Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sierra
The cold water pelting my overheated skin does absolutely nothing.
I’ve been in this shower for an hour, the temperature cranked as low as it will go, and I’m still burning up from the inside out.
My heat has reached a level I didn’t know was possible.
Every nerve ending feels like it’s been set on fire, and the ache between my thighs has gone from uncomfortable to unbearable.
I brace one hand against the tile wall, gasping as another wave crashes through me. My thighs are slick, and not from the water. From the constant production my body seems determined to maintain. More than I’ve ever produced before. It’s running down my legs, mixing with the shower spray.
“Come on,” I whimper to myself, reaching for the knotted dildo I brought in with me. “Please work this time. Please.”
I’ve used every single toy I brought. The vibrator is dead, batteries completely drained. The smaller dildo did nothing except make me more frustrated. The plug was a joke; my body practically rejected it within minutes.
This knotted one is my last hope. It’s thicker than my favorite purple one and the biggest I own, the most realistic, with a substantial knot that should provide some relief.
I position it against my entrance and try to work it inside. My body accepts it easily, too easily, slick easing the way like my biology is mocking me. I push it deeper, angling for that spot that usually helps, but—
Nothing.
Well, not nothing. It feels good. But it’s not enough. Not even close.
I work it faster, chasing something I can’t quite reach. The knot catches at my entrance and I push past that resistance, gasping as it stretches me wide. Finally. Finally, the lock I need, the fullness that should soothe the desperate ache.
But it’s cold. Hard. Lifeless.
It’s not a real knot. It doesn’t pulse. Doesn’t swell. Doesn’t fill me with the heat and pressure my omega is screaming for.
A whimper escapes my throat. I try to muffle it, biting my lip hard enough to hurt, but another one follows. And another.
Thunder crashes outside, loud enough to shake the windows, and I’m pathetically grateful for the sound. It’s the only thing hiding the noises I can’t seem to control anymore.
I’m openly whimpering now. Can’t stop. Can’t help it.
My heat has broken me down to something needy, and no amount of cold water or silicone can fix it.
I work the toy harder, desperate, chasing relief that won’t come. My free hand slides down to my clit, trying to add stimulation, trying anything to make this work.
“Please,” I gasp to the empty shower. “Please, please, please—”
But my body knows. Knows this isn’t what I need. Knows there are four alphas just down the hall whose knots would actually help. Whose scent would soothe. Whose presence would ease this unbearable burning.
Another whimper. Another crash of thunder that barely covers it.
I’m not going to make it through this week.
The realization hits me as hard as the next wave of heat. I’m not going to make it. Not alone. Not with just toys that my body rejects as poor substitutes for what it really wants.
I need help.
I need an alpha.
I need—
“No,” I tell myself firmly, even as my body betrays me with another desperate whimper. “No, you can handle this. You always handle things alone.”
But I can’t. Not this time.
The toy inside me feels wrong now. Too hard, too cold, too not-alpha. I pull it out with a frustrated sound and let it clatter to the shower floor.
My legs are shaking. Actually shaking, barely able to hold my weight. I slide down to sit on the shower floor, water still pouring over me, and pull my knees to my chest.
This is day two. I have five more days of this.
Five more days of burning alive from the inside out. Of producing more slick than should be physically possible. Of whimpering into my pillows while thunder hides the sounds. Of using toys that don’t work because they’re not what my body is demanding.
I can’t do it.
The admission makes me want to cry. I can’t throw myself at the mercy of the four alphas trapped with me here. When this is all over, then what? How will I even be able to face them in public?
But what’s the alternative? Suffer for five more days? Potentially hurt myself trying to force relief that won’t come?
Pride is one thing. Self-destruction is another.
I turn off the water with shaking hands and grab a towel. My skin is pruned from the extended shower, but I’m still burning up. Still aching. Still producing slick like my body is trying to advertise my availability to every alpha within a mile radius.
The walk back to my nest room feels like a marathon. Every step sends another wave of need through me. By the time I collapse back into my nest, I’m whimpering again.
The scent of my own slick is overwhelming. The sheets are going to need to be changed. Again. I went through the first set in twelve hours.
I bury my face in one of the pillows and let myself whimper properly. No holding back. No trying to stay quiet.
Thunder crashes overhead, hiding the sound of my misery.
But it can’t hide the scent. Can’t hide the pheromones pouring off me, advertising my heat to the entire house.
Cole
I’m trying so hard to keep things light.
“Okay, okay,” I say, shuffling the deck of cards for what feels like the hundredth time. “New game. Texas Hold’em. Winner gets to—I don’t know—not lose their mind for the next hour?”
Dax doesn’t even look at me. He’s pacing again, wearing a path in the kitchen floor that’s probably going to need refinishing after this week. His sugary scent is so thick and aggressive it makes my eyes water.
Jalen is sitting at the table, but he’s not really here. His eyes are distant, focused on something none of us can see. Probably logging every sound from down the hall, because that’s what Jalen does. He notices things.
And right now, there’s a lot to notice.
Sierra’s heat scent has completely saturated the house. So sweet and potent that every breath feels like I’m mainlining pheromones directly into my bloodstream. My rut is responding with aggressive enthusiasm, making my cock hard and my knot swell at the most inconvenient times.
Like right now.
I shift in my chair, trying to adjust myself discreetly, but Jalen’s eyes flick to me and I know he noticed. Of course, he did.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s just... fuck, can you smell that?”
“We can all smell it,” Dax growls, still pacing. “We’ve been smelling it for twenty-four hours.”
Thunder crashes outside, and underneath it—
A whimper.
We all freeze.
It’s faint, muffled by distance and walls and probably Sierra’s attempts to stay quiet. But it’s there. Unmistakable.
My knot swells so fast it’s painful. I grip the edge of the table and try to breathe through it.
“She’s hurting,” Dax says, voice rough. He’s stopped pacing, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “We can hear her hurting, and we’re just sitting here.”
“What do you want us to do?” I ask, but it comes out sharp. “Barge into her room? You can’t just barge into an omega’s nest unless they ask you to.”
“Maybe she won’t ask,” Dax snaps back. “Maybe she’s too proud or too stubborn or too—”
“Then that’s her choice,” Jalen interrupts quietly, but his jaw is tight. His hands are gripping his cards so hard they’re starting to crumple.
Another whimper.
“Fuck this,” I say, standing up so abruptly my chair scrapes against the floor. “I need a minute.”
I don’t wait for a response. Don’t explain where I’m going or why. I just head for the bathroom and close the door behind me.
The moment I’m alone, my composure shatters.
I lean back against the door and close my eyes, trying to get my breathing under control. But all I can smell is her. Honeycomb and heat and slick. So much slick.
My hand moves to my waistband before I’ve consciously decided to do this.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. This isn’t what she needs, isn’t what any of us need. Getting myself off isn’t going to solve the problem. Isn’t going to help her.
But I can’t stop.
My shorts hit the floor, followed by my boxers. My cock springs free, already hard and leaking. My knot is swollen at the base, pulsing with the need to lock into something. Into someone.
Into her.
I wrap my hand around my shaft and stroke once, experimentally. Pleasure shoots up my spine, so sharp and intense that I have to bite back a groan.
This is pathetic. I’m pathetic. Standing in the bathroom, jerking off while the omega I could be helping is down the hall suffering.
But I can’t help her. She hasn’t asked. And I won’t push. I won’t be that alpha.
So instead, I stroke myself harder, faster, chasing relief I know won’t really come.
I imagine what it would be like if she did ask. If she opened her door and looked at me with those light-brown eyes and said, “Please, Cole. I need help.”
I’d be in her nest so fast. Would gather her into my arms, scent her properly, let my alpha soothe her frayed nerves.
I’d kiss her. Slow at first, gentle, giving her time to adjust to having an alpha so close during her heat. But then she’d whimper into my mouth, would press against me, and I’d know she needed more.
I’d lay her back in her nest, spread her thighs, and—
“Fuck,” I gasp, stroking faster. My knot is throbbing now, swelling impossibly larger, seeking the tight heat it’s designed for.
In my fantasy, Sierra is beneath me. Her nest is soft and warm and smells like both of us combined. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, and when I finally push inside her—
I come with a strangled groan, spilling over my hand and onto the floor. My knot pulses, locking around nothing, and the emptiness is almost worse than the need.
Because I’m not inside her. Not helping her. Not giving her what she needs.
I’m just standing here, coming into my hand like a teenager who can’t control himself.
The pleasure fades quickly, replaced by shame and a deep frustration that makes me want to punch something.