Page 144 of Pack Frenzy
“Hey. You look less like death. Improvement?”
“Barely.” She sips, throat working, and I crawl back beside her anyway—because I can’t stay away even when I should.
Really should go get her something more substantial than Gatorade and water, but I can’t bear leaving her right now.
My legs cramp, so I stretch one out, my knee brushing hers. She tugs the blanket over her lap, as if modesty means anything at this stage.
I want to ask if she’s scared. Instead, I say, “If you pass out, I’m drawing a mustache on you. Permanent marker.”
She narrows her eyes. “If I die, I’m haunting you. You’ll never have a silent shower again.”
“Joke’s on you, I don’t shower.” I grin, and finally, finally, she cracks a smile. “It’s bubble baths or bust for this bad boy, Beta.”
She covers her mouth to keep from laughing too loud and waking Cassian and Rowan. It only lasts a second before her eyes cloud again. She shivers hard enough to rattle the water bottle. I take it from her, cap it, and set it down, then lay a hand flat on her back. She’s burning, hotter than a fever should be, but her skin’s dry now—bad sign.
She pulls her knees up to her chest again, a fortress of bone and stubbornness. I get the sense she’s bracing for the next hit, same as me.
I rub her back, then she turns to me, and her mouth is on mine, desperate and electric. Her teeth nick my lower lip, and Itaste blood, salt, and her. The kiss is desperation, but she doesn’t let up, not even when a new sweat breaks out along her brow.
The room shifts—pressure, movement, a shadow crossing the wall. Rowan, up and prowling, muscles tensed like he’s ready to tear through concrete. His eyes lock on Jess, then on me, and I see the flicker of calculation behind the color.
“Let me—” Rowan starts, but he wobbles when he steps forward.
“Not yet. You’re running on fumes, and she needs someone steady.” I press the cold bottle into his hand, my palm still on his chest for a heartbeat longer than necessary, feeling the wild stutter of his pulse.
Rowan stares, jaw working, the muscle there fluttering like a pulse. He wants to argue, but logic wins out. It always does with him. Instead, he turns away and drains the bottle in three gulps. Cassian’s still dead to the world.
Jess goes rigid, then sags, sweat pooling at her collarbone. She reaches for Rowan, fingertips splayed, but her arm trembles so badly I have to support it.
“Listen,” I say, shifting her back against the pillows. “We need calories and more fluids, or you’ll seize up. Rowan—downstairs, in the pantry, behind the rice cooker, there’s an emergency kit with protein bars and shake packs. Bring the basket. Now.”
Rowan doesn’t hesitate. He’s out the door in five steps. The second he’s gone, Jess exhales and collapses sideways, head in my lap. She shakes uncontrollably, and I thread my fingers through her hair, stroking until her breathing slows.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “Should’ve told you. At the Omega Institute, they say some Omegas crash faster on the second day. G-Guess I’m one of the lucky ones.”
I shake my head. “No apologies. You’re killing it.”
She snorts, but the sound is weak. “Not literally, I hope.”
“Not if I can help it.” I run my thumb along the back of her ear. “You ever think about taking it easy? Maybe try meditation, goat yoga, something less…suicidal?”
Her eyes flick up, almost a smile. “Goats are scary, Eli. They eat everything.”
I laugh, and the sound makes her relax a little more. She burrows into my thigh, hands balled into fists. My shorts are ruined, sweat-soaked, and starting to stain, but I don’t care.
I keep talking, low and steady, narrating the disaster of our last team-building exercise (spoiler: ended with Cassian super-gluing Rowan’s ass to a chair) until Jess starts to breathe normally again.
The heat’s not gone, not by a long shot, but we’re holding the line.
I watch the door, counting down seconds until Rowan gets back. He’s the type to overdo it—probably halfway through alphabetizing the protein bars and talking himself down from tearing the door off its hinges because her scent’s all over the damn house. Hopefully, he has one of the protein shakes himself.
When he finally shows, it’ll be with an overstuffed basket and his control stitched back together.
Jess closes her eyes, lips moving in a silent curse or prayer.
I squeeze her shoulder, counting heartbeats like prayer beads.
Fixing things is what I do.
