I'll ruin you.

Jason's POV

I loosened my collar with careful fingers, the fabric brushing against the fresh claiming bite on my throat—her mark, two perfect crescents still faintly warm and pulsing with shared magic. The skin around it tingled where her teeth had broken through, a sacred echo of the moment she had finally stopped running and claimed me back. She had whispered *I’ll ruin you* even as her small omega fangs found purchase, tears on her lashes and fire in her veins.

Now that mark anchored me more surely than any medal pinned to my chest from the northern campaigns, more than any title the academy could strip away. I traced it lightly with a fingertip, feeling the bond flare brighter in response, carrying a flash of her scent, her warmth, the way her body had fit against mine like two halves of an ancient rite finally completed.

The weight of the day clung to my skin like battlefield dust and sweat—traces of ink from the documents, the faint salt of shared exertion, the layered proof of everything we had sealed in that office. A shower would wash away the surface, but nothing could erase the bond’s permanence. Still, the hot water called to me, a ritual I needed to clear my head for the letters that would fly at dawn.

I crossed to the small adjoining washroom, the stone floor cool under my bare feet after I toed off my boots. The shower stall was simple but generous—carved from the same ancient rock as the rest of the wing, with brass fixtures that gleamed under the single lantern. I turned the tap, and steam began to rise almost immediately, the water heating quickly from the academy’s geothermal springs deep beneath the grounds. Stripping off my shirt and trousers, I stepped under the spray, letting the scalding cascade pound against my shoulders and back.

The water sluiced over me in relentless sheets, tracing every line of muscle honed from years of border patrols and shifting drills. I tilted my head back, eyes closed, letting it wash over my face, through my hair, down the column of my throat where her mark throbbed gently under the heat. Steam filled the stall, carrying the mingled scents of pine soap and the unyielding rose-honey-iron that refused to fade.

No matter how vigorously I lathered—hands moving methodically over chest, arms, the flat planes of my abdomen—the changed signature persisted, woven into my very pores by the old magic. It was as if the bond itself laughed at the attempt, whispering through the golden thread: *You are marked. We are marked. Nothing washes that away.*

Memories flickered unbidden as the water beat against my skin—Rose’s wide eyes in the office when the knot had locked us together, not in frenzy but in completion; the way her voice had cracked when she admitted *I still am* scared, only for resolve to bloom in its place like dawn breaking over the northern passes. I pressed my palm flat against the stone wall, feeling the ancient runes etched there vibrate faintly in sympathy with the bond. “You thought you could protect me by disappearing,” I murmured aloud, voice rough under the rush of water. “But look at us now, little one. Partners. Mates. The board can convene all they want; we’ll meet them with precedent and allies and the kind of love the old rites were written for.”

I lingered under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat ease the faint residual tension in my muscles—the echo of holding her so carefully, so completely, while the bond hummed full and satisfied. The claiming bite on my throat stung pleasantly under the water, a reminder rather than a wound. My wolf stirred inside me, silver fur gleaming in the mental landscape, tail draped lazily over Rose’s russet form where she curled trustingly against him. *She is stronger than she knows,* he rumbled, voice a deep vibration that echoed in my chest. *And you chose well. The pups will have her fire and your steel.*

“Damn right,” I answered the inner voice, a grin tugging at my lips as I finally shut off the water. Steam billowed around me like battlefield fog. I toweled off briskly, the rough linen scraping pleasantly over damp skin, then pulled on fresh trousers and a loose linen shirt—comfortable for the work ahead, but still formal enough that any unexpected raven knock wouldn’t catch me unprepared. The mirror above the basin showed my reflection: silver eyes steady, jaw set, the claiming bite visible now at my open collar like a badge of honor rather than a secret. Rose’s scent clung to me even fresher after the shower, as if the water had only sharpened it. Perfect.

Back in the main room, the fire had been stoked a little higher by the draft from the washroom door. I crossed to the desk and unrolled the original sovereign bond documents, their crimson wax seals gleaming under the lamplight like drops of blood from the old rites themselves. Marcus would move soon—I could feel it in my bones, the way a seasoned commander senses an ambush forming.

That ambitious alpha pup had been testing edges for weeks: lingering stares in the dining hall, pointed questions about “special tutoring” in the corridors, his pack snickering about omegas who smelled “too sweet for suppressants.” He would think the changed scent exposed weakness, a chink in the armor of Professor Jason Voss, war hero turned academy legend. He would be wrong. Dead wrong.

I reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped the quill in the deep black ink, and began writing in my precise, unhurried script—the same hand that had drafted battle orders under fire and graded thousands of Lore papers with ruthless fairness.

*Councilor Elara—*

*The time has come to call in the favor of the northern pass. The sovereign bond has formed, complete and irrevocable, blessed by the old rites in full consent. Documentation enclosed—consent forms dated to the exact second the golden thread snapped into place, witnessed by my wolf’s memory and sealed with my blood. Your blood-sealed statement is already prepared and will be presented the moment the board convenes. Expect their raven by dawn, perhaps sooner if Marcus’s nose leads him to the right ears. Stand ready, old friend. The charter will bend before us, not break us.*

I sealed it with a deliberate drop of my own blood pricked from my fingertip, the sigil flaring briefly gold before settling into a permanent rust-colored mark. The bond carried a flicker of approval from Rose—*She’s the one who pulled you out of that pass, right?*—and I sent back a wave of warmth. *Yes. And now she’ll help pull us through this.*

Next, a shorter, more direct note to Dean Hargrove:

*Hargrove—*

*Recall the quiet handling of your son’s indiscretion last term—no scandal, no headlines, just efficient containment. In return, I request any scent complaints or anonymous reports regarding my Wednesday tutoring sessions be routed through your office first. The sovereign bond is mutual, informed, adult. Precedent protects it. We stand aligned. Expect the board’s inquiry; be prepared to remind them of the favors owed.*

Sealed with another blood sigil.

And finally, to Professor Thorne, keeping it collegial yet pointed:

*Thorne—*

*Confirmation: Wednesday evenings remain reserved for advanced Lore support on bond law precedents and consent rites—gaps in certain students’ submissions that only the department head can address after hours. Your syllabus notes on these sessions are appreciated and will be referenced if needed. The old ways endure. Voss.*

I leaned back, staring at the three sealed letters arranged neatly on the desk. Allies in place. Shields raised. The academy’s machinery of rumor and inquiry would grind into motion tomorrow, but we would meet it prepared, not panicked.

Outside, the academy bell tower tolled once—the deep, resonant note marking the late hour, vibrating through the stones and into my bones. Somewhere across campus, in the omega dormitory wing, Rose’s wolf brushed tentatively against mine through the bond again. Not fearful this time. Just checking, like a sentinel confirming the watch was secure. I let my presence expand gently in response—not possessive, not overwhelming, but solid as the border walls I had once held against impossible odds with nothing but shifted claws and unyielding will.

*I’m here,* I sent back, the words carrying the warmth of the low fire, the clean scent of fresh linen, and the certainty of every plan I had laid while she still whispered *stay away* through tear-streaked corridors. *Documents sealed. Allies alerted. The shower washed the day’s surface clean, but the bond remains—stronger than ever. Sleep, little one. Tomorrow we stand together in the light, shoulder to shoulder. No more shadows.*

The response came back warm and steady, her russet wolf curling closer to my silver one in the shared inner landscape, tail draping over his flank in quiet trust. *Together. And… thank you for the plans. For seeing the dawn when I only saw ruin. Lila says goodnight too—she’s already brewing extra suppressors for breakfast.*

A low chuckle escaped me, rich and satisfied. She had broken every unspoken law they carved into shifter souls from the moment they could shift: Never deceive an Alpha. Never hunger for an Alpha. Never let Jason Voss inhale your desperate, perfect scent and live to claim it as mate. She had broken all three—and I had chosen her anyway, with open eyes and a heart that had waited years for exactly this russet-furred, stubborn-hearted omega who thought she could protect me by vanishing into the night like mist.

If the academy wanted war over that choice—hearings in crimson-robed chambers, public censure, perhaps even exile—they would discover very quickly that I did not lose wars. I had faced blizzards that froze lesser men solid, ambushes outnumbered ten to one, and political knives sharper than any blade. This? This was nothing compared to the northern passes. This was home.

I leaned back in the heavy oak chair, staring out at the moonlit training fields beyond the window. The northern border lands waited vividly in my mind’s eye—untouched expanses of ancient pine where the wind sang low lullabies through the needles, the sturdy cabin I had built with my own hands years ago during a leave of absence, its wide porch overlooking a rushing river where salmon leaped silver under moonlight. Room enough for a family that would never have to hide their marks or temper their scents. Pups with her wild russet curls tumbling across the wooden floors, chasing fireflies in the meadow; my silver eyes staring up at me from small, fierce faces as I taught them the old rites under open sky—how to shift without fear, how to love without shame, how to stand sovereign against any storm.

Whatever the board threw at us—formal inquiries, scent audits, whispers that would crest like a wave by breakfast—we would meet it side by side. Mates. Sovereign. Unbreakable.

I sealed the last letter with a final press of wax and set the stack aside for the morning raven courier. The bond thrummed with quiet pride—hers and mine intertwined like the golden thread itself, humming with the certainty that dawn would bring not just whispers, but the first steps of our shared victory.

Tomorrow the whispers would crest. By week’s end, the confrontation would come.

Let it.

I was ready.

She was ready.

We were ready.