Chapter 5 #2
And then her scent hits me.
I have to grip the doorframe to stay upright.
Peaches and honey. Sweet and warm and so distinctly omega that my whole body goes rigid. My alpha surges, demanding I get closer, touch her, claim her, protect her. I shove it down with brutal force.
But underneath the sweet omega scent, there's stress hormones sharp as broken glass. Fear that makes my chest ache. And the building pressure of a body in transition, like a storm gathering strength before it breaks.
I've been a doctor for years. I've treated hundreds of omegas. I'm professionally detached. Clinically competent.
But right now, standing in this room with Jessica Delacroix looking at me with those wide hazel eyes, I'm just a man who's been half in love with her since the first time she laughed at one of Carlos's terrible jokes and made our whole packhouse feel like home.
Her eyes lift to meet mine. Hazel eyes, wide and uncertain, ringed with exhaustion. The same eyes that used to crinkle at the corners when she laughed. They're not crinkling now.
"Jessica."
My voice comes out rougher than I intended. Gravel and smoke and want.
"Pedro."
My name sounds different in her voice. Softer. Hesitant. Like she's not sure she's allowed to say it anymore.
And hearing it, hearing her say my name after six years of silence, does something to me. Something that makes my jaw clench and my hands curl into fists at my sides.
"It's been a while," I manage.
"Six years."
"Right."
Silence. The clock on the wall ticks. The fluorescent light hums. From the waiting room, I can hear Betty Crawford complaining loudly about the magazines being out of date.
I should say something professional. Something doctorly. Ask her what brings her in today, even though I already know. Even though the answer is written all over her face and flooding from her pores and making my alpha instincts scream at me to protect, comfort, claim.
Instead I just stand there like an idiot, clipboard clutched in my hands so tight I'm probably leaving dents in the metal, staring at the woman I've been in love with for eight years.
She bites her lower lip. Nervous. The same nervous habit she's always had, and I remember thinking it was cute back then.
Now it's torture. Now I'm noticing the way her teeth press into the soft pink flesh, the way her lip goes pale under the pressure, the way she releases it and it blooms back to color.
I want to kiss that lip. Want to soothe it with my tongue. Want to make her bite it for entirely different reasons.
"You look..." I start.
Terrible. Beautiful. Like a dream and a nightmare combined. Like everything I've ever wanted and everything I can't have.
"Like hell," she finishes for me, then smiles. Small and sad and self-deprecating. "I know. You don't have to be polite."
"I wasn't going to be."
That gets a real smile. Still small, still fragile, but real. Something loosens in my chest.
"There's the Pedro I remember. Grumpy as ever."
"It's my signature charm."
She laughs. It's a fragile sound, like glass about to break, but it's still a laugh. And the sound of it, after six years of silence, makes my alpha rumble with satisfaction.
I'll take it. I'll take any sound she makes and hoard it like treasure.
I move to the counter and set down the clipboard. Put some distance between us because if I don't, I'm going to do something stupid. Like close the space between us and pull her into my arms and tell her she's safe now. That I've got her. That I'll protect her from whatever made her run.
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my coat pockets.
"So." I keep my voice clinical. Professional. Every word costs me. "Omega transition symptoms. Tell me what's been happening."
She looks down at her hands. Twists them together in her lap. The nervous gesture makes my chest tight.
"About three weeks ago I started feeling strange—different. I thought it was wedding stress, but the symptoms kept building. Then my suppressants ran out a couple of days before the wedding."
She pauses. Probably expecting a reaction from me. There is none. Damn, where's Carlos when you need him? He would come up with a joke, cut the atmosphere, make it lighter, but that's not me.
She clears her throat. "Anyway, it's been three days without them, and everything's overwhelming. My sense of smell is crazy. I just don't feel like me."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"I wanted to.” Her voice drops so quiet I have to lean in to hear it. And leaning in means getting closer to her scent, to the warmth radiating off her skin, to everything I want and can't have.
"So you didn't go."
"No."
"And the symptoms got worse."
“Not exactly. I was .”
"And you're experiencing them now. Right now. In this room."
She looks up at me, and I see it. Her pupils are dilated, swallowing up the hazel until there's just a thin ring of color left.
There's a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, making her skin glow under the fluorescent lights.
And her scent is getting stronger by the minute flooding the small space until I can barely think straight.
"Everything feels too loud," she whispers, and the vulnerability in her voice guts me. "Too bright. My skin feels like it's on fire. And there's this pressure building and I don't know what to do with it."
I know what it is. I've seen it before in other late-presenting omegas. The body trying to cram years of hormonal development into weeks. The system flooding with estrogen and omega pheromones that have been suppressed for over a decade.
I also know what's coming next. And the thought of Jessica going through her first heat alone, confused, in pain, makes something primal and possessive rise up in my chest.
"I need to examine you," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat. Try again. "Check your vitals. Run some tests. Is that okay?"
She nods.
This is torture. That's all I can think as I move closer. This is actual, literal torture.
I press my fingers to her wrist to check her pulse, and the warmth of her skin against mine sends electricity straight up my arm. Her pulse is racing under my fingertips. Fast and fluttery, like a bird trying to escape a cage.
"Elevated," I murmur, mostly to myself. Professional. Clinical.
My thumb is still on her pulse point. I should move. I don't move.
I can feel her heartbeat. Can feel the blood rushing through her veins. Can feel the heat of her skin seeping into mine, and every alpha instinct I have to never let go.
"Is that bad?" she asks.
Her voice snaps me back to reality. I force myself to release her wrist, even though my fingers don't want to. They want to slide up her arm, wrap around her, pull her close.
"Just your body adjusting." I turn away, write something meaningless on her chart to give my hands something to do that isn't touching her again.
Blood pressure next. I grab the cuff and wrap it around her upper arm, and she flinches at the contact.
"Sorry," I mutter. "Cold hands."
"It's okay." Her voice is soft. Almost shy. "I remember your hands are always cold. Medical school thing, right? Bad circulation from too much studying?"
She remembers. She remembers my hands.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. Six years and she remembers.
I pump the cuff, watch the numbers climb, try to focus on literally anything except the fact that her arm is bare and soft and I can see the faint blue of veins under her pale skin.
The cuff tightens around her bicep, and I'm hyperaware of every inch of her.
The way her breath catches. The way her fingers curl into the paper covering.
The way her scent spikes with something that isn't quite fear but isn't quite comfort either.
"Breathe normally," I tell her, even though my own breathing is anything but normal.
The number settles. Elevated. Everything about her is elevated. Pulse, blood pressure, temperature, pheromones. Her body is a storm building strength.
"I need to check your glands," I say, and I hate how rough my voice sounds. "The ones in your neck. They swell during transition."
She tilts her head without hesitation, exposing the long line of her throat, and I have to physically lock my knees to keep from swaying toward her.
The curve of her neck. The pale expanse of skin. The rapid flutter of her pulse visible beneath the surface.
I've thought about kissing that spot approximately eight thousand times in six years. I'm thinking about it now.
"This might be sensitive," I warn, more for myself than for her.
I press my fingers to the sides of her neck, feeling for the omega scent glands nestled just below her jaw. They're swollen, hot to the touch, producing pheromones at a rate her body can't regulate yet. My thumbs rest against her pulse point. Racing. Fluttering. Alive.
She makes a sound. Small. Breathy. Almost a whimper.
My hands freeze. Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
"Did that hurt?" The words come out low. Dangerous.
"No." Her eyes meet mine, and they're dark. Dilated. Vulnerable. "The opposite."
Fuck.
I pull back like she burned me. Put three feet of space between us in a single step. Shove my trembling hands deep in my coat pockets because they're shaking and I need her to not see that. Need her to not know that touching her just now took every ounce of self-control I possess.
"Your glands are active," I manage. Professional. Clinical. Every word costs me. "That's normal for this stage of transition."
What I don't say: Touching them probably felt good because omega glands are sensitive during transition. Stimulating them releases endorphins. It's a biological response.
What I really don't say: I want to put my mouth there. I want to kiss that spot where your pulse is racing. I want to taste your skin and make you make that sound again and again until you're breathless with it.