Page 23 of Stream Heat
"I don't want your pity," I said, voice thin as tissue paper.
He didn’t correct me, just said, "It's not pity. It's respect. You survived things no one should have to. You deserve better."
There was nothing I could say to that without giving something away, without betraying myself.
He left, shutting the door softly behind him.
I lay there a long time, staring at nothing, just letting the emptiness settle in. Everything I'd built was in ruins, my public persona, my career, my health. My own damn body felt like an enemy.
And the only people who could maybe fix it were the same five Alphas I’d spent years trashing online.
If that wasn’t darkly ironic, I didn’t know what was.
It was a sick joke. That’s all it would ever be. No matter how safe Reid’s scent made me feel, or how steady Jace's hands were, or how the others hadn’t hesitated to pull me out of my own disaster.
Not real. Not family. Not my pack.
And if I ever let myself forget that, even for a second, I’d lose everything.
CHAPTER NINE
Kara
The worst part about withdrawal wasn't the physical symptoms, though they were brutal enough. It was the time.
Time to think.
Time to obsess.
Time to replay every career-ending second of that stream in excruciating detail.
By the time Dr. Patel finally cleared me to leave the guest room, I'd memorized every crack in the ceiling and cataloged every humiliating scenario awaiting me outside that door.
"Your vitals are stable," she announced, checking the monitoring equipment one last time. "The worst of the withdrawal symptoms should subside within the next week, though you'll experience intermittent effects for several months."
"Several months," I repeated flatly. "Fantastic."
"You spent eight years poisoning your system with military-grade suppressants, Ms. Quinn. Your recovery timeline is actually quite accelerated, all things considered."
I couldn't argue with that, so I didn't try. "When can I stream again?"
"Short sessions would be acceptable starting tomorrow, provided you monitor your symptoms carefully." She gave me a stern look. "No more than two hours at a time, with mandatory breaks."
"Two hours? That's barely enough time to–"
“To not end up dead?” Patel cut me off, her tone as sharp as broken glass. “Because that’s what’s on the table, Quinn. Your body is recalibrating from years of chemical suppression. Push it, and you’ll be right back on an IV, if you’re lucky.”
I swallowed my protest, knowing she was right. "Fine. Two hours."
"And no suppressants other than the tapering doses I've prescribed." She handed me a small pill case. "These are legal-grade, designed to ease your transition rather than completely block your designation responses."
So, I’d still get Omega symptoms. Just not the catastrophic, career-destroying heat that landed me here in the first place. Awesome.
"When's my next dose?"
"Tonight at eight. Mr. Maddox has the complete schedule." She packed her medical bag with efficient movements. "I'll check on you again tomorrow. In the meantime, hydrate, rest, and try not to argue with everyone attempting to help you."
I snorted. "No promises on that last one."
