One word. Flat, certain, the exact same tone he uses forfuck you. A command from an omega who spent months getting left and just decided he’s done with it.
Every other time in my life, I would’ve deflected and rolled away. I don't move a fucking inch.
The word hits me right in the sternum. Everything behind my eyes burns. I wrap my arms tighter around him, burying my face in his neck. My breathing goes ragged against his skin. I’m closer to falling apart than I’ve ever been in my life.
I try to say something cool. What comes out is his name. "Benji." My voice cracks in the middle. Just a name, but it means everything.
His grip doesn’t let up. His other hand slides into my curls, holding my head against his throat. Possessive. Claiming me right back.You’re mine and you’re staying, and I’m not asking.
We don’t talk. We don’t sleep. The knot slowly eases, but neither of us pulls apart. I stay half on top of him.
My hand finds his on the mattress. Our fingers lace together. It’s slow and clumsy. We’ve grabbed, shoved, scratched, and bitten, but we’ve never held hands. It’s the smallest thing in the room and the biggest, and I refuse to look at it because if I do, I’m going to lose it completely.
Benji’s breathing deepens. That constant, wiry coil of tension has finally unwound, just enough for me to feel the difference.
Our fingers stay laced. His pulse is steady under the claiming bite. The sketchbook is out in the living room. I spent months drawing what I wanted, and now I’m holding the real thing.
I press my mouth to the scar on his shoulder, close my eyes, and stay.
Knox
My apartment smells like both of us. For once, my alpha brain is actually shutting the fuck up. No roaring, no possessive frenzy. Just a low, steady hum.
Benji is asleep. His face is half-buried in my pillow, one hand resting on the mattress between us. He’s wearing my t-shirt, the collar slipping just enough to show the claiming bite on his shoulder. He looks young without the heavy eyeliner and combat boots. Just pale skin, a galaxy of freckles, and pillow creases. I stare at him, and a single thought echoes in my head.He stayed.
He told me to stay, and then he stayed, and the sun came up, and the world didn't end.
I ease out of bed and try to make coffee without waking him. It’s a lost cause. My kitchen is the size of a closet, and the cabinet where I keep the mugs has a hinge that squeals like a dying rat. I hear a low, irritated groan from the bedroom. Footsteps shuffle down the hall. Benji appears in my shirt and his boxer briefs, his black-and-blue hair a literal bird’s nest, squinting at the overhead light like it personally offended him.
"Your kitchen is a crime scene," he rasps, eyeing the coffee grounds scattered across the counter and a pan I left out two days ago.
"Good morning to you too."
"Is that coffee or motor oil?" He peers into the mug I hand him.
"Coffee. I think."
He wraps both hands around the mug like a lifeline and takes a sip. He doesn't wince, but his eyebrows twitch in a way that suggests I should be banned from making hot beverages. I crack a couple of eggs into the questionable pan. He watches me from the counter, not saying a word when a piece of shell falls in. When the edges start to burn, he reaches past me, turns down the burner, and flips them. I just watch him do it.
We eat at my tiny kitchen table. Nobody has ever sat at this table with me. Benji is grumpy about the fork situation—"You own three forks, Knox? Three?"—and the lack of hot sauce, and the coffee, which he finishes anyway before pouring a second cup. But there’s no real bite to it. He’s just prickly. His bare feet hook around the chair legs, and every time our knees bump under the table, neither of us pulls away. He reaches across me for the salt, his arm brushing my chest. I catch his scent, sharp and sweet and tangled up with mine, and my chest tightens. Six weeks ago, any accidental contact would have started a fight. Now, it’s just breakfast.
We migrate to the couch. Benji tucks himself into the corner, his feet landing in my lap. My hand drops to his ankle without me thinking about it, my thumb resting over the bone. He lets it stay there. The sketchbook is still on the floor where he dropped it last night, sitting between the doorway and the table.
Benji goes quiet. It’s that specific quiet where I know he’s reloading his sarcasm, but something real is trying to claw its way out instead. He stares at the ceiling.
"The rematch wasn't an accident," he says.
I look at him. "What do you mean?"
"On KnotMe." He refuses to look away from the ceiling. "I knew it was you. Your tattoos are in your profile photos. I recognized them. I swiped right because I wanted to—" He cuts himself off, but I can fill in the blank.Hurt you. Punish you.
"You catfished me," I say.
"I lured you." His jaw flexes. "Catfishing implies I pretended to be someone else. I just didn't correct your assumption."
I just stare at him. Benji Rowe, twenty-two-year-old art kid, the omega who bit me during sex and told me to go fuck myself, engineered a revenge hookup on a trashy dating app. He baited me to his apartment, opened the door, and let the mate bond blow both our lives apart. On purpose.
A laugh bursts out of me. A real one, deep in my chest. Of course he did.
