Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sedona
The heat is a living thing. It curls around my ankles, slinks up my calves, and settles in the pit of my stomach like a glowing coal.
I’m walking through the tall grass of the north pasture, but the grass isn’t green. It’s gold, dry and brittle, snapping under my boots. The sun overhead is too big, a white eye staring down unblinking.
I’m looking for something.
I don’t know what. A calf? A way out? The horizon shimmers, warping the line where the earth meets the sky. I turn in a circle.
The ranch is gone. No house. No barn. No fences. Just the endless, rolling gold and the oppressive weight of the sun.
Sedona.
My name is a whisper on the wind. It sounds like my mother’s voice. Or maybe Clara’s. I spin around, trying to find the source.
I’m here, I try to say, but my throat is sealed shut.
My tongue feels heavy, too big for my mouth. I reach up to touch my neck, and my fingers find skin that is burning hot.
Sedona.
It’s a man’s voice now. Deep. Rough like gravel crunching under tires.
Billy.
I start to run. The grass whips at my legs, scratching lines of fire into my skin. I don’t care. I have to find him.
The heat is suffocating, pressing down on my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.
The ground slopes downward. I stumble, sliding on loose dirt. I’m in a ravine now.
The shadows are cool here, a relief against my fevered skin. I crouch by a dried-up creek bed, pressing my palms into the cracked earth.
I need you, I think. The thought is a pulse, beating in time with the throb between my legs. A different kind of heat uncurls in my belly, slick and aching.
It’s confusing. I’m sick. I’m dying. But my body is waking up, responding to the voice in the wind.
A shadow falls over me.
I look up. A figure stands at the top of the ridge.
The sun is behind him, turning him into a silhouette. Broad shoulders. Sturdy stance. The glint of a belt buckle.
He holds out a hand.
Come on, baby, he says. The endearment wraps around me, pulling me up.
I reach for him. Our fingers brush. Sparks fly. Not metaphorical sparks—real, visible arcs of electricity jumping from his skin to mine.
Don’t leave me, I whisper.
Never, he promises.
But as he pulls me up, the ground crumbles. The ravine wall collapses. I fall backward, tumbling into the dark, reaching for the hand that isn’t there anymore.
“Sedona.”
The voice is real this time. It’s not the wind. It’s right next to my ear.
My eyes fly open.
I gasp, sitting up so fast the room spins. A hand clamps onto my shoulder, steadying me.
“Whoa. Easy.”
Billy’s face swims into focus. He is inches away, his blue-gray eyes wide with concern. His brow is furrowed, a deep crease between his eyebrows.
He looks exhausted. He looks terrified.
“You were dreaming,” he says.
I blink, trying to clear the fog from my brain. The dream clings to me like cobwebs. The heat, the grass, the feeling of falling. My heart is still racing, thudding against my ribs.
“What… what time is it?”
“Late afternoon. You’ve been out for a few hours.”
I look around. I’m in the bunkhouse. The bed is damp beneath me. My clothes are stuck to my skin with sweat.
I’m burning up. The fever hasn’t broken. If anything, it’s worse. My head pounds with a dull, rhythmic ache.
I try to swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper.
“Water,” I croak.
Billy reaches over to the nightstand. He grabs a glass and hands it to me. Our fingers brush. The contact sends a jolt through me, sharp and immediate. I pull my hand back, startled.
He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy watching me drink.
I gulp the water down, draining the glass in seconds. It’s cool, but it does nothing to quench the fire in my belly. I hand the glass back.
“Thanks.”
The door opens. Clara rushes in, followed by Maggie Torres who has a stethoscope around her neck. She looks efficient and worried.
“She’s awake,” Clara says, relief flooding her face. She comes to the side of the bed, opposite Billy. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” I admit. “A hot truck.”
Maggie moves to the foot of the bed. She pulls a small flashlight from her pocket. “Let’s check those reflexes.”
Billy stands up. He takes a step back, giving them room. He shoves his hands into his pockets.
“I’ll give you some space,” he says.
He looks at me. There’s something in his eyes, a question, a hesitation.
I want to tell him to stay. I want to ask him to sit on the edge of the bed and hold my hand like he did earlier. But the words are stuck in my throat.
The dream is too fresh. The feeling of his skin on mine is too potent.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He nods once. He turns and walks out the door, closing it softly behind him.
I stare at the wood grain, feeling the loss of him like a physical blow.
“Sedona?” Maggie’s voice cuts through my haze. “Focus on me.”
I turn back to her. She shines the light in my eyes. I wince, the brightness sending a spike of pain through my skull.
“Pupils are dilated,” she murmurs. “Reaction is sluggish.”
She takes my wrist, checking my pulse. Her fingers are cool. She counts silently, staring at the second hand on her watch.
“Heart rate is elevated,” she says. “One-fifteen.”
“That’s high?” Clara asks.
“For someone resting? Yes.” Maggie releases my wrist and pulls a digital thermometer from her bag. She runs it across my forehead.
It beeps.
“One-oh-three,” she reads. She frowns. “The fever isn’t responding to the ibuprofen.”
“I feel… weird,” I say. “It’s not just the fever. I feel…”
I trail off. How do I describe it? The itch under my skin. The restlessness in my legs. The ache that isn’t pain, but something else. Something hungry.
“Where do you hurt?” Maggie asks.
“My head. My joints.” I hesitate. I press a hand to my lower stomach. “My belly feels tight.”
Maggie frowns. She pulls a chair over and sits down, leaning in with her elbows on her knees.
“Sedona, I need to ask you some questions. And I need you to be honest with me.”
“Okay.”
“Have you experienced any unusual discharge? Any cramping that feels different from menstrual cramps?”
I frown. “Discharge? No. The cramping is… it’s low. Deep.”
Maggie nods slowly. She turns to Clara. “Clara, can I see the list of medications you brought for Sedona?”
Clara nods. She goes to the bag on the table and pulls out a ziplock bag filled with pill bottles. She hands it to Maggie.
Maggie examines the labels. She reads them one by one. She frowns.
“These are strong antivirals,” she says. “And immune boosters.”
“My doctor in New York prescribed them,” I say. “For my immune system. I have a history of getting run down.”
Maggie looks at me. She sets the bottles down on the bed. She pulls out a small notebook from her pocket and flips it open.
“Sedona,” she asks, her voice careful, “what form of birth control do you use? Or heat management?”
Clara shifts on her feet. “She gets the injections. Every three months.”
“The hormonal suppressant?” Maggie asks.
“Yes,” Clara confirms. “Omegatrol. It suppresses the ovulation cycle. Keeps the heats regulated.”
Maggie writes something down. Her expression is tight. “When was your last injection?”
“Two months ago,” I say.
Maggie stops writing. She looks up at me. Her eyes are serious.
“Sedona, I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to think carefully. Have you ever missed an injection? Or taken medication that might interfere with it?”
I shake my head. “Never. I’m religious about it. My heats are… difficult. I can’t afford to have one unexpectedly.”
Maggie nods. She taps the pen against the notebook.
“What is it?” I ask. Fear coils in my gut. “What are you thinking?”
Maggie takes a breath. She glances at Clara, then back to me.
“I shouldn’t speculate without a specialist,” she says. “But I’ve seen symptoms like this before.”
“Symptoms like what?”
“High fever. Elevated heart rate. Dilated pupils. Restlessness.” She pauses. “Hypersensitivity to touch.”
My blood runs cold. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Maggie says gently, “that your symptoms mimic the onset of a heat cycle.”
The word hangs in the air.
Heat.
Clara gasps. “What? No. She had her injection. She’s not due for another month.”
Maggie picks up one of the pill bottles from the bed. She holds it up.
“These antivirals,” she says, “they work by ramping up your liver function. They speed up your metabolism to fight off infection.”
She looks at me.
“Do you see where I’m going with this?”
I stare at her. My brain is sluggish, struggling to connect the dots.
“The injections,” Clara says, her voice rising. “The Omegatrol… it’s metabolized through the liver too.”
“Exactly,” Maggie says. “If you’ve been taking these antivirals for a while, or if you started a new course recently, they could be processing the suppressant out of your system faster than intended.”
She sets the bottle down.
“It’s a rare interaction,” she admits. “But it happens. The suppressant levels in your blood drop. Your body thinks it’s time for a heat.”
I sit there, frozen. The implications slam into me.
A heat. Here. In quarantine. Surrounded by Alpha brothers.
“But I’m sick,” I stammer. “I have a parasite.”
“The parasite might be triggering the fever,” Maggie says. “Or the fever might be the heat. Or both. It’s hard to tell without a blood panel specifically for hormone levels. But the clinical picture fits.”
My hands start to shake. I grip the blanket.
“I can’t have a heat,” I whisper. “Not now.”
Maggie puts a hand on my arm. Her touch is grounding.
“I need to call Dr. Thames,” she says. “Or an OB/GYN on staff. We need to verify this.”
“No,” I say. The word is panic-edged.
“Sedona—”
“No doctors,” I insist. “Not yet. Please. I don’t want them… poking at me.”
Clara steps forward. “Maggie, is there a way to know for sure? Without the doctors?”
Maggie sighs. She rubs her forehead.
“I can check her cervix,” she says. “See if it’s dilating. That’s a definitive sign.”
I nod. “Do it.”