Chapter 17
Emery
Three weeks after Bastion’s car crash, his stitches are gone and he walks with the stride of someone who’s either forgotten their own mortality or decided to mess with it on purpose. And then there’s the fact we haven’t kissed again.
It’s not for lack of opportunity. I linger. I make the first move. Sometimes I think he wants to, too, but the air always breaks, and the urge dies in the liminal space between a dare and a disaster. I don’t blame him. If I were an alpha, I’d be afraid of me, too.
Instead, I’m up at dawn most days, elbows-deep in prep for the exhibition, which is now less than a week away.
If I could just hibernate until then, I’d do it, but there’s a lot of work to be done.
My parents sent me a care package—mostly snacks, some fancy pens, a spa mask I’ll never use, and a note that just says “FINISH STRONG.” I taped it to the fridge for irony. No one but me finds it funny.
I’ve made it my mission to out-nice the Everhart Pack.
Every morning I bake cookies. Every other day, I order fresh flowers for the manor’s rooms. On the weekends, I deep clean the communal kitchen, leaving the coffee pot ready for Wyatt and Ranier and a neat little pyramid of muffins for the house staff.
It’s not just the house that’s gotten a glow-up.
My nest has doubled in size. At first, it was just one duvet and two pillows, but now it’s a palatial sprawl: eight pillows, four blankets, and a rotating cast of stolen sweatshirts.
Each one is “borrowed” from a different alpha.
I don’t know if this is standard omega behavior or the start of a tragic addiction, but the comfort is real and it’s mine.
I know I’m going into heat before it happens, but I don’t admit it until it’s too late.
The first sign is that every brush of fabric against my skin feels like static.
Every word out of my mouth is met with an undertow of thirst, and I can’t stop eating—berries, carbs, cheese, even raw cookie dough, which I hate.
I spend a whole day rearranging my art supplies by color, then by shape, then by the sound each tube of paint makes when I squeeze it.
It’s late, and I’m supposed to be finishing a landscape commission for one of the Councilors.
I lean across the table to grab my favorite brush, elbow catches the edge of the palette, and the whole tray tips.
Paint pours across my desk like a toxic river.
The sharp, chemical hit of oil pigment slaps me in the face and, suddenly, my knees go out.
I’m on the floor before I realize what’s happening, one hand clutching the edge of the chair, the other sticky with blue and gold and a hint of red.
The world wobbles, then steadies, then spins again. The room smells like a candy factory on fire. My head is swimming, and my body is, too, only the water is hot and the current is dragging me under.
I must make a sound—a yelp, maybe, or a grunt of pain—because a moment later there’s a knock, then a second, then the soft rush of someone entering my room.
It’s Wyatt.
His hair is a disaster and he’s wearing pajamas with a pattern of little sharks, and I hate how adorable he is, especially when his green eyes go wide at the sight of me collapsed and paint-stained on the rug.
He drops to one knee like he’s responding to an actual emergency. “Shit. Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to say, “It’s just paint,” but what comes out is a tiny moan. The mortification is instant, bright, and hot, and for a moment I wish I could crawl under the nest and suffocate.
Wyatt hesitates, scans my face, and then—fuck, his pupils are huge, blown out so the green is just a thin ring—he reaches for my shoulder. “You’re… you’re burning up,” he says. The panic in his voice is not the usual Wyatt brand, but a new, rawer version that vibrates in my teeth.
I try to roll away, but my limbs are too heavy, and my body is moving in two directions at once—toward him, and away from every ounce of self-respect I have left.
“Don’t touch me,” I manage, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
Wyatt ignores that. He hoists me up under the arms, bridal-style, like it’s no effort at all, and deposits me on top of my nest. The blankets are cool at first, then not, then so hot I kick them off with a burst of energy that’s one-part adrenaline, one-part shame.
“You’re in heat,” Wyatt says, more to himself than to me. “Shit. What do I—should I get Bastion? Or—” He stops, realization hitting him like a brick. “Ranier will kill me if I even look at you right now.”
“Then don’t look,” I snap, but the snap is ruined by the tremor in my voice.
Wyatt swallows hard and sits on the edge of the bed, his knees jiggling like he’s fighting the urge to bolt. “Do you want water? Ice? The emergency Council omega kit?” He laughs, but it’s brittle, and I know he’s one wrong word away from spiraling.
I sit up and clutch my knees. My face is wet, but I refuse to believe it’s tears. “Just—” I gesture vaguely at the door. “Go away, unless you’re here to make it worse.”
Wyatt doesn’t move. Instead, he fidgets, looking at the ruined art supplies and the tangle of my nest and the way my thighs are pressed tight together.
I can smell myself, too—sugar, salt, a hint of something ripe and electric—and the fact that he doesn’t immediately run out means it’s probably worse for him.
His voice goes quiet. “Is it… is it bad?” He means the heat, but maybe also everything else.
“Bad is relative,” I say. I want to make a joke, but my head is pounding and my body is cranking up the volume on every sense. “If you stay here much longer, it’ll be worse for both of us.”
Wyatt looks at me, really looks, and for a second I think he’s going to do something wild, like grab my face and kiss me or throw himself out the window.
Instead, he says, “You’re not alone, you know. Even if it feels like it.”
“That’s the problem,” I say. “I don’t want to be alone. But none of you want me.” I don’t mean for it to sound so small, but it does.
Wyatt reaches out and touches my hand, just barely. The contact sends a bolt of heat up my arm and I gasp. He flinches away, color rising to his cheeks.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, desperate.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Nothing. Unless you and Bastion and Ranier are finally ready to stop pretending.” My voice breaks at the end.
Wyatt shakes his head and then pulls his hand back. “I can’t.” He says it like it’s a curse.
I laugh, low and bitter. “Then get out, Whitlock.”
He goes, fast, almost tripping over the pile of laundry at the door. When the click of the handle echoes, I flop back on my nest and the wreckage of my dignity.
My heat ramps up by the hour. I can’t keep down food.
I drink three bottles of water and still my tongue is thick and dry.
The house goes quiet. At some point, Ranier’s scent stalks the hallway, then fades.
I know they’re all aware. Maybe they’re drawing straws for who gets to deal with me, or maybe they’re hiding, waiting for the storm to blow over.
The loneliness is a new kind of cruel. It eats the hours, gnawing the edges of my resolve.
By three in the morning, I’ve peeled off every layer of clothing.
My skin is sticky, my hair wet at the nape, my whole body strung tight with wanting.
I fight it at first—deep breaths, a cold compress to the forehead, even a session of slow yoga that turns instantly into a disaster because I can’t get through a single pose without thinking about hands, mouths, the way Bastion’s stubble burned against my chin that night in his room.
Eventually, I crack.
I drag myself to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, then stare at my reflection. My eyes are huge, lips swollen, hair tangled in a way that’s less artful than animal. I don’t recognize the person in the mirror, but I know what she needs.
I go back to the nest and bury myself in the hoodies.
Bastion’s first, the one with the racing logo and the holes in the cuffs.
Then Ranier’s, which still smells faintly like apples and smoke.
And then Wyatt’s, which is oversized and soft and makes me want to cry for reasons I don’t understand.
I line them up around me, a fortress of denial.
I let my hand wander.
It’s mechanical, at first—a motion learned and practiced, a way to soothe the ache and nothing more.
My hand wanders under the tangle of blankets, nimble despite the fever in my joints.
I’m not even thinking, not really. It’s a reflex, like licking a burn or picking at a scab.
Just a way to get through the night and prove to myself that I still have some control.
But the instant my fingers find the slick heat between my thighs, I lose the thread.
The sensation is tripled, quadrupled, every nerve ending raw and eager, so sharp it feels like a warning.
I rub through the pulse of my own arousal, each stroke sending electric aftershocks up my spine, and bite down on the pillow to muffle the animal sounds clawing up my throat.
Sweat trickles down my back. My hips buck of their own accord, bucking for friction, for relief.
I try to keep it clinical, transactional, but my body wants, and wants, and wants.
I cum in a blinding rush. My whole body locks up and then shudders apart, but the relief is thin and gone in seconds.
The ache resets, deeper this time, like the baseline is moving farther and farther from satisfaction.
I try again, this time harder, scissoring my legs shut around my hand, grinding against my palm, but it’s like trying to fill a well with a thimble.
The climax rips through me—hot, fast, embarrassing in its violence—and then the next round starts before I’ve even caught my breath.
I lose track of time and count. Nothing but the sound of my own panting and the wet, desperate slap of skin matters.
I arch my back, curl my toes, and grit my teeth so hard I’m afraid I’ll crack a filling.
Each peak is just a prelude to more need, a crueler version of the last. I can’t stop, and I don’t want to stop, and every time I squeeze my eyes shut, I see it: the three of them, watching, waiting, hungry for something I can’t give.
At first, it’s Wyatt’s green eyes, impossibly wide and full of the kind of worry that feels like hope.
His hands, gentle and careful, hovering just above my skin as if he’s afraid to break me.
For a fleeting second, I imagine him kneeling at the foot of the bed, fingers curled tight around my ankle, holding me open and steady while I shake apart.
I gasp. My whole body flares with need, hotter than before.
Then it’s Ranier—always Ranier—standing off to the side, arms crossed, blue eyes hard as diamonds but mouth twitching with the effort of restraint.
I picture him watching, judging, but unable to look away, the scent of his approval thick in the air.
I crave it. I crave him. I want to see him lose control, to know that he could, if I asked, but I never do.
Instead I turn my head, press my face to his hoodie in the nest, and sob as I cum again, the sound strangled and helpless.
The third time, it’s Bastion. Blond hair, brown eyes, that cocky half-smile that makes my stomach knot up.
He’d laugh if he saw me now, spread out and desperate, my thighs shaking, my hand slick and trembling, but I think he’d like it, too.
I think he’d tell me to keep going, to do it again, to do it harder, and I’d obey because I want to make him happy, I want to make all of them happy, even if it means burning myself down to the bone.
I cum and cum until I’m wrung out and sore and feral.
My voice is gone, my throat raw, my chest heaving with the effort of it.
I don’t know if I’m crying or just leaking sweat and slick and everything else, but the sheets are soaked and so am I.
The world goes fuzzy, edges fraying, but my body is still hungry, still opening up around the absence of what I can’t have.
I want them.
I want them more than I want air, more than I want to win the Council’s approval, more than I want to make my parents proud. I want to belong to someone, to be taken and claimed and ruined. I want it so much that it hurts, and the pain is almost better than the pleasure, because at least it’s real.
I reach for Bastion’s hoodie, press it to my face, and inhale deep. The memory of his mouth on mine is enough to tip me over again. This time, I don’t hold back. I let the moan out, wild and unashamed, because nobody is coming for me and I don’t care.
The next orgasm leaves me shaking, spent, but the ache is still there.
I roll onto my stomach, grind against the bed, chasing the edge until my thighs cramp and I have to stop.
The room smells like me, thick and sweet, and I wonder if anyone else in the house can feel it—if they’re lying awake in their own beds, thinking about what it would be like to come here, to claim me, to end this standoff for good.
But nobody comes.
When the sun is just starting to rise, I pull the hoodies tighter, press my hand between my legs, and let myself cry. It’s not sad, exactly. It’s just the release of pressure, the final, absolute surrender to something I can’t control and never really wanted to.
I fall asleep like that, curled in the middle of the nest with sweat drying on my skin.
I dream of hands, of mouths, of all the things I want and will never have.
When I wake up, it’s still there.
And I know I’ll do it all again, as many times as it takes.