Page 66 of Stream Heat (Omega Stream #1)

Kara

It had been six months since my heat flooded a livestream and detonated my career, six months since I’d been crawling out from that wreckage and trying to stitch myself back together.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, I was trying to decide if the bite marks peeking from my collar looked like calculated rebellion or accidental exposure.

“Ready for the big launch?” Theo’s voice exploded behind me, elastic and barely contained as always.

His whole presence was kinetic, like his body had never gotten the message that you could stand still if you wanted.

“Everyone’s waiting downstairs. The execs look like they’re about to collectively combust. Or piss themselves. Maybe both?”

I smoothed my blazer one last time. “They should be excited. This is going to change everything.”

“Already has,” he said, suddenly serious, and for a minute he looked at me like he was seeing someone new. “Six months ago, you were barely getting through an hour. Now you’re… I mean, look at you.”

I knew what he meant. The outside was obvious enough, I’d stopped poisoning myself and my body had decided to respond by transforming.

My skin was clear, my eyes were sharper, my build was finally settling into itself.

But the bones of it were different, too.

Somewhere along the line, I’d stopped moving like I expected to be hit for it.

Stopped tensing at the word Omega. Stopped pretending old wounds weren’t still sore, and started living like I wanted to be seen.

“Come on,” Theo insisted, and offered his arm like I was the fucking Queen. “Your adoring public is getting restless.”

Downstairs, the house had been gutted and rebuilt as an event venue, all chrome edge and soft lighting and more dignitaries than I’d ever seen in one place.

Platform execs, industry journalists, rights advocates, competing streamers, all of them orbiting this gleaming display near the bar.

The logo flickered on a massive screen: Stream Heat: LIVE.

My creation. Our platform, built for content creators with designations, anyone who’d ever been forced to hide or lie to fit in.

Reid was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, his hand already finding its place at the small of my back, anchoring me like he always did.

“Nervous?” he murmured.

“Not even a little,” I said, and it was true. Six months ago, I’d have been sick with it. Now, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He smiled, just enough to let me feel it through our bond. “The Senator’s office called. Apparently, your testimony is already in draft language for the new Designation Protection Act. Congressional aides are fighting over who gets to take credit.”

“Good,” I said, meaning it. “They should have done this years ago.”

The first person to descend was Callie Cross, her hair now streaked Omega-pride purple. She wrapped me in a hug that left my arms numb for a second.

“This is incredible, Quinn! We already have ten thousand creator applications for the beta!” She grabbed both my hands, her palms sweaty with excitement. “You’re literally changing people’s lives.”

“ We are,” I corrected, glancing toward my pack, who had started to line up like a protective wall. “I didn’t do any of it alone.”

Malik appeared at my shoulder, his suit and tie so perfect it made everyone else look rumpled. “The Omega Health Foundation wants to talk with you about the nonprofit initiative.”

The nonprofit was Malik’s idea, and it had snowballed faster than I’d thought possible. With Smith facing a federal cage and Nexus Management gone, there were hundreds of young creators floundering, withdrawal case files piling up. The platform alone wouldn’t be enough.

“Ms. Quinn,” Dr. Stein greeted me, sounding less like a doctor and more like someone announcing a new planet had been discovered. “Your work these past six months has been revolutionary. The suppressant recovery protocols you helped pilot are already being rolled out to clinics nationwide.”

“Ash gets the credit for that,” I said, nodding to where he was talking with engineers over by the analytics display. “He built the tech that got me through without blowing up my life.”

“A true partnership,” Dr. Stein agreed. “And exactly why your nonprofit’s so impactful, you attack the problem from every angle. Medical, technical, emotional. All at once.”

I nodded, but my focus had already drifted to Jace, who stood just outside the knot of people, hands in his pockets, watching everything. I excused myself and found him in the shadows.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded, and his scent wrapped itself around me like a memory of snow. “Just watching. Sometimes it’s better to see the shape of things before walking into them.”

“What we’ve built,” I reminded him quietly. “I’d have lost my mind months ago if you hadn’t been here to talk sense. Or to tell me not to try and fight the whole internet at once.”

His half-smile was brighter than any full one. “You always knew what was needed. Authentic designation content was always going to win. You just had to believe it wouldn’t destroy you, first.”

The platform exec called for attention with a clink of glass. “Ladies, gentlemen, and designation-diverse attendees, it’s my privilege to announce the live launch of what we believe will revolutionize content creation for underrepresented designations.”

My pack formed up almost on instinct. Reid at my right, serious and implacable.

Theo at my left, practically vibrating. Jace just behind my shoulder, silent as a shadow but twice as unyielding.

Ash’s bulk grounding everything from the back.

Malik closing the circle; calm, watchful, ready for whatever happened next.

When I stepped up to the podium, the bond between us was a living thing, and for the first time maybe ever, I didn’t resent the biology of it. I drew from it.

“Six months ago,” I began, “I crashed into heat on livestream. At the time, it felt like the most humiliating moment of my life. I thought it would be the end. But it wasn’t.

It was the start of something else, a transformation, not just for me, but for anyone who’s ever had to lie about what they are. ”

No one moved. No one interrupted.

“For eight years, I poisoned myself with illegal suppressants to keep a marketable Beta image. I denied what I am. I hid every instinct, every need, and nearly burned out. I’m not the only one.

There are hundreds like me. Creators forced to fake normalcy for commercial viability. It’s a lie, and it’s killing us.”

I pointed to the Stream Heat: LIVE logo behind me.

“That ends tonight. This isn’t just a streaming service.

This is a community. Omegas won’t have to smuggle their heat cycles like a dirty secret.

Alphas won’t have to perform aggro they don’t feel just to make numbers.

Pack creators can exist as they are, without being turned into freak shows for clicks.

Even relationships that aren’t traditional, they get a seat at the table now. ”

The platform exec stepped up, voice booming.

“The Heat Disclosure Act, implemented across our services, was directly inspired by Ms. Quinn. Creators now have accommodation options, protected status during designation cycles, and explicit policies preventing discrimination. No more hiding. No more shaming. Not here.”

The rush of satisfaction was sharp and sweet, like a sugar high. I’d testified for that policy in front of Congress, hands shaking, voice breaking. To hear it referenced as precedent was wild.

“But Stream Heat: Live is more than policy,” I said, locking eyes with the journalists in the back row. “It’s about normalization. Not fetishization, not exploitation. We’re teaching the world that diversity of designation isn’t a liability. It’s just… reality. And it’s profitable.”

I could see the idea landing in the room. Not just another streaming clone. Not just another content farm. Something new, and maybe, something right.

“Pack Wrecked will be our first featured creators,” I said, and now my Alphas joined me at the front. “We’re showing, instead of just telling. You’ll see what it’s like to create with a designation-diverse team, from both sides.”

Reid talked about protection protocols for vulnerable streamers.

Theo demoed the ridiculous charisma that came from refusing to hide what he was.

Jace talked about quiet power and endurance, keeping your head down and making art.

Ash ran the crowd through the technical stuff, design adaptations, streaming tools, environmental mods for designation-specific needs.

Malik closed us out with a rundown of the emotional and psychological supports, the stuff no one else ever thought to include.

We weren’t just a pack. We were the blueprint for what came next.

The presentation wrapped, applause thundered, and suddenly I was awash in people. One young Omega, someone I recognized from her anxious posts, pulled me aside. Her hands trembled.

“I just wanted to thank you,” she whispered. “I was on suppressants for three years. I thought I’d never make it as myself. But after watching you... I quit. I stream now as me. And my numbers are up instead of down. For the first time, I don’t hate it.”

Something inside me cracked and re-formed. “That’s why we built this,” I said, squeezing her hands back. “So no one else has to make the call I did.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, voice shaking. “There are packs forming all over the industry now. Real, safe packs. Not just for show. You made that possible.”

I thought of the rooms full of creators finding their people, their teams, making something new instead of pretending to be something they weren’t. That was worth every bit of pain it took to get here.