Page 76 of The Knotheads Next Door
In my life, I've learned that sometimes the most effective way to help is not to overpower or force, but to offer quiet support. To create a space where vulnerability feels safe. To wait patiently until trust is given freely.
This is what guides me now as I approach Rowan's partially open door, washcloth and water bottle in hand. Jasper's confrontational tactics managed to get her to open the door, but pushing further might do more harm than good.
"Rowan?" I call softly, not crossing the threshold. "I brought some water and a cool cloth. May I come in?"
A moment of silence, then her voice, strained but determined: "Just you."
I glance back at Jasper and Wells, who stand a few feet away, tension radiating from both of them. Jasper looks like he might argue, but something in my expression stops him.
"I've got this," I tell them quietly. "Give us some space."
Wells nods, placing a restraining hand on Jasper's arm when he doesn't immediately move.
"We'll be downstairs if you need us."
Jasper's jaw works, but he allows Wells to guide him away, though the reluctance in every line of his body is clear.
I turn back to the door, pushing it open just enough to slip inside before closing it behind me. The scent hits me like a physical force—concentrated omega pheromones, sweet and ripe and intoxicating. My alpha instincts roar to life, urging me to claim, to mate, to possess.
I breathe through it, centering myself. This isn't about my needs or desires. This is about Rowan, curled on the bed in obvious distress, her skin flushed, her breathing shallow.
"Hey," I say, keeping my voice gentle as I approach slowly. "How are you holding up?"
She laughs weakly, pushing sweat-dampened hair from her face. "That's a stupid question, even for you."
Despite everything, I smile. Even in the throes of her first heat, she's still Rowan, sharp-tongued and wary.
"Fair enough," I concede, perching carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining enough distance that she doesn't feel crowded. "Here. You need to stay hydrated."
I offer the water bottle first. She takes it with shaking hands, gulping greedily as if suddenly realizing how thirsty she is. When she's finished, I hold up the washcloth.
"May I?" I ask, not wanting to touch her without permission, especially now.
She hesitates, then nods, eyes closing as I gently press the cool cloth to her forehead. A soft sigh escapes her, the first sign of relief I've seen since this began.
"Better?" I ask, carefully wiping the cloth down her cheeks, her neck.
"Momentarily," she admits, eyes still closed. "It'll get worse again soon."
"I know."
We sit in silence for a moment as I continue the gentle ministrations, trying to ignore how my body responds to her proximity, to her scent, to the vulnerability she's allowing me to witness.
"I didn't want this," she says suddenly, her voice small. "I was fine being latent. Being undefined. Now everything's changing and I can't—I don't know how to—"
"I know," I say again, because sometimes there are no words that can truly comfort, only presence that can be offered.
She opens her eyes, meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "Would it help if you scent-marked me?"
The question catches me off guard. "Help?"
"The heat," she clarifies, though her cheeks flush darker. "I've read that alpha pheromones can... ease the symptoms. Temporarily."
She's right, though it's not something discussed in polite company. Alpha scent-marking can provide relief during heat—a biological response designed to comfort and claim. But it's intimate, personal, crossing a line -- again-- that we've been carefully dancing around for weeks.
"Are you sure?" I ask, needing her to be certain. "It's not just a physical thing, Rowan. It's..."
"I know what it is," she says, a hint of her usual impatience showing through. "I'm not asking you to mate me. Just... help. Please."
