Page 10 of Stream Heat (Omega Stream #1)

"Exactly," I said, and scribbled my name, though it barely looked like mine. "No complications. Professional."

I didn't remember much after that. My whole body seized up, vision tunneling out. The last thing I heard was the sound of my name, first from Reid, then someone else. Footsteps and panic and darkness swallowing everything up.

When I resurfaced, I was still in the room, but it was darker. Quieter. Someone was holding my hand.

Jace, murmuring, "Welcome back," like it was a secret.

"What happened?" My voice was sandpaper. I reached for the water instinctively, and he steadied it for me.

"You had a seizure. Doctor says it's normal, but... it was bad."

I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, noticing the IV in my arm and the beeping from some discreet medical tablet. "How long?"

"Six hours," Jace replied. He looked tense, even for him. "Dr. Patel's been here the whole time. She's talking to Reid now."

It took more effort than I wanted to admit to move my head. "Who is Dr. Patel?"

"Specialist. Discreet. Handles suppressant recovery cases off record."

Of course they had a specialist on standby.

"The contract," I blurted, slightly panicked. "I signed it, right?"

Jace almost smiled. "You signed. Right before you passed out."

"Sorry to ruin the drama," I snorted.

He didn't find it funny. "Don't say that. You could have died, Quinn. It wasn't a joke."

I hated the ache that opened up in my chest at that. "So... what now?"

"You get better. That's your job. Content can wait."

"For how long?" I pushed. "I can't disappear for months. I'll lose my audience."

Jace hesitated. "Withdrawal takes a while. The stuff you were on? It's not prescribed for a reason. It’s meant for soldiers in active combat, not content creators."

I kept my voice light. "Victoria was all about efficiency."

"She didn't tell you about organ failure, did she? Or hormone collapse?"

I flinched. "That was in the fine print."

Jace’s eyes didn't leave mine. "You’ll probably be out of commission for weeks. Maybe longer. That’s just how it is."

"Great," I said, instantly miserable. "My only redeeming quality, gone."

"Not gone," he said, completely serious. "You just have to adapt. Pack Wrecked isn't going to throw you under the bus."

Before I could argue, the door opened. Reid and a woman in a white coat stepped in. She looked more like a favorite aunt than a doctor, but the way she zeroed in on me said "authority."

"Ms. Quinn," she greeted, professional and calm. "Glad you’re awake. How's the pain?"

"Like being chewed up and spit out," I said bluntly.

She barely blinked. "To be expected. Military suppressants have withdrawal like nothing else."

I waited for her to judge me, but she didn’t. Not even a flicker. "Are you going to report me?"

"There’s nothing to report," she said. "My only job is to get you through this alive."

Reid shifted closer. "Dr. Patel has a plan. You need to taper off with legal suppressants and stabilizers. No more cold withdrawal."

"Cold withdrawal could have killed you," the doctor added, as if reading my mind.

"How long?" I pressed, hating the desperation in my voice.

"First week is the worst. After that, we adjust as you stabilize. Fluids, meds, hormone management. Minimal stress."

I tried to argue, couldn’t help myself. "I can't be offline for a week. I need to show I'm okay, my audience, my sponsors–"

Reid cut me off with brutal efficiency. "You had a seizure, Quinn. You’re not streaming anything until you're cleared."

He had a point, not that I wanted to admit it.

Dr. Patel was more diplomatic. "If your vitals improve after forty-eight hours, maybe a short update, but nothing taxing. We’ll see."

I bit back the urge to scream. "Fine. Forty-eight hours. But then I’m back."

Reid’s mouth twisted. "You’re not a machine, Quinn. Your health comes first."

"It's the same thing," I shot back. "You want content? You get me in front of a camera."

He saw right through me. "Forty-eight hours. Then only if the doctor says so. Joint announcement. Nothing crazy."

It wasn’t much, but it was all I could wring out of him. "Deal."

Dr. Patel nodded, amusement flickering in her eyes. "I'll be back to check your IV in four hours. Rest is mandatory. No arguments."

She swept out, leaving the room strangely quiet. Jace had vanished, so it was just me and Reid, and all the things neither of us wanted to say.

"You should sleep," he started, but I cut him off.

"What are you telling people? About me?"

He leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Nothing yet. We're waiting for your input before any public announcement. Only our manager and your manager know the basics."

That was something, at least. "I approve all statements," I insisted. "Nothing goes out unless I say so."

He nodded. "That's not the problem, Quinn. No one's trying to control you."

I looked at the IV in my arm, felt the stiffness in my body, and almost laughed. "Really? Because right now, it kind of looks like a rescue operation. Big strong Alphas saving the broken Omega."

He came in closer, zero bullshit. "That’s not what this is. This is making sure you don’t kill yourself for the sake of a public image."

I was so tired. Too tired to keep fighting.

"I don't want your pity," I said, voice thin as tissue paper.

He didn’t correct me, just said, "It's not pity. It's respect. You survived things no one should have to. You deserve better."

There was nothing I could say to that without giving something away, without betraying myself.

He left, shutting the door softly behind him.

I lay there a long time, staring at nothing, just letting the emptiness settle in. Everything I'd built was in ruins, my public persona, my career, my health. My own damn body felt like an enemy.

And the only people who could maybe fix it were the same five Alphas I’d spent years trashing online.

If that wasn’t darkly ironic, I didn’t know what was.

It was a sick joke. That’s all it would ever be. No matter how safe Reid’s scent made me feel, or how steady Jace's hands were, or how the others hadn’t hesitated to pull me out of my own disaster.

Not real. Not family. Not my pack.

And if I ever let myself forget that, even for a second, I’d lose everything.