Page 54 of Knot Just A Fan

I can give you a preview: Willow left last night. She’s out of the picture. He told her they were done.

He is sorry, Briella. And I think he has feelings for you that he’s had to deny all this time.

Okay, that’s all I can say. Tell me you can come and I’ll book you a room at the hotel in Barcelona, and get you transport to get your flight home—anything you need.

Also, well done on the self-promotion.

Ash

During my reading this aloud to Cami, she leads me to a nearby bench. The metal is cold against my bare legs in shorts I optimistically packed since a lot of Europe is experiencing a January heatwave for the second year in a row.

We sit there in silence, staring straight ahead at the passengers coming past our perch. Despite all that’s happened, I’ve wrangled a possible, safe future out of it. Willow is gone, and Grayson wishes he could see me. It feels indulgent to smile, but I do.

I could message Gray and we could talk it out on the phone. I still want him, so much. My lips on his skin. His scent and mine, mixed. My arms around him, my hands on his body. His on mine.

But Ronan despises me. And I can only guess, probably hates me even more now that my involvement with the band has led to Grayson pushing away the perfect Omega they’ve waited on all this time.

But what if he can see past my devotion—or see it for what it was: appreciation and love for their work, mixed with desire to do mine? I never wanted to ride their coattails even if Nice might now make it look like that.

I know I loved them. I lovehim.Because he saw me. He helped me see how to matter more than my designation. How to let my identity speak through my passion, not my scent glands.

But those glands tell us both a truth. And truth doesn’t change just because you won’t accept it.

We’ve both refused truth for our own reasons. Gray because he had Willow. Me, because I have a fatal flaw that’s kept me frozen: the deep-rooted belief that Alphas and Omegas together aren’t some romantic ideal of soul mates, but genetic disasters, primed to cause hurt and chaos in every instance.

Cami leans in to whisper in my ear. “I really think that stage-bombing thing you did has given you a new level of fuckingscrappy I haveneverseen before. And mate, I’m well here for it. This is insane, you know that, right?”

After a few days getting to know Marseille in-between researching the prospective employees I’ll be interviewing with, we’re here in Barcelona. Cami’s holding on to my arm because my limbs feel like melting jelly. I can walk, but I think my sweat is evaporating before it evenreachesmy pores.

I’m in pre-heat. Again.

Usually heat comes four times a year, if you’re not suppressing it. But cycles can vary, and if you go off your suppressants, it’s anyone’s guess.

It’s only been eleven days since my last one. So yeah, I’m a complete mess.

“Should I call a doctor?” I mumble, as Cami guides me down the street, stealing glances at her phone’s maps app, even though we can see the building ahead from miles away.

“Hotel is two minutes.” She walks us along the beach, the path buzzing with tourists and sun-seekers. Everyone here is so gloriously beautiful. Tan skin, shining eyes, lustrous hair. This is probably true, but I’m also horny as hell right now, so I could just about be happy to jump any single person I pass.

More than a few men look my way, some with raised brows, some with mild interest. One winks at me. Clearly my scent is obvious, and therefore, my oncoming heat.

My stomach roils with cramps. Last time, they disappeared when the actual heat broke out, so I guess it’s good I’m still feeling them.

Cami looks up as if surprised I’m there, then down at the app. “Ugh, I cancelled this taxi, why do they keep texting me?”

“Let’s face it,” I mumble. “Neither of us is very up on our Español. We probably told them we’d take our clothes off in exchange for the ride.”

“Well, either way we’re getting a jolly good hike in this morning.”

I grumble in agreement, gazing at our destination, the W Barcelona. Ash promised to arrange private transport to the train station and back to Nice, and I was more than glad for that. But since we were already headed on the train to Marseille, I didn’t ask he cover the journey here. And I’m fine with it. This is my choice, this one last-ditch effort.

The hotel ismassive. In fact, it looks like the tallest thing around here, but it’s a bit out of the way, on a sort of jetty sticking out into the Med. There’s nothing really near it, besides the gorgeous stretch of beach. A few buildings that look Port Authority-ish, but most of them appear closed. So we chose to walk along the sands and take in the passing bodies, though in retrospect this might’ve been foolish, given the burning sensation between my thighs.

It’s bright as hell and my sunglasses broke when I dropped my bag then proceeded to step on it this morning on the train. Clumsiness is another fun pre-heat symptom. “You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

“Huh? Oh, right. Hey, you can stop staring, buddy!” She snarls this last bit at a group of three men in their thirties, clearly on their lunch break in button down shirts and ties, the middle of whom is openly leering at me. They pass by with laughter and I feel sick. I shouldn’t be embarrassed about my own body, about my designation. But that doesn’t mean I’m not.

“No, if you mean one of those free hotline numbers, they’re going to tell you jack shit. Listen to your body. Accept that your heats are going to come sporadically. When you can afford a proper specialist, we will get you sorted.”

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