Page 73 of Heat Clinic

A surprise? We eat and get showered and dressed, and Tom calls for a Town Car to take us to Fifth Avenue. I stare out the window as we pass by Central Park and turn onto the street with all the shops.

I try on clothing until I’m numb and exhausted. Why do I need so many evening dresses, and where the fuck am I going to wear opera-length gloves? I’ve never been to an opera before. After the first five minor heart attacks, I stop looking at the price tags and remind myself they have a castle and can clearly afford it, even though that one dress alone cost more than a month’s rent for my apartment in Boston.

I’m grateful that I get to sit and watch when we go to the men’s department for Sam. They measure him for suits, and he tries on several styles until he settles on a designer and cut that makes him look so fucking handsome that I can hardly stand to look at him without dragging him into the fitting room and getting us all kicked out. Maybe arrested.

My libido’s never been this high before outside of a heat. It’s like the more I have of them, the more I want. Like there’s no quenching this thirst they’ve created.

While he’s trying on casual outfits, I pull out my phone and investigate. The internet says what I expected but still can’t quite believe. Forming packs often go through a period of hormone fluctuations that encourage bonding, mating, and breeding. The longer the claiming bite is delayed, the stronger the urges become. If we’re a week into this and I already feel like tossing Sam down on this tufted ottoman poof and riding his cock right here in the middle of the fitting area, then how bad is it going to get in a month? In three months when I have my next heat?

I need to get a hold of myself. I can’t mate with three people I still barely know, no matter how much I want their teeth and their cocks in me. We need to do this right. Get to know each other. Go on dates. Meet each other’s families. I grimace at the thought.

“Everything all right?” Tom asks, hovering like he’s been doing all morning.

“Fine.” I put my phone to sleep and slip it into my purse.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and tilts his head, staring at me in that way that feels like he’s looking right into my messy, anxious head. Sam says I need to be more honest with myself and everyone else about what I’m feeling or thinking. About what I want.

What I want more than anything is for this crushing anxiety to leave me alone so I can enjoy myself. I sigh. “Can I be honest?”

He goes still, then sits in one smooth movement. “Please.”

“I don’t know how to let myself enjoy all of this because I keep thinking you’ll realize I don’t fit. What the fuck do I know about opera? Puccini. That’s the beginning and end of my knowledge about the opera, and I don’t even know why or how I know that. What do I have in common with people who own a fucking castle?”

What if they regret me in a year when I’m not what they thought they wanted?

“A castle?” Tom’s brow wrinkles as he thinks for a moment. “Do you mean Hardcastle Hall? I can see why you thought that, but it’s a house, not a castle. Castles were built for defense. Hardcastle was built as the country seat for my ancestors.”

See? I don’t even know the difference between a house and a castle, but Sam did.

“Hardcastle Hall is hardly a prize, although I suppose it looks grand in photos. Only half of it is livable. The rest is too damp and full of rot from a roof leak that wasn’t repaired properly by my great-grandfather. The electrical’s been upgraded so many times over the years and it’s still a mess. If you run the microwave and the electric kettle at the same time, you’ll blow the entire kitchen’s fuse. We only use it at Christmas and special occasions like weddings or funerals when the whole family gathers.

“It costs an absolute fortune to run, so we let it out as a museum and sometimes we rent it out to film production companies. That covers most of the house’s expenses. When Marcus and I formalized our mating, my father was enraged. Even though our fathers were lifelong friends, he was still seen as the help. Marcus was considered beneath me. It didn’t matter that he worked and he’s successful. That he had money of his own. My father told everyone I’d been cut from the will, only he never actually changed the papers the lawyer drafted. And then he died. I inherited it.” He takes a deep breath and goes silent as he stares off into the middle space, lost in thought.

“I’m sorry,” I say, putting a hand on his knee. “That must have been so hard. You never reconciled before he passed?”

“No, my father wasn’t the forgiving type. Now Hardcastle hangs around my neck like an albatross. If I sell it, my family loses a part of their history. I can’t do that to them. So we shut up the West wing and rent out the rest of it and every couple of years we all gather for Christmas for a week and then I don’t have to think about it again for two or three years except to sign the occasional contract or cut a repair check.”

He takes my hand and threads our fingers together, and I squeeze, offering him what comfort I can. I have my own issues with my family. But as much as my mother can drive me insane, I know she loves me the best she can. And I can’t ever imagine abandoning my child or making them feel like my love is conditional.

“I hate the opera,” he says after some time. “Always have. They used to take us on field trips in school and I never liked it. But Marcus enjoys all sorts of theater shows, so every once in a while he convinces me to go.” He shudders in an exaggerated movement, as if the very thought fills him with dread, and it makes me smile.

“And I think you fit.” Tom bumps his shoulder against mine and grins. “I think you fit quite nicely. But if you’re not sure about the fit, I can think of a few creative positions for us to try to see if you fit better.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. “You’re incorrigible.”

“No, luv, I’m persistent. The key is knowing who to direct your attention to and when to adjust tactics. One is a virtue, the other a vice.”

I side-eye him as he strokes his thumb against the back of my hand. “I think you and vice are well acquainted.”

Tom pretends to look offended. “Ask any of my classmates at boarding school. I was an apt pupil.”

“Except when it comes to the opera.”

“We can’t all be perfect.”

“No? With your wonderful, handsome partner and your jet set life and artistic career and leaky castles and beautiful, perfect house full of beautiful, perfect knick knacks that absolutely fucking terrify me?”

“Our knickknacks terrify you?” He’s amused, his face lighting up. His green eyes catch the light and glimmer.

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