Page 192 of Knotting the Cowboys

My stomach clenches with recognition and dread. The natural blockers Dr. Sylvie prescribed were supposed to give me more time. Three months, she said.

Time to heal, to settle, to decide what I wanted without biology making demands.

But my body has other plans.

I push myself upright, nightgown plastered to my skin with sweat, and the movement sends a pulse of need through me so intense I whimper. My breasts ache, nipples hard and oversensitive against the damp fabric. Between my legs, I'm already slick, my body preparing for what it craves even as my mind rebels against the loss of control.

"No, no, no," I whisper to the empty room, but my voice comes out breathy, desperate. The twins shift inside me, responding to my distress, and their movement only heightens the sensitivity of my skin. Every nerve ending feels exposed, raw, demanding touch.

I need—God, I need?—

The thought fragments before it can fully form, but my body knows. It wants alpha hands, alpha scent, alpha everything. The rational part of my brain that knows I'm safe here, that my pack would never hurt me, is rapidly losing ground to the primal omega instincts flooding my system.

I have to get out. Have to find—someone. Anyone. The need builds like pressure behind my sternum, making it hard to breathe normally. When I swing my legs over the side of the bed, they shake like a newborn colt's. Standing takes three tries, and even then I have to grip the bedpost to keep from crumpling.

The hallway stretches before me like a tunnel, lit only by moonlight through the windows. I don't know where I'm going—my feet move without conscious direction, following some instinct older than thought. My nightgown clings uncomfortably, the sensation of fabric against hypersensitive skin almost painful. I want to tear it off, to be free of even that slight restriction, but my hands won't cooperate enough to work the buttons.

Each step sends aftershocks through my core. The normal ache of late pregnancy is nothing compared to this hollow need, this emptiness that demands to be filled. I've been through heatbefore, with Blake, but those were exercises in endurance, in surviving until it passed. This—this feels different. Deeper. Like my body recognizes safety and wants to celebrate it in the most primal way possible.

I make it halfway down the hall before my legs give out entirely. The wall catches my fall, cool plaster against my burning cheek, but the relief is momentary. A sound escapes me—part sob, part moan—as another wave of need crashes through my system. Slick coats my thighs now, the scent of it filling the hallway like an announcement, a beacon, a plea.

"Willa?"

Austin's voice cuts through the haze, and I turn toward it like a flower toward sun. He stands at the top of the stairs, wearing only sleep pants, his hair mussed from bed. But his eyes—his eyes are wide and dark as he takes in my state, nostrils flaring as my scent reaches him.

"Austin," I manage, though it comes out more whine than word. "I need—the blockers stopped working—I can't?—"

He's moving before I finish, crossing the distance between us in quick strides. His hands hover near my shoulders, not quite touching, and I can see the war in his expression—medical concern battling alpha instinct.

"How long have you been in heat?" His voice stays carefully controlled, but I can hear the strain underneath.

"Don't know. Woke up—everything burning—please?—"

The please breaks something in his expression. His hands finally make contact, one sliding behind my knees, the other supporting my back, and the relief of his touch makes me cry out. He lifts me easily despite my pregnant bulk, cradling me against his chest where his heartbeat hammers against my cheek.

"Back to your nest," he murmurs, already moving. "You need to be somewhere safe, somewhere that smells like you."

But I don't want safe. I want him. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling myself closer, and when I press my face into his neck, his scent—clean linen and mountain air—makes my whole body clench with want.

"Austin, please," I beg against his skin. "It hurts. Everything hurts. Need you to?—"

"I know, sweetheart. I know." But his steps falter as I mouth at his throat, tasting salt and alpha and home. A growl rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my lips. "Willa, you're not—we should wait for?—"

"No waiting." I bite down where his neck meets his shoulder, not hard enough to mark but enough to make my point. "Need you now. Please. It's you I want. You I trust."

He kicks open my door, three strides to my nest, but when he tries to set me down, I refuse to let go. My legs wrap around his waist, my pregnant belly pressed between us, and the friction makes me moan into his neck.

"Willa—" But whatever protest he planned dies as I rock against him, seeking relief from the ache that's consuming me from the inside out. His hands tighten on my hips, and I feel the moment his control snaps.

He doesn't put me down so much as follow me into the nest, our bodies still tangled together. His weight settles over me carefully, mindful of the twins even as his eyes go dark with need. When he kisses me, it's nothing like his usual gentle exploration. This is claiming, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine as his hands finally, finally touch me the way I need.

"Clothes off," I gasp between kisses, already pulling at his shirt. "Need to feel you."

He helps me struggle out of my nightgown, the fabric catching on my sweat-damp skin before finally giving way. The cool air against my overheated flesh makes me shiver, but thenhis hands are there, mapping every inch like he's memorizing me by touch. His palms curve around my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples with just enough pressure to make my back arch off the bed.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, voice rough with want. "Look at you, all flushed and needy. Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Tell me how to help."

"Touch me," I beg, spreading my legs wider in invitation. "Everywhere. Make it stop hurting."

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