Page 26 of Faith and Fury

It’s not obvious at first—I mean, Faith is fidgety enough to begin with—but this is different.

She’s relapsing.

I’ve tried to tell Caleb he shouldn’t be keeping her in the dark. She’s getting impatient. Worse than that, she’s losing her trust in him.

Begrudgingly, he explained to me and Jaxon why we haven’t seen the sketch artist yet. He doesn’t want to bring another alpha into the den—this is Faith’s safe space, for all intents and purposes. Nor does he want to bring Faith to headquarters, in case being around all those alphas is too triggering.

All in all, not a great way to start the new week.

I find her pacing the living room while my packmates are out, dragging an armchair towards the window.

Random nesting instincts? Check.

I call out, “Faith?”

She turns.

I make a loose C shape with my hand, gesturing down my chest. “Hungry?”

She doesn’t seem as startled as she used to be by my attempts at sign. Hopefully that means I’m getting a little better.

No, she signs back.

Yeah—that one I learned pretty quickly.

Keeping my eye on the living room—Faith getting up every other minute to rearrange the furniture—I resolve to talk to Caleb about her heat arrangements as soon as he gets home. Logically, I know we should be checking her into hospital … but just thinking about it makes my inner alpha cringe.

Faith is here at Wilder Den for a reason, and that reason is for us to take care of her. No-one else.

Suddenly I gasp, noting the rising pressure in my pants.

“Shit,” I hiss.

What the hell is wrong with me! I’ve had plenty of my omega patients go into heat. Granted, never while I was in the room, but I’ve certainly overseen enough pre-heats to last a lifetime.

So why is the mere thought of ‘taking care’ of Faith getting me hard as a rock?

A loud thud from the living room snaps me out of it. I race out of the kitchen, finding Faith on the floor. Like she’s fallen.

“Faith.” I crouch down. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Groggily, she looks past me at the couch. Was she trying to move it?

“Oh, omega—” I stop myself before I can touch her, but to my surprise, she doesn’t seem the least bit inclined to bite my hand off. Her cheeks are flushed the cutest pink. Her eyes are glossy. Her lips …

I swallow.

Hastily, I grab her notepad from the coffee table. “Talk to me,” I plead. “Are you feeling sick?”

She writes with an unsteady hand—DIZZY.

“Okay.” Shit. Fuck. “That’s okay. Can I help you sit up?”

There are several hazy beats of hesitation before she nods, letting me maneuver her onto the couch. Her skin is slick with sweat, but not as hot as I feared.

Against my better judgement, I take a deep breath. Still no scent.

That’s good. Means it hasn’t started yet.

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