Page 64 of The Drama King

He held up a substantial pharmacy bag and what looked like a small cooler. "I made some calls, pulled some strings with the campus pharmacy and a few off-campus medical contacts. The real stuff—not the over-the-counter heat management pills they usually give broke college students."

"Robbie, you didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did." His tone was firm. "Heat reducers that actually work, prescription-grade anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxers for the cramping, and some experimental hormone modulators I managed to get through a research program connection. Plus industrial-grade scent neutralizers."

My eyes widened. "Those must have cost a fortune."

"Worth every penny," he said simply. "And I brought information about longer-term solutions." He tapped a sealed medical envelope. "Continuous hormone therapy options that might prevent cycles entirely. Worth considering after everything that's been happening."

"Thank you," I managed, overwhelmed by his generosity and the strings he must have pulled. "I don't know how to repay you."

"You don't." He stepped back as another wave of my increasingly potent scent reached him. "Just stay safe."

I took the bag, our fingers briefly touching in the exchange. Even that slight contact sent uncomfortable awareness through my sensitized system—not attraction, but a biological recognition that was both embarrassing and unavoidable.

Robbie noticed, taking a step back. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," I murmured. "Stupid biology."

"Speaking of which..." He glanced nervously down the hallway. "Do you have everything you need for, you know, the intensity?"

My face burned, but I appreciated his delicacy. "Yeah. Got my, uh, heat aids."

He nodded, understanding exactly what I meant. Omegas in heat needed more than food and water to get through it comfortably. The artificial knot toys were expensive but essential for those of us navigating heats alone.

"Good. Because..." He lowered his voice further. "There's talk. Among the Alphas. About heats and who's available to 'help.'"

A chill ran through me despite my rising fever. "What kind of talk?"

"The usual entitled Alpha bullshit. But they're monitoring the medical absence lists somehow. Looking for Omegas who might be in heat without support." His expression grew serious. "They're hunting, Ves."

The word choice wasn't accidental. We both knew what some Alphas were capable of during Omega heats—the lines they'd cross, the boundaries they'd ignore, all justified under biological imperative.

"I'll be careful," I promised, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.

"I have to go handle this family thing, but I'll try to check on you tomorrow if I can get away from the donor dinner." He stepped back further as another wave of my increasingly potent scent reached him. "Text if you need anything. Anything at all."

After he left, I double-checked the locks before returning to my preparations. The conversation had left me unsettled, more aware than ever of my vulnerability. In the outside world, there were laws and social norms protecting Omegas. But inside the microcosm of elite academia, ancient hierarchies still prevailed, with Alphas at the top and Omegas struggling for safety, let alone equality.

I was completely on my own. Stephanie was dealing with family obligations at her parents' expensive house twenty minutes away. Robbie was trapped by his own family's corporate social requirements. They could bring me supplies and sendwarnings, but when it really mattered, I had no one who could stand against the pack's influence.

The isolation was perhaps the cruelest part—knowing that even those who might sympathize wouldn't risk helping when push came to shove. The other Omegas on campus kept their distance, too afraid of becoming targets themselves. The Betas followed the Alphas' lead or stayed neutral to avoid confrontation. And the faculty looked the other way, their jobs and reputations dependent on keeping powerful donor families happy.

By noon, the full heat had descended like a brutal punishment. My skin felt like it was being flayed alive, every nerve ending screaming for relief that wouldn't come. The slick between my thighs had become a humiliating river, soaking through the towels I'd laid beneath me. The empty ache inside me wasn't just discomfort—it was agony, a primal, desperate need that clawed at my insides like a living thing trying to escape.

I curled into a fetal position, sobbing as another wave of cramping tore through me. This wasn't the sanitized version of heat shown in romantic movies. This was my biology turning against me, my own body becoming a torture chamber I couldn't escape.

When the pain subsided enough for me to move, I reached with trembling hands for one of the toys. Not with desire, not with anticipation, but with desperate, clinical necessity—like a dying person reaching for medicine.

The artificial knot was cold silicon against my burning skin, a cruel mockery of what my body truly craved. I pressed it inside myself with shaking hands, the material warming slightly but remaining fundamentally wrong, fundamentally inadequate. My body clenched around it desperately, seeking the fullness, the stretch, the claiming it had been engineered to need.

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

I moved the toy with mechanical precision, chasing relief that remained just out of reach. My body responded with wet heat and desperate contractions, but the deeper ache only grew stronger. The emptiness inside me wasn't just physical—it was existential, a howling void that demanded connection, submission, completion.

Tears of frustration streamed down my face as I worked the inadequate substitute, my hips moving in desperate rhythm while my mind fractured between need and revulsion. Images flashed unbidden through my consciousness: strong hands gripping my hips, the weight of a body pinning me down, the sharp pleasure-pain of being filled completely, properly, by someone who could satisfy the terrible hunger eating me alive.

The fantasy face that materialized was ice-blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, sandalwood scent and commanding presence. Dorian's face, Dorian's hands, Dorian's voice whispering filthy promises against my throat while he claimed what my treacherous biology insisted belonged to him.