"I’m guessing your omega has gone into heat," Viktor says.
"You have operational authority until I'm back. Full decision-making. Anything that can wait, let it wait. Anything that can't, use your judgement."
"Understood," he says. "I'll send a briefing to your phone each morning. Read it."
"I will."
The line goes dead. I set the phone on the bathroom counter and look at my reflection. My lip is swollen where Theo bit it.
I fill a glass of water and go back to the bedroom.
Theo is awake. He's sitting up against the headboard with the sheet pooled at his waist and the flush is building again across his chest and throat. His eyes are glassy and his breathing has changed, gone shallow and fast.
"Water," I say, holding out the glass.
He takes it and drinks. His hand is trembling. He sets the glass down. "It's coming back."
"I know."
He looks at me standing beside him and I watch the fight happen behind his eyes.
"Come here," he says.
This time is different. The urgency has dulled into something deeper, a rolling ache instead of a sharp spike, and the pace slows to match. It’s going to spike again, but for now, we’re just scratching the itch.
I lay him down and he lets me, his back against the mattress, and I'm above him with my weight on my forearms and his thighs open around my hips.
I'm careful with his back. I keep my hands where I can feel smooth skin, not scar tissue. I don't know if the scars are sensitive. I don't know if touch there brings back the man who made them. I don't ask. I just avoid them, and if he notices, he doesn't say anything.
He's watching my face. His eyes are dark and liquid.
I push into him slowly. His eyes flutter closed and his lips part and the breath that escapes him is soft.
I find a slow, rolling rhythm. He hooks his ankles behind my back and his hands grip my arms and we move together. I shift the angle and he makes a low sound and his fingers dig into my biceps. I do it again and the sound climbs.
"Right there," he says. Barely a whisper.
"Here?"
"Yes. Don't stop."
I don't stop. I keep the angle and the rhythm and I watch his face. His head is tipped back against the pillow, the long line of his throat exposed. I want to put my teeth there. The instinct to bite is so strong my jaw aches. I press my mouth to his collarbone instead and his hand comes up to the back of my head and holds me there.
His breathing breaks. I can feel him getting close, the tension building in his thighs, the rhythmic clenching around me. Ireach between us and wrap my hand around him and stroke and his whole body bows off the mattress.
He comes with his face turned into the pillow and his body trembling and the sound he makes is quiet this time, almost private, and I follow him over the edge with my mouth against his throat and his pulse beating fast against my lips.
Afterward, I don't pull away immediately. I stay where I am, my weight on my forearms, my forehead resting against his shoulder. His fingers are still in my hair. His breathing slows. His heart rate comes down by degrees, each beat a little further apart.
"You need to eat," I say.
His brow furrows. “I just did.”
"And your body needs fuel. Your body is burning through calories faster than you can replace them. You'll crash.”
“Don’t pretend to care.”
“You’re mine. I look after my things.”
