Chapter 10
Kimmie
I wake slowly, more relaxed than I’ve been in ages. Then I remember and bolt upright in horror. Did I really just rub one out while fantasizing about doing all four Stanton alphas?
I groan in humiliation and fall back against the pillows.
Masturbation had been a necessity. My body was screaming for release when Gabriel left my room. Post-nut clarity is a bitch, though, and right now she’s telling me I’ve completely lost my mind.
But that kiss with Gabriel…
It went to my head like tequila on an empty stomach.
And the others—Tanner with those massive hands that were so surprisingly gentle when he checked my fever.
Elliot, with his intense focus, made me wonder how it would feel to be the subject of all his attention, to have those sharp green eyes cataloging every sensitive spot.
And the way Leo carried me, like I was delicate, breakable. Precious.
Being around these alphas is screwing with me. It’s like they’ve rewired me. Like I’ve absorbed alpha pheromones through my skin, swallowed them from Gabriel’s kiss.
Could they all kiss like that? Or would each one be different? Leo had those full, soft lips, and Elliot would be—
I give myself a mental shake. No. Absolutely not. I am not going there again. But I feel my nipples tingle as my body gears up for round two of the self-love Olympics.
Get it together, Carmichael.
There’s no one here to see me, but I cover my face with my palms anyway.
What was I thinking, kissing Gabriel like that?
He probably thinks I was trying to manipulate him by using sex appeal to save my restaurant.
Which would be a brilliant strategy if I actually had any sex appeal to use.
Instead, I threw myself at him while wearing a bathrobe and sporting fever-matted hair. Smooth, Kimmie. Real smooth.
As I shift to swing my legs out of bed, I notice something’s off. There’s a gush of unusual wetness between my thighs. Not the normal kind that follows…activities like I just indulged in. This is different. More copious. More slick. More concerning.
I grab tissues from the bedside table. As I clean up, I notice the consistency is strange too—clear and slightly viscous. I’ve never produced anything quite like this before. It takes practically the whole box to get the job done. I ball up the tissues and toss them in the waste bin.
I need to get out of here. Now. Before I do something else monumentally stupid, like throw myself at another alpha.
Or all of them.
The thought sends another inappropriate tingle through my body, and I ruthlessly squash it.
Nope. Not again.
Testing my limbs, I’m relieved to find I’m mostly back to normal. There’s some residual weakness. My muscles feel like they do after an intense workout. It’s not the complete helplessness from before. I can definitely make it home under my own power.
The bathroom is spotlessly clean when I check it. There’s no evidence of my shower adventure or the wet towels. The cleaning staff here moves like ninjas. My clothes are nowhere to be found.
Perfect. Just perfect. What am I supposed to do, make a break for it in a borrowed robe?
The door opens, and a uniformed maid bustles in as if summoned by my angst about my clothing crisis. She carries my things in a neatly folded stack that smells of whatever ridiculously expensive laundry soap rich people use.
“Oh!” She starts when she sees me standing. “You’re up! I apologize for not knocking. Mr. Stanton asked the staff to check on you periodically, and he didn’t want us to wake you.”
Fantastic. He probably gave orders to monitor me in case I try to jump any other pack alphas who venture too close. And he might not be wrong. What the hell is the matter with me?
“Dr. Hilliard just arrived to check on you, Miss,” the maid adds. “Would you like to see her?”
“Yes, please. Send her in.” My memory of what happened after I fainted is fuzzy, but I do recall the doctor’s calm presence from before and how she’d helped keep me out of the hospital.
Maybe she can explain why I’m suddenly acting like a hormone-crazed teenager.
Or why my vagina has turned into a Slip ‘N Slide.
While the maid fetches the doctor, I quickly dress. My hair’s a rat’s nest from air drying without detangling. The snarled strands shoot out every which way. But that’s the least of my problems right now.
I find my shoes neatly placed beside the bed. Dr. Hilliard enters as I’m tying the laces. She’s a striking woman with a face that looks younger than her steel gray hair. Her features are delicate and piquant but with a sober expression. She’s tiny, but she exudes a comforting kind of authority.
“Good to see you up,” she says briskly. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Much better. I need to get out of here.”
She studies me carefully, her dark eyes missing nothing. “Did something happen?”
I hesitate, fiddling with a shoelace. “I’m not feeling like myself.”
“How so?”
“Well…” I clear my throat and force myself to meet her eyes. Medical professionals deal with embarrassing things all the time, right? “I’m having some unusual…discharge.” The last word comes out barely above a whisper.
Her professional demeanor doesn’t waver. “Can you describe it?”
My face flames, but I soldier on. “It’s clear, kind of slippery. More viscous than normal.” I twist my hands in my lap. “And there’s a lot of it. I mean, a lot. Like, abnormally so. I’ve never—it’s never been like this before.”
“I see.” She continues to study me. “And your sense of smell? Any changes there?”
“It’s intensified. Everything is just—more.” I swallow hard. “Especially certain scents.”
“Such as?”
“The alphas,” I admit, staring at my shoes. “Their scents are overwhelming. Before, they were just background notes, you know? But now…”
She sits down in the alpha chair and waits for me to meet her gaze. “Kimmie, have you ever heard of the omega flu?”
My stomach drops. “But that’s…”
“You may not recall, but I tested you on the night you fainted. The results confirmed you had variant 469-O. In some cases,” she says carefully, “variant 469-O can trigger a hormone cascade in betas. We’re not sure of the mechanism, but in certain individuals, the virus can activate certain genetic markers. ”
“Activates them to what?” But I already know. God help me, I already know.
Her gaze is steady on mine. “Essentially, it can turn a beta into an omega.”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s got to be really rare, right? Like, ‘winning the lottery’ rare?”
“Less than a fraction of a percent of cases result in a change of hormone regulation.” She leans forward. “However, prolonged exposure to multiple alphas during or immediately after infection can increase those odds somewhat. The proximity seems to trigger certain hormonal responses that—”
“Stop.” I hold up my hands. “Just stop. I can’t be an omega. I have a restaurant to run. I have responsibilities. I can’t just…” I wave my hands helplessly, “…go into heat and need to be knotted or whatever!”
Her laugh startles me. “Oh, honey, is that all you think omegas do? Sit around waiting for their next heat?” She shakes her head.
“I run a medical practice with three satellite clinics. I teach at the university. I admit the designation comes with certain societal barriers that can be daunting, but being an omega doesn’t define what you can accomplish. ”
I stare at her, really looking for the first time. Behind that professional demeanor, there’s something else—a warm, nurturing quality that I hadn’t noticed before. And her scent. How did I miss it? Beneath the sharp antiseptic smell of hand sanitizer, it’s soft and sweet. Distinctly omega.
“You’re an omega?”
“All my life.” She reaches for her medical bag.
“I know the stereotypes, but we’re individuals, not statistics.
And I’ve never let being an omega stop me from doing anything I wanted to do.
Though I will say, having supportive alphas makes everything easier.
I’ve got three of my own, and seven kids to boot. ”
She pulls out a prescription pad and begins writing.
“I’m giving you two medications. The first is a bite guard—it creates a chemical barrier that prevents mating bonds from forming if you’re bitten during heat.
The second is a specialized contraceptive designed specifically for omegas.
Both will remain effective for approximately thirty days after you take them. ”
My hands shake as I take the prescriptions. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”
“The first heat can be overwhelming,” she says gently.
“We can’t suppress it. The body needs to complete the transition to prevent hormone dysregulation in the future.
But I can prescribe sedatives to help manage the intensity.
I won’t lie to you. Even with sedatives, going through heat without an alpha you trust is…
not ideal. They’ll make you feel less physical discomfort, but the arousal will still be there.
There are also omega support groups, if you’re interested. ”
“Is there something I can take to stop the transition altogether? No offense, but I just—don’t want this to happen.”
The doctor sighs. “Unfortunately, there’s no cure for this, and there’s not likely to be.
Omegas are in short supply, and the powers that be are all for anything that makes more naturally.
That means there’s no funding for research to stop it.
But the good news is the transition doesn’t have any negative physical implications.
You’ll be perfectly healthy, you’ll just be an omega. ”
She lists other symptoms to watch for, nesting instincts, temperature fluctuations, heightened emotional and arousal responses to alpha pheromones.
But I’m barely listening. All I can think about is getting out of this house, away from four alpha scents that make my body ache in ways that have nothing to do with feeling sick.
“I’m going to squeeze in an appointment for you Monday morning. Eight a.m.?”
I nod, even though that’s smack in the middle of the breakfast rush. But Suze is more than capable of handling it without me. Plus, I’ll say just about anything to get the doctor to let me out of here without alerting the alphas. “I’ll be there.”
“All right. If you feel steady enough to drive, you’re free to go,” she says after taking a few vitals.
“But here’s my card. Call me anytime—day or night—if you need anything.
And Kimmie?” She catches my eye. “If you are becoming an omega, it isn’t the end of the world. It’s just a different beginning.”
I appreciate her attempt at comfort, but right now, all I want is to get home where everything makes sense. Where I’m just boring beta Kimmie who makes waffles and fights corporate takeovers and definitely doesn’t produce slick at the mere thought of certain alphas.
I grab my purse and practically run for the door. I’ll process all this later. Much later.
Preferably never.