Page 39 of Omega's Faith

But he's not fine. His pupils are dilated, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool air. And his scent... God, his scent is intoxicating, honey mixed with something richer, muskier.

"You look warm," I observe.

"It's nothing." He turns back to his unpacking, but his hands shake slightly.

That's when it hits me. The heightened scent. The flush. The distraction. The way he'd been overwhelmed at the reception.

He's going into heat. Maybe not today, but soon. Within the next day or two at most.

I don’t think he knows. He’s young but he’s also sheltered. For the first time, I wonder if he even knows what’s supposed to happen on a wedding night. Maybe that backwards cult he grew up in hasn’t told him.

"Jonah," I start, but my phone buzzes. Diana's name flashes on the screen.

"What?" I bark into the phone.

"Dinner. Tonight. The Marshalls are in town and they want to meet your new husband." Her tone brooks no argument. "Seven sharp. Wear the navy suit."

"Diana, it’s supposed to be our honeymoon.”

“Oh please. Seven. Sharp." She hangs up.

"Problem?" Jonah asks, still focused on folding his clothes.

"We have to go to dinner tonight. Business thing."

He nods, then sways slightly, catching himself on the dresser.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," he insists, but there's a tremor in his voice.

The rest of the afternoon is torture. I try to work, but I can hear him moving around the house, can smell his scent getting stronger by the hour. By five, I'm rock hard and hidingin my study, trying to think about anything except my omega wandering around my house, getting ready for his first heat.

When he comes downstairs at six-thirty, dressed in his wedding suit because it's probably the only formal thing he owns, I nearly swallow my tongue. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he smells like every fantasy I've ever had.

"You look..." I stop myself. What am I going to say? Beautiful? Edible? Like you're about to go into heat and I want to pin you against the nearest wall?

"Appropriate?" he supplies, that bitter edge creeping back in.

"Yeah. Appropriate."

The dinner is awful. The Marshalls are old money, older values, and they spend the entire meal making subtle digs about Jonah's background while he sits there taking it with grace I wouldn't have managed. Under the table, I can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell his distress mixing with the honey-musk of approaching heat.

"You must be so overwhelmed," Mrs. Marshall says with false sympathy. "Such a different world from what you're used to."

"I'm adjusting," Jonah says quietly.

"I'm sure Alexander is being patient with you." She smiles at me. "Alpha's duty to guide their omega, after all."

I want to tell her to fuck off, but Jonah's hand suddenly grips my thigh under the table, not seductive, just holding on like I'm an anchor. He's trembling.

"We should go," I say abruptly. "Jonah's not feeling well."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Marshall coos. "The wedding stress, no doubt."

We make our excuses and leave. In the car, Jonah curls against the door, arms wrapped around himself.

"I feel really sick." he whispers.