16. Sterling
STERLING
I should be exhausted after the week I had—I’d spent the bulk of it trying to forget the overwhelming humiliation of being caught in that alley.
Cass’s hands under my skirt, between my legs, my body unraveling for him. The memory sends a fresh wave of heat through me, my core tightening, awash in embarrassment and need.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it away, because I am never leaving my house again, not after that. I let Cass put his fingers inside me, in public, and give me, I’m embarrassed to admit, the best orgasm I’ve ever had.
And then there is Cass’s dad, the things he said about him—I can’t even imagine what it was like to grow up with that man as your father.
Every time I think about it, I’m filled with rage for Cass. Rage that he had to survive that kind of cruelty. That he still carries it like a weight he can’t put down.
But then I remember how he apologized afterwards. How he tried to pretend like what happened between us was some big mistake.
Like I was a mistake.
And just like that, the rage shifts—burns hot, at Cass.
I try to hold on to it, but my body doesn’t seem to agree. Because despite the embarrassment, despite the utter insanity, despite the fact that Cass is a mess, all I can think about is how it felt. How he felt. How his big hands, rough and demanding, took control.
Fine!
I make another vow—swearing off dick for the rest of my life.
If my hormones are hellbent on dragging me into a mindless, slick-soaked heat, then fine.
They make toys for that sort of thing.
I growl in frustration and get off my couch. The air in my house feels thick, and stifling. I’ve cracked the windows, turned on a fan, even taken a long, cold shower to cool off, but nothing helps.
Ever since Cass, my body’s been lit up like a live wire.
It’s like something snapped inside me, flipped a switch I can’t turn off.
Now my skin feels tight, too sensitive, even the brush and rub of fabric is too much.
I hate the way my clothes cling, the way everything rubs wrong.
I pace my tiny living room, bare feet silent against the worn hardwood floors, trying to shake the restless, clawing energy coiling beneath my skin.
It’s no use.
I spent the entire week hiding from anything even remotely connected to Pack Redgrave. Making awkward excuses at school pick-up. But avoiding them was like trying to hold back a tide with my bare hands—useless.
Everywhere I went this week, I saw them. It’s like suddenly, this town only has four people in it: me and them.
On Monday, it was the bank. I had gone to set up my account, still trying to convince myself that life was normal, that I was fine, totally fine, and completely and utterly over it.
And JP was there, standing at the counter, broad shoulders pulling against his jacket, his big hands texting on his phone while he was waiting for the teller to come back, his dark angular presence mouthwatering.
The second he noticed me, his nostrils flared—and then he turned, slow and deliberate, looking at me over his shoulder.
His eyes flickered—sharp, unreadable. Dangerous.
Then they did a slow, lazy drag—down my body, then back up again—and for a second, just a second, there was this raw, aching longing in them that stole my breath.
But it was gone just as fast as it came. Snuffed out like it never happened.
He stared right through me, face carved from stone, and without a single word—anger etched into every tense line of his body—he turned and marched straight out of the bank.
The teller called after him, waving his receipt, confused.
And I was just…standing there.
He hasn’t given me more than a glance or a handful of clipped words since I met him—at least, not since he saved my life.
And I still have no idea what the hell I did wrong.
Heat crept up my neck, my pulse kicking up for no damn reason. I casually smelled my armpits, wondering what about me offended him so much. He has barely talked to me since we first met.
But for some damn reason, I just want him more and more. It made me suddenly break into tears. Hot, fat tears leaked from my traitorous eyes and I practically tripped over my own feet trying to get out of there, mortified and pissed at my reaction.
Next, it’s the grocery store on Wednesday. I’m mid-aisle, holding a bag of rice, when Cass rounds the corner, pushing a cart with Blake sitting in the front, almost too big for the cart.
The moment Blake sees me, he waves enthusiastically.
“Miss Hart!”
Cass’s gaze snaps to mine—and for a split second, he smiles. That rare, crooked smile. But then he catches himself, shuts it down halfway, leaving behind this awkward, lopsided almost-smirk that somehow makes him even hotter.
He’s in worn jeans and an old t-shirt that fits him obscenely well. His scent—stormy seas and pine after rain—hits me square in the chest. It’s mouthwatering, dizzying. I want to roll in it like a cat in sunshine
And then—of course—my body goes crazy.
My core clenches, heat flaring low and tight as I remember exactly how his fingers felt inside me.
Just the memory is enough to make me slick, right there in the middle of the damn aisle.
“Sterling,” he says, voice low and rough, and it sends another pulse through me, short-circuiting my brain one syllable at a time.
And fuck me—I am not ready for him to know that I’m basically a walking puddle.
Pack Redgrave wasn’t sent here to romance me.
They were sent to torture me.
I give Blake a quick hello; the sweet boy doesn’t deserve to witness this slow-motion meltdown—and take the coward’s way out, mumbling something barely coherent about leaving my headlights on.
Then I do the only logical thing.
I look Cass dead in the eye…and abandon my cart.
Just leave it right there.
Middle of the aisle. Eggs, yogurt, everything.
Who needs food anyway? I can survive on Amazon ramen and mortification forever.
No big deal.
By the time Saturday rolls around, I am a mess. My body is restless in a way that leaves me itchy and frustrated. I’ve been on suppressants since my first heat was supposed to happen, and I’ve never had an issue or a heat since.
This craving for them is new and overwhelming, I don’t have any of the tools to handle it.
I spend most of Saturday pacing my house, adjusting my nest, rearranging blankets that don’t feel quite right. Stripping down to just my underwear and a sports bra, sweating through both.
Trying—failing—to calm the restless energy thrumming under my skin.
I tried everything.
Food. TV. Books. Masturbation.
Nothing worked. At best, it took the edge off. At worst, it just made me more aware of how on fire my body feels.
The doctor warned me this might happen.
Said I’d probably get a week or two of these intense, pre-heat episodes before a full one kicked in. She gave me tips on how to ride them out—hydration, cool baths, scent-soothing fabrics.
Helpful, sure. But nothing prepared me for this.
I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin. Like my nerves are lit up and sparking.
Even my clothes feel like Brillo pads scraping across my body.
Now I’m lying on the floor, flushed and miserable, every fan in the house pointed at me and still sweating like I ran a marathon through hell. I need a distraction. Something normal.
I glance at the clock.
9:30 PM.
Not too late.
So I do what any rational adult in the middle of an impending heat spiral would do?—
I throw on some sweats and a baggy t-shirt, grab my keys, and head to the corner store for ice cream.
Because nothing is more grounding than mint chocolate chip and fluorescent lighting.
When I step into the store, my body practically humming with agitation, I make a beeline for the freezer to grab my ice cream. The freezer door is cool beneath my palm as I yank it open, leaning as far in as I can.
I practically groan at the icy air, heaven on my overheated skin. I sigh, letting my weight shift forward, thinking that maybe no one would notice if I crawled inside.
I’m oblivious to everything but the swirling cold air of the freezer when a voice rumbles behind me. Smooth and alluring.
“You okay there, sweetheart?”
I go rigid, my entire body locking up before I turn around.
I already know who it is. Slowly, I lift my head, turning slightly to glance over my shoulder.
Quinn stands there, hand on the opposite freezer door. His dark eyes flick down my body; I’m practically draping myself over the shelves like I might crawl inside.
My stomach drops. I spent all week studiously avoiding Quinn at pick-ups. Apparently for naught.
“Sterling?” His voice is low and smooth. His brows pinch together the smallest amount, but I know it means he’s worried.
I’ve seen it when we talk about Blake. When did I come to know his expressions?
I force a casual smile, pulling my head out of the freezer, grabbing my pint, because no way in hell I’m forgetting my ice cream. Feigning nonchalance, I walk toward the cashier, even as my pulse skitters. “Hey, Quinn.”
He’s watching me. His dark eyes flick over me, assessing. I know I must look like one big hot mess and the thought makes me self-conscious.
I’m wearing my oldest sweats and an oversized band shirt, which drapes over my curves in a way I don’t think is flattering. My hair is stringy, unwashed, and put up into a messy bun. I'm sure I smell like death and the last time I looked in the mirror, my eyes were nothing but dark circles.
His gaze narrows slightly, like he’s reading something in me I don’t want him to see. “Late-night snack run?” he asks, arching a perfectly shaped dark brow.
“Something like that,” I snap, instantly embarrassed by the rudeness of it, but I’m too off-kilter to voice an apology.
Instead, I lift the pint of ice cream, placing it on the belt, trying to act normal even though I feel anything but. I can feel my Omega move and preen under this Alpha’s stare. I can feel slick start, and I’m half tempted to forget the ice cream just to escape. I’m just too aware of him.
“What did you get up to today?” he asks.