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I stretch my arms out overhead, feeling every bit of the last few days in every cell of my body, my muscles weak and aching like I've run a marathon. Slapping the bed next to me, my palm finds nothing but cold, empty sheets.
My heat is over, and I feel a wave of disappointment course through me. I have only vague memories, but it was the best heat of my life. Not only did they give my body exactly what I wanted, but I got to share it with my mates. I feel euphoric.
Where are my mates? Don’t they know you should never abandon an omega after their heat? It’s like coming down from the greatest high; you need a soft cushion to land on. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
That’s alright; they have a lot to learn about being with an omega. I can tell just by looking around the room. The bed is too small, and there is a distinct lack of pillows, soft blankets, and cushions. The room has a bachelor's vibe. But it smells like clean laundry, the scent strongest on the pillows, with an amalgam of all my mate's scents swirling around me; it's pure bliss.
They need a nest. I need a nest.
Deciding to go in search of them so we can talk, I roll off the bed, but the moment I move, my bladder screams. Climbing up, I stumble my naked body into a tiny bathroom attached to Cass’s bedroom, pausing briefly, wondering why there's a giant hole in the wall like someone punched a fist through it.
It’s definitely a man’s bathroom. Shaving clippers, a toothbrush resting upside down in a cup, a mess of toothpaste smeared on the counter.
I giggle, delighted. It's so unlike what I'd find at home, where everything has a place; even the toothbrush hides in a decorative container as if to say all bodily functions should never be observed or discussed by another, even your lover. I love this. It’s just so normal. And real. Standing in front of the mirror, I look up and nearly stumble back.
I recall being carried into the shower more than once, so I’m not surprised I’ve been stripped of all my makeup, red lipstick included.
But I look fresh. Clean. Happy. Actually, genuinely, truly happy. My lips curl up tentatively, and I reach my fingertips out, feeling the foreign sensation, my lips stretching my cheeks wide. It’s not puppet Imogen. She's real.
I laugh again, but I’m alone in the bathroom, and I want to see my mates, so I hurry through a morning routine. While finger brushing my teeth, since I couldn’t find a spare toothbrush, I keep marveling over my thoroughly disheveled appearance.
Fading bruises on my shoulders and hips, skin red and raw from rubbing, tender beard burn on my thighs. I look ruined. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive.
After brushing my teeth, I slip back into Cass’s bedroom, again surprised to find it empty. Where are they? I dig through his clothes, vaguely recalling arriving in only my bra and underwear and Cass’s hoodie, so I steal a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, slipping both on.
I run my fingers through my hair, but there’s nothing to be done about the rat's nest, so I let it hang long down my back.
Creeping out of Cass’s messy bedroom, curious about this house where my mates live, the scent of coffee and crackling bacon draws me through their living space. It’s all open concept, and as I navigate around the couches and chairs, I find Cass with his back turned, cooking at the stove in the kitchen. No Iggy or Red.
I try not to be too disappointed or hurt that they’re not here. At least Cass was thoughtful enough to cook, though perhaps it's presumptuous to assume it was for me.
With a sigh, I pat down my hair, trying not to feel self-conscious about its messy state, wishing I had the time and tools to style myself properly. Still, these past few days… I feel like I've shed some of that veneer that I often cling to with an iron-clad grip. They didn't treat me like a porcelain doll. They saw the uninhibited, less perfect version of me, and from the few cooing praises I remember, they liked me for me, not the omega or the OFA version.
This isn’t transactional like at a heat clinic. Or like those few times I shared a heat with other courting packs. This is different. They're my scent-matches!
"Morning, Cass," I say shyly.
Startled, Cass turns, nearly dropping the spatula, but his fist tightens around the handle. His shoulders stiffen, and all I can think is, drop the spatula, I’m more important than the bacon.
But he turns away, pushing it around in the pan, then calls over his shoulder, "Morning, Imogen."
Okay. I wasn’t expecting the red carpet or anything. Am I really that spoiled that I thought he and the others would be more excited after what we just went through? Did it mean nothing to them?
Oh dear, what if it meant nothing to them? They still can’t scent me. And I threw myself at Cass in his office, didn’t I? What if they think I'm like Emily? That I’m obsessed with them, trying to insert myself into their lives.
No, they’re my mates. They can feel it, or their alphas can. This is bigger than that.
Standing a little taller, determined to make this work, somehow, I clear my throat, ready to make a few demands, when the side door to the kitchen rattles, and Red walks in, followed by Iggy.
Their steps falter, faces not happy to see me, and the dismissal is a vice grip around my throat. Tears well in my eyes; they don’t even have to say anything. I can feel the rejection. It stings. My stomach burns.
"Hey," I swallow. "I was just about to—"
"You doin' okay?" Red asks tightly.
Heart racing, pain lancing my chest, I stutter, "Uhm, yes. Thank you, yes. I'm fine."
Iggy steps around Red, coming to stand directly in front of me. He smells freshly showered, his cinnamon wine scent even stronger, and I don't resist the urge to lean closer, to breathe him in. It's spicy and comforting. "I’m glad you’re okay," he says sincerely, but I have no clue why he says it like that, like I wouldn't be. "Thank you for showing me I’m safe. You helped me trust myself. I’m grateful."
