Page 9 of Feeling the Heat: Part Two
I’ve heard about alphas temporarily losing their minds over their need to protect their omega, but I’m living proof that it can happen to betas too, because I’m shaking by the time Ipull up to Camille’s building, fear and shame coursing through me.
I shouldn’t have left her alone. I didn’t fight hard enough for her. She needed me.
I’m off my motorcycle and storming up to the building, pressing the button for the intercom in rapid succession. There’s no answer right away, so I keep pressing and holding it down, the sharp angry buzz a mirror of my mind screaming at me to make sure the woman I love is okay.
“H-hello?”
Camille’s hoarse, confused voice comes out of the tinny intercom speaker, and sanity and reason slam back into me, rendering me speechless.
Oh god. What the fuck am I doing here?
Camille made it clear she wanted nothing to do with our pack when she didn’t reply to the dozens of messages we sent.
“Who is it? I’m not expecting any deliveries.”
“Sorry,” I croak. “Wrong apartment.”
I step back from the intercom, turning my back on the building and rubbing a hand across my face with a shaky exhale. The instinct to go away and respect her wishes wars inside me with the need to help her. Even hearing her voice has my chest aching with the desire to hold her again. To hear her say my name as I wrap myself around her and keep her safe from all the bullshit in the world.
With a frustrated groan, I spin on my heels and march back up to the door as a woman I vaguely recognize seeing in the building before approaches the entrance. I close the distance between us as casually as possible, making it look like I’m speeding up to help hold the door open for her since she has a grocery bag in her arms.
I shoot her a friendly grin, which I hope doesn’t show my frazzled state of mind. She gives me a shy smile and a softthanks, heading inside and not protesting as I step in after her.
I pretend to check my phone as we ride the elevator together, when really all I’m doing is typing “What the fuck am I doing???” in my notes app.
When I reach Camille’s floor, I wish the woman a nice day and am transported back to a time when I walked down this same hall, grinning ear to ear with eager anticipation of seeing her. Of seeing someone so special to me light up the moment she saw me on the other side of her door.
A profound yearning drags me to her doorstep, and my heart races as I hover there, working up the nerve to knock even as I tell myself I need to leave. Both the worst and best-case scenarios playing in tandem in my mind.
My hesitation ends up deciding for me.
The door I’ve been staring at for god knows how long swings open, and there she is.
There’s a split-second where both of us are frozen in shock, before she lets out a squeak of alarm and the trash bag she was holding falls to the ground.
“Jackson?” Camille’s hand flies over her heart. “Holy shit, I thought you were a murderer.”
“I’m sorry!” I reply, the guilt of scaring her tangling with the rest of my mess of emotions.
When I don’t say anything else, Camille’s startled expression shifts to confusion. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes dart over me, searching for an answer to my presence here. “Are you okay?”
I let out a choked laugh at the question. “Not really.”
The concern etches deeper on her brow, and she steps closer. I suck in a greedy lungful of her spiced latte scent despite the burnt edges of it. “Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not hurt…” I can’t find the words that will excuse why I’m here, because I know I shouldn’t be. “I was worried about you.”
Her expression shutters, but not before a small whine escapes her lips. That’s all it takes for me to close the distance between us, and wrap my arms around her, pressing her tight to my chest.
She doesn’t resist. No, she buries her face against my shoulder, another, louder whine tearing from her as she clutches me back, trembling.
“I’m here,” I murmur, my heart both soaring that I’m holding my omega again and breaking at how much distress she’s in. Camille shudders as her tears soak into my shirt. “You’re safe now, Cami.” I say it both for her and my own assurance.
But it’s the wrong thing to say, because she stiffens and pulls away, a hand swiping at her tears as her jaw sets. “You shouldn’t be here, Jackson. I don’t need you to protect me.”
The words are a knife through my heart, and what makes them all the harder to hear is knowing they’re a lie. I can see months of pain and fatigue etched into her dulled skin and hollow eyes.
“I know you don’t,” I say softly. “I just want to help. I found out about that terrible article, and I came here right away.”
