Page 21 of Stream Heat (Omega Stream #1)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kara

I woke with a start, disoriented in the pre-dawn darkness. My skin felt too tight, my heart racing for no apparent reason. The withdrawal symptoms had been better yesterday, so why this sudden backslide?

Something had woken me. A sound? A feeling? I couldn't place it.

The house was quiet, the others presumably asleep, yet I felt... unsettled. Restless in a way that had nothing to do with medication and everything to do with instincts I'd spent years denying.

I pushed myself upright, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, and that's when I noticed it. Reid's hoodie, the one he'd lent me days ago when I was cold, had fallen to the floor. Without thinking, I reached for it, bringing it to my face before I could stop myself.

His scent, cedar and thunderstorms, filled my senses, instantly calming the inexplicable anxiety that had jolted me awake. My muscles relaxed, my breathing slowed, my racing heart settled into a steadier rhythm.

"What the hell are you doing?" I whispered to myself, even as I clutched the fabric tighter.

I should return it. I should have returned it days ago. Instead, I'd been sleeping with it every night, the garment tucked beside my pillow where I could breathe in his scent while pretending I wasn't doing exactly that.

A noise from the hallway made me freeze, footsteps, too heavy to be anyone but Reid or Ash. I quickly shoved the hoodie under my pillow like a guilty teenager hiding contraband, then sat perfectly still, listening.

The footsteps paused outside my door, hesitated, then continued down the hall. Only when they faded completely did I release the breath I'd been holding.

This was getting ridiculous. I was a grown woman, not some designation-addled teenager with her first alpha crush. I needed to get a grip.

I stood, stretching muscles stiff from sleep, and padded to the bathroom.

The face that greeted me in the mirror looked better than it had a week ago, less hollow-eyed, less sickly pale, but still not entirely my own.

There was something different in my expression, a softness that hadn't been there before.

It unsettled me.

After a quick shower, I pulled on leggings and an oversized t-shirt, determined to make use of the quiet house for some much-needed reflection. The kitchen was dark and empty, moonlight spilling through the windows onto gleaming countertops. I moved quietly, brewing coffee with practiced stealth.

As the machine hummed softly, I leaned against the counter, letting my gaze wander around the space that had become strangely familiar in such a short time.

Theo's energy drink collection lined one shelf, meticulously organized despite his chaotic personality.

Jace's tea infuser hung beside the sink, still damp from evening use.

Malik's handwritten meal plan was magnetized to the refrigerator, each day's menu carefully balanced for nutrition.

Ash's custom-built coffee grinder sat beside the machine, its sleek design a testament to his technical perfectionism.

And everywhere, subtle signs of Reid's influence, the strategic layout of the kitchen tools, the alpha-quality ingredients, the sense of deliberate care in every detail.

Five distinct personalities, somehow functioning as a cohesive unit. A real pack, not just a content creation team.

The coffee finished brewing, and I poured myself a mug, inhaling the rich aroma. As I turned to head back to my room, something caught my eye.

A snapback cap hanging on the hook by the door.

Reid's.

The one he'd worn during yesterday's tactical stream.

Before I could question the impulse, I reached for it, running my fingers along the brim. His scent clung to it, stronger than the hoodie, fresher. Without conscious decision, I found myself tucking it under my arm as I clutched my coffee mug.

Just borrowing it, I told myself. Just curious about the brand.

The lie was so transparent I didn't even bother finishing the thought.

Back in my room, I set the cap on my desk beside the coffee, trying to ignore the way my fingers lingered on the fabric. This was getting out of hand. First the hoodie, now the cap. What next? Stealing Theo's t-shirts? Hoarding Jace's sweaters?

The thought brought me up short because I realized with sudden clarity that I'd already been doing exactly that.

Ash's screwdriver set that I'd "borrowed" three days ago sat on my nightstand, though I had no technical projects requiring it.

Malik's meditation cushion had somehow migrated to the corner of my room after I'd "moved it to vacuum.

" One of Theo's gaming magazines lay half-hidden under my bed where I'd been reading it before sleep.

I was nesting. The realization hit me with horrifying clarity. My Omega instincts, freed from years of chemical suppression, were driving me to collect items from the alphas around me, to surround myself with their scents, their possessions, their essence.

"Stop it," I hissed to myself, pushing away from the desk. "This isn't you."

But wasn't it? After eight years of pretending to be something else, how could I even be sure what "me" actually was?

I paced the room, coffee forgotten, cataloging the evidence of my unconscious hoarding with growing dismay.

The withdrawal-destabilized system Dr. Patel had warned me about wasn't just making me physically hypersensitive, it was creating behavioral changes I hadn't even noticed.

Creating an unconscious nesting drive I'd never experienced before.

A soft knock at my door nearly made me jump out of my skin.

"Quinn?" Ash's deep voice, unusually quiet. "You okay? Saw your light on."

I froze, looking frantically at the incriminating evidence scattered around my room, his screwdriver set, Reid's hoodie peeking out from under my pillow, the stolen snapback on my desk.

"Fine," I called back, trying to sound normal. "Just working on stream prep."

A pause, then, "At four thirty in the morning?"

"Best time to think. No distractions."

Another pause, longer this time. I could almost feel him analyzing the strain in my voice, the too-quick response.

"Need anything?" he finally asked. "Coffee? Food?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Alright." His footsteps retreated down the hall, but something in his tone told me he hadn't believed me for a second.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour. This had to stop. I needed to return the items I'd taken, establish proper boundaries, remember what this arrangement was supposed to be. A business partnership, not... whatever this was becoming.

But even as I resolved to gather everything up, my fingers found Reid's hoodie again, clutching it like a lifeline. The comfort it provided was undeniable, immediate, and terrifyingly potent. One breath of his scent and my anxiety receded, my muscles relaxed, my mind cleared.

"Just until the withdrawal passes," I whispered, a compromise with myself. "Just until I'm stable again."

Another lie, but one I could almost believe.

I spent the next hour organizing my stolen treasures, telling myself I was preparing to return them while actually arranging them more efficiently around my space.

Reid's hoodie and cap on the chair beside my bed.

Ash's tools neatly aligned on the nightstand.

Malik's cushion positioned perfectly in the reading nook. Theo's magazine displayed on the shelf.

Only when I stepped back to survey my work did I realize what I'd done.

I’d created a nest.

Not the elaborate, fabric-lined structures from Omega lifestyle magazines, but a nest nonetheless. A space filled with items carrying the scents of alphas my hindbrain had decided were mine.

The worst part? It looked right. It felt right. For the first time since moving into the Pack Wrecked house, my room felt truly comfortable.

"This is temporary," I reminded myself firmly. "Just until the withdrawal symptoms subside."

But even as I said it, I knew it was more than that. This wasn't just about physical comfort during withdrawal. This was about something deeper, more primal, the need for connection, for belonging, for pack.

I was saved from further self-examination by the sound of movement in the house. Malik was rising for his morning meditation stream, the quiet routine of the earliest riser signaling the start of the day.

I quickly changed into more presentable clothes, determined to act normal despite my internal crisis. By the time I emerged from my room, the smell of coffee and something delicious wafted from the kitchen.

Malik stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled like heaven. He glanced up as I entered, his expression warming.

"You're up early," he observed, his voice pitched low in deference to the others still sleeping. "Trouble sleeping?"

I shrugged, aiming for casual. "Medication schedule. You know how it is."

His eyes, which were much too perceptive, lingered on my face, but he didn't press. "Hungry? I'm making protein porridge before my stream."

"Sounds good." I poured myself fresh coffee, hyperaware of my earlier theft from this very room. Did the space look different without Reid's cap on the hook? Would Malik notice?

"You seem tense," he remarked, sliding a bowl toward me. "Withdrawal symptoms flaring?"

"Something like that." I focused on the food, avoiding his gaze. "Dr. Patel said to expect fluctuations."

He nodded, accepting the deflection. "The meditation techniques help, if you're interested. I could show you a few more after my stream."

The offer was casual, without pressure, but something in me recoiled from the kindness. I didn't deserve their continued patience, not when I was secretly stealing their possessions like some designation-crazed kleptomaniac.

"Maybe later," I managed, shoveling porridge into my mouth to avoid further conversation.