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Avery
not for long
The worst part of all of this isn’t having an omega to consider, or even watching my brother burn.
It isn’t the mind-bending list of things I’m not prepared for or all the ways this half-assed plan to woo a complete stranger could go horribly wrong.
No.
Twelve hours in?
The worst part is how I thought I knew myself.
And, as it happens, I didn’t have one single fucking clue.
All the instincts that I spent years subverting... I thought resurrecting them would be a gradual process. Or, at the very least, one that would take longer than two hours.
But by the time I finish pacing my room, fuming, and force myself to get into bed, all of my assumptions are disproven.
All night, raging need vibrates under my skin. I feel hot. Aggravated. Aggressive, even.
Everything I’ve done my best to suppress for so long.
All of that work. Years of control. With Serena’s scent clinging to the dress shirt hanging over the back of my desk chair, it all amounts to nothing.
Which brings me to the second worst part of all of this—how much I understand what happened to Tris.
I hate that I get it. Hate that just breathing the faint traces of the poor girl’s perfume on the sleeve of my button-down is enough for my teeth to ache.
Fucking hell. I’m practically salivating. And she isn’t even in the room.
And then there’s the last, final piece of completely inconvenient fact:
This is my field of expertise. I’ve spent years of my life studying exactly this. Which is how I know, down in the nauseous, seething depths of my stomach—this omega isn’t just our scent-match.
She must be our mate.
I always hoped we didn’t have one. So much so that I all but convinced myself we didn’t.
How did I manage to deny the possibility so thoroughly? Why wasn’t I prepared?
The question haunts me while I roll from one side of my bed to the other, pounding my fists into my pillows, throwing the covers off, and then pulling them right back up.
Anything to ignore the way my stiff cock presses into my pajama bottoms.
By morning, I’ve gotten two hours of terrible sleep. When I wake up and roll over—onto yet another throbbing erection—I’m angry.
For fuck’s sake.
It’s been over a year since I even felt the need to relieve myself. A steady regimen of rut-blockers and two hours in our pack’s gym every morning typically banish any stray impulses.
They’ve done studies on that, too—how gradually reducing sexual releases over time eventually alleviates the need altogether.
Of course, those studies weren’t conducted using mates.
Or even individuals in complete packs.
And they may have focused on single, elderly alphas.
