Page 92 of Eight Count Heat
"Beautiful work," I approve. "Half a length on Westlake now. Maintaining advantage."
The 500-meter mark passes beneath us. Quarter distance complete. My body temperature rises despite the rain, a flush spreading across my chest that has nothing to do with exertion. The medications are failing faster than expected.
Keep it together. Focus on the race. Nothing else exists.
"First marker confirmed," I call. "Seven seconds under record pace. Looking strong."
Gray's stroke is metronomic, perfectly calibrated for the conditions. Behind him, the crew matches his rhythm with skill born of countless hours training together. The shell cuts through choppy water with minimal resistance, our line true despite the crosswind tugging at us.
"Westlake making a push," I warn, spotting their increased tempo. "They're trying to close the gap before the turn. Hold form. Trust the training."
Ahead, the course stretches toward the critical turn at 1500 meters. Rain obscures the distant buoys, giving the impression we're racing into an undefined horizon, boundaries bleeding into gray.
Another wave of heat washes through me, stronger this time. My grip momentarily slips on the wet rudder lines before I correct it. The scent suppressant is definitely failing, biological reality asserting itself against chemical constraints.
Jackson feels it first despite me being downwind, his rhythm faltering almost imperceptibly before he locks back in. In the bow, Cameron's back stiffens slightly. They can sense me now, the first tendrils of Omega pheromones escaping the medications' control.
"Halfway point," I announce, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Still in the lead. Conditions worsening. Stay focused."
The rain falls harder now, drops striking the water's surface with enough force to create a constant hiss of white noise. Visibilitydeteriorates, the spectator stands reduced to vague shapes through the downpour.
Perfect cover for what's happening in our boat.
"Approaching the turn," I call. "Outside crew, prepare for increased pressure. Inside, ease off slightly on my mark."
We enter the long, sweeping turn that marks the beginning of the final stretch. I use minimal rudder, guiding the shell through the curve while maintaining maximum speed. The crew responds perfectly, port side pushing harder while starboard adjusts accordingly.
Westlake takes the turn too tight, their bow veering dangerously close to the buoy line. Andrea overcorrects, her rudder work causing a momentary check in their momentum.
"We've got them on the turn," I call. "Opening up the lead. Stay clean through the exit."
As we straighten out into the final stretch, another pulse of heat surges through me, stronger than before. Sweat breaks out across my forehead despite the rain, my heart racing beyond what exertion would explain.
I feel the change ripple through the boat as more of the crew picks up on my scent. Bo's powerful strokes briefly intensify before he regulates himself. Beckett's breathing pattern changes, becoming more deliberate, controlled. Even Eli, less reactive than most Alphas, shifts slightly in his seat.
"Final 500," I announce, pouring every ounce of command into my voice. "This is where champions are made. Ready for the sprint."
Gray hasn't reacted outwardly yet, despite being directly in front of me in stroke position, but his eyes are burning into mine.Whether that's the intensity of the race or what is happening right in his face is left to be said.
"Sprint in three, two, one—now!"
The boat surges forward as Gray cranks the stroke rate up, the crew responding with perfect synchronization. Every muscle straining, every breath burning, every stroke bringing us closer to the finish and closer to the moment when my careful deception crumbles completely.
The last 250 meters stretch before us, the finish line barely visible through the driving rain. Westlake pushes hard, trying to close our lead in a desperate final sprint. Their cox calls frantically, her voice carrying faintly across the water.
"They're making a move," I warn. "But they're too late. This is our race. Ten strokes to the line."
Another wave of heat, stronger than all the others combined. The medications break completely, my Omega scent flooding the immediate area around our shell. I watch it hit Gray like a tangible thing, his stroke faltering momentarily before he recovers with raw determination.
"Five strokes," I call, voice steady through sheer willpower. "Four. Three. Two. One—through the line!"
We cross the finish, the horn blasting to signal our victory. First place. Riverside Champions.
"Way enough," I command, allowing them to ease off.
The crew responds, bodies slumping as the race effort transitions to recovery. But beneath the exhaustion, I feel a new tension rippling through the boat. Eight Alphas suddenly, acutely aware of an unbonded Omega in pre-heat among them.
"Well done, gentlemen," I say, keeping my voice steady, professional. "Clean race, perfect execution."
