Chapter 12
Rowan
T he cool air outside does nothing to stop the rising heat under my skin. I wrap my arms around my middle as we walk, trying to hold myself together. My heels click against the sidewalk, a steady rhythm that’s supposed to ground me, but my thoughts are scattered, and my body is... not okay. My skin feels too tight. I’m flushed, burning from the inside out, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.
We’re only a few blocks from my apartment, but the distance feels endless. Sébastien walks beside me quiet, steady, and respectful. He’s not crowding me, but he’s close enough where I can feel the warmth of his body and smell that gorgeous, calming scent of his: wild honey, rain, and something soft and sweet, like vanilla. It pulls at something deep inside me, something I don’t understand but crave all the same.
I glance at him, trying to act normal, whatever that even means anymore. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I don’t usually fall apart like that.”
His eyes, soft and gray, flick toward me with quiet intensity. “You are not falling apart,” he says gently, his French accent smoothing the words like silk. “You are transitioning.”
“Transitioning?” I echo, stopping just outside my apartment building. The breeze hits me, and I flinch, my muscles cramping low in my belly like a warning shot. I double over slightly, gasping at the heat that spikes through me. “Shit. Sorry. I—my stomach just... it hurts.”
Sébastien is there in an instant, one hand hovering near my back without touching. “You are burning up. Your scent is blooming,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re close to going into Heat.”
“No,” I say automatically, my voice sharp with disbelief. “I can’t be. I’m not— I’m a Beta.”
But the look he gives me says otherwise. It’s gentle, but it’s also devastating.
“I’ve smelled Betas before, Rowan,” he says softly. “You are not a Beta. Not anymore.”
I shake my head; the truth, trying to claw its way in and me doing everything I can to shove it out. “No. No, I’ve always been Beta. That’s what the tests said. That’s what—”
“You are not imagining this,” he interrupts gently. “Your body is telling you what you are. And if I may be honest, you should not be alone right now.”
I stare at him, stunned, chest rising and falling too fast. I don’t know him. Not really. But I feel like I do. His presence calms the storm in a way nothing else has today.
“I just live upstairs,” I whisper. “Twenty-third floor. Can you... Would you mind coming up? Just for a few minutes?”
He nods without hesitation. “Of course.”
And even though everything in my life just tilted sideways, some part of me, the part that's trembling and feverish and desperate for relief, is grateful I won’t be facing it alone.
I fumble with the key, my fingers trembling as I unlock the door and push it open. A wave of cool air greets me, a welcome contrast to the heat building beneath my skin.
“This is it,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. My voice sounds distant even to me, like it’s coming from underwater.
Sébastien enters quietly, his steps careful, respectful. He doesn’t look around right away. His focus is still on me. But I finally tear my eyes from him and look at my apartment through the lens of a visitor.
God.
My place is usually tidy, styled just so for filming and work and peace of mind, but now? Now all I can see are the throw blankets rumpled from this morning’s coffee-and-panic session. The velvet pillows I didn’t fluff. The empty teacup on the side table. The soft lighting, which suddenly feels too dim. My skin prickles as embarrassment fights its way through the haze of whatever the hell is happening inside my body.
I force myself to move, crossing the open living space with purposeful strides, as if straightening a pillow or folding a blanket might help me make sense of everything else. The soft circular rug muffles my steps. I glance toward the balcony, where the cushions are slightly askew on the bistro chairs, and then to the mirror beside my desk, my reflection pale, eyes wide, a sheen of sweat at my hairline.
This isn’t me. I’m always put together. Polished. Focused. Now I’m flushed, aching, and burning up from the inside out, and I don’t even know why.
I take a breath and turn toward him, swaying slightly as a cramp twists in my belly again. “Sorry. I just ... didn’t expect company.”
My voice is small. Apologetic. He doesn’t say anything at first, just closes the door behind us, quiet as a whisper. The wild honey and rain scent that clings to him mixes with the faint trace of my own perfume blooming in the room, and it makes my knees feel weak.
I grip the back of the couch to steady myself. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
But he might.