15. Emma
Emma
T he package doesn’t arrive.
I wait by my cottage window all morning, watching the delivery truck make its methodical way around the farm, dropping off supplies.
But nothing for cottage number two. Nothing for me.
When the truck finally pulls away, I sink onto my sofa, a hand pressed against my mouth to stifle the sound of distress that wants to escape.
The online pharmacy’s tracking information shows that the package was delayed in transit due to its remote location.
Estimated delivery: tomorrow.
Maybe.
My fingers tremble as I open the orange bottle and shake the last pill into my palm.
It looks small and insignificant, like this tiny white circle between me and potential disaster.
I should save it, a voice in my head argues.
Hold it for when I absolutely need it. But another voice, louder and more insistent, reminds me that withdrawal symptoms from suppressants can be severe.
Going cold turkey could mean not just revealing my omega status but potentially triggering a stress heat—the worst possible scenario.
I swallow the pill with water, then apply two scent patches. For good measure, I apply a third to the inside of my wrist, where the scent gland is less pronounced but still active.
“Just get through today. The package will come tomorrow.”
I send Theo a text: “Feeling under the weather. Working from the cottage today.”
Theo’s response comes almost immediately: “No worries! Rest up. Want me to bring coffee, scones, or soup? Homemade chicken noodle = miracle cure.”
The offer is tempting, but I can’t risk it.
“Thanks, but better not. Might be contagious. Will let you know if I need anything.”
I turn back to my work, but the words swim on the screen, refusing to come into focus.
The dizziness is worsening, a floating sensation that makes me grip the table’s edge for stability even though I’m sitting down.
I should lie down, close my eyes, wait for this to pass.
But the thought of being even more vulnerable makes anxiety spike through me. So I push it down and work.
Work is good. It will distract me.
A knock at the door makes me jump, heart racing painfully in my chest.
“Emma, it’s Theo. I know you’re not feeling well. I’m just leaving this tray outside for you in case you change your mind. Rowan insisted I add some cookies, too.”
I wait until his footsteps fade away before approaching the door. My body feels weak and feverish as I cross the small cottage. When I open the door, I blink in surprise.
It is no simple tray—there’s a feast. A thermos of coffee sits beside a bowl of steaming soup, both nestled in a wicker basket.
A small crystal vase holds wildflowers; I recognize orange and yellow blooms from the farm’s gardens.
Scones are arranged on a plate beside homemade cookies, still slightly warm, judging by the chocolate that glistens on their surface.
A handwritten note leans against the vase.
Feel better. We miss you around the house.
—Theo
And beside all this bounty, neatly folded, sits a stack of extra pillows and the softest-looking blanket—a thick, plush throw in a deep orange.
Warmth radiates from my chest, spreading outward until I feel it in my fingertips. I find myself smiling despite the pounding in my head, despite the fear that’s been my constant companion.
I gather everything quickly, bringing it inside before anyone can see the goofy grin on my face or the moisture gathering in my eyes. The soup smells divine—rich chicken broth with vegetables and tender noodles—and my stomach growls in response, no longer used to the feeling of hunger.
Settling on the sofa, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders. It’s even softer than it looked, enveloping me in warmth that feels like an embrace. I sip the soup slowly, letting it soothe me.
The blanket carries a faint but unmistakable scent of cinnamon. Theo. This is his blanket, from his bed or his room. The realization should make me uncomfortable, but instead, I bury my face in the soft fabric, inhaling deeply.
It’s comforting. Safe.
I try to focus on work as I eat. The farm’s social media accounts are thriving—engagement numbers are climbing steadily, new followers join daily, and local news outlets reach out for feature stories.
I should feel proud of my accomplishments in just a few weeks.
Instead, all I feel is a growing sense of dread.
By midday, I feel worse.
The headache is worse. There is pressure behind my eyes now, and there is a pounding at my temples that makes it hard to focus on the screen. Nausea rolls through me in waves, and my skin feels hypersensitive. The brush of my sweater against my arms is almost painful.
Are these heat symptoms or just anxiety? I don’t know, as I have suppressed all of my previous heats.
Either way, I can’t risk being around the others like this.
I finish half a scone before my eyelids grow heavy. The combination of food, warmth, and the soothing scent lulls me toward sleep. I arrange the pillows; they smell like Rowan and Liam, and I briefly wonder if this is intentional. Then, I curl up beneath the blanket.
Just a short nap, I tell myself, just until the package arrives.