Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Sierra
I’m dying.
Okay, I’m not actually dying. But I’m definitely melting from the inside out, which feels close enough.
It started around midnight. A shift from uncomfortable warmth to actual heat beginning. One minute I was dozing in my nest, and the next I was wide awake and feverish, every nerve ending humming with awareness.
Awareness of the storm outside.
Awareness of how wrong my nest suddenly feels.
Awareness of four alphas somewhere in this house.
My omega has been very helpful about that last part.
Alphas nearby, she whispers. Four of them. Strong. Right down the hall.
“Shut up,” I mutter into my pillow.
They smell good.
“I said shut up.”
Remember how concerned they looked? How Cole’s voice got all soft?
“I’m going to fight you.”
Can’t fight yourself. That’s just sad.
She has a point, which is infuriating.
I kick off the duvet for the seventeenth time, then immediately pull it back because now I’m shivering. How can I be burning up and freezing at the same time? Heat cycles are such bullshit.
The nest is wrong, too. Everything was perfect earlier.
I’d spent an hour arranging and rearranging until it felt just right.
But now the pillows are in completely the wrong positions, and that soft blue blanket needs to be on the left, not the right, and why is this sheet touching my leg like that?
I sit up and start rearranging. Move the pillows. No, that’s worse. Move them back. Add another blanket. Too hot. Remove the blanket. Too cold.
This is hell. This is actual hell.
Outside, the storm is absolutely destroying everything.
Thunder shakes the house so hard I can feel it in my bones.
Rain hammers against the windows in waves, and the wind sounds like a freight train trying to tear the roof off.
Even with the storm shutters, I can hear debris hitting the side of the house.
The emergency lights cast weird shadows across my room too, making everything feel surreal and disconnected. Like I’m not quite in my body. Like I’m watching myself from somewhere else.
And I can hear them.
Even through the storm, even through closed doors and walls, I can hear the Knightley Pack moving around the house.
Footsteps in the hallway. Low voices from the living room.
I can’t make out words, but the rumble of alpha voices carries.
Someone’s in the kitchen running water, opening and closing cabinets.
My omega perks up at every single sound, like a dog hearing its favorite person come home.
Alphas are awake, she notes helpfully. Alphas are close. Just down the hall. Could go see them.
“Absolutely not.”
They stood up for us earlier. All of them. At the same time.
“That was weird.”
That was sweet.
“That was just because of the pheromones.”
Still sweet.
I grab another pillow and press it over my face, groaning into it. This is a nightmare. An actual professional nightmare that I will never, ever live down.
Sierra Smith, respected event planner, reduced to a feverish mess while stuck in a beach house with her biggest competitors during a freak storm. This is the kind of story that gets told at industry conferences for years.
“Remember when Sierra went into heat at that team-building thing?”
“Oh my God, yes! With the Knightley Pack!”
“I heard she practically threw herself at them.”
“No, I heard she locked herself in her room and wouldn’t come out for seven days.”
“Either way, so awkward.”
I’m never going to another industry event again. I’m going to become a hermit. I’ll plan weddings exclusively via email and Zoom. No one will ever see my face again.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it, squinting at the too-bright screen.
A text from Mia.
Mia
how’s it going????
I should probably respond, but the idea of typing out a coherent explanation of my current situation feels impossible. My brain is too fuzzy, too distracted by the heat creeping through my body and the awareness of alphas nearby.
I toss the phone back onto the nightstand without responding. Mia will understand. Or she’ll panic and call the coast guard, which would honestly be on-brand for her.
Another crash of thunder, and the lights flicker. The generator hums somewhere in the house, keeping the emergency power running. At least Malik will make sure it keeps running, which means we won’t lose power completely.
Malik.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Malik.
Or any of them.
But my traitorous brain keeps circling back. They’re being so much nicer than I expected.
Which is confusing.
I’m used to them being professional nightmares. Cole jokingly talking about my design aesthetic. Dax calling my work “too soft.” Malik stealing my vendors with that infuriating polite smile.
The Sterling wedding still makes me angry when I think about it.
But that version of them feels hard to reconcile with the alphas who brought me tea and looked genuinely worried about my wellbeing.
People are complicated, I guess.
Or maybe I’m just too feverish to hold on to proper indignation.
I roll over again, trying to find a comfortable position. Everything feels wrong. My skin is too sensitive, and my body temperature is all over the place. There’s this restless energy building under my skin, making me want to move, do something, fix something.
The nest needs work. Definitely needs work.
I start rearranging again, but nothing helps. Nothing feels right.
I need to cool down.
Standing up takes more effort than it should. Everything feels heavy and floaty at the same time, like I’m moving through honey. Or maybe Jell-O. Some kind of thick, wobbly substance that makes my legs unsteady.
The en-suite bathroom’s tiles are blessedly cool under my bare feet. Small mercies.
I start the shower, making it cold. Cold enough that my heat-addled brain protests, insisting that this is terrible and wrong and we should definitely be seeking warmth, preferably alpha warmth.
“No,” I tell my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes a little glassy, my hair a mess. I look exactly like an omega in the early stages of heat. “We are absolutely not doing that.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced.
I step under the spray and gasp. It’s freezing, but in the best possible way. The cold water sluices over my overheated skin, and for a few blessed minutes, I can actually think clearly.
The constant hum of awareness eases slightly. The restless energy under my skin settles to manageable. Bearable.
I lean my forehead against the cool tiles and just breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
The storm is still raging outside. I can hear it even through the bathroom walls, the wind howling like something alive and angry.
And underneath that, more sounds from the house. Footsteps. Voices. The creak of floorboards.
They’re still awake, too.
Probably can’t sleep either. Their alphas have to be going haywire right now, same as my omega.
I feel a little guilty about that. They didn’t ask for this any more than I did. They’re trying to be respectful, trying to give me space, and here I am accidentally torturing them with my pheromones.
Although they did steal the Sterling wedding from me, so maybe a little pheromone torture is karmic justice.
No. No, that’s petty. I’m better than that.
The heat is making me petty.
I stay in the cold shower until I’m actually shivering, then force myself to turn off the water. I dry off quickly and pull on a tank top and sleep shorts, because anything else feels like too much fabric.
This is going to be a long few days.
Back in my room, I rearrange the nest one more time. Move the pillows. Adjust the blankets. Fluff everything up. It’s still not perfect, but it’s better.
Good enough.
I burrow into the center of it, pulling the softest blanket around my shoulders. The scent of the fabric is comforting. Soothing lavender laundry detergent and fabric softener plus my own scent underneath. It’s not the same as having pack scent in my nest, but it’ll do.
Not that I want pack scent.
Definitely not.
My omega makes a skeptical noise.
“We don’t,” I insist. “We handle our heats alone. We’ve always handled our heats alone.”
Alone is sad.
“Alone is safe.”
Safe is boring.
“Safe is smart. Safe means we don’t make catastrophically bad decisions that ruin our career and reputation.”
But what if—
“No. No what-ifs. We are staying in this nest, riding out the heat, and maintaining appropriate professional boundaries.”
My omega subsides, but I can feel her there, lurking, waiting for my resolve to weaken.
Which it probably will. Heat brain is not known for its stellar decision-making capabilities.
I close my eyes and try to doze, but sleep won’t come. My mind keeps racing, my body too restless and uncomfortable. The fever is creeping back, warming my skin despite the cold shower.
Time moves strangely. I can’t tell if minutes are passing or hours. Meanwhile, the storm continues its assault on the house. Thunder. Rain. Wind. There’s the occasional crash of something outside. Branches, debris, who knows what.
And the sounds from inside the house.
I can still hear them moving around. Can’t they sleep either? Are they as uncomfortable as I am?
Probably.
I’m about to try rearranging my nest again when I hear it.
A crash.
Different from the storm sounds. This one is inside the house, followed immediately by raised voices.
“Shit!”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I just—watch out for the—”
“Jesus, Dax!”
More voices overlapping, and what sounds like someone swearing very creatively.
My omega reacts immediately, flooding my system with alarm and concern.
Alphas might be hurt, she insists. Something’s wrong. Need to check. Need to help.
“They’re fine,” I tell myself firmly, gripping the edge of my blanket. “They’re four grown men who can handle whatever just happened. They don’t need me stumbling out there.”
But what if they’re hurt?
“They’re not hurt. It was probably just something falling over because of the storm.”
Should still check.
“Absolutely not. We are staying right here in this nest where it’s safe, and we’re not making everything awkward.”
Staying here while pack might be hurt is worse than awkward.
“They’re not pack.”
Could be pack.
“Are not going to be pack. Professional rivals. Remember? Competitors. People who stole our wedding.”
But I’m already moving, my body overriding my brain’s very reasonable objections. My feet hit the floor, and I’m pulling open the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The hallway is dimly lit by the emergency lights, casting long shadows. The air is cooler out here than in my room, and I can smell them, all four alpha scents mixing together in a way that makes my omega practically purr.
“This is such a bad idea,” I mutter, but I keep walking.
I stumble slightly, bracing a hand against the wall for balance. Down the hallway. Past the bathroom. Toward the living room where the voices are coming from.
My heart is pounding, and I’m very aware that I’m wearing basically nothing and probably look like a disaster and am definitely giving off omega-in-heat pheromones like a beacon.
This is going to be mortifying.
But what if they’re actually hurt?
What if something’s actually wrong?
I round the corner into the living room, and all four pairs of alpha eyes snap to me immediately.
Fuck.