Page 11 of Fallen Omega

I emphatically do not want either of those, and while the wordsexsets off all kinds of images with a man I’ve never seen, just smelled and heard, I want that one least of all.

I’m not a machine to make babies.

I’m not.

What’s always funny is no one ever suggests over-the-counter pain killers because it’s notthatkind of pain. It’s different, an urge that turns into agony if left alone, even with the blockers I felt the last two times. What’s going to happen now?

Then I see something about alcohol.

I go through the forum page. There are posts from hundreds of girls and women talking about how drinks can dull the sensations and urges.

It’s preferable to naked moonlight dancing, sex with strangers, and lemon halves in the pit after dark.

“Fuck it. I need a second hot water bottle.”

I get up and grab the wine, the whiskey, and a glass. Not that I intend to drink it all at once. I only plan on getting up for bathroom breaks and maybe a meal.

I pour a glass and take a sip, willing it to work.

I might be a little tipsy, but I feel better. Or is that numbness?

I roll up to sitting, ready for another drink, but the bottle and the bladder of the box wine are empty. Pain knifes low through me.

Part of me wants to believe it’s all a psychosomatic response. I’m good, and the heat’s a few days away. It’s just my finding out there’s no more booze left that’s setting off the pain.

But I don’t think so.

The pull in the depths of me, which combines with a painful ache like an itch that’s been left too long unattended and needs to be scratched, tells me otherwise.

Heat’s coming.

It’s instinctual, the knowledge. Beyond pain or aches or misery.

My whole being knows.

The drugs took down the pounding urge, the edges of agony, but for me, they didn’t quite manage to wipe it out entirely.

Just like the booze tried to conceal it and… Shit, is my body metabolizing the alcohol faster than it should? Because tipsy isn’t where I should be. I should be impending-hungover-tomorrow level of drunk. But I’m not.

The word I’m looking for, I suspect, isfuck.

“I miss you, Dad. I…” I take a breath, hugging the hot water bottle to me as I get to my feet. “I need you.”

This little threadbare apartment is full of him. Not his things, although they’re here, but him. Like his essence has soaked in, like this is safety and home, because of him.

And now…

“How am I going to do this without you?” I hug the water bottle tighter, its contents sloshing in protest. “I don’t want to. I…I just want you back. You and me against the world? And I fucked up. They know about me. I didn’t exist to the stupid Council until…”

Until that alpha who smelled so unbelievably good pulled up and had me reported.

I’m going to have to run.

As soon as my heat’s done, I have to run.

I just don’t know where.

The TV chatters on. Bursts of incidental music swell and crash like waves in a maudlin sea. I glance at the screen. Some horrible, sappy romance plays. I scrounge for the remote control and click it off, letting silence settle.

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