Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Simon
I’m finishing up with a patient when I catch sight of Becca hovering in the doorway. She’s not usually hesitant—she’s efficient, quick, one of the best nurse practitioners I’ve worked with—so the way she lingers there instantly puts me on edge.
I sign the last chart, offer a standard smile, and provide instructions to my patient, then gesture her in.
“What is it?” I ask.
She clears her throat, lowering her voice. “You’ve got another patient. Wren Aldridge.”
My pen stills mid-motion. My heart gives a sharp, traitorous jolt against my ribs. “What’s wrong?” I manage, keeping my tone as flat as I can.
Becca glances down at her clipboard, running through the notes. “Minor scrapes and bruising. A few abrasions. She could’ve just let me take care of it, but… she specifically asked for you.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. My grip tightens around the pen until the plastic creaks.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I can’t see her here—not like this, not when my control is already hanging by threads.
Becca tilts her head. “Do you want me to—”
“No,” I cut in, sharper than intended. I rub a hand over my face, forcing myself to breathe. “No, I’ll see her. I just… I’ll need a minute.”
She nods and slips out.
The instant the door clicks shut behind her, I press my back against the cool wall of the empty exam room. My pulse is racing, my skin too tight.
I dig into the top drawer of my desk until my fingers close around the small bottle of peppermint oil I keep there.
I uncap it, inhale deeply. The sting fills my sinuses, cuts through the fog.
My body steadies, but only just. Because underneath, a different kind of anticipation is crawling up my spine.
Her. Here.
I shove the bottle back into the drawer, roll my shoulders, and school my features into calm. Professional. Detached.
It lasts right up until I open the door and step into the exam bay where she’s waiting.
She’s sitting on the paper-lined table, swinging her bare legs slightly, and for a second, I forget how to walk.
The sundress she’s wearing is soft cotton, pale with tiny, embroidered flowers, the kind of thing that belongs on a summer postcard. It hugs her body in ways that make my throat go dry, and the neckline dips just enough to remind me of exactly how her skin tasted under my tongue.
Fuck.
She looks up when she hears me, and her mouth curves into a tiny smile. “Hey, Dr. Hale.”
I swallow hard and adjust my glasses, as if they might disguise the stiff line of my posture, the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice coming out low. I clear my throat. “The nurse said you asked for me?”
Her cheeks color faintly. “Yeah. I know it’s probably silly. It’s just some scrapes, and Beau already bandaged me up. But I thought… I don’t know. I wanted you to check.”
God help me. She could’ve let anyone handle this, but she asked for me.
I snap on a pair of gloves, grateful for the excuse to keep my hands busy. “Well,” I say, forcing a small smile, “he was right. You should be checked over properly.”
I move closer, and the scent of her—clean soap, faint flowers, and underneath it that telltale thread of Omega sweetness—slams into me.
My hands hover for a moment before I ease them down to her thigh, rolling the hem of her dress just enough to see the bruise blooming there. The skin is warm under my gloved fingers, tender.
She watches me quietly, her eyes tracking every move. Then, out of nowhere, she says, “Do you regret it?”
My head jerks up. “What?”
Her lashes lower, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “The heat. All of it. Do you regret it?”
For a moment, silence stretches, thick and sharp. My chest feels too tight. “No,” I answer finally, my voice rough.
Her lips part, a rush of breath leaving her. She tilts her chin. “Look at me when you say it.”
I do. And God help me, I let her see the truth in my eyes.
“Do you regret it?” I ask in return.
She shakes her head, quick, certain.
“Good.” The word slips out before I can stop it, quiet but weighted. “Good,” I say again, softer. I clear my throat, force my tone steadier. “I was expecting you to come in for bloodwork. To see if we can figure out why the suppressants failed.”
“I was going to,” she admits. “But… the meds are working again now. And Miss Thea gave me some balm that’s helped too.” She pauses, then adds in almost a whisper, “And she gave me a contraceptive.”
The world tilts. My grip on her leg tightens for a second before I force myself to ease it. Pregnancy. My brain flashes back to every time we came inside her, every time instinct overrode reason.
Heat coils low in my gut, sharp and dangerous.
“That’s good,” I manage, though my collar feels stifling, my coat too heavy. “It doesn’t interfere with your other medication. You did the right thing.”
“Okay,” she says softly.
I focus on cleaning the scrape, but the air between us hums, charged.
She shifts slightly on the table, and then she says, almost shyly, “Can I confess something?”
I glance up. “Of course.”
Her eyes dart to mine, then down again. “I think about you three a lot more than I’d like to.”
My stomach drops, heat exploding through my veins. “Wren,” I rasp, her name scraping out of me.
She bites her lip. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
But I can smell it—the subtle rise of her arousal bleeding into the air, faint but unmistakable. My instincts clamor, pushing against the fragile wall of my control.
“Don’t apologize,” I say. I straighten, needing the space, needing the cool air. My gloves creak as I peel them off. “You’ll bruise for a little while. Nothing serious.”
She nods, her cheeks flushed.
“Since I’m here…” She hesitates, then looks at me with startling directness. “Could you draw my blood now? Maybe you’ll figure out why the suppressants failed in the first place.”
Relief tangles with dread. At least this is something I can cling to—something clinical, something grounded.
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll get a nurse to—”
“Can’t you do it?” she interrupts, her voice softer, her eyes steady.
The air stalls in my lungs.
I shouldn’t do it. Every rational fiber in me says no. She’s asking me directly, and it’s the kind of line I’ve sworn I wouldn’t cross—drawing her blood myself when I’m already half feral for her.
But the way her green eyes hold mine, steady and expectant, makes it impossible to look away. She doesn’t want anyone else touching her right now. She wants me.
“Fine,” I say quietly. My voice scrapes lower than I intend.
I prep the kit with hands that are far too aware of the moment: tourniquet, alcohol swab, needle—all motions ingrained from years of repetition. But my chest is tight, my heartbeat too loud in my ears.
“Relax your arm,” I tell her, my tone deliberately calm. She rests it on the edge of the table, her skin pale against the blue pad I’ve laid out.
I swab the inside of her elbow, the alcohol scent sharp, mixing with the subtler undercurrent of her Omega sweetness. My fingers brush over her skin, finding the vein.
I insert the needle smoothly and precisely, just as I’ve done thousands of times. A flash of red fills the tube, the proof of life I’m so used to collecting—but with her, it feels intimate, too intimate, like I’m holding a piece of her essence.
She watches me. Not the needle, not the blood, but me. Her gaze is steady, heavy, and it makes the back of my neck prickle.
I pull the needle free, tape a small gauze square over the puncture, and set the vial aside. “All done,” I murmur, disposing of the sharps.
She nods, quiet, waiting.
I label the vial, slip it into the small rack to send to the lab later. Then I reach for her chart, forcing myself to focus on the familiar scrawl of notes.
Anything to ground myself. Anything to remember who I’m supposed to be in this room.
But my hand doesn’t move. I stare at the page, pen hovering uselessly, until the words tear out of me before I can stop them.
“I have a confession.”
Her head tilts slightly, hair brushing her shoulder. “What kind of confession?”
I drag in a breath. My throat is tight. “When you were in heat… I took a few pictures. At first, I told myself it was for clinical reasons so that I could study them later. Understand your symptoms, your body’s reaction. But I haven’t been able to open them.”
Her brows knit. “Why not?”
I meet her gaze head-on. “You know why.”
Her lips part, a soft inhale. And then, with more weight than she could understand, she whispers, “Simon.”
The sound of my name on her tongue guts me. My pen clatters uselessly against the desk as I turn to her fully.
“We can’t do this,” I say hoarsely.
“Why not?” She shakes her head, stubborn.
“Because—” I stop, step closer before I can talk myself out of it. “Is this what you even want?”
Her eyes flash. “I’m not clouded by heat now. Am I?”
Fuck.
I close the space, one step at a time, until I’m close enough to breathe her in. I dip my head, scenting along her throat, letting my nose skim the curve where her pulse flutters.
Her smell has shifted—not the fevered desperation of heat, but something warmer, steadier, threaded with the unmistakable spark of arousal.
“I’ve been behaving,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I’ve been doing my best to stay away from all three of you, because I didn’t want to have to pick.”
“We would never ask you to pick,” I murmur against her skin, my lips brushing her pulse.
She leans back enough to meet my eyes, her green gaze lit with something that knocks the breath out of me.
“Yeah,” she says softly, a hint of a smile tugging her mouth. “So, when I tell you I’m a little turned on from seeing Beau earlier, and now you… how does that make you feel?”
“Ravenous.” The word is out before I can stop it, raw and sharp.
Her lips curve. “I don’t know what it is about you three that makes me feel so on edge.”
“Are you on edge now?” I ask, my voice low, dangerous.
“Yes,” she moans, the sound slipping out unguarded.
Shit.
I can’t stop myself. I cross the room to close the door. I suddenly find myself wishing we had locks on these.
When I turn back to her, she’s watching me with wide, hungry eyes. I walk to her, every step heavy, deliberate. And then I’m there, my hands braced on either side of her thighs, my mouth crashing against hers.
The kiss is sloppy, wet, everything I’ve been denying myself. Her lips part instantly, her tongue sliding against mine, desperate and sweet.
I groan into her mouth, cupping her face as she clutches at my coat like she wants to drag me closer, impossibly closer.
It’s stupid, reckless, everything I’ve told myself I’d never do in this building, but I can’t stop.
I break away just long enough to rasp against her mouth, “It’s stupid to do this now. Someone could walk in.”
She parts her legs wider on the exam table, her sundress riding up. “I know,” she breathes. “But you’re supposed to help, and I need help.”
“Your fucking mouth,” I curse, the words raw as I press my forehead against hers.
My hand slides between her thighs, brushing over her panties—damp already, heat radiating through the thin fabric. I bite back another curse, pressing down with my palm, and she arches into it, undulating shamelessly.
“I’m not going to fuck you here,” I grit out, my fingers sliding along the soaked seam of her underwear. “It’s unprofessional, and you know it.”
“I know,” she gasps, rocking against me anyway.
“You’ve got a lot to think about before you decide anything,” I tell her, even as my own composure splinters.
“I know,” she moans, her hips chasing the pressure of my hand.
“But I can’t send you away when you’re in need, right?”
Her eager whimper answers me better than words.
“Be quiet,” I hiss, slipping two fingers under her panties, sinking into the slick heat of her. Her walls clench down, greedy. “Or someone will hear.”
Her nails dig into my coat sleeve. “Fuck me,” she moans, voice breaking.
I curl my fingers, stroking inside her as my thumb grinds her clit, every motion precise, clinical, except for the way my chest is heaving and my cock strains painfully against my trousers.
Her breath comes ragged, her body jerking with each thrust of my fingers, slick dripping down my glove. “Simon,” she gasps, her head tipping back, throat bared.
I bury my face against her neck, scenting her again, letting her pleasure wash over me like a drug. Her heat may have passed, but the bond tug is still there, an echo that claws at me.
“You’re going to kill me,” I mutter against her skin, my pace quickening, desperate despite every warning bell in my head.
And when she clamps down around my fingers with a muffled cry, shuddering against me, I realize I’ve already lost.