"I know," I say softly, even though I'm not sure I do. "It's okay, Nick. I understand what this is."
His expression crumples slightly. "Do you? Because I'm not sure I do."
Before I can respond, another wave of heat starts to build. Not the overwhelming crash of before, but a steady warming that tells me the next surge isn't far off.
"How long until...?" Nick asks, noticing the change in my scent.
"Maybe an hour," I estimate. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupts. "I want to help you through this. All of it. However long it takes."
The intensity in his voice makes my chest tight. He means it—he wants to help me. But wanting to help and being able to love are two very different things.
As I settle back against his chest, breathing in his scent, I try to focus on what I can have instead of what I can't. His care,his attention, his body. The way he touches me like I'm precious even if he can't love me like I'm essential.
Maybe it will be enough. Maybe I can learn to be satisfied with this—with being wanted if not loved, cared for if not cherished.
Maybe the ache in my chest will fade, given time.
Maybe.
Nick
Micah's whimpering.
The sound cuts through my exhausted sleep like a knife, instantly triggering every protective instinct I possess. His scent hits me next—that sweet omega smell but different now, sharper and more concentrated. Like someone's taken everything that makes Micah Micah and distilled it into pure pheromone.
"Nick," he gasps, his body writhing against mine. "Nick, please."
My body responds before my brain fully engages, hardening instantly against his hip. This is the fourth wave of his heat in twenty-four hours, and each one has been more intense than the last. Amara warned us breakthrough heats could be severe, but nothing prepared me for this—for how his need seems to claw at me, demanding I fix what I broke.
"I'm here," I murmur, fully awake now, gathering him against my chest. His skin burns against mine, fever-hot and slick with sweat. "I've got you."
But do I? Yesterday I had him crying into my neck, thanking me for trying to be enough. Today he woke up with walls around his heart because I can't say three simple words.
Micah makes a broken sound that's half relief, half desperation. His hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. "It's worse," he pants. "This wave is worse."
I press my lips to his forehead, tasting salt. He's right. His temperature feels higher than before, his trembling more violent. And beneath the physical symptoms, I can feel his emotional pain like a constant ache. He's trying so hard to protect himself from me, even while his body demands my touch.
"Tell me what you need," I say, though I already know the answer. And I already know I'll give him everything I can except the one thing he really wants.
Micah's response is to press his body against mine, his hardness evident against my thigh. "You," he breathes. "Inside me. Now. Please, Nick."
There's a desperation in his voice I haven't heard before, raw in a way that bypasses my conscious mind and speaks directly to every alpha instinct I have. Every instinct that wants to claim him completely since I can't love him properly.
I take a deep breath, trying to center myself, but it's useless. My control has been hanging by a thread since yesterday, since I realized how badly I'm failing him. I've always prided myself on my self-control, on being different from the stereotypical alphas who let their biology rule them. Different from my father, who used his alpha status as an excuse for his worst behaviors.
But his scent is breaking down walls I didn't know I had, calling to parts of me I've kept carefully leashed. And underneath it all is this desperate need to give him permanence since I can't give him love.
"Nick," Micah whimpers, his hands sliding down my chest, wrapping around my cock with trembling fingers. "Please. It hurts."
His touch sends electricity racing through my system, short-circuiting any attempt at restraint. I'm failing him in every way that matters, but at least I can give him this. At least I can make the physical pain stop.
A growl builds in my chest, rumbling out before I can stop it. "Turn over," I hear myself say, my voice deeper than normal, resonating with alpha command I've never used before.
Micah responds instantly, presenting himself to me with his ass in the air, face pressed into the pillow. The position—so submissive, so trusting—triggers an instinct in me that's pure alpha possession. Mine, my brain insists. If I can't love him, at least I can claim him. At least I can give him that.
I run my hands down his back, feeling the tremors that race through him. He's producing so much slick that it's soaking the sheets beneath us, the scent of it making my head swim. I should take my time, prepare him carefully like I did during the previous waves. But there's this urgency in me now, this need to possess him completely.