Epilogue Haze of Desire
~WENDOLYN~
My skin is on fire.
Literally, actually on fire. Not in the tragic-inferno way, but in a sticky, desperate, frantic kind of way that makes me want to claw every stitch of clothing off and crawl into the freezer. Or crawl into the lap of any Alpha in the vicinity and beg for relief.
But that's not what I'm doing. I'm sitting in a folding chair in Station Fahrenheit's temporary conference room, sweat-slick and trembling, while everyone else pretends this is just another ordinary morning.
Which is ridiculous. Nothing is ordinary about today.
The station is—was—still smoldering. Half the town reeked of wet ash and heartbreak. Our temporary HQ is a single-wide with zero airflow, every window taped against the autumn wind and not a single working fan to move the swampy heat that clings to my skin and ruins my focus.
The meeting starts with a bang—literally, Bear accidentally smacks his head on a cupboard getting the donuts—but the agenda is supposed to be about rebuilding logistics. Aidric at the head of the table, me to his right, every rookie and veteran packed tight.
I can't focus.
Words are noise, air is liquid, my vision tunnels and blurs as I try to track itemized supply orders.
My uniform clings—nylon glued to every curve, heat dragging sweat down my back, pooling between my thighs.
Prickles of static shoot up my arms every time I try to shift in the seat.
Fuck, even the texture of the fabric is agony.
I have a sudden, violent urge to strip naked and roll around on the scratchy carpet just to get some relief.
My fingers tremble as I try to take notes. The pen slips. I drop it—twice—before giving up and bracing my hands under the table, white-knuckled.
My scent is changing. I know it. Vanilla and smoke, but now sharper, wildflower whipped into something urgent and sharp.
And every damn Alpha in the room knows it, whether they admit it or not.
They're not looking at me, but every pair of eyes flickers my way. Even Dax, who normally can't pay attention for more than twenty seconds, keeps sneaking glances at my mouth.
Aidric notices first. Of course he does. Aidric always notices first—the way he watches, storm-gray gaze unyielding, cataloging every microsecond of discomfort.
He's not saying a word, but I see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his hands clench and unclench on the folder in front of him. The way his lungs flare, nostrils flaring like he's got a wildfire to assess.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
Heat.
Real, honest-to-god heat. After months of nothing, my body decides to dropkick me into Omega hell in the middle of a staff meeting.
I squeeze my thighs together, discreet as possible, but it only makes the ache more intense. Pressure builds, slick pooling against soaked panties, every breath another sharp reminder of how empty I am. How desperately I want—need—someone to fill me.
Even blinking is an effort. Every nerve ending is short-circuiting, my chest heaving like I've run a marathon. My heart's beating so fast I think it's audible over Bear and Flynn arguing about the new turnout gear.
I'm going to lose it. In front of everyone. Right here, in broad daylight, under the anemic glare of the overhead bulb.
If Calder or Silas were here, they'd recognize the signs in seconds. But I'm alone, except for Aidric. And right now, he's the only thing between me and absolute, catastrophic humiliation.
His chair scrapes the floor, the sound slicing through the low buzz of conversation. Aidric stands, posture predatory, and all talk in the room dies instantly.
"Chief Murphy and I need a word outside. Now."
His voice isn't shouting. Doesn't need to. Just drops like a weighted blanket over the group—silencing every question before it forms.
I don't remember standing up. One moment, I'm sweating through my uniform, the next, Aidric has a firm grip on my elbow, guiding me out, his touch searing through the sleeve.
We leave chaos behind—Bear's startled hmm? flaring to concern, the rookies trading feverish whispers, but Aidric doesn't slow. He hauls me down the corridor, shoves the door closed behind us, and only when we're alone does he let himself look at me properly.
"Wendolyn."
It's not a question. It's a diagnosis.
I'm shaking. Actually, physically shaking. My face is burning, my body is burning, I'm terrified I'm going to combust and leave nothing but a puddle of Omega need on the linoleum.
He crowd my space—hands bracing on either side of my head, staring down at me like he can will the world into submission.
"How long?"
The words are a low growl. It shouldn't flip my stomach, but it does.
I swallow, desperate to stay upright.
"Started maybe halfway through the meeting. Got worse fast."
He curses, which is new for him. "Fuck. I could smell it. Half the crew could."
My cheeks flush hotter. I want to crawl into a hole and die. Or crawl into Aidric’s lap and—
Nope. Not going there.
But the look in his eyes—storm clouds ready to break, hunger barely in check—makes me shiver.
"Don't worry," he says, softer now, voice like smooth bourbon. "I'm getting you home. Now."
He doesn't wait for an argument. One arm wraps around my waist, guiding me—almost lifting me—down the corridor and out the front door. We’re in the truck before I can even register the shift, him buckling my seatbelt with hands that linger, just a beat too long, on my shoulder, my chest, my thigh.
The scent in the cab is overwhelming. His personal darkness—cedar smoke and clean linen—mixes with my vanilla, my sweat, my sick-sweet desperation. My brain goes blank every time he exhales.
Aidric drives like a man possessed. Every stop sign is optional, every turn negotiated with the confidence of someone who’s spent their entire life prepared to race against disaster.
My hands fumble for purchase—dashboard, door, the rough denim of his thigh. Every touch is a shock. Every movement makes the ache sharper, the slick between my legs heavier, wetter.
I want to ask him if he's mad. If I'm embarrassing him. If this is just some obligation—Omega biology dictating his schedule, ruining his plans.
But I can't speak. My tongue is swollen, breath coming in shallow gasps.
He glances over, hand tightening on the gearshift. "Try to breathe, honey. We'll be there in two minutes."
I do as I'm told. Inhale. Exhale. Doesn't help.
If anything, his words—his voice—just make it worse.
Before the truck has even fully stopped in front of the ranch house, I'm out the door. He follows, not even bothering to lock up, just a shadow on my heels.
The house is empty. Everyone else is at the station or scattered on errands, but it wouldn't matter. Not now. All that matters is the heat.
The air inside is no better—thick with the ghosts of pack scent, every breath branding me with memory. My legs barely work. I stagger, driven forward by some animal logic, straight to the nest room at the end of the hall.
There's a heartbeat of hesitation outside my door—Aidric's palm against the wood, his chest pressed to my back.
"You want this?"
He asks. He actually asks.
The question scrapes something raw and dangerous inside me.
"Yes."
The word is a whimper. I shove at the barrier between us and safety, and suddenly we're inside. The lights are low, the sheets are soft, and my knees threaten to give out seeing the nest waiting—perfect, inviting, so close I can taste it.
I forget my own strength. I turn on Aidric, grabbing fistfuls of his crisp work shirt and yanking—buttons skittering across hardwood, fabric tearing, some animal victorious roar in my ears. He laughs, low and incredulous, and catches my mouth with his before I can say anything stupid.
It's fire. Actual fire. Mouths and hands and hips slamming together, teeth scraping, lips bruising with the force. I'm climbing him, legs around his waist, hands buried in his hair, and he's trying to undress me while keeping hold of my ass, like that's even possible.
He spins, pressing me to the door, grinding against the heat between my legs. The friction is torture—so good I almost sob.
"God, you're desperate," he rasps, sucking a mark onto my neck just above the collarbone. "Anyone ever fucked you during full heat before?"
I shake my head, can't form words. It's never come like this before, sudden and total, and no one’s ever made me want enough to lose control like this.
His hands are working my shirt open, buttons flying, then lower, popping my fly, shoving the waistband down around my thighs, all while I try to peel his ruined shirt off his shoulders.
I'm panting now, every breath a plea.
"Need you. Please."
He grins, eyes gone molten.
"Patience, Omega. Gonna give you everything you want."
He rips the last of the uniform off me—shirt, bra, panties, all gone, pooling at my ankles. He peels out of his own, dropping dark slacks and shorts in a heap. And fuck, he's already hard, thick, and flushed, the sight alone enough to send a fresh wave of slick down my thighs.
Aidric lifts me, pure Alpha strength, and I wrap around him instinctively. His mouth is back on mine, bruising, wrecking, eating every sound I make. He breaks just long enough to bicker—
"Lucky the firehouse is getting rebuilt, so you can still be chief, Murphy. Because even like this, you couldn't run my station."
I'm breathless and greedy, mouthing at his jaw.
"How about you come try to take it from me for once, Hawthorne."
He bites down on my shoulder, claiming.
"I'd never want you to bend for me in the professional field," he grinds against my entrance, almost inside, almost—but not yet— "But I'll bend you every way you let me in this bed. In this nest. Wherever you'll fucking let me."
I laugh. I actually laugh.
"Promises, promises."