The sterile, faintly lemon-scented air of the campus health center wasn’t exactly relaxing, but at least it was predictable. My annual checkup was supposed to be routine, a quick tick-box exercise to satisfy Ridgeline’s secondary gender health requirements. I’d done this every year without issue. Quick, painless, and forgettable.
All alphas and omegas received annual health checkups as part of being students at Ridgeline. I’d been avoiding mine. Not because I was afraid of hospitals or needles, but because between classes and tutoring, I simply hadn’t had the time. And, frankly, I didn’t feel like wasting hours having a doctor confirm what I already knew—that I was in perfect health. Except…
Ever since Max and I had… done that, there was an ache in my chest that wasn’t going away.
It felt like a strange case of heartburn. At first, I’d dismissed it as stress—stress could do strange things to the body, after all, and I’d had enough stress over the past six days to put me into an early grave, thanks to a certain someone. I’d thought it would simply go away.
But this morning, I had woken up and it had hurt so fiercely, clenching in my sternum like a fist, I’d become seriously concerned that there might be something actually wrong with me. I’d decided it was best to alert my professors and take the day off classes. I would see Max later, but for now, I had a full eight hours to devote to my physical—and mental— health.
Add in the fact that I had experienced my first heat ever in my twenty-one years and now, I supposed, was as good a time as ever for my annual exam. It hadn’t been a real heat cycle, but still. Best to ensure that there weren’t going to be any… lingering effects.
Also, I was almost positive I had a brain tumor. Or perhaps had unknowingly suffered something that had affected my higher cognitive functions. Because there was absolutely no other logical explanation for why I’d caved under Max’s ridiculous display of pleading and taken him back on as a tutee last night. I’d been so close to sending the official termination email to the Tutor Council—then one look from those pleading brown eyes had hit me like a sucker punch.
Yes. A brain tumor was the only explanation for my lapse in sanity. Perhaps the tumor had specific preferences—brown eyes, broad shoulders, and an IQ below room temperature. That would explain everything.
I sat in the waiting room, filling out the usual forms as I waited for my name to be called. I briskly filled in the boxes on the first page, only to pause when I flipped to the second page. Omega Health Questionnaire, the title declared. I gingerly fingered the edge of the paper, hesitating as I scanned its contents.
Most years, this section was irrelevant. I’d breezed through it, checking “no” or “n/a” down the column without a second thought. But now? The words glared at me like an accusation.
At what age did you experience your first heat cycle? When was your last heat cycle? Please specify the duration. Have there been any recent changes in your estrus cycles or symptoms? How do you currently manage your heats? Have you been experiencing any post-heat symptoms?
Urgh. I stared at the questions, my pen frozen over the first box. Every question felt like an unwanted reminder, even as the answers sounded in my head. My first and last heat cycle? Less than twenty-four hours ago. Recent changes? Yes, that I had had one. How did I manage my heats? I preferred not to.
Jaw tightening, I adjusted my glasses and scrawled my answers as quickly as possible, keeping my handwriting sharp and efficient. For the last question, I simply wrote “sharp ache in chest”. No need to overthink this. It was just a form. Just a stupid form.
"Ainsley Kerrigan?" a voice rang out, drawing my attention to where a nurse stood. She wore a neutral circle badge pinned neatly on her uniform, indicating her status as a beta. I approached her with the clipboard in hand and passed her the completed forms. She nodded and guided me to the obligatory weigh-in, then gestured for me to follow her to an examination room.
The nurse's smile was professional but warm as she gestured for me to sit on the padded exam table. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender, the clinic's attempt at creating a calming atmosphere, though it mostly made me want to sneeze.
“Alright, Mr. Kerrigan,” she said, glancing at my chart. Her stylus clicked in quick efficiency. “Any changes in your health since your last annual?”
"I… recently experienced my first heat cycle," I admitted after a moment’s hesitation, forcing my tone to remain clinical. The nurse nodded as she jotted down a note.
"It was a flash heat," I added swiftly, to clarify. "Nothing severe—likely triggered by a combination of pheromone exposure and stress. A textbook case, really."
Her stylus hovered briefly. “Okay. Just to confirm, you’ve never been prescribed suppressants?”
I shook my head. “No. I was advised against them due to the delayed onset of my secondary gender development.”
The nurse nodded and entered more notes on her tablet, then looked up at me, her expression neutral. “And during your recent heat—did you have a partner?”
I stiffened instinctively, my stomach flipping at the directness of the question. I had to remind myself this was standard, a question meant to assess risk factors and any potential medical implications. But knowing it was standard didn’t make it any less mortifying.
“Yes,” I said finally, my voice steady despite the sudden heat crawling up the back of my neck. Transparency was important during health exams, even if it made me want to curl into a ball and hide. “I did.”
Her kind gaze didn’t waver, her demeanor perfunctory as she made another note. “Understood. Just to confirm, this was consensual?”
“Yes.” The word came out sharper than I intended, my irritation at the implication slipping through.
“And during the heat, did your partner engage in direct scent exposure? Skin contact near your glands, unshielded?”
Another wave of heat prickled up my spine. I wanted to lie. God, I wanted to lie. But I knew better.
“Yes,” I admitted, my voice quieter this time. “There was… direct scent exposure. Neither of us wore patches.”
The nurse didn’t react visibly, only typing into her tablet. Her composure should’ve been reassuring, but it wasn’t. It only made me feel more like a specimen under examination.
“And the duration of the heat was… eight hours?” she asked, glancing at the form I’d filled out.
“I believe so,” I said dryly. “I wasn’t exactly looking at the clock.”
Her lips twitched. “Noted. And have you been experiencing any residual symptoms since then?”
My mind immediately jumped to the persistent ache in my chest. “Actually, yes. I’ve had this… discomfort. Here.” I gestured vaguely toward my sternum. “I thought it was heartburn or perhaps indigestion, but it’s became more constant since… then. It’s been bothering me enough to be noticeable.”
The nurse hummed thoughtfully, scribbling on the chart. “Could be hormonal adjustment following your first cycle. We’ll run a panel to check. Any other symptoms? Fever, fatigue, changes in appetite?”
“No fever,” I replied. “And my appetite’s been normal. But I suppose I’ve been… more irritable than usual.” I refrained from elaborating further, though my thoughts flickered briefly to Max again.
Her eyes flicked to the patch on my neck. “No issues with pheromone suppression or scent patches?”
I shook my head. “One patch works fine,” I said. The days of omegas layering patches over every scent gland like badges of shame were long gone, thanks to optimized systemic compounds ensuring one was as effective as eight.
“Got it,” she said, making another note. She set the tablet down and rose from her chair, approaching where I sat on the exam table. “Alright, let’s start the physical. We’ll check your scent glands first. If you could tilt your head to the side for me?”
I complied, removing my scent patch and baring the skin of my neck. The nurse’s gloved fingers moved with precision, their touch intended to be methodical, impersonal. But the instant they brushed the skin just below my ear, a jolt shot through me, and I flinched—a subtle motion, quick and involuntary, but enough to send tension rippling through my body.
The reaction startled me as much as it seemed to surprise her. My stomach tightened, a faint flush rising in my chest as I clamped down on the instinct to pull away completely.
It’s just natural sensitivity, I told myself. Perfectly normal. After all, scent glands were the most vulnerable part of any omega or alpha’s anatomy, the locus of pheromone release.
Still, the sensation was off—sharper, more invasive than anything I’d experienced in prior exams. I’d gone through countless scent gland checks before, submitting without a second thought since the practice became routine at sixteen. But this…
My skin prickled with unease, the faint buzz of discomfort gnawing at my nerves.
The nurse paused, her hand hovering midair. Her professional mask didn’t falter, but I caught the subtle flicker of her eyes, likely noting my reaction. “Are your glands feeling overly sensitive?” she asked, her tone measured and calm, as though she hadn’t just brushed a live wire.
I hesitated, the words sticking to my tongue like glue. “A little,” I admitted, voice low and stiff. I hated acknowledging discomfort—it wasn’t something I did, not with exams, not with anything. And yet, here I was, unnerved by the routine touch of a scent gland check.
Her hand returned to its work, probing gently along the curve of my gland. The pressure was light, clinical, nothing that should’ve elicited a response. And yet, I couldn’t stop the faint, instinctive urge to draw back again or even slap her hand away. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but it was… wrong. Off.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, steeling myself against the sensation until I felt the faint, cool glide of a swab as she collected a sample and finally, her touch withdrew. Replacing the scent patch over my gland, I exhaled silently in relief, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.
“Everything looks normal,” she said, discarding the swab into a sterile tube and jotting something down on her clipboard. “But heightened sensitivity isn’t uncommon after a heat cycle. It could be hormonal.”
I nodded, my throat too tight to form a proper response. Hormonal, I thought. That made sense. Logical, clinical sense. Except it didn’t feel logical. It felt like something else entirely—something I wasn’t didn’t want to name.
My thoughts drifted once more, unbidden, to Max. To the way his touch hadn’t ever elicited this kind of response. To how, despite my reluctance to acknowledge it, his proximity had never felt like too much. Too close, yes. Too overwhelming, certainly. But never invasive.
Then I slammed a mental full stop on that inane thought, refusing to let it take root. No good could come from spiraling down that path—not here, not now. I didn’t even attempt to construct a counterargument, knowing it would backfire spectacularly. Because the moment I tried to argue that I’d never experienced anything invasive enough to warrant such a reaction, my brain would inevitably betray me by conjuring up that instance. The memory of Max, his lips on my scent gland, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin like he was learning me—claiming me.
My hands tightened on the edge of the exam table, my nails biting into the padding as I forcibly pushed the memory away. But even as I did, I couldn’t help noticing how the ache in my chest spread to pulse lower, sparking in my abdomen like miniature fireworks.
I desperately needed to ask Dr. Patel about an MRI.
“Now, we’ll take a blood sample for your hormone panel,” the nurse announced, drawing my attention back fully to the present. If she noticed the death grip I had on the exam table or my flaming face, she mercifully didn’t comment. “This will give us a detailed look at your pheromone levels, omega markers, and overall hormonal balance. Since this was your first cycle, it’ll be important to track how your body adjusts.”
She prepared the needle and tourniquet with practiced ease. I extended my arm, glancing away as she slid the needle into place, the slight pinch barely registering compared to the unease still simmering in my chest. The nurse worked with quiet efficiency, filling a few vials of blood before removing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to the spot.
I muttered a quiet “Thanks” as she taped the cotton down, my tone short despite my effort to appear unaffected. Then came the rest of the examination—the full, head-to-toe physical that every omega endured annually. It wasn’t painful, just… thorough.
Her hands moved clinically, checking my lymph nodes, palpating my abdomen, and testing my reflexes. I complied as she shined a light into my eyes, asked me to follow her finger with my gaze, and listened to my lungs with the cold press of a stethoscope against my back.
“Everything’s normal so far,” she noted after taking my blood pressure and jotting the numbers onto her tablet. “Now, I’ll check your pheromone baseline.”
I resisted the urge to grimace. The pheromone check was standard for omegas, meant to ensure that suppressants—or lack thereof—weren’t interfering with hormonal health.
“Please remove your scent patch,” she said, gesturing to my neck again. “This will only take a moment.”
I peeled the patch from my skin for a second time, trying to ignore the faint release of my scent into the room. She held a small, handheld analyzer close to my neck, the device emitting a soft beep as it processed the pheromones in the air.
“Baseline levels are within range,” she said, glancing at the readout on the device. “No indication of suppressant interference, which is good. The data from your blood panel will give us more insight, but this looks fine for now.”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
I nodded stiffly, reapplying my scent patch as quickly as possible. The nurse offered a faint smile as she stepped back, setting the analyzer aside.
“That wraps up the exam portion,” she said, her tone breezy, as though we hadn’t just completed an exhaustive checklist of my physical state. “Dr. Patel will review your results shortly and go over everything with you.”
“Great,” I said flatly, not trusting myself to say more without betraying the discomfort still curling low in my gut. She exited the room with the same efficient grace she’d entered, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the ache in my chest that hadn’t dulled in the slightest. The vulnerability of the ordeal lingered like an aftertaste, something I couldn’t quite swallow away, no matter how hard I tried.
I exhaled slowly, glancing at the sterile walls and lavender diffuser in the corner, trying to convince myself that this was fine—routine, predictable, nothing to worry about. It would be over in a matter of a half hour and I’d return to the rest of my day as planned.
Everything was fine.
----------------------------------------
Less than fifteen minutes later, there came a polite knock on the door and Dr. Patel stepped into the room with her usual air of quiet confidence.
She took a seat and greeted me with her usual warmth, her cornflower-blue eyes crinkling as she smiled. “Ainsley, it’s always a pleasure. How’s this semester treating you?”
Dr. Patel was another omega, attractive in a polished, professional way—her uniform perfectly tailored, with a crescent moon badge displayed just above her neckline. The pin gleamed subtly under the sterile fluorescent lights, a small but deliberate statement of pride. I wasn’t entirely sure how old she was. Late thirties? Early forties?
Regardless of her actual age, her sharp, symmetrical features and the smooth sweep of her dark, straight hair made her look timeless in a way that seemed almost unfair. She had the sort of composure that turned heads without effort—her slender, petite build adding to her air of understated authority.
“School is fine,” I replied, my tone brusque but polite. Dr. Patel was nice enough, but I just wanted this over with. The sooner I could leave and pretend this appointment never happened, the better.
She nodded, skimming through my file. “Well, I’ve gone over the results of your physical and hormone panel. We’ll go over the basics first.”
I sat stiffly, my hands folded in my lap as she pulled up the results on her screen. “First off, the basics: your overall physical health is fine, but there are a few things to address. You’re four pounds underweight for your height and your vitamin D levels are also low—likely from insufficient sunlight exposure, which isn’t uncommon for students. I’d recommend a daily supplement and trying to find room in that busy schedule of yours to eat more balanced meals and spend more time outdoors.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Thank you for identifying that I’m a delicate, malnourished flower who just needs more sunlight to thrive. “Noted.”
“Now,” Dr. Patel said, tapping the tablet and scrolling through more data. “Let’s go over your lab work.”
I nodded and waited. Except she didn’t continue right away. Instead she paused, her brow wrinkling as she looked down at the results. My stomach twisted into knots. “Well?” I prompted impatiently.
“Your hormone panel is… interesting,” she said slowly, not looking at me.
“Interesting how?” I asked, my voice tight.
“Well,” she began, finally glancing at me with a curious tilt of her head, “Your pheromone levels are within the normal range for someone post-heat, but they’re elevated compared to the baseline we’ve seen in your previous checkups. That could simply be your body adjusting after your first cycle, but what really stands out here is your oxytocin and vasopressin levels.”
Her gaze met mine. “They’re abnormally high. These hormones are also known as bonding hormones and elevation is common in scentbonded individuals, especially following heat cycles where direct scent exposure occurred. This could explain some of the symptoms you’ve been experiencing, like the ache in your chest and heightened gland sensitivity.”
I blinked. Suddenly the room felt like it had dropped ten degrees. My chest ache flared, sharp and insistent, and I couldn’t tell if it was from panic or the physical reality of whatever the hell was happening to me.
Scentbonded. With Max?
“I’m sorry, did you just say—” I started, but she gently cut me off.
“I can’t confirm it definitively without further testing,” she said, “but the data does strongly suggests a scentbond. It’s not unusual for scentbonding to occur after an intense heat cycle with a partner, especially if there was prolonged physical and scent exposure. You mentioned your partner didn’t wear a scent patch, correct?”
“Yes,” I admitted, my voice tight.
She smiled indulgently. “It’s nothing to be alarmed about. Scentbonding is perfectly normal for omegas in committed relationships. It’s actually quite romantic—”
Romantic? Yes, because there’s nothing more romantic than sweating through eight hours of pheromonal chaos with your least favorite person.
“Dr. Patel, I don’t know what all you think has changed in the past year, but I’m not in a relationship,” I cut in sharply, shaking my head. “It was… an unexpected situation. My heat came on out of the blue and… a friend assisted. That’s all.”
Dr. Patel blinked, her professional demeanor briefly giving way to surprise. “Oh. I see. My apologies—I assumed from your questionnaire responses that you were in a committed relationship.”
Her tone remained polite, but I could feel the undercurrent of confusion, even disapproval. It wasn’t overt, but it was there, lingering in the slight pause before she returned her gaze to the chart.
I understood her reaction perfectly. Spending a heat with a partner was one thing, but to do so without scent patches—that was another realm entirely. In most cases, it was an act reserved for couples deeply committed to one another, particularly those intending to scentbond. To do so outside of that context bordered on recklessness.
I refused to elaborate further, though. There was no way I was going to give her—or anyone, for that matter—a detailed account of those specific circumstances. She didn’t press, but her expression remained carefully neutral, her smile noticeably absent.
Judging by her reaction, Dr. Patel likely held more traditional views when it came to scentbonding and omega health. To her, I’d been careless. And, frankly, she wasn’t entirely wrong.
She looked up from the chart, considering me. “I’d like to do a pheromone exposure test to validate the results. ”
“Let’s proceed,” I said immediately, determined to get this over with. Whatever the outcome, I needed to know.
Dr. Patel folded her hands atop the tablet in her lap, her tone remaining professional but softened by a gentleness that suggested she knew the gravity of what she was about to say. “Ainsley, the pheromone exposure test is a straightforward but highly effective way to confirm or rule out scentbonding. Here’s how it works: I will expose you to controlled alpha pheromone samples. These are collected and sterilized from anonymous donors, chosen specifically for the range of profiles we test for.”
I nodded stiffly, gripping the edge of the exam table. “And… what exactly are you looking for?”
She met my gaze directly. “We’re gauging your visceral reaction to the pheromones. Normally, when an omega is exposed to alpha pheromones, even in a controlled setting, the body responds automatically—it’s an instinctual reaction hardwired into us for survival and reproduction. It might manifest as increased heart rate, changes in breathing, or heightened sensitivity.”
Her expression grew more pointed. “However, scentbonded individuals often lack this visceral reaction when exposed to pheromones from anyone other than their bonded partner. The bond essentially overrides the natural response to other alphas. It’s a biological mechanism designed to reinforce attachment and exclusivity.”
My throat tightened, a familiar sense of unease creeping in. “So, if I… don’t react, it confirms—”
“That you’re scentbonded,” she finished matter-of-factly. “It’s a very reliable test. And it’s painless,” she added quickly, as though that were my primary concern.
I nodded again, slower this time. “Right. Let’s just… get it over with.”
Dr. Patel offered a small, reassuring smile before rising from her seat and crossing to a nearby cabinet. She opened it with a soft click, revealing several small, sterile containers arranged neatly on its shelves. Each was labeled with a series of alphanumeric codes that I assumed corresponded to the profiles she’d mentioned.
She selected one, twisting off the lid with practiced ease. “We’ll start with a moderate-profile pheromone sample,” she explained, holding the container carefully. “It’s strong enough to provoke a reaction but not overwhelming. If you’re not scentbonded, your body should respond almost immediately. If you are…” She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
My stomach churned as she approached, setting the open container on the counter beside me. The faintest trace of the pheromone wafted into the air—sharp, slightly musky, and undeniably alpha.
I braced myself, expecting the telltale quickening of my pulse, the familiar tension coiling in my gut, but… nothing happened.
Dr. Patel watched me closely, her brow furrowing as seconds ticked by. “Anything?” she prompted.
I shook my head, my voice tight. “No.”
She nodded, her expression unreadable as she returned the first container to the cabinet and retrieved a second. “Let’s try a stronger profile,” she said. “This one has a higher concentration and is designed to elicit a more pronounced response.”
The second sample was undeniably more potent, the scent filling the small room with a commanding presence. It was the kind of pheromone that should’ve made my instincts sit up and take notice, triggering that primal omega response to seek safety—or something else entirely. But again… nothing. My heart rate remained steady, my breathing even. The ache in my chest didn’t shift, nor did the faint hum of tension I carried into the room.
Dr. Patel’s lips pressed into a thin line as she replaced the second sample. “One more,” she said quietly, retrieving a third container. “This is the most concentrated profile we use for testing.”
When she opened it, the pheromone hit the air like a tidal wave. It was dizzyingly strong, the kind of scent that should’ve sent every nerve in my body alight with awareness. Instead, the room felt oppressively quiet, my body eerily still, like it was waiting for a signal that never came.
“Well,” Dr. Patel said after a long moment, capping the final container and turning back to me. “That confirms it. Your reaction—or lack thereof—is consistent with scentbonding. If I had to estimate, based on your results and hormone panel, I’d say you’re about 75% bonded.”
Her words landed like stones. My mind reeled, cycling through every possible excuse, every potential loophole, but the evidence was clear. My body wasn’t lying. It had made a choice before I’d even realized there was one to make.
My brain did the math automatically, breaking it down in precise, unwelcome detail. Eight hours had led to a 75% bond—three-quarters of the process done. That left 25%. A fourth of the time. Two hours.
Two hours.
Two hours in Max’s proximity, breathing in his pheromones, and I’d be 100% bonded. Permanently. Irrevocably. Fully locked into the kind of instinctual connection I’d never wanted to experience, let alone with someone as infuriating and chaotic as Max Vaughn.
I pressed my thumb into my temple, trying to ease the tension mounting there. Two hours. That was all it would take to lose any shred of autonomy my body had left. How was I supposed to tutor him six days a week without crossing that threshold? How was I supposed to prevent this bond from solidifying when my entire life—my grades, my reputation, my meticulously constructed future—depended on staying the course with Max?
Noting my stunned expression, she added, “Now, it’s worth noting that scentbonding doesn’t usually occur this quickly. However, the results of your pheromone panel indicate a high level of biological compatibility between you and your… friend.”
Biological compatibility. My stomach flipped as the phrase echoed in my head. It was clinical, precise, but it carried implications that I couldn’t ignore. As I understood it, scentbonding wasn’t just a fluke or a side effect of heat exposure; it was a process deeply rooted in instinct and biology. Alphas and omegas didn’t bond with just anyone—it required a particular alignment of pheromones, a kind of biological synchronicity that went beyond surface attraction.
And Max and I had that, apparently. A high level of it.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. My palms felt clammy against the edge of the exam table, the vinyl squeaking faintly as I gripped it tighter and my thoughts tumbled over one another, fragments of information piecing together faster than I could make sense of them.
As a Neuroscience major, of course I knew the basic science behind scentbonding—the release of bonding hormones like oxytocin and vasopressin, the activation of cert ain brain pathways linked to trust and attachment. But those were just theories. Studies. I’d never considered that they might apply to me, that I might one day find myself on the receiving end of such a process.
And yet, here I was.
“That’s not—there has to be another explanation,” I said weakly.
“There isn’t,” she replied, her tone kind but firm. “This isn’t something that can be faked or misinterpreted.”
I closed my eyes against it all, inhaling deeply though my nose and out through my mouth. It took me another moment before I trusted my voice again to speak and even then, it came out sounding far away, as if I wasn’t the one speaking. “This ‘high level of compatibility’,” I managed thinly, “What does that… entail?”
Dr. Patel briefly considered the question. “It means that you and your… friend’s pheromone profiles complement each other exceptionally well,” she finally explained. “Your body responded to his pheromones in a way that facilitated bonding at an accelerated rate. It’s not unheard of, but it’s uncommon, especially in cases where the individuals involved aren’t in a long-term partnership.”
She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing. “This doesn’t mean the bond is unbreakable,” she added, as if anticipating my next question. “But it does mean that your body has already begun to adapt to his presence, which could explain some of the symptoms you’ve been experiencing—irritability, heightened sensitivity, the chest discomfort you described.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “So, this is… reversible?” I asked. God, I sounded pathetic. Desperate.
“It can be,” she said carefully. “But the process can be difficult and, in some cases, emotionally taxing. Scentbonds, even in their early stages, create a level of hormonal interdependence. Severing that connection would require sustained separation and, in some cases, medical intervention.”
Separation. The word twisted something in my chest, sharp and immediate. How was I supposed to stay separated from Max when I was obligated to tutor him daily? Our sessions weren’t just a matter of convenience—they were mandatory. God. What had I done?
Aware of Dr. Patel’s eyes on me, I forced myself to nod, ignoring the strange ache that pulsed just beneath my sternum. “Understood,” I said finally, my voice clipped. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”
Dr. Patel clasped her hands together, hesitating briefly before nodding. “Yes, actually. There’s another aspect we need to discuss. Based on your hormone panel, it’s highly likely you’ll begin experiencing more regular heat cycles moving forward. Your first heat may have been triggered by a combination of factors—stress, proximity to a compatible alpha—but now that the process has started, it’s uncommon for an omega to revert back to dormancy.”
I stiffened in my seat, already bracing for what was coming next. “So, you’re saying I can expect… what, monthly chaos now?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but the edge of frustration slipped through.
“Not necessarily monthly,” she replied, keeping her tone calm. “Every omega’s cycle is different. It could vary depending on your stress levels, exposure to pheromones, and how your body adjusts to these changes. But yes, it’s fair to anticipate more heat cycles in the near future.”
Great. I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down my face. “Fantastic. Exactly what I need on top of everything else.”
Dr. Patel gave a small, understanding smile but didn’t comment. Instead, she continued, “Given this, it’s important to monitor your symptoms and prepare accordingly. Heats can be physically taxing, and ignoring or suppressing them entirely isn’t always the healthiest choice.”
Her phrasing caught my attention. “Speaking of suppressing them,” I said, “what about heat suppressants? I’ve never been on them before, but… considering my circumstances, wouldn’t it make sense to offset the possibility?”
Dr. Patel’s expression shifted slightly, a trace of concern crossing her face. “I understand why you’d ask that, but I don’t believe heat suppressants are a good idea at this time,” she said gently but firmly. “Your body is in a delicate state of adjustment right now. Introducing suppressants could complicate things further, potentially causing side effects or disrupting the natural hormonal stabilization process.”
“So, your recommendation is to do nothing?” I asked, my tone sharper than intended.
“Not nothing,” she corrected. “My recommendation is to wait and see how your hormones stabilize over the next few months. Once we have a clearer picture of your cycle and how your body is adapting, we can revisit the conversation about suppressants. But for now, it’s better to focus on managing your symptoms naturally and monitoring any significant changes.”
I bit back a frustrated sigh, leaning back against the exam table. “Right. So I… what, hope for the best?”
Dr. Patel’s gaze softened. “I know it’s not the answer you were hoping for, Ainsley, but this approach gives us the best chance of ensuring your long-term health. In the meantime, if you need guidance or support managing your cycles, I’m here to help.”
Her words were well-meaning, but they felt like a hollow reassurance. Managing my cycles? Preparing for more heat chaos? And all while pretending everything was fine around Max? Yeah. Sure. No problem.
“Just that these kinds of bonds, when left unchecked, can have long-term effects on both physical and emotional health,” she said. “It’s something to be mindful of as you decide how to proceed. If you have any questions—or if you need support—please don’t hesitate to reach out. Scentbonds are significant, but they don’t have to define you. You’re still in control.”
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. I did neither, instead forcing a tight smile and nodding again. I was not in control. Not anymore. And I was supposed to be mindful? Right. More like haunted. Overwhelmed. Drowning in the realization that my body had apparently made a decision without consulting me first.
As she exited the room, tablet in hand, I slumped back against the exam table, my thoughts a tangled, chaotic mess. Biological compatibility. Scentbonding. Hormonal interdependence. It was all clinical, scientific, but it felt anything but abstract. It felt immediate. Real.
And, worst of all, it felt irreversible.