5. Olive
Harsh fluorescent lights burn through my closed eyelids. Waking up feels like dragging myself out of a vat of boiling water. The hospital isolation room offers nothing but sterile white walls, a single metal tray table, and a locked security door.
My skin burns. A brutal fever cooks my brain from the inside out. I kick the thin, scratchy hospital blanket off my legs, gasping for air in the stuffy room.
A slick, wet mess coats my bare thighs.
The phantom scent of a thunderstorm invades the small space.
Finn. His name pulses in time with the agonizing throb between my legs.
The memory of his arms wrapping around my waist is branded into my skin.
The crisp ozone and citrus scent of his pack clings to the back of my throat, refusing to fade no matter how many times I swallow.
My mind races, trying to piece together the last few hours.
I remember standing in the hallway outside the staff lounge and the exact second Finn rounded the corner; his scent crashed into my system.
My knees gave out. He caught me. The feeling of his broad chest against my face felt like a drug.
Then Brenda shouted, the security guards ripped him away, and they dragged me into this locked room.
Rational thoughts dissolve into a primal, desperate need. My body screams for an Alpha. It demands a real cock to stretch my dripping pussy and a knot to fill the aching void inside my pelvis.
I writhe on the narrow mattress. The cheap cotton hospital gown twists around my waist, trapping the heat against my flushed skin. I reach down and yank the hem up to my ribs. The cool air of the isolation room hits my soaked center, sending a violent shiver down to my toes.
I shove my hand down between my legs. My fingers dive straight into the slick. My clit swells, aching for rough friction.
Pressing two fingers deep inside my wet pussy, a raw, ragged moan tears out of my throat. The sheer volume of wetness shocks me. I never get this wet. I built my life on balanced, boring hormones. This ferocious, unyielding arousal feels like an alien invasion.
I pump my fingers in and out. I chase the phantom memory of Finn pinning me down. I imagine his thick fingers spreading me open. I picture his mouth biting down hard on my neck while he thrusts into me.
The fantasy throws gasoline on the fire.
Grinding my hips upward, I mash the heel of my hand against my throbbing clit. I need relief. I need to scratch this itch before it drives me insane. The friction of my hand lacks the pressure I crave. My body rejects the solo attempt.
I grab one of the stiff hospital pillows from the top of the bed. Rolling over onto my knees, I shove the pillow deep between my thighs. The rough, cheap fabric of the pillowcase rubs right against my swollen clit.
I squeeze my legs together and rock my hips forward. I hump the pillow with frantic, desperate thrusts. The friction hits the right spot, but the emptiness inside me still aches.
"Finn." I gasp his name into the empty room, my nails digging into the mattress.
Tension coils tight in my stomach. My hips buck wildly against the pillow.
I picture Finn’s auburn hair and wide shoulders.
But my traitorous mind refuses to stop there.
Malcolm’s dark, intense eyes flash behind my closed eyelids.
I imagine his large hands gripping my hips to hold me in place.
Lawrence’s easy smile twists into a dominant smirk as he watches me fall apart.
Even Victor’s carved jawline and icy eyes invade my head. The arrogant prick complained about the smell of my hospital, but the memory of his broad shoulders and thick thighs makes my pussy clench with a treacherous surge of desire.
I hate them. I hate all of them for doing this to me. But my body ignores my hatred and begs for their touch.
"Alphas!" I scream the word into the sterile room. "I need a knot. Give me a real knot!"
The explicit confession pushes me over the edge.
The climax crashes over my senses and blinds me with white-hot heat.
My inner thigh muscles spasm. My soaked pussy clenches and contracts around empty air, milking an invisible cock.
I cry out, burying my face into the sheets as wave after wave of intense release wracks my trembling body.
I hump the pillow through the rolling waves of the orgasm, chasing every last drop of pleasure until my hips stutter and stop.
I ride the high until the muscle spasms finally slow down. Dropping the ruined, slick-stained pillow, I collapse flat on my back. Sweat coats my chest and stomach. My lungs heave to drag desperate gulps of air through my mouth.
For sixty glorious seconds, my mind clears. The pressure in my skull vanishes.
The throb returns without warning. It bites into my raw flesh with twice the intensity of before. An echoing, desperate emptiness opens up deep inside my pelvis. My body clenches and screams for the one thing the hospital pillow failed to provide. It demands real Alphas to finish the job.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. The ache feels agonizing. I roll onto my side and pull my knees up to my chest. A sob breaks past my lips. I hate this reality. I built a life on practical, independent choices. I never needed anyone to regulate my hormones or fix my body.
Now, I lie trembling in a ruined hospital bed, weeping from sheer frustration as my traitorous biology destroys my self-control.
Hours bleed together in a blur of fever and relentless aching.
The isolation room features no windows, leaving me blind to the passage of time. I writhe on the damp sheets, fighting the urge to touch myself again. Every climax just makes the inevitable crash worse. My body demands a real Alpha, and my stubborn brain refuses to accept the humiliating craving.
The lock on the metal door finally clicks. The heavy hinges groan.
An Alpha doctor walks in wearing a thick white scent-blocker patch on his neck. He carries a digital tablet in his right hand. His white coat looks crisp against his navy scrubs.
He stops at the foot of my bed. He taps the screen twice, his brow furrowing as he reads the data.
Dr. Evans clears his throat. "Olive. The bloodwork from your admission panel came back. We ran it twice to confirm the results. You are a late-blooming Omega."
I shake my head, gripping the metal bed railing until my knuckles turn white. "That makes no sense. Check the charts again. I have a Beta medical history on file for my entire life. I lack the designation for this."
"The charts show dormant hormone levels.
" He points a pen at the tablet. "Sometimes, an unbonded Omega goes their whole life without presenting.
Your baseline pheromones stayed low enough to register as a Beta.
But encountering a strong, scent-matched Alpha acts as a trigger.
The man in the hallway sent you into a full-blown Heat. "
The news hits my chest like a sledgehammer.
Being an Omega changes everything. It alters my legal status in the city. It changes my housing requirements. It rewrites my basic biology. It means submitting to a pack bond or suffering through this agonizing, mind-melting heat every single month for the rest of my life.
I refuse to accept this reality. I refuse to surrender my independence to a bunch of arrogant athletes just because my body panicked over their custom cologne. I worked too hard for my career to become some pack's submissive little housemate.
"Give me suppressants." I stare at the doctor.
Dr. Evans frowns, sliding the tablet under his arm.
"Olive, I strongly advise against that. Suppressants carry severe side effects for late-bloomers.
Your body just woke up. Shoving it back down with heavy narcotics causes extreme nausea, lethargy, and vicious mood swings.
Riding the heat out naturally in this isolation room remains your safest option. "
"I don't care about the side effects." I glare at him, my voice cracking from crying. "Pump me full of drugs. I need to kill this heat right now. I refuse to lie here and wait for an Alpha."
He studies my flushed face for a long moment. He sees the furious determination in my eyes. Nodding, he types a quick note into the tablet and leaves the room without another word.
A nurse returns ten minutes later holding a small paper cup and a plastic bottle of water. She keeps a wide distance between us, placing the items on the rolling tray table before hurrying out the door.
I snatch the cup and swallow the bitter pills dry.
The next twenty-four hours pass in a drug-induced haze.
The suppressants act like a chemical straightjacket.
They force the fever down and silence the desperate hum in my blood.
They replace the slick arousal with a hollow, nauseating ache in my gut.
I sleep in fitful bursts, waking up feeling bruised and exhausted.
Waking up the next morning, the fire in my veins fades to a dull throb. The slick stops flowing. I sit up and grab my phone off the bedside table. My screen shows a dozen missed calls and a pile of text messages.
A voicemail notification flashes on the screen. I hit play.
"Olive, I hate to do this, but my hands are tied.
The apartment complex enforces a strict Beta-only residency rule for zoning and safety reasons.
We lack the reinforced doors and ventilation systems required for Omegas in heat.
I have to ask you to break your lease. You have a week to pack your things and move out.
" My landlord's gruff voice fills the quiet room.
I drop the phone onto my lap. The screen goes black.
The hits just keep coming. My body betrayed me, and now it costs me my home. I loved that apartment. I curated every inch of that beige, minimalist space to be my safe haven away from the chaos of the city. Now, they plan to kick me out into the street just because my blood work changed.