Page 132 of Run Wild Omega

“Done.”

I turn to Dylan. “Put her on the couch for now. We need to prep the bedroom.”

He lays her down. She curls into the cushions immediately, pulling a throw pillow to her chest, her nose buried in the fabric. The leather carries our combined scent, and I watch her inhale, her body easing as the pack signatures wash over her.

Then the relaxation shifts. Her hips roll, a tiny movement, and a fresh wave of slick hits the air. My cock throbs in response, and I force my eyes away.

Miles finishes his text to Kyle and looks at me. His face is pale, his eyes dark, and I can see the brutal effort it takes him to maintain any analytical distance. He’s gripping his phone hard enough to crack the case.

“Wyatt,” he says. “We need to talk about the reality of this.”

“I know.”

“Her pheromones are peaking,” Miles says, his voice clipped. “The three of us trapped in a house with an Omega through a full cycle… our biology is going to escalate. Aggressively. We’re looking at spiked testosterone, competitive drive, and territorial instincts.”

“I know, Miles.”

“Do you? Because I feel it already. My thinking is clouded. My impulse control is slipping. And I’m the one who usually keeps a leash on this stuff.”

“I know.” I look at him. “That’s why we need rules.”

Dylan joins us, leaving Tess on the couch. His jaw is tight, his hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to physically contain whatever’s building inside him.

“Talk,” he says.

“Rule one,” I say. “No one touches her without her explicit consent. She’s in heat. She can’t consent while the peak is active. That means we wait until she’s lucid between waves, and even then, we ask. Every time.”

Both of them nod.

“Rule two. If any of us feel ourselves losing control, we leave the room. No excuses. No exceptions. You feel your teeth extend, you feel the rut coming on, you walk out that door and you don’t come back until you’ve got yourself handled.”

“What about her?” Dylan asks. “If she’s in pain, if she needs…”

“We help her. The way Dr. Nguyen said. Nest, hydration, temperature monitoring. If she needs physical contact to regulate, we provide it. But we don’t take advantage of the situation.”

“And if she asks for more?” Miles asks.

I swallow. “If she’s lucid, if she’s coherent, if she can look me in the eye and tell me what she wants without the heat speaking for her, then we cross that bridge. But not before.”

“Rule three,” Dylan says. “We don’t compete. Not now. Whatever this is, whatever she decides, we’re a pack. We act like one.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We act like one.”

The three of us stand there. The apartment is thick with Tess’s scent, that ripe, honeyed sweetness coating every surface, filling every breath. I can feel it working on me, loosening the edges of my control, whispering at me to go to her.

“Prep the room,” I say. “We need to build the nest.”

Miles moves immediately. He goes to the bedroom and starts pulling sheets off the bed, rearranging pillows, creating a depression in the center of the mattress that will cradle her body. His movements are efficient, methodical, but I can see his hands trembling as he tucks the fabric.

Dylan and I gather clothes. My henley from yesterday, still carrying my scent. Miles’s sweater. Dylan’s jacket. We drape them over the pillows, tuck them into the sheets, layer them until the bed is a cocoon of pack scent.

It’s not a real nest. A real nest is built by the Omega, woven from instinct and desire, each piece chosen with a specificity that reflects what her body craves. But this is the best we can do. We’re giving her our scent in a concentrated form, a dose that will help her biology read the room and respond to the pack bond.

While we work, Tess calls from the living room. “Wyatt?”

The word barely carries down the hall, and I go to her immediately.

She’s sitting up on the couch, her arms wrapped around her middle, her tank top dark with sweat. Her hair is plastered to her neck, and her face is flushed a deep, fevered pink.