Page 129 of Run Wild Omega

“So this is… because of you? All of you?”

“Yeah,” Dylan says from the doorway, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. “Because of us.”

She stares at us. Then she grabs her phone off the coffee table, her fingers trembling so badly she nearly drops it twice.

“I need to call the hospital. The heat specialist, Dr. Nguyen. She warned me about this. When I was discharged, she said the medications they put me on could affect my cycle. The hormone regulators, the anti-inflammatories, something about the interaction with Omega biology. She said it could trigger a mini heat, and that’s why she scheduled a follow-up for next week to monitor my levels.”

She’s talking fast, the words tumbling out, panic threading through every syllable. She pulls up the hospital directory and hits call, putting it on speaker.

The line rings. Rings again. A receptionist picks up.

“Glenwood Springs Hospital, how may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to Dr. Nguyen. It’s Tess Hartwell. I’m a patient. She told me to call if I experienced any changes.”

“One moment, please.”

Hold music. A tinny rendition of something classical that grates against my already frayed nerves. Tess is gripping the phone with both hands, her knuckles white. Dylan moves to the couch and sits beside her, his hand finding her knee, grounding her.

The music cuts.

“Tess?” Dr. Nguyen’s voice is brisk, professional. “The desk just paged me. What’s happening?”

“I’m in heat,” Tess says. “I’m in heat and it’s not supposed to happen for two weeks. You told me the medications might trigger a mini heat, and you set up the appointment to monitor it, but this isn’t mini. This is… I’m slick, my temperature is up, I can’t think. I can’t be in heat right now.”

A pause on the line. “Tess, I need you to take a breath. The hormone regulators I prescribed interact with Omega endocrine cycles in unpredictable ways. When I saw you at discharge, your cortisol levels were elevated and your pheromone markers were already shifting. I scheduled the follow-up to catch this before it progressed.”

“Well, it progressed.”

“Are you alone right now?”

“No. The… my pack is here.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “Tess, can you get to the hospital within the hour? If I can examine you before the heat fully peaks, I can administer a suppressant that might shorten the duration.”

Tess looks at me. Her eyes are glassy, wet, and her lower lip is trembling. She shakes her head.

“I can’t,” she whispers into the phone. “I can’t get in a car right now. I can’t… I can’t move.”

She’s panicking. Her breathing is coming in short, shallow bursts, and the scent rolling off her is intensifying by the second, her body ramping up as the heat deepens. The phone is shaking in her grip.

I reach over and take it from her hand. She lets me, her fingers clinging to mine for a second before releasing.

“Dr. Nguyen,” I say. “This is Wyatt Callahan. I’m an Alpha with her pack. I’m also a certified combat medic with eight years of field experience.”

“Mr. Callahan, I’ll ask you directly. Do you believe she’s in active heat?”

I look at Tess. At the flush spreading down her chest. At the way her thighs are pressing together. At the slick that I can smell on her, warm and constant, her body producing it in waves.

My teeth are aching. Not a metaphor. An actual, physical ache in my molars and canines, my Alpha biology responding to her scent with a primal intensity that is taking everything I have to suppress.

I am fighting the urge to rut her this very second. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to grab her, pin her down, and bury myself inside her until the ache stops. And the only thing keeping me upright and rational is ten years of guilt and the knowledge that if I lose control, I lose her.

“Yes,” I say, my voice raw. “She’s in active heat. I’m fighting my own biology right now to have this conversation.”

“Shit,” Dr. Nguyen says. “Okay. Listen to me carefully. If she can’t get here, she needs a controlled environment. Does she have a safe space? Somewhere enclosed, dark, comfortable?”

“The pack house,” I say. “Converted apartment. Climate controlled, sealed entry.”