Page 14 of Stream Heat
“She’s still alone,” Theo mumbled.
“Her choice,” Jace gently reminded.
“Is it?” Theo pressed. “Or just… habit?”
No one had an answer for that.
The van lights were dim, the world outside washed blue by the streetlights. Kara’s building sat silent and high above us, third floor dark and still.
I kept watching the window. Waiting for a sign. Anything.
Nothing.
I logged her stats anyway. Entered vitals, med doses, rough recovery time into the tablet. I didn’t want to misremember. In case she called again. In case she didn’t.
“She needs a pack,” Ash said.
That landed heavy.
Not a claim. Not a possession thing. Just plain fact.
“She needs a choice,” I said. “And she’s not ready for that tonight.”
The van was quiet. Nothing else to say.
We waited those two hours.
No one got restless, or suggested leaving, or tried to go back inside. We just sat vigil. Watched her window. Sat with the discomfort, let it speak louder than our instincts.
If she never called again, never wanted the help, at least I’d still have the record. I’d know her crash, her numbers, her recovery. Because sometimes, you couldn’t fix it.
Sometimes, all you could do was stay close.
Even if the door never opened again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kara
I didn’t move at first. Stayed curled up on the floor, arms around my knees, shivering, even though my skin felt like it was burning from the inside out. Their scents hung in the air, five kinds of Alpha, each one distinct enough that even on the edge of falling apart, my Omega biology was sorting them, ranking them, cataloging them without mercy.
Reid: Cedar and summer thunder, the kind that shakes glass.
Theo: Green tea and electricity with an edge of burned sugar, sweet and sharp at once.
Jace: Ink and icy snow so cold it stung.
Ash: Vanilla and charcoal with a thread of hot metal running through it.
Malik: Sandalwood and that ozone-crisp scent of just-washed linen.
Stupid, treacherous body.
It had already decided that those smells meant safety. Home.
Pathetic.
“Fuck that,” I said, the words all ragged. I got to my feet using the wall, half-sure my knees wouldn’t hold. The dizziness was worse now, buzzing under my skin like static, a wholesymphony of withdrawal symptoms getting louder the longer I stood upright. My hands shook as I made it to my chair, the battered old gaming chair I’d spent thousands of hours in. I expected it to ground me, but sitting just felt wrong for a different reason. My phone buzzed on the desk, and then again, piling up notifications like snow on a mountain top, one wrong move from me and the avalanche would consume me.
