The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 300

“Delayed,” I add. “Everything held together long enough to finish the job, and now it’s… catching up.”

He nods slowly. “That tracks.”

I huff a weak breath. “I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

The rest of the morning goes sideways in small, humiliating ways.

I try to read reports and have to reread the same paragraph three times because the words keep sliding past without sticking. I stand up to walk the corridor and my legs feel heavier than they should, like gravity has increased by a fraction and no one bothered to announce it. My wolf stays close to the surface, tense and irritable, pacing without direction, clearly unsettled by the lack of a threat she can sink her teeth into.

By midday, the headache has settled behind my eyes, dull and persistent, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything because the thought of food still makes my stomach turn.

Ben notices.

He always does.

“You’re shaking again,” he says, low enough that no one else hears.

“I’m fine,” I lie, even as my hands tremble faintly where they rest on the table.

He doesn’t call me out. He just says, “Come with me,” and waits until I do.

Back in my quarters, the quiet feels oppressive instead of restful. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my hands, flexing my fingers slowly, watching the tremor fade and then return, like my body can’t decide which state it wants to settle into.

“This is stupid,” I say.

Ben leans against the doorframe. “It’s not.”

“I survived worse than this.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “And your body remembers.”

That lands harder than I expect.

I swallow and look away, jaw tight, because this isn’t fear or panic or grief in any clean, recognizable form. This is the residue of holding myself together through months of pressure, of choosing function over feeling so consistently that my nervous system forgot it was allowed to stand down.

“I don’t have time for this,” I say.

“You made time by not stopping sooner,” he replies gently.

I let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in my chest for weeks. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t fix it,” he says. “You let it pass.”

That sounds unbearable.

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