My body went full traitor before my brain could catch up—knees buckling like they'd suddenly been replaced with overcooked ramen noodles. I slid down the shower wall, water cascading over me while my limbs decided independent thought was overrated. The suppressants I'd double-dosed on were failing spectacularly, heat symptoms crashing through my system like they'd been waiting for the excitement of imminent death to make their grand entrance.
Oh, fantastic. My omega biology has the WORST timing. 'Near-death experience? Perfect moment for a heat surge!' Honestly, evolution should be fucking fired.
More gunfire erupted, closer now, like Death himself was coming down the hallway checking rooms. The sounds blurred together in my panic-fried brain—wood splintering, glass shattering, men shouting in what seemed like a multilingual master class in How To Terrify Omegas 101. I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe past the omega panic response flooding my system like toxic waste. Slick gathered between my thighs despite the shower spray, my body apparently confused about whether we were being murdered or seduced.
Great. Just great. 'Here lies Leo Yamamoto: died naked, soapy, and inappropriately aroused during his own assassination.' What a fucking epitaph.
I curled tighter against the shower wall, trembling with enough violence to register on seismic equipment. The heat blooming under my skin made everything too intense—water droplets felt like tiny sadistic needles, each gunshot a physical blow to my eardrums. I could smell blood through the steam—either real or my brain's helpful contribution to my complete psychological breakdown.
Some part of my brain that hadn't completely shut down was screaming at me to move, hide, do SOMETHING besides sit there like history's most pathetic omega target practice. Butmy limbs had apparently filed for independence from central command. I was eight again, watching shadowy feet pass by my hiding spot, praying to gods I didn't believe in that death would pass me by just once more.
The bathroom door exploded inward with such force that splinters became high-velocity projectiles embedding themselves in the opposite wall. I didn't scream—couldn't scream—my vocal cords having joined the general strike of all my useful bodily functions. My omega hindbrain had reduced operating capacity to: be still, be silent, hope whatever death comes is quick and doesn't involve too much pre-murder monologuing.
Through the steam and my blurry vision, a dark silhouette materialized in the doorway like the Grim Reaper had taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the kind of lethal purpose usually reserved for movie villains with unnecessarily complex revenge plots.
This is it. This is how I die—naked, afraid, and with shampoo still in my fucking hair. Not even allowed the dignity of being a clean corpse. 'He died as he lived—incompletely shampooed and severely inconvenienced.'
The figure stepped closer, and something in his scent cut through my terror-frozen brain like a hot knife through butter—pine and winter and alpha dominance so familiar it made my teeth ache.
No way. No fucking way. Six months of silence and NOW he appears? When I'm about to be murdered? The universe's idea of a cosmic joke? 'Here's what you've been missing, right before you get shot in the face!'
"Stefano," I whispered, his name falling from my lips without permission, so soft I wasn't sure if I'd actually spoken or just hallucinated my death wish into audible form.
He stood there like death personified in designer Italian wool—his bespoke suit so absurdly out of place amid shattered tile and steam that my brain briefly wondered ifGQhad started a new "Homicide Chic" photo spread. His cobalt-blue eyes had turned nearly black with a cold fury that made my already overheated skin flush with something that definitely wasn't entirely fear.
Oh good, my body's still broken. 'Face imminent death? Get horny!' Thanks, omega biology. Very helpful survival instinct you've developed there.
Time splintered around me. My omega hindbrain recognized him before my rational mind could process what was happening—recognized the alpha who'd spanked me into submission, who'd marked my throat with possessive bites, who'd disappeared for six months while I desperately tried and failed to forget the way his hands felt. My body's response was immediate and mortifying—another rush of slick between my thighs, nipples hardening like they were trying to point accusingly at my betrayer.
Even facing death, my body can't stop being a complete fucking traitor. 'Sorry about the potential murder situation, but have you considered getting aroused first? Maybe make your corpse extra appealing for the crime scene photos?'
"Leo." Just my name, just that single syllable in that voice, and my body went full submission protocol, heat building under my skin with such intensity I whimpered pathetically. I pressed deeper into the shower wall, trying to somehow phase through ceramic tile by sheer force of embarrassment.
He moved with predatory grace that seemed excessive for someone already at the top of the food chain, crossing the bathroom in two strides while I remained frozen like the world's most pathetic prey animal. When his hand reached for me, I flinched so violently I nearly gave myself whiplash, a brokensound escaping my throat as childhood terror crashed into present danger like waves in a perfect storm of trauma.
"Don't—" I tried, but the word died as his scent hit me full force, making my head spin like I'd just shotgunned three Red Bulls and a bottle of vodka. Alpha. Safe. Danger. Protect. Submit. My brain was throwing contradictory instincts at me faster than I could process them, like my own personal psychological fireworks display. He physically hauled me from the shower with about as much effort as someone lifting a wet kitten, my limbs too weak from fear and heat to offer anything resembling resistance.
His arms wrapped around me, and I couldn't even tell if I was struggling or trying to climb him like a tree. My skin burned everywhere he touched me, a year of suppressed need colliding with primal terror to create the world's most confusing emotional cocktail. Water sluiced between our bodies as he pressed me against his ridiculously expensive suit.
"I've got you," he growled against my ear, and the possessive claim in those three simple words made me sob like the pathetic omega disaster I apparently was. I couldn't tell if it was relief or horror—maybe both, maybe neither. My brain was too busy short-circuiting to properly categorize emotions.
Six months of silence and now he says "I've got you" like he never left? Like I haven't spent months trying to forget the feeling of his hands? Like I haven't called his name every time I touched myself, hating myself for needing him?
Another explosion rocked the cottage—definitely closer—and I cried out, burying my face against his chest without conscious permission from my pride. His heartbeat thundered beneath my ear—steady, controlled, nothing like the jackrabbit rhythm currently trying to punch its way out of my rib cage.
"We're leaving. Now." His voice carried absolute authority—not a suggestion but a command coded directly to my omegahindbrain, bypassing all rational thought centers. When he gripped my shoulders to set me back, I whimpered at the loss of contact, then immediately wanted to slap myself for the response.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. He disappears for six months, returns during a firefight, and I'm already whining when he stops touching me. My dignity isn't just dead—it's been buried, exhumed, and cremated.
His eyes raked over my naked, trembling body with possessive heat that made me want to simultaneously cover myself with both hands and present in the most submissive position possible. When he reached for a towel, his movements were efficient but his touch lingered as he wrapped it around my waist, fingers brushing against skin that remembered him far too well for my liking.
"Stefano," I managed, my voice high and broken as another burst of gunfire erupted downstairs. "What's happening? Who's—why are you—I can't?—"
He cut me off by physically covering my mouth with his palm, his other arm wrapping around my waist with bruising force that would probably leave fingerprint souvenirs for weeks. "Questions later. Silence now."
Sure, silence now. Questions never, probably. Just another day in the 'Leo Doesn't Get To Know Shit About His Own Life' saga.
I nodded frantically against his hand, too overwhelmed to do anything but comply like the picture-perfect omega I'd spent years trying not to be. When he removed his palm, he replaced it with a grip on my jaw that forced me to look directly into his eyes—no longer the controlling alpha who'd made me beg for release, but something far more dangerous.
