I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.
“I’m not scared of you hurting me,” I say slowly. “I know you won’t hurt me. But...”
“But what?”
“I’m scared of losing myself,” I admit. The words feel heavy, like stones dropping into a deep well. “I’m scared that if I let you in, if I let this... this thing between us happen... I’m going to disappear. I’m going to become just an Omega. Just a part of a pack. I won’t be Saramaria anymore. I’ll just be... yours.”
Rhett is quiet for a long time. He reaches out and takes my hand. His palm is rough, callused, grounding.
“Saramaria, you’re stronger than any bond. You’re stronger than biology. You’re stronger than me.”
I look up at him. His eyes are dark, serious, filled with a light that makes my breath hitch.
“Thinking that being with us will erase you is an insult to who you are,” he says. “We don’t want a version of you that is submissive or silent. We want you. The loud, stubborn, brilliant, terrified version of you. The one who burns the barn down. The one who saves dogs from wells. The one who challenges us at every turn.”
He squeezes my hand. “That woman isn’t going anywhere. Not for us. Not for anyone.”
The softness in his voice nearly undoes me. It breaks apart the walls I’ve been building for eight years. It shatters the defenses I’ve been hiding behind since I came back to Muddy Creek.
“Rhett,” I whisper.
A wave of heat rolls through me. It’s not just the fever. It’s something else. It’s an ache. A deep, pulsing need that starts in my core and radiates outward.
My body flushes. I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut.
“What is it?” He sounds concerned.
“I don’t know,” I say, my breath hitching. “I just... I need...”
I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know how to tell him that my skin feels too tight, that the emptiness between my legs is aching, that I feel like I might die if he doesn’t touch me.
He must smell it. He must scent the shift in my pheromones.
He goes still.
“Is it an urge?” he asks.
I nod, my face burning with shame. “Yes. It hurts.”
“Can I help you?” he asks. His voice drops an octave. It drops lower, becoming a rumble that I feel in my bones.
I look at him. I see the desire in his eyes, warring with the restraint. He wants to help. He wants to take away the pain.
“Please,” I whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He moves closer. He doesn’t undress. He just reaches under the quilt. His hand is warm, his fingers long and sure.
He slides his hand into my panties.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed. The contact is electric. It relieves the ache instantly, even as it stokes the fire higher.
“Shh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
He strokes me, his fingers finding my clit with an accuracy that terrifies me. How does he know? How does he know exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply?
I bury my face in his shoulder, muffling my cries against his shirt.
