Chapter 4

Chapter Four

H arper

I don’t sleep a wink that night. I lie in my bed squirming, slicking all over the sheets, my head full of alpha and my nose too.

It was bad enough when I only had to look at them or catch drifts of their scents. Now I know what it’s like to feel and kiss them too. Now I know what it’s like to be handled by them.

My imagination is running wild and so is my libido. It’s agony.

By the time the sun rises, gray light filtering through the window and the birds out in the garden singing their hearts out, I give up and fling back the sheet. Sleep is not happening. I’m too darn frustrated.

I think back to what the doctor told me when I first turned up at the clinic with unexplained cramps, hormones running riot and smelling really damn weird.

She examined me, ran a load of tests and told me to call my mom. I thought she was going to tell me I had some incurable disease. I thought I was dying. By the time my mom showed up, I was a wreck, hyperventilating and crying my eyes out.

Turns out I wasn’t at death’s door – no, those killer cramps are just part of being an omega.

Obviously, the diagnosis was a relief.

It was also a massive, mega shock. There’s never been an omega in our family. This designation hit me out of nowhere.

Not that it turns out being an omega is all that great. The doctor painted a very vivid picture of a life filled with painful cramps and emotional and hormonal roller coasters. At least for the first few years anyway. Then, the doctor promised me, things would calm down, especially once we sorted my medication.

“Of course,” she said, writing me out a prescription, “the best and most effective way to get a handle on your emotions, hormones, and, erm, urges, is to find a pack of alphas. They’ll have you all settled down in no time.”

I’d scoffed at that. I’m going to study art at college. I won’t be alpha hunting. Although, right now, my body is in serious disagreement with this plan. All it wants is those alphas and that little taster yesterday in the pool has only made things worse.

I change out of yet another pair of ruined underwear and then slump down on the floor, leaning against my bed and dragging open the bottom drawer of my desk. Buried under several textbooks is my sketching pad, pencils, crayons and watercolors.

I used to draw and paint all the time. It’s always been my means of escape – when the world’s been too tough or too broken. I guess there were more occasions like that as a kid. I was home alone a lot while mom was working and sometimes that scared the crap out of me. Plus we moved around a lot – always in search of a more affordable apartment.

Things have been better ever since Mom met Ethan – calmer, more secure. Mom’s happier and now we have a house the size of a mansion and more money than we could have dreamed of. There hasn’t been the need to draw or paint.

Not until now.

I flick back the page and close my eyes, pressing my pencil to the paper, drawing with my eyes closed, my pencil moving of its own accord.

Then I open my eyes and look down at the result. It would look like a scribbled mess to anyone else, but to me it captures exactly how I’m feeling. Frustrated.

I take the crayons and add color, highlighting certain aspects with bright colors, detracting from other sections with darker shades. I work on my sketch for several hours, a sense of calm washing over me.

By the time I’m done, more sunlight filters into the room and the birdsong has died away.

Morning.

Suddenly I realize how darn hungry I am.

Folding my picture away, I hide all my supplies back under my textbooks. My art is not made up of the usual sketches of pretty flowers and tranquil landscapes. It’s messy and slightly unhinged and I don’t know what the hell people would think if I showed it to them.

Tying a short, silky gown over the top of my sleep shorts and top, I sneak downstairs in search of breakfast. Half of me is hoping the alphas are still sleeping and I won’t bump into them. The other half of me – the really freaking horny half – is hoping I do.

I sigh, maybe I should up the number of suppressants I’m taking. Maybe I should stand under an ice-cold shower for most of the morning. Maybe I should just strip naked and throw myself in front of all three alphas, offering myself up as tribute, sacrifice and all-round willing victim.

“Oh,” I gasp, knocked out of that little daydream by the presence of one of the alphas already in the kitchen.

Wyatt.

And now I know why my stomach is growling. He’s cooking something delicious smelling, which, along with his scent of vanilla, is making my mouth water.

“Good morning,” he says, looking up from the pan.

I gape at him, trying hard not to think of his mouth on my throat and his hard cock pressing up against my butt. I swallow down a little whimper.

I seriously need to get a handle on myself.

“You’re cooking?” I mumble.

Inwardly, I groan.

Real smooth, Harper. Obviously, he’s cooking.

“Yeah, breakfast omelets. You want one?”

I come take a look at what’s cooking in his pan. Up close, the combined aromas smell even better.

“Is that allowed?” I ask.

Am I flirting? I think I might be. I think I can’t help myself. Wyatt’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt that reminds me quite clearly of all the muscles he possesses.

“Allowed?” he says, frowning with confusion.

“I’m pretty sure Daxton banned you from talking to me.”

“I don’t think conversation is forbidden, just …” He pauses and his gaze sweeps over me.

“Just …?” I edge a little closer to him.

He swallows and turns his attention back to his cooking. “How do you like your omelets? I hear the French prefer them runny.”

I sigh. My efforts of flirtation and seduction are obviously lacking. I mean, he seemed interested yesterday – they all did – but I bet these three men have their pick of girls and maybe I can’t compete.

“I’m not a fan of runny,” I say, hopping up onto one of the counter stools. “I prefer something a little more … solid.”

His eyes flick to me and his nostrils flare. He mumbles under his breath.

“What?” I say, leaning my elbow on the counter and resting my chin in my palm.

“Your, erm, scent,” he coughs, “it’s all over the place.”

“It is?” I frown and attempt to sniff myself subtly. “Is that a bad thing?” I ask innocently. I’m still new to this omega thing and I’d honestly like to know.

“It’s a … well …” He rubs at his nose, his eyes flicking to me again, this time the green a shade darker.

“I only presented last year,” I explain.

“At seventeen? That’s pretty late,” he says.

“Yeah,” I sigh, “and completely unexpected. No one else in my family is an omega or an alpha.”

“Really?” he says, turning towards me with obvious curiosity. “I don’t see how that could be possible.”

“Oh, my dad, I guess. I am,” I say pointing to my chest, “the result of a one-night stand. A drunken mistake.”

“I don’t think you could be a mistake,” he says, with a shake of his head.

“Well, I was. My mom was only twenty – still training to be a nurse. And as for my dad … disappeared. I think mom tried to track him down but no luck.”

“Was he an alpha?” Wyatt asks, the omelet starting to sizzle in the pan.

“No, at least, not as far as my mom can remember. I’m just an anomaly, as well as a mistake.”

Wyatt shakes his head again. “You’re not an anomaly. Your dad might not have been an alpha or an omega, but there will have been members of his family who were, who are.”

“I don’t know. It’s not always the case, right? Look at Daxton – Ethan isn’t an alpha.”

“No, but Dax’s grandfather is an alpha. His grandmother is an omega.”

“Oh,” I say. I’ve never really talked about this stuff with anyone before and now I’m curious. “How about you and Owen?”

“I’m the youngest of four boys,” Wyatt says. “All alphas.”

“Wow,” I say, “and you can actually cook.”

“My mom insisted we all learn to cook, clean and launder our own clothes.”

“I like the sound of your mom.”

And his three brothers.

I try not to imagine how hot Wyatt’s brothers must be.

I fail, creating a very vivid picture in my mind and sending my scent spiraling again.

Wyatt gapes at me, before collecting himself, and sliding one omelet onto a plate.

“My dad was an alpha as well,” he says.

“Was?” I ask.

“He died of a heart attack ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I say and he nods.

“It was needless. If they’d gotten to him … it’s why I want to be a doctor.”

I smile and he passes me the omelet along with a fork.

“Owen comes from a pack,” he continues. “He has a mom and four dads.”

“Wow, and I don’t even have one.” I take a bite of the omelet, butter and egg melting into my mouth. “So gooood,” I groan.

“You’re cooking for her?” a voice says from the doorway, as the scent of moss sweeps into the room.

Owen.

He grins at me, leaning against the doorframe.

“She was hungry,” Wyatt says.

“Wyatt’s not the best talker,” Owen tells me. I peer at Wyatt who doesn’t seem the least bit offended by this comment. “Cooking is his way of seducing girls into bed.”

I don’t think Wyatt would need to do any seducing, talking or cooking to tempt a girl into bed with him. He could simply stand there looking and smelling as good as he does, and they’d dive right in, dragging him behind them.

I decide not to share that piece of information with them both.

“If Daxton catches you cooking for her, there’ll be hell to pay. We’re under strict orders,” Owen explains to me, “hands off.”

He holds up his hands and I stare at them, remembering exactly where those long, thick fingers of his were yesterday. In my pussy.

Oh lordy.

I swallow another whimper.

“Do you always do what Daxton says?” I say grumpily, rubbing my thighs together.

The eggs are good and all. Drawing this morning provided some needed distraction. Neither of those two things can compete with the feel of two alphas with their hands all over my body and their fingers in my pussy.

This is torture for sure.

“Not always,” Wyatt says, cracking eggs into a bowl.

“But we’re best friends,” Owen adds, “have been ever since we bonded over our first human dissection back at the beginning of medical school. We respect and care about each other. And unfortunately,” he stares at me with a big look of disappointment – disappointment that might actually be causing him physical pain (I can relate), “that means following each other’s wishes.”

I pick up my plate and carry it back up to my bedroom. It’s clear eggs and drawing are as good as it’s going to get.

For now …