Chapter Nineteen
Rhea
I think I’m dreaming again.
Or hallucinating.
Because I’m on my knees. Again.
Sweaty, panting, sticky in places I didn’t even know had sweat glands. And in the dream - or vision, or heat-induced delusion - there are hands.
So. Many. Hands.
Theo’s warm against my hips. Kai’s mouth dragging up my thighs. Ash’s grip bruising my waist like a command. And Lucian… god, Lucian … watching like he wants to ruin me and then draft a six-part war strategy on how to do it better next time.
And me?
I break.
Over and over.
Like a trashy paperback heroine, but significantly more feral.
I wake with a gasp.
Everything is wet. Again. The sheets. My thighs.
My dignity.
I sit up slowly, hair plastered to my face, body aching in that congrats, you survived round seven kind of way. I look around the room like maybe the walls are going to offer moral support, but nope.
Still pristine. Still sterile.
Still screaming chic medical prison and not cozy omega nest .
I drag myself to the bathroom. Strip. Stumble into the shower. The water is either boiling lava or arctic tundra - no in-between - but I let it hit me anyway.
I brace both hands against the tile and groan like an old radiator.
“God,” I whisper. “I can’t - ”
And then I grab the nozzle.
So. It’s come to this.
We’re officially in handheld-showerhead-on-the-floor territory.
Classy.
I angle the water, press it to my clit, and let the first jolt hit.
My whole body seizes.
My knees actually knock together like a cartoon character.
I grab Ash’s shirt off the towel rack and press it to my face like it’s holy scripture. I grind the nozzle against me harder, panting like a dog in a desert.
And still - it’s not enough. Not like before. Not like when Theo held me or Lucian whispered filth through steel.
I finish - not really - but stumble out of the shower like a war survivor. I throw Ash’s shirt over my chest and collapse back onto the bed like I’m auditioning for a Greek tragedy.
Hair dripping. Skin flushed. Heat crawling up my spine like it’s trying to make a nest in my lungs.
I curl up and clutch the shirt to my chest. My slick’s already soaked through the sheets. Again.
And all I can think is how Lexi’s going to kill me.
Because she warned me. She threatened me. She made me swear that I wouldn’t fall for any alpha bullshit, that I wouldn’t let them touch me.
I more or less telepathically promised her that I wouldn’t look at Lucian Vale like he was anything other than a capitalist fever dream in a three-piece suit -
And now look at me.
Here I am, slicked up, swaddled in Alpha laundry, and seriously considering opening the door and asking one of them- any of them - to please , for the love of sanity, come hold me down until I stop vibrating.
Even the OMB wouldn’t make me do this alone, and they’re sociopaths with clipboards. If they found me like this, they’d at least assign someone. Maybe even a nice, heavily sedated alpha with clean nails and a firm grasp of aftercare. They’d be monsters, but not this kind of monster.
So why am I trying to be one?
Why am I doing this martyr shit?
For what? Feminist street cred? A merit badge in unnecessary suffering?
I’m not built for this. I’m built for iced coffee and soft blankets and telling my problems to Lexi until she solves them with passive-aggressive emails and well-timed violence.
I am not built to ride out a full-blown omega heat on self-sufficiency and stubborn pride.
I need help.
I need someone.
I think of Theo - his lap, his hands, the way he held me like I was breakable but wanted.
Of how the ache eased. Just a little.
Of how I felt safe, for the first time in what felt like years.
That’s all I want. Contact. Pressure. Comfort.
A knock startles me.
“Rhea?”
I lurch upright, heart pounding, voice catching in my throat.
“Just checking in. You okay?”
I shoot up like I’ve been electrocuted, stumbling to the door, forehead pressed to the steel.
“Ash,” I gasp out. “Please. I can’t - I can’t do this alone anymore.”
A pause.
He clearly wasn't expecting that.
“You’re in the worst of it,” he says, his voice tight now, more strained. “We know. But I can’t -”
“I’m not asking you to fuck me,” I snap. “I just - I need someone. Just to hold me. Just to be here. Just to breathe near me so I remember I exist.”
“That’s biology talking.”
“No, that’s exhaustion talking. That’s I’ve-been-in-hormonal-hell-for-days-and-my-uterus-is-trying-to-secede talking.”
He doesn’t reply.
“I’m not delirious,” I press. “I’m desperate . There’s a difference. And I don’t care who it is - just someone . I’ll take Lucian’s cold indifference, Theo’s reverent panic, Kai’s chaotic nipple commentary - hell, I’d take Lexi yelling at me through the wall if it meant I wasn’t alone anymore.”
I hear him exhale hard on the other side. “If I come in there, sweetheart…”
His voice is tight.
“Then don’t touch me,” I whisper. “Just sit. Let me curl in your lap. Let me pretend for a second that I’m not alone. Let me feel you, let me breathe you. I won’t ask for more. I won’t push . Just - please. ”
“Rhea...”
“And if you still won’t come in,” I say, broken
now , “then go get the others. I don’t care. Just don’t leave me here like this. Not again. I’m asking, not begging. Asking. ”
His voice drop s .
“You really want this?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Let me choose. Please .”
The silence sharpens - and then -
The sound of retreating footsteps.
He’s going to get them.
And I don’t care if I’m slick and shaking and half-dressed in someone else’s shirt - I’m ready.
I need this. I want this.
I want them.
And when that door opens, I’ll be ready.