’ve never seen from him. The man who color-codes my schedule and alphabetizes my vitamin supplements is melting into my nest like candle wax, boneless and easy, his fingers still twisted in the scented pillow.
