Page 39 of Stream Heat
This wasn’t just withdrawal. I knew it even as it happened. This was my body revolting, years of suppressants flipped off overnight, every cell losing its mind.
It took three attempts to hit the “technical difficulties” overlay, my failsafe, the one I’d never hoped to use. Instantly the game vanished, replaced by a cartoon graphic and a promise I’d be back soon.
“S-sorry, chat,” I gasped. “Technical… issues. Back in… five.”
I muted the mic. Immediate regret, then another wave, nausea so intense the room tipped sideways. I shoved back from the desk, made a desperate grab for the door, but my legs folded before I was even upright.
I crashed to the floor. The chair clattered somewhere. I didn’t care.
The room spun, ceiling and floor swapping places every time I blinked. I curled up, arms locked around my middle, riding out the spike of pain cutting sharply through my stomach. This couldn’t be happening. Dr. Patel had sworn the meds would stop this. Wasn’t that the whole point?
But now, all I had was pride, and pride said don’t call for help. Couldn’t let them see me broken. Couldn’t let Malik, or Reid, or, god, anybody, walk in and see the Omega they all expected me to be.
At some point, there was a knock at the door. I didn’t remember how much time passed. Minutes, maybe hours.
“Quinn?” Malik’s voice, tense, but controlled. “Can I come in?”
I tried to answer, but what came out was more of a whimper than a word.
The door opened. His scent, sandalwood, sage, something sharper underneath, cut through the pain for half a heartbeat.
“Kara.” His voice dropped, all serious-alpha. “What happened?”
I couldn’t explain. I shook my head, and that nearly set off another blackout.
He crouched next to me, careful not to touch, probably so he didn’t trigger some lawsuit-level incident. “I need to know what you’re feeling. Withdrawal? Heat? Something else?”
“Everything,” I whispered, hating it. “Hurts… everywhere.”
He risked a hand to my forehead. Gentle, careful, like I was made of glass. “You’re burning up. How long?”
“Morning,” I mumbled. “Thought I could… push through.”
His jaw tightened. There was a flash of anger, but it wasn’t at me. “I’m helping you to the bed, okay?”
I nodded. What choice did I have? I couldn’t move on my own, too weak, too… Omega. I hated every millisecond of it.
Malik lifted me like it was nothing. The moment his scent got close, my body shorted out, a rush of something far too primal to ignore. Instinct. Biology. Whatever name you slapped on it, it was humiliating. Doubly so when I started to be able to scent myself in the air around us.
He got me on the bed, then backed off, keeping a careful two-foot buffer between us. Good. I didn’t trust myself right then.
“I’ll call Dr. Patel,” he said, fishing for his phone.
“No.” I grabbed his wrist, hands shaking so badly I almost missed. “Just… need a minute. Stream’s still… running.”
He didn’t buy it. “Your health is more important than the stream.”
“My career is my health,” I shot back, words slurred at the edges. “Can’t show weakness. Not again.”
Something in his eyes softened. He got it. “Kara, listen. This isn’t weakness. This is recovery. Pushing through will only make it worse.”
“I’m not…” The rest stuck in my throat. I was not fragile, I wanted to say. I was not like the ones who folded up and begged for help at the first sign of pain. But my body betrayed me, another spasm unspooling everything.
He shook his head, but his touch was soft, even when his words were hard. “You’re stubborn, but you’re not invincible. There’s a difference.”
Another pain spike, deeper this time, enough to choke a full sob out of me. Completely humiliating.
Malik’s scent sharpened. “That’s it. I’m calling the doctor.”
