Classes were torture.

Dawn came gray and merciless. Fog thicker than ever. Bells tolling like judgment.

I dressed the same—shirt buttoned to the throat, jacket zipped high, braid tighter than yesterday, pulling until my scalp stung and my eyes watered. Armor. Lies. I quadrupled the suppressants this time—five pills, choking them down dry in the bathroom mirror while staring at the marks on my shoulders and the faint flush still staining my chest that refused to fade.

Breakfast was unbearable. The whispers had grown fangs.

“Fifth night in a row from the east wing.”

“Voss is keeping her longer every time. Look at her—scent’s practically screaming omega now.”

“She’s wrecked. Eyes red, hands shaking. Bet he’s got her begging on her knees by now.”

I kept my head down, tray untouched, coffee scalding my tongue. Lila tried to sit again, concern etched deep in her eyes, but I stood abruptly and left before she could speak.

Classes were torture.

Lore first—his class.

I took the back row again, hood up, notebook closed. When he entered, the room stilled. My wolf sat up instantly, tail thumping, ears pricked forward. I kept my eyes on the desk.

He lectured on claiming rites again—deeper this time, voice low and steady. “The strongest bonds are forged in restraint,” he said. “When the alpha holds back power, and the omega chooses to stay anyway—that is true surrender. That is reshaping. That is when the omega learns the depth of her own desire—not forced, but chosen.”

His eyes found mine on *chosen*. Held. Pierced.

I looked down, heart hammering so hard I felt it in my throat, in my fingertips, between my legs where slick had already begun to gather at the mere sound of his voice.

Break whispers were vicious.

“She’s definitely his now.”

“Look at her—scent’s stronger every day. Suppressants are done.”

“Voss never keeps anyone this long. She’s either special—or completely broken.”

Tactical shifting was hell. Marcus avoided me entirely now, but others stared openly. My partial shifts were too fast, too sharp—claws too long, eyes flashing silver before I reined it in. The instructor pulled me aside again.

“Kane, get your wolf under control or you’re off the mats permanently.”

I nodded, silent, burning.

The day dragged—every minute a countdown. Whispers followed me everywhere. My scent was slipping uncontrollably now; I could smell it myself—sweet, needy, omega in full bloom. Heads turned in hallways. Alphas lingered too long, nostrils flaring. Betas sniffed curiously.

By evening, I was fraying at the edges—skin too tight, pulse too fast, wolf pacing frantically, whining high and desperate.

6:45.

I couldn’t wait any longer.

I stood outside his door, hand raised, heart thundering so violently I was sure he heard it through the wood—sure he smelled the sweet, desperate spike in my scent the moment I approached.

The door opened before I could knock.

Jason filled the frame, silver eyes locking onto mine instantly. Black shirt tonight, sleeves rolled high, scars visible on his forearms like badges of battles won. Controlled. Dangerous. Beautiful.

“You’re early again,” he said, voice low and smooth, a faint, lethal curve at his mouth that made my knees threaten to buckle.

“I couldn’t wait,” I whispered, raw truth spilling out before I could stop it. “I tried. All day. I couldn’t.”

His eyes darkened, pupils flaring with satisfaction and something hungrier. “Good girl.”

The praise hit like a drug—sharp, electric, sinking straight into my veins and pooling hot between my legs. My wolf preened shamelessly, tail thumping hard, a low rumble of satisfaction vibrating through my chest.

He stepped aside.

I entered on unsteady legs.

The door clicked shut behind me with finality.

The room enveloped me instantly—heavier, richer than any night before. The single brass desk lamp spilled low amber light across towering bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes on pack wars, blood rites, and omega submission rituals that now felt written about me.

Candles in iron sconces flickered restlessly, throwing golden light over ritual objects laid out with deliberate care: coiled silver chains glinting like sleeping serpents, a bone-handled dagger beside an open grimoire, and across one corner of the massive oak desk, the thick black pelt of a defeated wolf—its empty eye sockets seeming to watch me with the same patient hunger Jason did. The hearth had burned low, embers glowing like banked fury, and the mingled scents—sharp pine, woodsmoke, cold forged steel, and that deep, intoxicating alpha musk—were so dense I could taste them on my tongue.

I stood just inside the threshold, boots rooted to the thick Persian rug, heart slamming against my ribs so violently I was certain he heard every frantic beat. My scent had betrayed me all day—sweet, ripe, unmistakably omega despite the five suppressant pills sitting sour in my stomach. The sweetness leaked from my skin like confession, and I knew he smelled it the instant the door opened.

Jason didn’t speak at first. He simply studied me, silver eyes stripping away every defense I’d tried to rebuild. Then he circled—slow, predatory, boots silent on the rug. I felt every step like a physical touch: the air shifting, heat building, the space between us shrinking until my skin prickled with awareness.

He stopped behind me, close enough that his breath stirred the fine hairs at my nape. “Tell me what you reflected on last night,” he murmured, voice a velvet blade against my ear. “Every detail. Leave nothing out. I want to hear how deeply it affected you.”

My throat closed. Heat flooded my face, my chest, lower. “The stillness,” I managed, voice trembling. “How impossible it was when your hands were on me. How your thumbs circled at my neck, how your palm slid down my chest and stopped just above my breast. How your thumb brushed the curve—so close, but not enough. How I kept hearing you say I’d earn every inch. How it followed me into the dark, into my dreams, into every breath I took today.”

He hummed, a low approving rumble that vibrated through my spine. “And the want?” His breath grazed my ear. “Did it keep you awake again, Rose? Did you touch yourself, imagining my hand finally taking what it teased? Tell me exactly—how many times, what you imagined, how it felt.”

Shame and need twisted together until I could barely breathe. “Yes, Jason,” I whispered. “Four times. I tried not to. I swore I wouldn’t give you that again. But I did. The first slow—imagining your hand unbuttoning my shirt completely, sliding inside my bra, cupping my breast fully, thumb rolling my nipple until I arched and begged. The second—your mouth replacing your hand, tongue circling, teeth grazing. The third—your fingers slipping lower, inside me, curling just right. The fourth—” My voice broke. “The fourth was desperate. I came sobbing your name, hating how empty it felt without you inside me.”

A growl rolled from his chest—deep, hungry, barely leashed. It vibrated through me, made my wolf whine and arch. “Beautiful honesty,” he said softly, voice roughened with his own tension. “You fought harder and lost faster. That’s progress. You’re learning there’s no victory in denial—only exhaustion. And tonight, Rose, you’re beautifully exhausted.”

He stepped around to face me at last, silver eyes locking onto mine with unrelenting force. Up close he was overwhelming—tall, broad, scarred, stubble shadowing his jaw in the lamplight. He studied me for a long moment, head tilted, cataloguing every flush, every tremor.

“Remove your jacket.”

My fingers fumbled to the zipper, clumsy with shaking. The slow rasp of metal teeth parting sounded obscene in the hush. Cool air kissed my arms as I shrugged the heavy fabric off, goosebumps racing across my skin. My shirt clung to sweat-damp curves, nipples tight and visible against thin cotton.

He watched every second, gaze tracing the fall of the jacket, the accelerated rise and fall of my chest. When I hesitated, clutching the folded jacket like a shield, he inclined his head toward the low side table.

“There. Neatly.”

I obeyed, smoothing the folds with exaggerated care.

“Better,” he murmured, approval warm and dangerous. “Now the boots.”

My breath hitched. “Jason—”

One dark brow arched. Silence stretched, patient and merciless.

I toed them off slowly, the rug soft under bare feet. The sudden loss of height left me smaller, diminished in his shadow.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Hesitation costs more than obedience, Rose. Tonight we have no time for hesitation.”

He circled again, closer. The sleeve of his shirt brushed my bare arm as he passed—a deliberate whisper of contact that ignited nerves like sparks. My breath stuttered.

“Stand straight,” he commanded from behind me, voice low against my ear. “Shoulders back—further. Chest forward. Present yourself properly. Hands loose at your sides. No clenching. No hiding.”

I obeyed instantly, spine lengthening, shoulders rolling back until my breasts pushed forward brazenly. The posture felt obscene—offered, displayed—but I held it rigidly, muscles trembling.

His heat pressed against my back, inches away. “Breathe.”

I hadn’t realized I’d stopped. Air rushed in, shaky.

“Slower. Deeper. Count it—four in, hold four, four out.”

I forced the rhythm, chest expanding until fabric pulled taut, nipples aching.

He completed the circle, stopping so close the toes of his boots nearly touched my bare feet. His scent drowned me.

“Tonight,” he said, voice calm steel laced with dark promise, “we test stillness under true command. You will not move unless I permit it. You will not speak unless I demand it. You will breathe only when I allow it. And you will answer every question with absolute, unflinching truth. Do you understand?”

My heart thundered. I nodded.

“Words, Rose.”

“Yes, Jason,” I whispered, voice cracking.

Satisfaction flared in his eyes.

He lifted his hand slowly, giving me endless seconds to anticipate. His knuckles grazed my jaw—barely contact, yet it burned like molten metal. A slow line of fire down to the hollow beneath my ear.

“You feel that?” he asked softly, thumb settling beneath my chin, tipping my face up.

“Yes, Jason.”

“That’s power. Pure presence. You will learn to hold perfectly still inside it.”

His thumb traced my throat, pausing over my pulse. “Your wolf is begging already,” he murmured. “Mine hears it. Mine is ravenous.”

My breath caught. “What does it want from mine?”

He studied me, thumb pressing lightly against the frantic beat. “To break you open. To push until fear becomes trust. Until you choose to stand in my fire because you crave the burn.”

The words struck deep. My wolf surged, a low eager rumble answering his.

He withdrew his hand slowly, leaving aching absence. “Sit.”

I lowered myself to the hard chair, wood biting into bruised thighs. Bare feet curled against the rug for balance I no longer had.

Jason remained standing, arms loosely crossed, gaze dissecting me. He picked up the heavy book but didn’t sit. His attention was a physical weight—cataloguing every shallow breath, every tremor, every bead of sweat.

Time stretched, warped. Minutes bled into eternity. The only sounds: crackling embers, occasional page turns, my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

Sweat gathered, trickled. Muscles burned. Thighs trembled. I held posture—back straight, shoulders pinned, gaze forward—until vision blurred at the edges.

At irregular intervals he spoke, voice calm.

“Breathe. Deep.”

I inhaled greedily.

“Hold. Count to twenty.”

Lungs burned, vision spotting.

“Exhale. Slowly.”

Later: “What do you feel right now? Describe every layer.”

“Exposed,” I rasped. “Watched. Afraid of failing. Afraid of how much I want to please you.”

“And deeper?”

“Burning,” I admitted. “Alive. Desperate for more. For your hands. For your approval.”

He closed the book with a soft snap.

“Good.”

He stepped closer, shadow falling over me.

“Describe your body right now. Every sensation. Truthfully.”