Chapter 25 Savannah
SAVANNAH
I'm stress-eating my third donut of the morning while staring at my phone like it might spontaneously develop the ability to solve all my problems, when the realization hits me like a freight train carrying a cargo of pure panic.
Something's wrong with my cycle.
"Shit," I mutter, nearly choking on glazed donut number three as I frantically scroll through my period tracking app.
The kitchen feels too bright, too cheerful for this kind of biological crisis.
Sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting the chaos of my morning routine: coffee cups scattered across the counter, vendor contracts spread like confetti, and enough sugar-coated evidence of my stress-eating to power a small bakery.
"Shit, shit, shit."
The app is helpfully informing me that everything's completely fucked. My cycle should have started three days ago, but instead of the usual clockwork precision that's defined my adult life, I've got... nothing. Radio silence from my reproductive system.
How did I miss this? I'm the woman who color-codes her grocery lists and plans her outfit choices a week in advance. I don't just "miss" things, especially not things that could derail the most important wedding of my career.
Except, apparently I do when I'm surviving on limited sleep, enough caffeine to power a small aircraft, and a diet that consists primarily of whatever vendors offer me during tastings and whatever takeout places deliver to the venue at midnight.
The stress-eating suddenly makes perfect, horrible sense.
The weird cravings that had me demolishing an entire bag of salt and vinegar chips yesterday while reviewing catering contracts.
The fact that I've been irrationally angry at the florist for having the audacity to suggest baby's breath as filler flowers.
Baby's breath! Like I'm some kind of amateur who doesn't understand that baby's breath is the botanical equivalent of giving up on life.
My suppressants sit in their little white bottle on my bathroom counter, mocking me with their pharmaceutical efficiency.
I've been taking them religiously every morning with my coffee, same routine I've had for years, because that's what you do when you're a professional omega who can't afford biological chaos.
Wait.
I stop mid-chew, donut turning to sawdust in my mouth as my stress-addled brain finally catches up to reality.
I've been claimed. For weeks now. The pale scar on my throat where Logan marked me are proof of that. So why the hell am I still taking suppressants like some unmated omega?
I've been going through the motions. Swallowing pills that do nothing because the routine feels safer than admitting everything's changed. Because acknowledging I don't need them anymore means facing the fact that I'm claimed. Bonded. That Logan's mark did exactly what it was supposed to do.
"Oh my God," I whisper to the empty kitchen. "I'm an idiot."
I grab my phone with shaking hands and speed-dial Dr. Martinez, because if anyone can explain why my newly-claimed brain apparently stopped working the moment wedding stress took over, it's the woman who's been managing my omega health since I moved to Denver.
"Savannah?" Dr. Martinez's voice carries that particular blend of professional concern and barely concealed amusement that means she's been expecting this call. "Let me guess. You're confused about your cycle?"
"How did you..." I start, then shake my head. "Never mind, of course you know. Dr. Martinez, I think I've been doing something really stupid."
"Oh?" Her tone shifts to interested concern.
"I've been taking my suppressants," I blurt out, feeling heat flood my face even though she can't see me. "Every day. Like normal. Even though I've been claimed."
The silence that follows is so loaded with professional judgment that I want to crawl under my kitchen counter and hide.
"Savannah," Dr. Martinez says finally, her voice carefully controlled, "how long have you been claimed?"
"Three weeks," I admit, my voice small with embarrassment. "Three weeks, and I've been popping suppressants every morning like some kind of... of..."
"Like someone who's been under extreme stress and not thinking clearly about major life changes?" she suggests kindly.
"Like an idiot," I correct.
"Stress can absolutely affect decision-making," Dr. Martinez says with the patience of someone who's dealt with panicked omegas before.
"But Savannah, you need to stop taking those immediately.
Suppressants can interfere with the natural bonding process and definitely explain why your cycle is irregular. "
"Stop taking them," I repeat, like she's speaking a foreign language. "Just... stop?"
"Immediately. Your body is trying to sync with your pack's natural rhythms, and you've been essentially drugging yourself to prevent that from happening."
I look at the little white bottle sitting innocently on my counter, suddenly seeing it for what it is: evidence of my complete inability to adjust to having a pack.
"So that's why everything feels so screwed up," I say, more to myself than to her.
"Exactly. Stop the suppressants today, and your body should regulate within a week or so."
"A week," I repeat, my brain doing rapid calculations. "Emma's wedding is next Saturday. So if I stop today..."
"You'll likely go into heat sometime next week," Dr. Martinez confirms. "After the wedding."
I nearly drop my phone with relief. "After the wedding. Not during the reception. Not during the ceremony. After."
"That's right. Your body will need time to clear the synthetic hormones and sync with your alphas' natural cycles."
"Dr. Martinez," I say, my voice thick with gratitude, "I could kiss you right now."
She laughs. "Just promise me you'll start taking better care of yourself. Proper sleep, actual meals, and maybe trust your pack to help you through this transition."
"I promise," I say, whilst mentally rearranging my supplements routine. "Thank you for not making me feel like a complete moron."
"Stress makes us all do things that seem obvious in hindsight," she says gently. "Take care of yourself, Savannah."
I hang up and stare at the suppressant bottle like it's personally offended me. Three weeks of taking medication I didn't need because I was too stressed and scattered to think clearly about my new reality.
But the timing... the timing is actually perfect. Stop taking them today, deal with Emma's wedding, then handle my first claimed heat in private next week when I can focus on figuring out what the hell I'm doing with three alphas who've been nothing but patient with my biological confusion.
I grab the bottle and dump the remaining pills down the garbage disposal, watching them disappear with a satisfaction that borders on therapeutic.
"Sorry, universe," I say to my empty kitchen, grinning despite myself. "I take back every curse I've thrown your way. This is actually going to work."
For once in my chaotic, overstressed life, the timing might actually be perfect. Emma gets her dream wedding without her planner disappearing into heat-induced chaos, and I get to figure out this whole claimed omega thing without an audience of wedding guests.
Thank you, universe, for a plan that's actually going to work.