Chapter 35
ELI
The bed smells like citrus, sweat, and sex—a smell so thick it clings to the back of my tongue, makes my head swim before I even open my eyes.
Sheets twisted into a rope around my left ankle. My right hand jammed between a stack of pillows and Rowan’s thigh.
My contacts are half-welded to my eyeballs, my mouth tastes like ash, and my pulse still hums from whatever the hell we were doing before gravity decided to suck me under.
There’s a high-pitched, wet sound, muffled but insistent. Not the slick rhythm of movement or a moan, but a shiver—Jess, dreaming or coming down from another spike.
I pivot my head and find her curled on the far edge, knees to her chest, hair plastered to her cheek in black comma-shaped loops.
Her skin’s a few shades darker than usual, flushed everywhere, and if I focus, there’s a tremor in her thigh.
There’s sweat dotting her shoulders like gemstones, reflecting the little red light from Rowan’s fitness watch, which he refuses to take off even in bed.
I let my gaze move from Rowan, sprawl of muscle and limbs, to Cassian, face down and arm draped over Jess’s hip, his hand flexing in sleep as if still holding her in place.
It takes a second for the facts to queue up: we wore her out, but not enough. She’s in the center of a chemical storm that’s only paused to regroup.
I reach over and brush Jess’s temple, pushing the damp hair back. She jerks awake at the contact. For a microsecond, she’s just Jess, stripped down to blood and nerves.
“Eli.” Her voice is shot, sandpaper and static, but she forces it into my name like she’s steadying herself.
“I’m here.” I keep my hand on her, letting her feel the difference between my skin and hers—mine: cool, dry, Beta-neutral. Hers: heatwave.
I slide my palm down the back of her neck, to her shoulder blade, offering comfort.
“Hydration,” I say, just loud enough for her and not the rest of the heap. “You’re burning up.”
Her lips twitch—almost a smile, but mostly pain. “Always taking care of me—of us.”
“If I didn’t, you’d all be eating fast food every day.” I thumb over her clavicle, then risk a glance at the other two.
She sucks in a ragged breath. “It’s starting again, isn’t it?”
“Probably, which is why you need to hydrate.” I thumb her chin until she looks at me. She’s glassy, but not gone.
I want to tell her I’m here, really here, and I’ll hold her through every second of this, but the words stick in my throat. Omegas in heat aren’t themselves. They chase biology, not choice.
When the haze clears, she’ll remember I’m just the Beta. The one without the knot she’s biologically programmed to crave. The one who can’t claim her, can’t mark her, can’t give her body what it’s screaming for.
I’m the guy who brings Gatorade while the Alphas do the real work.
And maybe that should be enough. Maybe I should be grateful just to be here, in the nest, trusted with this.
But god, I want more than grateful. I want to be chosen.
Sure, she might have accepted me before, but we’ve not reached the end of her heat; she could decide she only wants Alphas and their knot.
So I do what I always do—practical, boring, Beta fix-it. I slip out of the tangle, feet hitting the floor, and walk the ten steps to the mini-fridge. I pop two bottles, one water and one Gatorade, and chug both before grabbing two more. My hands are steady, so my brain must still be working.
When I turn, Jess has pulled the comforter over her head, cocooning herself. Only her toes stick out, nails painted gold, twitching like Morse code. I kneel by her nest and lift the edge of the blanket.
“Drink.” I hold out the bottle.
She tries to glare but can’t manage it.
I twist the cap and press it to her lips. She takes three long pulls, then falls back, hand pressed to her chest as if it’s the only thing holding her together.
“Cassian and Rowan?”
“Alive. Probably comatose. If you want, I can draw something on their faces.”
She makes a sound—almost a laugh, then clamps down again. I watch the pulse in her neck, feel the radiating heat from her skin. She’s boiling, but the shivers keep coming.
I brush her hair back again, then stroke the side of her face. “This part sucks. But you’ll ride it out.”
She tips her head into my hand, just a fraction, and that’s more trust than she’d ever admit out loud.
“Stay,” she says, not an order, not even a plea. Just the simple, brutal truth of need.
“Of course.” Then I hand her the Gatorade, pleased that she drinks more than half as I slide back into the nest, wrapping myself around her as best I can, conscious of every muscle twitch, every time she presses her body closer.
The two sleeping bears don’t move. The world outside could be on fire, and none of us would know.
We lay there, breathing together. Jess’s breaths get shorter, hotter, but she doesn’t complain as I help her sip more water, counting the seconds until the next wave.
She won’t say it, but I will: she’s strong, stronger than anyone gives her credit for. But strength doesn’t mean she deserves to suffer alone.
The next spike comes quick, her body arching, teeth finding my shoulder. I hold her through it, thinking how nothing on earth should be able to do this, to someone this alive.
If it gets worse, I’ll call in backup. But for now, I’m not leaving without having her in my arms.
Not when she needs me more than I need sleep.
The heat in the room is getting serious. Not the central air kind, but the sort that seeps into your bone marrow and makes every fabric stick to your skin. Cassian’s snoring is getting louder; even in sleep, he sounds like a threat.
I lie there, counting Jess’s heartbeats through my arm, until her body relaxes.
She’s shivering less, but her forehead is damp, and her hands are shaking when I check her pulse.
I know the stats—Omegas in heat can lose a quarter of their body water in a few hours, and no one could ever accuse Jess of moderation.
I glance at the empty bottles from earlier, then slide out of the nest again, and she whimpers. “Be right back.”
Then I crack open the fridge and stare at its sad contents: two Gatorades (blue and purple, of course), three waters. We need more for her. Why didn’t I check it when we got back from the cabin?
When I circle back, Jess is sitting up, the blanket tented around her head. Her eyes are clearer, and the fever-flush is down by maybe one degree.
“Hey. You look less like death. Improvement?”
“Barely.” She sips, throat working, and I crawl back beside her anyway—because I can’t stay away even when I should.
Really should go get her something more substantial than Gatorade and water, but I can’t bear leaving her right now.
My legs cramp, so I stretch one out, my knee brushing hers. She tugs the blanket over her lap, as if modesty means anything at this stage.
I want to ask if she’s scared. Instead, I say, “If you pass out, I’m drawing a mustache on you. Permanent marker.”
She narrows her eyes. “If I die, I’m haunting you. You’ll never have a silent shower again.”
“Joke’s on you, I don’t shower.” I grin, and finally, finally, she cracks a smile. “It’s bubble baths or bust for this bad boy, Beta.”
She covers her mouth to keep from laughing too loud and waking Cassian and Rowan.
It only lasts a second before her eyes cloud again.
She shivers hard enough to rattle the water bottle.
I take it from her, cap it, and set it down, then lay a hand flat on her back.
She’s burning, hotter than a fever should be, but her skin’s dry now—bad sign.
She pulls her knees up to her chest again, a fortress of bone and stubbornness. I get the sense she’s bracing for the next hit, same as me.
I rub her back, then she turns to me, and her mouth is on mine, desperate and electric. Her teeth nick my lower lip, and I taste blood, salt, and her. The kiss is desperation, but she doesn’t let up, not even when a new sweat breaks out along her brow.
The room shifts—pressure, movement, a shadow crossing the wall. Rowan, up and prowling, muscles tensed like he’s ready to tear through concrete. His eyes lock on Jess, then on me, and I see the flicker of calculation behind the color.
“Let me—” Rowan starts, but he wobbles when he steps forward.
“Not yet. You’re running on fumes, and she needs someone steady.” I press the cold bottle into his hand, my palm still on his chest for a heartbeat longer than necessary, feeling the wild stutter of his pulse.
Rowan stares, jaw working, the muscle there fluttering like a pulse. He wants to argue, but logic wins out. It always does with him. Instead, he turns away and drains the bottle in three gulps. Cassian’s still dead to the world.
Jess goes rigid, then sags, sweat pooling at her collarbone. She reaches for Rowan, fingertips splayed, but her arm trembles so badly I have to support it.
“Listen,” I say, shifting her back against the pillows. “We need calories and more fluids, or you’ll seize up. Rowan—downstairs, in the pantry, behind the rice cooker, there’s an emergency kit with protein bars and shake packs. Bring the basket. Now.”
Rowan doesn’t hesitate. He’s out the door in five steps. The second he’s gone, Jess exhales and collapses sideways, head in my lap. She shakes uncontrollably, and I thread my fingers through her hair, stroking until her breathing slows.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “Should’ve told you. At the Omega Institute, they say some Omegas crash faster on the second day. G-Guess I’m one of the lucky ones.”
I shake my head. “No apologies. You’re killing it.”
She snorts, but the sound is weak. “Not literally, I hope.”
“Not if I can help it.” I run my thumb along the back of her ear. “You ever think about taking it easy? Maybe try meditation, goat yoga, something less…suicidal?”
Her eyes flick up, almost a smile. “Goats are scary, Eli. They eat everything.”