10. Emmeline
10
Emmeline
I ’ve got my large box of stickers to my left, and my pens are in the pot to my right. My three planners are laid out on the desk in front of me, and despite this usually being my favourite time of the week, my hands are shaking, and the pit in my stomach won’t go away.
I glance over at the corner of my room, the urge to burrow into my nest clawing at me, insistent and needy. It’s so warm, so safe. The scents of lavender, chamomile, and the faint traces of Uri are still lingering in the fabric, calling me back.
Of all the times to not have a cold block my sense of smell, it’s now.
“What’s wrong with you?” I mutter, tugging on my hair in frustration. “Get over yourself, Emme.”
Of course, I don’t.
Instead of giving in to my traitorous body, I press play on my music and open my laptop’s calendar. Focusing on something logical instead of the instinctual demands of my weak body is what I need to do.
Figuring out what meetings I have next week is the best plan because then I can arrange my life around it.
I’ve got a doctor’s appointment and a review at the Omega Centre to fit in with what’s already going to be a hectic week.
How am I going to do this? How am I going to balance a pregnancy, and a job, and?—
My scent spikes sharply, and I curl in on myself, holding my stomach as I gasp for a breath. But my inhale doesn’t help—all it does is remind me there’s nothing safe here.
No pack scent. No alphas.
I close my eyes, fighting off the urge to pull towards my nest. To stop the anxious thoughts from dragging me under.
Calm down, Emme. One step at a time.
“First, meetings,” I command myself, selecting the red tab on my calendar. I’ve got eight of them next week, and… oh, fuck.
Two of them are with Oscar.
My stomach flips—not from nausea, but from… well, something worse.
Oscar, my CFO.
Oscar, Uri’s packmate.
Oscar, the man who left me all twisted in knots after our unexpected shopping trip yesterday.
He’s going to hate me.
Which isn’t good considering he controls the budget for my new project. I’m so fucking nervous.
He’s lovely, and we get on well. Hell, he spent an hour helping me do my shopping yesterday, and waited to make sure I got picked up safely by Isaac.
But that was before he knew that I slept with his packmate… and for managing to fall pregnant with his baby.
And then not telling him straight away.
Fuck.
I’m a mess.
A terrible, disorganised fucking mess .
My scent glands throb, anxiety causing my scent to heighten.
It doesn’t matter how much I instinctively use my biology to cry for help, though, when there’s nobody here to answer the call.
I press my fingers against the tender skin below, wincing at the sensitivity. It’s been so long since I’ve been scent-marked, so long since I’ve had an alpha’s grounding weight in my space.
Evander helped… but he’s not enough.
My body knows it and I’m being punished because of it.
A dull, insistent ache throbs beneath my fingertips, my scent glands swollen from stress and neglect.
I rub slow, circular motions over the spot, trying to ease the pressure, but it only makes me more aware of how wrong this is—how alone I am.
I glance at the photos of me and my dads that we took a few years ago at one of their work functions, and my stomach drops. If they knew… when they know… they’re going to be so disappointed in me.
It took thirteen years for me to disappoint my dads the first time, but, this time, I beat my own record, taking a mere twelve years before delivering the next blow.
I’m a pregnant omega without a pack, repeating my mother’s footsteps. I look to the left at the photo of Evander and I, but that doesn’t help the knot in my stomach either.
Evander’s furious, terrified, and desperate to be here for me, even though all I’ve done is shut him out. He’s texted me over sixty times today, desperate to keep in touch.
It’s just too much.
He doesn’t understand why I haven’t just scheduled the appointment to talk about… to get rid…
I can’t even voice it to myself. I go back and forth over the pros and cons, but until I have a concrete list—until I have a plan…
“Meetings,” I remind myself, trying to stay on track.
My hands are shaking as I try to write Oscar’s name in my calendar, and the words seem to blur together, not forming properly. I don’t know if that’s because of my tears or because of the terrible handwriting.
Probably both.
A soft whine escapes my throat before I can stop it. I clamp my hand over my mouth, mortified.
I never let my omega sounds slip. This is one aspect of myself that I can’t afford to share.
I look around, terrified to think who might have heard me, before remembering that I am home , that I am safe, that it’s okay to be an omega right now.
I might be working, but I’m not at work.
My heart pounds and I don’t know whether it’s because I’m worried about someone having heard… or because I wish a certain alpha did .
I force myself to inhale slowly, a pitiful attempt at an alpha’s calming growl slipping past my lips.
It’s weak. Useless.
Just like me.
“Calm the fuck down, Emme. Now,” I snap, doing a poor imitation of an alpha bark. But my breath shakes far more than an alpha’s ever could.
I take a deep, soothing breath before picking up my pen and looking down at the planner. Monday at 10 am. I can do this.
I write Oscar’s name down and move on to the Friday end-of-day meeting.
I really can do this.
But as I try to select a sticker, my body betrays me further as my anxiety builds. My nails anxiously tap against the polish wood of my desk, a desperate desire for the soft blankets opposite me instead of this hard surface.
No, Emmeline. Focus.
You are a professional.
You’re the Creatives Operations Manager of Opus Media. You do not need…
My eyes drift back to the corner where my beautiful nest taunts me. The soft pinks and purples I’d chosen in an effort to fuck the patriarchy and their girl tax now look like the most luxurious haven from this disastrous attempt at self-care.
“No, Emme,” I snap, blinking back tears. “Professional omegas don’t nest during back-to-work planning. They don’t steal their one-time lover’s tie. And they definitely don’t dream about handsome betas. Fuck .”
A wave of nausea fills me, and I know that’s my own fault for even thinking of him. Uri. The man who was just too… everything .
Too handsome.
Too strong.
Too perfect.
Too alpha.
I drag my attention back to my planner and grip my pen tighter. The page swims before me as the next wave of nausea hits, stronger than the list.
Sterling’s biting snark.
His cool and crisp scent.
The mint that would be so good at easing my nausea right now…
I retch, my stomach churning, my eyes watering.
My carefully arranged pens scatter as I lunge for the bin, the sound of them clattering to the floor making me wince.
Everything is falling apart just like my control.
I gag and retch into the small bin before I even have a proper hold on it. The entire lining of my stomach tries to come up once more, and I burst into tears as I sit there, hunched over, retching painfully.
My pristine white desk calendar is spotted with tears, the ink bleeding where they fall. The scent-neutralising spray I keep in my top drawer is mocking me—what’s the point in it now?
My entire home probably reeks of distressed omega. Of pregnancy.
Of abandonment.
I press my palm against my desk, breathing in slow and deep, but my lungs only fill with stale air and emptiness.
I’ve spent the entire day vomiting, and I know that my body is revolting because I don’t have an alpha here—because I don’t have a pack here to support me.
I’m tired, I’m lonely, I’m… deprived.
Everything is so much harder with this pregnancy without them. I’m struggling to deal with the influx of hormones, and the new life growing inside of me.
Without a pack to help ground me, without a stable bond… well, isn’t that just the biggest problem of them all.
With a heavy sigh, I place the empty bin on the floor and move away from my desk. There’s not a chance I’m going to be able to relax and do my planners tonight.
Not when I have this giant burden hanging over my head.
Instead, I drag myself over to my nest, each step feeling like a surrender.
A loss of the control I so desperately cling to.
A deep satisfied purr hums in my chest, victory curling around my bones, as my professional pride crumbles.
The soft blankets reach for me, and I find myself sliding to my knees beside the nest before I’ve even made the conscious decision.
“Just for a minute,” I whisper to myself, but my voice breaks on the lie. I try to sit primly on the edge, one last attempt at maintaining my control, but my body knows what it needs.
Within seconds, I’m burrowing into the warmth of the blankets, my perfectly pressed blouse wrinkling as I curl into a ball.
My scent glands stop aching, and the raw edge of panic smooths into something far more manageable.
I’m warm, I’m cozy, I’m content.
I’m also weak and pathetic for giving in. For giving her what she thinks she needs.
Why can’t she understand that this isn’t important? That making a plan, that organising our thoughts, is far more important? It could be the difference between… between…
Fuck. I’m crying. Again .
“I can’t do this,” I cry, hunching in on myself, as if that alone will smother the need clawing at me.
It’s never been easy being an omega. But, lately, it feels like an impossibility.
If I were to keep my baby, if I were to try and survive this pregnancy…
My sobs are dramatic, but I don’t hold back because there’s nobody around to hear them. Who cares if I’m being unreasonable? If I’m weak and stupid for not trying to plan?
If I’m selfish for wanting this baby?
My hands rest on my stomach as I cry because there’s a part of me—more than just the omega—who wants this baby, who wants to have a child of my own.
It’s more than the biological impulses.
It’s more than my designation.
Me. Emmeline. I want my baby.
I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s stupid.
But I want them, more than I’ve ever wanted anything before—well… maybe not more than my career.
“You’re a selfish fucking bitch, Emmeline,” I hiss, causing another wave of tears, another sobbing fest that I can’t get control of.
How can I raise a baby in a world where I can’t let go of my career? Of my ambitions?
Of the life that was never mine to live in the first place?
I’m an omega—submissive, pliant, and destined to be a homemaker.
Maybe this baby is a punishment from the universe for thinking I could do more than that. For thinking I could rise above the pigeonhole that we’re slotted in.
For thinking I could actually earn my dad’s love—their respect.
Each shuddering inhale brings a fresh wave of spiced honey—of Uri. Since being home from the hospital, his tie has been the only thing that helps me get some reprieve from the turmoil in my stomach.
From the pounding bad head and the aches and pains.
It’s the only thing that’s kept me sane—that’s given me hope.
Because, maybe, there’s still a way to do this and survive. A way where I won’t end up dead like my mum and my baby will survive. If I tell them, they might… well, it might change things.
Evander won’t need to worry.
My dads won’t need to be disappointed.
And my baby? Well, they’ll have the pack they deserve.
Maybe.
My whine of distress cuts through my throat harsher than a blade ever could, and I shove the pillow to the side to grab Uri’s tie. I had buried it strategically under the top layer of pillows so I couldn’t have seen it from my desk.
But I need it. I need it so badly. I need its warmth and comfort. I need the reassurance it can provide. I wish… I wish it would growl and cuddle me in. Or purr whilst rubbing my back.
Instead, I rub it all over my scent glands, absorbing what’s left of his scent.
It’s just not enough.
“It can’t fix you, Emmeline,” I snap. “Because they don’t want you.”
Because nobody wants you.
I curl my fingers around his tie and cry.
The first touch of the luxurious silk against my fingers sends a shiver down my spine, and I can’t resist bringing it to my nose. The sweet scent of the honey, combined with the spicy black pepper, is so strong, so annoyingly soothing.
My traitorous body responds with a soft, contended purr.
Sure, I might have to give it back once I return to work, but, for now, it’s mine, and I plan to soak up every drop of his scent that I can. Another wave of tears slide down my cheek as my hand drifts to my still-flat stomach.
“Don’t be stupid, Emme,” I mutter as more tears join the treacherous ones already sliding down my cheek. “Professional omegas don’t cry in their nest, clutching stolen ties from their boss .”
But maybe… maybe pregnant ones do.