Chapter 10 #2
The dream shifts—his teeth graze the soft curve of my shoulder, right where the bond mark would go. My skin prickles, my heart hammering in my chest as my body gives in, pressing closer, tilting my neck without thought.
It’s not just want—it’s need. A need so deep it’s almost pain.
Somewhere in the fog of it, I think his voice sounds like Beau’s.
That’s when I wake.
My eyes fly open to darkness, my body slick with sweat, the sheets twisted and damp around my legs. My lungs pull in air too quickly, like I’ve been running.
The faint tang of the cedar quilt Norah tucked around me is still there, but under it—stronger, heavier—is me. My own scent, hotter and sweeter than I’ve ever smelled it, fills every breath.
I sit up too fast, the room spinning for a second. My pulse is everywhere—in my throat, between my legs, in the tips of my fingers. I feel raw. Unmoored.
The suppressants should’ve worked by now. I glance at my phone on the nightstand, thumbing it awake.
9:02 p.m.
Not even three hours since I swallowed that Invisira.
“Fuck.” My voice is hoarse, cracked around the edges.
I press the heel of my hand between my thighs, trying to will the ache away. It only makes it worse. The pressure there is constant, insistent, like my body’s already halfway to begging.
I need to do something. To get up, to drink water, to distract myself.
But when I swing my legs off the bed, I catch sight of the shirt draped over the back of the chair in the corner.
Beau’s Henley.
The one he left behind earlier. Dark gray, worn soft from too many washes, faintly rumpled where I folded it without thinking.
Even from here, I can smell it.
My pulse stutters. I tell myself it’s a bad idea. A stupid idea. That this is exactly how the worst decisions of my life have started.
But I’m already moving, stripping out of the thin lounge pants I’d changed into, pulling my tank over my head. The cool air makes me shiver, but the moment my fingers close around that shirt, warmth floods me again.
I bring it to my face.
God. His scent is all over it—woodsmoke, honey, and clean sweat, something darker underneath that’s purely Alpha. It’s not even strong; just enough to slide under my skin and curl around my spine.
I sink to my knees on the floor without meaning to, clutching the fabric in both hands and pressing it hard against my nose and mouth.
My body’s not subtle about its reaction: slick gathers between my thighs, heat licking at the edges of my control. My hips shift, rocking forward, the movement unthinking, desperate.
I should be stronger than this. I should be able to breathe through it. But every inhale feels like drowning in him, and the ache only sharpens.
I crawl back to the bed, the shirt still clutched in my hands, and lie back. The cotton is cool against my fevered skin at first, but then it warms, and I rub it over my stomach, between my thighs, chasing that barest edge of relief.
My scent spikes higher in the room, mixing with his, until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
The suppressants aren’t just failing—they’re mocking me. My body’s in full revolt, every nerve ending screaming for touch. Not gentle touch, not casual affection. The kind that claims. The kind that leaves no room for doubt.
I roll onto my side, curling around the shirt like it’s him, and reach for my phone.
Simon’s name is right there in my recently saved contacts. My thumb hovers over it. He’d know what to do—could even get me more potent suppressants, or an injection to burn this off faster.
But what would happen if I called him now? He’s probably still at the hospital. And I know what Fox Hollow is like.
The wrong person sees him leave for my place at this hour, and I’ll be the headline in tomorrow’s gossip circuit.
I curse under my breath that I didn’t just go to the damn clinic earlier. That I thought I could ride this out.
My thumb scrolls lower until it stops on Beau’s contact.
No. After earlier, after the way I came apart just from having him in my space, I don’t even know what I’d say.
Another curse.
Norah crosses my mind. She’d be here in a heartbeat. But picturing her worried face makes my chest hurt, and the last thing I want is to see disappointment in her eyes.
My thoughts tumble over themselves, slipping toward the only option that makes sense in my fevered brain.
Levi.
He’s a paramedic. If anyone has something on hand—or at least knows what the hell to do—it’s him. And if he doesn’t, he can drive me to the hospital without making it into a public spectacle.
I’m needy enough now that I don’t care if the whole fucking town knows I’m in heat. I just want help.
I press call before I can second-guess it.
The line rings twice before he picks up, his voice cutting through a background of music and laughter. Wherever he is, it’s busy.
“Wren?”
My voice comes out wrecked. “Help me.”
The noise on his end shifts—muffled, like he’s moving, putting distance between himself and the crowd. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow hard, my breath hitching. “I… I need—” The words knot up, too humiliating to say out loud.
But he must hear enough in my tone, because his voice drops into something sharper, focused. “I’ll be right there.”
The call ends, and I’m left staring at my phone in the dim light, my heart pounding so loud I can feel it in my teeth.
I curl back around Beau’s shirt, my body shaking with equal parts relief and need. I don’t know if Levi’s bringing something that will help, or if this is just going to end in another long, fevered night.
But the thought of someone walking through my door soon—someone who won’t judge, who might fix this—keeps me breathing through the sharpest waves of it.