Page 127 of Run Wild Omega

And it’s responding the only way it knows how.

I sit up. The room tilts. I press my palm flat against the mattress and breathe through my mouth, trying to cool the heat that’s radiating from my core.

It doesn’t work.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. My hand is shaking. I open the group chat.

Tess: I think my body is doing something it shouldn’t be doing. I can’t show up to the pack house like this.

Three dots appear immediately. Miles.

Miles: What’s happening?

Tess: I think I’m going into early heat. It’s not supposed to happen for two weeks. But I’m slick and my temperature is up and I can’t think straight.

A pause. Then:

Miles: Don’t move. I’m coming.

Wyatt: On my way.

Dylan: Be there in ten.

I drop the phone on the mattress and press my face into the pillow. My skin is on fire. Every nerve ending is screaming for contact, for pressure, for hands on my body. The ache is building, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, and I squeeze my thighs together to try to relieve the pressure.

It makes it worse.

I can’t walk into the pack house today smelling like this. Like heat, like need, like an Omega whose body has decided that three men aren’t enough to satisfy it.

Saturday is here. And my body has already made its decision.

Wyatt

Miles is in the passenger seat. Dylan is driving because I can’t stop clenching my fists long enough to hold the steering wheel without breaking something. We’re three minutes from the Hartwell house, and the cab of my truck smells like three men in various stages of controlled panic.

“She said early heat,” Miles is saying, his tablet balanced on his knee, scrolling through medical databases with a speed that borders on frantic. “But early heat triggered by pheromone exposure is rare. It requires sustained, elevated contact with multiple compatible mates over a condensed window. The biological threshold for induction is⁠—”

“Miles,” Dylan says from behind the wheel. “Can you save the lecture for after we know she’s okay?”

Miles closes the tablet. His jaw is tight. He hasn’t shaved, his glasses are smudged, and there’s a hollowness behind his eyes that tells me he hasn’t slept any better than I have.

The truth is, we’ve been talking. All three of us. Late at night, on Miles’s encrypted channel, in person at the pack house when Tess was asleep at her parents’ place. Conversations that started as logistics and devolved into something rawer.

Wednesday night, Miles had laid it out. “She told me she’s falling for all three of us. I believe her. The question is whether we can handle that.”

Dylan didn’t hesitate. “I can.”

“Wyatt?”

I stared at the ceiling for a long time before answering. “I spent ten years convincing myself I didn’t deserve her. I’m not going to spend another ten competing for scraps when she’s offering the whole thing.”

“So we do what makes her happy,” Dylan said.

“Yeah,” Miles agreed. “We do what makes her happy.”

That was the truce. Not a handshake, not a contract. Just three men sitting in a room that smelled like cedar and pine, agreeing that the woman who’s crashed into all our lives is worth more than our egos.

Since then, I’ve been holding that agreement like a lifeline. Because the last time I saw Tess, in her parents’ kitchen, I pressed my mouth to her neck and scented her until she was trembling. And she smelled so impossibly good that my vision blurred. Not just apples. Not just want. Something deeper, richer, like her biology was reaching out and grabbing mine by the throat.