November Heat

1

Kate had a reputation for hating men.

Behind her back they called her a man-hater, a crazy b***h, frigid.

That usually lasted right up until she slammed yet another self-proclaimed alpha male—one of those guys obsessed with his own superiority—flat on the tatami. Or on the asphalt. Depends how lucky the “alpha” was feeling that day.

The moment she stepped into a subway car, the manspreaders twitched and yanked their frog legs together, either guarding the nation’s gene pool or quietly ashamed there was nothing much to guard. And honestly, even Mister Big d**k could sit like a normal human being. Nothing stopped them but their swollen egos.

Well, that and Kate, lazily flicking her boxing gloves against her thigh.

Some men even got up and shuffled off to the far end of the carriage.

Kate had long made peace with her “Million Dollar Baby” mask. She’d learned the male “Martian” language as well as anyone without a Y chromosome reasonably could. Enough that when she told some drunk bull in a bar to f**k off, he took it literally. Sometimes he even came back with a beer as an apology.

Overall, Kate was fine with her life.

Except on those days.

On those days, Iron Kate took a day off and collapsed onto the couch as a whimpering little lump. She’d binge romantic comedies, wash down painkillers with wine, and want someone’s arms around her. For three f*****g days she disappeared from life. Knowing “X time” was coming, she stocked up in advance: pads, food, pills, alcohol—the bare essentials to avoid going outside at all.

But this time, everything went sideways.

The night before Saturday, the liquor store had a line. The people around her grated on her nerves. The guys behind her were openly discussing how her ass was “nothing special” and how she’d stepped on one of their feet without apologizing.

Kate turned and shot them a look from under her brows that could have stripped paint.

They shut up. They didn’t have the guts to say anything to her face, but her mood—already precarious—went crashing through the floorboards.

The chubby cashier eyed the bottle of cognac and the two enormous chocolate bars with loud, silent judgment but, unfortunately, didn’t say a word. Kate had already started looking around for a manager or at least a complaints book, just to have somewhere to legally dump her rage.

At the pharmacy, they sold her tampons and Nurofen and No-Spa with no discount. Of course.

Kate headed home, nose buried deep in her oversized scarf, cursing November. The weather was disgusting—damp and raw at the same time, like the city itself had a fever. Up ahead, another drunk pack blocked the sidewalk. Kate flicked her shopping bag in irritation and ducked into the first side alley she saw.

She just needed to cut through to the parallel street and from there trudge to her rented apartment. And once she got there, try not to murder her roommate for whining and sheer stupidity.

The alley twisted and twisted and refused to end. Kate gave it one last chance: one more turn, and if that led nowhere, she’d go back.

She turned—and hit a dead end.

Not quite. Between two tightly packed buildings a steep staircase climbed upward, squeezed so tight even a kid would have to turn sideways. As pissed off as she was at the whole world, curiosity snagged her. What the hell was up there?

She turned sideways, stretched the bag out with one hand so it wouldn’t catch, and started to climb. Halfway up, the walls closed in even tighter, and she cursed her curiosity—but then her premenstrual stubbornness kicked in.

She kept going. Up, and up, and up.

By the time she finally stumbled out through a narrow slit where the stairs ended, she was breathless, hair a mess, scarf half off her shoulder.

And she froze.

Where the f**k was she?

Kate prided herself on knowing the city pretty well, but she had never seen this little pocket of old streets before. Two- and three-story buildings, cobblestones, shop windows dressed up already with garlands and pre-Christmas crap. No graffiti. The cars parked neatly, as if the traffic inspector lived next door. And it was noticeably warmer here, too, like this part of town refused to participate in November.

Kate scratched the back of her head and headed left, toward a park draped in fairy lights. She figured it had to be the square not far from her house—just from some back entrance she’d never noticed.

Kate wasn’t afraid of dark parks, sketchy alleys, or all the other places adults told little girls to avoid. Once, an exhibitionist had chosen her as an audience; he barely got away with his most precious anatomy in one piece and later tried to sue her for “emotional distress.”

But this park looked completely tame. Clean paths, tiny lights hanging in the branches, carved wooden benches…

Someone passed her from behind, not running fast, just trotting, surrounding her in a cloud of musky cologne and fresh sweat. Kate swore under her breath, stabbing her gaze between his shoulder blades.

What kind of i***t goes jogging in a park on a Friday night?

Naturally, the man stopped a few steps ahead and turned around.

Kate took him in automatically: tall, broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs. His hair was long too, framing a handsome face with a nose that was just a little too big. She smacked down the part of herself that perked up at that. Big deal. A guy.

Even if he did look very good in that tracksuit.

She probably couldn’t drop him in two moves… but she could absolutely do it in three.

Kate stopped as well. Her shoulders squared; she pulled her hands out of her pockets and dropped the bag onto the grass.

“What?” she snapped.

His nostrils flared slightly, but he didn’t answer.

“Cat got your tongue because I’m so f*****g gorgeous?” Kate growled.

His eyebrows twitched, almost amused. Then, in a soft, slightly hoarse voice, he asked:

“What is an omega doing alone in the park at night?”

“Go f**k yourself, Alpha,” Kate almost laughed. That was new. She’d been expecting “sweetheart,” “babe,” or at worst, “does your mom need a son-in-law?” But this nerdy, half-mythological insult somehow nudged her mood upward.

She decided—for once—not to rearrange anyone’s face tonight. She bent to grab the bag.

That was when he took two steps toward her.

“Tell me your address. I’ll walk you home,” he said. Not asked—ordered. The tone was different now: steel, command, no room for argument.

Kate flinched at the cold thread in his voice.

What a waste of talent. He should have been playing villains, dictators, cult leaders.

“Back. Off.” She flicked a hand at him like he was a fly.

“Now, omega,” he barked.

That was the moment she swung the bag and slammed it into his ribs.

He grunted and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. What he didn’t know was that she didn’t need her arms.

Kate kneed him, sharp and fast. She drove her forehead into his chin. Got him with the other knee. When pain and shock finally made him loosen his grip, she spun and snapped a kick at his head. He twisted away at the last second, so she caught his shoulder instead of his jaw. He grabbed her raised leg and yanked her off-balance.

They went down together into a flowerbed—thank God not the one where her bag with the cognac and chocolate had landed.

Kate didn’t hesitate. She slammed her forehead into his nose this time. White-hot anger washed through her, and she sank her teeth into his neck.

She overdid it.

Hot, salty blood flooded her mouth. The man let out a strangled groan. Kate shoved him away and sprang to her feet, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

“You’ve marked me,” he said, stunned, one hand pressed to his bloodstained throat.

Kate recoiled.

Fucking lunatic. His neck was drenched in blood, and he was staring at her like he’d just ascended to some higher plane.

He took a step toward her, reached out, opened his mouth—probably to yell for the cops.

Kate didn’t wait for the encore.

She abandoned the bag with the booze and chocolate and bolted, sprinting as if a pack of wolves had burst out of the trees behind her. Legal trouble was the last thing she needed. There were already a few complaints filed against her by men she’d beaten up. One more incident, and she’d be looking at probation and community service, no question.

She raced back toward the blessed staircase, lungs burning, scarf flapping, but a splinter of shame lodged itself in her thoughts.

He really hadn’t done anything that awful.

He hadn’t insulted her.

Hadn’t tried to grope her.

He’d just offered to walk her home—pickup-artist dumbass that he was.

Kate ran and marvelled at herself. She’d never been shaken up this badly by just another i***t. She pinned the sudden rage on PMS. The weakness, the leftover guilt—that was what cognac was for. She’d rinse him out of her system, forget the jogger with the thin skin—God, the way that blood had sprayed—forever.

Oh. There it was—the familiar turn.