Page 48 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

The question landed so casually that it took me a moment to feel it. “Go back to your class, Damien.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not an answer at all. That’s what you get now. Nothing. I owe you nothing.”

The girl in front of me made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh or a cough. Damien heard it. His face changed, pride bruising under his skin.

“Fine,” he said.

“It is.”

“Don’t come crying to me when they get bored.” His voice almost sounded growly. But the words landed less like pain and more like confirmation.

I stood, grabbed my bag. “I came to class with nausea, a headache, and four hours of sleep,” I said, shoving my notebook into my bag. “And somehow you’ve still managed to become the least pleasant part of my morning. That’s almost impressive.”

I picked my bag up, pushed past him and walked out.

The door closed behind me and I made it halfway across campus. Boston had thawed slightly since the hotel, which meant the sidewalks were now wet instead of icy and the air smelled of coffee and dampness. Students moved past in groups, laughing, carrying coffee.

“Fuck!” I threw up in a bin.

A skateboarder swerved around me and said, “Whoa, are you good?”

“Living the dream,” I managed.

He looked alarmed and escaped.

I wiped my mouth with a tissue I found in my pocket and stood there breathing through the cold and willed another bout of nausea to disappear.

Before, I’d wanted an education and a boyfriend. Now I was nauseous at eleven in the morning, and two alphas in London had said they’d come back in a month.

A month. It was supposed to be enough time to let them talk to Damien and me to know what I wanted.

Hudson had said it carefully when they took me back to my room. Lincoln had looked like leaving me in that room was the worst idea anyone had ever had.

I’d told them four weeks was fine. I even said it with a smile. I’d lied so convincingly I should’ve been awarded course credit.

My stomach rolled again.

“Don’t,” I told it as I rushed to my dorm. “We just did this.”

My stomach ignored me. I got back to my room in five minutes flat.

The room was small and overheated. My bed was unmade. My sketchbook lay open on the desk, half-covered by business notes. On the page was a drawing I didn’t remember finishing. The cuff of a dress shirt rolled to a corded forearm.

I closed the sketchbook so quickly the cover slapped.

Then I ran to the bathroom and was sick again.

By the time I came back, my eyes watered and my throat burned, and all I could do was sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor.

There were several reasonable explanations for the nausea, including stress, bad cafeteria chicken, mainly the aftereffects of an omega heat, omega sickness otherwise known and an omega drop, and the universe punishing me for fucking my ex’s dads.

I reached for my phone and searched nausea after heat omega.

The results weren’t helpful.

Or perhaps they were too helpful, which was worse.