Page 61 of Pack Me Up
“There’s only a week until the tour starts. Are you nervous your mini heat hasn’t started?” Tommy asks as we finish our rehearsal.
Colton and Cody told me what they sensed the other night, and I could only hope that they were right. The tour starts soon, and I’m running out of time to get it done.
I groan. “Of course I am. It would be so like me to mess up the start of the tour like this.”
Tommy smacks me gently on the shoulder. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. It’s biological and not your fault. Oli will understand more than anyone. I told you what happened on her first tour with her mates.”
We finish putting the instruments away, and I hug Tommy. “You’re right. I’m thinking like my parents. They thought everything about being an omega was an inconvenience unless it was satisfying an alpha.”
“Backwards old world thinking that will have no place in your new life.” Tommy nods like that’s the end of things, and I agree. I don’t need to linger on thoughts of my family.
Tommy leaves, and I stay down in the rehearsal room, trying to get some extra practice in to make up for when I’ll be in heat.
Saint comes down to join me and presses a kiss to my forehead. He lingers for a second before moving to sit in the corner. “I’ll just watch you until you’re done. I didn’t want you alone down here.”
That was practical and sweet, just like Saint. I get back to work, enjoying playing for my alpha.
Of course the other four find their way down here too, until I’m playing for all of them.
The first sign is the sweat on my upper lip. I’m half a song into a rhythm run, guitar sliding slick between my palms.
I set my pick down and flex my fingers, willing the tremor out. It doesn’t help. There’s a fizz under my skin, something urgent building low in my spine, hot and sweet as a mouthful of honey.
I try to play through it, running the progression until my fingers slip and the chord dissolves into a squeal. “Shit,” I mutter, wiping my brow on the hem of my shirt. It comes away damp.
Across the room, Saint’s head snaps up like a hound on a scent. He’s not even pretending to text anymore. His glacier-blue eyes lock on me, and the pressure in the air doubles, then triples.
Behind him, Fox is in the kitchenette, pouring coffee into a mug with surgical precision. He freezes mid-pour, and the liquid overflows in a slow, dark arc. Even Hunter, who’s never in the same place for more than two seconds, stops pacing and angles toward me, nostrils flaring.
I know, in that instant, what this is.
Colton and Cody slink in together, twin tornadoes of black hair and green eyes, each carrying a tangle of extension cords and pedal boards. They walk right into the tension, and bothstop at the same time, heads tilting in perfect unison. Cody says, “Oh shit, is it—” and Colton elbows him silent.
My whole body aches, but not in the way I expect. There’s a hunger, sharp and low, curling in on itself behind my ribs. It’s not sex, not yet, but it’s an anticipatory burn that makes my hands shake on the neck of the guitar.
Saint stands. He moves with purpose, every step slow but inevitable. I want to back away, but my feet stay glued to the patch of carpet, sweat beading down my sternum. There’s a catch in my throat.
He stops a few feet from me, just close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes and the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’re starting your mini heat,” he says, voice too soft to be real.
He glances over his shoulder, summoning Fox with a single, silent nod.
Fox sets the coffee down, wipes his hands on his jeans, and approaches like he’s checking in on a wounded animal. He crouches beside me, one hand hovering near my arm, not touching, just waiting.
“May I?” he asks, and I almost laugh at the formality.
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice is rough.
His fingers are warm, gentle as a pulse, pressing two points on my wrist. The world narrows to the feel of his skin against mine, the steady thrum of his fingers on my vein.
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Pulse is up. Respiration, too. Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”
I want to lie, but my tongue is thick in my mouth. “Hot,” I manage. “And… dizzy. And my—” I cut myself off, but he nods, already knowing.
Saint’s eyes never leave my face.
My knees almost buckle, but Fox’s hand steadies me. “It’s normal,” he says, and the kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. “We will take care of you.”
The ache is spreading, a tide lapping at the edge of pain, then pulling back to leave only want. It’s humiliating, how obvious it must be. I wonder if the others can smell it, the burnt sugar and desperation.
