Page 143 of Pack Frenzy
She sucks in a ragged breath. “It’s starting again, isn’t it?”
“Probably, which is why you need to hydrate.” I thumb her chin until she looks at me. She’s glassy, but not gone.
I want to tell her I’m here, really here, and I’ll hold her through every second of this, but the words stick in my throat. Omegas in heat aren’t themselves. They chase biology, not choice.
When the haze clears, she’ll remember I’m just the Beta. The one without the knot she’s biologically programmed to crave.The one who can’t claim her, can’t mark her, can’t give her body what it’s screaming for.
I’m the guy who brings Gatorade while the Alphas do the real work.
And maybe that should be enough. Maybe I should be grateful just to be here, in the nest, trusted with this.
But god, I want more than grateful. I want to be chosen.
Sure, she might have accepted me before, but we’ve not reached the end of her heat; she could decide she only wants Alphas and their knot.
So I do what I always do—practical, boring, Beta fix-it. I slip out of the tangle, feet hitting the floor, and walk the ten steps to the mini-fridge. I pop two bottles, one water and one Gatorade, and chug both before grabbing two more. My hands are steady, so my brain must still be working.
When I turn, Jess has pulled the comforter over her head, cocooning herself. Only her toes stick out, nails painted gold, twitching like Morse code. I kneel by her nest and lift the edge of the blanket.
“Drink.” I hold out the bottle.
She tries to glare but can’t manage it.
I twist the cap and press it to her lips. She takes three long pulls, then falls back, hand pressed to her chest as if it’s the only thing holding her together.
“Cassian and Rowan?”
“Alive. Probably comatose. If you want, I can draw something on their faces.”
She makes a sound—almost a laugh, then clamps down again. I watch the pulse in her neck, feel the radiating heat from her skin. She’s boiling, but the shivers keep coming.
I brush her hair back again, then stroke the side of her face. “This part sucks. But you’ll ride it out.”
She tips her head into my hand, just a fraction, and that’s more trust than she’d ever admit out loud.
“Stay,” she says, not an order, not even a plea. Just the simple, brutal truth of need.
“Of course.” Then I hand her the Gatorade, pleased that she drinks more than half as I slide back into the nest, wrapping myself around her as best I can, conscious of every muscle twitch, every time she presses her body closer. The two sleeping bears don’t move. The world outside could be on fire, and none of us would know.
We lay there, breathing together. Jess’s breaths get shorter, hotter, but she doesn’t complain as I help her sip more water, counting the seconds until the next wave.
She won’t say it, but I will: she’s strong, stronger than anyone gives her credit for. But strength doesn’t mean she deserves to suffer alone.
The next spike comes quick, her body arching, teeth finding my shoulder. I hold her through it, thinking how nothing on earth should be able to do this, to someone this alive.
If it gets worse, I’ll call in backup. But for now, I’m not leaving without having her in my arms.
Not when she needs me more than I need sleep.
The heat in the room is getting serious. Not the central air kind, but the sort that seeps into your bone marrow and makes every fabric stick to your skin. Cassian’s snoring is getting louder; even in sleep, he sounds like a threat.
I lie there, counting Jess’s heartbeats through my arm, until her body relaxes. She’s shivering less, but her forehead is damp, and her hands are shaking when I check her pulse. I know the stats—Omegas in heat can lose a quarter of their body water in a few hours, and no one could ever accuse Jess of moderation.
I glance at the empty bottles from earlier, then slide out of the nest again, and she whimpers. “Be right back.”
Then I crack open the fridge and stare at its sad contents: two Gatorades (blue and purple, of course), three waters. We need more for her. Why didn’t I check it when we got back from the cabin?
When I circle back, Jess is sitting up, the blanket tented around her head. Her eyes are clearer, and the fever-flush is down by maybe one degree.
