Not quite human legs. Not quite his mermaid tail. Something caught between forms, incomplete and wrong.

Neville stared at his lower body in horror. He had transformed between forms hundreds of times by now, but never like this.

The heat pooled low in his belly, and with it came a realization that made his blood run cold despite the fever.

Oh no.

He knew this feeling.

Another pseudo-heat period.

But it couldn’t be. Shelly said that these were supposed to be rare for the current him. After all, he had yet to be completely in sync with this body. His eyes drifted downward, and he immediately wished they hadn’t.

His member stood at attention, clearly aroused and aching in a way that made his scaled legs press together instinctively. The sight of it, hard and demanding even in his messy thought, sent a fresh wave of dread through him.

Was this normal? Could anything about his situation be considered normal? What even is normal?

The heat arrived again, crashing over him. Amid the pain and overwhelming need, a thought flashed through him.

If this were the only way to overcome this thirst and pain, he might as well do it.

His hand moved almost on its own, trailing down his chest, over his abdomen, toward the source of his discomfort. The first touch sent an intense reaction through his every nerve ending. He completely underestimated how strong the sensation would be in a situation like this.

His fingers wrapped around himself with trembling uncertainty. Sweat poured down as he tried to pace himself and get used to the sensation. A strangled sound escaped his throat.

Don’t think about it, he thought to himself. Just get through this.

But his mind refused to cooperate. Images flickered behind his closed eyelids—Grayson’s silver eyes, the way his black hair fell when he was a little heated up in conversations, the rare moments when his stern expression softened into something almost approachable.

No. Not that. Not him.

His hand moved faster, driven by instinct and desperate need. The water around him grew warmer, almost scalding.

Think of something else. Anything else.

But thinking of work felt incredibly strange in this situation. Not to mention, he couldn’t think of anyone else!

In the end, every attempt to redirect his thoughts failed spectacularly.

His mind kept circling back—Grayson’s broad shoulders in that perfectly tailored suit, the way his voice dropped when he was displeased, the rare time he caught him actually smiling.

Adding to his murky thoughts were the memory and vivid sensation of his dream. Grayson leaned close, whispering something in his deep, hoarse voice. Neville’s conscious mind couldn’t quite recall, but his body certainly remembered.

"Ah!"

The sound escaped him, high and needy, as his hand moved with increasing urgency—pleasure built in waves, each one stronger than the last.

Grayson’s face appeared again. Those silver eyes focused entirely on him, watching him. He came with a shudder, his release clouding the water around him.

"Fuck." The word came out soft, barely a whisper.

His chest heaved as he stared at the evidence of his shame slowly dispersing in the water.

Earlier, it was just a dream, so he tried to rationalize the situation in his mind. But this? I was fully conscious. He deliberately thought about him while—

He couldn’t even finish the thought. His subconscious helpfully supplied him with the possible scenarios of how he would react the moment he came back to work and saw Grayson.

I’m going to have to apologize to him, Neville thought miserably. Mentally. Sincerely. Because I can never, ever tell him about this in person, or I’ll die of embarrassment on the spot.

His breathing gradually slowed and calmed down, the fog in his mind lifting just enough for him to think properly again.

No wonder there were condoms in the inventory, he realized with dawning horror. That perverted shell knew this would happen and prepared accordingly.

Now he needed to change his water again. His chest ached at the thought of the expense. But just as he was pushing himself up to begin the cleanup process, the heat returned.

It was stronger than before, as if his body was punishing him for the brief respite. This time, Neville noticed something else—wetness flooding from behind. It was more than he could have ever imagined and utterly mortifying.

He had read about this in those novels. When male omegas wet this much from behind during heat, it meant that their bodies were preparing for something he absolutely did not want to think about right now.

But the implications were making him crazy.

Am I going to be like this when I see Grayson later? The thought paralyzed him with horror. Or am I going to be like this to every alpha pheromone I smell? Just being in the same room, and I’ll be—

No. Stop. Don’t think about that.

But his traitorous body had already decided his thoughts didn’t matter. His hand found himself again without conscious decision, wrapping around his renewed hardness with desperate need.

This time, his mind didn’t even try to fight it. Images of Grayson flooded his consciousness. Those large, capable hands—What would they feel like on his skin? In his hair? Around his—

"Gray..."

A nickname slipped out in a breathy moan that echoed in the room. When had he started thinking of his boss so informally?

His mind painted increasingly vivid pictures.

Grayson’s hands replaced his own clumsy attempts. That deep voice whispering praise, telling him he was doing well, that he was good. Those silver eyes were looking at him with lust, desire, and possessiveness.

The fantasy spiraled further.

Grayson’s lips against his neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. His weight pressed Neville into silk sheets. His voice commanding, "Neville," in a tone that promised everything and demanded that he surrender.

The second one hit harder than the first, leaving him gasping and shaking in the warm water. His vision whited out for a moment, consciousness narrowing to the overwhelming sensation.

But it didn’t end.

The heat continued its relentless assault. Minutes passed, maybe hours—time lost meaning in the haze of fever and need. His hand worked mechanically, but each release grew weaker, less satisfying, until finally nothing came at all despite the continued arousal.

He was empty.

But his body demanded more.

Neville’s trembling hand could only drift lower, to that place that was still flooding with slick warmth. The wetness was worse now. His fingers found the gaping, wet entrance almost on instinct.

"Please..."