16. Liam
Liam
M aple won’t stop bleating.
I’ve tried everything for the past hour: fresh hay, apple slices, and even the carrots she usually goes crazy for. Nothing works. She keeps pacing in agitated circles, trotting toward Emma’s cottage, then back to me with a look that says I’m the dumbest alpha who ever lived.
“What is it, girl?” I crouch to her level, scratching behind her ears where she usually loves it. She butts my hand away with enough force that I nearly lose my balance, then trots a few deliberate steps toward Emma’s cottage before looking back at me with what I swear is impatience.
“I miss her too,” I tell Maple. “But we need to let her rest.”
This time, Maple bleats again, stomping one small hoof against the ground.
“Alright,” I mutter, straightening up and brushing dirt from my jeans. “Let’s go check on her.”
Maple doesn’t wait for me, already trotting ahead with purpose. I lengthen my stride to keep up, trying to ignore the knot of worry in my gut.
As we approach the cottage, I spot the empty basket outside her door—Theo’s care package from earlier. At least she’d eaten something.
That’s good.
I knock firmly on the wooden door. “Emma? It’s Liam. Just checking if you need anything.”
No response. The cottage is silent except for the faint whistling of the wind through the trees nearby. I knock again, louder this time.
“Emma?”
Maple paws at the door, her small hooves scratching against the wood as she bleats urgently. Her ears are flattened against her head, a sign of distress I’ve rarely seen in her.
That’s when I hear it, a low moan from inside, followed by incoherent mumbling. The sound raises every hair on the back of my neck.
My heart rate spikes, pounding against my ribs. “Emma?” I call again, pressing my ear to the door. “I’m coming in, okay?”
I try the handle. Locked. Of course it’s locked.
Fuck it. I retrieve the master key; my mind races as I return and slide the key into the lock.
As I push the door open, her scent hits me: apple pie, but somehow wrong.
Too sharp, too hot. Fevered.
The sweetness is there, but twisted with something sour, something that makes my alpha instincts scream danger rather than desire.
Our mate is in distress.
Underneath that intoxicating sweetness is the sour note of pain, of something fundamentally wrong.
It’s somehow mirrored in my body, a dull ache settling into my joints, a heaviness in my chest that wasn’t there moments ago.
“Emma?” I step inside.
The cottage is dim, and the air feels too warm and stifling. She’s in bed, tangled in sheets and Theo’s orange blanket. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, and her cheeks are flushed an alarming red. She tosses restlessly, murmuring words I can’t make out.
“Shit,” I breathe.
She’s burning up. Sweat soaks through her t-shirt, and her breathing comes in short, labored gasps.
I crouch beside the bed, careful not to touch her. “Emma, can you hear me?”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy with fever. They roam the room before finally settling on my face. “L-Liam?” Her voice is a dry rasp, barely audible.
“Yes, it’s me,” I confirm, keeping my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest. “What happened? What can I do?”
She’s mumbling something about packages and pills. Her hand flutters weakly toward her neck, where I now notice not one but two scent patches, slightly overlapping.
“I’m going to help you,” I promise, gently brushing damp hair from her forehead. Her skin nearly burns my fingertips. “But I need to know what you’ve been taking.
On her nightstand, I spot an empty orange prescription bottle. Picking it up, I read the label: maximum-strength omega suppressants. The recommended dose is one daily, but the bottle was filled recently and is now empty.
“Emma, how many of these are you taking?” I ask as I read the labels’ warnings. Potential side effects include nausea and dizziness, but at a regular dose.
This looks like an overdose.
Emma moans, turning her head restlessly on the pillow. Her eyes roll back, and a tremor runs through her body.
“I’m calling a doctor,” I tell her.
“No,” she whispers, “No doctors… he’ll find me.”
“Who will find you, Emma?” I ask gently, but she’s fading again, and her eyes flutter closed.
I step away to make the call, my fingers shaking as I dial. Dr. Mitchell has been the farm’s doctor for years—an older beta who values privacy and has helped us through everything.
He answers on the third ring. “Liam? Everything alright?”
“Medical emergency at Harvest Home,” I say without preamble. “Omega, might be a suppressant overdose. High fever, disorientation. And I need your complete discretion.”
There’s a brief pause, then: “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he responds, no questions asked. “Cool compresses until I arrive. No ice bath—it could shock her system. Is she conscious?”
“Barely. In and out.”
“Keep her alert. Talk to her. I’m on my way.”
I hang up and immediately send a group text to Rowan and Theo:
“Emma, seriously ill. Suppressant overdose + possible reaction. Dr. Mitchell coming. Meet at her cottage.”
I return to Emma, who’s shivering violently despite the sweat beading on her skin. I grab a washcloth from her bathroom, soak it in cool water, and gently place it on her forehead. She whimpers at the contact, turning her face toward me.
“Help is coming,” I murmur, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to be okay.”
Maple has somehow made her way onto the bed, curling protectively against Emma’s side. I should shoo her away, but her presence seems to calm Emma, so I let her stay.
Even the goat knows this is our mate.
“Stay with me. Just stay with me, Emma.”
Her eyes flutter open again. “Please,” she whispers, her eyes still unfocused. “Alpha…”
My heart hammers against my ribs as she pulls me closer. Every protective instinct I possess roars to life, drowning out the voice of reason.
When I hesitate, she whimpers, a sound of distress so potent it nearly undoes me.
My mate is hurting.
I carefully lie beside her on the bed, and she immediately closes the gap, pressing herself against my chest with a feverish sigh. Her body is burning up, radiating heat through her sweat-soaked clothes.
My instincts take over, and a deep rumble begins in my chest. The sound emerges as a soft, soothing purr, something I haven’t done since I was a young alpha comforting my little sister after nightmares.
Emma responds almost instantly. Her rigid muscles begin to relax, and her breathing slows slightly as the vibrations of my purr travel through both our bodies. I hold her, continuing the steady, rhythmic sound that seems to reach her even through the fever.
“Shh,” I murmur against her hair as the purr grows louder. “I’ve got you.”
She nuzzles closer, her face pressing into the crook of my neck.
“That’s it,” I whisper, continuing to purr as I stroke her damp hair. “You’re safe now.”