Page 99 of Eight Count Heat
The cold shock ofthe lake helped, but the emergency suppressant Eli gave me before the awards ceremony is already starting to wear thin.
By the time we load onto the team bus, I can feel the military-grade medication fighting a losing battle against my biology. The injection should last eight hours, but the stress of competition and physical exertion are burning through it faster than expected. My skin feels flushed, hypersensitive to every brush of fabric, every shift in temperature.
I slide into a seat halfway back, hoping distance from both the coaches and the bulk of the team might help. But there's no escape from the confined space, the recycled air, the way my scent is beginning to shift despite the chemical barriers. Even I can smell it now, that sweet musk that marks an Omega in distress.
Zane drops into the seat beside me, his usual easy energy replaced by focused intensity. He doesn't say anything at first, just settles close enough that his warmth makes my skin prickle with awareness. His amber eyes are darker than usual, pupils slightly dilated as he catches my changing scent.
Tyler appears across the aisle, sliding in quietly. His dark eyes meet mine with understanding, and I notice the way his breathing has become more deliberate, controlled. "The injection breaking down?"
I nod, not trusting my voice to stay steady. My hands shake slightly as I grip the armrest, trying to anchor myself against the rising tide of need.
"Physical stress burns through suppressants faster," he murmurs, voice pitched low. "We need to do something before everyone on this bus loses their minds."
Behind us, Bo's voice carries softly: "Driver, any chance we could get some more air circulation back here? Little warm after that race."
Smart thinking. I can already see Jackson in my peripheral vision, having moved to the very back row, as far from me as the bus allows. His sensitivity to Omega pheromones makes him the canary in the coal mine, and if he's retreating, we're running out of time. Meanwhile, Coach Bennett and Coach Wilder continue their discussion about travel logistics, completely oblivious to the biological crisis unfolding six rows behind them. The advantage of human coaches—they can't detect the pheromone markers that are driving every Alpha on this bus to distraction.
Gray appears in the aisle, moving with controlled urgency. He settles into the seat directly in front of us, positioning himself as a barrier between our section and the coaches. Beckett slides inbeside him without being asked, both of them creating a wall of protection.
"How bad?" Gray asks quietly, steel eyes scanning my face.
"Bad enough that Jackson moved to the back row," I whisper. "If we don't handle this, someone's going to snap and do something that draws attention."
His jaw tightens, and I catch the way his own scent sharpens with Alpha protectiveness. "What do you need?"
"Someone needs to take care of the scent," Tyler says quietly, adjusting his position in a way that I realize is meant to hide an obvious bulge in his shorts. "Direct contact. Swallow it down before it gets worse."
Heat floods my face, but the practical reality is undeniable. My pheromones are already affecting every Alpha in proximity, and we're trapped in here for another twenty minutes minimum.
"I'll do it," Zane says, his voice rougher than usual. There's want in his eyes now, barely controlled hunger that has nothing to do with team logistics.
Gray's territorial instincts flare visibly, his hands clenching into fists before he forces them to relax. But he nods once, understanding the necessity. "Make it fast."
Cameron materializes in the aisle, positioning himself to block sight lines from the back of the bus while Eli moves to create another visual barrier. Tyler starts talking about post-race nutrition, his voice carrying just enough to provide auditory cover for whatever might come next.
"You sure about this?" Zane asks, turning to face me fully. His amber eyes are almost gold now, reflecting the afternoon light streaming through the bus windows.
"I'm sure." The words come out breathier than intended, and I see the effect they have on him. His pupils dilate further, nostrils flaring as he drinks in my scent.
Zane's eyes flick to the front of the bus where Coach Bennett is still deep in conversation with Coach Wilder about tomorrow's travel logistics. "Can you get your shorts off without them noticing?"
I follow his gaze, timing their distraction. Coach Wilder pulls out her tablet to show something, their heads bent together over the screen. Moving carefully, I lift my hips and shimmy out of my warm-ups, the fabric sliding down my legs with whispered friction. Zane helps guide them the rest of the way, both of us watching the coaches the entire time. My skin breaks out in goosebumps as the air conditioning hits my exposed thighs.
He folds the shorts neatly and tucks them beside the window, out of sight. Now I'm sitting in just my team t-shirt and cotton underwear, feeling exposed and vulnerable despite the barriers our teammates have created around us.
Zane glances toward the front of the bus one more time, confirming the coaches are still focused on their conversation. Then he slides off the seat, dropping to his knees in the space between the rows. The rented bus has more legroom than a school vehicle, but it's still cramped as he positions himself between my legs, his broad shoulders nearly touching the seats on either side.
"Lean forward like you're sick," he murmurs, hands moving to my thighs. "And stay quiet."
His touch sends electricity through my oversensitized nervous system. Every point of contact feels magnified, the warmth of his palms searing through my skin. I lean forward as instructed,hunching over slightly and letting my hair fall to curtain my face. To anyone watching, it would look like I'm dealing with motion sickness, maybe feeling nauseous from the combination of competition adrenaline and bus movement.
Zane's hands slide higher, fingers hooking in the waistband of my underwear. "Lift up," he breathes, and I comply, raising my hips just enough for him to slide the cotton down my thighs.
The first touch of air against my core makes me shiver. I'm already wet, have been since my scent started changing, the heat building in my system despite the medication's attempts to suppress it. Zane's breath hitches when he sees how ready I am for him.
"Jesus, you're soaked," he breathes against my inner thigh, voice barely audible. "This is going to taste so fucking good."
The crude words make me clench around nothing, want spiking through me so hard I nearly whimper aloud. My hands grip the armrests, knuckles white with the effort of staying silent and still.
