Ivan – POV
"Thank you, Big Z," I mutter dryly, giving the toy a final rinse before patting it down with a towel like I'm tucking in a sleeping child.
God.
What even was that?
I stare at the silicone monstrosity on the counter—ridiculously lifelike, unnecessarily detailed, and unfortunately… effective. I place it gently back into the sleek box Zander sent it in, trying not to think about the fact that it had a designated molded storage case like some sort of collector's item.
I close the lid with a soft click, then sit down heavily on the edge of my bed, towel wrapped around my waist, wet hair dripping against my back.
And I finally let myself feel the aftermath of it all.
It's been hours since the last heat wave passed. Maybe more. I don't even know what day it is anymore. My sense of time collapsed somewhere between the second begging phone call and the moment I sobbed into Zander's hoodie like a Victorian widow.
Now that the fever's gone, the fog has lifted, and my body isn't pulsing with the need to be… bred—ugh, I physically cringe—everything is coming back in horrifying detail.
The desperation.
The pleading.
The calls.
God, the calls.
I press both hands over my face and groan.
I'm not even fully recovered and I'm already mortified. The memory of my own voice—whiny and slurred and soaked in pheromones—makes me want to peel my skin off.
Zander didn't deserve that. The man was just trying to respect my boundaries and I threw every single one of them into the fire and danced around the ashes.
I remember one call—day two, maybe—when I was practically crying into the phone, begging him to "please come knot me, please, please, please." Like some sort of feral gremlin possessed by heat-lust and not, you know, a fully functioning adult who pays taxes and wears designer boots.
I pull the pillow over my face and scream into it.
Gently.
Because I still feel like jelly and I'm too dehydrated to scream properly.
And yet, despite all of it—despite my complete and utter emotional collapse—Zander didn't crack.
He didn't show up. Didn't take advantage. Didn't push.
Just stayed on the line. Voice low. Calm. Steady. Talking me through it. Grounding me.
Commanding me.
And yeah, okay, that was hot as hell.
But more than that—it was safe.
He made it safe for me to fall apart.
Which, honestly, is maybe worse. Because now I have feelings. I already had feelings but now they are more.
Gross.
I stare at the ceiling and try to collect myself, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see stars.
Next heat, I am not doing that alone again.
I sigh, long and exhausted, and drag myself to my feet. I carry the box over to my dresser and slide it into the bottom drawer, under a stack of oversized sweaters and an old college hoodie.
I shut the drawer firmly.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
That's what I tell myself.
I glance at my phone on the nightstand. It's quiet now, finally. No vibrating. No missed calls. No shame-fueled moaning across a private line.
I bite my lip, hesitating.
Then unlock it.
I scroll through the messages. Half of them are just timestamps from missed calls and voice memos I left without realizing. One message from Zander catches my eye. Just a single word, sent a few hours ago:
"Rest."
Yeah, yeah.
I roll my eyes and toss the phone back onto the mattress with a sigh that's more dramatic than necessary. Curling deeper into the blankets, I shove my face into the fabric of Zander's hoodie like it owes me comfort.
I try to inhale his scent again—sharp, woodsy, and infuriatingly addictive—but…
Nope.
It's gone now. Faded into the cotton. Buried under layers of my own stupid pheromones. Now it just smells like me—like heat and sweat and disappointment.
Another sigh.
I flop onto my back, limbs sprawled like a dead starfish. This is so depressing. It's post-heat and I should feel victorious or something, but instead I just feel… wrung out. Like a dishcloth left on the counter too long.
My stomach lets out a loud, tragic growl.
Okay, okay. Food.
I sit up slowly, like a hundred-year-old man, and shuffle toward the kitchen. The floor feels cold under my feet, and my joints ache a little from how much I curled up the past few days.
I open the fridge. And blink.
The once barren, tragic interior is now filled with neatly stacked containers, labeled in clean handwriting. Frozen pizzas sit in the drawer. Bottled water. Electrolyte drinks. Even cut fruit.
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.
Zander.
Of course.
He probably asked Maksim to do it. I pretend not to notice the butterflies in my stomach.