Page 73 of Saddle and Scent
The scents that have been following me through my fever dreams—pine and citrus and cinnamon—they're real. They're here, in this room, close enough that their presence is wrapping around me like a protective barrier.
"However," the doctor continues, and there's something in her tone that makes my attention sharpen, "I also need to address something else. She's going to be having heat flare-ups in the coming days and weeks, likely increasing in intensity."
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Heat flare-ups.
The thing every unmated Omega dreads, the biological imperative that becomes more insistent with age and stress and the absence of an Alpha's claiming bite.
"Is that connected to the heat stroke?" Wes asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice that makes my chest tight.
"Not directly," the doctor explains. "But it's related to the fact that she's been unmated for so long. The stress of the heat stroke, combined with whatever other stressors brought her to this point, has likely triggered her body's attempt to... let's call it self-correction."
Self-correction.
What a clinical way to describe the desperate, humiliating biological drive that reduces Omegas to need and instinct and the kind of vulnerability that makes me want to crawl under a rock and die.
"Is there anything we can do to make her comfortable during those flare-ups?" Callum asks, and the careful control in his voice doesn't quite hide the underlying tension.
The way he says 'we' like it's assumed, like it's natural that they would be the ones taking care of me.
Like ten years of distance and hurt and careful walls don't exist.
Like we're still sixteen and seventeen and eighteen, still operating under the assumption that we belong to each other in all the ways that matter.
I try to identify the doctor's scent, catching hints of it under the antiseptic smell of medical supplies and the overwhelming presence of three concerned Alphas. She smells like an Omega—that distinctive sweetness that marks our designation—which makes my stomach toss nervously.
An Omega doctor.
That's... unexpected.
And somehow more concerning than if she were a Beta or Alpha.
Because an Omega doctor will understand exactly what I'm facing in a way that makes the clinical discussion suddenly, intensely personal.
"That's really her call," the doctor says, and I can hear something like amusement in her voice. "How she wants to tackle this situation. Obviously, it's going to get worse until she's able to mate with a pack."
A pause.
The kind of weighted silence that speaks volumes.
"Which I'm only assuming isn't you three?"
The silence stretches.
Becomes uncomfortable.
Becomes telling in all the ways that make my heart clench with old hurt and new hope in equal measure.
I try to act like the silence doesn't bother me, but it does.
It bothers me more than it should, more than I want to admit, more than is fair after ten years of building walls specifically designed to protect me from caring about their answers to questions like this.
"It's complicated," Wes finally mutters, and even unconscious, even pretending to sleep, I can hear the defeat in his voice.
Complicated.
