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Natasha's face is perfectly impassive at the sight, but Yelena cringes as if she feels bad for you for seeing this.

You tell yourself that it shouldn't matter. This whole arrangement, one practically forced upon you after Steve found out about your pregnancy, is one you wanted out of at first, right?

The elegant, shiny ring on your finger, which you grew to love and often looked at with a fond smile, now reminded you of the cage Steve trapped you in. Gold, pretty cage.

With how intense and dotting Steve was, you actually believed the cage could become a warm house, with a faithful, loving husband.

Seemed you were going to become a cliche, instead. A wife to produce heirs to a mafia king, while he fucked around with whomever he desired.

Perhaps you should walk into the restaurant, make a scene, throw a drink in Steve's face. Throw it at that woman's white dress.

But you only clench your hands on the paper bag with takeout you bought to eat at home (your pregnancy is turning you into a bottomless pit). You straighten your back and keep your head up high as you march to the car and get inside, Natasha and Yelena slipping inside soundlessly.

Yelena tries to say something, explain Steve's actions, but you tell her you're not interested.

"I don't care." You announce as coldly as you can, quite proud that your voice doesn't crack with how hurt you feel inside.

At home you devour your food. And some chocolate muffins that you baked in the morning. Each bite as delicious as heavy, your stomach revolting with the bitter jealousy and anger at the thought of what Steve was up to.

Are they having a romantic dinner and smiling at each other across the table? Is he sliding his hand up her thigh and under her dress? Does he make her come silently in front of all the patrons?

Will he take her to a hotel room, or one of his apartments that he owns all around the city, and fuck her into a screaming mess?

Will he fuck her better than he did you last night... yanking a fistful of your hair as he wrecked you into a dripping mess and praised you, A good little wife, taking all of me so well.

Ripping apart another muffin, you decide on your next step. You know running away wouldn't work. For one, you have two guards, who may be friendly, but still were loyal to Steve and what he said triumphed over whatever you wanted.

Secondly, even if you managed to slip out, Steve would find you. And he'd drag you back into the cage and the life he builds with you beside him.

You can't leave the penthouse, but you can make yourself a safe space in one of the free guest rooms.

Since Steve's dipping his dick in other woman's cunt, he doesn't need you sleeping beside him.

You definitely don't want to touch him when he reeks of other woman's perfume. You don't even want to see him.

So after you drag most of your stuff from the main bedroom and hastily put it in the closet in your new room, you close the door. Just in time, because less than ten minutes later the echo of firm footsteps resounds.

You flip a book open, trying to focus on the printed words and not on the way your heart hammers in your chest as you hear Steve's footsteps aiming for the main bedroom.

A vicious part of you hopes that he is a shocked, seeing that you're not there.

Not in the huge bed, naked under soft covers, waiting for your husband lord and master to throw you a crumb of his attention.

The emotionally heaving part of you shudders in sobs at the image of Steve simply not minding that you're not there.

Maybe he's only a little surprised, but brushes it off and simply takes a shower to wash off the remnants of that woman's arousal and his own sweat. Then he'll get into bed and fall asleep sated, uncaring for your state as long as you obediently stayed inside.

You rub at your eyes, cursing the tears away. You shake your head and try once again to focus on the words you're reading.

But then, after a long stretch of silence, footsteps sound through the space. A creaking of door being open. Then another. Slowly moving towards where you are hidden.

Your heart rate increases, fingers trembling against the paper pages of your book.

You take a breath, willing yourself to remain calm and not show Steve how hurt you are. Play it the way mob bosses wives in movies and tv shows do it - cold and indifferent, an armor around you, so nothing can prickle you.

The door to your claimed room opens and Steve stands there in the doorway in all his stormy glory.

He frowns, seeing you sitting stiffly on the bed.

He walks inside. Sleeves of his suit jacket are pushed up, showing his forearms and twirls of tattoos. He braces his hands on his hips and gives you a look that's a combination of concern and blatant anger.

"Can you explain what's the meaning of all this?" Steve's voice is thick and raspy.

You swallow, but shrug nonchalantly as if his heated gaze isn't bothering you.

"I thought it's better to leave the main bedroom, in case you brought your companion home for the night." You say and return your gaze to the book, fighting the urge to wave him away with a dismissive gesture.

"What?" Steve's frown deepens, actual confusion showing on his face.

"I'm not sure your mistress would like seeing me there. Might ruin the mood." You lift your head and sneer at him. "So I simply made it easier for you."

"I have a mistress now?" Steve raises a single brow, remaining calm while everything inside of you was boiling.

You snap your book closed and slam in onto the bedside table. With a little huff you get off the bed and stomp over to Steve.

"No need to lie." You scoff. "I saw you. With her. Didn't know mob business meant taking beautiful women to expensive restaurants."

You push at his chest in anger, but Steve's strong, muscled body doesn't even sway at your outburst. So you push at him again, unsuccessfully, but at least you get to unleash some of your fury.

"Just do me a favor and don't bring any of your whores home once the baby is here. Stay in one of your apartments, or allow me to move into one."

You can't hold off tears anymore and as some pour out, trickling down your cheeks, you clench your hands into fists and slam them against Steve's chest.

Steve's fingers wrap around your wrists, a tight, almost painful hold that keeps your hands bound to his chest.

"You are not going away from me." He declares, a definite order.

His eyes darken, a flash of lethal danger he rarely directed at you.

"In any form." He ads, obviously meaning you switching bedrooms.

Slowly, Steve's face lightens up. Twinkles appear in his eyes and it makes another wave of annoyance surge through you.

He keeps your wrists locked in one of his hands as he uses the other hand to cup your cheek.

"Any moving you're going to do is along with me." He says and tries to lean his forehead against yours, but you pull your head back.

Steve sighs.

"Which is why," he forces you to maintain eye contact with him, "I had a meeting with Camilla. She's a real estate agent who works for me on renovating a house that I bought for us. For our family."

His words make you speechless. A house? Someplace where you'd feel more free and where your kids could run in glee.

Still, you remain suspicious. You want to assume it's just a crafty lie, you're sure Steve's good at those.

"The Infinite is a rather romantic place to talk construction." You narrow your eyes.

Steve chuckles and shakes his head. He lets go of your wrists to wrap both his arms around you, pulling you close to him despite your attempt to squirm away.

"Jealous little bird." He hums and slides one of his hands up to grip the back of your neck.

"In my line of work-" Steve leans closer, his nose tracing the line of your jaw, hot breath tickling your skin making you shiver-

"I manipulate people. Some with threats, some with sugar. And some, like Camilla, with never voiced promise of something they wish for."

Steve's soft snicker puffs across your cheek at your sneer. His lips travel toward your lips. You close your eyes at the intensity of his blue irises and the way your body reacts to the touch of his mouth against yours.

"A restaurant dinner gave her that little spark that will make her work her ass off to grand me all my wishes regarding our house. Even though not once have I even brushed an inch of her body with my fingers."

"It also happens-" the tip of Steve's tongue licks over your bottom lip, his hand starts pulling up the hem of your nightgown- "that I know how to manipulate my wife's body, so she sweats out all that jealousy and anger while she creams on my cock."

Your tiny, needy whimper makes him chuckle in dark victory.

"That what you need, huh?" He grips your buttock and kneads it. "Should I fuck you braindead every day, so that your mind doesn't come up with silly ideas?"

"It wasn't silly." You try to defend your earlier outburst, but it comes out breathy and weak.

"Thinking I could be interested in anyone else when I have your sweet, ripe body at my disposal. Absolutely ridiculous." Steve flashes you a wolfish grin.

He lifts you up suddenly, forcing your arms and legs to wrap around him. His fingers slide from your ass to dip between your thighs as he turns around and walks out of the room.

"You're coming back to our bedroom." He growls a command.

“Yes.” She beamed. “Handsome fellow, but it seems he’s just as scared of clinics as the rest of men.” She laughed.

“You sure he’s here for me?” You asked hesitantly, an idea of who might it be already forming in your head. Terrifying you. 

“I’m sure. He gave all the information on you.” The woman’s face flashed solemn, her tone professional as she assured you of the thorough check. “I admit, even my own mom sometimes forgets what year I was born in.” 

“Thank you.” You forced out a smile, but your heart was hammering in fear.

You have no idea how he found you. Even less how he got so much detailed information about you. But then again, you shouldn’t be surprised now that you knew who he was.

Steven Grant Rogers. 

The ruthless head of the New York mafia who was more lethal than a viper already sinking its teeth in your ankle. 

And who, to you, was just a very hot man you hooked up with a month and half ago. 

You met Steve in a fancy club your friends booked a booth at - apparently it was a club so exclusive getting a booth in it was nearly impossible. Now you understood why. 

You’re not sure why you caught his attention when there were so many beautiful women in the place that night. But three flutes of Prosecco in and you were bolder than usual. You agreed to accompany him in his VIP booth while your friends went crazy on the dancefloor.

He disarmed you with his focus on you, his eyes never straying to any other woman. A charming gentleman who made you melt with the few moments of movie-like fairytale feeling. 

And when he whispered into your ear how he wants to eat you out until you pass out from pleasure, you almost spread your legs for him right there in the club.

Steve took you to his place - an elegant penthouse, in a building you later learned belonged to him. A one night stand turned into whole weekend of him fucking you senseless and spoiling you with fancy food delivered to his apartment. 

He also made you do the most depraved things; no one else has ever made you come just from fingering your ass and talking dirty to you. 

Like he promised each time he was buried in your cunt, Steve filled you to the brim. 

You leaked his cum even as you got home late on a Sunday afternoon - Steve’s driver dropping you off in front of your modest flat. 

The result of his filling woke you up a few weeks later, making you vomit your guts out each morning. With your period being unusually late there was only one explanation. 

At first, after you confirmed the pregnancy with your doctor, you planned on telling Steve. One night or not, he had a right to know. But you didn’t have his number, nor did you remember the exact address where he lived. So you googled him.

And the articles made your head spin. 

You thought it’s a misunderstanding. Just a coincidence, but then one of your friends complained to you about her boyfriend - a cop - being angry that you went to a mob-owned club. 

Further prodding revealed that The Shield club belonged to Steven Rogers himself.

You could no longer fool yourself with coincidences and similar names. In an instant you made a decision to never put your foot anywhere near the club and to hide from everyone who exactly was your baby’s co-creator. 

So as you kept it to yourself, building a lie (not so far from the truth) about it being a result of a reckless one night stand, you started to forget about the real father. Sometimes you even calmed yourself by repeating he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with it anyway. 

But there couldn’t be anyone else claiming to come for you by posing as your husband. And Steve had the influence to learn all the details about you, if he wished. 

You cast a glance at the main entrance. He was waiting for you there. To do who knows what to you. 

If he didn’t want the baby being born and you refused to get rid of it… a man like him would simply get rid of you to erase the problem.

Perhaps you didn’t stand a chance against the power of someone like Steve Rogers, but you could try saving yourself and postponing the inevitable. For a little while, at least.

Pivoting on your heel, you went in the opposite direction. You didn’t know if there’s a back exit and you feared asking anyone, but the restroom you used earlier had a window facing the park and it was only on the high ground floor, so the risk was minimal.  

You smiled at a woman who was washing her hands when you entered and pretended to lock yourself in the stall. When you heard the door closing after her, you left the stall and opened the window. 

You dropped your bag first, then sat on the windowsill and swung your legs over it. Carefully, you lowered yourself down, hands clutching onto the edge. You took a deep breath and let go, landing softly on your feet without much trouble. 

“Shouldn’t be doing that in your state, sweetheart.” 

A smooth voice startled you. 

A familiar voice.  

You could still recall the praises he moaned in your ear when you trembled beneath him. 

You turned around sharply, heart jumping to your throat as you faced him. 

Steve stood a few steps away from you, his back resting against the side of the sleek, black car parked on the sidewalk. Dark aviators shaded his blue eyes, but you knew he was watching you like a hawk, ready to react if you fled. 

You frowned, surprised to see him here, considering the receptionist told you your husband was waiting at the front. 

You looked in the direction where he was supposed to be. Steve’s chuckle drew your attention back to him.

“Fawns like you are predictable.” He said with a smirk. 

“Now, come on,” he called your name as he moved to the side, opening the car door, “get inside.”

You didn’t even stir. You simply couldn’t, frozen in place out of fear and shock. A thought of running passed through your mind, but you were never a fast runner and you predicted Steve would be more pissed if he had to chase you. 

That he would catch you was undeniable. With his long legs and stamina that drove you into almost passing out a few times.

Steve sighed when you didn’t follow his order. 

Unhurriedly, he walked over to where you trembled, plastered against the coarse, concrete siding of the building. He crouched down to pick your bag then slowly straightened. 

Fuck, you didn’t remember him being this tall and broad. 

Steve slid his aviators down to the tip of his nose, his icy blue eyes piercing through you. He traced the shell of your ear with a single digit, then trailed it along your jaw. He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger before saying firmly:

“Get in the fucking car, sweetheart.” 

This time you obeyed. He gave you no other choice as he guided you with his hand pressed against the small of your back. 

You slid onto the backseat, curling in the corner against the opposite door. Steve got in right behind you. The moment he closed the door on his side the locks clicked in, trapping you inside with him. 

The partition between you and the driver was pulled up, though you assumed Steve’s men were loyal to him enough not to react to a woman screaming for help. 

“How do you find this clinic?” Steve simply asked, dropping your handbag on the seat on his other side. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to reach it without having to pass him. 

“What?” You stared up at him, confused. 

“I’ve heard it’s good, but I can get you into a top-shelf place.” While you were tense and strung up, Steve sat next to you completely relaxed. He took his sunglasses of, spread his legs wider.

You wrapped your arms protectively around your midsection, tears stung beneath your eyelids as you considered the potential meaning of his words.

“I’m keeping the baby!” you blurted out. Right that instant you knew you were ready to fight till your last breath to save your child.

Steve cocked his head to the side as he looked at you, a twisted warmth filling his eyes and making his smile even more charming.

“As you should.” He praised you. 

He reached for you, wrapping an arm around your back and pulling you to his side. With his other hand he swatted your arms away from your belly and spread his fingers over the curve that would soon start swelling.

“You’ll give me more, too.” Steve hummed, his eyes glued to where his hand laid. 

You were speechless. Initial fear of being forced to lose the baby turned into a completely new terror. 

Steve’s words didn’t cut your life short, but they built a long, gilded-cage waiting for you.   

“It’s about time I started nesting.” Steve chuckled, his hand moving to cup your chin and tilt your head back. “I don’t mind doing it with a sweet, little bird like you.” 

He pressed his lips against yours gently, almost sweetly, as if he was a tender lover doting on his beloved. Then his tongue teased the seam of your mouth. When you didn’t open right away he bit your bottom lip, making you gasp and forcing his tongue inside. 

You told yourself it was fear and adrenaline, but your nipples hardened and your pulse quickened. 

“First things first-” Steve pulled away. 

He took one of your hands and brought it to his lips, peppering kisses on each of your knuckles.

“We have to get you an engagement ring and order wedding bands as well.” 

“Steve, I don’t understand-” your heart pounded so fast it rushed blood to your head and made you dizzy. 

He intertwined your fingers and brought your clasped hands to his chest, just as he slipped his other hand to grip the back of your neck firmly.

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He reached into his desk drawer and came out with something small hanging from a lanyard. “I had a friend that owed me a favor. He called me and asked if I knew anyone that might be interested. I didn’t want to say anything until I had it in hand.” He held it out to you. “Private event. Tomorrow at the Pavillion.”

You took it. The pass was nothing fancy, just a laminated card with some venue information and a barcode. You turned it over and sucked in a breath before darting your gaze back to Ben. “Buffalo Jump? Are you serious?”

He hummed and leaned back in his chair looking rather proud of himself.

Buffalo Jump had been in the industry for almost twenty-five years. They were famous for their eclectic blend of music and were your absolute favorite rock band for a variety of reasons. All of which Ben knew because you’d written a thorough analysis of their music and the evolution of their sound for your thesis.

“You need the reminder of what you’re working for,” he told you. “You’re going to go far, if you just get the chance.” He’d said that to you before, more than once. He’d said it when you played your recitals, when you defended your thesis, when you mother fell sick and you had to leave your position at the symphony as you couldn’t leave her to tour with them. You didn’t exactly envision yourself playing the harp for the rest of your life anyway.

You gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”

As usual, he could read you too well. “I’ve been in this position for a long time. I’ve seen so many students come and go. It is rare that I see one with your talents.”

Your eyes went wide and you shook your head. As you opened your mouth to protest, he cut you off.

“No. No arguments. I’m aware you don’t see it, trust me I am painfully aware.” You thought the wince he made was a bit dramatic. He held your gaze for a long moment. “You’ll get your chance. In the meantime, go. Enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.”

The Pavillion was one of those places that could be used for intimate events or upper floors could be opened for more seating. Tables usually filled the main floor but they had been replaced with rows of chairs facing the small stage. Two barstools sat in the center with microphones in front of them. The left stool had an acoustic guitar on a stand beside it while the one on the right had an acoustic bass. Both instruments showcased a custom paint job. They were obviously well loved.

As no recordings were allowed, phones were collected at the door much to the dissatisfaction of several of the people filing in. You handed yours over without hesitation. There wasn’t a lot you wouldn’t do to attend an event like this. Most people were in pairs or even trios, but you took a seat by yourself toward the back where you could take in everything at once.

Your pulse raced as the lights over the audience dimmed and the lighting on the stage came up. Then Michael “Robby” Robinavitch and Jack Abbot walked out. There was no introduction, no special effects. They weren’t needed.

Robby wore faded jeans and an old Harley t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The logo was so worn you could barely read it. Jack’s jeans were darker and he wore an old band tee showcasing a buffalo jumping over the moon, the cover art from their first album. Robby grabbed the bass and Jack took the guitar in hand before they settled on their respective seats. They adjusted the mics and Jack leaned forward with a small grin.

“Afternoon everyone. We’re going to sing a few songs if that’s alright.” His rough voice had you smiling and you applauded, cringing slightly at the handful of people that screamed.

Robby’s smile was more a twitch of the lips than anything. He counted them in with a tap of his foot. The first notes were enough to quiet the audience. Jack’s gravelly voice came in, Robby occasionally lending his own in support.

You’d listened to all of their albums dozens of times. You knew these songs. Understood the theory beneath them, the stories behind at least a few of them. But hearing them like this, stripped of everything, was so much more moving than you thought it would be. Jack closed his eyes as he became lost in the music while Robby kept watching the crowd, as if checking to make sure they were still paying attention.

Somewhere in the middle of the fourth song—a ballad Jack sang while Robby played his bass so beautifully it made your heart ache—your mind turned to your own songs, your own music. Songs only a very limited audience had heard because no one gave a shit if their bartender was composing in her head during last call.

The set ended as quiet as it began. They played the last chord and let it fade into the air. They stood to set the instruments back in the stands as people applauded, some still a little more exuberant than the environment warranted. You wondered briefly if the men ever got tired of people screaming at them like they were something godly instead of just people.

A staffer stood near the side door with a clipboard. “Meet and greet line forms here,” she said, not shouting, but loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. People scrambled, wanting to be first. Others moved for the end of the line, chattering to their friends about getting more time if they were the last to go. You settled somewhere comfortably in the middle.

The line moved forward slowly as people were shown into a small room in the groups they’d attended in. They were in there long enough to get a picture, presumably an autograph or two and then they’d exit through a door a little further down the hall where someone waited to return their cellphones.

You thought about what you would say when it was your turn. Hi, I’m a fan. Or perhaps, hi, I wrote my thesis on your music. Or even, hi, I tend bar and have a Master’s in Music and play the harp in my living room while I wonder what the point of any of this is.

Five people ahead. Then two.

Then it was your turn and you were directed through the door where you found Jack and Robby waiting along with a photographer. Someone who was undoubtedly security stood along one wall.

The room was small with bare white walls and a folding table along one side. A backdrop was set up along the back wall. You couldn’t help but think they all looked incredibly bored. Or tired. Very, very tired.

Robby and Jack gave you a small smile when you entered. Up close, Robby felt taller than you’d expected. His beard was neatly trimmed and his eyes were that particular shade of brown that looked almost black in the right lighting. Jack was shorter, more compact, his once auburn hair showing more gray than ever. God, they were hotter than they had any right to be.

You cleared your throat and licked your lips before introducing yourself. You told them you were a big fan all while keeping a careful distance between you, not wanting to intrude on their space. Then you thanked them for taking their time to do something like this and told them how much you appreciated it.

Robby’s posture shifted slightly and his smile became a little more genuine as did Jack’s. They exchanged a glance, then the photographer stepped forward.

Jack motioned you toward them. “Come stand in the middle, sweetheart. We’ll get you a good picture. Is it okay if we touch you?”

Heat crawled up your neck as you nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Robby draped a heavy arm across your shoulders while Jack’s hand came to rest in the middle of your back.

“Alright, big smiles,” the photographer stated in a tone that told you he said it all day every day.

The camera made a sound. Not a click or even a beep but a low whine that preceded a bright flash from the screen. The photographer frowned, pushed several buttons then muttered a string of profanities. “Shit. Give me a minute. Camera is having issues.” He went to a bag on the table and dug around before sighing. “Must have left the backup in the van. I’ll run and get it. Don’t go anywhere.”

He was gone before anyone could respond.

Their arms dropped and you stepped forward to give them back their space. Jack sighed. “You mind if I sit?” he asked.

It took a moment to realize he was talking to you. “Of course not. Please do.”

He nodded and dropped into a chair that sat against the wall. He reached for his leg then pulled his hand back. He’d lost part of his leg in a horrible accident right after the band signed their first contract. The record company had tried to replace him and the rest of the band had refused. You were sure the prosthesis was bothering him.

“So,” Robby said, drawing out the word as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you do?”

“I’m a bartender,” you answered automatically. Then something about the way he was looking at you, made you add, “I just graduated with my Master’s in Music.”

Both men straightened, looking far more interested than they had a moment ago.

Jack huffed a humorless laugh. “Are you serious?”

You made a sound of agreement. “A couple of weeks ago.”

Robby’s brows went up. “What do you do? With the music, I mean.”

You shrugged. “Sing. Piano. Guitar on occasion. I can also play the harp but I don’t suppose you care as much about that.”

Robby’s lips curled into a real smile.

“So sing something,” Jack instructed.

You looked at him in surprise. His hazel eyes were steady on yours, nothing but curiosity shining in their depths. “You don’t want to hear me sing.”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“That was more of an order than a question, actually,” you muttered, heart pounding in anticipation.

“Can’t perform if you’re shy, sweetheart,” Robby added. The nickname should have rankled, but it didn’t. Not from them.

You glanced between the two of them as you stood there. Were you really about to do this? Ben would kill you if you didn’t.

Then you started tapping both palms against your thighs, a rhythm you knew by heart since you’d written it in your bedroom at two in the morning the week after your mother died. One two. One two three.

You didn’t even give it much thought, your hands moving into the rhythm almost of their own accord. Robby tilted his head, listened for a moment, then his right hand came down to the wall beside him, matching your rhythm exactly. You glanced at him. He watched your hands, then your face, then back to your hands.

Your voice when you started to sing was soft at first. Almost under your breath, the way you sang when you were alone in the car. The melody was simple and the words were about love and loss and the desire to be more than you were. The loneliness that came with wanting something so badly you could feel it in your soul. It wasn’t fancy or even particularly clever, but it was your truth.

Robby kept the beat, soft but steady, Jack watched from his chair, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted as he took you in. His eyes watched your mouth like he was reading your lips. When you hit the second verse, your voice found its weight becoming more solid, more sure. You sang the last line and let it fade.

Silence filled the room.

“That was…” Robby started. He paused, looked at Jack, then back to you. “Wow.”

“I didn’t recognize it. Whose song was that?” Jack asked.

“Mine.” Your voice came out rough and you cleared your throat. “I wrote it, I mean.”

The door opened and the photographer came in with a new camera hung around his neck. “Sorry, folks. Let’s get this done.”

The three of you recreated the original pose.

“Big smiles.”

You obeyed and heard several clicks. The photographer looked at the screen and nodded once. “Great. Next.”

Robby’s arm on your shoulder tightened before you could step away. You glanced at him.

“Wait. Could you…would you mind waiting until we’re done with the rest of the line? We’d like to talk to you,” he said.

“I…yeah. Okay.”

“Okay?” he confirmed with a wide smile.

You nodded.

“We’ll see you in a bit, sweetheart,” Jack said when you neared the door. You looked back and waved before disappearing into the hall.

The tech found the bag with your name on it and handed you your cellphone. A couple of chairs stood just down the hall and you sat on one, scrolling through your phone to kill the time and keep yourself from overthinking. You were nauseous with anxiety. What could they possibly want with you?

Minutes passed slowly until there was no one left in the hall except you and the two workers. They didn’t ask why you were still there. Didn’t try to move you along and you wondered if they knew somehow that you’d been asked to wait.

The door opened and three giggly girls poured out, clutching signed pictures to their chests. You’d forgotten yours and felt weird about asking for one now. The door stayed open this time and Robby and Jack stepped into the hallway. Their manager, Gloria Underwood, emerged from a door just down the hall.

She glanced at you, brow furrowed in confusion, before shifting her attention back to the men. “Gentlemen. We need to get back to the hotel and go over the set list for tomorrow. You also have a phone interview with People.” Her voice was clipped, efficient. She looked at her watch then back to them.

Robby waved a hand in her direction, a sour expression on his face. “Just a minute, Gloria.”

He turned his back on her and positioned himself in front of your chair. Jack stood at his side, close enough their shoulders nearly touched. The two of them created a barrier between you and the rest of the hall, between you and Gloria.

“Tomorrow’s show. You’re coming,” Robby said.

It wasn’t a question. You opened your mouth to respond but he cut you off.

“You’re on the list. Bring a plus one if you want. Park in the back by the buses. Give security your name, they’ll let you through.” He paused, gaze steady on yours. “Can you make it?”

Yeah, you could make it. You could make it if the venue was on the moon and you had to walk. What came out of your mouth instead was, “Why?”

Jack grinned. It was the first real smile you’d seen from him. It transformed his face into something almost boyish. He looked at Robby then back at you and the grin didn’t fade. “Just trust us, sweetheart.”

“Come early,’ Robby added. “Around four. Sound check. You should hear it. It’ll be a good learning experience.”

What the fuck was going on?

“Okay,” you managed to get out.

Gloria apparently reached the end of her patience. She stepped forward, inserting herself between the men with practiced ease and placed a hand on each of their arms. “That’s enough socializing. The car leaves in five.”

Robby sighed. “Fine, fine.” He pulled his arm out from under her touch.

“Now, Robinavitch,” she said with enough attitude to have even your brows raising.

“Enough, Gloria. We’re coming. Just fuck off for a minute,” Robby snapped.

Jack chuckled softly, obviously used to the animosity between the other two. He gave you a nod. “We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart. Don’t disappoint us now. It will break our hearts if you don’t show.”

He was gone before you could respond.

“As you can see, we have to go. But you’ll be there, right?” Robby asked. “Promise.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you answered honestly.

He gave you a wide smile and backed down the hall for a few steps before finally turning and walking away.

You waited for the door at the end of the hallway to swing shut behind them before standing. Your legs were stiff from sitting, your fingers found the pass hanging from your neck and ran along the edge of it.

Less than an hour ago you’d been a fan in a meet and greet line. Now you were…what? Invited? On the list? Told to come early?

What the hell just happened?

It's around lunchtime when you feel like the compression socks that Robby had bought you aren't doing their job anymore, and that your ankles have just waved the white flag of surrender. 

At the start of the shift you had migrated your wedding ring safely off your hand and into your scrub pocket because your fingers had taken yo swelling as a fun activity to start the morning off with. 

And you have been going to the bathroom almost on the dot every thirty minutes. Dr. Santos had jokingly suggested that they needed to set up a revolving door for the bathroom. That conversation had been shut down quickly with a pointed look from not only yourself but also Robby in Santos direction. 

You hadn't laughed, and that was mostly because there was a pain that had started somewhere at the start of the morning in your lower back, it wasn't unbearable by any means it was just a constant pressure. 

The kind that was a deep ache that no matter how you moved with wasn't in a lot of direction you just weren't able to shake. You shifted again your chair, Dennis who was looking at the board glances over at you. "Back?" He asked, you gave him a small nod, "It's been like this all day." 

"Are you gonna tell Robby?" He asked, "No." You said far too quickly, "Why?" You shrunk in your chair, "Cause he'll send me home." Dennis nodded, "Yeah that's a good point." And then the young doctor was off to check in a new patient. 

Four in the afternoon rolled around, and Robby caught you leaning heavily agasint the medicine room counter. "Are you doing okay, honey?" He asked , you just hummed swinging you hips back and forth, "That's not very convincing." Robby said with raised brows. "My backs just hurtin'."You say, "Still?" 

"It's been hurting all morning, and hurts still." Robby gave you a small frown, "You feelin' anything else?" You shrug your shoulders, "Yeah my stomach been doing this tightening thing." Robby's eyes go wide, "Tightening?" You shake your head at him. "Do you mean contractions?" He asks, clearly more stressed then you about this new wave of information coming his way. 

"No." He blinks at you, "Then please tell me what you call it." "I don't know…" You wave a little around you vaguely, "Just pregnancy stuff." He stares at you for a moment, "You time them?" He asks you a litter curious. "No they're random." 

"How random are we talkin' here honey?" Robby asks, "I don't know, Robby. I'm not really paying attention to them." Just then Dennis walks by with a coffee in his hand, "You haven't been timing them have you?" Dennis now asks you, "No." Dennis slowly looks over at his boss, and Robby slowly looks back, neither of them utter a single word. 

The shift has finally come to an end, which just outright feels miraculous. You've changed into a nice pair of leggings that just barely fit over the swell of your feet while Robbys carries everything else out of the ambulance automatic doors. "You don't need to carry my bag, Robby." 

"I know." 

"That also means you don't need to carry my lunchbox either." 

"I also know that." He mutters, not letting go of either item. "I can carry my own water bottle Robby, jesus!" You grumble, "I know but I want to take care of you, now let me." You sigh giving up, "You've hovering a lot right now." 

"Hey now, you married me. You know what you were gettin' into long before hand." He teases, "That isn't an excuse and you know it, mister." Robby smiles at you, "Oh it absolutely is, honey." 

The start of the drive home is a quiet one, the radio is playing softly in the background some station that you had picked on the way into work this morning, the sunset is painting downtown Pittsburgh in a beautiful light. 

You rest one hand on the swell of your stomach rubbing gently and soft circles into the skin. Another wave of pressure some rolling through your lower back, and you can't help but wince at the pain. Robby forever in doctor mode notices the shift immediately. "You okay over there?" He asks from his drivers seat. 

"hmm." You hum, "That looked like a no to me." You shake your head, "It's just my back killin' me." Robby's absent minded tapping on the wheel stops, "You said that earlier." "What are you a court reporter?" You tease him playfully. 

There's silence from the drivers seat of the car, and then another ache rolls through you. Longer this time and you just try to breath through the pressure, and dull ache. Robby's eyes leave the road for only a second and flicker over to you, "How long has this been doing that for?" He asks concern in each word. 

"Doing what?" 

"That." He says pointedly, "I don't know." You shrug, so Robby pushes, "All day?" he asks, you surpisingly give in quickly. "Yeah. My lower backs been aching since this morning." 

"You've had back pain?" Robby asks, as if he's waiting for you the catch up. "yes." "All day?" He asks once more clarifying, "And the stomach tightening?" "Still happening I'm afriad." "Since this morning?" He asks with a litter bit more urgency in his voice. "Yeah." You says quickly. 

His hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles going white. "Honey." You perk up, "What?" 

"You been stopping in the bathroom every say I don't know twenty minutes or so?" He asks, "I'm pregnant I alway have to fuckin' pee, Robby."

"But you barely even touched your lunch." 

"Robby I was tired." You try to convince him of what you are't sure. "You were shifting every couple of seconds and are still doing it now." You roll your eyes at your husband, "That's becuase my back hurts." You say it like it's a duh answer so clearly understandable. 

Robby stops, and looks away, and ahead into the traffic. Then back at you, then back towards traffic. Something perfectly clicking into place. Without another word spoken in the car the blinker comes to life, and the car makes the smoothest u-turn you've ever felt. 

Though the motion doesn't have you grabbing at the 'oh-shit' bar overhead instinctively. 

“Robby?”

You get nothing, not even as the man presses his foot down on the gas pedal and turns back in the direction of the hospital instead of home. “Robby, why are you turning us around right now?” You ask quietly but with urgency in your voice.

With one hand staying on the steering wheel, the other comes to rest on top of yours before your fingers are intertwined and he squeezes your hand. “Because honey.” He says with a long, almost entirely exhausted sigh.

Before Robby can speak, another wave of pressure.

Another contraction comes, stealing the breath from your lungs. You squeeze Robby’s hand back without giving it much thought. He watches the dashboard clock, then watches as you breathe through it and then finally back towards the road.

“Because you’ve been in active labor all fuckin day long.” He says calmly; you blink at him in surprise. “Huh?”

“Honey, our daughter is coming today.” There’s silence from your side of the car. “No!” You say it adamantly, like you have the sheer force to stop it. “You’ve been having contractions since this morning.”

“They weren’t that bad.”

“They were in your back, honey.”

“I just thought…” Robby cuts in, “They’ve been consistent.”He says seriously. “Here I was thinking she just dropped funny.”

“You’ve barely been able to walk.”

“My feet were just swollen.” You counter

“You went to the staff bathroom about, I’d say, twenty times today.” You look at your husband with raised brows. “You were counting my bathroom breaks.”

“I’ve always counted.” He says simply. You stare at him. “I’m… I’ve been in labor?” Robby nods, “Yeah, honey, one hundred percent.”

“I worked.”

“You did triage for three patients.”

“I did restock for trauma two after that MVC came through.”

“No, you reorganized some blankets while having contractions.”

“I didn’t know!” You say, a little sad, “I know.”

Robby laughs even though he knows he probably shouldn’t. “I know, honey.” Another contraction hits, this time harder; this time it takes the air from your lungs. And your grip on the ‘oh-shit’ bar goes knuckle white. Your breathing takes a hit, and you squeeze your eyes shut tight.

Robby watches you for just two seconds before he reaches over and rubs gentle circles into your shoulder. “That’s it, honey.” he speaks calmly, “Breathe.” You follow his orders.

When the contraction finally eases up, you look at your husband with complete and utter disbelief in your eyes. “I just worked a twelve-hour shift.” He nods, “You sure did, honey.”

‘While in active labor.” Robby hums, “I’m never living this down, am I?” You ask him, and he smiles. “Oh, probably not.” You groan dramatically. “Whitaker is gonna tell everyone.”

Robby shakes his head at you. “He already knew.” Robby tells you, “What?” “He figured it out before I got a chance to.” You stare at your husband, “He didn’t tell me!”

“Whitaker said to me that if I didn’t notice by the end of the shift that he was, in fact, just going to call labor and delivery himself.” You laugh, “Oh my fuckin’ god.” Robby chuckles from his driver’s seat.

“I think half the ER knew.”

“You promise only half?”

“Maybe… all of them.”

You bring one of your hands up to cover your face in embarrassment. “I’m so embarrassed.” “Don’t be.” “I just spent the afternoon filing paperwork like it was nothing, all while I was having contractions.” You whine.

“You were insistent that you were ‘just uncomfortable’,” Robby says again, acting like a court reporter. “I was!” You grumble. He laughs this time, ‘You are the most absolutely stubborn woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

Another contraction is building, this one stronger, and you grab his hand. “Okay.” He squeezes back, “Okay?” “Maybe…” You grimace. You take a deep, hard inhale. “Okay… maybe you’re right. I think she’s actually coming.”

Robby’s smile softens around the corners in an instant. “I know.” He kisses your knuckles while pulling back into the ambulance entrance. “I’ve got you,” he promises as you look over at him with tears gathering in your eyes. “I’m scared.” You admit to your husband.

“I know.”

“You’ll stay with me?”

Robby, for a moment, looks genuinely offended by the thought. “The doctors and nurses in labour will have to physically remove me.” That earns a laugh from you, the ER doors slide open, and several of your coworkers look up.

Dennis takes the look on your face and then looks at your husband. Before sigh dramatically, “I told you, boss.” Robby just gives him a pointed look, and then helps you out of the car. “Don’t speak a word of this to anyone.” Dennis smirks, “I’ll save it for after the little one is born.”

You groan between the two men. “This can’t ever leave the group chat.” You say through another wave of pressure, “No.” Dennis agrees automatically. “It won’t, I promise.”

Later that following day, your daughter is born. With a large set of lungs that scream, a full head of hair, and eyes that match her father’s. Yona Elizabeth Robinavitch is born at 8 pounds and 9 oz.

The swell of your estate held the powers of the world. 

Your larger-than-needed study had been transformed from your desk and small seating area to a resemblance of a half-circle, chairs all facing the small, elevated space near the back. One chair sat on the upper lip, and you were all but draped in between its two armrests. Your spine pressed straight against the chair, your leg crossed over the other, and your hands gently folded at your lap. You gazed around the room as your fellow high families mingled together, loudly discussing business as though this were an ordinary meeting.

In the past two months, the council had met only once, the result of Grace Le Domas winning her game and wiping out her entire family. Due to that, she’d invoked a difference clause than the one you were currently waiting to announce. By dawn after that particular meeting, she and her sister had been killed, and the Danforths had been reinstated as head of the high families, gaining the seat back mere hours after it had been taken away. You had not been in attendance, but you’d seen the way Titus Danforth forced Grace out of hiding only to kill her first and then her sister. His acts of dominance throughout the hunt had impressed you, another reason why you’d specifically asked for his attendance. 

When he’d walked through the door, your insides sang at the waft of his papery-money and patchouli scent that screamed alpha in a way that had your stomach flipping and core pooling. With his salt-and-pepper curls and thick stature, his presence alone seemed to command the room, even if you were technically the one with power. You watched as he tried not to smirk every time someone glanced at the Le Bail sigil ring on his finger. 

While the rest of the families, the ones lucky enough to be promoted after the demise of the Wilkinsons, the Rajans, the Wans, and the El Caidos, vied for information as to why you’d gathered them in the first place, Titus seemed to not care. He drank from a whiskey glass and failed to join any boisterous conversations. Although, he did make it a point to catch your gaze every few minutes, his hazel eyes meeting yours in a stare that only ended when you looked away each time. 

You slunked into your chair, and your fingers tapped rhythmically against the other. To get your meeting started, you only needed one more person to make it official, and you knew he was ever one for dramatics. 

A sudden three knocks on the study door had your eyes chasing the sound towards the back of the room in time to see the Lawyer walk through, only followed by a shorter woman who carried the large, ancient black book that was always present during any meeting. As he walked, he caught the eyes and flared nostrils of those in attendance. Unlike everyone who presented with a second gender, gaining a special scent unique to their person, the Lawyer held no scent nor seemed to have the specifics of a second gender. 

His burning blue eyes met yours, and the corners of his lip stretched into a smile. He did not acknowledge anyone else in the room as he walked past, a rude gesture to some, but the Lawyer was notorious for carrying out the will of Le Bail without stopping. And today, you were a part of that will. He stopped within a foot of where you sat and outstretched a hand for you to take. 

His fingers curled around yours warmly as he spoke. “Mr. Le Bail remains to be very happy with you.” 

“All thanks to his good fortune and blessing upon me,” you said, the words familiar on your tongue, your honeycomb and orange scent blooming at the praise. 

You’d been in Mr. Le Bail’s circle of high standing for years. His blessing had been bestowed after your first hunt, the one that ended with you, an omega, standing in the middle of a blood bath of alphas and betas. You’d won your hunt against the odds towering over you. And you hadn’t cowered, hadn’t rolled over and offered your body as a means of survival. You’d taken lives, and Mr. Le Bail acknowledged your commitment to his cause. 

You became untouchable. 

Suddenly, hunts weren’t an obligation to join; they were a choice, and for the most part, you chose to stay out of them. Besides, you made sure to stick to the quota of sacrifices written in your personal contract, something not available to the rest of the families. You’d been leading as head of the Du Pont family for five years after your father, mother, and older brother died, their bodies bursting into a red, gooey mess. Their sentence had been given after you’d turned them in for a break of contact. Your lack of hesitation and allegiance to your benefactor over your family made Mr. Le Bail very pleased. 

To show his gratitude, he’d given you a personal clause for when or if you ever wanted to replace your family members. 

For a few years, you waited, wanting to build something for yourself, because at the end of the day, alphas, especially males, always found ways to disappoint you. Each one you thought might be a contender turned out to be someone you’d rather ask Mr. Le Bail to wipe off the face of the earth than ever think of giving him a bond. However, the first time you had the pleasure of setting your eyes on Titus Danforth, you had the feeling that he could be yours one day. His attitude and petulance made room for him to grow, and you knew that he’d be a fine alpha once he got out from under his father’s thumb. After winning back the high seat, his twin alpha-sister, Ursula, had taken more of the business side while Titus continued to have an affinity for hunts and smaller jobs that dealt with the darker parts of his family’s contract. When you’d been introduced during a smaller gathering, you swore Mr. Le Bail gave deep approval of him with just a touch of your hands. 

Suddenly, your want to build your family and empire had Titus Danforth at its center. You wanted him in your nest; you wanted to wear his mark on your neck; you wanted to carry and give him his heirs. Upon those deep-rooted desires, you contacted the Lawyer, asking that he trigger a meeting of the high counsel as more of a complementary act. 

The Lawyer let go of your hand and turned around to face the room. “Thank you all for being here on such short notice,” his voice carried loud enough that everyone quieted down to listen. “Since we have some . . . newer families, and this is the first gathering since you all have been promoted within the circle, I will introduce myself and then the others. I am the sole attorney for Mr. Le Bail and the Le Bail organization, which is led by a council made up of the heads of six families: the Danforths, the Bellinis, the De la Vegases, the Kassels, the Frasers, and Miss Du Pont.” 

Everyone’s eyes turned towards you, and you simply smiled. 

“The reason you all are here is because Miss Du Pont has decided to invoke a clause of her own.” 

“Is she allowed to do that?” the head of the Bellini family questioned with a sneer. “I thought that contracts were only triggered by death or Mr. Le Bail himself.” His eyes trailed down your body with disgust. “Especially since she’s an omega.” 

The Lawyer stared at him boredly and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You’d be better off knowing to hold your tongue, or, if you must, use the proper respect when addressing Miss Du Pont.” 

Near Mr. Bellini, Titus scoffed loudly before taking a sip at his glass. “Are you a fucking idiot?” 

“Excuse me?” Mr. Bellini questioned, head whipping toward the other alpha. 

Titus gestured up towards you. “Do you even know what Du Pont stands for?” He hummed contemplatively. “Probably not since you’ve already painted yourself as an imbecile, so let me spell it out for you. It’s French for of the bridge, and that omega you’re staring at happens to be part of the bridge right to Mr. Le Bail. So I’d think twice about speaking your mind around her when she’s more than capable of cutting out your tongue and feeding it to you.” 

You rolled your shoulders to ease the building tension that formed while Titus basically defended you and sang your praises. From the corner of your eye, you could see that the Lawyer was also less miffed about being interrupted than he would have been if it hadn’t been Titus who’d done it. You understood that since Titus took the high seat, he’d been in talks with the Lawyer about certain things, and maybe the two of them had grown to share a mutual respect for the other. 

The Lawyer huffed loudly, drawing attention back to him. “As I was saying, Miss Du Point asked me to call this meeting of the High Council out of courtesy to announce that she has, as is her right by Mr. Le Bail, invoked her mating clause.” 

At his word, the alphas sucked in a large breath as they now looked at you with eyes filled with hunger and want. You, on the other hand, were only concerned with one hazel set. To your liking, they were set right on you, swimming with hunger but twinged with something deeper. Your hips shifted to release any heated pressure you could find. 

“As per her clause given directly from Mr. Le Bail in an attest to his blessing upon her, Miss Du Pont has chosen seven eligible alphas between the ages of twenty-five and fifty from the higher and middle families of the inner circles.” The Lawyer snapped, and his helper brought over the book. He flipped through the pages and stopped near the back. “I will read the rules out loud before announcing the names.” 

He held the book out to read, and it seemed as though everyone was at the edge of their seats. 

“While the mating clause is active, a hunt from sundown to sunrise will be held on the Du Point estate. During this particular hunt, the alphas of Miss Du Point’s choosing will compete against each other to show their worth and status. They will be given permission to hurt, maim, or even kill the other alphas if the situation sees fit. Alphas are not permitted to use any alpha commands while hunting.” 

“And who will we be hunting?” you heard one of the sons from the De la Vegas family ask. 

The Lawyer went to reply, but you beat him to it, only offering a one-worded answer. 

“Me.” 

A pin drop would have boomed in the silence that followed. In his seat, Titus straightened slightly, and his eyes never wavered from your figure. 

“Yes,” the Lawyer confirmed, “the alphas will be hunting Miss Du Pont. But I shall add that if any harm comes to her, Mr. Le Bail will be most . . . unhappy.” He scanned the room to get his point across. “Moving on, the alpha who finds Miss Du Pont by sunrise will be chosen as the winner. However, if she is not found, she also reserves the right to pick an alpha of her choosing.” 

He glanced over at you, needing to get your approval to continue. You nodded slightly. 

“To aid in the hunt and encourage a match between Miss Du Pont and an alpha, she will take a heat-inducer before the hunt starts. And the seven chosen alphas will be given a rut-inducer as well.” 

A few rumbles began to fill the air as scents deepened with lust; Titus, however, continued to stay silent. 

“Now that the rules of the hunt have been read, I will now announce the alphas chosen to participate.” He handed the book back to his helper and took your list from her other hand. “From the lower families, who have already been sent an invitation, we have Arthur Howard, Enrico De Borja, Sima Yoa, Charles Orsini, Rhodes Ashford, and Byron Coventry.” 

“That’s six?” Mr. Bellini pointed out. 

“Glad you’re capable of fucking counting,” Titus shot back, but his grin was unmistakable behind his glass. 

The Lawyer also fought back a grin, but he hid it better than Titus. 

“And for the one alpha chosen from the high family . . .”

You watched as most of the sons and even some of the fathers sat up a bit straighter. It was almost laughable the way they believed themselves to be eligible for your hunt, especially since all of the fathers already had a mate and family. No one seemed to catch onto that there was only one alpha in their midst who held the power of the world in a single ring on his thick finger. 

“Titus Danforth.” 

Like the cocky son of a bitch he was, Titus held up his glass towards you in a grateful manner, but the way his scent overpowered the rest told you that he was more intrigued and interested than his appearance allowed. Around him, though, the rest of the families stood in an uproar; one even had the notion to start stalking towards your seat, but he stopped right at the edge the moment you felt a burst of flame from behind you, the light of his outline illuminating your skin. 

The Lawyer pocketed the list and clapped his hands, bringing the room back to order. “This is the will of Mr. Le Bail. If you have any qualms, you are always welcome to bring them directly to him.” 

A few of the alphas looked downright terrified. Titus continued to look smug. 

“This meeting is adjourned,” the Lawyer announced, holding out a hand for you to take again. 

You quietly slipped your hand in his and rose from your seat. Once the alphas looked calm enough to pass by, the Lawyer led you through their throngs. You avoided eye contact with each of them, and their gazes filled with growing resentment and lust did little to throw you off. Yet, when you dared to look in Titus’ direction, his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel his eyes on you even when you left the room. You let go of the Lawyer’s hand once the door shut behind you, leaving enough time for you to be gone once the families began to vacate the premises. 

"Would you excuse me for one moment?” you asked. 

“Of course. I’ll be in the lobby, and we can go over the final details over dinner,” he responded, already heading in the direction of the front door. He’d been over enough times to know his way around. 

You turned to the left and made your way to the small, hallway bathroom. Once the door locked with a click, you leaned your head against the grain, allowing yourself to breathe in normal air without the conflicting scents in the room. While your chest slightly heaved, you slowly dipped your fingers below the waist of your pants. Instantly, you were met with a wetness you knew you’d had since Titus entered the study. 

Before your father was sent to hell, you would have been disgusted to have such a reaction to an alpha, let alone just his scent. That was something your father had instilled in you, a reflection of his resentment in having an omega offspring. Your first heat had been spent alone and in pain, and your father only said that it would build character to show that you could never be weak. 

But oh, did Titus Danforth make you pathetic. 

Your bottom lip crushed between your teeth as you gently circled your enlarged clit, the swipes gliding easily with your slick. You didn’t know if the alphas had left, but the need to relieve pressure had you not caring. A small moan-turned-whine ripped through your vocal cords, and your unoccupied hand slapped across your mouth to muffle the sounds. Your thighs tightened around your hand, and you bent over when you dipped a finger into your core. The added digit had your stomach tightening and your fingers speeding up. You tried your best to stay quiet, but as you reached your climax, a true whine slipped through the slots of your fingers, inner muscles contracting steadily around your finger.  

You were left panting against the door, knowing you’d taken far too long for a normal bathroom break. Quickly, you tried to compose yourself, patting down your shirt and wiping some of the dripping slick on a random towel you tossed to the floor. The only evidence were your pruned fingers and slightly sickeningly sweet scent. 

With a shaky breath, you unlocked the door and stepped back out into the hall. However, you didn’t even make it two steps before you ran into something solid enough that you jolted off balance. Twin hands clamped down on your upper arms and held you steady, and one small sniff told you exactly which alpha had caught you after a moment of self-pleasure. 

“Titus,” you breathed as you looked up into his hazel hues. 

If he hadn’t smelled you through the door, you were sure he had now by the way his nostrils flared with each breath he took. 

Instead of answering, Titus continued to stare down at you until his gaze caught onto your raised hands that hand planted firmly on his chest after he caught you. His right hand released your arm in favor of grabbing the hand that, moments ago, had been stuck down your pants. He brought it up to his face before leaning in, nose trailing up each finger, chest puffing out in deep inhales of your scent. 

If he were any other alpha, you would have wrenched out of his grasp and slapped him across the face. But this was Titus, the alpha you’d been dreaming of only to wake up in a puddle and heat at your core, the alpha you wanted to build something with. 

Titus surprised you even further when his tongue darted out and kitten-licked at your fingerprints, the hot muscle contracting around your skin in languid motions. He never broke eye contact through his ministrations of cleaning you up. Once you were sure all remnants of slick had been lapped up by his tongue, he pulled away. By now, his scent was overpowering, but all it did was send another rush of need and want for him through your body. 

You thought he might kiss you with the way his face suddenly leaned in towards yours, but he stopped inches away from your lips, hot breath fanning over the tip of your nose. His hazel eyes were blown, and you were sure yours reflected his as well. If Mr. Le Bail hadn’t graciously given you the contract, you would have offered for him to take you there and then against the walls of your home.

But you had to follow the rules, play the game. And Titus knew too.

His mouth parted slightly. “I just want you to know,” he whispered, tone promise-filled, “it’s going to be me, omega, . . . who gets you.” 

Your jaw tipped up to the point your lips could have almost touched, and you smiled. “I look forward to it, alpha.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Titus felt insatiable. 

It had only been a week since he’d had a taste of you, and the memory of your slick burned at the back of his throat every time he recounted the scene with a hand wrapped around his cock under the cover of night. 

He never knew how addicting an omega could be. All the women he’s ever been with were betas; he didn’t possess the patience to deal with the neediness of the fairer secondary sex or even with alphas for that matter—his own need for control made bedding the latter an exhausting affair. But now he was different, now he craved to have you again, drinking your scent and slick straight from the source. 

That specific brand-new craving washed over his body in waves as he stood with the rest of the lower families. The simmering heat of an upcoming rut due to the pill he’d swallowed almost thirty minutes ago, per the hunt’s rules, made his desires for you almost uncontainable, especially with how it warred with his disgust for the rest of the half-paked alpha pups that littered your study. But he knew he’d be able to act on both feelings as soon as they were all set free into your land. Then, he’d be able to make his disdain for these boys known in a much more visceral way.   

But he couldn’t help but think you’d done this on purpose, choosing to put him, an experienced alpha well in his prime, right in the middle of six alphas who probably didn’t know where to stick their knots. Easily, he’d be able to take each and every one of them down if the situation called for it, and he prayed that it would. His teeth itched with the want to sink them into deep jugulars and feel the slick of blood along his gums. His eyes grazed across the small crowd, and an unpleasant feeling crept up his throat when he couldn’t find you. Obviously, he knew you were probably preparing and wouldn’t even put yourself in the middle of this flock while pre-heat settled into your body. 

Smart girl.

He took another sip from his drink, the alcohol giving him a pleasant buzz to wash out the growing scent of pre-rut stink from the others. One in particular, however, had him almost gagging from it: Byron Coventry and his scent of wet leaves and sour apple. He was one of the most pathetic excuses an alpha Titus had ever come across. He wanted to break his little neck every time Byron opened his mouth, vulgar fantasies about you spewing from his teeth. But Titus kept himself in check; he was better than the rest, and he had nothing to prove. He knew he was the perfect mate for you, would even bet that Mr. Le Bail was also in contempt.  

He blessed whoever was listening when he spotted the Lawyer slowly making his way to the front of the study, the same place he’d been a week ago as he announced your clause to the rest of the high families. 

“Attention please,” he announced, effectively quieting the room once again. “The sun will dip below the horizon in approximately ten minutes. Miss Du Pont has been given those moments as a head start. Please take this time to prepare yourselves and whatever you have brought.” He steeled his blue eyes. “And just remember, if Miss Du Pont is harmed in any way . . . well . . . let’s just say you won’t see tomorrow. I know you all are very familiar with how Mr. Le Bail punishes those who break his rules.” 

The small crowd of seven scattered soon after, Titus going directly for his war hammer he stowed in the corner upon his arrival. Its heavy metal was a comforting weight in his palm. With it, he had never lost a hunt. He twirled it once before resting it over his shoulder. 

“What are you going to do with that old man? Knock her unconscious?” Bryon called out while shoving his guns into their holsters at his waist. “I’ll tell you that omegas are much sweeter when they’re awake to squirm a bit, especially when they get to fight back. Makes it all worth it when you get to just take them.” 

Titus rolled his eyes and scoffed. “This is going to go right through your skull.” His voice carried an assuredness that sent a visible shock and shiver through Byron. He stepped away and placed his glass back down onto the bar. 

The next seven minutes were tortuous, By now, every breath Titus took singed his nose as the overwhelming reek of rut permeated the air. Every so often, small growls would slip through clenched teeth, and Titus wondered if someone would explode into a violent frenzy before the hunt could even begin until the Lawyer reappeared at the entrance to the study this time. “The alphas will be let out one at a time, starting with the youngest and so on.” 

“The old man is going to fall behind,” Byron jeered with a snort. 

The Lawyer squared his shoulders. “Mr. Coventry, I can assure you that Mr. Danforth is more than capable. Do note that he also has never lost a hunt in the thirty plus years that he’s been a part of Mr. Le Bail’s circle. Not only that, but he also holds the highest seat of the council.” 

Titus stood a bit straighter, and the rest went silent as they lined up. Titus stood directly behind Byron, even though there was a twenty-year gap between them. He lowered his head toward the younger alpha’s ear. 

“If you even think of taking her by force, I will hunt you down well after all of this is over and personally escort you to the gates of hell myself.” 

He straightened as though nothing had happened, but the tell-tale whiff of fear further curdling Byron’s repulsive, aroused rotten scenet had Titus smirking. 

Just as Titus was the last to be left in the study, the Lawyer held out an outstretched hand, stopping him mid-step, to which Titus cocked a questioning eyebrow. Without saying anything, the Lawyer withdrew something tightly wound from his pocket and gave it to Titus. 

“A small gift, if you will,” the Lawyer stated with a wink. “Miss Du Pont sends her regards.” He stepped aside from the door and let Titus through. 

The handful of fabric Titus kept in his palm taunted him to unravel it as he walked. Before he could venture too far into the open grassy field that led to the forest licking the edge of your estate (much like his own), he paused, set down his war hammer, and brushed his thumbs over the fabric to straighten it out. His mouth went dry when he realized what he was holding. Another brush of his thumb came back wet, and Titus brought the digit to his mouth and sucked, the sweetness of your slick latching onto his tastebuds. 

He’d already been half-hard before under the effects of the inducer, but the smallest taste of you had his cock fully swelling and throbbing in his pants. 

You’d given him your underwear, and the thought of you running around with your cunt bare under whatever you were wearing had him pushing the fabric into his back pants pocket and stalking through the field with a fire under his steps. Tall grass flattened underneath his black hunting boots. Once the softer ground turned into hard dirt covered in leaves and twigs, he slowed his steps, taking deep breaths as he walked further. At the entrance, an onslaught of honeycomb and orange made him dizzy but also impressed. In attempts to throw the alphas off, you’d wiped slick across the bark of random trees in different directions. 

His chest finally rumbled at the thought of such a skilled omega, one that would be on par with his alpha. 

Not knowing where to start, he continued to step into the trees, their crowns shadowing him from the moonlight. He could smell a few alphas on his path, but they either dimmed or stopped abruptly. A few sticks snapped, and his head would whip in that direction, nose flaring to pick up any scents, but he knew you were too smart to be wandering around. By now, you probably had already found a place to hide, somewhere only you knew since this was your land. Instead of having the upper hand, the ball was in your court. 

Titus set out to find running water, a stream perhaps. Fresh water meant you could cross and mask your scent in the ever-changing bank, the mud helping to mask footprints. His ears picked up the sound of a trickle to the right, and he turned in the opposite direction. You would have also known that alphas would first go for the water, the oldest trick in the hunting book. If you were any normal prey, he would have had you in minutes. But you were practically his equal, the two of you holding some type of the highest blessings from Mr. Le Bail. 

By three hours in, Titus hadn’t found so much a trace of you, and he was starting to believe that you would be the one to last the entire twelve hours until sunrise. However, a small chirp from a couple yards in front of him had him pausing, war hammer poised in his hands. Another twig snapped, and he caught his first voice of the night. 

Only, instead of belonging to you, it belonged to someone entirely different, someone Titus had been keeping in mind to silence his bloodlust. 

“Come out, come out, omega,” Byron sang too loudly into the quiet atmosphere. “I know you’re close. That cute little noise you gave out—” He chuckled deeply. “Means your body is just begging for me.” 

Titus ground his teeth, and his jaw clenched tightly. His fingers gripped around the war hammer’s shaft to the point of white knuckles. He kept his steps soft, eyeing where sticks lay in his path, careful to step over them. 

“You smell so fucking sweet; I bet you’re just waiting to roll over and present. You’re going to feel so good around my dick. My knot’s been begging for sweet pussy for so long, and to think, the next one is going to belong to Mr. Le Bail’s pet.” 

Much to Titus’ horror, another soft chirp sounded at the same audible tone as Byron’s voice, meaning you and he were too close for Titus to be comfortable with. In any other circumstance, Titus would leave you to it; he’d seen the way you took down each and every alpha and beta in your hunt while barely looking like you’d broken a sweat. But this was entirely different. You were under the effects of a deepening preheat, something you’d gone into willing to find out which alpha would fight to keep you safe. And Titus would rather cut off his hands than let an alpha like Byron Coventry lay his eyes on you like this, let alone a singular finger. 

Thankfully, the man seemed to enjoy hearing himself rather than looking out for his safety, giving Titus the perfect cover to get in closer. Your thick scent grew sweeter the more he walked, and he wondered how long Byron would be able to control himself with the heavy pheromones of a fertile omega swimming in the air. Even Titus could feel his own self control waning. 

Byron gave off a low growl, and he continued stalking through the forest like a child having a tantrum. “Fucking show yourself. If you’re waiting for that old man, I’ll tell you now that you’ll be so disappointed with an alpha like him. I bet he couldn’t even get it up, much less pop a knot.” His torso twisted desperately. “I bet Mr. Le Bail is disappointed with you. He took pity on a sad, family-less omega. It’s a shame really that you’ll lose his favor the moment you mate with someone. You can’t be his if you belong to someone else, and baby, you’ll belong to me.” 

Like a whistle, a whine cut through the air like a knife, and Titus knew he had to act now. He threw caution to the wind and leaped out into the small clearing where the moonlight reached through the leaves. He’d been successful in getting an ambush on Byron, the younger alpha’s knees crumpling as Titus’ greater weight tackled him to the ground. 

Titus was met with a hard hand against his jaw, but he was faster. He wrenched the hand off and pinned the wrist down into the dirt. While Byron desperately tried to claw for his guns, the ones currently in the holster Titus ripped away from his belt and threw it behind him. Without looking away from Byron’s now terrified face, Titus leaned over and grabbed his war hammer, the sharp, pointed end facing the side of the younger alpha’s head, right above his ear near his temple. By the time Titus pinned him fully, his scent had deepened from papery-money and patchouli to a full forest singeing with fire. He leaned over and straddled Byron’s chest, knees digging into his arms to keep him still while holding Byron’s face toward the side, cheek down into the forest floor.  

“I did warn you,” Titus whispered, “that I’d put this right through your skull.” 

He didn’t even wait for a reply before brutally shoving the sharp end straight through Byron’s head, the tip cracking bone and giving way through brain matter like a hot knife through butter. Titus didn’t relent until the point came out the other side. Blood instantly spurted, thick drops hitting Titus’ chin and cheeks and neck. He closed his eyes and listened fully to the way Byron squirmed in the last attempts of his body fighting back, his soul not knowing that his brain had just been decimated. His huffs of anguish and small jolts were a full symphony to Titus’ ears. He kept a firm grip until Byron’s life force oozed out completely just like his blood and brain had. Once he was sure the alpha would never rise again, Titus pushed up from the ground, spine straightening as he went quiet, only his panting remained the only sound in the air. He grabbed onto the war hammer shaft and yanked the pointed end out, Byron’s body following before slipping back down to the earth. 

Titus knew he was dead, but that didn’t stop him from swinging his weapon over his shoulder and bringing the mallet end back down. Byron’s face gave way under the force, the rest of his skull and skin splattering across the ground. Titus straightened as he stood to his full height, ears alert to catch the smallest noise from where you hid. 

“Come on, omega,” he whispered. “Tell me where you are.” 

He was gifted with another chirp directly in front of him. When he looked over, he met your wide but pleased gaze, the bottom of your face hidden by a tree that gave way into a divot in the earth. He wouldn’t be surprised if you had a nest of some sort, but his curiosity would need to be pushed aside for now. Even from where he stood, he could tell that you were beginning to fade into the beginning stages of your heat. 

Without waiting, Titus rushed over, and you gave him yet another chirp in return at his eagerness. His senses swam when he finally halted in front of you, dropping down to his knees to be at your eye level. 

You whimpered loudly when his scent finally hit your nose, finding key hints of a metallic twang you knew well to be blood. You’d heard the short-lived dual between him and Byron, and Titus would personally be rewarded for taking him out. And now that you had him on his knees in front of you, you weren’t going to let him go like you had to last week after he’d found you in the hall. 

“Titus,” you whimpered. 

He shuffled on his knees until he slightly hovered over you but still kept his distance. Unlike most, Titus had read the clause and understood that even if he had found you, you still held the ability to refuse his advances. It would hurt him, yes, and he’d have to lock himself away to ride out his rut, but if you did, he’d stay to make sure no other alpha found you before dawn. 

He waited for you to say something, but all you did was chuff and hook your ankles into his strong forearms, thighs contracting as you began to pull him inward. 

“If you don’t do something,” you hissed, “I will get myself off and make you watch.” 

Titus responded with a warning growl that had your head tilting back to bare your neck once the sound met your ears. He took a hold of your ankles and secured them around his hips. 

“No need to get so nippy,” he scoffed. “I’ll give you what you want, but you need to say please. Manners are important after all.” 

You echoed his scoff, making sure to push it to a louder degree. “I bet you’ve never said fucking please once in your life.” 

He tsked while his hands busied at the dirtied hem of the dress you wore. “You’ll be surprised to know that I have, in fact, said please on multiple occasions.” He looked up into your eyes. “Let me hear you say it.” He paused with a deadly smirk. “Please.”

Saliva pooled around your tongue, and you quickly swallowed it down. “Please.” 

“Good girl,” he muttered before fully lifting your dress to display your bare lower half. He didn’t even attempt to hold back the groan building in his throat at the sight of your moonlit, glistening heat. 

Without the added layer, your scent was so thick Titus could taste it on his tongue. 

“You’ve been like this since your headstart.” He didn’t pose it as a question since your slick-soaked underwear were still stuffed in his back pocket. “Just sitting here, waiting for an alpha to come find you and—” 

“Waiting for you,” you interrupted, not once flushing in embarrassment at your confession. “There was never going to be a different alpha, Titus. It was always going to be you no matter what.”

Titus set the hem of your dress to drape across your lap, and in the next breath, he leaned forward until his mouth met yours in a searing kiss. There was no time for lazy motions since your heat was building with every moment, so Titus impatiently mouthed wetly at your lips. Your hands planted themselves on both of his cheeks while he bent so low you didn’t have any other choice but to slowly lean back against the earth. His size towered over you, and he could easily kill you right then and here; the thought had your hips bucking wildly into his, and you moaned loudly against his teeth. He ripped back at the feeling, saliva dripping from his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, “I need to taste you.” 

A high-pitched whine flew from your lips as he leaned back in to mouth and suck at your scent gland. He didn’t dare break the skin, knowing your bed lay waiting back at the estate to grow a bond, but he did allow himself to lick hotly across it. 

“T-Titus—fuck—please, I-I need—” 

He nipped carefully at the skin next to the gland. “I know what you need.” 

His right hand glided across your hip and over your thigh to dip near your core. The first brush of his fingertips against your outer folds had you keening. In return, Titus rumbled, the two of you communicating at the deepest instinct possible. He slowly dragged his fingers through your slick until they pressed into the hardened bud of nerves that sent lightning ripping up your spine. In a gentle yet firm circular motion, he fiddled with your clit, drawing out more moans from the depths of your lungs. 

“Titus!” you screamed out into the forest. 

“There she is,” he muttered, lips moving downwards, hips folding to allow him to get his face near your core. Before going any further, he took the largest inhale possible and moaned deeply. He had half a mind to run his chin and cheek through your slick, wanting to get your scent embedded into his pores. 

But that was something for a different time. 

Now, he needed to finally taste you right from the source. 

His tongue peaked out from his lips and dragged upward from your fluttering hole to your clit, the pressure making your back arch beautifully. He drank and drank and drank your slick like a dehydrated man in a never-ending desert. Each swipe had his mouth full of the scented and sweetened lubrication that your body pumped out in preparation for you to take a knot—his knot. 

Just the thought had him groaning, and the vibrations almost sent you over the edge. You needed to hold onto something, and your fingers quickly found his curls and yanked at his roots. The sting seemed to spur him on, so you pulled harder, keeping his face buried between your thighs. 

“Titus,” you panted heavily. “I need—fingers—oh, fuck, finger, please!” 

“So polite,” he spoke into you with a smirk and raised eyebrow. “I knew you could do it.” 

He gave you exactly what you wanted in the form of his thick pointer finger slipping into your innermost parts. If he were an inexperienced alpha, he probably would have cum from imagining your oh-so tight muscles contracting around his cock. 

The additional pressure and finger thicker and longer than your own had you catapulting towards your climax. 

“So fucking tight,” he grated, finger thrusting in and out in wet squelches. “How am I even going to fit my knot into here?” 

“Titus, I’m close; I’m—” you squealed. “Alpha!” 

Without warning, Titus thrust in and curled both his pointer and middle fingers against that soft spot deep inside and sucked hard on your clit simultaneously. You had no warning. You howled with a dropped jaw as you came, eyes rolling back deeply into your skull. Your back arched completely off the ground, but Titus pressed you back down with a large hand splayed across your lower belly. He kept up his thrusting but softened his licks into savored movements as you came down from the high. He only stopped when you pushed a hand against his forehead, a silent signal that you needed a minute. With a wet pop, he pulled his fingers out of you and brought them to his lips. He shoved both of them in his mouth while maintaining eye contact with you, your slick permanently etching into his tongue. 

Once done, he leaned back over you for another wet, opened-mouthed kiss. Shoving his tongue into your mouth, he fed you the lingering taste of your sweet, honey-like arousal. His other hand cupped your cheek, holding you in place against him. Your skin felt scorching and feverish against his fingertips, and it dawned on him that the orgasm he just gave you hadn’t been enough to hold off your heat. No, instead, it’d been the spark to light the inferno within your belly. 

And now he was here, cock straining against his pants and body being consumed by a rapidly approaching rut with an unmated omega seconds away from a full blown heat beneath him. He swiftly yanked the hem of your dress back down before gathering you into his arms. With cracking knees, he staggered off the ground into a standing position. 

You whined confusingly at the sudden change in position, completely out of it due to your overtaking heat, and he gently hushed you with a soft rumble of his chest. 

“I need to get you back,” he growled, taking a large step in the direction of your estate. His hands held you tightly against him. “Need to fuck you; need to knot you; need to have you baring my mark by sunrise.” 

His words added fuel to the already burning fire in your core, and you couldn’t help the anticipating whimper that followed. Because the moment Titus got you back to your room, to your nest, all cards were off the table and he was free to take you as he pleased, to take you as his mate. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You curled further into Titus as he practically kicked down the door to your master bedroom. 

Getting back to the estate had been thankfully uneventful. Either the Lawyer knew enough to send the rest of the alphas packing, or the utter stench of Titus’ possessiveness that infected your scent had them backing away without a second thought. 

Whatever it was though gave you and him a clear path with Titus stopping at nothing until he got you where he wanted. He had carried you the entire way, but after he closed the door behind him with his foot, he set you down. 

“Strip and get in your nest,” he uttered, making sure no trace of alpha command seeped his timber. 

You obeyed without thinking, instincts taking completely over the longer you drank in his scent. The dress ripped off in one try, leaving you completely bare. Goosebumps raised across your flushed skin. Your bedroom had been prepared, much cooler than normal, to combat your elevated temperature while you went through the highs and lows of your heat. The cooled air pebbled your nipples into stiff peaks as you walked over to your nest, knees hitting the soft blankets while you crawled into the middle. 

Behind you, Titus locked the door and double checked for any weaknesses, instincts roaring at him to keep you protected, keep you all to himself. Under no circumstance would he allow anyone—alpha, beta, or even omega—to interrupt the two of you. After making sure the lock would hold, he turned back around to the sight of you outstretched across the sheets looking straight out of his most dirty dreams, right hand already swirling around your clit, fingers barely dipping into your hole with legs spread wide while your left hand pinched and grabbed at your breasts. 

Titus began peeling off his muddy and bloodied clothes as he walked closer. He kept his boxers on even if he knew they’d be off in moments because he needed you to want this, to want him, and more importantly, to beg for it. Even if his alpha screamed at him to take, take, take, he wouldn’t dare enter your nest without permission. He stood next to the bed near your torso, watching and waiting for you to let him in. 

Through lidded eyes, you looked over and mewled, “Alpha, please. Need you in here with me.” 

That’s all he needed to scramble through the blankets of your nest. 

Titus immediately took his place over you, slotting his hips between your legs and beginning to grind against you. Your thighs parted wide for him automatically and wrapped around his waist.

While Titus focused on covering your neck in as many marks as he could at the moment, your fumbling hands reached for his length, eager to get what you’d been truly craving. A whine, high pitched and pathetic, left your lips when your way was blocked by his underwear. The material was already soaked through, covered in the tantalizing scent of your slick mixing with his precum. 

“C’mon, darling,” Titus’s low voice rumbled through you where his lips were pressed to your neck, right over your scent gland. You longed for his teeth to sink in, and your incisors itched to leave your own mark on his neck. You wanted to be his and you wanted him to be yours. “Tell me what you want.”

“Titus!” 

“Mmm,” he hummed, his cock throbbing at how you so deliciously said his name. He was still mouthing over your scent gland but being careful to keep his teeth to himself. “Use your words.”

Your mind was growing fuzzy, the burning heat that left you aching for him was starting to hurt. You were so empty. If he didn’t hurry this up, you’d have to take matters into your own hands, and you knew in your frenzied state, you’d be unable to satisfy either of you.

“You, need you,” you were pawing at the fabric that kept you from what you really wanted.

“And what do you need from me?” 

“For you,” the frustration and neediness you were feeling sharpened your senses for just a moment. Your hand squeezed around his length through his briefs.  “To claim me.”

Titus groaned at the pressure and the aggression sharpening your scent. He loved to see you deadly and dangerous, a beautiful juxtaposition to your omegan sweetness.

“I will claim you-”

“Now,” you squeezed harder, your voice dropping into a growl. “Don’t be a fucking pussy. I thought you were a big, strong alpha. Maybe I should have found someone else to get the job done.”

“Shut up,” Titus’s hand closed over your neck, fingers digging into the sides. 

Your lips opened, dying to egg him on, but no words came out. The sheer force of his command had rendered you speechless. Your eyes rolled back in pleasure. Yes. This was what you needed. You wanted your alpha – and he was yours, there was no doubt about it – to take what he needed from you. He was the most powerful man in the world, an alpha who made other men tremble in their boots, and you wanted to see him become a slave to his baser instincts, with no choice but to indulge in everything you had to offer him. You wanted him to take it, to make you his.

“Oh, so that’s what you wanted, huh?” Titus laughed as your clarity faded away, your eyes glazing over and your chest heaving with every gasping breath. “You want me to command you? To take control? To make every decision since your empty little brain is too dumb to do anything except beg for my knot?”

Though your paralyzed vocal chords wouldn’t let you make a sound beyond a pathetic whine, your lips moved, pleading inaudibly.

Yes, yes Titus, please.

His hips jerked forward, rutting into your hand. “You want me to fuck you until you cry while you just take it like the good omega you are?”

Titus’s order was wearing off, allowing a squeak that vaguely resembled a ‘yes’ to fill the minimal space between your bodies. His chest rumbled as he hummed in delight. The fingers wrapped around your neck loosened and lifted as Titus backed away from you. He settled on his knees between your spread thighs, knocking your hand away from where you were halfheartedly trying to stroke his cock. Under normal circumstances, Titus would have scoffed and berated you for such a pisspoor attempt at pleasing him, but with his rut looming on the horizon, the clumsy squeezing was working him up much more than he’d like to admit.

He carefully pried your hands away from him, holding them tight. Head tilting, he took a moment to look over your body. You were flushed and panting, staring up at him with desperate eyes and a hungry expression. Your nipples were hard and your breasts heaved with every breath. His eyes trailed down, taking in the softness of your abdomen, the flare of your hips, and the perfectly soft, bare skin between your legs, baring your cunt to his hungry eyes. He’d have to hide your razors in the future, but for now he was grateful to see every inch of you. You made the perfect picture of a needy omega in the throws of heat.

Letting go of your hands, he slid his own over your thighs. His mouth watered at the silky smoothness of your skin beneath his palms. He wanted to trace every inch of you with his tongue, but right now there were more pressing matters.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he patted the outside of your thigh.

“No,” your ability to speak was returning. “Titus, like this-”

“Get on your hands and knees,” he let the power seep into his words as he shuffled back on his knees. “And I will give you everything you desire.”

You were unable to resist the order, and your body was turning over before you could protest. Even though you’d chosen the blankets specifically for their softness and comfort, the fabric grated against your skin, shooting unpleasant sparks through each of your nerves. Nothing felt as good as his skin on yours.

“Please,” you whimpered. You settled into position, shaking arms struggling to hold up your body. The emptiness in your cunt was terribly painful now at this point.

“Present.”

You let out a loud and obscene moan as Titus forced you into position without lifting a finger. The arch in your back deepened, hips tilting and thighs spreading wide to give Titus the perfect view of where you needed him the most. Your arms gave out, your face pressing into the blankets against your will, but god did it feel good. Despite the contortion and the strain it should have caused your muscles, it felt so good, like this was how you should always be. Like any other placement of your limbs was unnatural and wrong.

He knew that the combination of your heat, his commands, and the eroticism of the situation the two of you found yourselves in were the driving forces behind your obedience, but it still stroked his ego. A beautiful omega, a powerful woman in your own right, bending over for him and begging for his touch. It was addictive. Titus knew he’d crave this everyday for the rest of his life and, after he claimed you, he’d be able to have it.

“So good for me, omega,” his hands cradled your ass. You whined at the touch, trying to push back into his touch, but he tutted at you. “Stay still, darling.”

“Titus,” you turned your head so your cheek pressed against the mattress. Titus’s command to present meant that you were unable to lift your head up, but you still tried your best to look over your shoulder at him. “Please, it hurts!”

“Shh, ok,” his knees nudged your thighs open wider as he took his position behind you. The throbbing tip of his cock parted your folds, stroking through them from top to bottom. You mewled, but the hand on your ass kept you from trying to push back. “You want me to claim you as mine?”

“Yes!” Your fingers tangled in the sheets.

“You want to wear my mark?” Titus’s hand moved, tracing your spine to curl around the back of your neck. His thumb swiped over the swollen gland there. “Right here?”

“Yes!” Every point of contact between your bodies burned.

“And you want me to put my heir right here?” His hand glided down over your back and around to your stomach until it stopped just over your mound, pressing into the skin.

“Yes, Alpha, please!”

His words were whipping you up into a frenzy, your muscles twitching as you held your position. You needed him more than you needed air.

“You want me to mount you and fuck you and fill you up until you can’t think about anything but my cock?”

“Yes, yes, Titus-”

“Then take it.”

Titus thrust forward, sinking in until his hips met your ass. The entire length of his cock buried inside your cunt, barely inflated knot included. 

Your eyes rolled back into your head, mouth falling open as your legs shook. Finally having that empty ache soothed was enough to push you over the edge. You came, your shaking legs spreading even wider to accommodate his body pressed behind yours. You were too far gone for words now, mewling and drooling as your eyelids fluttered. A pleasant buzzing filled your ears, almost drowning out Titus’s groans at your tightening and spasming walls.

“God, fuck,” he panted. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pressing against your cervix and forcing a sob of pleasure from your throat.

He had taken the edge off, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until the entire world could see his mark on your neck and his child growing in your stomach.

Titus had the presence of mind to give you a moment to adjust. He thought he was showing you some kindness before he lost all of his self control as his rut took over, but that was the last thing you needed. His hands had found their place on your hips, holding you steady, but he could feel you trying to push back against him.

“Greedy little thing,” Titus withdrew, slowly dragging his hard length along your walls until only his head remained tucked within your core. He slammed back in, your body jolting forward from the force of his thrust. “I tried to be nice, but you just want it so bad, huh?”

Titus’s body folded over yours. His chest slotted against your back, pressing you further into the sheets and pinning you down. The change in angle had you gasping. He was rutting deep into you as he growled and groaned. It felt blissful to have him piston in and out of you while his body covered yours. 

“S’this what you want?” One of his hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head back and to the side to bare your neck to him. He nosed over the skin, his warm breath ghosting over your scent gland sent shivers down your spine. 

You let out a garbled moan that might have been a yes. His teeth scraped over the gland and you tightened around him again, walls trying to suck him deeper.

Titus chuckled, his other hand moved up to slide two of his fingers between your lips. They closed around them immediately, your tongue sliding between them, stroking along them like you longed to do with his cock.

“Silly little baby,” Titus’s tone was mocking, but he was breathing nearly as hard as you were. “Just needed something in your mouth.”

His teeth clamped down on your shoulder, inches away from where you longed to feel his fangs pierce your skin. Even if it wasn’t a true claiming bite, the pain was still blissful, mingling with the extreme pleasure of his unceasing thrusting into your cunt to throw you over the edge once again.

“Yes,” he didn’t slow down, even as you cried out around his fingers and your nails ripped through the sheets as you scrambled for something to tether you to reality. You held on, the sound of the fabric tearing joining your desperate noises and the obscene, wet pops of his rapidly swelling knot being forced in and out of your entrance. Through your rhythmic clenching, it was almost painful to be stretched so wide, but you needed to feel it grow even bigger. “Cum on my cock. Just like that.”

Despite his hard and fast thrusts taking the edge off your heat, the emptiness within you was growing more and more demanding. You needed his knot so badly.

“Knot!” The plea clawed its way out of your throat, muffled and barely coherent around his fingers. “Knot, please Alpha!”

“Don’t you know better than to speak with your mouth full?” Titus growled into your ear. The low vibrations of his cruel words rumbled through his body into yours.

“Please, please, please,” you were crying, fat tears rolling down your cheeks to mix with the drool leaking out around his fingers, until he pulled them out. You were finally able to speak, but the only words you could force out were some jumbled variations of please and Alpha! 

“Yeah?” He was getting close. The knot at his base growing more and more every second as he worked himself up to the edge. “You need your alpha’s knot?”

“Yes!” You tried to reach back to grab at him, but Titus’s hands caught yours, holding them together in between your bodies. He was bigger and stronger than you and you were unable to free yourself. “Please! Please, please, please, please.”

“I’ll give you what you need,” he was breathing hard, thrusting even harder into you as his knot grew. “Be a good omega and cum on my knot. C’mon, you can do it.”

With one final thrust, he bottomed out. His knot swelled to its maximum size, locking him deep inside you. Titus’s teeth sank into your scent gland. His canines broke the skin, a swell of your sweet blood coating his tongue and gums, and both of you came together instantly. You could feel the bond snapping into place while his cock twitched and emptied deep into your cunt.

Titus’s groans were muffled into your flesh, but your moans flowed freely, intertwined with pleasured purrs that rumbled through your chest. Your body jerked and thrashed beneath his as the sheer amount of ecstasy blazing through your bloodstream rendered you nearly mindless. Through the bond, you could feel his pleasure, too, as it solidified, your minds and souls linking. It only worked to drive your own orgasm into overdrive. 

You sobbed his name, squeezing hard around his knot. Every throb of his cock spilled more and more of his release into you, until you felt too full. Titus’s cock was big on its own, but with his knot the size of your fist filling you up as well, all of the cum he was still pouring into was stretching your body beyond the limits you’d thought possible. 

He still hadn’t let go of your neck, but he’d released your hands, and they flopped to the mattress. Your strength was sapped, all of your energy going to the involuntary milking of your inner walls clenching tightly around his knot.

“A-alpha,” you whimpered. “Too–too full!”

“Oh, fuck,” Titus’s teeth finally withdrew from your gland when his hand traveled down to settle over your stomach. The skin of your normally flat stomach was slightly distended, a combination of his cock, his knot, and the obscene amount of cum he’d pumped into you. He groaned, and you whimpered in response when his cock jerked and another, new wave of his spend spurted out. “Fuck, omega, you’re so full of me. Such a good omega for taking it all. You’re going to give me a pup in no time.”

A wave of tremors washed over you. Your knees slipped against the blankets that were slick with sweat.

“Let’s get comfortable,” Titus gently maneuvered your locked together bodies until the two of you were laying back to chest. He curled around you, making sure to avoid tugging on his knot. “We’ll be here for a while longer, darling.”

Lying down took the pressure off your muscles, allowing you to fully relax and enjoy the comfort of your new mate’s embrace. Despite the discomfort you still felt—especially as his release still trickled into you—you couldn’t help the contented purrs that continued to rumble through your chest.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” the sound reverberated through your body into his, echoing through your bones and lighting up the most base instincts in Titus. He longed to make you purr like this for him every day for the rest of his life. “My pretty little mate.” 

He leaned back enough to eye his mark. It was red and angry and the perfect shape of his teeth, but it was his—you were his. After a lifetime of waiting for a mate, and after a week of waiting to claim you, there was no doubt that he’d be yours for life. His tongue darted out and lapped hotly across your raised skin, drawing a pleased hiss from behind your teeth. 

“Mine,” you happily sighed. “My alpha.” 

The two of you lied there, basking in the warmth of your shared bodies, hands wrapped around each other and clinging to wherever you could reach. However, it didn’t take long for the quelled, white-hot neediness to grow and simmer back under your skin. Even before Titus’s knot had gone down, your hips began rocking against him, shooting a fresh wave of pleasure through you both, the feeling much more intense than it had at the beginning. The bond was to thank for that. 

“Easy,” Titus grumbled. “Knot’s not gone yet.” 

“Don’t care,” you gasped when it notched firmly at your hole, allowing a small glop of his and your mixed essence to spill, aiding in the short back and forth thrusts you were trying to pull out of him. “Need you again; need it to take.” 

Titus laughed lowly, already in the process of rolling you back over to hover over your spine. “Oh, it’ll take, omega. By dawn, you will be carrying our heir.” His hips jerked, and he pushed his cock back in, his knot disappearing from view into your cunt. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

“If you stare any harder, your eyes are gonna leave an imprint on the back of her head, Park.”

Brendon’s head jerks to the side, startled by the voice. He rolls his eyes with a shake of his head.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about Robinavitch.”

Robby chuckles as he stands beside Brendon “Yeah, and the sky’s purple. All I’m saying is you should ask her out. You and I both know she’s the nicest person here and a great catch. If you’re not careful, others will see it too and snatch her right up.”

Brendon crosses his arms and huffs silently as Robby walks away.

You were the beloved nurse of the hospital, more specifically in the emergency department. Everyone loved you and never had anything bad to say, including the patients.

You were also too good for him. Where you were all sunshine and smiles, he was rainclouds and storms. He also couldn’t tell if you were even interested.

You did eat lunch with him almost every day. You were the one to catch him up on the latest gossip. You were the first to offer him help if he needed it. You also were the one who could break him out of a bad mood.

Yet, he didn’t know if you felt things for him that were more than friends. You weren’t dating or seeing anyone but you also never mentioned wanting a boyfriend either. 

Several people would comment that he needed to ask you out or stake his claim if he didn’t want to lose you but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He also had heard enough of the pestering and the teasing. It only reminded him that he couldn’t have you.

So, in that moment Brendon knew what he’d have to do soon. And it would stand to be the dumbest thing he could do to deal with his feelings.

—---

You’re across the other side of the pitt updating electronic files when hands land on your shoulders.

“The shark is staring at you again, girl.”

A small smile makes its way onto your face as you shake your head lightly.

“Trin, I told you to stop calling him that. Also, he’s not staring.”

Trinity places her phone in your face and you see a picture of Brendon leaning on the nurses station counter and staring right at you, who is in the background.

“Trinity! Why are you taking pictures of him!” you laugh as you turn to face her.

“Because you love to be in denial about how he’s so into you. I’m telling you, he wants you. And we all know you want him too.” she raises a knowing eyebrow.

Your face heats up at the statement.

“See!” she exclaims “Guilty, guilty, guilty!”

You shake your head in amusement as you go back to your filing.

“Oh, there he comes! Bye girl!”

You turn to look at Trinity but are met with the large broad chest of Brendon.

“Hey trouble.” he says a little gruffly but you know that’s the norm for him.

You face him fully with a shy smile “Hey Bren, what can I do for you?”

He holds his hand out expectantly without a word. You cross your arms and tilt your head slightly.

“I’m fine, Bren. I’ve been in range.”

He doesn’t move a muscle, hand still out.

With a huff you hold out your arm to him. He grabs it gently and scrolls through your apple watch.

‘89 bpm avg. over last 4 hours’

He stares at it as he reads. “That’s higher than when your shift started.”

“I know but it’s been steady since.”

See, you had a heart rhythm disorder, Cardiac arrhythmia, specifically tachycardia. This meant that your heart rate often went over 100 bpm. The higher it went, the worse it was for you. The episodes of arrhythmia would make you feel like you couldn’t breathe because your heart was beating way too fast. Other symptoms included dizziness, lightheaded feelings and extreme fatigue after episodes.

This was something discovered as a kid and it happened more often as you were older. Episodes varied depending on different factors or they happened randomly.

This was something you disclosed to your pitt family for your safety and in case something happened when you were treating a patient.

When Brendon found out, he took it upon himself to be your monitor. He would check your bpm periodically during the day and advise you when to rest or take it easy if he felt your vitals reflected that.

As annoying as it could be at times, you knew he cared and you couldn’t truly be mad at him for it. It was one of the several reasons you started falling for him.

He meets your eyes, arm still in his hands. “If it goes any higher, sit down and text me. Okay?”

You move forward and give him a lingering hug. 

“I will, Bren. Promise. Text me when you’re headed to lunch and I’ll meet you.”

He kisses the top of your head “Will do. See you later, trouble.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It's the next day during shift that things take a turn.

Today you and Brendon have opposite shifts. You had traded shifts with a fellow nurse which meant you were team night shift for today. 

Walking in ten minutes early, you're greeted by the night shift brigade. “There’s our new night owl!” Jack smiles wide from the desk area.

You point at him with a matching smile “Only for the night, Abbot. Sunlight is more my style.”

He scoffs in amusement.

“You know you’d love it if you switched over to the nightcrawlers, kid.”

The laughing is interrupted by a deep voice speaking up.

“Over my dead body.”

You turn to the side and see Brendon approaching slowly with his arms crossed.

“Bren, I'm not going anywhere.” you pat his chest lightly “Who else would I eat my lunch with while catching up on Pittsburgh gossip?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you close. Jack catches the gestures between you both and smirks “Don’t worry shark, you can keep your little early bird.”

You don't notice Jack’s observant gaze because you’re too busy getting ready to talk to Brendon briefly before shift change. Your bpm had been higher today than yesterday and you wanted to keep him updated even though you guys weren't going to be on the same shift today.

“Hey Bren, I ju-” you start to lift your arm but stop when Dana speaks up from beside Jack.

“Shark, When were you gonna tell us you had a date? Garcia mentioned it earlier. When’s that happening?”

You could’ve sworn your world stopped after her words.

Date? He had a date?

You lower your arm back as you look up at him, waiting for his answer. Waiting for him to tell her she’s wrong and that there’s no date.

His face shows he’s not too thrilled that the topic has been brought up but he answers anyway.

“I uh, yeah. It’s tonight actually. She seems nice so we’ll see.”

His eyes catch yours and you quickly force a smile before looking elsewhere.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

You can’t see Trinity and Robby stopped near the group having overheard the news. You can’t see the sad looks they give you. Both of them knew you had a massive crush on Brendon and were hopeful he would make the move.

But I guess not.

Jack observes you and Brendon again and knows that Brendon likes you and you him. So why is he going on a date that isn't with you?

You cough a little to keep yourself from crying in front of everyone.

“I’ve got to put my stuff up, be right back. Have a good night guys and good luck tonight Bren. I’ll uh, talk to you later.”

You quickly make your way to the lockers, wiping a tear away, not being able to hold it back anymore.

Did he not like you?

Were you just imagining things?

How could you have been so wrong?

—--

It’s two hours into your shift and you’re still pretty down about the revelation of Brendon’s date tonight.

You check your phone as you finish a snack and find a text from Trinity

‘𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩. 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘋𝘜𝘔𝘉. 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘱 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭, 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘶’

That gets a small smile out of you. Trinity was one of a kind and you could always count on her to cheer you up outside of Brendon.

As you throw your trash away and make your way back to the floor, a pain in your chest stops you. You stay still and assess yourself. Your heart feels like it’s racing a bit but nothing too alarming. Checking your watch you see there’s a new notification

‘𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘱𝘮 𝘪𝘴 101. 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 3 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴.’

Shit, it had gotten higher than what it was this morning.

You shake your head a bit.

I’ll worry about it later, I’ll be fine.

—--

Almost an hour goes by and now the symptoms are stacking. You know you should tell someone but you don’t want to bother or worry anyone. Night shift was busy and there wasn’t too much downtime to have.

“Kid, did you hear me?”

What?

You turn your head to follow the voice and see Jack.

“Yeah?”

Jack tilts his head as he observes your demeanor.

“I asked if you were on the way to the next patient.”

You blink hard as your heart races more than it had all day.

‘Yeah I’m going now.’ you think to you say out loud

“Kid, hey. Are you okay?”

You can’t answer as your chest heaves from beating so fast.

Shit.

You’re unsteady on your feet and you start to stumble. Grabbing your chest you sink to your knees on the ground.

“Woah! C’mon kid, look, breathe with me. Deep breaths. Ellis! Get a gurney now!

Voices start to blur together as you try to keep your eyes open.

‘I need you, Bren’ you think as it all starts to go black. 

‘I need you.’

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Brendon smiles politely at the woman in front of him

They’re at a nice restaurant in downtown Pittsburgh, having just placed their orders.

She’s nice and beautiful but…shes not you.

She doesn’t laugh loudly at his jokes.

She doesn’t hold his hand and play with his fingers while talking like you do.

Her nose doesn't scrunch when she smiles like yours does.

Why the hell did he do this?

He should have just asked you out even if the end result was rejection. He just misses you.

Brendon listens as his date talks about her job at the local news station when his phone goes off signaling a text. It sits on the corner of the table where he can glance and read it.

‘𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘰𝘵. 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘩𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘮𝘪𝘢 𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺. 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸.’

His heart drops into his stomach with every word he reads. Not even realizing Jack had referred to you as ‘his girl’.

Shit, he never checked your watch earlier. He always does.

“Hey look, I’m so sorry. I have an emergency at the hospital. This was great but I don’t think this is gonna work. Stay and eat, it’s on me. Again, I’m so sorry.”

He rushes the apology to his date as he gathers his things and quickly makes his way to ptmc.

—--

The sound of shoes racing across the floor causes Jack to look up from his chart. Brendon looks around, chest heaving from running a few blocks from the restaurant.

“Park!” Jack calls and motions him forward.

Brendon jogs up to him “Where is she?”

Jack leads him to a room where you lay in a bed resting.

He immediately walks to your side and gently holds your face with one hand.

Jack fills him in on what he witnessed.

Brendon shakes his head with guilt at not checking in with you earlier.

After a few minutes the movement of his hand slowly wakes you from your sleep.

“Bren?”

He sits and leans his elbow on your bed, hand in your hand.

“Hey trouble, you feeling okay?”

You nod sluggishly with your eyes closed “I’m so tired Bren.”

He squeezes your hand lightly.

“That’s okay sweetheart. You just rest and I’ll be right here. Wanna tell me what happened tonight?”

You swallow as you turn your head to face him.

“Bpm was higher this morning than yesterday. I meant to show you earlier but forgot. Then I started feeling bad after a few hours and I knew I should’ve taken it easy but I didn’t.”

“I’m so sorry sweetheart. I always check and I didn’t this time.”

You shake your head “No Bren, it’s not your fault. You were leaving and you had that– oh my god, your date! Please don’t tell me you left it to be here?”

He smiles at your rambling.

“I'm fine right here. You know I’d drop anything to be there for you, always. And it wasn’t working out anyways… kinda had my mind on someone else.”

You furrow your eyebrows at this.

Someone else? Another person?

“She’s funny, smart, fucking gorgeous, the best nurse, always has lunch with me, and is a bit of trouble in the best way of course.” he winks at the last part.

There’s no way.

Your eyes widen a bit “Bren? Wh–”

“Shhh” he rubs his thumb across your hand. “Just rest for now and I’ll ask you on a date properly when you’re feeling better.”

You smile as your eyes start to close from the exhaustion “okay” you murmur.

Brendon kisses the side of your head.

“Get some rest, pretty girl.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

"I don’t understand how you still smell like flowers and looking like you just stepped out of a Sephora commercial.” Trinity Santos muttered, her fingers flying across the electronic medical record terminal with an aggressive, rhythmic snapping sound. She didn’t look up at you; her sharp, fiercely ambitious eyes were entirely consumed by her discharge summaries. "It’s statistically improbable. You’ve been running codes since yesterday afternoon."

You offered a small, tired smile, adjusting the stethoscope around your neck. "Good soap, Trinity. And a lot of hydration."

"It's not just the soap," Dennis Whitaker mumbled from three chairs down. The R1 was currently buried under a stack of intake forms, looking thoroughly overwhelmed and resembling a puppy that had been repeatedly dropped in the mud. His hair was standing on end from where his frantic fingers had plowed through it all night. "You don’t have the gray skin, either. The rest of us look like we’ve been exhumed from a shallow grave. You look like you’re about to film a commercial for skincare."

"That’s because she’s our ER Barbie," Dana Evans said, her voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative alto that could instantly quiet a chaotic resuscitation bay. The charge nurse walked past the desk, dropping a fresh stack of lab slips into Dennis’s trembling inbox.

She gave you a long, discerning look, her eyes drifting down to your hands. "Perfect manicure, too. Every single shift. I’m convinced you have a portal to a spa hidden in the supply closet."

You tucked your hands into the pockets of your black scrubs, your thumbs brushing against the smooth fabric. You felt a familiar, secret flush rise along your neck—not from the teasing, but from the private knowledge of why those nails were always painted a delicate, perfect nude, and who had paid for the standing appointment at the salon downtown.

"She has to have a sugar daddy," a low voice rumbled from the corridor. Dr. Nick Barker from Radiology lounged against the doorframe, a digital tablet balanced on his forearm. He gave you the slow, practiced smile he usually reserved for trying to bump his scans to the top of the priority list. "Nobody on an R2 salary can afford those organic green juices you drink every morning, or that specific line of French moisturizers I see in your locker. Come on. Admit it. Who’s the lucky bastard?"

"I don't have a sugar daddy, Nick," you said, your voice soft but even. You were used to the banter. Being soft-spoken in a place as loud as Pittsburgh Trauma often made people assume you were fragile, but you’d learned long ago how to let their assumptions slide off you like water. "I just manage my budget well."

"Right. And I’m the Chief of Medicine," Nick chuckled, lingering a little too long near your shoulder as he leaned in to show you a chest X-ray. "By the way, if you’re free after the shift change tomorrow, I found this new place in Shadyside. Great coffee blends and pastries. Very your vibe."

"She’s busy, Barker," Frank Langdon interrupted, stepping between you and the radiologist with the easy, golden-boy confidence that had earned him the title of "ER Ken" among the lower-level staff. As your senior resident and primary mentor in the ED, Frank possessed an easygoing charm that made him immensely popular, but he was also fiercely protective of you.

He dropped an arm over your shoulders, a completely platonic gesture of exhaustion that nevertheless made Nick’s eyes narrow. "She’s helping me review the chest tube placements from last night. Go back to your dark room."

Nick scoffed but moved off, throwing a backward glance that lingered on your face.

Once he was out of earshot, Frank dropped his arm and groaned, rubbing his face. "Seriously, though. If you don't pick one of these guys soon, the security desk is going to turn into an actual casino."

You paused, your pen hovering over a trauma flow sheet. "What do you mean?"

Frank blinked down at you, his face cracking into a look of disbelief. "You don't know? Still? You've been a resident here for two years and you're still this oblivious?"

"Know what?" you asked. Still having no clue on what he’s saying.

From the corner of the desk, Melissa King looked up from her notes. The R3 was brilliant, her neurodivergent focus often making her seem detached until she dropped an incredibly specific observation with absolute certainty. "They are referring to the betting pool," she said, her voice flat and precise. "It has been active for approximately four months. It is currently located on the old whiteboard in Ahmad’s office. The current total pool is one thousand and forty dollars."

You stared at her, your mouth opening slightly. "A betting pool? About what?"

"Your love life," Trinity said, finally looking up with a sharp, wicked grin. "The entire auxiliary staff is involved. The nurses, the techs, half the residents from three different departments. Even some of the paramedics from the city rigs have money down. Everyone wants to know who ER Barbie is going to settle on."

"That's... that's a human resources violation," you stammered, the heat in your cheeks now very real and very bright.

"It’s a morale booster," Dana corrected from around the corner, not sounding even remotely apologetic. "And honestly, the odds are fascinating. Ahmad keeps the sticky notes organized by department."

"Who is on it?" you asked, a sudden, cold spike of panic hitting your stomach. Your thoughts immediately flashed to a specific third-floor office with a heavy oak door and a nameplate that read Chief of Orthopedic Trauma. If his name was on that board, the entire hospital would be scorched earth by sunrise.

"Well," Frank said, counting on his fingers with a smirk. "Robby has a hundred and twenty bucks under him. Dr. Abbot has a few nurses convinced his 'SWAT Daddy' energy is going to win you over. Barker aka Prince Eric from Rads has forty dollars down that you’ll cave to his coffee invitations by June."

"And you?" you asked Frank, your voice rising slightly.

"Oh, we’re the top tier," Frank laughed, entirely unbothered. "The night shift techs have 470 bucks that you and I are currently having casual sex in the call rooms to relieve stress. They think we’re a matching set. ER Ken and ER Barbie. It’s poetic."

"Frank!" you shrieked. A few nurses and patients looked on your side.

"Don't look at me, I didn't bet it!" he said, raising his hands in surrender. "And then there’s the wildcard pool. Victoria Javadi—the MS4 who follows Yolanda Garcia around like a lost duck—she accidentally let slip that she thinks you have a massive, closeted crush on Yolanda. So now there’s a small but dedicated group of surgical nurses betting that you’re going to come out and run away with our favorite lesbian trauma surgeon."

You let out a long, shaky breath, your hand instinctively dropping to your pocket where your phone sat silent. "This is ridiculous. None of those are true. None of them."

"Exactly," Trinity said, her eyes shifting back to her monitor. "Which means the pot keeps growing. The rule is, if the year ends and you’re either still single or you end up with someone nobody put a sticky note for, the entire cash pot goes to you as a consolation prize for having to deal with our garbage personalities."

"Well, then I look forward to my one thousand dollars… and more," you said with a wink, trying to make your voice sound light, trying to hide the way your heart was currently hammering against your ribs.

You excused yourself under the pretense of checking on a patient in Bay 4, but as you walked down the corridor, your mind was miles away from the ED. It was back in the high-walled, sterile confines of the third-floor operating suites, where the man who actually owned every single square inch of your thoughts was likely currently resetting a shattered femur with the terrifying, aggressive precision that had earned him his name.

Park the Shark.

They didn't know. None of them knew. They saw the expensive perfumes, the perfect skin, the pilates-toned silhouette under your scrubs, and they thought of sugar daddies or handsome senior residents. They didn't see the dark, quiet office on the upper floor where you spent your rare overlapping hours, or the way those large, powerful hands—hands that could splinter bone with a surgical mallet—could be so incredibly, devastatingly soft when they were tucked into your hair behind closed doors.

Your mind drifted back to how it had started, two years ago, when you were just a fourth-year medical student doing your mandatory surgical rotation. You had been terrified of the third floor. Everyone was. The orthopedic trauma department was notorious for its high-octane, hyper-masculine energy, and at the center of that vortex was Dr. Brendon Park.

He had just been promoted to attending that year—a meteoric rise that surprised absolutely no one given his sheer, unadulterated brilliance. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and imposing, with dark eyes that always seemed to be calculating the exact load-bearing capacity of whatever room he was standing in. He didn't walk through the corridors; he commanded them. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that rarely rose in volume but possessed a sharp, cutting edge that could make an entire room of residents freeze in their tracks.

On your first day, you had arrived early, your scrubs slightly too big, your pink notebook clutched to your chest. You were soft-spoken, polite, and undeniably pretty—qualities that Brendon immediately took as signs of weakness.

"You're in the wrong wing, student," he had said, not even looking up from his lightboard where a shattered pelvis film was displayed. "Pediatrics is a floor above. Dermatology is down the hall. They have better lighting for skincare."

You had bitten the inside of your cheek, your small frame stiffening. "I'm scheduled for orthopedic trauma, Dr. Park."

He had finally turned his head, his dark eyes sweeping over you with a slow, dismissive coldness that made your breath catch. "You won't last the week. This isn't a clinic where you hold hands and pass tissues. This is carpentry on human beings. It's loud, it's bloody, and it requires physical force. Go find a department that matches your... delicate disposition."

For the first two weeks, he had made your life an absolute hell. He ignored you during rounds until it was time to pimp you in front of the entire team. He would look past three senior residents, fix those dark, terrifying eyes on you, and ask questions that were well beyond the scope of a medical student.

“Explain the biomechanical advantages of an intramedullary nail over an open reduction internal fixation for a type three composite tibial fracture in a patient with peripheral vascular disease.”

The residents had shifted uncomfortably. Trinity, who had been an intern then, had smirked, waiting for you to cry.

But you hadn't cried. You had taken a soft, deep breath, looked Brendon straight in his unyielding, handsome face, and answered. Your voice had been quiet, but it hadn't wavered. You detailed the shear forces, the preservation of the periosteal blood supply, and the long-term weight-bearing benefits with absolute, flawless accuracy.

You had watched his left eyebrow twitch—the only sign that he was surprised.

"Adequate," he had muttered, turning back to the patient. "But your suture technique on that laceration yesterday looked like a middle-school home economics project. Do it again on the practice foam until your fingers don't look like they're made of glass."

The turning point had come during a late-night shift near the end of your rotation. The department had been hit with a six-car pileup on the Parkway, and every single bay was overflowing. You had been on your feet for eighteen hours, your back aching, your hands raw from scrub solution. You had found Brendon in the empty doctors' lounge, staring out the window at the gray Pittsburgh rain, a cold cup of black coffee in his hand.

The exhaustion had made you brave. Or perhaps it had made you stupid.

"Do you hate me, Dr. Park?" you had asked, the door clicking shut behind you.

He hadn't turned around immediately. When he did, his expression was unreadable, his dark hair slightly messy from the surgical cap he had worn for ten hours straight. "I don't have the emotional bandwidth to hate students."

"Then why do you do it?" you had pressed, taking a step forward, your small fists clenching at your sides. "You underestimate me every single day. You tell me I belong in pediatrics. You criticize my techniques even when the other attendings say they're fine. If you want me off your service, just sign the transfer. Stop torturing me."

Brendon had stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he had set his coffee cup down on the table with a slow, deliberate click. He had walked toward you, his massive frame completely eclipsing the light from the hallway. You had backed up until your shoulders hit the wall beside the door, but he hadn't stopped until he was standing bare inches away. The scent of him—sterile soap, cold air, and something deeply, intensely masculine—had flooded your senses.

"You think I want you off my service?" he had murmured, his voice dropping into a register so low it made your chest vibrate. His dark eyes had traveled down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, filled with an intensity that made your knees feel weak. "You are entirely oblivious, aren't you?"

"Oblivious to what?" you had whispered.

"To the fact that I can't think straight when you're in the room," he had said, his aggressive confidence suddenly fracturing into something raw, something that sounded dangerously like a confession. His hand had come up, his long, scarred fingers hovering just a millimeter away from your cheek, not quite touching you. "I look at you, and I see someone who doesn't belong in this meat market because you're too good for it. You're soft, you're quiet, and you answer every single one of my impossible questions perfectly just to prove me wrong. I don't want you to leave. I'm terrified that you will."

Your breath had hitched. The world had seemed to tilt on its axis.

After that night, everything had changed, though the rest of the hospital remained completely blind to it. In the OR, when the lights were dimmed for laparoscopic views, his gloved hand would occasionally brush against yours—a lingering, electric touch that sent tremors down your spine.

During long, grueling reconstructions, his eyes would lock onto yours above his surgical mask, holding your gaze with an intensity that felt more intimate than a touch.

There had been late-night talks in his locked office, sitting on the edge of his desk while he sat in his leather chair, talking about your future, your debts, your fears. There had been quiet, freezing nights on the hospital rooftop, standing close enough to feel his warmth but never touching, the sexual tension between you becoming so thick it was almost suffocating.

You would go home to your small, cramped apartment, and he would go to his townhouse in Mt. Lebanon, and you would lie in your bed, your hands tracing your own skin, closing your eyes and imagining his heavy, powerful body pressing you down into the mattress. You knew, from the tight, strained look on his face whenever he bade you goodnight at the elevator, that he was doing exactly the same thing.

But he wouldn't touch you. Not properly.

"You're a student," he had told you fiercely one night when the tension had nearly broken you, his hands gripping the back of his office sofa so hard his knuckles turned white. "I am an attending. I will not compromise your career, and I will not give anyone in this hospital a reason to say you didn't earn every single thing you achieve. We wait."

And you had waited. You had worked, you had studied, and you had kept his secrets.

Then came Match Day.

The envelope had revealed you were staying at Pittsburgh Trauma, but in the Emergency Department—a choice that had surprised the surgery team but made perfect sense to you. You wanted the front lines, the fast pace, the variety.

That night, after the celebrations had died down, you had gone to his office. He had locked the door, pulled the blinds, and for the first time in nearly a year, he had crossed the room and taken you in his arms. The kiss had been explosive—a release of twelve months of dynamic, repressed yearning that left both of you breathless and trembling.

That was the night the waiting ended. That was the night he had taken you home, stripped you of your clothes with a desperate, heavy reverence, and made you his in every possible way.

"You're doing that thing again," Frank said, snapping his fingers in front of your face.

You blinked, shaking yourself out of the memory. The ED was still there. The fluorescent lights were still humming. "Sorry. What?"

"You had that look. The one where you go to your happy place," Frank said, adjusting his stethoscope. "Come on, we have an influx coming from an overturned bus on the Interstate. Yolanda is already down here looking for extra hands. Let's move."

The next few hours were a blur of high-volume trauma medicine. You moved from bay to bay with fluid efficiency, your soft voice providing a calming counterpoint to the chaotic shouting of paramedics and the screech of monitors. You managed a dislocated shoulder, stabilized a flail chest, and helped Dr. Yolanda Garcia set up an emergency peritoneal lavage.

"Nice work, Barbie," Yolanda said, wiping a splash of saline from her face shield as she stepped back from the bed. The trauma surgeon gave you a warm, appreciative pat on the shoulder. "Your hands are steady. Sure you don't want to switch to general surgery? I could use a resident who doesn't pass out at the sight of an open retroperitoneum."

"I'm happy where I am, Dr. Garcia," you said, smiling shyly .

From across the bay, you caught Victoria Javadi—the MS4—watching you with wide, worshipful eyes, her cheeks flushing slightly when you noticed her. You couldn't help but think of the betting pool in Ahmad’s office and had to suppress a giggle. If only they knew that your heart, your body, and your bank account were entirely monopolized by a man who made Yolanda look like a pacifist.

By the time your shift ended at seven in the morning, your legs felt like lead. You walked down to the locker room, peeling off your soiled scrubs and throwing them into the linen bin. You stood in front of the mirror, washing your face with the expensive, gentle cleanser that Brendon insisted on buying for you.

When you had first matched and your relationship became official, you had tried to maintain your fierce independence. You had grown up with nothing, surviving med school on ramen and mounting student loans. But Brendon had completely demolished your defenses with the same aggressive confidence he used in the operating room.

It had started when you complained about being exhausted and wanting to find a way to stay fit outside the hospital. The next day, a confirmation email arrived for a fully paid, unlimited annual membership at the most exclusive pilates studio in the city, located right down the street from your apartment.

“Brendon, I can’t accept this,” you had told him that night, standing in his kitchen while he cooked dinner—another thing he insisted on doing because he claimed you lived on garbage. “It’s too expensive. I have loans.”

He had stopped chopping the organic vegetables he had delivered to his apartment weekly, turning to look at you with that dark, unyielding gaze. He had walked over, taking your small hands in his massive, warm palms.

“Listen to me,” he had said, his voice low and fiercely protective. “I know about your debts. I know how hard you worked to get here. You spend your entire life taking care of people who are broken into pieces. Let me take care of you. I have the money, and it gives me pleasure to know that you are safe, that you are healthy, and that you have the things you want. Do not rob me of that.”

He hadn't stopped at pilates.

When he came over to your apartment and opened your fridge, his face had contorted in utter horror at the sight of your Trader Joe’s frozen meals, sodium-packed instant noodles, and processed snacks. "You are putting garbage into your body," he had scolded, his voice firm, his hands on his hips as he glared at a box of frozen pizza. "You work eighty hours a week in a high-stress environment. Your cellular health requires proper nutrition."

The next day, a high-end organic grocery delivery service began arriving at your door every Sunday, stocked with fresh berries, organic greens, wild-caught salmon, and pre-prepared healthy meals. When you tried to transfer him the money, he had flatly rejected it, locking his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck.

"I make half a million dollars a year, and you are drowning in six-figure medical school debt," he had whispered against your skin, his tone softening into that rare, fiercely protective warmth he reserved only for you. "Let me take care of you. I like knowing you are eating well. I like knowing you are pampered when you're away from this hellhole. Your skin, your hair, your health—they belong to me to protect. Let me do this."

He had extended that logic to everything. When you lamented the dark circles under your eyes and the stress breakouts from not getting enough sleep, he booked you monthly appointments at a top-tier medical spa. He paid for your expensive skincare regimens, your manicures, and the luxury perfumes you loved. You had fought him on it initially, but he had simply kissed you into submission, whispering against your lips that he liked his woman spoiled, healthy, and beautiful.

You pulled on a fresh pair of leggings, a soft cashmere sweater—another gift—and sprayed a light mist of your pear perfume. You looked perfectly refreshed, a stark contrast to the absolute exhaustion vibrating through your muscles.

As you walked past the security desk on your way to the exit, you saw Ahmad, the ED security guard, sitting in his small glass office. Through the open door, you could see the corner of the whiteboard.

There it was. A cluster of neon-colored sticky notes, each one bearing a name and a dollar amount. The sticky notes were a testament to your popularity.

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch : $120 A heavy favorite among the older nursing staff. You genuinely believed you had a sweet, father-daughter style mentorship with him, but Robby definitely felt a certain attraction, entirely held back by the massive age gap and the terrifying prospect of a hospital board inquiry. He had even secretly tossed fifty dollars into the pool under a pseudonym, just out of sheer curiosity to see if he even registered as a contender.

Dr. Jack Abbot : $330 The rugged, former army doctor who doubled as a medic for the SWAT team. You actually did have a minor, harmless high school-style crush on Abbot. A few weeks into your residency, you had seen him roll into the bay in his full tactical gear, sweaty, soot-stained, and undeniably commanding. It was a fun work crush, completely separate from your reality, but the staff had noticed the way you blushed whenever he spoke to you in his low, gravelly military cadence. Abbot, being a man of action, had caught wind of the pool and placed a cool hundred dollars on himself, mostly out of competitive spite.

Dr. Nick Barker : $100 The Disney Prince-like who constantly pined for you, tailoring his schedule just to deliver imaging results to you in person.

Dr. Frank Langdon : $470 The senior resident and your close friend. A massive portion of the residents bet that you two were secretly engaging in casual, stress-relief sex in the call rooms.

The Wildcard Bet: $20 A small, cynical faction of paramedics bet that you actually liked women, pointing to your friendly interactions with Dr. Yolanda Garcia, the brilliant, openly lesbian trauma surgeon who often praised your calm demeanor under pressure.

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. It was hilarious, really. They were all betting on an impossible game.

Because nobody had written the name Brendon Park.

Two nights later, the stars aligned in a way that rarely happened in residency: both you and Brendon had a scheduled night off together.

You were sitting at the high marble island in his Mt. Lebanon townhouse, a glass of expensive red wine between your fingers. The apartment was sleek, modern, and quiet—a perfect sanctuary from the madness of both of your workplace.

Brendon was standing at the stove, his broad back turned to you, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the thick, vascular forearms that could manipulate orthopedic hardware with ease.

You were feeling loose, relaxed, and a little bit mischievous from the wine.

"So," you said, your voice sliding into a soft, teasing cadence. "I found out something interesting at the guard station the other night."

Brendon didn't turn around, but you saw his shoulders drop slightly into an attentive posture. "What's that?"

"Apparently, the entire ED has a betting pool about my love life." you laughed, entirely missing the way Brendon’s entire body instantly went rigid.

The motion of his spatula stopped. For a second, the kitchen was entirely silent except for the hiss of the chicken searing in the pan. Then, he slowly turned around. His dark eyes were hooded, his face a mask of cold, sharp focus that made your stomach do a delicious, familiar little flip.

"A betting pool," he repeated, his baritone voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register.

"Mmhm," you said, taking a sip of wine, completely oblivious to the storm brewing behind his eyes. You thought he’d find the absurdity of it amusing. "It’s on a whiteboard in Ahmad’s office. The techs, the nurses, the paramedics—they’ve all put money down on who I’m going to end up with. Or who I’m currently... you know, seeing."

Brendon leaned back against the counter, crossing his thick arms over his chest. The soft, protective boyfriend you had spent the evening with had vanished, replaced instantly by the possessive, dominant man who ruled the third floor. "Give me the names."

You blinked, realizing too late that you had miscalculated. "Oh, it's just silly gossip, Brendon. It's not a big deal."

"Give me the names, sweetheart," he commanded, his voice softer now, but with an underlying weight that left absolutely no room for negotiation.

You swallowed against the sudden dryness in your throat. "Um... well, Nick Barker from Radiology is on there. He apparently has a hundred dollars down that I’ll go out with him."

Brendon’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Barker. The one who always goes down the ED to read scans in person with you, that bastard couldn’t be more slicker.”

“Continue.” he said coldly, you felt it in your spine.

"And... Dr. Robby which is so weird because he’s like a dad to me and uhh… Dr. Abbot," you continued quickly, wanting to get it over with. "And some of the staff put money on Frank."

"Langdon," Brendon growled, his jaw clenching so hard you heard the click of his teeth. "The senior who thinks dropping his arm over your shoulders is an acceptable form of communication."

"We're just friends, Brendon! He’s my senior—"

"I don't care what he thinks he is," Brendon said, his voice entirely flat, entirely territorial. He flipped the stove off, walked around the island, his steps slow and deliberate, until he was standing right in front of your stool. He reached out, his large, warm hand gripping your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to look into the dark, burning depths of his eyes. "They think you're available. They think they can pass you around like a prize, betting on who gets to touch what belongs to me."

"Brendon, it’s just a joke—" you whispered, your heart pounding, your skin instantly flushing with a high, electric heat.

"It is not a joke." he interrupted fiercely, his voice cutting like a scalpel. “You think it’s funny that these bastard attendings and residents are looking at you, fantasizing about you, putting a price tag on your body?” The sheer intensity of his jealousy made your breath hitch, a wave of heat blooming deep in your core. Brendon was a profoundly possessive man, but seeing him this worked up over the hospital gossip was incredibly intense.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you know what it does to me, hearing that? Knowing that these men look at you every day, thinking they have a chance?"

"I don't look at them," you gasped, your hands coming up to grip his thick wrists. "I only see you."

"Good," he said, his voice dropping into that deep, authoritative but gentle tone that always made you completely surrender. "Because if I see Langdon or any of those guys touch you again, I’m going to break their radius and reset it myself. Without anesthesia."

"You're insane," you whispered, a breathless laugh escaping you while unconsciously clenching your thighs together.

"I'm serious," he corrected, his hand sliding down from your chin to wrap around the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He pulled you off the stool and into his chest, his mouth crashing down onto yours with a terrifying, hungry intensity.

It wasn't like his usual gentle kisses. This was the kiss of a man who had been reminded that his treasure was being eyed by thieves. He tasted of rich wine and dark promises. He backed you up against the kitchen wall, his heavy thigh sliding between your legs, pressing upward against your core until a soft moan was forced out of your throat. He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his eyes wild and dark as he looked down at your flushed face. "I am going to fuck you so hard tonight that you won't be able to think about anything but my name when you're standing in front of that white board tomorrow."

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. He carried you to the bedroom, throwing you onto the mattress with a heavy, passionate force. He stripped your clothes off with fierce efficiency, his eyes devouring every inch of the body he had paid to pamper, the body he cherished above everything else.

When he entered you, it was deep, slow, and devastatingly possessive. He held your wrists pinned above your head with one massive hand, his fingers anchoring you to the bed while his body drove into yours with a rhythmic, unyielding power.

"Tell me it’s mine." he growled against your throat, his teeth biting gently into the soft skin over your collarbone.

"It’s yours," you cried out, your back arching off the sheets, your mind entirely consumed by the sensation of him filling you, stretching you, claiming you. "Brendon, please... I'm yours."

"Say it again," he commanded, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming harder, more aggressive, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"I- I’m yours… I belong to you," you sobbed, your eyes watering from the sheer intensity of the pleasure. "Only you, Brendon. Only you."

He let go of your wrists then, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against his sweating, muscular chest as he delivered the final, deep strokes that sent you shattering into a brilliant, blinding orgasm. He followed you over the edge a second later, a low, animalistic groan tearing from his chest as he came inside you, his heavy body collapsing against yours, holding you so tight it felt as though he wanted to fuse your bones together.

Later, in the quiet dark of the early morning, as you lay with your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart, you smiled into the darkness.

Let them bet, you thought. Let them play their little games. They would never, in a million years, guess the truth.

The morning shift had been an absolute nightmare. A multi-vehicle accident on the bridge had flooded the ED with critical patients and by noon, the department was functioning on pure chaos.

You were in Bay 2, attempting to stabilize a patient who had been brought in with a severe closed head injury. He was a massive man, a construction worker, easily six-foot-four and over two hundred and fifty pounds. He had been unconscious on arrival, but as the intracranial pressure began to fluctuate, he suddenly surged into a state of violent, disoriented ICU psychosis.

"Whoa, whoa! Sir, stay down!" you shouted, your voice swallowed by the noise of the room.

The patient screamed, a wild, animalistic sound, and began flailing his massive arms. He ripped his IV lines out, spraying blood across the sheets. He threw himself sideways, trying to scramble off the gurney.

"I need restraint lines and chemical sedation now!" you called out to the R1, Dennis Whitaker, who was standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes wide with absolute panic.

"What do I give? What do I give?" Dennis stammered, his hands shaking as he reached into the medication cart.

"Versed! Five milligrams, IV or IM, now!" you ordered, leaning over the patient’s torso, using your entire body weight to try and pin his shoulders down so he wouldn't fracture his cervical spine against the metal rails.

"I've got it! I've got it!" Dennis cried, his voice cracking. He scrambled forward with a syringe.

What happened next occurred in a fraction of a second.

The patient threw his head back, his massive arm swinging upward in a blind, violent arc. His fist caught you squarely in the chest, lifting your small frame off the bed and throwing you backward. At the exact same moment, Dennis, completely panicked and stumbling forward to try and inject the patient, tripped over the monitor cables.

The needle in his hand went flying as he went down. You hit the hard linoleum floor with a sickening thud, the breath knocked completely out of your lungs. Before you could even register the pain in your back, you felt a sharp, sudden puncture in the soft meat of your shoulder. Dennis had landed directly on top of you, his hand plunging the syringe into your arm in a blind, terrified reflex before he even realized what he was hitting.

It wasn't five milligrams of Versed. In his panic, Dennis had pulled a pre-loaded syringe of a high-dose, rapid-acting paralytic and sedative combination meant for an RSI kit.

"Oh my god! I'm sorry! I slipped! I didn't mean to—" Dennis’s voice sounded like it was underwater.

You tried to speak, tried to tell him it was okay, but your tongue suddenly felt like a massive, leaden weight in your mouth. The room began to spin, the fluorescent lights stretching into long, blinding streaks of white. Your limbs grew incredibly heavy, then entirely numb.

"Hey! Hey, look at me!" Frank’s voice boomed from somewhere above you, his hands grabbing and shaking your shoulders.

You tried to blink, but your eyelids refused to cooperate. The last thing you registered was the sound of Dana Evans shouting for a crash cart and the frantic, terrifying realization that you were slipping into complete unconsciousness.

Dana Evans was an absolute force of nature. Within two minutes, she had organized the bay, helped Frank safely intubate the combative construction worker, and had you lifted onto a fresh gurney in the adjacent isolation room.

"Her vitals are stable, but she's completely out," Frank said, his voice tense as he checked your pupillary response with a penlight. "Whitaker gave her a full dose of an RSI cocktail. She’s breathing on her own, thankfully, but she’s going to be under for at least a few hours until it metabolizes."

"That idiot," Trinity Santos hissed, standing at the door with her arms crossed, looking ready to murder the R1. "He should be banned from carrying sharp objects."

"We need to notify her family," Dana said, her fingers already flying across the computer terminal at the desk. "She’s a resident, she has to have an emergency contact on file in the employee portal."

Frank stood over you, his face lined with genuine worry. He reached down, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead—a platonic gesture of comfort for his friend. "Yeah, see who’s listed. She said her parents live out of state. Check if she has a local contact."

Dana clicked through the secure HR database, her eyes scanning down the page of your digital employee file. "Let's see... Emergency Contact... Primary..."

Suddenly, Dana’s fingers stopped moving. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropping open in a display of pure, unadulterated shock that none of the staff had ever seen from the veteran nurse.

"What is it?" Trinity asked, stepping closer to the monitor. "Is it an ex? A friend?"

Dana blinked, staring at the screen as if it were written in ancient hieroglyphics. "No. It's... it's a local number. And the name..."

"Who is it, Dana?" Frank asked, getting impatient.

"It's Dr. Brendon Park," Dana whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

The entire nursing station fell dead silent.

"Wait," Frank said, a nervous laugh escaping his chest. "Park? As in Park the Shark? The ortho chief? Why the hell would he be her emergency contact? Did she accidentally list her old surgical rotation supervisor?"

"The relationship field," Dana said, her voice dropping into a tone of absolute awe, "does not say supervisor. It says Partner."

"What?!" Trinity whispered-shouted, her brain instantly short-circuiting. "That's impossible! He’s... he’s a robot! He doesn't have a partner! He doesn't even have friends! He eats glass for breakfast!"

"I'm calling it," Dana said, her hand already reaching for the desk phone, her internal professional compass overriding her shock. "He’s listed. If she’s injured, he has to know."

She dialed the number. It rang exactly once before a deep, harsh baritone boomed through the speaker, loud enough for Frank and Trinity to hear.

"Park."

"Dr. Park, this is Dana Evans from the ED. We have an emergency involving—"

"Is she hurt?" The shift in his voice was instantaneous. The cold, professional distance was completely stripped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying panic that made Dana’s breath catch.

"She’s stable, Doctor, but there was an incident in Bay 2. An intern accidentally sedated her during a patient altercation. She’s unconscious—"

The line went dead. He had hung up.

"Well," Frank said, his face completely pale as he looked from the phone to your sleeping form. "I think the betting pool just exploded."

It took exactly seventy-four seconds for Dr. Brendon Park to travel from the third-floor orthopedic suites to the ground-floor Emergency Department.

He didn't use the elevator. He took the stairs, throwing the heavy fire doors open with a violence that echoed down the hall. When he burst into the ED, he was still in his blue surgical scrubs, his face set into an expression of such pure, unadulterated fury that the paramedics standing by the entrance instinctively scattered out of his path.

"Where is she?" he roared, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls.

Ahmad, sitting in his security office, looked up from his monitors, his jaw dropping as he saw the towering orthopedic chief marching toward the main desk like a localized hurricane.

"Bay... Bay 6, Dr. Park," Dennis Whitaker squeaked, his voice cracking as he tried to hide behind a stack of clean linens. He was hyperventilating, entirely aware that his medical career—and possibly his physical safety—was now in imminent danger.

Brendon didn't even look at the intern. He shoved past the central desk, his dark eyes locking onto the isolation room where you lay.

Frank Langdon was standing outside the door, his hands in his pockets, trying to maintain his composure as his senior resident status dictated. "Dr. Park, listen, she’s fine. Her vitals are—"

Brendon stopped bare inches from Frank’s face. The difference in size and pure, aggressive presence was staggering. "Get away from her door, Langdon."

"Dr. Park, I'm her senior resident—"

"If you don't step aside in the next three seconds," Brendon whispered, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal intensity that made Frank’s golden-boy confidence instantly evaporate, "I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your residency doing rectal exams in the clinic. Move."

Frank moved. He stepped aside, his hands raised in surrender.

Brendon threw the door open and stepped into the room, the heavy glass slider clicking shut behind him, cutting off the sound of the entire ED staff who had now gathered around the nursing station, staring through the windows with wide, terrified eyes.

The moment he reached your bedside, the terrifying "Shark" completely dissolved.

Brendon dropped to the stool beside your gurney, his massive frame suddenly looking incredibly small as he reached out, his hands trembling—hands that never shook, not even during the most complex spinal reconstructions. He wrapped his large, warm palms around your face, his thumbs gently wiping away a trace of dried sweat from your temple.

"Baby," he choked out, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing emotion that none of the people outside could have ever imagined him possessing.

"Baby, look at me. Open your eyes." He checked your pulse, his fingers pressing against your carotid artery with a desperate, frantic tenderness. He checked the monitor, his eyes scanning the oxygen saturation and heart rate with the practiced speed of a top-tier surgeon, his shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch as he confirmed you were indeed stable.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes closed tightly as he let out a long, shuddering breath. "God damn it, baby... you scared me to death."

Outside the glass, the audience was utterly paralyzed.

"Did he... did he just call her baby?" Trinity whispered, her nose practically pressed against the glass window.

"Look at his face," Dana said softly, a small, knowing smile finally breaking through her shock. "That man doesn't just love her. He's absolutely consumed by her."

Frank stood beside them, rubbing the back of his neck, a look of profound realization dawning on his face. "ER Barbie... and Park the Shark. Holy hell. The expensive perfume. The pilates. The organic food. It wasn't a sugar daddy. It was him."

"He bought her a Burberry jacket last month," Dennis whimpered from the back of the crowd, still clutching his linens. "I saw the delivery receipt in her locker. I thought she won a lottery."

"You're an idiot, Dennis," Trinity muttered, not taking her eyes off the scene.

Inside the room, the world was completely quiet. The high-dose sedative was beginning to lose its grip on your brain, the dark clouds in your mind slowly parting as a familiar, deep baritone voice anchored you back to reality.

You blinked, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks. The blurry shape above you gradually resolved into the sharp, handsome face of your boyfriend. His dark eyes were bloodshot, his jaw tight, his expression a mix of profound relief and lingering fury.

"Brendon...?" you whispered, your voice incredibly raspy, your hand weakly twitching inside his grasp.

"I'm here, baby," he murmured, his voice incredibly soft, incredibly sweet as he leaned down to press a tender, lingering kiss to your lips right in front of the entire hospital staff. He didn't care about the rules anymore. He didn't care about the secrets. He had almost lost you, and nothing else mattered. "I'm right here. You're safe."

You managed a small, groggy smile, your fingers curling around his thick thumb. "Did... did Dennis sedated me?"

Brendon let out a low, dark chuckle, his thumb rubbing your cheek. "He did. And he’s currently praying for a quick death. But don't worry about him. Focus on me."

You looked past his shoulder, your eyes finally registering the crowd of nurses, residents, and techs standing outside the glass door, their faces a collective mosaic of absolute, unadulterated shock.

You saw Frank staring at you with his mouth open. You saw Trinity looking like her entire worldview had been shattered. And you saw Ahmad, the security guard, slowly walking out of his office, a giant marker in his hand, heading toward the whiteboard.

"Brendon," you whispered, the realization finally hitting your drug-addled brain. "The... the betting pool."

Brendon looked over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto the crowd outside with a cold, protective glare that made half of them instantly step back. Then, he turned back to you, his face softening into that private, beautiful smile that was reserved only for you.