Page 25 of Feeling the Heat: Part Two
“River, good to see you!” A hand clamps onto my arm, pulling me away from my search for Camille. Turning in place, I find a smiling beta who has a familiar face, but I can’t for the life of me remember who he is or how he knows me.
“Good to see you,” I reply, hoping he doesn’t notice my lack of recognition.
“Here spying for Pulse?” the beta asks with a lopsided grin. He must’ve been a client. Maybe something to do with one of the tech firms? It eludes me, but I can’t find it in me to care. I’m too on edge to focus, knowing at any moment I could see Camille.
“Hah, no, I left Pulse a few months ago. Just here for support.” I try to smile, but it comes off more as a grimace. “My packmate was invited,” I add, even though this man didn’t ask, and bringing it up without said packmate around makes it seem weirder.
The beta replies with a joke I barely process as a flash of red hair catches my eye. All of my focus snaps toward it, and my breath punches out of me as I see her.
Fuck me, she’s stunning. Hair in soft waves cascading down over one shoulder, tight black dress molded to her full, heart-shaped ass in a way that has my alpha standing at attention and my pants growing uncomfortably tight.
Once again, I kick myself for trying to resist her. How in any universe did I convince myself that was possible? Camille is a shining star, and I’m in an inescapable orbit around her. Not that I’d ever want to escape. Not when the mere sight of her has my heart swelling despite the surge of nerves.
I have only a moment to drink in the sight of her back before she turns, as if she senses my eyes on hers. Her gaze sweeps across the room, and even from a distance I can see the discomfort on her face.
Something is wrong.
The remaining barrier I erected for my bond with her crumbles at the sight, needing to know how to help her. I swallow down my alpha’s growl as her pain and panic lance through me. I’m moving on instinct, leaving behind the beta mid-sentence as I weave my way towards her.
The crowd shifts, and suddenly there’s no one to obscure me from her line of sight. The flash of shock in her expression and the accompanying distress through the bond when she sees me are almost unbearable. My omega is meant to smile and relax in my presence, and my alpha bristles when her reaction to my presence is dismay.
She turns on her heels, moving away from me as fast as she can short of breaking out into a run.
“Camille, wait,” I call feebly, not wanting to shout and draw attention to her. I follow, only stopping when an angry Astrid steps out into my path.
The petite beta crosses her arms, glaring at me. “What are you doing? Where’s Jackson and Ambrose?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I snap, my alpha angry that she’s keeping me from going to Camille. “I was walking over to try to talk, but when she noticed me, she bolted.”
“Well, maybe you should’ve sent one of the other guys that didn’t bond her and runaway to talk first.”
“They’re not here yet.” It’s hard to keep the growl of frustration out of my voice. There’s a surge of pain again through the bond, and I rake my fingers through my hair, looking in the direction Camille went. “Fuck, I need to help her. Something is wrong.”
Astrid shakes her head. “What’s wrong is you’re?—”
I hold a hand up. “Listen, I know I fucked things up, and she hates me, but she’s in pain and she needs help. So please move out of my way before my alpha has me make a scene.”
Her dark red lips fall open at my words, and she steps out of the way, eyes wide.
I don’t bother apologizing. There’s no time.
My omega needs me, and I won’t let anything keep me from being there for her like I should’ve been all along.
11
No,no, no, no, no, no.
I clutch my stomach as it cramps violently, turning my face from the pair of betas chatting in the hall outside the restroom. One of them giggles, clearly assuming my haste means I’m having some kind of gastrointestinal distress.
If only that were the case. The sweat dripping down my spine and slickness testing the limits of my underwear tell me otherwise.
Ripping open the door to the restroom, I dart through the small lounge area that’s typical of a nicer venue like this and into where the stalls are, checking under each one to make sure that no one else is inside before releasing a panicked whine. My face is beet red as I look into the mirror over the sink, my hairline wet from perspiration. I dab it away with a damp paper towel, but it doesn’t help to cool me off at all.
Another cramp hits me. “Fuck.” This can’t be happening. I can’t be going into heat in a bathroom again. It shouldn’t even be happening! I did everything right. Every stupid goddamn thing that the mean doctor told me to do to make sure the heatsuppressants worked. Even on days when I barely had the energy to get out of my nest, I did them without fail.
I lean against the sink, using it to keep me upright as my legs threaten to give out. My eyes scrunch shut, the tears sliding down my cheeks cool against my feverish skin.
I barely get a few seconds to wallow before the door to the bathroom opens, slamming against the wall. I jolt upright and wipe away the moisture on my face, trying not to look like I’m having a mental breakdown to whoever entered. The last thing I need is for someone to recognize me and post about how the old omega was seen falling and sobbing in the bathroom at a party.
