Page 121 of Bonds of Hate

I’m not surprised that Poe didn’t hide what he did to me. For all I know, they all thought it was a great idea. It isn’t as if anyone bothers to consult the Omega before she undergoes a surgical procedure.

“I was hoping you might be able to help with that.” Bitterness colors my tone. “But I suppose cutting it out is always an option.”

“Let me see what I can do.” Cillian rolls up the blueprints to tuck them under his arm. “I suggest you keep any plans you’re making to yourself for now.”

I watch him leave with a combination of heady relief and terrible dread.

There isn’t any going back now.

Ispend an hour pacing the apartment as nebulous plans churn in my head. Exhaustion finally compels me back to bed. None of the men have returned, and I’d hate for Pack Logan to think I stayed up waiting for them like a stereotypical Omega housewife.

Ares’s room still smells the best, though I don’t enjoy acknowledging that even to myself.

Not that I really have a choice.

Logan’s end of the hallway is repellant to me and I’m the opposite of tempted to go anywhere near it. Poe’s door is locked, which doesn’t surprise me. And I still have no idea where Cillian even sleeps.

A wash of heat greets me when I slip inside the empty room. Someone must have adjusted the thermostat. After changing into a light cotton nightgown, I open the doors to the balcony, but the cool wind doesn’t do much for me. I have to strip away some blankets off the bed. It doesn’t feel quite right to do it, but the alternative is to sweat right through them, and I don’t think Ares would appreciate that.

But sleep doesn’t come in the way I expect it to.

I toss and turn for at least an hour, waiting for an oblivion that just won’t arrive. It isn’t even racing thoughts that keep me awake, because my mind has gone disturbingly quiet. Chasing any particular thought feels like more effort than it could possibly be worth.

But I do find myself fixating on how scratchy the sheets suddenly feel in a way I hadn’t noticed before. The more I shift in the bed, the more like sandpaper they feel against my skin. I wrap myself up like a burrito in one of the softerthrow blankets, though that only makes the oppressive heat even more unbearable.

My skin feels too tight, like it’s shrunk in the wash and doesn’t fit right anymore. I press my palms against my burning cheeks, seeking relief that doesn’t come.

Maybe I’m getting sick? The thought drifts lazily through my mind as I roll onto my back, then my side, then my stomach. No position brings comfort from the sudden ache in my joints. The air from the balcony should cool me down, but instead it feels like it’s made of static electricity, raising goosebumps across my arms and legs.

I should get up and find some pain medicine, but the thought of moving makes me whimper with sudden exhaustion. Instead, I burrow my face into Ares’s pillow, inhaling deeply. His scent helps, but only a little. The bourbon and chocolate notes that usually comfort me now make my head spin.

Water. I need water. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed dry dirt. But the kitchen is so far away and my limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated. A twist in my gut has me curling up again, panting slightly as sweat beads along my hairline.

I stumble from the bed and into the bathroom. Drinking from the faucet helps somewhat, though cupping it in my hands over and over again is exhausting. I clutch the edge of the counter, fighting off a wave of lightheadedness.

The bed feels even more unwelcoming when I return to it. Those scratchy sheets have to go and I yank them off, not really caring about Ares’s potential reaction at the destruction of his neatly made bed.

Instead of the sheets, I line the mattress with one of thethicker quilts. I pick through the pile of blankets, trying to find the ones that feel the softest and least irritating.

My hands shake as I arrange the blankets in a circle on the bed. Driven by a compulsion it doesn’t occur to me to fight, I roll the edges of the extra blankets into thick cylinders, creating walls that rise around the edges of the mattress.

Ares’s pillow goes in the center, along with two others that I tiptoe out to steal from the living room couch. The mix of scents helps ground me even as another wave of dizziness hits. I press my face into the fabric and inhale deeply.

My skin burns where it touches the air. I need more softness, more comfort. I stumble to the closet and grab one of Ares’s sweaters, adding it to the growing pile of bedding. The thick material helps block out some of the static feeling sparking around me.

I test the walls by pressing against them. Too flimsy. I add another quilt to strengthen the foundation.

When I finally crawl inside, the blankets cradle me perfectly. The walls rise up just high enough not to block the cool air from the open balcony door while keeping me cocooned in softness. I curl up in the center, surrounded by tantalizing scents and the plush bedding.

It’s still not quite right, though. I reach out and snag a pillow, wedging it behind my back for support. My now sweat-soaked throw goes over the top so it can be closest to my skin.

My body relaxes incrementally as I sink deeper into the bedding. The burning sensation under my skin easesslightly, though the room still feels stiflingly hot. At least it doesn’t feel like my skin is being scraped off anymore.

But sleep still won’t come.

My stomach churns and I regret drinking so much water on top of that huge helping of pasta at dinner. The cramps twist deeper, making me curl into a tight ball. What was I thinking, eating so much?

Another cramp seizes my lower abdomen and I groan into the pillow. The sound comes out needier than I intend and I’m glad no one is here to hear it. My nightgown twists around my thighs as I shift again, the silk suddenly feeling like burlap against my hypersensitive skin.

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