Page 65 of Stream Heat
I didn’t bother denying it. "Yeah. Not great timing."
"We can postpone the stream."
"No." I looked up, letting the stubbornness burn through the discomfort. "We’ve pushed this for weeks. Sponsors are watching. I’ll manage."
Malik was not convinced, that much was obvious. His scent was sharper, anxiety bleeding through the usual steadiness. But he just nodded, not pushing it. “I’ll let the others know you might need… accommodations.”
Accommodations. Yeah, that was one way to put it.
"Thanks for the tea," I said, shutting the door before I could start acting like an actual basket case. "I'll be ready by noon."
Alone again, I leaned against the door, hands shaking around the mug. The herbal smell, ginger and lemon, I guessed, cut through the Omega haze for a second, almost like a hand yanking me out of deep water. If I could just keep a grip, I’d get through it. Four hours at a table. Six people. Four hours of not falling apart. I’d played tournaments with worse going on in my head.
But trying to psych myself up just made another wave of heat tear through me, sharper, crueler. My knees buckled. I somehow made it to the bed, slopping hot tea all over my hand in the process.
"Shit," I hissed, dropping the mug on the nearest surface and grabbing my hand, letting the scalding pain drive back the fog for a second.
If I called Dr. Patel, she’d show up with enough drugs to put me under or tell me to cancel everything. The official, responsible, boring answer. My thumb hovered over her number. I put it back down.
Four hours. I could do four hours. The Alphas had already set up all the safety nets, a kitchen full of protein and electrolyte drinks, smart locks on doors, contact protocols for minimal interaction. All the stuff to give the illusion of dignity and control.
By eleven, it was pretty obvious I’d been lying to myself.
Just sitting was hell. My skin throbbed, every sound felt like nails, every second stretched out by the gnawing emptiness growing inside me. My shorts felt like barbed wire. Even the PC fan sounded like a jackhammer, and every time someone so much as coughed down the hall, it made my whole body tense like prey.
And the worst part was the need building between my legs. Not subtle, not ignorable, not something white-knuckling could fix. My body was screaming for exactly what it wanted, what it would take to end this.
An Alpha. A knot. Ideally all five of them, preferably until I blacked out.
"Shut up," I snarled at my reflection, nails digging into my palms. "That’s not happening."
I’d already doubled my suppressants, probably a bad idea, but that’s where my judgment was at. Didn’t help. If anything, now I had dizziness and a sour stomach layered on top of the rest.
Somebody knocked again.
“Quinn?” Reid's voice rumbled through the door, deep enough that it made heat pool in my core. “We’re setting up. You still good for the stream?”
I sucked in air. "Yeah. Be there in ten."
"You sure? Your scent is..." a pause, like he needed time to pick a word that wouldn't make everything worse. "Strong. Even through the door."
"I'm fine," I insisted, trying for confidence but landing somewhere between pathetic and hilarious. "Just give me a few minutes."
A beat, then: "Alright. We’ll be ready when you are."
I exhaled, suddenly dizzy. Just hearing his voice set my nerves on fire. I had to move, had to do something. Cold compress on the back of my neck, another hit of suppressants (I know, I know, bad idea), switch out to looser clothes, hair back from my face. The person in the mirror looked like they belonged in an ER, not in front of thousands of viewers.
But this was the plan. I was going to do it.
At twelve on the dot, I walked into the streaming room, every step something I had to force. They were all seated already, gearset up, and the instant I entered, five pairs of Alpha eyes locked on me. Their scents hit me like a brick wall.
Cedar and thunderstorms. Green tea and ozone. Ink and rain. Charcoal and vanilla. Sandalwood and linen.
Even if I hadn’t been dying, my Omega brain would have clocked every single one of them. As it was, it felt almost predatory, the way my subconscious broke down every detail, every potential match, every molecule.
"Hey," I croaked, sliding into my spot between Jace and Malik. "Ready to carry you all to victory?"
The joke flopped. My voice was too tight, too thin, but at least it came out. The others glanced around in that subtle way people do when they’re trying not to be obvious, but it was painfully clear in the silence.
