I drag in a careful breath, forcing my pulse to slow. My hands—still trembling from the dream—settle lightly on her back, tracing the fine-line butterflies inked along her ribs. The tattoos are delicate, almost fragile against the strength I now know lives underneath. Rebirth symbols, she’d murmured at some point between rounds, voice husky and sated. I didn’t ask why she needed rebirth. I just kissed each wing like I could guard whatever had tried to break her.
Fuck.
I didn’t even call her by her real name tonight.
Sweet Valentine. Sweetness. Sugar.
Nicknames to keep distance. Labels to remind myself this was supposed to be one night. A fling sparked in a bathroom, fueled by adrenaline and her fearless climb up my body like I was a tree she’d decided to conquer.
But no omega has ever dominated me before. Not like that. Not with that quiet-bold confidence, that wicked mouth, thatfearless grin while she rode me like she was claiming territory. The way she took control, then handed it back with a smirk. The way she swallowed me down, massaged my knot with her clever tongue until I saw stars and forgot my own damn name.
And Christ, the body on her. Sleek curves over toned muscle she hides under oversized sweaters. Long legs. That toned stomach I traced with my tongue for what felt like hours. The glint of her eyebrow ring when she laughed. The small nose hoop that caught the light every time she tilted her head in challenge.
She’s every dangerous fantasy I’ve never allowed myself to keep.
I’m smitten.
Completely, stupidly, irrevocably smitten.
And I know absolutely nothing about her except the way she tastes, the sounds she makes when she comes, and the fact that my dog—my antisocial, judgmental giant of a Malamute—tackled her with pure joy the second she walked through the door.
Sasha doesn’t like anyone. Ever.
He barely tolerates Elias and Julian.
Yet he looked at Rosemarie like she hung the moon.
And I brought her here. To my real home.
Not the sterile safe-house apartment I keep for flings—the one with minimal furniture and no personal traces, the one designed to make leaving easy at dawn. I’ve never brought a woman to this house. Never wanted anyone to see the reclaimed-wood shelves, the winter landscape painting, the oversized dog bed, the fingerprints of a life I actually live.
But tonight, I drove straight here on autopilot. Didn’t even consider the other place.
Dangerous.
She stirs against me, a soft murmur escaping her lips—something incoherent, sleepy. Her lashes flutter, then lift justenough for hazy hazel to peek up at me. Confusion flickers across her face, like she’s trying to remember where she is, who she’s curled around.
Then recognition settles, and something softens in her expression.
Christ, she’s beautiful like this. Guard down. Lips swollen from my kisses. Hair a wild tangle. Totally fucked-out and still the most stunning thing I’ve ever woken up to.
I smirk despite myself, brushing a knuckle gently along her cheek. “Go back to sleep, Sweetness. Not morning yet.”
She mumbles something again—sounds suspiciously like “too heavy” or maybe “your tits are comfy,” I can’t tell—and I choke on a quiet laugh. Her head drops back to my chest with zero hesitation, chin tucking over my sternum like it’s her designated pillow. Within seconds, her breathing evens out, body melting heavier against mine.
Trust.
She fell back asleep in seconds. In my arms. On a man she met hours ago.
I’ve never let an omega stay until morning. Never wanted the entanglement, the questions, the soft looks that turn into expectations I can’t meet. Attachment is a liability. I learned that young, learned it again in sand and blood.
But tonight?
I don’t have the strength—or the balls—to wake her. To call a car. To watch her walk out and pretend this didn’t just rewrite something fundamental inside me.
I press my lips to her temple, breathing her in. Cinnamon and amber and warm skin. Home in a scent.
One more time in the morning, I bargain with myself. One more round—slow, deep, memorable—then I’ll let the fairytale end.
