This is punishment.

Rose’s POV

The corridor swallowed me again.

Cold stone, moonlight in pale bars across the floor, my boots striking too loud—like every echo was a confession shouted to the empty halls. I walked faster, arms wrapped tight around my ribs, but the trembling wouldn’t stop. Not the chill seeping through my jacket. Not the frantic loop in my head: *control yourself, control yourself, control yourself*.

My wolf refused to listen. It was wide awake now—restless, eager, tail thumping hard against my ribs, nose lifted to drink in the lingering trace of him on my skin. Pine from ancient forests. Woodsmoke from a dying hearth. Cold winter steel. Jason.

I pressed a shaking hand to the hollow of my throat where his thumb had rested, feeling the ghost of pressure, the memory of his deliberate count of my pulse. My skin burned there. Everywhere burned—between my breasts where his palm had hovered, just above the first button; along the upper curve where his thumb had brushed so close to claiming more.

The omega wing door creaked under my palm. Lavender and damp stone greeted me, but even that couldn’t mask him. He clung to me—shirt, hair, skin—like a temporary claim that refused to fade. My wolf rumbled low approval, satisfied and hungry, and I hated how much I wanted to keep that scent, to burrow into my narrow bed and never wash it away.

My room was dark, cold, the window fogged thick with frost. I locked the door and slid down it again—knees to chest, forehead pressed hard to them as if I could crush the want out of me by sheer force.

It didn’t work.

I could still feel his hands on my shoulders, warm and heavy, thumbs circling slow at the base of my neck. His palm sliding down the center of my chest, stopping just above the first button, heat radiating through cotton so intensely I’d felt it in my bones. His thumb brushing the upper swell of my breast—just once, barely there, yet it had lit me up like wildfire. His voice—low, intimate against my ear: *Feel that? How easily I could take more. How much you want me to.*

Tears came again—silent, hot, sliding down my cheeks and dripping onto my jacket. I let them fall. Crying felt honest. More honest than pretending I wasn’t coming apart at the seams.

My wolf whined—soft, needy, pleading. It wanted to run back. Wanted to scratch at his door. Wanted to drop to its knees and bare its throat and beg for more touch, more praise, more of whatever he’d give.

I pressed both hands to my face, nails digging into my scalp through the braid.

“Stop,” I whispered to the darkness. “He’s reshaping you. That’s what he said in class. Reshaping. This is what he does. This is punishment.”

But it didn’t feel like punishment anymore. It felt like awakening—like every layer he peeled away revealed something raw and alive I’d never known was there.

I stripped mechanically—jacket, shirt, everything tossed into the corner like evidence I couldn’t bear to look at. My skin was flushed, fever-hot, nipples tight and aching from memory alone. The faint red marks on my shoulders from his grip had darkened slightly—thumbprints, clear as brands. The skin between my breasts was still sensitive, tingling where his palm had rested. I touched it lightly, tracing the path he’d taken, and my wolf rumbled deep approval, a pleased sound that made my knees buckle.

I crawled into bed still in underwear, blanket pulled over my head like a child hiding from monsters. But the monster was inside me now—pacing, hungry, waiting.

Sleep didn’t come.

Every time I drifted, I felt his hands again—sliding down my arms, fingertips brushing the sensitive inner curve of my elbows, tracing my wrists. Felt his palm hovering just above my breast, heat searing through fabric. Heard his voice: *Good girl.* Felt the ache between my legs sharpen until I clenched the sheets, thighs pressed tight, breath ragged and desperate.

I didn’t touch myself. Not tonight. I couldn’t bear giving him that victory a fourth time.

But gods, I wanted to.