Page 49 of Omega's Formula

“Very diplomatic.” He takes another bite, chews slowly. His eyes flutter half-closed in appreciation. “I could eat this every day for a week.”

I could eat you every day for a week, my brain supplies unhelpfully. I shove a forkful of pad thai in my mouth to keep from saying it out loud.

We eat in silence for a while. Not the heavy silence from the car—this is different. It’s loaded with something else. Nolan keeps shifting in his seat, restless, like he can’t get comfortable. His cheeks stay flushed. His breathing seems faster than it should be.

And that scent. That impossible, intoxicating scent that’s getting stronger by the minute.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask carefully.

“Fine.” But his voice wavers on the word. “Just... warm.”

He sets down his fork, presses the back of his hand to his cheek. His skin is damp, glistening slightly in the kitchen light.

“You’re flushed,” I say.

“I noticed.” He laughs again, but there’s an edge to it now. A hint of something that might be panic. “I’m fine. It’s just—the apartment’s stuffy. We should open a window.”

I get up, cross to the window, wrench it open. Cool evening air floods in, carrying the sounds of the city—traffic, voices, the distant wail of a siren. It helps clear my head a little, dilutes Nolan’s scent enough that I can think.

When I turn back, he’s staring at me.

His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His lips are parted, chest rising and falling too quickly. He looks like he did this morning, right before I kissed him in the woods—except more. Needier. Like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Erik,” he says, and his voice is wrecked. “I think—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Nolan?”

“I think I’m going into heat.”

The words hang in the air between us. I stop breathing.

Heat. Of course. The sweetness underneath his scent, the flush, the restlessness. All the signs were there and I was too distracted by wanting him to recognize them.

“When?” My voice comes out rough. “How long?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe. Maybe tonight.” He’s gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white. “It came on fast. Faster than usual. It must be—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what he’s thinking. The match. The pheromone compatibility. Being in close quarters with a highly compatible alpha can trigger early heats, accelerate the timeline.

This is my fault.

“What do you need?” I ask. “Whatever you need, I’ll get it.”

“I need—” He laughs, sharp and bitter. “I need you to stay away from me. Can you do that?”

No, I think. No, I absolutely cannot do that. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to go to him, to hold him, to give him what he needs. The alpha instinct is overwhelming, drowning out everything else.

But I can see the conflict in his face. The want and the fear and the desperate need to maintain control. He didn’t choose this. He didn’t ask for a heat triggered by proximity to me. And whatever’s happening between us, I won’t take advantage of it.

“Yes,” I say. “I can do that.”

His gaze meets mine, then he says, “I should go back to the bedroom.” He stands, sways slightly. I take a step toward him and he holds up a hand. “Don’t. Please. If you touch me right now, I don’t—I can’t—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

“Go,” I tell him. “I’ll stay out here.”