by Hannah Haze
Oxford Heat
Hannah Haze
Copyright © 2021 Hannah Haze
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 9798576001095
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Chapter One
Oxford, Christmas 2016
She’s risking it. Sitting here alone in the library is dangerous.
Her skin boils and her muscles ache. The gland at the back of her neck tingles and her gut cramps.
She should leave. Her heat is starting. She shouldn’t be out in public like this.
Instead, she strips off her coat, her jumper and her top, and sits in her vest and jeans, scratching at her gland. The ancient heating groans through the pipes, barely warming the vast space, the temperature cool, and yet she feels so hot.
Only one light shines in the dark library, illuminating her desk, and the windows glimmer around her like inky paintings. The balcony that runs the circumference of the cylindrical building is empty, the shelves of books wrapped in blackness, and the reading tables bare.
Outside, the college buildings stand deserted. Strings of lights streak over the buildings, but nobody there to see them. The university faculties, the Oxford union, and the various cafeterias are all shut up too. Only this library, the Bodleian, remains open for students.
Tonight, with Christmas only days away, she is alone, and so she’s made herself comfortable, dragging all the cushions over to a corner and spreading out her books and an array of snacks. She’s forbidden to eat in the library, but the librarians left for the holidays two days ago and she’s seen nobody else here for the past twenty-four hours.
Her phone rests on a bookcase. Earlier she blasted out some hard rock because she’s bored to death of cheesy Christmas songs and dreary love ballads. Now she’s opted for the tick of some unseen clock and the swish of distant cars. She yawns and rubs her brow, scribbling down a note in her book.
Heats are something she doesn't enjoy. Painful, overwhelming and humiliating. She's on suppressants which allows her to have fewer than she would naturally and to time them for when she wants, so she times them for the holidays when she knows the flat she shares with her friend Rose will be empty and she can keep hidden away, not forced to miss classes, not drawing attention to herself.
She refuses to let herself be determined by her designation. She won't let her biology rule her present or dictate her future, and she will certainly challenge any preconceived ideas people have about her just because she's an Omega.
So what if she smells like sex? What does it matter if her gland throbs and dampness already pools between her legs? It’s nobody else’s business. And she's alone.
Except she isn't.
Her ears prick up at the sound of the heavy library doors opening on the far side of the building and then feet padding through. She shifts in her seat, her senses primped. An unease stirs in her belly but she sweeps it away as she pushes strands of hair from her face, and ducks her head closer to the page, staring at the words. A handle squeals, a lamp blinks on, and her pulse quickens. The flesh on her arms goose bumps and she grips her pen tight between her forefinger and thumb.
Then her nose catches it: Alpha.
The fierce, overpowering scent hits her right at the back of the head; a bullet to the brain.
This is dangerous. If an Alpha finds her here in heat...
She sits bolt upright, every hair on her skin prickling, her body frozen. If she remains still, he won't find her. But he'll smell her. Of course he will. Best to get out of here. She grabs her bag and rams her jumper and top inside. Then she glances at the rest of her stuff, not knowing where to start.
The scent is familiar, very familiar, thick and pungent in the air. It stands out, something about it different — like rich spice in a room of flowers. But her brain is in too much of a frenzy to identify it.
She yells inside her head, trying to force herself to move.
It works.
She stuffs her notebook, her pen and her laptop into her rucksack and picks up her phone from the shelf, slinging on her coat. The books and the snacks can be abandoned.
The smell of the Alpha is already doing funny things to her, making her insides go sloppy, her skin warm and her nipples hard. Shit. She needs to move her arse. She closes her eyes, attempting to calm herself, to pluck up the courage to move. The rows of books, an intermingling mish-mash of colours and sizes on the shelf, swim and swoop before her eyes. She forces herself to walk.
The shrill voice in her head screams. Come on, pick up your feet, Cora. Not too fast. Don't run. Walk. Calm but quick. Eyes on the ground. Slip out the door.
She can sense him near, the lights to her left flicking on, and there’s the squeak of rubber soles on varnished floorboards. He is over there somewhere, his scent intensifying, and more lights dancing across the high library ceiling, following her movements as she weaves through the desks and in and out of the bookshelves.
She can’t see him, but she can almost hear his heavy breath and her heart thumps so hard in her chest it hurts. She grips the strap of her bag until her fingernails sink into her palms, and her eyes lock on the exit, the heavy double doors drawing closer with every hurried step.
Then she's at the door, her trembling hand reaching for the handle.
Don't look back. Don't look back.
But she can't help it. Can't resist it. The urge is too strong.
So she turns her head, her eyes sweeping the rows. And there he is, Noah Wood.
Leaning against a wall, his dark hair hanging in his face and his body bathed in shadow.
She can't see his eyes but she knows he is watching her, every fibre in his body taut and alert. Like a sprinter poised for the starter's gun.
She swallows, unable to move. She shouldn't have looked. It is all the invitation he needs, and now she is screwed.
Because Noah is trouble. With a capital T. Underlined and bolded.
Turning around, she snatches open the door and hurries out, skipping down the library steps and along the cobbled road shimmering with the reflections of dull orange street lamps. The Christmas lights are all extinguished and the tall college buildings tower above her, blocking out the sky. She dashes through the puddles, able to smell him behind her even through the December drizzle.
Her coat pulled tight, snuggling her chin into her collar and clutching her bag, she reaches the silent roads, her home only three streets away. She tugs out her keys, ready to open the front door quickly, straining to catch his footsteps, but hearing only the hum of distant traffic.
He is there, though. She knows it. Her body confirming it in the way her blood thrums through her veins and her core aches, the cramps in her pelvis almost hampering her steady pace.
She could try to shake him off or head some place where there'd be other people. She could. She won't.
He is following. He is chasing. He wants her. She never thought someone like Noah Wood would want someone like her. Plain. Scrawny. Poor.
A pathetic example of an Omega. Taller than she should be, with slim hips and small tits, and an attitude to boot. Not your average submitting, placid, curvy little Omega.
/> Yet here he is. Hovering right behind her on the doorstep. Not touching her, not pressing her, not forcing her. Waiting.
With fumbling fingers, she snaps open the locks and steps inside the dim hallway, leaving the door open behind her. As she slips out of her coat and pulls off her boots, she hears him stride inside. When she turns, he is framed by the doorway. A hulk lurking in the darkness. Twice her size. Solid and strong. His eyes black like a moonless sky, his nostrils flared, his shoulders rising and falling with his heaving breaths.
"Shut the door," she says, trying to sound confident, firm, but her voice struggling from her lips in a timid whisper.
It’s only the second time she’s ever spoken to him.
The last time was a year ago.
◆◆◆
A year ago
Cora sprints through the darkened Oxford streets, her feet rattling on the cobbled pavements, and her breath illuminated white swirls when she dashes beneath lampposts. As she flies around a corner, the scarf she's thrown around her neck flutters to the ground, and she curses, scooping down to pick it up and stuff it under her arm, already struggling to carry her rucksack and her notes.
When she reaches the town centre she finds it deserted, the doorways of the shops darkened except for the odd flicker of Christmas lights and the bright neon stars hung in neat rows along the high street. In the distance, the Old Union building stands lit up like a Christmas tree; the long windows glowing yellow against the cold winter's sky. As she draws closer, the building seems to hum from within and she can already smell the mixture of a hundred scents.
She knew it would be busy — tickets for tonight's speaker snapped up in a matter of minutes — but it is still a surprise to see the usually empty rack jostling with bikes, all chained together in forced angles.
Quickly, she dashes up the steps to the entrance, pushing against the heavy wooden doors.
"Evenin' Cora," says an elderly man who emerges from behind a small kiosk to the left of the door as she enters.
"Have they started?" she asks, panting, trying to untangle herself from her scarf and almost tripping as she does.
The old man smiles, and retrieves one end of the scarf, helping to free her.
"I think you've made it on time — sounds like they're still chatting in there."
"Thanks Ted," she pats his shoulder and trots down the corridor.
He is right, she can hear voices and when she pushes open the next door, she's hit by a wall of noise; the chamber as tightly packed as the bike rack, every wooden bench full as well as the balcony that runs around the dark red walls and people stood against the panelling at the back and to the sides.
She pushes her way through the people, finally making her way to one of the front rows and sliding into a remaining space.
"Cora," a small woman, with long dark hair, her roommate Rose, threads her arm through Cora's once she's shrugged off her duffel coat and removed her beret. "I didn't think you were going to make it.”
"It was so busy in the cafe today — all the Christmas shoppers wanting a coffee on their way home — I didn't feel like I could just leave them." Cora leans into her friend, resting her head against her shoulder. "You're not mad, are you?"
"No, of course not. I'm just sad you missed out on the pre-reception with Rosamund. I know she's your idol."
Cora squeezes Rose's hand. "I'm so excited to hear her speak! And I'm sure there'll be an opportunity afterwards to meet her." Cora lifts her head and peers behind her. "Who's here tonight?"
"Everyone!" Rose says.
"I can see nearly every Omega I know."
"That's hardly surprising. She's like the poster woman for the modern Omega. Independent, successful, outspoken."
"I want to be just like her when I grow up!"
"Did you spot all the Alphas at the back?" Rose asks, nudging her head in their direction.
Cora groans. "I'm surprised they came. They don't usually give a flying shit what an Omega has to say!"
Rose frowns with disapproval. "They are probably here to try to pick up Omegas."
"Probably," Cora says, although the interweaving scents of the Alphas and Omegas she can smell in the hall don’t read that way. There is anticipation and excitement, so clear it is almost palatable on the air.
"I might just run down the hall and get something to eat from the vending machine.” she says clutching her stomach as it growls with hunger. “I don't want everyone hearing my stomach all evening."
"Be quick or you'll miss it.”
Cora grabs her purse and hurries to her feet. "Want anything?"
"Nope," Rose says, already back to scanning the audience.
Cora pushes her way through the crowd with mutters of “sorry” and finally makes it out of the hall and into the corridor. She trots quickly, trying to remember down which corridor the snack machine is located.
And then she stops in her tracks, nearly tumbling over her own feet.
Noah Wood.
She can’t see him, but she can smell him, his scent overpowering, and when she starts walking again, and turns the corner, she can see why.
His towering frame blocks the width of the corridor, as he bounces an oval shaped ball on the dark polished floor. He's dressed in his rugby kit, his dark hair damp with sweat around his brow and his boots caked with mud.
Obviously, he's come straight from a match or practice — an up-and-coming star of the university team. And doesn’t he know it? Not giving a shit about the mess he is making or the damage to the ancient university floors.
It’s not surprising. He doesn’t give a shit about anything or anyone. Only a few weeks ago he got into a fight in a bar in town and put the other guy in hospital. He should’ve been thrown out of the university; anybody else would have been. The only reason he didn't end up with charges pressed and an expulsion is probably his family. They say they are very wealthy and very influential. Money lets you get away with all sorts. It's why he never turns up to class but always gets top grades. She's certain he's paying someone to write his essays.
He doesn't look her way, not until she stops right beside him, and glares up into his caramel eyes, waiting for him to let her pass.
Then his eyes flick to hers, but he doesn’t acknowledge her, and he doesn’t step aside.
She takes a deep breath, determined not to be intimidated.
"Can I get by please?" she asks, raising her chin defiantly.
His head turns towards her, and his eyes are a little confused, as if he's been snatched from his thoughts. For a moment she wonders if perhaps he really hadn't known she was there, but then he continues to bounce his ball down onto the wooden floor, the boards thwacking each time, and gestures in front of him.
Sure, she could squeeze past, but why should she? Why can’t he be polite for once and take a step back?
"You're making a mess!" she hisses in annoyance and he smirks. She folds her arms. "Why are you even here?"
He examines the motion of the ball. "Why shouldn't I be here?"
Because everyone knows he has no respect for Omegas. It's the other rumour associated with his name — that he passed on some photos of a girl he was seeing. People will pay an awful lot of money for that type of porn.
She tosses her head. "What, lurking about in the corridor, rather than actually coming to listen to what a prominent Omega has to say?!"
She thinks he almost flinches at that and lifts his gaze to meet hers. God, she can’t stand him, but his eyes when he looks at her are always so intense, and she freezes to the spot, like prey trapped by the eyes of its predator. She knows it is probably an Omega reaction, but she hates it, hates being cornered.
Although, right now, she wonders if it is that or if it is the colour. His eyes are so unusual, beautiful even, a dark earthy brown in the centres that melt to gold around their rims. They are the sort of soft eyes fringed with long lashes that don’t belong to a ruthless hunter.
The temperature of her skin creeps upw
ards and his eyes swim over her face. She doesn’t move, her own eyes dropping slightly and landing on his lips. They are parted and she can make out the red of his tongue in his mouth.
Then his mouth opens and he swallows. "I'm waiting for my mum."
Her eyes flick back to his and a door behind her opens. He lifts his head, peering over hers.
"Noah!" a voice calls, and he tucks the white ball under his arm and squeezes around her, trying to make every effort he can not to touch her. Cora turns as he passes and watches as he stalks towards the older woman dressed in a cream trouser suit who's called him, her hair smartly clipped in a blunt bob.
Cora’s heart sinks to her toes, disappointment weighing down her shoulders.
Rosamund Wood.
Noah’s mum is Rosamund Wood.
How could someone like her have a son like that?
Cora stares at the floor, clumps of mud and grass scattered over the wooden boards. She doesn’t bother going to listen to the talk after that.
Chapter Two
Oxford, Christmas 2016
Noah kicks at the door with his foot, his eyes fixed on her, and it shuts with a slam, making her jump like a frightened rabbit.
"Give me your phone," she says.
The skin below his eye twitches. "Why?" His voice is thick.
"You know why!" she spits and his nostrils flare, a look of disgust flying over his face, one that has the Omega inside her almost relenting. He glares at her, then tugs it from his pocket and flings it at her.
Yes, he knows why she won't trust him with a phone.
She grips it in her hand and stares back at him, his gaze heating her blood; the air between them mixed with their scents, both alert, both cautious, both aroused as hell. The strength of it is undeniable. He licks his lips, his gaze travelling down her body, hovering at the peaks of her nipples visible through the cotton of her vest, lingering at the fly of her jeans.
