Heat Week (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Sierra

The beach house is perfect. Absolutely, ridiculously perfect.

I stand in the honey-toned entryway, bags scattered around my feet, and let out a long, satisfied breath.

Large windows showcase an endless expanse of ocean —the kind of view that normally goes for five thousand a night.

The rental listing didn’t lie. This place is pure luxury, from the gleaming hardwood floors to the chef’s kitchen that probably costs more than my car.

“Hello, beautiful,” I murmur, already imagining myself sprawled on the enormous sectional sofa. “We’re going to have a wonderful week together.”

I’m not talking to the house.

Well, not entirely to the house.

I kick off my shoes and pad barefoot across the floor, making a beeline for the master bedroom. The bed is enormous, and it’s piled high with pristine white linen that practically screams “build a nest here.”

Perfect. Everything is perfect.

And I have it all to myself for seven glorious, uninterrupted days.

No clients. No deadlines. And definitely, definitely no alphas.

I flop backward onto the bed, starfishing across the mattress with a grin. This is exactly what I need. What I’ve earned, really, after the month I’ve had.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, already knowing who it’ll be.

Mia

Tell me you made it safely and aren’t currently being murdered by a serial killer

Me

I’m being murdered by luxury. Does that count?

Mia

Pics or it didn’t happen

I snap a quick selfie of me grinning like an idiot on the massive bed and send it off. Three dots appear immediately.

Mia

Okay, I’m officially jealous. That bed is massive.

Me

It has to fit my heat nest AND my emotional baggage

Mia

Speaking of... you’re SURE you’re okay doing this alone?

I roll my eyes fondly. We’ve had this conversation at least six times.

Me

I’m positive. I’ve got everything I need. Plus, you know I prefer my heats solo.

Mia

I know, I know. But if you need ANYTHING—

Me

I’ll call. I promise. Now stop worrying and let me enjoy my pre-heat freedom.

Mia

Fine. But promise me you’ll call the Omega Center if you have second thoughts. They can send a pack to relieve you if things get out of control.

Me

Deal. Love you.

Mia

Love you too. Happy heat week!

I toss my phone onto the nightstand and stare up at the ceiling. The woodwork is gorgeous. Custom, if I have to guess. I’ve spent enough time in high-end venues to recognize quality when I see it.

That’s my job, after all. Sierra Smith, event planner extraordinaire. Creator of magical moments. Designer of dream weddings.

Recent victim of corporate espionage.

Okay, “corporate espionage” is maybe dramatic. But “shameless contract theft” doesn’t sound nearly as sexy.

I sit up, shoving the thought away. I’m not going to think about the Knightley Pack this week. I’m not going to think about how they’ve undermined me for the past two years, poaching my vendors and undercutting my prices. I definitely am not going to think about the Sterling wedding.

Except now I’m thinking about it.

I groan, falling back against the pillows. The Sterling wedding. My white whale. The contract that would have launched me from “successful small business owner” to “major player in the Sweetwater event scene.”

I’d worked on that pitch for weeks. Poured my heart into the design concept.

It was going to be a romantic garden ceremony with fairy lights and vows penned in calligraphy and a reception that would have made Pinterest weep with joy.

The omega and Pack Sterling had loved it.

Had practically been crying happy tears during the presentation.

And then the Knightley Pack had shown up with their slick presentation and their “bolder vision” and their insufferable confidence, and suddenly my romantic garden ceremony was “too soft” and “not memorable enough.”

They’d stolen the contract right out from under me. And yeah, technically, it was all legitimate. But the way they’d done it, sweeping in at the last second with a proposal that was suspiciously similar to my concept, just “elevated”...

It stung.

No. It burned.

“Stop it,” I say aloud. “You are not spending your heat week obsessing over four smug alphas who aren’t worth your time.”

Four smug, infuriating, annoyingly talented alphas.

I’ve done my research on the Knightley Pack after the first time they poached one of my clients.

Most packs in the events industry are family businesses, passed down through generations.

The Knightleys are different. A pack of four alphas who met in the military and decided to go into event planning together after they got out.

Which is, admittedly, an unusual career choice for a pack of ex-military alphas.

They’re good, though. I can give them that much. Their events are spectacular. Bold, innovative, flawlessly executed. They have a reputation for pulling off the impossible and making it look easy.

They also have a reputation for being ruthless competitors.

Cole Knightley is their frontman. Charming, quick-witted, devastating in a suit.

He’d been the one to present to the Sterling pack with his smooth confidence and winning smile.

I’d watched from the back of the room (because yes, I’d stuck around like a masochist) and wanted to throw something at his perfectly styled head.

Dax Knightley handles logistics. Gruff, intense, built like he could still bench-press a tank.

He’d been the one to tell me, point-blank at an industry mixer, that my designs were “too romantic” for modern clients.

I’d smiled politely and then spent the rest of the evening imagining creative ways to sabotage his next event.

Malik Knightley is the one who organizes. He’s strategic and unfairly good at negotiation. He’s somehow identified my best vendors and offered them exclusive contracts. Half of my supplier list has jumped ship in the past three months.

And Jalen Knightley... He’s… Honestly, I don’t have much dirt on Jalen.

He’s quieter than the others and handles the creative side.

The one time we’d had a conversation, at a conference last year, he’d actually been nice.

Complimented my floral arrangements. I’d been so surprised I’d stammered out a thank you and fled.

But he’s part of their pack, which makes him guilty by association.

Being an omega trying to build a business without a pack is hard enough in Sweetwater City. Having competitors like the Knightley pack just sucks balls.

I realize I’m clenching my jaw and force myself to relax. This is exactly what I’m here to avoid. Stress. Anger. Thoughts of alphas who make me want to commit professional murder.

I have one week. Seven perfect days to let my heat run its course, eat my weight in ice cream, and maybe remember what relaxation feels like.

And I’m going to start by unpacking.

I force myself up to drag my luggage in from the entryway. I’ve packed like I’m preparing for a siege, which... isn’t entirely inaccurate. Heat weeks require supplies.

First, priorities: nest materials.

I dump the contents of my largest duffel onto the bed.

Soft blankets tumble out. My favorite fleece throw.

The weighted quilt my mom made before she died.

The wool wrap Mia gave me last Christmas.

I arrange them carefully, already planning the nest architecture.

The bed is big enough for me to build something truly spectacular.

Maybe a pillow fort situation. I’ve brought eight pillows specifically for that purpose.

Next: comfort foods.

The kitchen is a dream. There’s a six-burner gas stove and a refrigerator that’s bigger than my first apartment.

I start loading it with supplies. Frozen pizzas.

Chocolate. Those ridiculously delicious macaroons from the Sweet Omega bakery.

Ingredients for my mom’s congee recipe, in case I want to stress-cook.

And ice cream. So much ice cream.

“Okay, friends,” I say, arranging the pints in the freezer. “Let me introduce you to your temporary home. This is Ben, Jerry, H?agen, and Dazs. Yes, I named you after your manufacturers. No, I don’t think that’s weird.”

I step back to admire my work. Four different flavors: chocolate fudge brownie, strawberry cheesecake, coffee chip, and salted caramel. One for each day of peak heat, plus extras for emergencies.

“We’re going to get through this together,” I tell them solemnly.

“You’re going to be there for me when my temperature spikes and I’m too boneless to do anything but eat frozen dairy products.

I’m going to appreciate you deeply and not judge myself for consuming an entire pint in one sitting. It’s a beautiful relationship.”

The ice cream does not respond.

I shut the freezer and move on to the final essential category: entertainment.

I’ve brought a stack of romance novels that would make my book club clutch their pearls. Omega/alpha romances with guaranteed happy endings, the spicier the better. If I’m going to spend a week being a hormone-addled mess, I might as well enjoy some fictional hormone-addled messes too.

There’s also a tablet loaded with my favorite comfort shows, a Bluetooth speaker for music, and a journal in case I feel like doing any of that “self-reflection” nonsense Mia’s always going on about.

I survey my supplies with satisfaction. I’m prepared. I’m ready.

I’m also starting to feel weird.

The telltale signs are creeping in. The air conditioning is on, but I’m still uncomfortably hot.

And everything smells intense. The ocean breeze coming through the open window, the faint citrus scent of the dishwashing soap in the kitchen, the lingering aroma of whatever cleaning products they used on the hardwood.

Pre-heat symptoms. Right on schedule.

I’ve been suppressing my heats for almost a year, using medication to delay them so I could focus on work.

Building a business as a solo omega means I can’t afford to take a week off every few months.

The suppressants have worked well enough, but my doctor was clear: I need to let my body cycle naturally, and soon.

So here I am. About to spend seven days riding out the heat I’ve been postponing.

I’ve saved like hell for this, so I’m going to enjoy it.

I strip off my jeans and sweater, suddenly desperate to get out of my clothes. I replace them with the softest t-shirt I own and sleep shorts, sighing with relief as the fabric settles against my overheated skin.

Better. Much better.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the bedroom’s full-length mirror and pause. My cheeks are flushed, my skin a warmer tone than usual. Hair has escaped from my ponytail in wild strands. I look...

Well, I look like an omega about to go into heat.

“You’ve got this,” I tell my reflection. “You’re going to nest, eat ice cream, read smutty books, and emerge in a week ready to take on the world. And maybe finally land that tech mogul wedding.”

Oh right. The product launch.

I grin, remembering. That was this morning’s email. A meeting request from the Traynor pack, founders of that location-sharing app everyone’s obsessed with. They’re planning a massive product launch for next spring and want an event planner who can “think outside the box.”

Apparently, their last planner quit when the alphas suggested zip-lining into the venue for their grand entrance.

Or maybe it was the keg stand competition during the CEO’s speech.

Either way, it sounds like a lucrative headache waiting to happen.

I’d responded with my availability before I’d even finished my coffee.

This is it. This is the contract that’ll prove I belong in the big leagues.

That I’m just as good as the Knightley Pack, suppressants or not.

But that’s future Sierra’s problem. Present Sierra has more important things to focus on.

Like the fact that I’m definitely going into heat in the next twelve to twenty-four hours.

I wander to the living room windows, drawn by the sound of waves. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It’s beautiful. Peaceful.

Exactly what I need.

I notice the clouds then, dark and heavy on the horizon. Still distant but definitely there. The weather report mentioned a storm system moving up the coast. Nothing serious, just some rain probably.

A little rain won’t hurt. Might even be nice. Cozy nest, sound of rain on the roof, nothing to do but relax.

The thought makes my skin buzz.

The heat prickle is getting worse. I can feel it building under my skin, that restless energy that means my heat is approaching faster than I expected. I should probably start my nest soon, get everything arranged before the full heat hits.

But first...

I look at the ocean. At the empty beach. At the fading daylight.

When was the last time I just... played? Just did something impulsive and fun without worrying about being professional or appropriate?

Screw it.

I grab a towel from the bathroom and head for the back door, leaving my phone on the nightstand. No distractions. I could dig for my bikini, but that feels like too much effort. The beach is private, part of the rental property. There’s no one to see me. No one to judge.

I drop the towel on the deck and walk down the wooden steps to the sand. It’s still warm from the afternoon sun, soft under my bare feet, and the ocean stretches out before me.

I have one week. One week of freedom before I go back to being Professional Sierra who lands impossible contracts and pretends alpha packs don’t drive her to fantasies of arson.

I pull off my t-shirt, wriggle out of my sleep shorts. My soft cotton bra and underwear are basically a bikini, right? Close enough.

The first touch of water on my feet is shockingly cold. I gasp, then laugh. Perfect.

I wade in deeper, letting the waves crash against my legs, my thighs, my waist. The cold is exactly what my overheated skin needs. I dive under, come up sputtering and grinning.

No alphas. No competition. No Knightley Pack to ruin my week.

Just me, the ocean, and seven days of blissful solitude.

I float on my back, watching the clouds gather on the horizon, and feel something in my chest loosen.

I’ve earned this.

And nothing—absolutely nothing—is going to ruin it.