Page 7 of Heat Clickbait
"Can you let go of my hand?"
I looked down, surprised to find I'd grabbed him again without realizing it. My fingers were white where they pressed into his skin, leaving crescent marks from my nails that would probably bruise. The sight should have horrified me. Instead, it sent a possessive thrill through my system.
"Definitely not."
Ghost typed something rapidly on his phone with the kind of speed that suggested this wasn't his first crisis situation, then showed the screen to Nova, who nodded grimly. Some silent pack communication I wasn't privy to, decisions being made about me without my input. It should have made me angry, should have triggered every independent instinct I'd cultivated. Instead, it made me feel protected, cared for, like I was part of something bigger than my own carefully controlled world.
"On three," Nova said, and I didn't know what we were counting to until he stood, pulling me with him in one fluid motion. My legs barely held, muscle control compromised by the biochemical storm raging through my system, but his arm came around my waist, steady and sure and warm. The full contact, his body against mine, solid and real and smelling like everything I'd never known I wanted, sent my system into complete overdrive.
"Fuck," I breathed against his shoulder, not caring anymore who heard, not caring about the cameras or the whispers or my reputation crumbling around me like ancient paper. "You smell so good it physically hurts."
"I know," he murmured back, his lips close enough to my ear that I could feel his breath against my skin. "Trust me, I know exactly what you mean."
CHAPTER FOUR
Ghost
The convention center corridor stretched ahead like a gauntlet of smartphones and predatory curiosity, fluorescent lights flickering overhead in an almost strobe like effect that was a visual assault which made everything feel surreal. I kept my body between Callie and the worst of it, my shoulders automatically squaring as I matched Nova's measured pace. We moved in formation, something we'd never practiced but our bodies knew anyway, like pack dynamics were written into our DNA. The pink-haired Omega trembled against Nova's side, her spicy-sweet scent spiking with each camera flash, each shouted question that followed us toward the exit like hungry wolves.
The crowd pressed closer with every step, a writhing mass of convention-goers and opportunistic streamers who'd caught wind of the drama. Someone's energy drink can rolled across our path, kicked aside by Milo's sneakers. The air reeked of excitement and artificial vanilla from the overpriced food court, but underneath it all was Callie's distress. Sharp, cloying, and wrong in every way that mattered.
My phone buzzed constantly against my hip. Discord notifications, texts, alerts from every platform where ournames were probably trending. I ignored them all, focusing on immediate threat assessment the way my first pack leader had taught me.
Count the exits.
Map the obstacles.
Identify who's carrying what.
Security had materialized too late to be useful, their yellow shirts bobbing in our wake like ineffective buoys as they tried to establish some kind of perimeter around us. Behind us, Crash's nervous energy had transformed into something sharp and protective, his usual manic chatter replaced by low warning growls whenever someone got too close to our formation.
"Ghost, we need the car," Nova said, voice steady despite the visible tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand clenched and unclenched at his side. His arm around Callie's waist looked casual to the cameras, but I saw how his fingers pressed against her hip through her oversized band tee, anchoring her when she stumbled on legs that barely seemed to hold her weight.
I'd already sent the message to our driver while navigating around a group of cosplayers who'd stopped to gawk. Three minutes out, traffic permitting. I showed him my phone screen, and he nodded tightly, his businessman facade cracking just enough to show the Alpha underneath.
"Is she in heat?" A reporter, some bottom-feeder from a gossip blog based on her press badge, shoved a microphone toward us, nearly hitting Milo in the face with the foam windscreen. "Can you confirm this is a true-mate situation? Our viewers want to know if this is real or just another publicity stunt."
Milo deflected the mic with practiced ease, his baker's hands surprisingly effective at crowd control. Those same fingers that could fold delicate pastry dough into perfect croissants nowblocked invasive technology with gentle but immovable force. "Back up, please. Give us some space."
The please was a courtesy his grandmother had drilled into him. His tone suggested consequences his abuela definitely hadn't taught him.
Callie made a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. It sent every Alpha in a thirty-foot radius into biological overdrive.
I watched two separate convention attendees step forward instinctively before catching themselves, their bodies responding to an Omega in distress before their brains could intervene. The cameras captured everything with ruthless precision. Her obvious arousal, the sweat beading on her forehead and staining the collar of her shirt, the way she pressed her face into Nova's neck like she was trying to crawl inside his skin, how her knees buckled every few steps despite him trying to steady her.
"This is harassment," Blitz said, his sunny workout-stream personality completely gone, replaced by something harder and infinitely more dangerous. He'd positioned himself at our rear guard, using his considerable size to create a buffer zone between us and the pressing crowd. "She needs medical attention, not cameras."
"Medical's right there!" Someone pointed to the first aid station we'd just passed, staffed by a single EMT who looked about as equipped to handle an Omega in pre-heat as I was to perform brain surgery. "If you're really concerned about her welfare?—"
"We've got her." Nova's accent sharpened, losing the careful BBC polish and revealing something his parents would recognize from hostile board meetings. The authority in it made even the security guards step back, suddenly remembering they were in the presence of old money and older power.
The exit doors loomed ahead, heavy glass that would buy us seconds at most once we passed through to the loading zone. I typed rapidly with one hand while steering us around obstacles, coordinating with our driver, checking the pickup location, mapping the fastest route to our house.
My fingers moved on autopilot while I catalogued threats with military precision. Three professional cameras from actual media outlets, their operators moving with the practiced efficiency of predators. At least forty phones recording from every conceivable angle. Someone livestreaming on a professional stabilizer rig, narrating our escape like it was breaking news from a war zone.
Which it was, technically. #TrueMateMatch had already hit trending across three platforms.
We burst through the exit into afternoon sunlight that made Callie whimper and bury her face deeper into Nova's chest. Her scent blockers had completely failed now, that sugar-and-spice combination flooding the air around us like a biological weapon. It had been years since I'd lost my first pack, and my body still knew how to respond to an Omega in pre-heat. Every instinct screamed to get her somewhere safe, somewhere private, somewhere we could —
