Page 28 of Stream Heat (Omega Stream #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Kara

I knew it was going to be bad the moment I woke up.

I'd been sweating so much it felt like I’d taken a swim in my sheets, which were so damp that they clung to my skin like a shroud when I moved to the edge of the bed, every inch of skin burning like I’d been sunbathing on the surface of the fucking sun.

My heart thudded wildly. The world was heat and pounding and the disgusting stickiness of the sheets twisted around my legs, a nasty reminder that my body couldn’t even keep itself in line for one goddamn night.

This wasn’t like last time. That first heat crash was a public disaster, everyone saw it, everything exploded, and my perfectly curated Beta persona went up in flames.

That one had been a surprise, years of chemical suppression finally snapping back at me and humiliating me in front of everyone who mattered.

This, though, was worse in its own way.

Because this time, I saw it coming. This time, I knew every awful step, every escalation, and could feel my body betraying me with a kind of slow-motion clarity that made me want to scream.

Legal suppressants were supposed to keep it manageable.

Instead, they were a punchline, a sugar pill joke. I’d be better off eating candy.

"Fuck," I groaned, hands pressed hard to my eyes, as another pulse of heat rolled through me. My back arched without permission, and I already knew I was in deep shit. "Not now. Not today."

Of course it had to be today, the day of the house stream.

The day all six of us were supposed to get together, play through qualifiers on camera, and sell the story that we’d gone from rivals to packmates.

The same stream sponsors had already been hyping up for weeks, the one that was supposed to prove that my brand wasn’t a total write-off after last time.

I grabbed for my phone. 8:17 AM, the screen informed me with that smugly indifferent glow.

The stream was set for noon. There was a tiny sliver of hope, maybe I could wrestle this thing back down before then.

Maybe the symptoms would plateau, or at least not get worse.

Maybe I was kidding myself and everyone knew it.

I forced myself to get out of bed, one cringe-worthy inch at a time, peeled off my disgusting clothes, and stumbled under a cold shower.

It did nothing except shock my skin and make the return of the heat feel even more miserable when I got out.

I caught my own reflection in the mirror and nearly laughed at how fucked I looked, wide eyes, flushed cheeks, hair matted to my neck.

Even my scent, that wild honey and cracked pepper, came at me so strong I had to grip the sink just to stay upright.

"Get it together," I said to the mirror, teeth gritted. "You’ve dealt with worse."

But I hadn’t, not really. My system was shot, just like Dr. Levine and Dr. Patel said it would be.

Years of military-grade suppressants and then one catastrophic crash, and now my body had no clue how to handle a standard cycle.

What should’ve been easy, something people lived with on a regular basis, was already spinning out of control, legal suppressants or not.

I took the morning meds, hands shaking, and even as I swallowed, I knew it wasn’t worth shit. Not today. Not with how bad it already was.

And then, like my luck wasn’t already garbage, someone knocked on my door.

"Quinn?" It was Malik’s voice, all careful calm and quiet concern. "Everything okay? Your scent is… noticeable."

Noticeable. Understatement of the century. If I could smell myself, the Alphas in the house were probably getting nuked with pheromones.

"I'm fine," I lied, though it sounded unconvincing even to me. "Just… the usual morning stuff."

A pause. Then: "May I come in? I made tea. Might help."

I hesitated, scanning my reflection, towel barely hanging on, hair dripping everywhere. "One sec."

I yanked on the loosest clothes I owned, oversized t-shirt and shorts. Even that felt like torture, every brush of fabric like sandpaper. When I cracked open the door, Malik was standing there, mug in hand, eyes full of professional-neutral worry.

"Thanks," I mumbled, taking the tea without looking at him.

He didn’t step inside, which I appreciated. "It's getting stronger," he said quietly. "The heat symptoms."

I didn’t bother denying it. "Yeah. Not great timing."

"We can postpone the stream."

"No." I looked up, letting the stubbornness burn through the discomfort. "We’ve pushed this for weeks. Sponsors are watching. I’ll manage."

Malik was not convinced, that much was obvious. His scent was sharper, anxiety bleeding through the usual steadiness. But he just nodded, not pushing it. “I’ll let the others know you might need… accommodations.”

Accommodations. Yeah, that was one way to put it.

"Thanks for the tea," I said, shutting the door before I could start acting like an actual basket case. "I'll be ready by noon."

Alone again, I leaned against the door, hands shaking around the mug.

The herbal smell, ginger and lemon, I guessed, cut through the Omega haze for a second, almost like a hand yanking me out of deep water.

If I could just keep a grip, I’d get through it.

Four hours at a table. Six people. Four hours of not falling apart.

I’d played tournaments with worse going on in my head.

But trying to psych myself up just made another wave of heat tear through me, sharper, crueler. My knees buckled. I somehow made it to the bed, slopping hot tea all over my hand in the process.

"Shit," I hissed, dropping the mug on the nearest surface and grabbing my hand, letting the scalding pain drive back the fog for a second.

If I called Dr. Patel, she’d show up with enough drugs to put me under or tell me to cancel everything. The official, responsible, boring answer. My thumb hovered over her number. I put it back down.

Four hours. I could do four hours. The Alphas had already set up all the safety nets, a kitchen full of protein and electrolyte drinks, smart locks on doors, contact protocols for minimal interaction. All the stuff to give the illusion of dignity and control.

By eleven, it was pretty obvious I’d been lying to myself.

Just sitting was hell. My skin throbbed, every sound felt like nails, every second stretched out by the gnawing emptiness growing inside me.

My shorts felt like barbed wire. Even the PC fan sounded like a jackhammer, and every time someone so much as coughed down the hall, it made my whole body tense like prey.

And the worst part was the need building between my legs. Not subtle, not ignorable, not something white-knuckling could fix. My body was screaming for exactly what it wanted, what it would take to end this.

An Alpha. A knot. Ideally all five of them, preferably until I blacked out.

"Shut up," I snarled at my reflection, nails digging into my palms. "That’s not happening."

I’d already doubled my suppressants, probably a bad idea, but that’s where my judgment was at. Didn’t help. If anything, now I had dizziness and a sour stomach layered on top of the rest.

Somebody knocked again.

“Quinn?” Reid's voice rumbled through the door, deep enough that it made heat pool in my core. “We’re setting up. You still good for the stream?”

I sucked in air. "Yeah. Be there in ten."

"You sure? Your scent is..." a pause, like he needed time to pick a word that wouldn't make everything worse. "Strong. Even through the door."

"I'm fine," I insisted, trying for confidence but landing somewhere between pathetic and hilarious. "Just give me a few minutes."

A beat, then: "Alright. We’ll be ready when you are."

I exhaled, suddenly dizzy. Just hearing his voice set my nerves on fire.

I had to move, had to do something. Cold compress on the back of my neck, another hit of suppressants (I know, I know, bad idea), switch out to looser clothes, hair back from my face.

The person in the mirror looked like they belonged in an ER, not in front of thousands of viewers.

But this was the plan. I was going to do it.

At twelve on the dot, I walked into the streaming room, every step something I had to force. They were all seated already, gear set up, and the instant I entered, five pairs of Alpha eyes locked on me. Their scents hit me like a brick wall.

Cedar and thunderstorms. Green tea and ozone. Ink and rain. Charcoal and vanilla. Sandalwood and linen.

Even if I hadn’t been dying, my Omega brain would have clocked every single one of them. As it was, it felt almost predatory, the way my subconscious broke down every detail, every potential match, every molecule.

"Hey," I croaked, sliding into my spot between Jace and Malik. "Ready to carry you all to victory?"

The joke flopped. My voice was too tight, too thin, but at least it came out. The others glanced around in that subtle way people do when they’re trying not to be obvious, but it was painfully clear in the silence.

“Stream starts in two minutes,” Ash said, keeping his tone all professionalism, even though his scent had the sharp edge of someone trying not to freak out. “Audio checks out. Cameras live.”

I nodded and stared at the monitor, let the game interface swallow my attention so I wouldn’t have to look at the Alphas any more than necessary. Their scents made everything both worse and marginally better, like drowning but also breathing for the first time.

"Quinn," Reid’s voice was so low only I could hear it. "Last chance. We can postpone."

"No," I bit out, meeting his eyes. They were blown wide, pupils so dark it looked like he was on something. "I can do this."

He didn’t argue. Maybe he wanted to, he looked half a second from reaching across the table and dragging me out, but all he said was, "Okay. But if you need to tap out? We end it, no questions."

I nodded and bit back a sound when another heat spike hit, this one so bad I thought I might actually cry.