The balcony at the end of the hall. The one overlooking the back grounds, the slope down to the pond where I stood a week ago and said I want all of you and meant it so completely I thought my ribs would crack.
Zero is there.
Shirtless. Sweatpants low on his hips. A cigarette between his fingers that he's not smoking—just holding, letting the ash grow long, the ember pulsing in the dark like a slow heartbeat. The tattoos on his left arm catch the moonlight. His hair is pushed back, falling forward, messy in the way that looks deliberate but isn't.
He hears me before I reach the door. Of course he does.
"Can't sleep?" he asks without turning.
"Just got home." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I was looking for you."
Zero goes still. Not the performative stillness he uses to intimidate—the real kind. The kind that means I've said something he wasn't expecting. His cigarette hand lowers an inch.
I step onto the balcony. The night air cools my arms. I'm still in the t-shirt and jeans I wore to Wren's, barefoot, and I feel stripped in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.
He turns. Looks at me. One glance—two seconds, maybe less—and I watch him read everything. My pulse. My breathing. The flush building at my collarbones. The fact that I came to him. Walked past every other door in this hallway and stopped at his.
Zero's eyes go dark. His jaw locks.
"Max—"
"Your turn."
The cigarette burns between his fingers. The ash falls. Neither of us watches it go.
"You said when you're ready." I hold his gaze. "I'm… I’m ready."
He doesn't ask if I'm sure. Doesn't check. Doesn't do the careful, deliberate thing Atlas would do—the tell me to stop, at any point, any moment. He doesn't need to. Because Zero reads me the way he reads everything—with terrifying accuracy—and what he sees on my face right now isn't uncertainty.
The cigarette drops. His bare foot crushes it against the concrete.
He crosses the distance in two strides.
His hands find my jaw—both hands, fingers gripping, tilting my face up—and his mouth crashes into mine and it is nothing like Atlas or Bane.
Atlas kisses like he's solving an equation. Deliberate. Precise. Every angle calculated.
Bane kisses like he's asking a question—is this okay? Can I have this? Will you stay?
Zero kisses like he's starving.
His mouth opens against mine—hot, demanding, tongue sliding in without invitation because he doesn't need one. My back hits the railing and his body pins me there—chest to chest, hips to hips, the full length of him pressed against me, and he's hard already, straining against the thin sweatpants. The soundthat comes out of him—low, rough, desperate—vibrates through my teeth.
I grab his shoulders. Pull him closer. Not close enough.
"Inside," I gasp against his mouth.
His hands drop to my thighs—grip, lift. My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me through the door. My back hits the hallway wall. A picture frame rattles. He holds me there for three seconds, mouth on my throat, teeth dragging across my pulse, and the sound I make is loud enough to be dangerous.
"Quiet," he growls against my skin. "Unless you want your mother to hear what I'm about to do to you."
His room. He kicks the door shut and the lock clicks and then I'm on his bed—dropped, not placed, my back hitting the mattress hard enough to bounce. He's over me in a second. Knees on either side of my hips. Hands pinning my wrists above my head. His face inches from mine, breathing hard, pupils so blown there's no dark amber left. Just black. Just want.
"I'm going to wreck you," he says. Low. A promise. "Not because I'm angry. Not because you're omega. Because I've been standing behind that line for weeks watching my brothers put their hands on you while I couldn't, and I am losing my fucking mind."
I arch up against him. Feel the length of him press against my hip.
“I told you I wasn’t patient,” he almost growls it. “And you still made me wait. You must want this one to hurt.”
