Chapter 13
Sébastien
S he walks beside me , her steps quick and uneven, and I can feel the fever rising off her skin like heat waves from pavement. Her scent—gods, her scent—is no longer just peaches and honeysuckle. It’s blooming. Unfurling. The undertones of nutmeg are sharp now, tinged with confusion and fear. She's perfuming, and she doesn’t even know it.
I keep my hands to myself. Barely. Every inch of me wants to touch her. To soothe her. To press my scent against hers until it anchors her. But she doesn’t know me, not really. Not yet. And the last thing she needs is another overwhelming presence on top of whatever her body is doing.
But it’s not just her scent that’s making this hard. It’s her. She’s my scent match. My mate. And even as an Omega, the pull is undeniable. My arousal has been humming low in my gut since the moment I knelt beside her in Massimo’s office, and it’s only gotten stronger. But I push it down, force my instincts back into their box. She’s vulnerable. Confused. Possibly scared. That comes first. Always.
By the time she opens the door to her apartment, she’s pale and trembling. I follow her inside, and it takes everything I have not to pause in the entryway and just breathe her in.
Her space is beautiful modern, bohemian with a touch of luxury. Soft neutrals meet earthy textures, everything layered with intentional warmth. It’s not just decorated, it’s lived in, curated like a visual hug. A low, plush white sectional anchors the room, draped in blush-toned velvet throws and mismatched pillows in soft textures: linen, faux fur, woven macramé.
The floor is dark hardwood, partially covered by a light, circular jute rug that softens the space. Potted plants, some trailing, some tall and leafy, breathe life into the corners. Gold-framed art lines the walls: dreamy abstracts, handwritten quotes. In the far alcove, a minimalist white desk is surrounded by soft lighting, a tall mirror, and a mounted ring light. A cozy chair in the corner is stacked with folded blankets, next to a pile of design books and a Himalayan salt lamp glowing warm pink.
And she’s looking at it all like she’s seeing it for the first time. I watch her fuss with pillows, fold a blanket, and move a teacup. Not because it needs to be done, but because she’s unraveling and trying desperately to feel normal. My heart twists in my chest. I know that feeling too well. She clutches the back of the couch, swaying slightly.
I step forward, my voice low. “You need to sit.”
She blinks at me, startled by the sound, and I move slowly, palms open. “Please, Rowan. Just for a minute. Let me help you.”
Her lip trembles. Just slightly. And then she nods. I move in, gently guiding her to the couch, careful not to touch more than I need to. She doesn’t pull away. That’s something.
But the air between us? It’s electric. And if I’m not careful, my control will burn away with it.
She sinks into the couch with a soft sound, half a breath, half a whimper, and curls slightly to the side. Her arms wrap around her midsection, and I see it hit her again: the sharp clench of pain in her lower belly, the way her thighs draw together. Her scent changes, blooming richer, thicker, like warm peaches in summer sun, but with a trembling edge of burnt sugar.
She’s cramping. Fevered. Perfuming. And I can scent it now, just the faintest hint of slick. My breath catches. Oh, mon c?ur. She’s going into Heat. And she has no idea.
I kneel beside the couch again, careful, controlled. “Rowan...” My voice is low, soft, as non-threatening as I can make it. “How long have you been feeling like this?”
She shifts her eyes toward me, lashes heavy, sweat beginning to bead at her temples. “I don’t know. It started this morning, I guess. But it’s getting worse. I thought maybe I was sick, or... anxious, or something. But now I feel like I’m burning up from the inside out.”
Another cramp hits her. She tenses, biting her lip, and I see it, she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t even suspect.
I reach for the throw blanket draped over the side of the couch and gently tuck it around her. “You’re not sick,” I say softly. “But your body is trying to tell you something. And I think you’ve been told the wrong thing for a long time.”
She frowns at me, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “I’m a Beta. I’ve always been a Beta.”
I nod slowly, not arguing. “That’s what you’ve been told. What the tests said. But sometimes... sometimes, it doesn’t happen when we’re young.”
Her brow furrows, breath catching. “What do you mean?”
I lean back just slightly, giving her space as I rest my elbows on my knees. “I had a friend once. Alan. He lived in Grasse, where I’m from. Everyone thought he was a Beta too. Quiet, kind, never had the scent or the reaction of anything else. And then one day, he was twenty-eight, I think, it hit him out of nowhere. His first Heat.”
Her eyes go round. “At twenty-eight?”
I nod. “Presenting late isn’t common. But it happens. Especially under stress or... when you meet someone who triggers something dormant. It’s biological. Instinctive. Nothing you did wrong.”
She’s silent for a long moment. I can see her trying to wrap her mind around it.
“And you think that’s what this is?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m presenting?”
I meet her gaze, careful. “Your body is responding like an Omega’s. You’re perfuming. Fevered. Cramping. You’re producing slick, Rowan.” Her face flushes, and she instinctively draws the blanket tighter around her lap. “This doesn’t happen to Betas.”
She swallows hard, a shiver rolling through her. “But if I am... if that’s what’s happening, what do I do?”
I pause, weighing my words carefully. “You’ll need support. Alphas, most likely. At least one. Possibly more, depending on how your Heat develops. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, you need rest. Hydration. And someone nearby to make sure it doesn’t spiral.”
She closes her eyes for a moment. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You don’t have to be,” I say gently. “If you’ll let me stay, I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
She nods once, barely. And I exhale, quietly. One step at a time.