Page 17 of Stream Heat (Omega Stream #1)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kara

I stared at myself in the monitor and waited for my hands to steady, but they just got worse, shakier, clammy, twitching so badly I could barely keep them on the mouse.

I was scheduled to go live in two minutes, but I couldn’t even breathe right, let alone keep up the act.

This wasn’t the usual “showtime” adrenaline. It was flat-out malfunction.

Withdrawal, maybe. Dr. Patel had warned me it would be ugly, said legal suppressants didn’t work the same way, that my body would have to claw its way out of the chemical swamp I’d lived in for years, but I’d hoped I was done feeling like melting plastic. No such luck.

“You’ve got this,” I muttered at my own reflection. A lie, but maybe I could fake it. Two more hours, that was all I needed to buy right then.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t done this before. I’d played through flu, broken bones, fevers high enough to fry my damn brain. I’d survived a charity speedrun with a splint on my shooting hand and enough cold meds in my system to kill a small dog. This should have been easy compared to that.

I counted down in my head like always, five, four, three, two…

My finger stabbed the “Go Live” button at exactly zero. A tremor ripped through me, violent enough to pixelate my vision, but I forced a smile. The intro animation blared, loud and annoyingly cheerful.

“What’s up, chat? Queen’s back in the game.” I squinted at the right corner, the viewer count was already pushing past twenty thousand. They must have camped my notifications. “Appreciate the fast turnout. Solo stream today, no Alpha entourage.”

The chat exploded with hellos and “where’s Pack Wrecked” spam. I pretended not to see it and booted up the battle royale. I didn’t want anything about them tonight. I didn’t want anything but to prove I could do this without breaking.

“Back to basics today,” I said, settling the headset. The movement stung all down my neck and temples, but I kept my voice even. “No collabs. No drama. Just your girl clearing lobbies like it’s my actual job.”

The first match wasn’t terrible. I latched onto muscle memory, drop, loot, rotate, keep the banter flowing. The old habits almost carried me.

“Corner camper at your three o’clock,” I called to my random teammates. “Imagine thinking that works on me. I eat corner campers for breakfast.”

I lined up my shot.

Except my hand jolted, wild. The bullet went wide. Total whiff.

“Shit,” I muttered, then fed the audience a cover. “Giving them a false sense of security, obviously.”

The next shots connected, but it was messy, three bullets where one should have done it. Chat noticed, naturally.

Quinn’s aim is off today

u ok queen? looking pale

is she still sick??

I refused to dignify that. “I’m fine,” I snapped, too hard, then gritted my teeth and tried to soften it. “Just warming up. Some of us aren’t robots.”

But the truth was, I was sweating through my shirt in an air-conditioned room, and every sound, the click of my mouse, the PC fans, the chat pings, hit like a fire alarm. Every time the chat alert went off, I flinched. Completely pathetic.

I forced myself to talk about the upcoming tournament, just to keep my mind off what my body was doing. “First time running with Pack Wrecked instead of gunning for their heads. Should be interesting if they can keep up.”

That was the play, keep talking, keep firing, keep pretending.

Another tremor, worse this time, enough that I nearly launched my mouse. My character ended up stuck out in the open. Bang. Enemy sniper tapped me twice. Dead.

“Fucking stream snipers,” I barked. Not that I believed it.

My heart wouldn’t slow down. It thumped against my ribs so loud I was half-worried the mic would pick it up. I cycled my breath, tried to focus on the monitor, but the edges were blurry, like someone was turning down the contrast. My hands sweated, but I was freezing. It didn’t make sense.

Quinn doesn’t look good

someone get reid

is she having another episode??

I bit back the urge to respond. “I said I’m fine,” I gritted, voice threatening to crack. “Just… just a bad match. Happens sometimes.”

I queued up again. No way I was letting them see me tap out.

Thirty seconds on the clock. That was all I needed, thirty seconds to re-center. Kara Quinn. Trash-talk champion. The Omega who didn’t lose, not to a lobby full of amateurs and definitely not to her own body.

The match loaded, but the screen was all wrong, neon, almost. Too bright, too fast. The jump from the dropship made my stomach lurch, and I had to swallow down a wave of acid.

“Central compound this time,” I said, barely masking the tremor. “High risk, high reward. You know how we do.”

But my landing sucked, aim was off, looting was slow. I snatched a pistol because it was all I could get, then tunnel-visioned to the first building.

Enemy in the hallway. I raised the gun, tried to line up the shot.

Everything narrowed. Darkness crowded in, and my chest locked up mid-breath.

“I can’t–” My controller hit the desk, clattering, because both hands were suddenly numb. “I can’t breathe.”

Chat became a wall of frantic typing:

QUINN?!

someone help her!!

call the alphas

is she having a panic attack??

I couldn’t see straight enough to read it. All I heard was the blood roaring in my ears and my own choked breathing. My skin was on fire, then freezing, the kind of cold you get in a fever, where you can’t tell what’s real.

This wasn’t just withdrawal. I knew it even as it happened. This was my body revolting, years of suppressants flipped off overnight, every cell losing its mind.

It took three attempts to hit the “technical difficulties” overlay, my failsafe, the one I’d never hoped to use. Instantly the game vanished, replaced by a cartoon graphic and a promise I’d be back soon.

“S-sorry, chat,” I gasped. “Technical… issues. Back in… five.”

I muted the mic. Immediate regret, then another wave, nausea so intense the room tipped sideways. I shoved back from the desk, made a desperate grab for the door, but my legs folded before I was even upright.

I crashed to the floor. The chair clattered somewhere. I didn’t care.

The room spun, ceiling and floor swapping places every time I blinked. I curled up, arms locked around my middle, riding out the spike of pain cutting sharply through my stomach. This couldn’t be happening. Dr. Patel had sworn the meds would stop this. Wasn’t that the whole point?

But now, all I had was pride, and pride said don’t call for help. Couldn’t let them see me broken. Couldn’t let Malik, or Reid, or, god, anybody, walk in and see the Omega they all expected me to be.

At some point, there was a knock at the door. I didn’t remember how much time passed. Minutes, maybe hours.

“Quinn?” Malik’s voice, tense, but controlled. “Can I come in?”

I tried to answer, but what came out was more of a whimper than a word.

The door opened. His scent, sandalwood, sage, something sharper underneath, cut through the pain for half a heartbeat.

“Kara.” His voice dropped, all serious-alpha. “What happened?”

I couldn’t explain. I shook my head, and that nearly set off another blackout.

He crouched next to me, careful not to touch, probably so he didn’t trigger some lawsuit-level incident. “I need to know what you’re feeling. Withdrawal? Heat? Something else?”

“Everything,” I whispered, hating it. “Hurts… everywhere.”

He risked a hand to my forehead. Gentle, careful, like I was made of glass. “You’re burning up. How long?”

“Morning,” I mumbled. “Thought I could… push through.”

His jaw tightened. There was a flash of anger, but it wasn’t at me. “I’m helping you to the bed, okay?”

I nodded. What choice did I have? I couldn’t move on my own, too weak, too… Omega. I hated every millisecond of it.

Malik lifted me like it was nothing. The moment his scent got close, my body shorted out, a rush of something far too primal to ignore. Instinct. Biology. Whatever name you slapped on it, it was humiliating. Doubly so when I started to be able to scent myself in the air around us.

He got me on the bed, then backed off, keeping a careful two-foot buffer between us. Good. I didn’t trust myself right then.

“I’ll call Dr. Patel,” he said, fishing for his phone.

“No.” I grabbed his wrist, hands shaking so badly I almost missed. “Just… need a minute. Stream’s still… running.”

He didn’t buy it. “Your health is more important than the stream.”

“My career is my health,” I shot back, words slurred at the edges. “Can’t show weakness. Not again.”

Something in his eyes softened. He got it. “Kara, listen. This isn’t weakness. This is recovery. Pushing through will only make it worse.”

“I’m not…” The rest stuck in my throat. I was not fragile, I wanted to say. I was not like the ones who folded up and begged for help at the first sign of pain. But my body betrayed me, another spasm unspooling everything.

He shook his head, but his touch was soft, even when his words were hard. “You’re stubborn, but you’re not invincible. There’s a difference.”

Another pain spike, deeper this time, enough to choke a full sob out of me. Completely humiliating.

Malik’s scent sharpened. “That’s it. I’m calling the doctor.”

“No,” I snapped, then coughed. “Just… kill the stream. Say tech issues.”

He considered, then nodded. That was two seconds of trust, he knew how much my rep mattered.

He handled the computer like it was his own, clean and fast, typed up a short message to chat, and ended the broadcast. Couldn’t have done it better myself.

When he turned around, his professional mask was back on. “Now, let me help you.”

“I don’t need–” Another hit of pain cut me off.

He sat at the edge of the bed, close but not touching. “Your scent is spiking. Might be breakthrough heat, triggered by withdrawal.”

I flinched. “No. Suppressants–”

“They’re not military-grade,” he said quietly. “You’re still vulnerable.”

The idea of another heat, so soon and so brutal? That was worse than anything. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

“Please,” I managed, voice thinner than I wanted. “Isn’t there something else?”

He paused, weighing his words. “There’s a method. Alpha pheromones can sometimes stabilize an Omega in distress. Doesn’t require… anything drastic. Just proximity and scent.”

My body knew what he was offering before my brain did. The need slammed into me, fierce and ugly. But saying yes meant admitting I even wanted it, and that was not fucking happening.

“No,” I said, and meant it. Sort of. My body screamed anyway. "I'm not going to be that Omega."

“What Omega is that, exactly?” His tone could cut glass, but he didn’t push.

“The kind that falls apart and expects an alpha to fix her,” I fired back, pure venom. “The kind everyone assumes I am.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just studied me, made me feel seen in a way I hated.

“Kara,” he said finally, low and earnest, “accepting help isn’t weakness. And fighting yourself isn’t strength.”

Those words stung, maybe because they were true. It didn’t matter. The pain returned, sharper, making my vision flicker.

Malik stood. “Water and protein bars. Doctor recommended, remember?”

He was out before I could argue. The door closed quietly behind him, as if he was afraid he’d startle me. Maybe he would.

Alone again, I curled up. My whole body felt at war, hot, cold, pain, need, all of it blending into something I could barely survive. Beneath it, always, was the worst ache, the need for touch, for comfort, for everything I’d spent my life denying.

For Malik. For his alpha presence. For his hands, his scent, the heavy heat of his body covering mine.

I forced myself to stop. This wasn’t that kind of problem. It was chemical, and it would break if I just waited it out.

Except it didn’t. If anything, it got worse. Slick pooled between my thighs, fever turning to outright burn. I buried my face in the pillow, mortified. I was not going to be that Omega. I refused.

I heard him coming back. I wiped my eyes, forced my breathing level, did my best impression of a person in control.

He carried water, protein bars, even a damp washcloth. “For your forehead,” he said, and it sounded almost… shy.

I tried to take it, but my hands wouldn’t work. He stepped in, pressed the cloth to my forehead himself, gentle, careful, not pushing closer than necessary.

The coolness eased the fever, but it was his scent that really cut through, settling my nerves enough that I could breathe for a second.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded, barely daring to meet his eyes.

He gave me water. I choked down two sips before I had to stop. He didn’t push.

“I’ll leave these here.” He lined up the protein bars. “Eat when you can. I’ll check back in an hour.”

He stood to go, and panic clawed up in my chest. I didn’t want to be alone, but I couldn’t make myself say it. The words tangled, pride too strong.

I grabbed his wrist, barely, but enough he noticed. “Wait,” I whispered, then let go immediately, hating myself for the slip.

He waited. “What do you need, Kara?”

Everything. Nothing. Impossible to admit.

I shook my head, turning away. “I’m fine.”

He knew it was a lie. I could feel the weight of it, but he left anyway. “I’ll be down the hall if you need.”

The door clicked shut, a sound that felt a lot like defeat.

I stayed curled around the pillow for a while, breathing in the faint hint of sandalwood and linen on the cloth. It wasn’t enough, not even close. But it was all I was willing to accept.

The water, the food, they were tokens, reminders that someone cared. I should have wanted them, but I didn’t. I just wanted the ache to stop, the need to fade, the nightmare of being at the mercy of my own biology to let up for two goddamn seconds.

Instead, I buried my face in the pillow and chased any microscopic comfort, haunted by the fantasy of what might have happened if I’d asked for what I really needed.

For him to stay.

For him to hold me, cover me, knot me until this burning emptiness wasn’t the only thing left inside.

The words echoed in my skull, taunting me.

Please don’t go.

Please help.

Please make it stop.

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Pride had always been my best armor. So I took the pain and the shame and did what I did best. I suffered by myself, while an Alpha who could fix it waited out in the hall for an invitation I’d never send.