Chapter 52
Rowan
I wake to warmth. Heavy , comforting, sticky warmth. My body is tangled with others. Sébastien’s leg draped over mine, Massimo’s arm around my waist, and Laurent’s chest pressed to my back. Their scents cling to me, honey, spice, rain, and skin. The Nest is soft, rich with the scent of heat and touch and home.
But my body aches. And everything feels ... used. In the best way. I shift carefully, peeling myself free with slow, practiced movements. I pause when Sébastien stirs, but he just sighs in his sleep and nestles deeper into the tangle.
The room is dim, curtains still drawn. Quiet. Peaceful. I slip into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.
The hot water feels divine . I stand under the spray longer than I should, letting it ease the soreness in my thighs and wash the last traces of Heat from my skin. When I finally dry off and change into soft lounge clothes, I already feel the edge of reality pressing in.
I head out into the suite’s living room, and find Cole already awake, sitting at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee and a look I don’t quite recognize.
He doesn’t startle when he sees me. Just gives me a small nod.
“You good?” he asks, voice low.
I nod, tucking a loose piece of hair behind my ear. “Better.”
Then I see the paper. It’s folded on the counter beside him, the photo just barely visible. I blink, step closer, and unfold it with careful fingers. And there we are.
The side entrance of the hotel. Sébastien between Mass and Cole. Xavier carrying me. I look... flushed. Loose-limbed. Obvious. My stomach knots.
“It’s out,” Cole says quietly. “One station, one paper. But it won’t stay small.”
I rush to the couch and grab my phone. Notifications explode across the screen. Thousands. I open the link to the article, the one from the morning paper, and scroll. Below the photos, a flood of comments spills across the screen.
Anonymous usernames. No profile pictures. No context. Just opinions.
“Wait... is she an Omega?”
“That’s the Beta girl from ClipStream look at her scent haze.”
“Did she hide it?”
“How long has she been faking it?”
My heart starts to race. My fingers go numb. They’re not just curious. They’re accusing me.
I try to scroll, to keep reading, but everything blurs. My eyes keep snagging on words like fake and lied and heat haze . I’m not hiding anything. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t know. I’m just... late.
That’s all. I’m a late bloomer.
And yet somehow, here it is, everything I am, everything I don’t understand about myself, dissected in real time by total strangers. My stomach twists. My skin burns. I drop the phone on the coffee table and press my hands to my face. The room feels smaller now. Like it’s closing in.
Then my phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Again. Buzz. Buzz buzz. Buzz.
I glance at the screen and my chest goes cold.
Mom.
Dad.
Dad #2.
Eli. James. Finn.
The texts are pouring in now.
Mom: "We need to talk. Immediately."
Dad: "Are you alright? Call me. Please."
James: "What the hell is going on??"
Eli: "You should’ve told us."
Finn: "You okay? Do I need to break someone’s legs?"
The last one makes my throat catch. Typical Finn. But even that doesn’t settle the panic building in my chest. They know. My family knows. And I haven’t even had a chance to figure this out myself.