#pack 141

-Shifts to the outsider can appear gruesome. As the wolf quite literally emerges from within, human flesh falling away like a gristly chrysalis to reveal the beast beneath. Traditionally, this shed flesh would be devoured, though it isn't commonly practiced today. The flesh disintegrates quite quickly once shed.

-This being said Price can shift in degrees, often enhancing his own claws or teeth for defensive purposes rather than shift completely. 

-No, the clothes do not magically pop back on once he's done. Shifting completely is inconvenient and typically a last resort. It's difficult to strip in the middle of a fire fight, let alone find his tac bag stark naked after it's all said and done.

-For born wolves, this shift is generally smooth and quick. For those bitten, it is this first shift that often leads to their death. Around 75% of those bitten do not have the bodily fortitude to withstand the change.

-as a born wolf, Price's enhanced senses are also perfectly integrated, and require no sensory aids for him to navigate his daily life unlike the majority of bitten wolves.

-born wolves have a tendency to remain in seclusion, within the safety and comfort of their pack. When a new alpha is born they typically either stay to take over leadership, or stake out a new territory to build their own pack.

-John was quickly ostracized when he showed little interest in either of those things. He seemed to be far more preoccupied with exploring both the world and his own strength. The military amongst the humans would do quite nicely.

-During his tours there would be fleeting encounters with other monsters, typically enemies. But a few comrades as well. Such as Nikolai, a bear shifter. The pair of lycans got along beautifully.

-Now, despite his former pack's opinions of him, John had never explicitly said he didn't want a pack, just not their version of a pack. No. John had a different idea in mind.

-Simon was the first. A strong and brutal human, who had shown an endearing gentleness in certain circumstances. Price had decided immediately that Simon would belong to him. He just needed some final paper work to build his pack task force. He had even settled on changing Simon himself, despite the risks. A bloody vampire had beaten him to it. Price was hardly angry that Simon's humanity was taken from him, just that Simon had to suffer in such a way to get there. At least Price had the pleasure of siring the newborn himself.

-Next had been Soap. A wiley thing with a blatant disregard for orders and big blue eyes that were far too pretty to be all human. Price couldn't decide if he should scruff or praise him for his cheek. But Soap had an excellent knack for mixing things that should absolutely not work, into something that would cave a warehouse in seconds. Along with a distinct aversion to touching certain metals with his bare hands. His peculiarities had earned him a nickname, and also given him away as a Fae. Price would have him too.

-Garrick followed not long after. Sharp and driven Gaz. Incredibly clever with a proud determination that blazed behind those warm brown eyes. Gaz's skills made his inner wolf purr in delight.  Another lovely thing for him to keep. Price was taken with him immediately, and had never felt more at ease than with the sergeant he had stolen in Piccadilly. 

-While he could tell from Kyle's scent that he was something Other. Price would only receive cryptic answers or riddles that only made the younger sergeant chuckle as Price failed to guess correctly. (Price would totally not make up excessively silly answers to see the sergeants pretty smile, oh no).

-It wouldn't be until they were stranded in an excessively hot desert that Gaz would reveal himself. Price had emerged from their tent to see Garrick, posted up like it was summer vacation, with a brilliant golden wing curled over his head to shade him from the sun. A long tufted tail flickering back and forth out of a small cut in his fatigues. Gaz had looked up from his book, golden slitted eyes peering over his aviators. Flashed him a toothy grin. “Wanna make another guess Cap?”

-Price has a vicious possessive streak, and he plays it incredibly carefully in the beginning of the task force. He watches his vocabulary when talking about the “team.” His pack. Perfect, strong and beautiful. All of them. Chosen carefully.  He was careful not to spook them at first, worried his possessive language would put them off.  But they are, for all intents and purposes, his.

-His possessiveness had manifested subtly at first. Scent marking them. Brushing shoulders or gentle touches as he passed them. He would even resort to smoking beside them if touching seemed out of the question. At least his smoke would soak into their clothes and hair.

-As they fell together it became less subtle. Price couldn't resist sinking his teeth into their flesh as they writhed beneath him. Suck bruises along whatever flesh he could get his mouth on. It was a pro and a con that his boys all healed so well. While his marks did not remain for long, it meant he could only mark them up sooner. 

-He loves that their scents all intermingle, really. But he can be stubbornly adamant that his scent is the most notable. Often catching Soap or Gaz to tug into his office, kissing the breath out of them, only to curtly send them back out, freshly scented and a bit dazed. It's a fair compromise considering Simon often hogs the sergeants to himself.

-Simon often seeks him out of his own volition. Coming to his office to sit quietly, work on his own reports and bask in Price's scent of spilled ink and warm honey. Or sneaking to his room in the night. Slipping off the mask to bury his nose against his throat. No biting. Just breathing. His scent a balm to the younger vampires frayed nerves. 

The pack alpha paused with his coffee mug halfway to his lips, sighed, and set his drink down.

He peered down at the screen. He really needed his reading glasses, but he was convinced they made him look older than he was, so he refused to wear them outside of his office.

Gaz leaned over. “It’s Laswell. Might wanna answer that.”

“Bugger me,” Price grumbled, standing. He quickly downed his coffee in one swig, stuffed half of his sandwich into his pocket, and stepped out from the bench seating. “I better go outside to take this. Kyle, make sure these two behave while I’m gone.” “Aye, sir,” Gaz replied through a mouthful of sweetcorn.

Once Price had disappeared outside, Millen tilted his head. “Who’s Laswell?”

“CIA Intelligence Officer,” Roach explained. “She helps connect us with assignments. Nice lady, but also really scary when she’s mad.”

“So why is she calling the captain?” Millen asked.

“Probably has a new op for us to deploy on,” Gaz answered, opening his paper carton of milk and chugging it down happily. “Good thing, too. It’s been ages since we’ve seen action. I can feel myself gettin’ fatter and lazier by the day.”

Millen frowned. “But you train all the time. It’s not like you’re sitting on your ass all day.”

“Still, it’s not the same as real combat,” Gaz said, with a note of wistfulness in his voice. “Dummy rounds don’t have the same edge to them, when you know there’s no consequences if you screw up. The only way to really keep yourself sharp is by keepin’ yourself alive out on the field. Go more than a few months without that adrenaline rush, and you’ll lose your edge.”

“And you… like it?” Millen questioned hesitantly. “The shooting, the noise… the fear?”

Gaz thought for a moment, twirling his fork. “I don’t like it, per se. But it… it feels right. Like a… purpose. We’re savin’ the world, y’know? One mission at a time.”

“Dude, that’s literal propaganda,” Roach pipes up, monching on a packet of crisps. “The only reason you joined up was to commit war crimes.”

“Did not! I enlisted to… to…” Gaz struggled for just the right phrasing. “Stop… the… baddies?”

“Mhm, sure,” Roach agreed, his antennae bobbing as he nodded. “And the sick abs and free rent were totally just a bonus.”

“Precisely,” Gaz said, grinning. “Have a six-pack, and have enough money for a six-pack. Of beer, that is.”

Roach rolled his eyes, since he didn’t partake in that particular vice himself. He found the tang of apple juice or the fizzle of pop to be much more satisfying than the bitter wash of alcohol.

Millen swiveled in his seat to try and see if Price would reappear. “You don’t think we’ll have a mission soon, do you?”

“Maybe,” replied Gaz. “Then again, Laswell might have been calling just to check in. She does that sometimes. Her and the captain go way back. Why are you worrying about it?”

“I’m not worried,” lied Millen, feeling a touch of defensiveness. “I just haven’t been here that long. I’ve never been on an op like the ones you’re used to.”

“Well, you have to start somewhere.” Gaz popped a crumb into his mouth. “Besides, you’ve been out in the field before. You’ll do fine.”

“Yeah, but never like you have. I was usually just dropped in as support. Half of the time, the fight was over before my feet ever touched the ground. Most of what I did was as a part of a cleanup crew, doing a broad sweep of the area, picking off any of the other side left loitering around. Even then, they were usually half-dead. It was…” He trailed off for a moment, as if he were remembering something he didn’t quite care to. “Almost too easy.”

Gaz wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You mean you’ve never gotten to really be out there, kickin’ ass in a firefight? That’s sad, brother. Every bloke ought to get to experience once in life. Truly nothing like it.”

“Kyle, that’s fucked up,” Roach laughed, casually stealing half of the dry lump of bread on Gaz’s tray. “And the fact that you think that’s concerning. You should be institutionalized.”

“Jokes on you, I’m into that shit,” Gaz shot back, and Roach made a lewd gesture that had several other men in the mess hall chuckling under their breath as they caught sight of the omega’s behavior. Roach winked at them.

“No, but seriously,” Gaz redirected the conversation. “You don’t have anything to stress over, Mills. Price might keep you benched until you’re a little more settled, or if you do get deployed with the rest of us, he’ll probably have you hang back, maybe double-check that all the loose ends are tied up. No big deal, you’ll see.” Millen shifted uncomfortably. “I genuinely don’t know that I could keep up, Gaz. I’m not exactly… spry. Or fit.”

Gaz glanced the xi up and down, clearly trying to find a supportive way to disagree. “No, you’re just– you need–” “More practice,” Roach chimed in helpfully.

“More practice,” Gaz reaffirmed. “If it’ll make you feel better, I can spot you in the gym later.”

“I hate the gym,” Millen sighed miserably. Gaz gave him a strange look. “Mate… we’re in the military. Being a gym rat is part of the package.”

“I used to like it well enough,” muttered Millen. “Now I can’t do anything but pull-ups.”

“What, because of your back?” Roach leaned forward inquisitively, sniffing at the air to try and pick up any trace of pain in Millen’s scent. “Your knees are busted up, too, right?”

“It’s not important,” Millen said instantly. If he ever wanted to have a chance with Roach, he couldn’t have the omega thinking he was defective, either physically or mentally. An injured alpha was an alpha that couldn’t protect his omega, and that meant if Roach caught wind of just how deep the damage Millen had sustained was, then he could very well shun Millen entirely as a prospective mate. “I’m fine, really,” Millen added. “My back only acts up when the weather gets shitty.”

Roach shrugged. “If you say so. But, I mean, we have free healthcare. You can just go to the infirmary.” “I don’t need the infirmary,” snapped Millen. There was a spike of something between fear aggression and annoyance in his scent, soured at the edges with shame like a chemical spill leeching slowly outwards. “I said I’m fine, and I am.”

“Okay, jeez, you brought it up,” said Gaz, raising a hand in a placating gesture. “Don’t bite Gary’s head off just because you wanna be a jackass. Ghh, are you even wearing your suppressant patches? You reek.”

Millen lowered his head, pulling his shirt collar up to cover his scent glands. “Price said I didn’t have to wear them anymore.”

“I think he smells fine,” Roach defended the xi, ruffling up. “Usually. You’re just making him nervous.” Gaz waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not making him nervous; he’s just that way all the time. You don’t share a room with him, so you don’t know.” Roach gave a little “hmph” and leaned over to whisper in Millen’s ear: “Ignore him, Mills. It’s fine to be nervous for your first big mission. I was. We all were.”

Millen gave a tight, weak little smile, but made no reply. He stared down at his tray of food, but his hunger was dampened by Gaz’s guess at Laswell’s reason for phoning Price. If they indeed would be deployed for an op, there was a likelihood that only one, two, or a trio of them might be required– that was the only thought that kept Millen from succumbing entirely to his fear and confessing that he didn’t think he could handle a mission now, or maybe ever. He had never wanted to be in the SAS, but had been placed with the 141 anyway, yet he was still expected to be held to the highest standard of military performance.

He could barely get through PT, let alone drills. He had been fortunate so far, and the only drills they had been required to stage were a few marches and one grenade safety tutorial that Ghost had oversaw for the rookies. But eventually the team would set up a serious exercise, and there was a high chance that Millen would show his true colors as not being up to scale. It could range from anything to survival training to what was the basic equivalent to capture the flag played in an active war zone.

Millen ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I think I’m gonna go get some air. Maybe stop by the range.”

“Want me to come with?” Gaz offered, finishing up his own meal and gathering his silverware and trash to be disposed of. “I probably need to get a few hours in, too.”

Millen shook his head. “No, I… think I’m gonna go by myself, just for a bit? If that’s okay?” “Yeah, sure. I can hit up the gym first instead. Just shoot me a text if you change your mind and wanna come down so I can spot you after I’m done on the treadmill.

Millen gave a small nod, then stood and took up his own tray to be washed and put away by whatever poor sods were on kitchen duty that day. Once he’d dumped his leftover food in the bins and handed off his tray, fork, and spoon, he headed for the door. A blast of summer humidity slammed into him.

Ignoring the oppressively heated, wet air, he shucked off his lightweight jacket and slung it over his shoulder, limping off towards the shooting range. He wasn’t looking forward to the ache of tiredness that would come with holding up a semi-automatic or sidearm for an hour, tensed against the repeated kickback of each shot, but a good aim was one of the few things that he had going for him. He couldn’t slack off and risk losing that.

He turned to walk down the blocky alleyway between the armory and one of the storage buildings, which led out onto the main road coming in from the base’s gates, intent on cutting across to the open parade ground flanking the shooting range. It was a shortcut of sorts, allowing him to not have to go all the way around the long rectangular wall. However, not many used it, because it was too narrow to be mowed, allowing a weedy growup, and because of the jutting gutter-pipes that often dripped AC runoff. It made the entire length smell very metallic and unkempt compared to everything else around it.

When Millen was about halfway down, he heard a scrape of noise from somewhere just behind him and to the left, and paused.

He turned, but saw nothing. His brow furrowed. “Hello?”

There was no reply, nor further sound, so he just shrugged it from his mind, writing it off as perhaps a loose shingle having come undone, or someone having dropped something in the armory, or something else of that sort.

He continued down the shaded route, now almost to where the sunlight cut cleanly through the darker area between the hard-paneled buildings. From behind him came a low scuffling approaching rapidly, and he whirled, yet saw nothing.

His hand reached for where his sidearm should have been buckled at his hip. However, he had never taken to wearing it, and now was sorely regretting that. “Who’s there?” he called out, and then immediately felt silly and foolish.

He was on a military base, there was nothing to fear here. There were guards stationed everywhere, and nobody was allowed in without proper ID and clearance. He was becoming all flustered and on-edge by… He strained to think of what might have been skulking around the area.

“It’s just a squirrel, or a pigeon, or a cat,” he reasoned with himself. He knew that some of the soldiers often fed what few little animals made their way through the walls. Probably, whatever it was hoped that Millen had something on him food-wise.

“Go on, shoo!” Millen called out. “I don’t have anything. G’off!”

As he spoke, Millen caught a whiff of an unknown scent nearby. It was alphan, but not a pack alpha, and unmated. By now, he had familiarized himself with most of the other soldiers’ distinct scents, but this one he could not place. It was heavy and iron, like blood, with a horrible aftershave cologne applied far too liberally.  

“Hello?” he repeated, taking a step towards the scent. He sniffed the air, and the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. A low whine built in his throat, and he took another uncertain step, shifting from foot to foot. “Soap? Gaz? Is this some sort of prank? It’s not funny, okay?”

Every instinct was telling him to get out into the open where he had a clear view of what was around him and nobody could creep up on him. He shuffled backwards, chuffing nervously, and then turned to run out towards the road—

Someone clicked their tongue, as if calling a well-trained dog. Millen jerked around to see a bulky figure standing at the end of the breezeway. His heart lurched to his throat, and he gave a thready little growl that would not have scared off even the most skittish of omegas.

“Come with us now, easy-like,” the figure’s voice crackled from behind a black mask. “And nobody gets hurt.”

Millen felt pure fear spike through him, so intensely that his lungs seemed to stall like an old engine. His scent flared with terror.

The figure began to advance, but Millen was rooted to the spot. He began to give small yaps, like a pup would use to try to cow one of their littermates, and the figure paused.

They snapped their fingers, and suddenly two sets of hands clamped down around Millen’s arms, pulling him backwards as a hood was pulled down over his head. He jerked and snarled, kicking out, but his assailants were far larger and stronger, manhandling him into submission.

Millen’s body realized the danger he was in, even if he had no idea what was going on. Scent poured from his neck, wrists, and thighs, so powerful that he heard the two people actively trying to wrangle him actually gag. Pheromones drenched the air like the battering rain of a monsoon, all begging for pack and help.

“Fuck, stop it!” One of the attackers choked out, their eyes streaming from the pungent release of hormones. They grabbed at his neck, trying to cover up his glands with one big hand, but Millen was still wriggling wildly, giving high, yawp-like noises. It was an instinctual call for aid, almost exclusively used by betas or omegas, since most alphas could take care of themselves. Millen, however, could not, and at the moment, his lizard brain was not worrying too much about what his secondary gender was.

“Shut him up!” the crackling voice snarled.

Millen had time for one last yelp before a fist slammed against the side of his head and his world went silent.

*  *  *

Millen was forced back to reality abruptly as someone shoved him down into a cold metal chair.

Disoriented, he tried to pull away, but his arms were already being cruelly bound behind the chair, forcing him to lean back to ease the strain on his shoulder joints. “Wha—“

Someone slammed his head back, a hand gripping Millen’s still-hooded jaw. “You speak when spoken to, bitch. You fuckin’ get that, or is your fag brain too scrambled from takin’ dick that you can’t understand me?”

Millen whimpered, trying in vain to hunker down. His breathing came rapid and harsh, the air under the hood having been recycled too many times already.

“I said, did you fuckin’ understand me?” The person cuffed him across the face, making him stifle a grunt of pain. “Answer me!”

Millen’s thoughts were racing, trying to recall every scrap of information on what to do if he was kidnapped… or captured? Were these hostiles? How had they gotten into the base? And why would they target him, of all people, a no-name staff sergeant who was just a xi.

There was another hard cuff, and it nearly broke his nose. “I understand!” The words jolted out of Millen before he could stop them, his heart pattering like a drumbeat against his ribs.

There was silence for a moment. Millen ducked his head, trembling violently, every nerve primed for electric reaction.

Slow footsteps made their way around him, like a predator circling its prey. Millen tried to follow them, angling his head this way and that, but the hood was of a thick weave and prevented him from seeing so much as a single blot of light.

The footsteps stopped directly behind him. Millen was stock-still, scarcely daring to breathe what little oxygen he had left. He felt dizzy and sick, like he was seconds away from losing what little he had eaten for lunch.

“Tell me your name,” the voice growled out. “Full rank and serial number.”

Millen swallowed hard. So he had been captured, not kidnapped. Which meant that it would be treason to give this person any information. If he was rescued, and had broken, he could be given the death penalty at the hands of his own government. But wasn’t there something in the Geneva Convention that specified what he could tell without consequence? He wasn’t sure.

He stayed silent.

“Tell me your name,” repeated the voice, anger and impatience creeping in. “Speak, or I’ll cut out your tongue and make sure you can’t answer a question ever again.”

Millen screwed his eyes shut and willed himself not to whimper. There was a very low likelihood that the person would actually make good on their threat— like they said, if Millen had no tongue, he wouldn’t be able to answer any questions at all, and then they’d get no information out of him, and it would all be a waste of time. If his captor actually got fed up with him, they’d just kill him.

Something nagged in the back of his mind. He was wearing his dog tags when they took him, he always wore his tags. So why didn’t they just look at them to get his name? It would be much easier than trying to bully it out of him.

This train of thought was cut off as the interrogator suddenly pushed Millen’s chair forcibly backwards. There was a brief moment as the seat balanced on two legs before it crashed to the concrete floor. Millen cried out as his arms were pinned beneath his own weight. Admittedly, it wasn’t very much, but it wasn’t comfortable, and the position now put all of the stress on the middle of his back, sending a low, throbbing pressure to build at the base of his spine, where most of his previously injured discs were.

“Useless slag,” spat the interrogator. “You think you’re a tough sonna-bitch? I’ve snapped men twice your size in half. You fuckin’ hear me, rat?”

Millen’s arms were quickly going numb. He was squirming to try and shift positions as best he could. He was shaking uncontrollably, the blood rushing to his head as the vitriolic smell of his distress began to seep out from his scent glands, which were now inflamed and itchy from the excess amounts of hormonal oil that had been produced. It was still oozing down his neck, like an ant creeping across his flesh, and he reflectively rolled his shoulder, trying to swipe the congealing fluid away.

The interrogator was dragging the chair upright again. Millen gave a soft gasp as his back was bent again.

“What unit are you in?” snapped the interrogator. They rattled the chair, causing Millen to be flopped forward and backwards helplessly. “Who’s your commanding officer?”

Millen couldn’t breathe. He was sucking in desperate mouthfuls of air, the cloth hood tight against his lips, his neck thrashing back and forth to try and dislodge the unwanted article.

The interrogator gave a nasty laugh. “Hyperventilating, are you? Go ahead and squirm. Won’t get you anywhere. Come on, bender, can’t catch your breath? Stupid, knot-lickin’ cunt.”

Millen was choking on his own panic. If he had just leaned his head forward to make a larger gap between the hem of the hood and his neck, and calmed his breathing, then more fresh air could have gotten to him, but as he was— blinded, in completely unknown surroundings, and being shouted at and tossed around, he was frightened out of his wits.

He was effectively smothering himself, flailing in the chair, pulling uselessly at the ropes that kept his arms tied. The room was saturated with cortisol and adrenaline.

“Answer me!” The interrogator barked out, again kicking the chair to the ground. “Who is your commanding officer? What unit do you serve under?”

Hot tears streamed down Millen’s face as his chest seemed to seize and pain jolted up his back from the impact. His legs hung limply to the side and his forearms were already blooming with purple bruises where the floor had jammed them between it and the chair.

The interrogator’s steel-toed boot made contact with his shoulder, then his arm, his side, his hip. He howled out at the impact.

He was going to die. They were going to kill him, he knew it. He wished he’d answered the question now.

The interrogator was still cursing him out. “I can make you fall apart. I’ll cut you up so good that the police will be findin’ bits of your body for six months. And you’ll be alive for four of them—“

He didn’t catch the rest of the threat, feeling himself beginning to part from his physical presence in a way that he hadn’t since his parachuting accident, when he would lay in the hospital bed losing hours at a time between blinks. His thoughts emptied, like an old box television turned to an off-the-air channel, grey and cracking with static. He let his mind sever itself from its prison of bones.

*  *  *

His limbs were cold and stiff.

He flexed his fingers, his hands, his toes, but they were slow to move, as if he was trying to slog through molasses. His legs were trembling fiercely, the muscles of his calves on fire, his knees locked. His back was arched, and he only vaguely processed the bone-deep agony in his back and hips.

They had him in a stress position, and yet he could not remember being untied or moved. Judging by the way he was wobbling on the pads of his feet, he had been like that quite awhile.

He felt faint and sickly. The dull thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat whumped steadily in his ears, which were covered with stout headphones blaring urgent noises. His panic was gone, replaced by a heavy detachment from the world around him. The distorted audio feed was just on the closer side of familiar, but he couldn’t decipher the garbling shrieks as speech, though he knew it must be saying something.

His vision was a curtain of darkness. Was the hood still covering his face, or were his eyes closed? He couldn’t make sense of anything, and he was sinking again, losing his brief moment of clarity in a fog of white noise.

*  *  *

Millen gasped for breath as icy water drenched him like a rat fallen into a wintery stream.

His eyes snapped open, LED lights searing into his brain. His pupils constricted into inky pinpricks as he tried to turn his face away from the brightness, only to have gloved hands force him to look straight up and ahead.

His eyes watered and reddened, his narrow chest heaving. There was a coppery taste in his mouth, and he didn’t know if it was blood or if he had vomited. His ears were ringing like church bells tolling out the death knell for a man condemned to swing.

Chaos assaulted his previously offline senses. Someone was screaming at him, then two someones, three, four! Was he seeing doubles, or were they all just wearing the same masks?

He felt like he was a newborn, having been wrenched from the warm darkness and safety of the womb into a noisome world of strangers touching and pulling and all talking over one another. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a hoarse croak escaped him.

His throat was dry with thirst, his tongue feeling swollen and thick in his mouth, as if he had swallowed many spoonfuls of honey. His stomach cramped with fear and hunger. Usually, he could go seven or eight hours between meals without needing more, so had he been trapped in this living hell for that long, or was his functions burning through the calories from lunch faster because of the intense stress his body was being subjected to?

He licked his lips, managing to swipe up some of the water his interrogators had thrown over him. His lips were cracked— he’d bitten them in his struggles, or else worried at them so much as he drifted in a daze that the skin had been split open by his teeth.

His bloodshot eyes darted this way and that, but he could see nothing besides sheer black walls with no windows or decorations. It was a small room, the foundation sitting heavily in a way that suggested it was an old building, more than twenty or thirty years. There were scrapes on the floor, and stains that made Millen’s gut twist to think about what they might be.

His world was spinning. It was the same sensation he had experienced when he was still a young paratrooper, only about six months out of basic training, and had hit his head quite hard during a drill. He had gotten a full week off-duty in case of concussion, and the nurse at the infirmary had felt so sorry for him — because back then, he hadn’t been all that bad-looking, and with a certain sense of duty and confident chivalry that had been rather appealing — that she had offered for them to go out on a date during his next weekend pass. Nothing had ever come of it, but she had been kind and pretty, and it was recalled by Millen as a good, wholesome evening.

Another bucketful of water splashed atop his already soaked head, letting him know that he had again allowed the clutching hands of the clock to scuttle past his awareness to run freely. His curls dripped wetly onto his face and he was beginning to shiver, his skin chilled like that of a hooked fish tossed directly into a cooler from the lake without it having bothered to be clubbed to a merciful death.

He felt something unyielding against his back and realized he had been placed back into a chair. He wasn’t strapped down, likely because he had been completely unreactive for most of his time in the hands of his captors, and they thought it was improbable that he would attempt aggression by that point. He had the sudden, ridiculous urge to ask why he had been released from the stress position. Probably, he had collapsed, fallen over, his legs given out.

He could imagine it. Him, forced into a hybridization of kneeling and squatting, thighs torturously made to bear him fully, his center of balance precariously pivoted onto the front of his feet, and then suddenly just toppling over like he had been nudged by an invisible finger.

He barked out a startled laugh.

The interrogators stopped abruptly. One glanced to the other. There appeared to be some uncertainty.

Millen’s laughter slowly built into a wretched, high-pitched sort of creaking. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Was he mad?

The barrel of a gun was jabbed against the crown of his temples. “Stop laughing! Stop laughing, or I’ll fucking blow your brains out!”

There was a click as the safety was flicked off, but Millen couldn’t stop himself. He was sobbing in mirth, and it was a response of a pure, unfiltered stress that had gone on for too long.

A gunshot cracked right next to his ear, but he still didn’t quiet. One of the interrogators lifted him by the lapels of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. “You think this is funny, you little punk? You think you can just laugh it off, like you’re some kind of big, bad hero? Well, I’ll tell you what, faggot—“ The interrogator towered over him, grinding his face against the hard surface, one hand gripping at his hair. “—you’ve got another goddamn thing coming. You wanna see how tough you are when me and my men are rapin’ your mingin’ hole? Turn you into a proper whore, bet you’d like every second of it, too. Bet you wank off at night thinkin’ of some real man taking you like you’re nothin’ more than a glory hole. That’s all you are, though, innit?”

The interrogator’s hand groped downwards, snagging at the waistband of Millen’s trousers, palm flattened against the xi’s crotch.

Something inside of Millen snapped.

He was on the other person in seconds, teeth trying to find their throat, his fingers scrabbling for the pistol they still held in their hand.

The interrogator yelped, stumbling backwards and then crashing to the ground. Millen went with him, two small, blunt fangs catching against the side of their masked face, tearing through the fabric to sink into the soft cheek-flesh below.

The interrogated cried out, one fist beating against Millen’s side to try and dislodge him and the other keeping the gun as far away as possible from his reach. “Get him off me! Stop the session!”

Millen was too far gone to comprehend what their last sentence’s implications were as his nails scratched at the interrogator’s clothes, finding purchase so that even as the other three scrambled over to try to grab him, he couldn’t be pried off. He bit and bucked like a feral creature, like a fox trapped in its den by the hunter and the dog, and his scent was of things over-ripened, of worm-eaten apples left rotting below the tree or grain fermenting in waterlogged fields when the farmer cannot yield his crop for the rain.

Something sharp and pronged was jammed into his ribs, and Millen’s entire body locked up, electricity coursing through his overtaxed muscles. For several terrible seconds, he was spasming, every part of his body tensed and his nerves alight with white fire. Then the taser was switched off, and he went limp, still clutching the interrogator’s shirt, his legs twitching sporadically and eyes glazed over.

In a last-ditch effort before what he assumed would be his horrific death, he buried his teeth into the arm of one of the interrogator’s arms and clung on with the strength of a snapping turtle.

Hot iron flooded his mouth, smeared over his nose, splattered down his chin, and the interrogator screamed. The taser bit into Millen’s flesh again, this time against his chest, and it felt like his bones were being filled with liquid silver, sparks exploding in front of his eyes.

“Millen! Millen, let go, stop!”

Millen was pulled away from all four ‘interrogators’ and against a lean chest, warm brown hands running up and down his biceps, checking for any injuries. Another set joined in, hefting him to the xi to his feet as he swayed, his legs buckling.

“Fook, get ‘im sitting down,” ordered a distinct Manchester gruff. Millen was looking around in complete bewilderment, whimpering softly, shrinking from the gentle touches, which were a far cry from the rest of the meanness showed to him in that dank, bleak room.

“Millen? Mills, can you hear us?” That was Gaz, his polished London accent achingly familiar. The beta was already unbuttoning Millen’s shirt, exposing bruises flowering like purple allium up his pale olive skin, and twin puncture wounds from where the barbs of the taser had been fired into him. “Come on, love, you’re alright. Breathe, just breathe.”

Millen was still trapped in a state of fight-or-flight, beginning to struggle against Gaz’s hold. “S-stay away from me! Get away!”

Gaz tried to grab Millen’s hands, but the xi was more than terrified, his mind painting Gaz as a trick, an illusion – a threat. It was all still very real, and Millen’s chest and side burned from the shock, his thoughts jumbled into a cacophony of buzzing noise and flashing images that came too fast, as if each frame of what he was experiencing was cranked to extreme high-definition and the contrast was at one hundred percent.

Millen tried to free himself from Gaz’s hold, but a firm palm clasped the xi’s scruff, and he went limp instantly.

Alpha.

The heavy flush of pheromones washed across Millen’s tongue, his mouth open and panting. The familiarity of aged cigars and whiskey, played over the natural heat and salt of a pack alpha’s dominance that reminded Millen of a cedar forest on a hot July day.

Millen whined softly, his own scent opening up in invitation, like the petals of a torch ginger unfurling for the vibrant sunrise over the hills of Princípe. Strong, calloused hands cupped his face and thumbed over the bruises painting his cheekbone and nose where he had been struck.

“Settle, son. It’s over.”

“Captain?” Millen managed to ask, his voice cracking in the middle. “I don’t— I don’t understand—“

Gaz came into focus, with Ghost standing behind him like a second shadow. “RTI, mate. Resistance to Interrogation. It was a staged exercise.”

Millen was starting to quiver again. His brain felt like it was melting as he fought to make sense of the information he was being given. “But the— they just showed up, and I was— I was going to the range—“

“That’s what Laswell was phoning Price about,” Gaz explained, his expression sympathetic. “To confirm that you were ready. When Price told her yes, I texted him that you were heading down to the shooting range, and then he got back to Laswell so she could tell the guys pretending to be hostiles where to nab you. You put up a pretty good fight for being outnumbered three to one and unarmed.”

“He could have done better,” Ghost disagreed. He was frowning behind his balaclava. “Don’t give him credit just for being able to send out a scent-based distress call. It doesn’t work worth a dime if the pack’s not nearby.”

Gaz shot the lieutenant a glare, as if reminding him just how psychologically taxing RTI training could be. Ghost, however, just grunted, rolled his shoulders, and lumbered out of the room along with the rest of the actors. One of the ‘interrogators’ was still clutching his arm where Millen had bitten him.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Gaz turned back to Millen, turning his face this way and that, inspecting the mild damage. “I know it’s a lot to take in, man, but you’ll feel a lot better after a hot shower and some sleep. You’ve been in here for about fifty-six hours.”

Even in the state he was in, math remained one of Millen’s few strong suits, and he repeated the information, his voice faint. He could remember all of less than thirty or forty minutes. “Two and a half days?”

“Almost, yeah,” confirmed Gaz, as Price slowly helped Millen to stand again, supporting some of his weight so the xi didn’t fall again.

“Let’s get you back to base, see if the infirmary won’t check you out,” the captain said, urging Millen forward on jellied legs. “Bet you could use a paracetamol right about now. Stress positions are hell on the joints.”

Millen allowed himself to be numbly led down a short hallway and out into a yard of dead grass confined in by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. There was a guard stationed at a small gate, though they quickly allowed the quartet — because Ghost had joined them again now — to pass through to the gravel road beyond, where a mud-splashed Jeep was waiting.

Price claimed the driver’s seat, with Ghost in shotgun beside him. Gaz loaded Millen into the back, where there was a bottle of vitamin water and a protein bar waiting, both of which the beta slid into Millen’s noodle-strengthed fingers. “Here, you need to eat and drink something. I know you probably don’t feel like eating right now, but try for at least a few bites, okay?”

Millen just stared down at the plastic bottle. There was a picture of a happy stick-person on the label. He didn’t feel very happy himself.

Something wet dripped down onto his wrist. For a moment, he thought that maybe the bottle had sprung a leak, until he registered the tears slipping down his face. He hadn’t realized he’d began to cry.

Gaz’s gaze softened. He reached out to brush the tears from Millen’s cheeks. “Hey, no, don’t. It’s okay. It was all just… pretend. It was a test. You did good!”

Millen just shook his head, pulling away from Gaz’s touch. He’d thought he was going to be killed. He’d been put in a situation where he was made to believes he’d been kidnapped by people who would harm him, would torture him, and left there for almost three days without food, water, or sleep. Even in disassociation, those vital needs being ignored, even denied, took a tremendous toll.

How was it legal? It wasn’t ethical. It was manipulation, it was fear factoring, like placing a rabbit in a cage and having a hawk be allowed to swoop back and forth overhead, so that the poor trapped creature has no choice but to feel the shadow of its greatest predator wash over it again and again. The rabbit knows it must run when the skies darken under the beat of the hawk’s wings, but the wire mesh prevents its instincts from being fulfilled.

Millen never agreed to that, never wanted that. He was shaking and sweating, the space behind his eyes aching with the promise of a migraine.

Shame curdled in his belly. He had been such a coward, cringing away from reality to hide in his own head. He hadn’t been brave or defiant like he should have been.

He didn’t deserve to be called an alpha. He was no more courageous than a pup. He would never be anything more than the miserable thing he was now, weeping over a danger that had never existed in the first place. He could bet that Ghost hadn’t cried, and certainly not Price. Soap would have laughed in the face of the interrogators and told them to go fuck themselves. Gaz would have followed protocol down to the letter and stared into space, preserving his own dignity in a way that Millen hadn’t even attempted to.

It had taken the xi up to the point of gross sexual groping to finally try and fight back. How much further would he have allowed the actor to go if he’d been just a little deeper into his head? How far would the actors themselves have went if Millen had continued to take the abuse meekly?

The fact that he didn’t know scared him.

Homemade face masks have never felt quite comfortable to me. They’re always either too damp or too sticky and seem to cling to my face in the worst way. 

I’m currently fighting the urge to dry heave as Bee gleefully starts slathering on the concoction she’s created all over my face. It’s a bit watery, and though the scent isn’t exactly offensive, it’s not quite pleasant either.

After everything that happened last night, Red had firmly declared today an official omega self-care day. There were no arguments from me and the other girls, we all needed it.

The alphas had returned a while after we’d locked ourselves in the old den, and even though we knew we were safe, none of us wanted to chance venturing back to our rooms again. The idea that someone might have been watching us was enough to leave all of us rattled.

None of us had slept well, either. There was too much tossing and turning, too many restless sighs and quiet reassurances in the dark. So, the idea of taking it slow and taking care of each other was met with little resistance. 

We ended up turning the rec room into a giant nest. Blankets, pillows, skincare products, nail polish, and snacks are spread out across the large couch and the floor below it.

Music hums gently in the background, soft and familiar. Red is getting some more snacks in the kitchen, and Bun is sprawled out amongst the pillows.

Bee finishes putting the mask on me with a flourish. “Ok, just wait like five minutes and then we can take it off.”

I make a noise of understanding, not wanting to chance anything getting in my mouth when I hear Red coming back from the kitchen.

“Got a plate of some fruits and veggies.”

“Oh! Cucumbers, perfect,” Bee chirps, grabbing two and placing them on my eyes.

I do my best to hold back my laugh, my mouth twitching as I fight the urge.

“Those were meant to be eaten, but I’m sure that’s fine,” Red teases.

Bun munches on something crunchy, probably nuts. “Does that really work? Cucumbers on your eyes?”

“I dunno,” Bee says with a little giggle. “But it doesn’t feel bad, right?”

I shrug my shoulders, giving very small nods. 

“See? Boo’s in paradise.”

A puff of breath escapes my nose, and the girls break into giggles.

The tension that lingered from last night is mostly gone, which is probably why Bee feels more comfortable asking her next question.

“Look… I know we’re not supposed to be talking about last night… But can we just talk about how hot it was to see our alphas in action?” I can hear the smile spread across Bee’s mouth as she talks.

I quirk a brow.

“Bee…” Red warns gently.

Bun’s quick to chime in. “No, but she’s so right. You should have seen the way Kyle just leaped into action. He didn’t even flinch. One second we hear the bang, the next he’s out the door with his boots half on.”

Bee giggles. “Johnny nearly took out the doorframe trying to grab his gear. His shirt wasn’t even all the way on.”

Red snorts. “You guys are hopeless.”

Bee leans closer to Red. “Oh, come on. Like you didn’t think it was hot that Price had control in like two seconds flat. I swear, he was halfway through giving orders before I could even process what was happening.”

Bun sighs dreamily. “It’s the competence for me.”

“It’s the voice for me,” Bee says. “Johnny could tell me the house was on fire with that tone he was using, and I’d say thank you.”

They all laugh again, and I can’t help but smile. It’s nice, this easy warmth between us.

“You’re all ridiculous,” Red says, fondness lacing her tone.

“But you’re not disagreeing,” Bun teases.

I can practically hear Red’s eye roll. “Fine. Maybe it was a little hot to see him go full ‘Captain’ mode.”

“Knew it!” Bee shouts triumphantly. Bun and her giggle before the attention gets turned onto me. 

“What I really want to know,” Bee says slyly, “is why Boo smelt particularly… perfumy, last night.”

I reach up to remove one of the cucumber slices from my eye so that I can glare at her properly.

“Probably the same reason I was,” Bun says with a bit of a blush. 

We were all surprised to find a mating mark on her neck this morning. She apparently hid it last night, not wanting to stir up any more drama. Even more surprising, Red was extremely supportive, not reacting at all like she had with Bee’s mark. 

Red gives Bun a warm smile. “It’s good to see you happy.”

“Thanks,” Bun murmurs, fingers brushing over the mark as her smile grows.

A timer goes off, and just as Bee starts to tell me that I can rinse off the mask, I’m up on my feet and bolting to the kitchen.

I have to admit, my face does feel a lot smoother, but God was that a test of patience. I don’t know how the girls don’t go stir crazy doing that. But then again, there are a lot of things they feel comfortable doing that I’m still getting used to.

When I return, freshly rinsed and patting my face with a towel, the girls are staring at me expectantly.

I narrow my eyes at them. “What?”

Bee leans in with a knowing smirk. “We’re waiting for the tea, babe. Don’t keep us hanging, we could literally smell it on you.”

I sigh and flop down on the couch. “It’s all Gaz’s fault, really.”

Bun sits up straighter. “What? What did he do?”

I shake my head with a fond smile. “That jersey he got me? Arsenal. Not Man U.”

Gasps all around.

“Scandalous,” Bee whispers, mock-horrified.

“How’d he take it?” Bun asks.

I huff a laugh. “Not well. Demanded I take it off right then and there.”

Bee’s grin turns wicked. “And…? Did you?”

I slowly shake my head. “Told him if he wanted it off, he had to take it off himself.”

Matching squeals come from Bee and Bun. 

“No wonder you were so perfumy,” Bee says slyly.

I grab a handful of cashews before leaning back into the couch with a smirk. “Nah,” I say casually. “That was because he was seconds away from eating me out when all hell broke loose last night.”

Red, mid-sip of her tea, chokes. Bee and Bun let out matching shrieks of scandalized delight.

“You’re evil for dropping that so casually,” Red coughs, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

I grin. “Just returning the favor. Y’all were circling me like sharks.”

Bee waves a hand. “Can you blame us? Boo, this is the juiciest catch we’ve had all week.”

Bun giggles behind her hands, still blushing, and Red shakes her head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

The sounds of footsteps pull our attention toward the doorway. Ghost steps in, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on us lounging comfortably.

“Ghost!” Bee chirps, sitting up straighter with an excited grin. “You’re just in time for gossip and face masks.”

I roll my eyes and give her a light shove, sending her tumbling into the cushions with a burst of giggles.

“Ignore her,” I say with a lazy drawl. “What’s up?”

He steps further into the room, his tac gear standing out against the piles of fluff and pillows below him. “Price wanted me to check in on you all,” he says matter-of-factly. “How’s everyone holding up?”

“We’re doing fine,” Red reports dutifully. Ghost’s eyes land on me, as if he’s trying to validate that claim for himself.

I meet his gaze and offer a small nod, trying to ignore the way it makes my chest flutter. “Yeah, we’re doing a lot better now.”

He gives a grunt of acknowledgement, but I know him well enough now to know there’s a hint of doubt in his tone.

Bee leans up over the back of the couch, chin propped on her hand, and grins at him. “You know, if you’re here, it’s only fair you contribute to the gossip pile. Got any juicy confessions? Secret obsessions? Oh! Maybe the reason behind why you wear the mask?”

Ghost raises an unimpressed brow. “I came to check on you lot. Not volunteer for interrogations.”

“That’s the same thing in this pack,” Red quips with a smirk, sipping from her tea.

“C’mon,” Bee presses, undeterred. “You can’t be the mysterious broody one forever. This is a safe space. No judgement.”

He crosses his arms, clearly amused but playing it cool. “Pass.”

Bun pipes up with a teasing lilt. “Oh, that definitely means yes. He’s probably just super embarrassed.”

“Exactly,” I say, smirking. “Classic deflection.”

He tilts his head slightly in my direction, voice low with mock betrayal. “Thought you were supposed to be on my side.”

Bee jumps to my defense. “Nope! She knows it’s pack before peen,” she says with a playful shrug. “Sorry, Ghost, rules are rules.”

I chuckle. “You heard her. Pack before peen.”

Bee cackles. “See! Just give it up. Confess something mildly embarrassing, you know you want to.”

He sighs, dramatic and long, but there’s a glint of something warm in his eyes as he glances at each of us.

“Fine.” He takes a moment to think before softly confessing, “I like to watch those baking competition shows.”

A beat of stunned silence passes through the room.

“No!” Bee gasps. “You do not!”

“I bet you have a favorite contestant, don’t you?” Bun grins, eyes wide with glee.

“Oh, oh! I bet he cries when someone drops a cake,” Bee adds, barely able to contain her laughter.

“Never said that,” Ghost mutters, with a small hint of annoyance. His posture is relaxed despite the teasing, and I bet if he wore just his balaclava instead of the full skull, we’d be able to see some slight pink peeking out. 

There’s a quiet sort of acceptance from him, and I can’t help but adore the way he acts with the other girls. He fits in with them in a way I never expected him to. Stoic, but softened by the atmosphere they produce.

“Stay for tea?” I offer, voice softer now.

His eyes meet mine again, and he gives a small nod. “Yeah. I got time for a cuppa.”

I push to my feet, making my way to the kitchen. Behind me, the girls are still gleefully tormenting him. Bee’s voice rises above the others. “Okay, but sponge cake or shortbread, Ghost? Be honest. This is important.”

Bun jumps in without missing a beat. “Do you root for the underdog or the one with flawless piping skills?”

Ghost’s low replies are a mix of amused resistance and reluctant participation. Every answer earns him fresh laughter and playful encouragement from the girls.

I can’t help but smile as I listen from the kitchen, carefully preparing his tea the way I’ve seen him do it before. I stir slowly, taking my time just so I can hear a little more of the banter before making my way back to the couch.

When I finally pass him the mug, his fingers brush mine.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. It’s barely above a whisper, but it sends a warmth blooming in my chest all the same.

“‘Course,” I reply with a small smile.

He lifts up his mask just enough to take a sup of tea, the motion practiced and effortless. A soft hum escapes him, making my omega preen.

“If you don’t mind… I’ve wanted to know,” Bee begins, her voice tentative but curious, “why do you wear the mask?”

Without missing a beat, Ghost responds, “To hide my face.”

I try and fail to suppress a breathy laugh as I lower myself back into the nest of blankets and pillows. 

Bee rolls her eyes. “Ok, yeah. No duh. But what’s the real reason?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“He’s wanted in twenty different countries,” I jump in, my voice completely serious. “He’s too handsome, it causes some serious international affairs.”

Bun lets out a snort before slapping a hand over her mouth. Red tries to swallow her smile, but I catch it as she hides it behind her mug.

“I mean, have you seen that jawline? A major weapon of mass destruction,” I continue.

“We were talking about his face, not your thirst levels,” Red chimes in.

I can’t help but belly laugh as Bee cackles like a mad woman.

Ghost just shakes his head, clearly amused. “No comment,” he mutters, but his mask moves in a way that I can tell he’s smiling underneath. 

I’m surprised when Ghost kisses my cheek before he heads back to work for the day. The girls erupt immediately, cooing and clucking like a flock of hens. I wave them off with a roll of my eyes as a blush creeps up my face. 

We settle into the rest of the afternoon, continuing our self-care plans from the morning. We paint each other’s nails, watch an old movie, and treat ourselves to hair masks that leave the air smelling faintly of coconut and rosemary.

Eventually, Bun and Bee doze off, draped in blankets and tangled in each other like kittens in a sunbeam. I catch Red’s eye, and she gives me a subtle nod of permission, already knowing what I was going to ask. I slip out of the nest and head to my room to shower, grateful for the quiet.

The warm water seems to help settle the last remnants of my nerves. I take my time washing my hair and end up scrubbing every inch of my skin. After toweling off, I pulled on one of Ghost’s shirts and pair it with some comfortable panties before turning my attention to the items I bought for the room.

Inspired by our nest in the living room, I allow myself to let my instincts take over for a bit as I slowly start to decorate. The room starts to take shape around me, little by little.

I pause briefly at one point to blow dry my hair, but then I’m back to placing items around the room in a steady rhythm. 

When I finally take a step back, I can hardly believe the transformation. 

A plush rug sprawls across the center of the room, dulling the unforgiving concrete and grounding the room in warmth. Bins and buckets are now strategically placed, taming the chaos and bringing in a sense of order to everything.

The warmth of everything makes it feel a lot more like home. The fall air has been biting a lot harsher lately, so this cocoon of warmth feels like a pleasant escape. My omega hums contentedly, soothed by the homey feel of everything. 

Home. This is home.

Just as the first tendrils of scent start to waft from the candle I’ve lit, the door opens. The soft creak startles me, and I’m quick to spin around. A familiar mask stares back at me.

“Oh,” I breathe, placing a hand over my chest. “You spooked me.”

Ghost murmurs a quiet apology as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. His presence fills the space with a heat all its own.

“I wasn’t expecting you back so early,” I say with a shy smile. My hands drift behind my back as I take a small step backward, trying to manage the sudden flutter in my chest.

“Was able to get some things taken care of early today,” he replies. His voice seems far more enticing than normal, almost rougher.

“Feels nice in here,” he comments, looking over my work.

“Thanks,” I respond back with a soft smile.

His gaze locks onto me, and his head tilts slightly as he takes me in.

“That mine?” he asks, pointing toward me.

I glance down, looking at the way his shirt hangs loosely off of me. 

“Yeah,” I murmur, the corners of my mouth tugging up just a little more. “Smelled like you.” 

He hums happily before he starts removing his gear. I step forward to collect each piece, carefully placing them in their newly designated spots. He seems to watch me as I do it, as if cataloguing where to put things in the future.

As I hang up the last piece of his gear in the closet, I feel him come up behind me. A strong arm wraps around my middle, drawing me back against him. His masked face slowly lowers down, nestling into the crook of my neck. I freeze for a heartbeat, then melt.

“We got interrupted last night,” he murmurs, voice edged with longing. “Been thinking about you since.”

My throat tightens, suddenly dry. “Me too,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

He presses a trail of light, masked kisses along my neck before spinning me to face him. His eyes meet mine, and I see just how raw and hungry he is. I reach up to cup his jaw, my thumb brushing along the curve of his cheek despite the barrier of his mask.

I lean forward and bury my face in the side of his neck. I breathe in deep, letting the intoxicating blend lightly numb my senses. 

A gloved hand comes up, cradling the back of my head, encouraging me to take more of his scent in. A soft sound escapes my throat as I clutch at his shirt. Ghost groans low, deep in his chest, as if I’m dragging the sound out of him.

His hands slide down to the back of my thighs, and then I’m being lifted, as if I weigh nothing. I squeak, my arms quickly scrambling to secure themselves around his neck. He chuckles as he swings us around and takes the few steps over to the bed. 

He lays me down gently, as if I’m something delicate and treasured. He hovers above me for a moment, eyes searching mine as if asking a silent question. I answer by reaching up, cupping his jaw again.

He lets out a slow breath and leans down, forehead pressing to mine.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low with restraint. His body trembles slightly, a testament to how much he’s actually holding himself back. My fingers roam over his tense back, greedily admiring the sculpted muscle.

I press him closer to me, nodding. “I want you.”

That seems to be all he needs. The air between us changes, suddenly charged with everything we’d been forced to put on hold last night. He kisses me through the mask, his mouth dragging over mine with desperation and restraint. 

His body presses into mine, heat radiating off of him in waves. He takes off his gloves before one hand slides up under the hem of the shirt I stole from him. Calloused fingers trace the soft skin underneath, shooting sparks of pleasure through me. His hands tremble slightly, making my chest clench.

“You okay?” I whisper.

“Tryin’ to behave,” he tells me hoarsely. “But you make it hard.”

A genuine smile tugs at my lips before it morphs into something deeper, more primal. “I trust you.”

Something in him cracks, I can see it in the way the tension in his body lessens. He starts mouthing at me through the mask, down my body. 

His kisses are soft and hot and everywhere. I lean into every single one, loving the way he has my body responding. 

My shirt gets lifted up and over my head, getting discarded onto the floor next to us. I waste no time evening the playing field, fingers fumbling with urgency as I tug at his shirt and all but rip it off of him.

There’s a flicker of hesitation from him when my eyes land on his bare chest. There are scars all over him. The longest one curves just beneath his pec, angry and deep. My omega responds instinctively, something protective and tender coiling in my gut.

I lean up and press my tongue against the scar, tracing it with a hunger I didn’t know I possessed. 

His breath catches. 

I look up at him, eyes wide and full of feeling. I’m sure from his side of things, there must be hearts floating in them. I’m overwhelmed by how much I want him. Not just his body or his touch. 

Him.

“Mine,” I whisper, voice hoarse and raw.

He shudders, muscles tightening beneath my hands.

Then his gaze locks onto my mouth. He goes still, too still, pupils dilating as something raw flickers in his eyes

“Fuckin’ hell, Boo…”

My stomach drops as I realize what he’s looking at.

I snap my mouth shut like I’ve been burned.

My teeth. He’s seen my teeth.

I’ve been so careful up until this point, I let my guard down for one second, and now he knows.

Shame floods me, immediately making my face hot. I turn away, hand flying up like I can hide what he’s already seen.

“Boo.”

I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. I can control it, I swear… they just drop when my blood gets pumping. I—”

“Boo.”

His voice is firmer, more commanding now. It stops me dead in my tracks.

He leans in close, slowly moving my arm from my face. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, I do. My eyes water instinctively, expecting to find disgust in his eyes.

But it’s not there.

He cups my chin, his thumb brushing slowly over the bottom of my lips. I flinch, instinct telling me to pull away. But he doesn’t let me go. He presses just enough that my mouth parts, trembling as it opens up for him. 

I watch him as he gets an eyeful of my trauma. 

“Jesus,” he breathes, like he’s looking at something sacred.

I tense. “I’m sorry I—”

“Beautiful.”

His comment short-circuits my brain. I blink, completely stunned. “What?”

He leans down, his mouth brushing against the edge of mine. “They’re beautiful.” 

“You’re lying,” my voice cracks.

He rocks his hips against me. “Does this seem like I’m lying?”

My breath catches as I feel his hard length press against me. There’s the shuffle of fabric I’ve come to know as him putting his mask up over his nose.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, mouth trailing along my jaw. “You keep finding new ways to ruin me.”

I shiver beneath him, unsure if it’s from fear or desire. It’s crazy how easily the two blur in his hands and how crazy I seem to be for it.

His eyes are dark as they stare at me and my flaws with a reverence that has my heart aching. 

Is this what he just saw from me?

Why does he make me feel so new, so different? What is this?

“You with me, love?” he asks. The rough edge of his voice has lessened, and I realize just how much I had been spacing out.

“Yes… Yeah… Sorry. I’m good… Real good.”

He mouths at my collarbone, making me gasp. “Need me to stop?” he asks.

I shake my head, barely able to speak. “No. Just… don’t look at me like I’m broken.”

He trails kisses lower, down my chest, down my ribs. My breath catches as his lips find my stomach, and I realize where he’s going. 

His hands slide down my thighs, slow and certain. “I don’t.”

He presses a kiss just above my core. “You’re not.”

Another, lower. “You’re perfect.”

Ghost spreads me open and settles between my thighs like he belongs there. He inhales deeply, like I’m his only source of oxygen. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, I can see just how desperate he is to be here.

“You smell like mine,” he growls.

He goes still, eyes flying open like the words shocked him as much as they shocked me. It wasn’t Ghost who said it. Not really.

That was his alpha.

I don’t flinch, don’t pull away.

Something in me answers.

Like we’re made of matching instincts. I’ve never felt anything like it before. But I don’t want it to stop. 

I was this. Want to be his.

My head tips back as a whine slips past my lips. My eyes screw shut as heat coils in my core.

“Please,” I gasp, barely recognizing my own voice. The plea is torn from somewhere deep. 

He responds with the first, hesitant drag of his tongue against me.

I jerk slightly in surprise. Not from discomfort, quite the opposite. I jerk from how much it is all at once. Too soft, too much, all at the same time.

He growls softly, more instinct than thought, as he grips my thighs with both hands. He drags me flush against his mouth like he can’t get close enough.

My hands fly to the top of his mask, fingers scrambling for something to hold on to. I can’t pull his hair, but I don’t care.

I just need him.

His tongue moves with purpose now.

It’s broad and hot as he licks flat against my folds. It’s slow at first, almost as if he’s savoring every lick. 

When he reached my clit, everything sharpens. His tongue shifts to something more precise. He tests different strokes, different pressures, studying my reactions.

He’s learning me. Fast.

What makes me cry out, what makes my legs tremble. I don’t have time to be embarrassed when he finds it, when he gets me melting like putty under his attention. It’s too good. 

That perfect rhythm sends my spine arching and my mouth falling open in a wordless moan. I can feel the slick heat between my thighs, how completely and utterly soaked he’s got me. 

He groans against me, and the vibration makes my thighs twitch. He turns all of his attention to my clit, making the coil tighten quicker than I’d ever admit. 

I’m so caught up in the feeling that I don’t feel his finger until it’s already deep in me. I jerk, hips bucking in shock, but his arm tightens around my thigh, holding me right there.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he growls into me, voice all grit and heat. “I’ve got you.”

He does. God, he so does. 

A low, breathless moan tumbles out of me as my hips roll against his mouth, helpless and aching. He groans like this is all he’s ever wanted. Like the heat of me clutching around his finger is a gift he’s been starving for.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself.

His lips brush my clit with every word.

“So perfect. So wet and tight around me already…”

My bails dig into the fabric of his mask, but it’s not enough. My hands fly to the sheets, desperately clawing and twisting at the fabric.

My whole body trembles as he works his finger in slow, measured strokes, matching his tongue perfectly. It’s like he’s easing me open, savoring the way I grip and tense around him.

The stretch of his second finger has me seeing stars.

My mouth drops open in a silent gasp as I’m forced to take the explosion of pleasure it brings me.

The second fills me more. It’s just shy of too much, but his pace stays careful. I can feel his eyes burning into me as his tongue drags tight, slow circles over my clit.

The coil inside of me winds impossibly tighter, and I can’t keep still.

My legs tremble. My hips jerk despite his grip. Every slow thrust of his fingers sends another shockwave crashing through me, stealing what little breath I have left.

“Ghost,” I sob, choking on the pleasure. “Ghost, I—”

“No.”

He stops, growls low and sharp.

My haze shatters. I blink hard, breath catching as I look down at him.

“Not Ghost. Say my name.”

My pulse skips. My mind's too blank to remember.

He seems to catch my struggle and helps me out.

“Simon,” he tells me. “When you fall apart around my fingers, call me Simon.”

Something in me shatters.

“Simon,” I whimper, the name slipping out of me like a prayer. “Simon, please, I-”

He starts sliding his fingers in and out of me again, cutting me off.

“There you go,” he murmurs, voice low and dark with approval.

He’s quick to work me up again. Just as quickly as before, the coil inside me gets tighter and tighter. 

He hits the angle that has me seeing stars, squeezing and gripping around his fingers. His tongue twirls and presses oh so perfectly around my clit, amplifying every stroke and thrust of his fingers.

“Simon…” I cry out. “Simon…”

It seems to be the only thing I can manage to say now. 

“Beautiful,” he hums around my clit. The praise, the warmth of his breath, the way his fingers press up into me, oh so well, are just what I need to fall right off the edge.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “There’s my sweet omega. It’s ok. Let go.”

I do.

The orgasm washes over me like a wave breaking over my skin. I can’t help the sound that leaves me, helpless as my body locks up and trembles, clenching around his fingers. 

The world around me shatters. It feels like I’ve been broken apart and haven’t quite been reassembled yet.

His name falls from my lips again and again.

“Simon. Fuck. Simon!”

It’s like it’s all I’ve ever learned to say.

He just holds his fingers deep in me as I ride out the waves and soak his hand with every pulse. Aftershocks ripple through me in slow, gentle pulses.

My chest heaves, skin slick with sweat. My hands fall limp at my sides, fingers aching from how hard I had been gripping the sheets.

As my mind slowly starts to stitch itself back together, I realize he hasn’t moved. He’s still between my thighs, cheek resting against the softest part of me like he was made to be there.

He breathes in deep like he’s grounding himself in me. It’s as if I’m the one keeping his inner demons at bay.

A breath shudders out of me.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

He shifts slightly, lifting his head just enough for me to catch the glint of his eyes from behind the mask.

“You with me?”

His voice is low and rough, but still laced with warmth. It sends a fresh shiver through me.

I nod weakly. My limbs feel boneless, like he’s wrung me dry in the best way.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m here.”

He lets out a soft huff of laughter, trailing a hand up my thigh. When he finally eases his fingers out, I whimper at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to overdo it.”

“You didn’t,” I rush to say. “You didn’t. Just… holy hell.”

I see the way his chest rises, obviously very proud and pleased with my reaction.

I smile, warmth stirring in my chest as he shifts to hover over me again. His tongue swipes over his lips, slow and unhurried, before he reaches for the edge of his mask and pulls it down into place. 

“Your turn,” I whisper, voice still raw from moaning out his name.

His eyes flicker.

“You don’t have to,” he says immediately, though the rasp in his voice betrays him. “Didn’t do it for payback. Just wanted to taste you, make you feel good.”

“I know.”

I lean up, pressing a kiss to the edge of his mask. My scent lingers from behind it, making me smirk.

“But I want to make you feel good, too.”

His hands twitch on the sheets, and I watch his jaw tighten.

“Please,” I whisper to him, a bit breathless. “Let me make you feel good.”

That’s all it takes. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath, then shifts us gently so I’m the one between his legs.

He helps me ease his pants down, leaving him in nothing but his dark boxers. My eyes go wide.

He’s… huge.

His cock is straining against his boxers, it almost looks painful. Against my better judgment, I hook my fingers into the waistband and tug his boxers down. His cock springs free, bobbing from the release.

“Jesus, Simon…”

He chuckles softly, mostly smug with a hint of shyness.

“Bigger than your standard issue,” he says, voice rough with humor. “But I don’t think you’ll mind.”

I reach for him, wrapping my fingers around the base. 

God, he makes my hand look so small. 

It’s not the length that gets me. It’s the girth. 

My pulse stutters and my cheeks flush with nervousness.

“I don’t know if I can…” I whisper, eyes flicking to his.

He freezes. His expression shifts, something primal flashing deep in his gaze. He looks like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got.

“It’s alright,” he says softly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. I won’t ever push you.”

“No, I want to,” I rush to insist. “I’ve just… I’ve never been with someone quite this… big before. Might not be as good as I’d like it to be.”

He exhales, long and shaky. Like the relief physically hurts.

“Love…” he groans. “Whatever you give me, it’s already more than enough.”

His words loosen something in my chest. 

I nod, feeling a bit emboldened, and start stroking him slowly. 

His hands grab the sheets instantly, knuckles turning white.

“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth.

His hips twitch, abs tightening with every pass of my hand.

“Am I hurting you?” I ask, pausing. The tension in his body has me worried.

“No,” he groans. “God, no, sweetheart. Just…”

I can see his jaw clenching below the mask.

“Tryin’ real hard to behave.” 

That makes me smile, knowing it’s his turn to fall apart. 

I keep my stroke slow, taking my time. I do my best to learn every inch of him like he’s learned every inch of me. 

He’s hot in my hand, thick and heavy. It takes a few tries to find the right rhythm and the right grip to stroke him fully. 

“Fuckin’ hell…”

His voice sends a flutter straight to my core, making me braver.

I lean down and kiss the sharp edge of his hip, just above my hand.

He jolts.

“Shit…”

A smirk tugs at my lips.

I turn my head and kiss along the length of him, lips wrapping gently around his curve. I let my lips linger, teasing him as my kisses turn sloppier. 

I’m all but drooling around his cock, slicking him up, and making every stroke smoother.

“Love…” he rasps, voice fraying at the seams. “What are you doing to me, sweetheart…”

I hum against him, and he jerks. His hips twitch up into my mouth.

“Like it when you call me that,” I murmur, lips brushing against his skin. 

My eyes flick to his, watching his chest heave with restraint.

“And as for what I’m doing?” I grin. “I’m just showing you how much I like you.”

His head tips back, a groan escaping him.

My hand picks up pace, thumb sweeping over the tip to gather the slick that’s already leaking out. He twitches beneath me, so sensitive now it’s almost like every stroke pushes him closer to breaking.

I press a kiss to the underside of his cock, then another near the base. I keep stroking him slowly and steadily, making all my moves deliberate. 

Flattening my tongue, I drag it from the base to the tip. I let drool gather in my mouth, just to let it spill over onto his cock.

His whole body tenses when I twist my wrist just right. My strokes are more confident, especially since I can see how much he unravels from all of this.

“Jesus, love…” he gasps. “Don’t stop.”

I don’t.

I keep stroking, pressing warm kisses against the side of him. 

I play with him a little, enjoying just how much control I have over him in this moment. 

I can tell when he gets close. His thighs lightly tremble, and his breath catches. I ease up, just a little, so he can catch his breath. Then I’m back on him, kissing and stroking him in a way that sends him careening towards the edge again.

His hands leave the sheets for just a second, reaching for me before stopping themselves. His fingers curl into fists at his sides instead.

He’s shaking now, his whole body trembling from restraint.

I ease up and press another kiss to his hip.

“You can let go,” I murmur. “I got you.”

That’s all it takes.

A deep groan tears from his chest, hips bucking as I tighten my grip and stroke him faster.

“I’m… f-fuck, love…”

His voice shatters. “I’m gonna—”

And then he does.

He comes with a hoarse moan, body bowing up off the mattress as he spills hot and heavy across my hand and his stomach. His breath catches in broken gasps as release pulses from him in thick, needy spurts. 

I stroke him through it, gentler now, easing him down from the high, just like he did for me.

He collapses with a ragged breath, blinking up at the ceiling like he’s forgotten where he is, or who he is.

“You okay?” I ask softly, my hand resting lightly on his chest.

He tilts his head down, eyes dark and soft, absolutely gone.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked behind his mask.

Pride blooms in my chest like wildfire.

I did that.

I made my alpha fall apart.

I smile and wipe my hand on the sheet, mentally adding laundry to tomorrow’s to-do list. I slide up the bed and press my body against his side. He wraps an arm around me immediately, pulling me close.

“Glad I could be of service,” I tease, voice light but warm.

Something tugs deep in my chest, a pull I can’t ignore. I melt against him, nuzzling into the curve of his neck and breathing in the scent of sweat, sex, and Simon. Before I even realize I’m doing it, a purr rumbles from my throat.

He answers with a sound of his own.

A soft chuff that short-circuits my brain.

Every nerve in my body lights up with pure, unfiltered joy. I’ve never had an alpha chuff at me before. It feels like his alpha is calling out directly to my omega. My heart flutters as I melt into his chest, a soft smile curling across my lips.

Eventually, we decide to peel away from each other and quickly rinse off before venturing into the rec room in search of food. 

As we walk into the rec room, we’re met with a wall of silence. 

It’s a little awkward, but I decide to focus on the kitchen instead. Thankfully, it seems that they’ve ordered in for dinner, so I make my way over to the food and start making plates for Simon and myself. 

Someone lowers the TV volume, and I swear I can feel everyone’s eyes burning into my back. I spin around with two full plates to, sure enough, see the rest of the pack staring at us.

Bee catches my eye, and a wide smile stretches across her face. I give a slight eye roll, and she elbows Bun, who bites her lips and grins in response.

Ignoring them, I carry the two plates over to the dinner table and take a seat with Simon sitting next to me. He doesn’t seem to be reacting to anything, an air of indifference wafting from him.

By the time I go to take my first bite, Bee is practically vibrating.

“Okay, no. I can’t take this. What happened?” she blurts.

I freeze.

“You’ve got the look,” Bee continues, waving her hand up and down. “The flushed cheeks, dazed smile, the slightly messed up hair…”

“Bee!” Bun gasps, surprised by how blunt she’s being.

“What?” Bee asks, wild-eyed. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong!”

I feel my face catch fire. Simon just lets out a small, noncommittal grunt and takes another bite like nothing is happening. 

“We were… talking,” I mutter.

“Uh-huh,” Bee says, not buying it for a second. “Were you talking with your mouth or…”

“Bee!” Red’s voice cuts in. She does her best to control the conversation, but I can see her stifling her smile.

Soap snickers from the couch. “No complaints here,” he says. “If Ghost’s less growly now, we all win.”

Simon finally speaks, low and calm.

“You keep talkin’, Soap, and I’ll be growlin’ just for you.”

The couch erupts into laughter.

I drop my face into my hands, grumbling.

Simon leans over slightly, voice just for me.

“I’ll always growl for you, sweetheart.”

“Simon!” I hiss, cheeks really blazing now. 

The room goes dead silent.

The other alphas’ heads swivel towards us like we just dropped a bomb.

“Did she just…?” Soap starts, eyes wide.

“She did. I heard it,” Gaz confirms.

Bun’s looking around, trying to figure out what just happened. Bee’s quick to jump in to explain. “She just called him Simon,” she says with a whisper.

Bun squeaks.

Simon doesn’t react at all, continuing to eat his food.

“Wait,” Bee says, eyes glittering. “Does that mean we can all call you Simon now?”

Simon looks up at her, a dead serious expression on his face.

“No.”

Soap howls with laughter, bringing his omega to his chest to comfort her as she pouts. Red smirks behind her mug as Price chuckles beside her. 

I shovel down more of my food with a huff. I really did not mean for this to turn into a whole thing. It only continues the further the night progresses.

I’m comfortably lounging in Simon’s arms, watching the movie that’s been put on when Bee leans over.

“So… you gonna tell me how far you went?” she whispers over to me. 

I roll my eyes.

“Bee,” Red warns from the other side of the couch, watching us with a careful eye.

“What?” Bee shrugs. “Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”

Bun lets out a quiet hum from her place between Gaz’s legs. She’s clearly trying to appear innocent, but she seems just as jumpy as Bee is for information.

“I mean, she’s wearing his shirt,” Bun whispers, confirming my suspicions.

“I’ve worn his shirts before,” I add to my defense. 

Bee’s got a smug look on her face. “Look, you don’t have to be embarrassed. It was really obvious. I mean, you guys weren’t around for dinner and then you both show up with matching smiles,” she shrugs. “It makes sense.”

Soap, not helping at all, leans over to Gaz with a gleam in his eye. 

“Place your bets,” he says with a little nudge. “I say second base. Maybe a small, cheeky trip to third.”

“I will end you,” Simon says calmly, with just a small hint of a growl.

That doesn’t deter anyone.

Gaz doesn’t even look away from the TV as he counters, “Third.”

Bee leans in even closer to me. “Did he take his mask off?”

My entire body locks up.

Simon’s grip on my hip tightens.

“Bee,” Red warns sharply. “That’s too far—”

“I just wanna know!” she hisses “Like… does he lift his mask when you kiss? ‘Cause if so, then it would make sense that he—”

“Bee!”

Red’s tone turns dangerous.

Bee throws both of her hands up. “Ok! Ok! I’ll stop asking. But I’m just saying, if I don’t get details soon, I’m gonna start making things up, and it’s going to involve handcuffs.”

Simon looks over at her, eyes narrowed. 

“There were no handcuffs,” he says plainly. 

She must feel way more comfortable with him after their earlier conversation, because his death glare behind the skull mask doesn’t seem to deter her.

“That sounds exactly like something someone who uses handcuffs would say.”

Simon sighs, muttering something under his breath as he pulls me closer. 

“We’re turning in for the night,” he announces.

Then, without warning, he lifts me up like it’s nothing. I let out a small squeak, still not used to his ability to do that.

Bee calls out to us as we leave, “Ok, so no handcuffs… but did you at least make it to second base?”

Simon doesn’t respond to her, rather he makes his way out of the room. Just as we’re about to leave, he turns, making eye contact with Gaz.

“Third,” he mutters, before heading back towards our room.

The room explodes.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Gaz pump his fist.

Soap lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze.

Bee screams, “I KNEW IT!”

And I bury my face into Simon’s neck, dying a little inside. 

But also kind of glowing.

Mo is no help when I call her the next day. I catch her up on the drama of the mystery omegas and how it led to Simon and I finally getting some quality time with each other.

She doesn’t miss a beat.

“So you’re officially a ghost rider now, huh?”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face.

“Are you proud of that one?”

“Very,” she says in a way that I can practically hear the smile she’s got on. “So? Was it everything you imagined? Did the mask stay on? Is he quiet or… wait. Don’t tell me. He’s totally one of those growl-against-your-thigh types, isn’t he?”

“Mo!”

She cackles, completely unbothered. “Oh, come on! It’s clear you really like him. I’m your bestest friend in the whole world. I deserve to know a little something.”

I laugh, my face a little hot. There’s a long pause before I finally sigh and let my voice drop.

“Honestly… it wasn’t what I expected.”

I can hear her hesitate.

“Not in a bad way,” I add quickly. “Just… I kind of freaked out a little. He’s… really big.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “Define, ‘really’. We talkin’ bull or horse?”

“Mo,” I groan.

“Okay, okay,” she laughs gently, but I hear the shift in her tone. “So what happened? You okay? This isn’t something that normally deters you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” I pause, rubbing my face some more. “I’ve never been with someone quite so… thick before. I mean… it’s like… I’ve had guys that were decently long, and he’s definitely got that too, but it’s the girth that’s got me spooked, I guess. Well, that and…”

I cut myself off, realizing too late that it was a mistake.

“And what?”

I roll my head to the side. “Well…” I start with a sigh. “It’s like he’s really struggling to keep control of himself. Like his instincts were barely leashed. Just has me a bit nervous.”

“You think he’d hurt you?”

“No,” I say instantly “God no. Don’t think he has it in him. I just… I don’t know. I got nervous. Like… what if I’m not enough for him?”

There’s another pause.

“Well now that’s a first,” Mo says with a laugh.

“I’m serious,” I plop back onto my pillow.

“I know you are,” she says warmly. “But babe… come on. You’re one of the most capable, resilient, terrifyingly hot omegas I know. If you’re nervous, that’s okay. But don’t sell yourself short.” 

I huff a laugh. “Okay,” I drawl. “But it’s clear he’s holding himself back. You really think I’ll be able to handle him when he stops?”

“I know you will,” Mo says firmly. “You’ve been able to handle everything that’s been thrown your way. Don’t think some girthy guy is gonna change that.”

We both giggle. I blink, my heart softening a little. 

“You’re too good at this.”

“Damn right I am,” she retorts. “I’ve been dealin’ with you for how long now? Think I can handle a little bedroom talk with you.”

I breathe out of my nose. “Okay, but for real. What do I do? Like… logistically. Tactics. I need a game plan, Mo.”

She lets out a low, knowing laugh.

“Alright, strategy talk,” she says and I hear the phone shift. “First thing, lube is gonna be your best friend. Either with split, slick, or the actual thing.”

I snort.

“Second, you’re going to have to take your time. I know that’s hard when instincts are involved, but you gotta go slow and build up. Like, foreplay is not an option. Think of it like… stretching before a marathon.”

“Oh my god,” I chuckle.

“I’m serious! Oh, and make sure you’re checking in with one another. Eye contact, lots of talking. It won’t kill the mood, I promise, if anything it’ll probably help him. He’ll know you’re not in pain or anything. It’ll keep his alpha at bay.”

I hum. “Makes sense.”

“And don’t feel bad if it doesn’t happen right away. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed, just means you’re not prepped yet.”

I pause.

“You really think I can do it?”

Mo doesn’t hesitate.

“I know you will. Because if anything, you’re stubborn and you care about doing it right.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“That man clearly cares about you, so when the time is right I’m sure he’ll make sure you got everything you need.”

I look at the bedroom door as if he’s going to walk in at any second, knowing he’s not.

“You’re right.”

“Aw, wish I was recordin’ this. I’d be replayin’ you sayin’ that all day long.”

We both burst into laughter and a smile settles on my face for the rest of the day.

The next few days feel like breathing after holding your breath for too long.

Whenever he’s near me, Simon’s arm finds its way around my waist. We start to grow more comfortable in each other’s space. Casual touches become second nature to us. Our fingers brush when we pass by each other, we’re holding hands when we can, and cuddling on the couch is a no-duh at this point. 

At night, when we turn in, the touches linger longer. We explore one another, savoring the one another’s touch. 

He’s already found the places that unravel me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised — reading people, learning what makes them tick, it’s practically in his job description. But the way he uses it on me? It’s far from tactical.

He finds every sensitive spot with unnerving precision. I find myself coming a lot quicker than I’d like to admit, but he never teases me about it. If anything, he seems proud. Like every noise, every tremble he works out of me is something sacred.

In turn, I’ve started to get a bit more comfortable when it’s my turn to share the love. I’m still nervous. Still trying to figure out how to handle everything he’s giving me, but I’m trying.

He doesn’t rush me though, doesn’t push me like some of my previous partners have. And best of all, he doesn’t seem to mind how slow we’re moving. If anything, it’s the opposite.

He treats every touch, every glance like it’s a gift. I find my heart leaping at the thought that he’s not treating this like it’s right to receive this, rather it’s a privilege. 

I sleep far easier as well. In the past few days, not a single nightmare has visited me. It’s strange how quickly things change. It feels like something inside of me finally unclenched.

I wake up feeling lighter, more content. Like I’m not carrying the weight of my past on my shoulders anymore. Even if he’s not there when I get up, his scent, the ghost of his presence is there soothing me. 

By Saturday morning, we slip back into our usual rhythm of an early morning gym session. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it until we walked in. The smell of the rubber mats and sweat meets me like an old friend and I can’t help but smile.

But everything ends up feeling different,

Before, Simon’s touches were a little clinical when he would correct me. They were always a bit careful, never lingering. Now… now it’s like he’s looking for excuses to get his hands on me.

While I’m deadlifting, his hands ghost along the curve of my lower back, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt.

“Careful,” he murmurs low into my ear. “Your back’s rounding.”

The words alone make my spine straighten, but it’s the way his hand lingers that sends a shiver down my arms. I adjust my stance, but I’m far more aware of his touch now. 

And maybe I lean into his hand a little. Sue me.

When we’re working free weights, his fingers almost always brush against mine more than necessary. No apologies or explanations from him. Just a soft, constant current of contact. It doesn’t feel out of place though, if anything it feel nice to sort of let loose and relax more around him. 

I’m spotting him on the bench press when I realize he’s no longer looking at the bar. Instead, he’s looking straight at me, eyes steady beneath his lashes.

“You’re drooling,” he says flatly.

My face heats immediately. “I am not,” I huff, but my voice comes out a little too defensive.

“You really are,” someone pipes up from across the gym.

My body freezes as my head slowly turns their way.

They look younger and almost smug with how they’re holding themselves. Despite the mask on their face, I can see them smirk as they sling a towel over their shoulder.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Did I ask you?”

Laughter bubbles up around the room. Another voice chimes in, “Damn, she’s got a bite.”

A few weeks ago, I might’ve bristled. Snapped. Maybe even just stormed out.

Now? I just roll my eyes and shake my eyes before turning my attention back to Simon. He’s still lying on the bench, lifting the bar like the most unbothered man alive.

“You’re not gonna defend my honor?” I ask dryly.

His eyes flick to mine under the mask, one brow raising just slightly. “Now why would I do that when they’re not wrong?”

I blink. “Unbelievable.”

He grunts as he lifts the bar again, and I can see the crinkle under his eyes that gives away he’s smiling. 

But I am too, so I can’t complain.

The teasing doesn’t sting. If anything, it feels… familiar. Almost homey. This is how I used to joke with the other farmhands back home. Sharp words with soft edges. The kind of rough affection you only get when you truly belong.

It makes me feel like part of the room instead of just a shadow in it. 

That evening, he surprises me by throwing one of his jackets my way.

"We’re going out. Get your boots on.”

There’s no explanation, but I don’t ask for one. A ripple of anxious curiosity twists in my stomach as I pull the jacket on and lace up my boots. He hasn’t told me to change out of my base uniform, so I figure we’re staying on base, I just have no idea where.

We drive to a part of the base I’ve never been to before. It’s quiet this time of night, the buildings outlined in a low amber light. When we pull up beside a squat, concrete structure tucked behind a row of fencing, Simon kills the engine and moves around the car to let me out. He moves to the trunk next, opening it up and hauling out two metal guncases. One is long and heavy, the other is short and familiar.

My eyes widen.

“Are those…?”

“Yep,” he says, not looking at me as he heads toward the building’s side door. 

Inside, the scent hits me immediately. It’s a mixture of burnt powder and metal, sharp and dry like the aftermath of shooting off a bunch of fireworks. Underneath that, the air carries the tang of oil and concrete dust. It’s the kind of smell that sinks into your clothes and into your memories.

A gun range.

Simon sets the cases down on a metal table near one of the shooting lanes. The long one clanks heavily. The smaller one, with the scuffed corners and familiar sticker, makes a faint flush creep up my neck.

Simon looks at me briefly, then jerks his chin towards the cases.

“Wait here.”

He heads toward a steel door on the other side of the room marked Authorized Personnel Only. He takes out a set of keys before unlocking the door and heading inside. 

Deciding I don’t want to deal with the awkwardness of my heat toy, I pop the latches and lift the lid of the case.

Yep. It’s still there.

My heat toy and vibrator sit snugly in the foam, right where I left them. I grimace and grab my gun from the other side. I note that my spare bullets are missing, but focusing on snapping the case shut rather than dwelling on it. I don’t need any lingering trace of my heat seeping out more than it already has.

The pistol feels heavier than I remember. It’s familiar, yet strange at the same time. I used to wear this thing like a second skin, but now it feels nearly foreign. But that could also be because someone’s cleaned it. It looks far nicer than I ever remember it looking. The metal catches the overhead lights like a mirror, showing off its polish. I run my thumb along the grip, the feel of it sending tendrils of familiar energy down my spine. 

I put it down in front of me while I wait for Simon to return and look at the rest of the range. 

It seems pretty standard, at least from what I can remember. It’s been a long time since I’ve stepped in a range. 

The place is dimly lit with long concrete lanes stretching out ahead. Overhead fluorescent lights hum faintly, casting everything in a weird glow. Each shooting stall is divided by thick panels of scuffed Plexiglas and soundproof foam. There are stains and various dents in each stall from years of use.

Out past the stalls, ammo litters the ground before stretching out into a long stretch that ends in a backstop padded with shredded rubber.

I step into the nearest stall and let my hand trail along the edge of the divider. It’s all familiar in the strange, off-kilter way. Like stepping into a dream that’s been shaped from muscle memory.

I’m still standing there when Simon returns.

He walks toward me, headphones and glasses in one hand, a few boxes of ammo in the other.

His eyes immediately flick to the pistol in front of me. 

 I walk over to the nearest stall, looking everything over and feeling like I’m in a weird half-memory. 

Simon comes back before I can really dwell on anything. In one hand, he’s got headphones and glasses, and in the other, he’s got what appears to be boxes of ammo.

His eyes fall on the pistol in front of me.

“You opened it,” he says, low.

I nod, not quite sure what to make of the tone in his voice.

“Was hopin’ I’d be the one to hand it to you,” he adds, setting down the gear. “Wanted to see your face when you saw what I did to it.”

There’s no heat behind his words, so he doesn’t sound angry, but I definitely catch some disappointment.

I glance at the gun. “Sorry,” I say softly. “Just didn’t want to stink up the place. It’s beautiful though, you did this?”

He nods, opening up an ammo box and setting it at a nearby stall.

“Yeah. Cleaned up the sights. Lubed the slide. Took a bit of polish to the frame,” he murmurs. 

I glance at the gun. “It’s… beautiful. Thank you.”

“You remember how it shoots?”

“Sort of. Been a while.”

Our eyes meet and there’s a warmth in his that spreads to my chest.

“Let’s find out. First, you gotta put on your eyes and ears.”

He picks up a pair of glasses and headphones and holds them out to me.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.” 

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t need this to shoot a pistol, never have.”

“That would explain why you’re so bad at listening,” he teases. “Not optional, I’m afraid.”

I huff a sigh, taking them from him with an exaggerated motion. I put them on and flash him a look. There’s a twitch of movement under his balaclava that I know to be him smiling.

“Happy now?” I ask him.

“Ecstatic,” he deadpans. He grabs the pistol and moves over to the stall. He removes the mag and goes to start loading it with bullets.

I reach out, “Actually,” I start. “Do you mind if I load it up? It’s been a while.”

“‘Course,” he nods. He hands it over and I take my time adding in the bullets. He slips on his eye and ear protection while I work. It’s familiar and oddly satisfying.

I didn’t use my gun a lot. It was more for show than anything, but there were the occasional times it was needed on the farm. Every once in a while, when I got extremely bored, I would go out to the little makeshift range we had in the far-off field and shoot some frozen soda cans. It was fun to watch them shoot up and explode, almost like a little mini fireworks.

Simon catches my eyes. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I answer with a soft smile. “Just thinkin’ ‘bout the farm. Sorry. Feels good to be able to do this again.”

He hums in acknowledgment. Grabbing a paper target, he brings in the line for it and sets it all up. He sends the target out about halfway before turning his attention back to me.

“Don’t know what you’ve been taught, but quick reminder: only have your finger on the trigger when you’re ready to shoot.”

My response is immediate. “Yes, sir.”

I can almost feel his grin as he motions to me before stepping back. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I slide the mag into the well and rack the slide, the clack of it echoing louded that I expected, even in the muffled hum of the range.

“Wow, that’s a lot smoother than I remember,” I comment. 

I let the pistol sit heavy in my hand, the weight both familiar and a bit foreign. My palms are a little clammy, but I try to ignore it. 

I raise the pistol with a firm grip. My stance feels a little awkward, but I’m not really quite sure how I should be standing. I’m definitely too stiff, but try to play it off as I look down the sight at the target. My finger is up against the barrel as I try to steady my aim before it lowers to the trigger. I breathe in, locking in before squeezing. 

The first shot cracks through the air, sharp and jarring. The recoil isn’t much, but I still feel taken aback. I breathe out, setting the gun down in front of me.

My chest feels full and tight, making me almost want to cry. I don’t even see where I’ve shot, just overtaken by a sudden rush of emotion.

Simon peeks around my shoulder. “Everything alright?”

I nod. “Yeah,” I swallow. “First shot always makes me feel a bit emotional. Don’t know why.”

He watches me before his hands come to my hips. “You need to relax a little more. Your body is taking the brunt of the shot.” 

He takes his hands from me, motioning to my feet. “Try widening your stance just a little, it’ll help center your weight.”

I follow his advice and he helps get me a bit more centered. “Now, try picking up the gun again.” 

I bring it up and his hands are back on me again. He’s moving my arms, having me relax my shoulders a bit more and stand just a bit taller instead of hunching like I didn’t realize I was doing. 

He steps away, letting me take another shot when I’m ready. There’s a long span of time where I work up the nerve to shoot again. 

I look down the sight again, breathing in a breath before taking the next shot. The flood of emotion that followed the first shot doesn’t come creeping back. Rather, I can focus a little more on where I’ve shot. I’m not too far off from the center of the target, so I adjust just a little bit before going for another shot.

It hits way closer this time and a proud smile stretches across my face. I go for another shot and get farther away this time.

I feel Simon step behind me. He’s close but not crowding me. His hand brushes my elbow briefly, helping me get into a better position.

“Lean into it a little, but keep your hips where they’re at.”

I do my best to do as he asks, feeling his eyes on me as I take another shot. I hit dead center and a burst of excitement courses through me. I move my finger from the trigger, lowering the gun a little as I look over my shoulder at him. 

He’s got that crinkle to his eye that I love. “Good shot,” he encourages. “Keep goin’.” 

I nod happily and do my best to return back to my stance. I finish out the mag, with some slight adjustments from Simon. 

My last cluster of shots is pretty close to one another and I’m practically bursting with happiness as I set the gun down and turn around.

“How you feelin’?” he checks in.

I breathe out my nose with a wide grin. “Pretty good.” 

“Want to shoot another round?”

I nod. “Yeah, but what about you though?”

He crosses his arms. “Believe it or not, I’m having quite a lot of fun watching you shoot. Did you want another target or is this one good.”

“No, no. This is fine. Thanks, I’m… I’m actually having a lot of fun.”

He gives me a quick nod with that crinkle to his eye. 

I turn back around, removing my mag and filling it up again. It’s quiet between us as he watches, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Like normal with him, the silence is comfy, not offputting. 

I raise the gun again and move to the “head” section of the target. I do my best to try and keep my shots close together as shot after shot rings out. There’s a part of my brain that berates me, telling me I shouldn’t be having as much fun as I am shooting a gun, but Simon’s presence behind me drowns it out.

When I finish out this mag, I put the gun down and spin around to look at him again. He’s looking down at me with a gleam in his eyes that has me giddy.

“Done with your warm-up?” he asks. 

I cock my head to the side and he sidesteps, putting the other gun case in my view.

I look between him and the case, brows raised. “You want me to shoot whatever’s in there?”

He shrugs. “Case just makes it look big.”

That earns a quiet snort from me as I follow him over to the table. He pops the tabs on the case and lifts the lid.

Inside sits a sleek, matte black rifle. It’s definitely a lot heavier than anything I’ve ever handled. It looks terrifying really, the type of weapon that demands respect.

“This one’s got some punch to it,” he says, lifting it easily. “Figured you might want to try something with a little more presence.”

A ripple of anxiety hits me as I watch him handle it. There’s also just a bit of fear. I’m not quite sure if I’ll even be able to lift the thing.

He sets down the rifle beside my pistol, then picks up the second ammo box and opens it for me to see. The rounds inside are massive. They’re almost three times the size of what I’ve been shooting.

“.308s,” he says tapping my earmuffs. “Way louder. You’ll be thanking me for these later.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s half-hearted. My focus is on the back on the rifle. He loads it up, getting both it and a new target situated down range. He eventually steps aside, gesturing for me to take position.

My teeth wrangle at the inside of my cheek as I hesitate.

“Actually…” I start, shifting my weight a little. “Mind showing me a couple shots first?”

He pauses, reading me the way he always does. Then he shrugs. “Alright.”

Simon steps up to the bench and shoulders the gun with ease. “This is a bolt action,” he explains with a level tone. “Each shot, you’re going to cycle the bold manually. You pull it up, back, forward, down.”

He makes the movements, showing me how it works. “Don’t feel like you need to rush it and I’ll be here if you need some help.”

He loads a single round and glances at me.

“Recoil’s goin’ to be sharper than what you’re used to. The weight of the rifle will help balance it for you just a little. You’re going to feel in your shoulder more than your hands.”

I nod, a little tighter than I mean to.

He settles in, feet planted like he showed me earlier, and gazes down the sights. The rifle almost looks like it melts into him like it was supposed to be there the whole time. 

It goes quiet for a quick second and then he pulls the trigger.

CRACK.

The sound of the shot bounces off the range walls and straight through my chest. Even with the headphones on, it rattles me and is just shy of being too lud. My body tenses on instinct. 

Simon cycles the bolt in one clean motion, ejecting the casing with a soft metallic clink. He looks over to me and I can tell by his eyes that he’s smiling again.

“Hits like a hammer, yeah?” 

I huff a breath, trying to play it off but no doubt he can see right through me. “Yeah, that’s one way to describe it.”

He smirks faintly and loads another round. He fires again and cycles the bolt with that same fluid motion, hands never hesitating.

After the second shot, he steps back and gestures toward the bench. “You’re up.”

I swallow hard, forcing my legs to move as I approach the rifle. It seems even bigger now, heavier even.

God, why am I so nervous now?

I lift it up and fumble a little bit. The weight is intense, even as I get it to settle against my shoulder. I feel myself shake slightly as I fight to get it where it needs to be. 

“You good?” Simon asks, voice low as he steps up behind me.

I nod and make a noise of acknowledgment. “Just… that was louder than I was expecting, I think.”

“Bet it was,” he says. “But it’s all noise. Think you can handle the rest. Make sure to check your stance.”

I nod, shifting my grip and planting my feet where they should go. Simon reaches over and helps adjust the stock against my shoulder.

“Don’t feel like you need to muscle this. Let the weight of it work for you.”

I nod again and load the round like he did. I thumb the bolt closed and my heart starts hammering in my chest.

“Take your time,” he says smoothly. “Breathe. Same way you did before.”

I take a couple of deep breaths. It helps to steady the gun a bit more, but I’m still shaky. I lower my finger, letting it hover over the trigger as I take in another deep breath and hold it. I aim and then squeeze.

CRACK.

The recoil slams into my shoulder, making me unsteady. I fall back into Simon who helps keep me upright.

“Shit,” I mutter as my heart races.

“That was good,” Simon says calmly. “You hit the target and didn’t fall on your ass.”

I glance up at him with a tired huff. “You sure? ‘Cause it feels like I just got punched by a truck.”

“You did,” he replies. “And you stayed standing.”

A slow smile pulls at my lips.

“Want to go again?” 

I nod. “Yeah. Let me try again.”

Three shots later and I can’t handle holding the gun anymore. 

Simon brings in the target and we both look it over. My shots are all over the place in comparison to my pistol target.

“Well?” I ask, trying to gauge his reaching.

Simon nods, taking it off the hook. “Not bad for a first-timer.”

I smirk. “You say that to all the rookies?”

“Only the cute ones.”

“Well, no wonder Soap’s in love with you then.”

He lets out a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh, eyes flicking toward me as he holds open the door.

“Come on, trouble.”

I step out into the cool air. There’s a softness in me I haven’t felt in a long time. 

For days after, I cling to that feeling, letting it wash over me in the quiet moments. 

It settles in my chest, loosening the tight coil of tension I usually carry. I catch myself smiling more, letting my guard drop in ways I never thought possible.

But maybe I let it drop too much.

Because I don’t notice the shift.

Don’t see the shadows that stay a little too long at the edges.

Don’t feel the tension in the air until it wraps around me like a snare.

Not until it’s too late.

Until I’m slammed into a wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

Until darkness crashes down like a wave.

Until all I can hear is the sound of the girls screaming around me.