But she wants to. I see it in the way she moves through the mornings—restless, agitated, her skin too sensitive and her focus scattered. I see it in the way her eyes drop to my bare chest during training before she forces them back up. I see it in the way her hips shift against mine when I pin her, movements she pretends are escape attempts but feel like something else entirely.
Two weeks in, I decide to push.
“You dreamed about me again.”
We’re in the training room, circling each other after a bout that left her flat on her back three times. She freezes at my words, her face going red.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your scent.” I move closer, and she retreats a step before catching herself. “It changes when you’ve spent the night thinking about me. Sweeter. More desperate.” Another step. She holds her ground this time, jaw clenched, but I can see what it costs her. “You woke up wet this morning, didn’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“Aching.” I stop in front of her, close enough to touch. “Wanting something you won’t let yourself have.”
“I said shutup.”
“Did you touch yourself?” I let my voice drop low, intimate. “Did you slide your hand between your thighs and imagine it was mine?”
Her hand cracks across my face before I see it coming.
The slap rocks my head to the side—not hard enough to hurt, not really, but hard enough to surprise me. I turn back to face her, and she’s standing there with her chest heaving, looking as shocked by what she did as I am.
“Don’t.” Her voice shakes. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“Or what?” I catch her wrist before she can pull it back, holding her gently but immovably. “You’ll hit me again?”
“Maybe I will.”
“Go ahead.” I bring her captured hand to my chest, pressing her palm flat over my heart. “But it won’t change what we both know is happening.”
“Nothing ishappening—”
“Your pulse is racing.” I hold her gaze. “Your pupils are dilated. You’re breathing like you just ran a mile, and I can smell how wet you are from here.” I press her hand harder againstmy chest, letting her feel my own heart beating steady and slow. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
She stares at me, gray eyes bright with fury and something else—something that looks a lot like despair.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“I know.” I release her hand, letting her stumble back. “But you still want me. And that’s not going to change.”
She turns and flees.
I let her go.
The transformation is progressing faster than I expected.
Her senses are sharpening—she hears me coming before I enter a room now, tracks my movements with an awareness that goes beyond ordinary perception. Silver threads are appearing in her irises, faint but visible if you know to look. Her body responds to my scent with increasing intensity, arousal spiking every time I get close.
And when I touch her—when I pin her wrists or cup her face or let my fingers brush across her cheek—she shudders with want she can’t hide anymore.
Soon the heat will come.
It builds slowly in omegas who fight it—their bodies trying to force the issue, their minds pushing back, the war between biology and will generating pressure that eventually has to break. She’ll hold out longer than most. She’s stubborn and strong and has spent eight years refusing to yield to anything.
But the heat doesn’t care about stubbornness. When it finally crests, it will burn through every defense she has, leave her desperate and aching and willing to do anything for the relief only I can provide.
She’ll come to me then. She’ll beg me to fill her, claim her, make her mine in every way that matters.
