Page 107 of Heat Clinic

The room fills with applause, and I take refuge in the arms of my pack as I avoid looking at the crowded room.

“Please be seated,” the officiant says as we head to our small table at the head of the room. “Dinner will now be served.”

Waiters circle, bringing out the first course as the quartet in the corner plays, and the murmur of conversation fills the room. I’m starving. I’ve had more champagne than food today. The manicurist, pedicurist, masseuse, hair stylist, makeup artist, and the photographer Tom hired have kept me running since dawn. We eat and drink and bask in our happiness until dinner is finished, and then we mingle, walking around and talking to everyone. Sam bustles my train so it doesn’t get stepped on before he’s pulled away by his cousins.

They’ve all left me, tugged in one direction or another as they talk with friends and family, some of whom they haven’t seen in years. I spot Lindsay at the singles table. She’s flirting with the handsome man sitting next to her, and I hesitate to interrupt them until she spots me and stands, her hands waving with excitement. I walk into her hug and grip her back.

“Oh. My. God! You look so hot,” she squeals into my ear over the noise.

“I’m so glad you came. I think I know about fifteen people here.”

“Girl, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Your mates are so handsome. It’s ridiculous. And the food was fantastic. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been visiting all the different waiters and stealing hors d’oeuvres. I have a whole purse full of fried shrimp.”

I wrinkle my nose and laugh. “You don’t have to steal them. I’ll ask the kitchen to make you a to-go box if you want.”

She shakes her head, her curls bouncing over her shoulders. “That defeats the entire purpose. It’s the stealing that makes the food taste better.”

I’m not sure that I agree with Lindsay about purse shrimp, but she’s happy, and that’s what matters. I glance over at the man seated next to her at the table and send a silentthank youto the coordinator. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, you’re not gonna believe it. He’s an accountant too, and he told me the funniest joke that I’m absolutely going to steal about taxes and fines and—”

“Emily,” my mother hisses, cutting into the conversation. “I need to borrow you.”

“Mom, I’m in the middle of—”

She grabs me by the wrist and tugs me toward her, and it’s either give in or stumble, so I let her pull me away. Lindsay and I share mutual horrified looks, and I glance around to see if anyone else has noticed. But they’re all absorbed in their own conversations or dinner or drinks.

My mother drags me over to the back of the room where the venue has set up a signing station. There’s a leather-bound blank book for people to write in best wishes and congratulations and a sign asking people to donate to a local charity we chose instead of giving us gifts. There, above the table, are three black and white copies of Tom’s prints displayed on easels. It’s our mating bites. Tom’s, Sam’s, and mine all lined up together.

“Did you know that someone put up pornography? Your grandmother is here! What will people think? I told them to take it down, but that nitwit coordinator of yours won’t listen to me.”

Thank God for small favors.

I make a mental note to have Marcus give the coordinator a bonus. She’s done a remarkable job.

“Mom, it’s not pornography, it’s art. And they’re Tom’s photographs. That’s what he does. Remember? I told you he’s a fine arts photographer.”

“I thought he took normal portraits, not… notthis.It’s obscene.”

I could smooth things over. Ask the coordinator to have the portraits moved. Tom would understand. He knows what difficult families are like. My mother will pretend this never happened until later. In private. When she drags it out as yet another reason for why I’m worse at everything than my perfect sister. That’s what she does. My mother nags and snipes and coerces, but only when nobody else can see it. Can’t have anyone see the cracks in the facade of our perfect family. Sometimes, when she insists that something upsetting never actually happened and I’m misremembering things, she makes me feel crazy.

I’m tired of feeling crazy.

I’m tired of pretending everything is fine.

I’m tired of her making me feel ashamed of what I am. An omega. But there’s nothing wrong with being an omega and I’m done with this endless cycle of misery.

I’m done with her.The moment I think those words I know they’re true. The sudden clarity makes me calm.

The prints are sensual, they’re intimate, but there’s nothing really showing, and it’s not my fault if she can’t tell the difference. And I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m thirty-six, and these are my mates. I refuse to be ashamed of my dynamic anymore because it’s inconvenient to her sense of propriety.

I jerk my wrist out of her grip. “They’re staying. If you hate them so much, thenleave.”

She rears back like I’ve slapped her. “Emily Marie Thorne!”

Now people are staring. They look over, and my face grows hot with embarrassment and shame. Not at my mates, not with myself or our portraits, and certainly not for the bond we created through love. But shame that she’s never accepted this part of me and that I’ve internalized it too, hiding from it like it's something dirty.

But there’s nothing dirty or shameful about being an omega.

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