Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Billy
The door clicks shut behind me, and the world narrows down to this one room. I had no idea what I was walking into.
The air is heavy. It presses against my chest, wrapping around my throat. The walls aren’t just painted wood; they are saturated with her.
The scent is everywhere. It’s in the fibers of the rug, the fabric of the curtains, the very oxygen I’m breathing in.
It’s not just the sickness anymore. The smell is subdued, buried under a wave of sweetness. It smells like baking bread and blooming jasmine, cut through with the sharp tang of mineral-rich earth.
It’s the scent of an Omega in distress. An Omega in need.
My Alpha brain screams at me. Find her. Protect her. Breed her.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. I force the instinct down, locking it behind a wall of willpower. I’m not an animal. I’m a man.
I turn to Clara. She’s standing by the small kitchenette, her arms wrapped around her stomach. She looks terrified.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask. My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
Clara flinches. She glances toward the bed, then back to me. “It happened fast.”
“What happened?”
“Maggie talked to Dr. Thames,” she whispers. “He recommended a double dose of heat suppressants. To counteract the interaction with the antivirals.”
“And?”
“They gave them to her an hour ago.” Clara’s voice cracks. “It backfired. Instead of stopping it, the meds just… spiked her fever. Her body is fighting the suppressant and the parasite at the same time.”
I process this. The fever. The scent. The convulsions.
“So we wait?”
“All we can do is cool her off,” Clara says. “Ice baths. Cold cloths. Keep her temperature down until the heat breaks or the meds start working.”
Fuck.
I turn toward the bed.
She is a small shape in the center of the mattress. The sheets are tangled around her legs, twisted into ropes.
She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt—my shirt, I realize, one I must have left here years ago or she stole from somewhere—and a pair of cotton shorts.
She’s sweating.
Her skin glistens in the dim light of the lamp. Her red hair is a dark, matted mess against the pillow. Her chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths.
I walk over. Each step feels like wading through water. The scent gets stronger. It pulls at my gut, a physical hook tugging me forward.
I kneel by the bed. The rug is rough under my knees.
“Sedona,” I say.
Her head turns. Her eyes flutter open. They are glassy, unfocused, burning with a fever that scares the hell out of me.
“Billy?” she rasps.
“I’m here.”
A tear leaks from the corner of her eye. It traces a path down her temple, disappearing into her hairline.
“It hurts,” she whispers. “Everything hurts.”
I reach out. I brush a damp curl from her forehead. Her skin is scorching hot under my fingertips.
“What can I do?” I ask. “Tell me what you need.”
“Cold,” she gasps. “I’m burning up.”
I turn my head. “Clara. Get me cold water. And ice. As much as you can carry.”
Clara nods. She scrambles toward the mini-fridge, knocking a chair over in her haste.
I look back at Sedona. Her face is contorted in pain. Her hands grip the sheet, knuckles white.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” I say. “I don’t care about the quarantine. I don’t care if I have to drive through the damn tape. You need an IV. You need fluids.”
“No,” she gasps. “Can’t. They won’t… they won’t let me back. Can’t leave you.”
“Sedona…”
“Please,” she whimpers. “Don’t make me go.”
Clara returns with a bowl of water and a bucket of ice. She sets them on the nightstand.
“Here,” she says, handing me a washcloth.
I dip the cloth in the water. I wring it out. The water is frigid.
I lean forward and press the cloth to Sedona’s neck.
She shudders. A violent tremor runs through her body. Her back arches off the mattress.
“Cold,” she hisses.
“It’s helping,” I say. I run the cloth down her collarbone, across her shoulders.
I try to be clinical. I try to be a nurse. But touching her is torture. Her skin is damp, slippery. Every inch of her is calling to me.
I move the cloth lower, wiping the sweat from her chest. The T-shirt is soaked through. It clings to her breasts, outlining nipples that are hard and peaked.
I swallow.
I lift the sheet slightly to wipe her legs.
And I freeze.
Her cotton shorts are soaked, but it’s not sweat.
A glistening sheen of moisture coats her thighs. It’s slick, clear, and viscous, and it has soaked through the fabric of her shorts, turning the cotton transparent. It runs down the inside of her legs in rivulets, pooling on the sheet beneath her.
It looks like she has wet herself. But the smell is unmistakable.
It’s slick. Pure, unadulterated Omega slick.
The scent hits me like a sledgehammer. It’s potent, concentrated. It bypasses my nose and goes straight to my cock.
My pants tighten instantly. My mouth waters. My teeth ache, the canines throbbing with the urge to bite.
I close my eyes. I grip the edge of the mattress.
Control. I need control.
“What is it?” Clara asks from behind me. She can’t see what I see.
“Nothing,” I choke out. “She’s… she’s sweating a lot.”
I dip the cloth back in the water, my hands shaking. I have to clean her up. I have to make her comfortable.
I reach for the hem of her shorts and hesitate.
“Sedona,” I say. “I need to clean you up. Okay?”
She doesn’t answer. She just whimpers, turning her face into the pillow.
I take a breath. I pull the shorts down.
I try not to look. I try to be a doctor. But I see everything. The smooth skin of her hips. The patch of red curls between her legs.
The wetness glistening on her thighs.
I wipe the slick away with the wet cloth. The cool water makes her gasp. Her legs fall open, an instinctual invitation.
Her body is presenting, even in her fever state.
Take her, my instincts roar. Mount her. Fill her.
I bite the inside of my cheek. The copper taste of blood fills my mouth. It grounds me.
I finish cleaning her legs, grab a towel, and slide it under her hips.
I try to ignore the hardness in my jeans. I try to ignore the throbbing ache in my teeth.
“How long has she been like this?” I ask Clara. My voice sounds wrecked.
“An hour,” she says. “Maybe two. The fever spiked right after the injection.”
I nod and stand up. My knees pop.
I turn to Clara. “You need to go.”
Clara blinks. “What?”
“Go to the main house,” I say. “Eat something. Rest for a little bit. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“I can’t leave her,” Clara insists. “Billy, she’s my best friend. She’s scared.”
“I know,” I say. “But you can’t help her right now. You’re exhausted. And if you stay…”
I trail off. I don’t need to explain. If she stays, she witnesses this. She sees the Alpha and the Omega in the room. She sees the war I’m losing.
“I will take care of her,” I promise. “I won’t leave her side.”
Clara looks at me. She searches my face. She sees the sweat on my brow, the tension in my shoulders. She sees the restraint I’m holding onto by a thread.
“Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Take your time,” I say. “Drink some coffee. Talk to Seth.”
She nods. She grabs her jacket and slips out the door.
The lock clicks.
We’re alone.
I stand there for a moment. The silence of the room is broken only by Sedona’s harsh breathing.
I turn back to the bed. She’s thrashing now, her head tossing from side to side.
“Billy,” she moans. “Don’t go.”
I walk back to the bed and sit on the edge. The mattress dips under my weight.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
I reach out to brush her hair back again. She grabs my hand. Her grip is surprisingly strong.
She pulls my hand to her cheek. She nuzzles into my palm. Her tongue darts out, licking the pad of my thumb.
A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. My cock twitches.
“You don’t have to stay,” she whimpers. Her eyes are open now, big and green and swimming with fever. “I know you hate me. You shouldn’t see me like this.”
“I don’t hate you,” I say. It’s the truth. I hate what she did. I hate that she left. But I don’t hate her. I could never hate her.
“It’s disgusting,” she whispers. “I can’t stop it. My body…”
“Don’t say that,” I say. “It’s not disgusting.”
She pulls on my hand. She wants me closer.
I lean down. I press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin burns my lips.
“Billy,” she breathes.
And then she pulls me down.
She captures my lips with hers. It’s messy and fevered. She tastes like salt and heat. She parts her lips, her tongue seeking mine.
I groan. I can’t help it. I kiss her back. For a second, I let myself drown in it. In the taste of her. In the feeling of her hands fisting in my shirt.
But then reality snaps back.
I pull back. I break the kiss.
“We shouldn’t,” I rasp. “You’re sick. You’re not in your right mind.”
Her eyes are wide. They are filled with a fear that has nothing to do with the fever.
“Please,” she whispers. “I’m so empty. It hurts, Billy. It aches. I need…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.
I know what she needs. I’ve seen that look before. Her body is screaming for a knot. It’s screaming for an Alpha to fill the hollow space inside her.
The memory hits me like a wave.
She’s curled up on the floor of her bedroom, a heating pad clutched to her stomach.
The cramps are so bad she can’t walk. I drove in the middle of the night to get to her. I snuck in, and now I’m confused by the state that I find her in.
She’s on the floor. She looks terrified.
“Make it stop,” she begs. I hold her hand. I brush her hair. I talk her through it. I tell her she’s strong. I tell her she’s beautiful.
I don’t leave her side. I feed her ice chips. I change her sheets. I’m the one who holds the bucket when she gets sick. I’m the one she trusts.
I look at her now. The same fear. The same pain.
But this time, I know what to do.
“I can help,” I say. “If you want me to.”
She stares at me. Her chest heaves. “How?”
“I can take the edge off,” I say. “I can make the ache stop for a little while.”
I slide my hand down her stomach. My fingers brush the edge of the towel.
She freezes.
“Just to help,” I murmur.
She nods. A tiny, jerky movement.
I move my hand lower.
My fingers find the source of the heat. She’s soaked. The slick is copious, coating my fingers instantly. She’s swollen, puffy with need.
I slide one finger inside her.
She gasps. Her hips jerk up.
“Oh god,” she breathes.
“You’re so tight,” I mutter.
I curl my finger, finding that spot inside her. The spot that will make the cramps stop.
She whimpers. Her hands fist the sheets.
I add a second finger. I pump them in and out, scissoring them, stretching her.
She moans. It’s a sound of pure relief.
“Does that feel better?” I ask.
“Yes,” she gasps. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
I don’t stop.
I move my hand faster. I can feel her walls clenching around my fingers. I can feel the slick dripping down my wrist.
I need to taste her.
I settle between her thighs. The scent is overwhelming here. It’s intoxicating.
I drag my tongue flat against her slit, and she screams.
It’s a broken, ragged sound. Her hands fly to my hair, tangling in the strands. “Billy!”
I feast on her. I lap up the slick. I suck on the swollen bundle of nerves. I fuck her with my tongue.
She’s writhing beneath me. Her thighs clamp around my head. She’s riding my face, chasing the pleasure.
I can feel the orgasm building in her. Her muscles are trembling. Her breath is coming in short, sharp pants.
“Come for me, baby,” I growl against her skin. “Let go.”
She shatters.
Her back bows off the bed. A wail tears from her throat. Her walls clench around my fingers, rhythmic pulses that pull me deeper.
I work her through it. I ease the pressure. I kiss the inside of her thigh.
When the tremors stop, she collapses back onto the pillow.
She is crying. Silent tears run down her face. But she looks relieved. The pain in her eyes has faded, replaced by a drowsy exhaustion.
I sit up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My jaw is wet with her.
I reach for the towel and clean her up again.
She watches me, her eyes heavy. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I nod. I can’t speak. My cock is throbbing in my jeans.
I lie down next to her. I don’t get under the covers; I just pull her into my arms.
She curls into me, fitting perfectly against my chest. Her head rests under my chin.
I press my hips forward, letting her feel the hard ridge of my erection against her hip.
“It was my pleasure,” I murmur against her hair.
She huffs a laugh. It’s weak, but it’s there.
We lie there in the quiet. The fever is still there, burning under her skin, but the desperate edge is gone. The heat has receded for now.
She’s quiet for a moment.
“I wish I had married you,” she whispers.
My hand stills in her hair. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wasn’t ready,” she says. The honesty cuts deep. “If we had married then… we would have divorced within a year. I would have resented you. I would have resented the ranch. I would have resented being a wife before I was a woman.”
She tilts her head back. Her eyes meet mine.
“I loved you,” she says. “I loved you so much it terrified me. But I was twenty-three. I didn’t know who I was. If I had stayed, I would have destroyed us anyway.”
I swallow. The truth hurts, but it also heals.
“You broke my heart,” I say.
“I know.”
“But you found yourself.”
“I did.” She touches my cheek. “And I came back.”
“Why?”
“Because this is where I belong,” she says.
I look at her. The tears have dried on her face. The fever is breaking. She looks tired. She looks beautiful.
“You don’t belong to me,” I say. “You’re your own person.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But can I borrow your chest for a little while longer?”
I pull her tighter.
“Yeah,” I say. “You can borrow it.”
Smiling, I let sleep drag us both under.