The space is small, not much bigger than a supply closet, but it feels like stepping into a private sanctuary. A giant, oversized chenille chaise lounge sits at the center, more bed than chair, buried beneath a chaotic sprawl of pillows and blankets in every soft texture imaginable. Faux fur. Cotton spun so fine, it almost feels like silk. Plush fleece. A couple of old knit throws that have been loved nearly threadbare from my childhood.
A narrow bookcase stands across from it, crammed with dog-eared paperbacks and comfort reads I have revisited more times than I care to admit. The lighting is kept intentionally low, warm and muted, with strands of fairy lights crisscrossing the ceiling and casting a gentle glow over the walls.
The world feels quieter here. Softer.
I flop onto the chair, letting myself sink into all the fabrics. Normally, I’d already feel myself unwinding just from being wrapped in soft things saturated in my scent. Today seems different. I don’t feel soothed, and my headache lingers.
Why are my feelings hurt? I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, let alone Mark Taylor.
I lay there for a few more minutes before admitting defeat and realizing that my nest will be no comfort to me tonight. I sigh and rise, closing it back up tight, and settle at my desk to attempt to focus on the briefs.
I lose track of how much time I actually sit there trying to work. The words keep swimming before my eyes, and I’ve probably read the same line about thirty times. Ikeep thinking about the way he smirked before he called me unprepared and the way it made me flinch.
Who the hell is he to make me react like that?
I shove the papers aside and bury my face in my hands.
I try to breathe through the spike of anger and embarrassment twisting in my chest, but it doesn’t fade. It’s gnawing at me, and I guess it’s just some weird omega thing, because it isn’t rational at all.
As if summoned by thinking of her, my omega side stirs, rising forward in my mind. We have a complicated relationship, she and I. Likely because I’ve always viewed her as separate, like a stranger living under my skin. My therapist says it’s because I’ve never been allowed to actually be an omega.
My heats are the closest thing I have to letting that side of myself free, and even those are clinical. Scheduled in advance, twice a year, always in another state under an assumed name. Faceless prescreened alphas, quick and impersonal, just long enough to get me through. My mother calls it “keeping up my hormonal health.”
At least, it had been impersonal. Then one of those screened alphas ignored my omega side rejecting him. He had smelled horribly wrong. Enough to break through the mental fog of my heat. It hadn’t gone as far as it could have, thank god. But it had gone far enough. I haven’t been back to a clinic since, and I’ve been putting off my heat for as long as I can while I figure out what comes next. I haven’t mentioned this to my mother.
I tell myself it’s fine. My therapist disagrees, and she’s annoyingly persistent about it.
On top of that, there’s my body. My eating disorder has prevented me from developing the soft curves that omegas are known for, and the suppressants and neutralizers dull everything else to the point where sometimes I can barely even pick up on my own scent.
My omega is insistent that Mark needs to pay for making us feel this way. Or at least, I think that’s what she’s insisting. That he needs to be in proximity to take my anger out on, like that is the only thing that might make us feel better and able to focus to get some work done.
I sit back, tapping my fingernails on the desk. I’m restless, and nervous energy buzzes through me as if I’ve had way too much caffeine.
I snatch my laptop out of my bag and open it.
It doesn’t take long. I was adept at finding out information on the internet long before I became a defense attorney. Now, I could probably run circles around the CIA.
Mark’s address stares at me from the screen.
I have no idea what I’m going to do with it or why I looked it up. But I have it now.
I screenshot it and send the information to my phone, snapping the computer shut forcefully before standing to pace around my office. Logically, I know that calling it a night and letting it go is the mature and adult choice. If I’m unable to focus on work, I need to take my ass home, soak in a long, hot bath, and go to bed.
I just don’t understand why I can’t let it go. It isn’t even that serious, but my omega side is clinging to it as if I was publicly rejected and humiliated by my alpha. I bite my lip, thinking. Could I be closing in on a heat?
I suppose it’s possible, even with how I’ve been doubling up on pills. Mom said my recent bloodwork looked a little “suspect.” Something about my estrogen levels dipping in a way that she isn’t thrilled with. I’d only been halfway listening, which was stupid and naïve on my part. I glance at the clock and debate calling her, but then I remember that she and Dad are in Prague for some big medical summit.
She’s a public health scientist, brilliant in ways I barely understand. She’s been studying omega suppressants for years, and my bloodwork has been a large part of that. Anonymously, of course. She’s perhaps the most vocal proponent for better research on omega heat cycles and suppressants in the entire world, and her life’s mission is to someday unlock a real version of omega birth control that doesn’t just shut off the rest of omega biology. No different from what’s available to beta women.
I’ll have to call her tomorrow. It’s the middle of the night where she is.
I recognize that I’m making excuses. If I talk to her about it, then I have to admit it was real. Besides, I reassure myself thatI don’t feel like I’m closing in on a heat. I don’t feel overly hot, and my clothes don’t feel restraining and itchy. I just feel… off.
Pushing off talking to her a little longer won’t hurt.
I press my hands to the sides of my head, breathing through the spike of tension twisting my chest. Rationally, I know this is crazy. Emotionally, my omega isn’t listening.
I grab my phone, hovering over Tony’s contact.
