The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 299

I wake up already nauseous.

Not the sharp, immediate kind that sends you running, but the low, rolling kind that sits behind my ribs and makes every breath feel slightly off, like my body is trying to tell me something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet. The room is dim, early light just starting to leak through the curtains, and I lie there for a few seconds longer than I should, one hand pressed flat against my stomach, waiting for the feeling to pass.

It doesn’t.

My wolf stirs, restless and irritated, not panicked but alert in that tight, pacing way that means she’s sensing instability from the inside rather than reacting to something external. I swallow hard and push myself upright anyway, because staying still makes it worse, and because routine has always been the fastest way to convince my body that it isn’t dying.

Bathroom first. Always.

The floor is cold under my feet and the light is too bright, making my head throb faintly as I turn it on. I brace both hands on the sink and stare at my reflection, noticing immediately how pale I look, how my eyes seem too sharp for this early in the morning, like I never fully powered down overnight.

I brush my teeth slowly, mint flooding my mouth, the burn grounding in a way that almost helps, and when I spit, I pause, watching the foam swirl down the drain while the nausea creeps higher instead of settling.

“Not today,” I mutter, to my body or my wolf or both.

The shower helps at first. Warm water hitting my back, steam filling the room, my muscles loosening reluctantly under the heat, and I lean my forehead against the tile and close my eyes, breathing carefully, counting inhales the way I used to during crisis briefings when panic wasn’t allowed.

But halfway through washing my hair, my hands start shaking.

Not violently. Just enough that I notice it, fingers trembling slightly as I work conditioner through my hair, the sensation jarring because it doesn’t match how calm my thoughts feel. My mind is clear, organized, already lining up the day ahead, but my body feels like it’s lagging behind, refusing to keep pace.

When I step out of the shower, the room tilts for half a second.

I grip the counter until it steadies, heart thudding harder than it should, and I stand there dripping, towel forgotten on the hook, waiting for the surge of adrenaline that usually follows moments like this.

It never comes.

Instead, there’s just exhaustion.

Deep. Heavy. Settling into my bones like wet sand.

I dry off slowly and get dressed in clean clothes that suddenly feel like too much effort, pulling fabric over limbs that feel oddly distant, like I’m operating them through a delay. I sit down to tie my boots and have to pause halfway through because my fingers fumble the laces, clumsier than they’ve been in years.

That’s when the irritation hits.

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