Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Levi
The dart hits just outside the bullseye, quivering in the cork. Simon exhales through his nose, squinting at it like he can will it inward.
“Who was that?” he asks, not looking at me as he lines up another shot.
“Wren,” I say, already watching Beau out of the corner of my eye. He’s been moody all damn evening, nursing a beer like it’s done him personal harm.
Simon glances over at him, too. “That so?”
Beau doesn’t answer, just takes another long pull from the bottle. His jaw’s tight. He’s been like this since I walked into the tavern.
“What the hell’s going on?” I ask finally, setting my own dart down.
Simon’s throw lands just under the bull. “Beau saw her earlier,” he says casually—too casually. “Called me about it. I sent her some Invisira.”
The words land heavily. My head snaps toward him. “You think this is her reacting to it?”
Simon just lifts a shoulder, but I can see it in his eyes. He’s running the possibilities.
“I don’t care what it is,” I say, already pushing away from the bar.
Simon sighs. “Let me clear the bill with Mick, and we’ll all go. I’ll meet you outside.”
I don’t need telling twice. Neither does Beau, apparently, because he’s right there behind me, moving quickly.
Once we’re in the car, the heater kicking on against the cold, Beau speaks for the first time all night.
“There’s something I never told you,” he says, eyes fixed on the windshield like it’s safer than looking at either of us.
Simon’s buckling his seatbelt. “Now’s the time, then.”
Beau’s jaw works. “When I was over there earlier… I scented her. And made her come.”
The air in the car changes.
“You what?” I say, leaning forward so I can see his face.
“It wasn’t planned,” he says quickly. “It just—she was in bad shape, and it took me by surprise. All of it did.”
Simon’s frowning now, deep enough to put lines in his forehead. “And you didn’t think to mention this until now?”
Beau’s hand tightens on his knee. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you drop over a beer.”
I bite back a curse. “Simon, any medical insight on why this is happening?”
He exhales. “A change in suppressants can sometimes mess with the heat cycle instead of suppressing it—ramps up symptoms, prolongs them. Can spike a fever. But we need to see her before we guess.”
“How was she sounding when she called?” Beau asks me.
“Not great,” I admit. “Barely coherent. Breathless. Like she was… yeah. Not good.”
“Fuck,” Beau mutters.
The rest of the drive is silent except for the hum of the tires on wet pavement. My mind’s moving too fast—medical possibilities, worst-case scenarios, and the way my gut’s knotted with something that’s not purely professional.
We pull up outside the café. No lights in the downstairs windows, but Beau’s out of the truck before Simon’s even in park. I follow.
The door’s locked, but Beau’s got some way of getting it open—one quick flick and we’re inside. The place smells faintly of sawdust and fresh paint, but underneath that…
Oh man.
It’s her. Her scent hits like a physical thing—sweet, molten, Omega—threaded through with desperation. My body reacts before my brain can stop it, heat curling low in my spine.
Without thinking, we all move toward the stairs.
Upstairs, the bedroom door’s ajar.
She’s in bed.
And for a second, none of us moves.
She’s naked except for a dark gray Henley I recognize instantly—Beau’s—and it’s plastered to her skin with sweat. The fabric’s darker in spots, damp with… not sweat.
Her hair’s a wild halo on the pillow, skin flushed high with fever, nipples flushed pink and tight. The scent of her heat hits me like a punch to the gut—sweet, sharp, dizzying.
“You came,” she whispers, her voice wrecked.
Simon lets out a low whistle. “Well. That answers the question about whether the Invisira worked.”
They step into the room while I stay rooted to the doorway. My body’s already reacting, every nerve ending lit up and tuned to her.
“How are you feeling?” Simon asks, his tone still professional but softer now.
Her gaze flicks between us. “Like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.”
Nobody moves for a beat. The air’s too thick with pheromones, our Alpha instincts scraping against the edges of control. I can see the fine tremor in her hands, the rise and fall of her chest. The tight peaks of her nipples. The soft curve of her stomach.
Simon clears his throat. “We can try another dose of Invisira—”
She shakes her head, fast. “No.”
“An IV, then,” he suggests.
“I think I can get some from…” I start to say, but she cuts me off.
“Don’t go,” she says, and it’s not a request. Her pupils are wide, her voice wrecked.
Beau shifts, pressing a hand low against his own abdomen, and I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s trying to keep himself in check.
“Fuck!” And then she moves—rolling slightly onto her stomach, tilting her hips just enough that it’s impossible to mistake what she’s offering. Presenting.
Every muscle in my body locks. I’ve seen Omegas present before, but this is Wren. Her thighs part a little, her hand sliding between them, circling her clit in slow, wet strokes. The sound of it makes my teeth grind. I hear Simon’s sharp inhale, Beau’s muttered curse.
“If I can come, it’ll feel better,” she pants. “I need to feel better.”
The way she’s moving—small, desperate rolls of her hips—makes it hard to think straight.
“Eating her out would help,” I hear myself say, my voice rougher than I intend.
I hear one of us groan—it might be me.
I kneel on the bed beside her, brushing my fingers over the damp curve of her back. “You need to concentrate, Wren,” I tell her, my voice low but steady. “Say what you want. Who do you want to help?”
“I don’t fucking care,” she whimpers, eyes glassy. “Someone do something.”
For a second, no one moves. Then Simon mutters, “Fuck it,” and sets his glasses on the nightstand. He kneels on the bed behind her, his hands firm on her hips as he lowers his mouth.
Her gasp is sharp, breaking into a sound that’s halfway between shock and pure relief.
I move closer without thinking, taking her hand in mine. “It’s okay,” I tell her quietly. “We’ve got you.”
She nods, quick and jerky, her breath catching as Simon works her over. Her fingers squeeze mine, her scent spiking higher with every pass of his tongue.
I don’t know how long I stand there, holding her hand, keeping my voice low in her ear while her body arches and shudders. The room feels smaller, hotter, and the edges of control are blurring for all of us.
And even though I know this is a line we can’t uncross, part of me is already past it—caught up in the pull of her scent, the sound of her voice when she moans, the way her body responds like she’s been waiting for this all along.
Her body’s a live wire under my palm, every breath shuddering through her like it’s dragged from somewhere deep and primal. Each exhale is hot against my skin, each inhale threaded with the tremor of an Omega barely hanging on to the edge of herself.
Simon doesn’t come up for air until she’s gasping—not just a little breathless, but chest-heaving, lashes clumped from sweat.
When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is slick, his lips parted, pupils blown so wide I can barely see the ring of color around them. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but it does nothing to hide the hunger in his expression.
I’m not much better. My jeans feel like they’ve turned to steel, every nerve from my hips down locked tight and aching—my body reacting whether I give it permission or not.
The room feels small, the air thick and stifling with her scent. Sweet. Ripe. Heat-drunk and so potent it clings to the inside of my lungs until every breath feels like a hit I can’t stop taking.
Beau mutters a curse under his breath, low and rough like gravel grinding together. “My turn.”
He doesn’t wait for agreement—we’re all past the point of asking permission for every little move. One of his big, callused hands slides along her thigh, spreading over the pale skin as he shifts her onto her back.
She goes easily, pliant and flushed, head tipping so that the wild spill of her hair fans over the pillow. Her gaze flickers between all three of us—restless, searching—like she can’t decide which one to pull closer.
“Look at me,” I tell her, my voice coming out darker, rougher than I meant. It’s not a request.
Her eyes snap to mine instantly. The effect is immediate—the noise in my head dulls, the heat sharpens, and it’s just her. Every detail is magnified.
The fine tremor in her limbs. The elegant line of her collarbone, the fever-flushed skin between her breasts. The pale column of her throat, pulse flickering fast beneath skin that’s too warm, too soft.
The kiss happens before I think about it. One second, I’m locked in those heat-bright eyes, and the next my mouth is on hers—hot, deep, and greedy, like I’ve been holding my breath for hours and she’s the only thing that can fill my lungs.
She tastes fevered and desperate, like the edge of surrender. When she makes a sound—low, helpless, almost pained—my hand tightens at the back of her neck, holding her still so I can drink more of her in.
Somewhere below us, Beau’s shoulders shift, his head ducking as he works her over with single-minded focus.
Her hips twitch under his touch, small jerks she can’t suppress, and when Simon leans over to roll her nipples between his fingers, the jolt that runs through her is so sharp I have to break the kiss to remember how to breathe.
I let my knuckles brush down the side of her throat, over the rapid flutter of her pulse, my touch light enough to feel the delicate thrum under my skin. She’s panting now, mouth open, lips wet, every breath a rush of heat against me. Fever radiates off her in waves.
“You need to come?” I murmur, so close my words brush her lips.
“Yes.” It’s a broken sound—part sob, part plea.