Dawn hadn't yet broken. The control room monitors were the only light, painting the room in a monochrome blue. On screen, Ava had been a restless silhouette for hours, twisting in the sheets of the suite's massive bed.
I watched, a statue in the shadows. The plan was set: release her at dawn, monitor her compliance. A clean, strategic conclusion.
Then, her form on the monitor arched. A silent gasp. She kicked off the duvet, her movements agitated, not fearful, but needy. She sat up, clutching her stomach, her head bowed. Even through the grainy feed, I saw the sheen of sweat on her skin.
My body knew before my mind did. A low, answering pull tightened deep in my core. An Alpha's primal recognition.
Heat.
Not tomorrow, not in a safe public place. Now. Here. In the bed I'd provided.
Viktor's voice came through my earpiece, tense. "Don Rossi. Her biometrics from the bed sensors… heart rate spiking, temperature elevated to 102 and climbing. It's an acute stress-induced onset. Should I dispatch a medical unit with suppressants?"
"No." The word was a crack of absolute authority. "No one enters that suite. Prepare a single, high-dose suppressant patch. Bring it to the observation room door. Now."
I was already moving. Logic screamed that this was a catastrophic complication. But a deeper, older instinct was roaring, territorial and possessive. She is vulnerable. She is here. She is mine to handle.
I entered the observation room just as a silent enforcer slipped the small, foil-wrapped patch into the pass-through drawer. I took it, its presence cool and clinical in my palm. Through the one-way mirror, the scene was different now. Intimate. Urgent.
Ava was on her feet, pacing the bedroom, but her steps were unsteady. She was tearing at the collar of her shirt, her breaths coming in shallow pants. Her scent, previously so faint, would be filling the room—a distress call only an Alpha could fully sense.
I keyed in the code and entered the Selene Suite.
The smell hit me first, even in the main living area. Not the subtle linen and graphite. This was ripe peaches and honey, lush and desperate, undercut by the sharp, clean sweat of her distress. It was a scent meant to unravel sanity. It flooded my senses, and for a heartbeat, my own control wavered, a dark heat rising in response.
I walked to the bedroom doorway.
She spun, her back hitting the wall beside the window. Her brown eyes were wild, dilated, glazed with a biological imperative she clearly hated. Her hair was damp at her temples. "Stay back," she snarled, but it was a plea wrapped in thorns.
"Ava," I said, my voice low, a steady anchor against the storm in the room. I held up the foil packet. "I have a suppressant. A patch. It will help."
"Give it to me!" She lunged forward, but her legs buckled. I closed the distance in two strides, catching her before she hit the floor. My arms went around her, and the contact was electric.
Her body was furnace-hot, trembling. The feel of her, the devastating scent pouring from her, was a direct assault on every Alpha instinct I possessed. To claim. To soothe. To dominate. My head swam with it. My grip tightened involuntarily, pulling her slight, shuddering frame fully against my chest. A low rumble, almost a purr, vibrated in my own throat—an Alpha's instinctive response to an Omega in distress.
She whimpered, the sound going straight to my core. But it was a sound of anguish, not invitation.
Control. You are not an animal. You are her protector in this moment.
With a Herculean effort, I gentled my hold. "Shhh. I have you. Let me help." I maneuvered us to the edge of the bed, sitting her down. She was pliant now, the fight leaching out of her, replaced by a terrifying vulnerability.
"Please," she whispered, tears of frustration mixing with the sweat on her cheeks.
"Turn. Let me see your neck."
She obeyed, a shudder racking her as she presented the nape of her neck to me—an Omega's most vulnerable spot. The skin there was flushed, her bonding gland slightly swollen. The scent was strongest here, an intoxicating cloud of peaches and heat.
I tore the foil with my teeth, my fingers, for the first time, not entirely steady. I peeled the clear, gel-based patch. "This will be cold," I murmured.
I brushed her sweat-damp hair aside, my fingertips skimming the hot skin of her neck. She flinched, then stilled. With deliberate, firm pressure, I smoothed the patch over her bonding gland, sealing the high-dose suppressants directly into her system.
For a long moment, nothing. Then, a shaky exhale escaped her. The violent trembling began to subside, degree by degree. The frantic, panicked energy in the room started to dissipate, pulled back like a tide.
She sagged forward, and I caught her again, easing her back against the pillows. Her eyes were closed, lashes dark against her pale skin. The scent of peaches was still there, but now muted, blurred at the edges by the chemical calm of the suppressant.
I should have left. My job was done.
But I couldn't. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her breathing even out. I reached out, my thumb tracing away a tear track on her cheek without thought. Her skin was so soft.
Her eyes fluttered open. The haze was clearing, replaced by dazed horror and a crushing embarrassment. She tried to turn her face away.
"Don't," I said, my voice rough. I cupped her chin, gently turning her back to me. "There is no shame in this. It's biology. Stress-induced. My fault, for the trauma of the night."
She searched my face, looking for mockery, for predatory intent. She found only a stark, focused intensity. "You… you didn't…"
"No," I said, the word final. "I did not take advantage. That is not the kind of Alpha I am." Not with you. Never with you.
The truth of it settled between us, more intimate than if I had kissed her. I had been presented with a vulnerable Omega in full heat in my private sanctuary, and I had chosen to medicate, not mate.
Her lower lip trembled. The last of her defenses crumbled. A single, fresh tear rolled down.
I caught it with my thumb again. Then, acting on an impulse purer than any strategy, I leaned down. I pressed my lips, not to her mouth, but to her forehead, just above the patch on her neck. A chaste, searing kiss. My rose scent enveloped her, a protective cloak.
"Rest, Ava," I breathed against her skin. "The suite is yours until you are recovered. No one will disturb you."
I stood, my own body thrumming with unused adrenaline and a strange, potent tenderness. I walked to the door, pausing at the threshold.
She was watching me, her hand touching the spot on her neck where the patch—and my kiss—had been.
"The keycard is on the side table," I said, my voice returning to its usual controlled timbre, though it cost me. "Use it if you need to. Not out of fear. But because this… this is a safe place. Even from yourself."
I left, closing the door on the scent of peaches and roses now forever intertwined.
Back in the control room, Viktor was a silent, disapproving statue.
"She stays," I said, my tone brooking no argument. "Until the heat fully passes. Post two men on the building's perimeter. No one in or out of that floor but me."
"The risk—"
"Is mine to manage," I cut him off, my eyes on the monitor where she had curled back onto her side, one hand still resting on her neck. The spice wasn't in the consummation. It was in the restraint. It was in the claiming of the role of her protector in her most vulnerable moment. It was in the kiss that promised everything and asked for nothing.
The game had just been obliterated by biology. What rose from its ashes would be far more dangerous.
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