I stroke myself faster, pulling up the audio from this afternoon. Her voice cuts through the speakers—sharp, defiant. "Biology isn't consent."
That voice. Christ. Makes me want to pin her down and prove her wrong. Prove that biology is everything. That she wants this as much as I do, whether she'll admit it or not.
The shower's still running.
I imagine her in there right now. Wet and desperate and hating herself for it. Fingers between her legs because her body won't give her a choice. Thinking of me—of us—even though she'd rather die than admit it.
Biology doesn't give a fuck about pride.
My other hand brings up more footage. Her at dinner, that dress designed to drive me insane. The way she deliberately mentioned Ben. That Beta actor who got to touch her on stage. Got to put his hands on what's mine.
The fork I was holding bent in my grip. Actual fucking metal, warped from the force of my jealousy.
I'm coming before I realize it. Hot spurts across my hand, my desk, making a mess I don't care about. My body thinks it's close to getting what it needs. My biology screaming that she's here, she's close, just take her.
But I can't.
Won't.
Not like that. Not anymore.
When it's over, I'm left staring at the screen. Panting. Hating myself.
The shower stops.
I watch her stumble out, wrapped in a towel. Moving like every step costs her. She collapses on the bed without even getting under the covers. Just lies there staring at nothing.
I can see tear tracks on her face from this angle.
Something in my chest cracks. Wrong. Painful.
I close the laptop. Can't watch anymore. Can't keep witnessing what we're doing to her.
What I'm doing to her.
I sit in the darkening room as the sun sets. The house goes quiet around me. Corvus in his lab. Oakley in the kitchen making food she won't eat. And I'm here, spiraling, watching security feeds of my fated mate crying herself to sleep.
This wasn't the plan.
When did claiming her stop being about the bond and start being about control? About breaking her down until she had nothing left?
I think back to freshman year. Before she presented. Before biology rewrote everything.
She was auditioning for some production. Oakley dragged me along for "networking." I didn't give a shit about theater or networking or anything except maintaining the Ashworth image.
Then she stepped on stage.
Some monologue I don't even remember. But I remember her. The way she commanded that space. Made you believe every word even though everyone knew it was fiction. Made you forget there was a world outside that performance.
She didn't see me. Didn't know I existed.
And I thought—
What did I think?
Can't remember now. Can't separate the wanting from the needing from the fucking biological imperative that roared to life six months later when her scent changed.
When she became omega.
