Mag-log inTyler never wanted an Alpha, especially not someone like Landon Hayes. At Ridgecrest Academy, Landon is at the top of the food chain—dominant, arrogant, and used to getting everything he wants. But Tyler isn’t like the other Omegas who fall at his feet. Defiant and independent, he’s determined to finish his year and leave without ever being claimed. Landon has other plans. The moment Tyler caught Landon’s eye, it was game over. Tyler’s quiet defiance and refusal to submit ignite something in Landon he can’t ignore. For the first time, Landon is chasing someone who doesn’t want to be caught. At Ridgecrest, the rules are simple: the strongest Alpha gets what he wants. And Landon Hayes wants Tyler. *** “You—” he starts to say, but his voice catches. I see his pupils dilate, his lips parting as he tries to push back against what’s happening. I let the red flash in my eyes, just for a second, enough to show him who’s in control here. It’s not about scaring him—it’s about reminding him of the natural order of things. The way this has always been meant to go. “Submit,” I growl. He whines. It’s quiet, barely audible, but I hear it. His body betrays him for just a second, his knees wobbling as his head lowers, shoulders hunching in instinctual submission. His eyes flick away, and I can see it—the brief moment where his will cracks. And god, it’s intoxicating. That split second of submission is all I need to know that he’s mine. He might fight it, but his body knows. His scent tells me everything I need to know. It’s only a matter of time before he breaks completely, before he’s begging for it.
view moreThe fire pit crackles low between us, casting soft amber light against the twilight sky. The trees around the garden sway gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering above the roof of our little cottage. Yip, the one with the sunroom Xavier insisted we needed, even though he only uses it on quiet mornings to read poetry with his legs folded beneath him and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.There’s music drifting from the outdoor speaker, low and mellow. Something acoustic, soft around the edges. A breeze carries the scent of grilled peaches and jasmine, wrapping around the four of us in lazy tendrils as the last stretch of golden hour melts into dusk.Tyler is curled into one of the patio chairs, blanket thrown around his shoulders like a shawl, hair in a messy bun on top of his head. He’s got a mug in one hand, half-full with lukewarm tea he keeps forgetting to drink, and a sleepy baby balanced across his chest, her little hand tucked against his throat like she owns him.Wh
We sit on the balcony just past sunset, the breeze light and tinged with the scent of jasmine drifting up from the garden beds below. Xavier’s legs are tucked up under him on the lounge chair beside mine, one of my hoodies draped loosely over his frame. He’s got a mug in his hands—something herbal and full of honey—and every so often, he brings it to his lips without drinking, just to feel the warmth and inhale.It’s been a week since the press conference. Three since the Council released their final statement. The world has been turning fast, with interviews and meetings and Council debriefs blurring one day into the next, but somehow, tonight feels slower.I glance over at him, watching the way the fading light catches in his hair, soft and gold at the edges, and I feel it again—that instinctual pulse that still hasn’t dulled, even now that we’re bonded and safe and on the other side of everything they tried to take from us. It’s quieter now, settled deeper, but it’s there. That c
The sky is overcast above the Council Hall, but for once, it doesn’t feel heavy. The clouds are soft, thin like worn cotton, and the air smells faintly of rain—clean and cool and not like anything artificial. I never thought I’d be able to stand on these steps and feel peace, but here I am, standing just outside the building where I first cracked my ribs open to speak the truth, and for the first time in years, I feel like I’m standing on solid ground.Jacob is beside me, one hand in mine, the other tucked into his coat pocket as we watch the Council’s official liaison descend the stairs with a final nod of dismissal. There’s no crowd. No reporters. No fanfare. Just a few quiet guards and the soft hum of the sealed security gate behind us. The statement was released publicly five minutes ago, and the silence that follows feels less like absence and more like reverence.“They’re gone,” I say, barely louder than a breath.Jacob squeezes my hand. “They are.”My body doesn’t know what t
I wake up to the scent of him.Not the faint trace he used to leave behind on pillows and stolen hoodies and the edges of our nest. Not the sweet, subtle notes that used to slip out when he forgot his inhibitors or when his body was too exhausted to keep them fully active. No, this scent is different. Bolder. Unfiltered. Saturating the air around us like sunlight through sheer curtains—warm, dizzying, mine.And underneath all that: Contentment. It hums through the bond like a heartbeat.I lie there for a long moment, eyes still closed, breathing it in. Letting it roll through my lungs and settle in my chest like something I never want to let go of. I can feel him, really feel him now. The bond we’d tiptoed around for weeks has finally settled into place, stretching between us like a current—alive, tethered, undeniable.He’s still asleep, curled against me, head tucked under my chin, one hand splayed across my stomach like he never wants to let me go. The moment I shift slightly to lo
The sun hits me in the face the second we step out of the courthouse, but for once, I don’t flinch away from it.Everything’s too bright, but I don’t mind it. Not today. Today, I want to feel all of it. The warmth on my skin, the weight of the air, the echo of my own heartbeat that still hasn’t set
The moment we step through the doors of the estate, I know something’s changing inside me.It starts slow.Not the heat—that crashes into me sudden and full-bodied, leaving no room for grace—but my choice. The moment I decide. The moment I finally let go. That part comes gently. Like breath. Like s
My father’s office has always felt like a war room—more granite and glass than comfort, no warmth to soften the sharp edges. Every piece of furniture is strategically placed, the lighting is cold and calculated, and the windows stretch from floor to ceiling like they’re daring anyone to try and hid
When Richard Turner enters the room, he doesn’t speak right away. He never does. He closes the door behind him, quiet and composed as always, and folds his hands behind his back as he surveys the room. Jacob straightens almost unconsciously beside me, shoulders stiffening, but his fingers remain w






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