Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Malik
Dinner was an exercise in pretending everything was normal.
We barely managed to get the delivery. Sierra took her plate into her room when Cole knocked and left it by the door, calling out a quiet “thank you” that somehow made the whole situation feel even more surreal.
Now the leftovers are in the fridge, the dishes are done, and I’m doing what I do best: obsessively planning for every possible contingency.
“Generator’s fueled and ready,” I announce, checking my list. “Storm shutters are secure. We’ve got flashlights, batteries, candles, first aid kit, enough food for a week if we ration—”
“We’re not going to need to ration,” Cole interrupts from the couch. “It’s a storm, not the apocalypse.”
“Storms can last days. The roads could be flooded. We could lose power for—”
As if on cue, the lights flicker again.
“Don’t say it,” Dax warns.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were about to say, ‘I told you so.’”
“I would never.”
The lights flicker again, and the wind howls around the house like it hates that we’re locked inside. Rain is hammering against the metal shutters like buckshot, drowning out the sound of the ocean raging in the distance.
I return to my checklist. Emergency supplies: check. Water: check. Non-perishable food: check. Emotional stability of my pack mates: very much not check.
Dax has been pacing for the last twenty minutes. He keeps walking toward the hallway where Sierra’s room is, then catches himself and turns around. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Jalen says without looking up from his guitar. He’s been playing quietly for the last hour. Soft, meandering melodies that would be soothing if he didn’t keep hitting the same progression over and over like he’s forgotten how to play anything else.
“I’m not pacing,” Dax says.
“You’re literally pacing right now.”
“I’m... walking. Thoughtfully.”
“That’s what pacing is, dumbass.”
Cole snorts from his position sprawled on the couch. He’s been scrolling through his phone, making intermittent jokes to cut the tension, but even he seems off. His leg won’t stop bouncing, and he keeps glancing toward the hallway.
We’re all doing it, I realize. All of us are hyper-aware of Sierra’s presence in that room down the hall.
An omega in pre-heat.
Our suppressants are doing their job—mostly. We’re not going feral or anything dramatic like that. But there’s this underlying current of... awareness. Restlessness. The kind of energy that makes you want to do something, fix something, protect something.
Someone.
“This is fine,” Cole says to no one in particular. “We’ll all be fine.”
“You sound very convinced,” Jalen mutters.
“I’m extremely convinced. We’re four professional adults who can handle being in the same house as an omega in heat without losing our minds.”
“She’s not in heat yet,” Dax says. “Just pre-heat.”
“Oh, well, that’s completely different then.”
“It is, actually. Pre-heat is just the hormonal prep phase. Heat itself is—”
“We know what heat is, Dax.”
“I’m just saying, there’s a distinction.”
The lights flicker again, longer this time. I check the generator app on my phone. It’s ready to kick on automatically if the power goes out, but I should probably do a physical check too. Just to be sure.
“Maybe we should leave,” I say.
Three heads turn toward me.
“What?” Cole says.
“Leave. Get in the car, brave the storm, drive to the nearest hotel.”
“Have you looked outside?” Jalen asks, knocking his knuckles against one of the metal shutters. “Oh, wait, you can’t. Because there’s a literal storm trying to get in. We’d die. Immediately.”
“I’m just saying, we could—”
“We could drive into a flash flood and drown,” Dax says. “Great plan, Malik.”
“I’m trying to be considerate.”
“Of Sierra?”
“Of everyone. This situation isn’t fair to her. Or to us. We’re all on edge, and it’s only going to get worse.”
“The suppressants are working,” Cole says, but his leg is still bouncing. “We’re fine.”
“Are we though?”
Dax stops mid-pace. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that we’re four alphas in close proximity to an omega approaching heat, and maybe our biology is having opinions about that despite the suppressants.”
“I don’t have opinions,” Cole says.
“Your leg has been bouncing for forty-five minutes.”
He stops the movement now that I’ve mentioned it.
“And you’ve walked past the hallway sixteen times,” I say to Dax.
“You’re counting?”
“Of course I’m counting. And Jalen, you’ve been playing the same four chords on repeat for an hour.”
Jalen looks down at his guitar like he’s just now realizing what he’s been doing. “Huh.”
“See? We’re all responding to this. It’s instinct.”
“Instinct we can control,” Cole says firmly. “We’re not animals. We made a promise to stay out of her way, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“I’m not saying we should break our promise. I’m saying maybe we should acknowledge that this is... affecting us.”
“Of course it’s affecting us,” Dax says. “We’re not robots. But we can handle it.”
Before I can respond, there’s a sound from the hallway.
A door opening.
All four of us freeze.
Sierra emerges, and even from across the room, I can tell she’s worse. Her hair is loose and messy, her face is flushed, and she’s wearing different clothes. Soft-looking pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt that keeps sliding off one shoulder.
She’s clearly feverish.
We all stand up. At exactly the same time. Like we’re synchronized. Like we rehearsed it.
Jalen scrambles to set his guitar on the window seat, nearly knocking it over.
It’s not just the sound. It’s the wave of scent that rolls out ahead of her. Honeycomb and cherry syrup, but richer, deeper than before, with an edge that makes the back of my throat tighten. It’s her scent, amplified.
Sierra stops, her hand still on her door frame, and stares at us.
We stare back.
“I’m just getting water,” she says, her voice a little hoarse.
“Okay,” Cole says.
“Cool,” says Jalen.
“Do you need help?” Dax asks.
“With... water?” Sierra looks confused.
“With anything. The water. Or other things. Anything you might need.”
“No, but thanks.”
She walks past us to the kitchen, and I watch three alpha heads turn to follow her movement like we’re tracking a target. This is embarrassing. We’re embarrassing.
But I can’t stop watching either.
She’s moving a little slower than usual, a little more carefully. She fills a glass from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, drinks half of it standing there, then refills it.
The whole time, none of us moves. We just stand there in the living room like statues, watching her get water.
She turns and catches all of us staring.
“This is super normal and not weird at all,” she says.
“We weren’t staring,” Cole lies.
“Uh-huh.” She takes another sip of water, and I notice her hand is trembling slightly. “Well, I’m going back to my room now. To my nest. Where I will be for the foreseeable future. So, you guys can... stop standing at attention or whatever this is.”
She gives us a small wave. An adorable, awkward little wave that makes my chest do something weird, before she heads back down the hallway.
We all watch her go.
Her door clicks shut.
Slowly, we sit back down.
“That was smooth,” Jalen says.
“So smooth,” Dax agrees.
“The smoothest,” I mutter.
Cole runs a hand through his strawberry-blonde hair. “Okay, so maybe we’re slightly more affected than we thought.”
“You think?”
The scent she left behind is still lingering in the air. Honeycomb and cherry syrup. So fucking sweet. Sweet enough that my mouth waters. And underneath that sweetness are the beginning notes of heat. It’s not overwhelming yet, but it’s there, like a promise. A warning.
My alpha is roaring at me to do something. Bring her things. Make sure she’s safe. Check that her nest has everything she needs. Protect her from the storm.
Which is insane because Sierra Smith does not need my protection. She’s one of the most competent omegas I know. She once coordinated a three-hundred-person wedding during a power outage using only a headlamp and sheer force of will.
But my alpha doesn’t care about any of that.
“Malik,” Dax says quietly. “You okay?”
I realize I’ve been staring at the hallway for a solid minute.
“We need suppressants,” I announce. “Now.”
“We took them this morning,” Cole says.
“We need more.”
“The bottle says one per day.”
“The bottle didn’t account for this specific scenario.”
“Overdoing it on suppressants isn’t great either, man,” Jalen says. “We could crash hard when they wear off.”
“Better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Making complete fools of ourselves. More than we already have.”
“Fair point.”
Dax gets up and retrieves the suppressant bottle from the communal supply.
“This is going to give us a massive headache,” Cole grumbles, swallowing the pill dry.
The rest of us each take one, washing them down with water, and return to our positions in the living room.
The storm is getting worse. The wind sounds like it’s trying to tear the house apart, and something outside—a branch, maybe—crashes against the siding.
“Should I check the shutters again?” I ask.
“You checked them twenty minutes ago,” Cole says.
“Things change.”
“Not in twenty minutes.”
“They could.”
Before we can continue this very productive argument, the lights flicker one more time.
Then they go out completely.
The house plunges into darkness, broken only by the faint glow of our phones.
For a moment, there’s just the sound of the storm and our breathing.
Then the generator kicks on with a rumble, and the recessed lighting glows dim amber. It’s a backup mode. Enough to see, but the main lights stay dark.
“Well,” Cole says into the semi-darkness. “This is going great.”
From down the hallway, I hear Sierra’s door open a crack.
“Everyone okay?” she calls out.
“We’re fine,” I call back. “Generator’s on. You good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Her door closes again.
We sit in the dim light, the storm raging outside, an omega in pre-heat down the hall, and I realize with absolute certainty that this is going to be the longest few days of our lives.
“So,” Jalen says, picking up his guitar again. “Anyone want to play cards?”
Dax throws a pillow at him.
It’s going to be a very long few days indeed.