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Panic joins the tingly flood of heat in my middle. That gelling, jittery warmth settles between my hips once again. A sharp stab—more painful than any arousal I’ve ever experienced—impales my pussy.
I whine, the loud sound shattering the tension pulled taut between us. Spencer starts to lurch toward me, but he catches himself, backing off immediately.
“Your perfume,” he husks, teeth grinding. “It’s different. Stronger. Do you feel dizzy? Or warm?”
Warm and dizzy would be a blessing. At the moment, I feel hot. And delirious.
When I try to open my mouth to explain why my entire body is suddenly shaking violently, another pitiful whine escapes. Spencer growls out loud this time, fisting his hands at his sides.
A bark snaps out of him. “Omega. Focus.”
An answering fission of fear cracks through my chest, but my eyes fly to his automatically.
“Focus on me,” he orders, quieter. “Nod your head—are you hot?”
Will he be angry at me? What’s happening? Whimpering and shrinking down, I squeeze my eyes shut and nod.
But he only hums, clipping over another question. “Dizzy?”
I try to nod again, but it feels more like a loll. My eyes blink open, finding Spencer closer than before. His voice softens into a rasp. “You’re having a heat-spike,” he murmurs. “You need?—”
An alpha.
He doesn’t say the words, but I already know. The second he said heat, I knew. That’s what this is—this familiar feeling that I’ve done everything in my power to block out.
Only, it’s somehow worse than usual? Dr. Monroe tried to warn me; he said my heat symptoms would be “exaggerated” now that I’ve been claimed. I didn’t believe him, only because it didn’t seem possible for heats to be worse than the ones I’m used to.
Spencer frantically flicks his gaze over me like I’m a bomb that’s about to go off. One that he knows how to diffuse—he keeps looking at the place where Avery’s hoodie skims the tops of my thighs—but, for some reason, he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want me.
Instead of coming closer, he backs off again. His throat works on a swallow as my vision blurs, giving him two extremely pissed-off faces.
For a moment, everything wobbles and wavers. Then, a sharp slice of pain stabs my empty insides. I whimper, doubling over.
The strange, stern alpha mutters, “Goddamn fucking hell.”
And then he lunges for me.
chapter
twenty-four
Somebody better be dead.
That is the only acceptable reason for anyone to be pounding on my door at eight a.m..
If no one is dead, someone is about to be.
I open my mouth, fully intending to tell whoever is there to fuck off, but a sweep of sensation prickles over my body, leaving my hair standing on end.
Sticky-sweet, creamy lusciousness.
Serena.
Not bothering to put anything over my black boxer briefs, I force myself upright and grunt. My hands are sore as fuck from my last spar. Ribs, too. Not to mention that kidney shot I took. And the gnarly blotch on my hip bone.
Day two is always the worst day for bruises.
“Not cool, kitten,” I grouse, shuffling to the doorway, kicking a pile of clothes and a stack of sketch pads out of my way. “Next time you wake me, it better be with your gorgeous?—”
