#werwolf

The festival was a celebration of strength, a chance for alphas to assert their power, for betas to prove their worth. And yet, here you were, thrust into the lineup not because of your skill or beauty or alluring scent but because Jungkook and his friends thought it would be amusing to watch you struggle.

"Try not to embarrass us too much," Jungkook sneered, arms crossed over his broad chest as he loomed over you. His sharp brown eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, his lips curled in the smirk you had grown to hate. "But don't go down too fast either. Wouldn’t want the others thinking our pack raises cowards."

His friends snickered beside him. Jimin clapped a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, his grin wide. "If the beta kills her by accident, at least it'll save us the trouble."

It was the same cruelty as always, the same reminders that you were nothing in their eyes. The only omega in the lineup, your presence was already an insult to the tradition of the festival. Not just an omega, a half-blood with barely any pheromones, You had been chosen simply because, should you fall, no one would care.

But you cared.

Your father had taught you better than that. He had taught you that strength wasn’t just muscle or dominance—it was resilience, skill, and the will to stand when others wanted you on your knees. And right now, in front of the whole festival, you would not kneel.

The first match of your pack had gone to Jungkook, as expected. He had torn through his opponent without breaking a sweat, his wolf a fearsome sight of black fur and burning rage. Jimin had followed, his win just as decisive. Now, it was your turn.

Jungkook’s voice was low, meant only for you, Jimin, and the betas standing nearby.

"Request to fight in wolf form."

The weight of his words pressed into you, unspoken consequences laced between each syllable. He didn’t bother explaining himself, didn’t need to. You already understood. A fight in wolf form was chaos—claws, fangs, and wild instincts taking over. It would drag the match out longer, and that’s all Jungkook wanted from you.

A spectacle. A joke.

Not giving him a reason to lash out at you, you only nodded. Submission, on the surface. But your decision had already been made.

Stepping into the ring, your heart pounded against your ribs, adrenaline pulsing under your skin. Min Yoongi, a beta from another pack stood across from you, relaxed but watchful, the golden glow of his eyes sharp and curious. He was smaller than most betas, lean rather than bulky, but you weren’t fooled by that. He had no stake in your humiliation, no reason to hate you. But he would fight you seriously—that much you could tell.

The elder overseeing the match raised his voice, echoing across the festival grounds. "Omega, how will you fight?"

Jungkook’s burning gaze drilled into the side of your face, Jimin beside him watching expectantly. They thought they had you cornered, controlled. That you’d obey, as you always had.

You turned to the elder and, with a steady voice, declared, "Human-to-human fight."

A hush fell over the gathered wolves. While fighting in wolf form was a spectacle, but fighting as humas was always more brutal.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, barely audible, but you felt it like a lash against your spine. His fingers twitched at his sides, his entire body stiff with frustration. You weren’t supposed to do that.

Jimin clicked his tongue in irritation. "Loves making things harder for herself, doesn’t she?"

Yoongi let out a quiet exhale, tilting his head slightly. His gaze flickered between you and Jungkook, your pack, taking in the way the air crackled with silent fury. His lips curled just slightly, as if amused.

The elder hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Very well. Human-to-human combat it is."

Jungkook said nothing, but the rage rolling off him was suffocating. This wasn’t just defiance. This was a direct, rejection of his order. But with the entire festival watching, he had no way to retaliate. Not yet.

And that was enough for you. Now he couldn’t make a joke out of you. They needed to look at you.

The moment the fight started, you dropped into a boxing stance—knees bent, fists up, weight balanced just right. It wasn’t the stance of a desperate omega trying to survive. It was the stance of a fighter.

Yoongi’s golden eyes flickered with intrigue before he lunged.

He was fast. Most betas were. But you had spent years dodging, training. You saw the way his shoulder twitched before a punch, the slight shift in his weight before a kick. You blocked the first hit with a quick guard, absorbing the impact, then pivoted to avoid the second.

A sharp jab came for your ribs—you twisted, catching his wrist mid-motion before driving your own fist into his gut. Yoongi exhaled sharply but laughed under his breath.

Jungkook had expected you to crumble within seconds, to be thrown around like a ragdoll, but you weren’t going down easy. You weren’t going down at all.

Each punch you took, you gave back just as hard. Like your father had trained you too.

He had done it not because he wanted you to fight, but because he had known—before you even understood it yourself—that the world around you would never be kind. You were a child of love, raised by a human mother and a wolf father, but love did not shield you from cruelty. Your peers had never accepted you. They rejected your scent, your blood, your place among them. And though your father had tried to seek help, even from his oldest friend—Jeon Hyunkook, Jungkook’s father—the response had been... disappointing.

All he could do was make you strong.

So, he trained you. Relentlessly. In secret. In the quiet hours of the morning and the long stretches of night, he taught you how to block, how to counter, how to never cower, how to never take a hit without returning one twice as vicious. You didn’t want to fight your pack – but he made sure if you ever needed to, you could.

And now, as Yoongi came at you again, fists cutting through the air with practiced precision, you moved the way your father had taught you. Your body absorbed the impact of his blows, but you struck back just as hard, just as fast.

Jungkook, from where he stood, froze.

It was the stance. The positioning of your feet, the way your weight shifted with every hit—it was familiar. It wasn’t just some random street-fighting technique. It was his father’s.

The same stance Jungkook had been trained in. The same one he had watched his father and his father’s best friend use when they had sparred together in their youth.

For the first time in years, Jungkook saw you with something other than disdain.

He saw you in awe.

The realization hit him like a hammer to the chest. You weren’t just throwing punches wildly, trying to survive. You were trained. Disciplined. Dangerous.

And the fact that he had never noticed before—that he had spent years mocking you, pushing you down, underestimating you—made something twist inside him.

Jungkook clenched his jaw. His nails bit into his palms as he watched you, his pulse pounding.

Who the fuck were you?

And why the hell had he never seen you like this before?              

Jungkook was still as stone. His hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, the muscles in his jaw flexing. His entire body was tense, shoulders squared, but his face—his face was unreadable.

Jimin, standing beside him, glanced over and smirked. He had spent years watching Jungkook sneer at you, ridicule you, not caring that the pack treated you like dirt beneath their paws. So, naturally, he assumed Jungkook’s silence was rage.

He chuckled, low and amused, before tilting his head toward the fight. “Man, this is embarrassing,” he drawled, loud enough for the surrounding wolves to hear. “An omega actually putting up a fight? What’s next, they gonna start challenging alphas?”

A few of the betas snickered.

But Jimin wasn’t really trying—his words lacked their usual venom. Because the truth was, you weren’t losing. And it was hard to mock someone who wasn’t just surviving but holding their own.

Still, he tried.

“Maybe Yoongi’s just going easy on her,” Jimin mused, tilting his head. “Bet he—”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimin.”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said shut up,” Jungkook snapped. His eyes were sharp, dark, something unreadable burning beneath them. Jimin studied his expression, confused. Jungkook’s usual cocky smirk was gone. He wasn’t sneering, wasn’t watching with amusement. He was just... watching.

Jimin’s lips parted slightly as he realized it. Jungkook wasn’t mad. He wasn’t disgusted. Jungkook watched you fight—his own father’s technique in every block, every strike, every calculated movement—he had to face a truth he had never considered before.

You were by far a normal omega, but you weren’t nothing.

In fact, your technique might even be better than his own.

Because while Jungkook had always had his strength, his dominance, his powerful wolf to fall back on, you never did. You had no overwhelming physical advantage, no alluring sent to bewitch, no natural-born dominance to carry you through a fight. Every skill, every movement, every counterstrike you delivered had been honed through sheer necessity.

You had never had the luxury of relying on brute force.

You had only ever had your precision.

And that made you lethal.

Jungkook’s smirk had long since faded. He was frozen, watching the fight unfold with something that wasn’t amusement anymore—it was shock. Disbelief. You were an omega, the weakest of the weak, someone that normally would be protected, but here you were, fighting like you had something to prove.

Maybe you did.

You barely felt your feet hit the ground before you were launching forward, meeting Yoongi’s charge. Flesh met flesh. His fist slammed against your ribs, rattling your bones, but you didn’t buckle. You didn’t fucking falter. Instead, you twisted with the impact, riding the force, and then swung back—

CRACK.

Yoongi came at you again, but this time, you met him halfway, slamming into his chest with a hard shove. Your voice tore from your throat before you even realized you were screaming—

"If you want me down, you have to do fucking better!"

Jungkook felt the words strike something deep inside him, because he knew—he knew—that you weren’t screaming at Yoongi. You were screaming at him, the boy who had spent years mocking you. At the Alpha who had made sure you stayed beneath his boot. At the pack that had treated you like nothing more than a whisper of a wolf, a mistake of mixed blood, something not even worth the dirt beneath their paws.

And yet—here you were.

Standing in the ring. Thriving in the fight.

You weren’t just holding your own.

You were fucking commanding it.

Yoongi, to his credit, only grinned. His gaze burned with something wild, something dark and delighted. He lifted a hand to his lip, swiping away the smear of blood, his teeth flashing as he let out a short, breathless laugh.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he exhaled, nodding at you.

Then, without another word, he launched himself at you again.

Your fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. His mouth split open, blood speckling the air, but the bastard only grinned.

He moved fast—too fast. You barely had time to register his next strike before pain exploded along your temple, a white-hot flash in your vision. You staggered back, breath heaving, sweat dripping into your eyes, but you refused to give him another second.

You lunged.

Your knee rammed into his gut, forcing a guttural grunt from his throat. Yoongi gritted his teeth, hands snapping out like a viper—he grabbed you by the wrist, twisting viciously, but you let it happen. Let your body move with it, rather than against it, spinning into his hold.

Then you drove your elbow into his ribs.

He let out a sharp oof, his grip loosening just enough—just fucking enough—for you to wrench yourself free. Your feet barely hit the ground before you struck again.

A left hook.

A right jab.

A kick to his side so hard his breath hitched.

Yoongi laughed through the pain, his eyes burning like dying embers in the torchlight.

“Fuck, you hit harder than most of the alphas I’ve fought,” he panted, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

His hand came away red.

So did yours.

Your knuckles—split open. Raw. The skin torn, blood dripping down your fingers in sluggish trails. Every punch you threw sent a fresh wave of pain up your arms, but it wasn’t enough to stop you.

Because Yoongi looked just as bad.

His own knuckles were just as ruined, just as bloody. There was a gash above his brow, leaking a slow, thick trail of crimson down his cheek, and his lip was swollen where your punch had landed earlier. His breath came sharp, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin. His silver hair was a mess, strands sticking to his forehead, tangled and wild.

And fuck—you were sure you looked just as wrecked.

Your head throbbed. Your ribs ached. Sweat stung your eyes. You could taste blood in your mouth—bitter, coppery, your own and Yoongi’s.

And yet—

And yet, your lips curled.

A slow, dangerous, feral grin.

The rage. The hunger. The fire in your blood that they had tried to smother since the day you were born.

And Yoongi—Yoongi fucking loved it.

“You could give up?” you asked sweetly.

You flexed your bloodied fingers. Lifted your hands again. Set your stance.

And Yoongi did the same.

“And miss this?” a gummy smile so contrasting to your situation appeared on Yoongi’s lips.

A sharp strike to your stomach—your body bent, but you retaliated with a brutal uppercut, sending Yoongi stumbling. You barely had time to straighten before he came back at you, his foot hooking behind your ankle, trying to take you down—

But you caught yourself—barely—your fingers scraping against the dirt, twisting your body at the last second to break free. You didn’t stop moving, even as you saw Yoongi’s fist flying straight for your face—

You ducked. Just in time.

His knuckles whistled past your ear. Your hair whipped in the force of the motion, and without thinking—without even meaning to—you laughed.

A breathless, wrecked, exhilarated laugh.

Yoongi’s sharp gaze snapped to you.

And something flickered in his expression—recognition. Understanding. Approval.

And then—he laughed too.

Just like that, it was no longer just a fight.

Jungkook, standing on the sidelines, did not know what the fuck he was feeling.

Couldn’t understand why his fingers were digging into his crossed arms.

Couldn’t comprehend why the sight of you—bloody, grinning, wrecked but refusing to fall—was making something in his chest coil, tight, too tight.

He should have been irritated. Furious. Should have wanted to throw you out of the ring himself for the audacity of standing toe to toe with a beta.

But instead—

Instead, he watched the way you grinned through the blood and sweat.

The way your eyes burned, your whole body thrumming with fire.

The way you and Yoongi relished the violence, reveled in the clash of fists and force, as if the rest of the world didn’t even exist.

And it made something dark and possessive curl in his stomach.

Why the hell couldn’t he look away.

Jimin shifted beside him, still watching the fight, and huffed. “They’re really enjoying this, huh? Kinda twisted for an omega, don’t you think?”

Jungkook’s teeth ground together.

Yoongi hit the ground hard.

The impact sent a shockwave through the dirt, dust kicking up as his back slammed against the packed earth. You didn’t let him breathe.

The moment he fell, you were on him.

Your thighs locked around his waist, knees digging into his sides, pinning him down with everything you had left. His wrists were caught in your hands, shoved down against the dirt beside his head. His breath was ragged beneath you, his chest rising and falling in rapid heaves, muscles taut as if he was considering another attempt to throw you off—

But he didn’t.

For the first time in the fight, Yoongi’s struggle faltered.

For the first time, he couldn’t move.

Your breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from your chin onto his bruised chest. Your arms ached, your knuckles raw and split, smeared with his blood and your own.

Even the elders hesitated, as if their mouths had forgotten how to form the words. As if their brains refused to process what had just happened—that an omega had just taken down one of the strongest betas in the tournament.

The murmurs rippling through the crowd, disbelief crackling in the air like static before the elders finally—finally—called it.

“The winner—”

Their voices barely registered.

Because beneath you, Yoongi grinned.

Grinned.

Like a wild thing, like he was thrilled that you had just slammed him into the dirt and stolen the win right out of his hands.

“Shit,” he panted, his chest rising against yours, breath fanning across your face. His eyes, dark with something you didn’t quite understand, locked onto yours, something dangerously close to admiration. “That was fun.”

Jungkook felt it like a stone in his gut. This was their victory. Your victory. But as he watched you sitting over Yoongi, the way your chests heaved in sync, the way Yoongi looked at you—not like an omega, not like a weakness, but something precious like an equal—

His jaw was clenched. His lips pressed together, nearly bloodless. His dark eyes, normally sharp with ridicule whenever he looked at you, were unnervingly blank.

He should have been satisfied.

You were a win for the pack. A win for him. Not the weak, undesirable omega without a scent he thought you to be. He was supposed to look at you and feel triumphant—they had pushed you into this fight as a joke, an amusement, and now, you were something to be paraded around.

But all he could focus on was you and Yoongi.

Too close.

The way you hovered over the beta, smirking, panting, wild, covered in sweat and blood—

And the way Yoongi grinned right back at you.

Like he saw you.

Like he fucking wanted you.

Your arms ached. Your knuckles burned. Your ribs protested with every breath, but none of that mattered. You had won. With a final exhale, you rolled off Yoongi, your body hitting the ground beside him, sweat and dirt clinging to your skin. The fight had been everything. Raw, violent, unhinged—but for the first time, it hadn’t been survival.

It had been yours.

Beside you, Yoongi groaned, the sound thick with exhaustion but laced with satisfaction. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a bloodied hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Haven’t had a fight like that in a long time.”

You let out a breath that could almost be called a laugh. Your body was shaking, but not from fear—from the rush, the fire still licking at your veins.

Yoongi shifted, groaning again as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Almost instantly, his pack was there. Hands reached out to help him, guiding him upright, murmuring words of approval, of camaraderie. They even respectfully nodded at you.

And your pack?

Nothing.

Not a single hand. Not a single voice.

Jimin, standing beside Jungkook, scoffed. “Well, that was fucking unexpected.” His tone was light, amused, but there was an edge to it. “Guess even mutts can learn a few tricks.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

Jimin’s smirk wavered slightly as he glanced at Jungkook, expecting to see him pleased—expecting to see that familiar condescension in his leader’s gaze.

But Jungkook’s expression was strange.

Unreadable.

His jaw was tight, his body coiled like a wire pulled too taut, his eyes locked on you and Yoongi.

Because Yoongi was reaching for you.

Still breathing hard, still wearing that goddamn grin, Yoongi turned toward you, extending a hand.

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want help—but because no one had ever offered it. And Yoongi must have noticed because something flickered across his face, something that almost looked like understanding. He didn’t move his hand away, just waited.

So you took it.

Yoongi’s grip was firm, warm, grounding. He pulled you up, steadying you when your legs threatened to buckle from exhaustion. And yet, he didn’t let go.

Not right away.

His fingers lingered, thumb brushing over the bloodied skin of your knuckles, something unreadable in his gaze.

And Jungkook hated it.

His hands twitched at his sides, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he watched the way Yoongi held onto you for just a second too long.

And then, to make it worse—to make everything worse—

Min fucking Yoongi opened his mouth.

Yoongi leaned in slightly, voice low but sure, eyes locked onto yours as he said—

“You should come with me.”

Before you could answer, Jungkook was suddenly there.

At your side.

It wasn’t aggressive, not like the countless times before when he had shoved you to the ground, knocked you aside like you were nothing—like you were less than nothing.

This time, it was gentle.

A simple brush of his shoulder against yours as he stepped closer, a slow, deliberate motion. Not enough to push you, not enough to hurt. Just enough to touch.

Just enough to get his scent on you.

The contact was brief, but the effect was immediate. His scent clung to your skin, seeping into you like a brand, the undeniable mark of an alpha on an omega. And not just any omega—you.

The weak one. The freak. The nobody.

For years, your pheromones had been barely detectable—too diluted, too faint, the consequence of your human mother’s blood. No one had ever tried to scent you before. No one had ever wanted to.

And yet, Jungkook just had.

You stiffened.

His voice was low, controlled, but sharp as a blade.

“She’s already claimed.”

Yoongi turned to Jungkook, his gaze unreadable.

You turned too, but unlike Yoongi, you didn’t hide your confusion.

What the hell had he just said?

What the hell had he just done?

Your pack didn’t want you. Jungkook sure as hell didn’t want you. He and his friends had made that clear for years—mocking you, pushing you down, humiliating you. Reminding you at every turn that you were beneath them, an omega barely worth acknowledging. They had treated you like a burden since the day you were born.

And yet, the moment someone—anyone—saw you, Jungkook took it away.

You could almost laugh.

Not because you actually found this funny, but because what the fuck else were you supposed to do? It wasn’t like you had planned to pack your things and leave.

No, you were sure that they would’ve already had your things packed for you.

But now? Now you weren’t even allowed this?

Jungkook wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked onto Yoongi, his expression calm—too calm. Like steel pulled so tight it was moments away from snapping.

“Claimed?” Yoongi’s voice was slow, skeptical.

His gaze flickered from you to Jungkook, sharp with something dangerous. “That’s funny,” he said lightly. “Because for someone who’s supposedly claimed, she looks just as confused as I am.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

His jaw was locked tight, his entire body radiating something just barely restrained.

Jimin, still at his side, gave a half-hearted scoff. “Hah. Well, she’s not as worthless as we thought.”

Jungkook’s head snapped toward him so fast Jimin actually stepped back. But before anyone could challenge him further, a new voice cut through the tension.

Namjoon.

From the other side of the ring, the beta’s alpha—Yoongi’s alpha—had been watching. And now, the moment Jungkook spoke those words, he stepped forward.

Jungkook did not look at him.

But Namjoon looked at Jungkook, hard.

“You don’t get to throw that word around lightly, Jeon,” Namjoon said. His voice was even, calm—but beneath it heavy with authority, there was a weight. A warning. “She isn’t claimed. And if you’re saying otherwise now, you better have a damn good reason.”

Jungkook’s muscles coiled beneath his skin.

You could almost feel the conflict raging inside him. He was trapped. If he admitted the truth—that he had never given you a second thought before today—then you would have the right to leave.

To leave him.

To go to Yoongi.

And that, apparently, was something Jungkook was unwilling to let happen. His hand found your wrist. A grip on your wrist, tight, possessive.

Jungkook still didn’t acknowledge Namjoon.

“We’re done here,” Jungkook bit out, finally breaking his silence. “She needs her wounds checked.”

“Come on,” he muttered, already pulling you away. Already making the choice for you.

You tried to yank your arm back. “What the—?”

“Your wounds,” Jungkook cut you off, voice flat. “I’m checking them.”

You fought him.

Not outright—you weren’t that reckless. But you resisted.

Jungkook’s grip was tight around your wrist as he dragged you through the festival grounds, his body tense, his pace relentless. You pulled back, twisting your arm, trying to slip free without making a scene.

But his hold didn’t budge.

Not once.

Your breath came ragged, your body protesting every movement. The fight with Yoongi had left you battered—your lip was swelling, the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue. You could feel it—warm and sticky—dripping down your cheek from somewhere near your temple. Every step made your ribs ache, your knuckles screamed, and still, Jungkook pulled you forward, unyielding.

You didn’t speak.

The medical tent loomed ahead, tucked at the edge of the festival grounds. When Jungkook reached it, he finally stopped, releasing your wrist with a sharp exhale.

For a moment, you considered questioning him.

But then you saw his face—his expression sharp, his gaze hard, his whole body radiating a quiet, dangerous frustration. And suddenly, your words caught in your throat.

Your whole body hurt. You didn’t want a confrontation.

So you stayed silent.

But Jungkook wasn’t.

“You went against my order.”

His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the anger behind it.

“You were supposed to fight in your wolf form.”

You blinked.

For a second, you thought you had misheard.

Of all things—was this what he was pissed about? Not that you had won, not that you had shown a strength none of them ever thought you possessed, not that another pack’s beta had seen value in you and openly invited you to leave—but that you had disobeyed? Really?!

A humorless chuckle left your lips.

Your shoulders shook with the force of it, your lungs burning. Your hands moved before you could think—pushing your hair out of your face. The motion sent a fresh wave of pain through your battered knuckles, and you winced.

But the movement disturbed the air.

And with it, your scent.

Jungkook froze.

He hadn’t meant to inhale, hadn’t meant to care—but he did. It was barely there—soft, subdued, almost fragile. Not like the other omegas—not thick with honeyed warmth, not something that lured or demanded attention, not an instinctual pull. Delicate but lingering. It smelled like something distant, something just out of reach. Like a memory trying to surface—gentle earth after the summer rain, the faintest trace of something cool and sharp, an undertone of metal from the blood that still ran from your wounds.

It had never been enough to catch his attention before. Never been enough to register.

But now, with your sweat thick in the air, with your blood mixed into it, he could smell it.

Under his scent.

Under Min Yoongi’s scent.

It was gentle. It was inviting. It was meant to protect. And it made his head spin. Jungkook’s jaw tightened. His stomach turned. Had he really never noticed before?

Or had he noticed—but never associated it with you?

Jungkook swallowed hard, shifted where he stood, suddenly restless. He hated this.

Hated that he could still smell Yoongi on you. Hated that Yoongi had touched you, that his scent had settled into your skin, that he had smiled at you like you were something worth looking at, something worth keeping. Hated how he had to fight the instinct to pull you closer. Hated how he had to stop himself from brushing against you again, grounding you in his scent until nothing else—no other pack, no other alpha—could ever stake a claim on you.

Jungkook shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake something loose, but it didn’t help.

You didn’t even look at him.

Instead, you were staring at the ground, lips parted slightly, split, breathing still labored from the fight. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, but steady.

“…I’m sorry for disobeying.”

Jungkook’s fists clenched. The words were soft, too soft.

You weren’t trembling, you weren’t crying, you weren’t begging—but somehow, this felt worse.

You straightened your posture, shoulders squared despite the obvious pain it caused you. Your voice didn’t waver.

“I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit, alpha,” you continued, “but I thought… I thought a win would be more beneficial for the pack.”

Jungkook just stared.

His stomach turned again.

You weren’t wrong. A win was beneficial. Even he had to admit that you had fought well—fought harder than anyone had ever expected.

And yet, here you were. Apologizing.

Not for failing. For not being weak.

Something twisted deep in Jungkook’s chest, an unfamiliar kind of discomfort. Because they had set you up for failure. But you went anyway.

And how had they repaid your devotion for your pack?

By letting you bleed alone.

By not even coming to your side when you won for them.

His stomach twisted, the weight of it all sinking in.

But then—he saw your eyes. The way you weren’t really looking at him at all.

That distant look. That lingering pain. That longing.

Like you were already thinking about something else.

Someone else.

You were already calculating your next steps, weren’t you?

Taking your punishment, enduring whatever he threw your way and then—what?

Maybe you’d go to Namjoon. He had seemed open to the idea of taking you in. Maybe you’d go to Yoongi. He had invited you. Maybe—for the first time in your life—you could be wanted somewhere.

And why not?

Jungkook understood why Yoongi had done it, what had made him say those words so openly—but the thought of you considering it made Jungkook’s hands curl into fists. Now that he got a whiff of you he didn’t want to lose it.

And you were considering it.

Jungkook’s breath caught.

He felt like an absolute fucking asshole.

His jaw locked. His shoulders stiffened.

He could force you to stay.

He was Alpha. His word was law. You were part of his pack.

He could put his claim on you by force—not Yoongi, not Namjoon, not another soul in this fucking festival—would ever dare question it.

But for once… he didn’t want to make it worse for you.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to fix this.

Didn’t know how to make you stop looking so—like that.

That look in your eyes, that quiet, tired sadness, that distant acceptance that told him you had already started imagining your life somewhere else. Somewhere away from him.

And fuck, he hated it.

He hated that he felt anything about it at all.

Jungkook wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to feel this tight, aching something settle in his chest when you stood there, avoiding his gaze, looking so fucking alone.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, body taut with something too tangled to name. He didn’t understand. He didn’t get why his pulse was loud in his ears, why his throat felt tight, why he cared.

Then, without thinking—he stepped closer.

Not aggressive, not like before. Not like he was trying to intimidate you. But something else. Something… unsure. Something unfamiliar.

Something hesitant.

For a split second, his body tensed. But then you shifted—just slightly, not a step back, not a step closer. And it hit him all over again. Yoongi’s scent on you.

Jungkook didn’t like that.

Didn’t like that Yoongi’s scent had been there first. Didn’t like that he hadn’t been.

So he did what his instincts told him to.

Slowly, carefully—he lifted a hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he touched you.

Not rough. Not like the harsh, punishing grips from before.

Gentle.

Warm fingers brushing over your wrist before trailing up, barely there, a question more than a touch.

And when you didn’t flinch, when you didn’t move away, when you only exhaled a slow, uncertain breath in confusion—he closed the distance.

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a firm, solid embrace.

Your body stiffened immediately, breath catching, and for a moment, he thought you might shove him away. But then—slowly, cautiously—you exhaled, your muscles gradually unwinding as you settled against him.

Jungkook barely resisted the urge to bury his face against your neck.

To inhale deeply, to mark you with nothing but himself.

Instead, he tightened his hold just a fraction, protective, grounding.

Claiming.

It wasn’t the same as scenting you. But it was something.

Something that said—stay.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The female wolf approached, her scent warm and neutral, a balm against the suffocating weight of Jungkook’s presence. You barely heard what she was saying, barely registered the way she reached for your arm, gently guiding you deeper into the tent.

You were just relieved to be away from him.

Jungkook and his friends had spent years tearing you down, humiliating you, making sure you knew exactly where you stood. So why? Why had he hugged you, brushed his scent onto you twice in such a short amount of time?

It made no sense.

And you were too exhausted to try and make sense of it now.

Behind you, footsteps entered the tent. Yoongi. He also came to the medical tent.

He looked like shit. Bruised and bloody, his lower lip split from where your knuckles had caught him. His cheekbone was swollen, and his dark eyes flicked toward you as he exhaled, sinking onto a nearby cot.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back. “You sure know how to land a punch.”

You huffed out something between a laugh and a groan, wincing as the healer inspected your lip as she moved you along. The sting barely registered. Your body was too numb, too exhausted.

Your mind reeled as you stepped into another part of the tent, the fabric shifting behind you, cutting off the weight of Jungkook’s gaze. You weren’t naive enough to think that this moment of peace would last—Jungkook wasn’t one to let things go. His scent was still clinging to your skin.

You shot a final glance over your shoulder that made you lock eyes with Yoongi. Yoongi eyes linger on you, posture relaxed despite the open wound on his brow still sluggishly bleeding, offering you a parting nod before you disappeared from his sight.

Jungkook tensed at that, his entire body coiling like a spring. But he said nothing, only watching as you left.

For now, you could breathe.

Meanwhile, the air inside the tent was thick enough with hostility to chock on.

Jungkook stood with his arms crossed, his shoulders drawn tight. He had been tense ever since the nurse got you, since Yoongi had stepped into the tent. Namjoon stood beside him, expression unreadable, while Jimin —fucking Jimin—, ever the mood-breaker, let out a scoff and shot Yoongi a smirk.

"Man, I still can't believe it," he snickered. "You really lost to an omega? That’s embarrassing."

Yoongi didn’t even blink.

"If that omega had been fighting you, your sorry ass would have lost too," he shot back easily, not even dignifying Jimin with a glance

Jungkook stiffened.

Jimin wasn’t expecting that answer.

He rolled his eyes, trying to recover. "Yeah, sure—”

Yoongi didn’t take the bait. Instead, the beta smirked, his gaze sharp as he glanced toward Jimin.

"You can suck a dick, man," Yoongi interrupted lazily, his tone bordering on bored. "If you really think that fight was a joke, then you're a bigger dumbass than I thought."

Jimin's expression darkened.

Jungkook's fingers twitched.

Then, Yoongis tone dropped, words hitting their mark like a well-placed strike. “If you’re too stupid to realize how fucking amazing she is, then she’s wasted in your pack.”

Jungkook froze. The words rang out like a challenge. Because for some reason, Yoongi defending you like that pissed him off more than Jimin mocking you.

Much more.

Too much.

Jimin’s expression twitched, irritation flashing in his eyes, but Jungkook barely registered it. His mind was still repeating the last thing Yoongi had said.

She’s wasted in your pack.

Something deep inside him—something primal—recoiled at the thought.

Yoongi had been watching you the entire fight, had taken every single one of your hits and still looked like he would’ve gone another round with you just for the thrill of it.

And then he had the fucking nerve to tell you to come with him.

No.

Jungkook couldn’t let that happen. Because there was something gnawing at the edges of his mind—a realization that he refused to let fully form.

He needed to put Yoongi in his place.

To tell him to back the fuck off.

To stay away from his omega—

Fuck.

The thought struck like a whip, burning through his mind like fire.

Mine.

His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

He hadn’t meant to think that.

Hadn’t meant to let it form.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t join in on Jimin’s mockery.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he knew.

Yoongi was right.

You were too strong to be treated the way you were.

And yet.

Yet, he was standing here, fists curled at his sides, listening to someone else talk about you, see you, acknowledge you. Someone who wasn’t him.

And it fucking bothered him.

Namjoon, standing beside him, must have sensed the shift. His gaze flicked toward Jungkook, voice even. “Don’t start a fight.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched.

What the fuck was happening to him?

He forced himself to unclench his jaw. Forced himself to relax his stance.

Namjoon was right. And yet.

As he stood there, chest tight, body rigid, waiting for you to return, he couldn’t shake one singular, suffocating thought.

You were considering leaving.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The female wolf had been kind—efficient but distant, the way pack healers usually were when tending to someone who wasn’t truly their own. She patched you up, wrapped your bruised ribs, cleaned the gash on your lip, and handed you a bowl of cool water and a cloth.

“You can wash up before you go,” she had said, then excused herself.

You should have been relieved to have a moment alone, but as you ran the damp cloth over your skin, wiping away the grime of sweat and blood, you hesitated.

The scent.

Yoongi’s scent still clung to you from earlier, faint but present, threaded into the fabric of your torn clothes. But the one that lingered strongest was Jungkook’s.

It had settled on your skin like a second layer, a stark contrast to how he had always treated you. His scent was warm, rich, something inherently dominant and grounding—comforting, even.

And that was the problem.

You had never thought of Jungkook as comforting.

The scent didn’t belong on you. He had no right to leave it there, and yet he had—twice.

Huffing, you pressed the cloth to your neck and scrubbed it away.

Even though a part of you—a tiny, traitorous part of you—had liked it.

But you weren’t naive. You didn’t understand why he had done it, and you weren’t about to let yourself read into something that wasn’t real.

As the last traces of him faded from your skin, you took a breath, forcing down the unease curling in your stomach. You were bandaged and clean. Ready to go.

Except…

You weren’t ready to step back into that tent.

Not with him. Not with Yoongi. Not with Namjoon, whose invitation still hung in the air, the one you weren’t sure you’d refuse.

So you did the only thing you could.

You slipped away.

Before leaving, you stopped by the healer. “Please let Alpha Namjoon and his Beta know that I’m grateful for the invitation. I’ll make a decision soon.”

And then, before the suffocating weight of that tent could pull you back in—you disappeared into the festival night.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The moment the healer returned to the tent to take care of Yoongi and relayed your message, Jungkook stopped breathing. Everything inside him went still, frozen in the suffocating grip of one brutal, searing thought.

You were considering leaving.

His ears rang. His pulse pounded against his ribs, his veins, his skull—too loud, too hot.

And then—white-hot rage.

The fuck—you slipped away?!

The fuck you would tell some other fucking beta that you were considering his offer?!

Something deep inside him snapped, cracked open, left him bare and fucking raw. His body locked up, every instinct screaming at him to move, to find you, drag you back, remind you who the fuck you belonged to.

To him.

It shouldn’t have been true. But it was.

His omega.

His fucking omega.

Not Yoongi’s. Not Namjoon’s. Not anyone else’s.

His.

Across from him, Yoongi grinned—grinned, like he already had you.

If it wouldn’t provoke war with Namjoon’s pack, he would have put the smug bastard down right then and there.

Beside him, Namjoon must have sensed it—the impending explosion—because his voice was a sharp, cutting warning.

“Jeon.”

His head snapped toward the alpha, feral.

“Don’t. Fucking. Start.”

His breath was harsh, uneven. He forced his body still, forced himself to stay put, forced himself to swallow down the hurricane raging inside him.

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He needed to get away from Yoongi’s fucking stare,

Jungkook moved before he could stop himself, shoving past the tent’s threshold, out into the cool night air. The night air was cold against Jungkook’s skin, but he barely felt it. The weight in his chest—the suffocating, clawing sensation pressing against his ribs—was all he could focus on. His lungs burned from how hard he was breathing, his body rigid with tension as his mind reeled over the situation.

You were gone.

You’d slipped away.

And Jungkook was unraveling.

It wasn’t just that you’d walked off. It wasn’t just that you had managed to leave without him noticing. It was that you had done so after telling another beta—not him—but fucking Yoongi that you were considering the invitation. Leaving. The word lodged itself inside his chest like a knife twisting between his ribs, making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to fucking stand still and not go feral with the need to find you.

Jungkook's fingers curled into fists at his sides. His instincts clawed at him, screamed at him to hunt you down, track you, drag you back where you belonged. He didn’t even know what that meant anymore—all he knew was that the idea of you slipping further from his grasp was driving him to the brink of madness.

And then—

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Jimin’s voice cut through the thick haze of rage flooding Jungkook’s system, sharp and irritated.

Jungkook’s head snapped to the side, eyes locking onto Jimin with a barely restrained snarl curling in his throat. Jimin stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a scoff on his lips, looking at him like he was some kind of deranged idiot.

“Seriously, why the fuck do you even care so much?” Jimin asked, incredulous. His gaze burned into Jungkook like he was trying to see into his mind, trying to pick apart the tangled mess of emotions that even Jungkook himself couldn’t fully understand. “Sure, she’s not as weak as we thought, but she’s still—”

Still an abnormal omega.

Something inside Jungkook snapped.

The next thing he knew, Jimin was pinned against a tree.

Bark cracked under the force of Jungkook’s grip as he shoved Jimin back, forearm pressing into his throat. A startled grunt left Jimin’s mouth, his hands flying up to grab at Jungkook’s wrist, but he wasn’t struggling. Not yet. He was stunned. His wide eyes stared into Jungkook’s, searching, trying to process the sheer fury he saw there.

Jungkook’s voice was low, guttural, dangerous. “Say that again.”

Jimin blinked. “What—”

“Say that shit again, Jimin.” Jungkook’s fingers curled tighter in the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, his grip unforgiving. “Say she’s ‘abnormal’ one more fucking time.”

The growl that rumbled from Jungkook’s chest was borderline feral. His body trembled with the effort to contain himself, to not let his instincts rip Jimin apart.

Jimin, to his credit, didn’t back down. He let out a breath, his expression shifting from shocked to frustrated. “You act like you hate her half the time,” he bit out, his voice rough from the pressure against his throat. “You—”

“You ever say that shit about her again,” Jungkook breathed, voice guttural, deadly, “and I’ll fucking break your jaw.” The words left Jungkook’s mouth before he even realized he’d spoken them.

Jimin swallowed, but there was no mistaking the disbelief in his scent—disbelief and realization.

A heavy silence settled between them.

Jungkook’s breath was uneven, his heart hammering like war drums in his chest. He didn’t know what the fuck he was saying, what the fuck he was feeling—only that it was true.

He didn’t hate you.

But he had made you think he did—for years.

And that was worse.

Jimin’s gaze flicked over his face, looking for something—understanding, maybe. Clarity. But all he found was frustration. Confusion. Possession. Jungkook finally released his hold, stepping back abruptly. Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, rubbing at his throat, his brows drawn in exasperation.

“Shit,” Jimin muttered.

Jungkook didn’t wait to hear what else he had to say. He turned, his body thrumming with tension, his instincts screaming.

Find her.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

You were impossible to track by scent alone.

Jungkook’s breath came faster, his chest tight with something dangerously close to panic. His mind raced as he moved through the festival grounds, scanning every inch of the crowd, turning over every fucking stone. He checked the food stalls, the bonfires, the gathering circles—but you were nowhere. His frustration mounted with every passing second, the suffocating weight of the unknown pressing down on him.

And then—

He saw you.

At the edge of the festival.

Watching.

His feet halted. His breath hitched.

But he didn’t run to you.

Not yet.

Because, he saw what you were watching.

A small group from your pack—your own pack—laughing together, eating from a food stall, talking and joking and existing without you.

Like you weren’t there.

Like you weren’t one of them.

Jungkook didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He only watched you.

Watched the way you lingered on the edges, distant, separate, apart. Watched the way your shoulders slumped just slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves—as if holding yourself together. Watched the way your eyes, usually sharp, usually guarded, turned soft with something somber.

Something that hurt.

And fuck—

Jungkook felt it.

Felt it in a way he had never let himself feel before.

Because deep down, he knew.

You might have been an outcast even without his bullying, but he sure as hell hadn’t helped.

Any chance you might have had at forming bonds with others—with other omegas who could have been open to you, to your differences—he had crushed with him and his friends being so openly against you.

And now, you were considering leaving.

Because you had no place here.

The air left his lungs.

And then—The wind shifted.

He caught your scent.

Subtle, light, but there.

Familiar. Calming. Now that he knew what to look for.

You felt it before you saw it—the weight of his gaze, the shift in the air. A tension, thick and charged, creeping up your spine like an unseen force tightening its grip around your throat. Your body reacted before your mind even had time to process it, muscles coiling, senses sharpening as if bracing for a fight, a command, a punishment.

And yet, when you turned your head, expecting the familiar sharpness of his scorn, the arrogant sneer that usually curled his lips, what you found instead was something entirely different.

Jungkook was walking toward you, but not like he normally did—not with the sharp, purposeful strides of an alpha ready to corner their prey. His movements were slow, measured, careful. Like he was approaching something that might spook, something fragile that he didn’t want to risk losing.

And then—he raised his hand.

Not to grab you. Not to pull you. Not to force you into submission.

But to hold it palm-out, a silent request.

Stay.

Your stomach twisted, confusion bubbling in your chest as your instincts warred with your logic. This was wrong. This wasn’t how Jungkook acted. He didn’t ask—he took. He didn’t approach with caution—he cornered. And yet, here he was, standing a short distance away, his body visibly tense but his expression void of cruelty.

Your gaze flickered over him warily, taking in the way his nose subtly twitched, the way his brow furrowed just slightly. You knew what he was doing. Smelling the air. Searching for something.

And when he didn’t find it—when his jaw ticked just barely, when his fingers curled the slightest bit before he forced them to relax—you understood.

You had washed off his scent.

The realization sent a strange kind of satisfaction through you. He didn’t look like he like it—not one bit. His scent had been stripped from your skin, erased as if he had never laid claim in the first place. But then, another realization hit just as quickly, one that made something deep inside you twist.

Yoongi’s scent wasn’t there, either.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered over you, assessing, processing. His expression barely shifted, but you knew him well enough by now to see the signs—the small, fleeting flicker of relief in his gaze, the way his shoulders lost a fraction of their tension. He hated that his scent was missing from you. But at the very least, no one else’s remained either.

You swallowed hard, torn between wanting to question him and simply pretending he wasn’t there at all. You didn’t get the chance to decide before he moved, his body lowering with an ease that felt unnatural for him, for what you were used to.

Jungkook sat beside you.

Not in front of you, not looming over you, not crowding you into submission.

Beside you.

And then, for the first time, he looked at his pack the way you did.

You weren’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact that he was sitting next to you without hostility, or the way he wasn’t part of the fun. Just watching the others with you. He wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t acting like the untouchable alpha you had always known him to be. He was simply watching. Watching them talk, watching them laugh, watching them exist together in a way you never had.

It made something sharp wedge itself inside your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know what to expect.

This entire situation was too strange, too wrong. You weren’t used to being this close to Jungkook without fear. Without waiting for the ridicule, for the belittlement, for the inevitable moment he reminded you just how different you were. How much you didn’t belong.

And yet, the silence stretched. And it never came.

Instead—

“I’m sorry.”

The words were so quiet, so impossibly foreign, that you almost didn’t recognize his voice at first. Your body went rigid. Your breath caught in your throat. Your brain struggled to comprehend.

Jungkook didn’t apologize. Jungkook didn’t admit fault.

And yet, he was sitting here beside you, his gaze still fixed on the pack in front of you, his posture stiff but open. And he had just apologized.

It took a moment for you to understand—to even believe it.

But then, he continued, voice low, rough, edged with something that sounded almost hesitant.

“I misjudged you,” he admitted. His hands curled into loose fists against his thighs before he forced himself to relax them. “You’re not weak. You were just you.” His head tilted just slightly in your direction, eyes searching for yours, but you refused to meet them, your own gaze locked forward, jaw tight. He exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching. “Your scent…” His voice grew quieter. “It’s calming.”

Something inside you twisted.

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Because what the fuck were you supposed to say?

This was the man who had spent years making you feel like nothing. The man who had made sure you never had a place in your own pack, who had crushed any hope of you ever forming connections, who had made you feel like you were something to be ridiculed, avoided, dismissed.

And now, he was telling you he had been wrong.

That he was sorry.

That your scent—the very thing they had used to demean you, to remind you of how you didn’t belong—had calmed him.

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Your hands clenched against your lap, your chest tight with too many emotions, too much history, too much fucking pain.

The silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating.

Jungkook waited.

For an answer. A reaction. Anything.

The silence between you stretched impossibly long, thick with something neither of you could name. Jungkook had never been a patient man, but for once, he did not demand, did not press, did not try to force an answer from you. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t answer him at all—maybe a part of him feared you wouldn’t. And yet, even if you had chosen silence, he wouldn’t have left your side.

But then—you spoke.

Your voice was quiet, slow, careful. Not hesitant, not weak—measured.

“I am an omega,” you said, your lips parting just slightly before you pressed them together again, licking them as if trying to decide whether or not to keep speaking. You weren’t looking at him. Wouldn’t dare look at him. Not Jeon Jungkook. Not the alpha, not the son of your pack’s leader.

Not the one who, with his friends, had made sure your life had been nothing short of awful.

Not the one who had scented you today—twice.

Not the one who had apologized.

And yet, despite the fact that you refused to meet his gaze, you didn’t stop talking.

“Even unpure, I am still an omega,” you continued, the weight of those words pressing against your tongue, curling around your ribs. “I am unwanted in my own pack. Unclaimed. But I was invited.” You exhaled slowly, staring at the people in front of you, at the way they laughed, how they leaned into each other with ease. How they had everything you didn’t.

How they had never once thought to include you.

Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out anyway.

“I was invited to join Yoongi,” you said, nodding toward them, toward everything you could have. Toward everything Jungkook had helped make sure you could never have here. “I could finally have something like this.”

Jungkook followed your gaze, watched the pack through your eyes, saw what you saw. Saw what you had been missing for so long.

And then, you turned to him.

For the first time since this conversation started, you finally looked at him.

“Why would you apologize now, Jungkook?” The words were soft, but sharp, piercing straight through him. “Can’t you just… let me go?”

Jungkook felt his lungs seize, felt something inside him coil so tight it hurt. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Because—fuck, he understood. He understood exactly what you meant, exactly what you wanted. He understood the words you were saying, the quiet plea hidden underneath them. And at the same time, he didn’t.

Because no.

He couldn’t let you go.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists against his thighs as something ugly, something primal, twisted inside him at the mere thought of you leaving, of you running to another pack, of you going to him.

The image of Yoongi’s hand gripping your wrist, of his scent lingering on your skin, of his invitation—his fucking offer—wrapped around Jungkook’s ribs like barbed wire, sinking deep, tearing at his insides, making his vision darken at the edges.

He hated it.

Hated the idea of you walking away. Hated the thought of another pack looking at you, claiming you, seeing what he had been too fucking blind to see. And for the first time, he let himself acknowledge the thought that had been clawing at the edges of his mind, the one he had been too fucking scared to face.

What if you weren’t just his omega?

What if you were—fuck.

What if you were his mate?

And he had ruined it before it could even begin?

A slow, shaky breath left his lips, his fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. He turned to you, and when you finally met his gaze, his dark eyes were filled with something heavy, something raw—something real.

Vulnerability.

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice rough, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “I can’t let you go.”

You didn’t interrupt him.

You listened.

And Jungkook realized—you were giving him something he had never given you.

A chance.

A chance to explain. A chance to fix it.

A chance he didn’t fucking deserve.

Jungkook had never struggled with words before. He had never needed to. He was an alpha, the future leader of his pack—his presence alone commanded obedience.

But as he looked at you now, sitting stiff and guarded, waiting for him to say something worth listening to—for once, words failed him.

He didn’t know where to start.

Did he start with the moment he really saw you? The moment when the scent he had ignored for so long finally reached him properly, made his head spin?

The moment when Yoongi’s bloodied knuckles had slammed into your face, when you had spit blood onto the ground and still stood your ground?

The moment he realized that—fuck—you weren’t weak, weren’t something lesser, weren’t something meant to be mocked or scorned?

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook finally said, his voice lower than before, rougher. He wasn’t looking at you. Couldn’t. Not when he felt this exposed. This bare.

“I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize it. To really see you.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he forced himself to meet your gaze.

“I don’t think I ever wanted to see you,” he admitted, voice raw. “Not really. I told myself you were lesser. That you were different. That the way the others treated you was just—how things were supposed to be. I never questioned it. Never questioned myself.”

He hesitated, inhaling deeply, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “But when you fought—when you stood your ground—I realized I had never actually looked at you. Never tried to understand. And that—” his jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides. “That was my fucking mistake.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, his expression tightening with something close to frustration. Not with you—with himself.

Jungkook had spent years pushing you aside, treating you like something beneath him, something unworthy of his attention. Now he couldn’t ignore you.

Would never ignore you again.

He inhaled, your scent reaching him, steadying something inside him. The realization had been clawing at his insides since the moment he finally noticed you, since he finally let himself notice you. And still, it was terrifying to say out loud.

Jungkook hesitated. Then—

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, his eyes flickering across your face, searching for something he couldn’t name. “I don’t know if I—if we—” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “I just know that I can’t let you go.”

Your breath caught.

Jungkook swallowed, his fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave in, getting closer—not to crowd you, not to intimidate, but because he needed to.

“Maybe,” he said carefully, slowly, “if things had been different—if I had been different—I would have figured it out sooner.”

Your brows furrowed. “Figured what out?”

He swallowed. Hesitated—

“I could see it,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you didn’t recognize. “I could, can see myself being your mate.”

Silence.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stared at him, stunned, shocked, unsure whether to laugh or cry or push him away.

Jungkook… wanted to be your mate?

Jungkook, the alpha who had spent years making sure you knew your place, now wanted you?

The idea made your head spin.

Your scent spiked with uncertainty, and Jungkook felt it, saw it in the way you shifted, in the way you didn’t reach for him, didn’t lean closer despite the way his body was pulling toward yours.

But you didn’t reject him either.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, exhaling harshly, as if trying to settle something inside himself. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” he admitted, voice rough. “I don’t even expect you to forgive me.” His fists clenched at his sides, his whole body tense. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

You didn’t know what to say.

And Jungkook, for the first time in his life, looked at you and realized—he was afraid.

Afraid that he had ruined this before it had ever begun.

His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you, to grab your wrist and drag you closer, to scent you again. He wanted to. Fuck, he needed to. It wasn’t right, you walking around without his scent, without something that marked you as his. If someone else came near you, if someone tried to—

No.

He wouldn’t force it-you.

Not this time.

Not until you wanted him to.

Jungkook swallowed down the instinct, forcing himself to push past it. He got up, took a step back instead, motioning toward the festival.

“Come with me.”

You hesitated.

Jungkook didn’t blame you.

But after a moment, you moved.

You fell into step beside him, neither of you speaking as you walked deeper into the festival. Music and laughter filled the air, scents of grilled meat and spiced drinks curling into your senses. The sounds of packmates laughing, bonding made something tighten in your chest, a dull ache you had long since grown used to.

Jungkook saw the way you glanced toward a small food stall, the brief flicker of interest before you shut it down.

It was so natural, so ingrained in you to deny yourself.

Before you could pull away, before you could convince yourself you didn’t belong here, Jungkook was already moving. He pulled you toward the stall, barely giving you time to react. The vendor greeted him with a knowing smirk, already preparing something without needing to be asked.

Jungkook glanced at you, watching your reaction carefully.

"You haven’t eaten, have you?"

You tensed but said nothing. You didn’t want to admit it.

Jungkook scoffed, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. The touch was warm, careful. Not rough, not demanding. Just—grounding. Before you could argue, the vendor handed Jungkook two portions, and he pressed one into your hands, giving you no choice but to take it. You stared down at it, unsure of how to respond. Jungkook didn’t push. He just started eating his own, as if this was normal. As if it had always been this easy.

The food felt heavy in your hands.

Not because of its weight, but because of what it meant.

Jungkook had never done this before. Had never even come close. No mockery, no sharp-edged words hidden behind smirks, no underhanded glances exchanged with his friends at your expense. There was no cruelty, no trick lurking beneath the surface, waiting to snap around your throat the moment you let your guard down.

And yet—you hesitated.

Because it didn’t make sense.

Because this—this warmth, this softness, this small moment of normalcy—couldn’t be real.

For years, Jungkook had seen to it personally, had mocked and humiliated you whenever the opportunity arose. Why would he stop now? Why would he suddenly be so… kind? Did he really want you as a mate? Were you really meant for him?

It was easier—safer—to assume this was another joke. Some elaborate, twisted game where he played nice just to see if he could break you in a different way. But when you looked at him, at the way he just stood there, eating his food like this was something he had done a thousand times before, you couldn’t see it. There was no glint of amusement in his eyes, no carefully hidden malice behind his actions.

He wasn’t laughing at you.

And that made something uneasy twist in your stomach.

Because it meant you wanted to believe him.

And you didn’t know how to feel about that.

Jungkook nudged your shoulder lightly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.

“You fought. You should eat,” he said simply. His tone was different—calmer, like this was just an obvious fact. “That’s what the others do, isn’t it? They celebrate. They enjoy the festival. You should too.”

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“I don’t really do that,” you admitted, voice quieter than you intended. You forced yourself to keep your gaze on the food in your hands, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I don’t really… have someone to do that with.”

Jungkook stilled.

For a long, heavy moment, he didn’t say anything. But you felt it—the shift in the air, the weight of his gaze as it burned into you, the tension that coiled so tight it was suffocating. His throat bobbed, a muscle in his jaw clenching as something dark flickered across his face.

Because this—this was his fault.

He had done this to you.

Maybe not alone, but he had made sure you were alone, had pushed you so far to the edges of this pack that there was no place left for you. And now—now, he hated it.

Hated that you looked at your own pack with longing, with that quiet, resigned acceptance of your isolation. Hated that you had been forced to convince yourself you didn’t want something as simple as friendship.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his shoulders tight with the urge to reach for you, to pull you closer, to—

Jungkook swallowed hard, his voice coming out lower, rougher.

“Then celebrate with me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers tightening around the food in your hands.

Jungkook must have sensed the shift in the air—or maybe, for once, he was just paying attention.

Because instead of letting the weight of your words settle between you, heavy and suffocating, he did something unexpected. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back as if physically shaking off the tension. Then, with a pointed tilt of his head, he motioned toward the festival stalls ahead.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice lighter now, easier. “Let’s do something fun.”

You hesitated, still off-balance from the strange, unfamiliar warmth of the moment before, but Jungkook didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed your wrist—not hard, not demanding, just firm. Certain. And before you could think to pull away, he was already leading you toward the stalls.

The air around you shifted as he walked, the tension from before unraveling with each step. The festival’s bright lanterns cast a warm glow over everything, their light flickering against the deep hues of the night sky. Packmates bustled around, laughter and cheers blending into the rhythmic hum of music. It should have felt suffocating, overwhelming even, but somehow, Jungkook made it lighter.

Like you could actually breathe.

He stopped in front of a game stall—a simple one, lined with targets and darts, where the prizes ranged from cheap trinkets to extravagant stuffed animals far too big for anyone to reasonably carry around. Jungkook crossed his arms over his broad chest, surveying the prizes with an exaggerated air of contemplation before glancing at you.

“So,” he drawled, his tone dipping into something playfully arrogant, “what should I win my omega?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook must have heard it too, because the moment the words left his mouth, his entire body went rigid. His eyes widened a fraction, and then he fucking blushed. A pink hue crept up his neck, dusting his cheeks, his usual confidence cracking just enough for the moment to hang between you, raw and unguarded.

You stared at him, stunned.

Not because of the claim—no, that wasn’t what shocked you the most. It was the way he reacted to it. The way it had slipped out so naturally, so thoughtlessly, like it was something he had already accepted, something that was already settled in his mind.

Like it was something he wanted.

Your stomach twisted.

It was too much. Too heavy. Too real.

So you did the only thing you could think to do.

You looked away, fixing your gaze on the prizes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. “Whatever’s fine,” you muttered, trying to evade the weight of the moment. Trying to evade the mere thought of being his.

Jungkook nodded stiffly, the blush still lingering on his face. But internally—internally, his mind was a fucking mess.

Because "whatever" wasn’t fine.

Not when it came to you.

No, he wanted to get you the best fucking prize there was. The biggest, the best, the one that would make everyone look twice and know exactly who you belonged to. Because he had already decided—whether you realized it or not—you were someone he definitely wanted as his mate. And that meant you deserved the best.

His lips curled into a grin, the usual cocky tilt of his smirk returning as he grabbed the darts, rolling one between his fingers before glancing at you.

And for the first time ever, your heart fluttered.

Just a little.

The realization made your stomach flip. Made your breath catch in your throat.

And then—the spell shattered.

“Hey, look at this,” a voice sneered from behind you.

You stiffened immediately. Too immediately.

Jungkook’s grin fell the second he saw your shoulders go rigid, the way your fingers curled around the hem of your sleeves. The way you prepared yourself.

He turned, eyes narrowing at the approaching group—packmates, his packmates. And the moment they saw him standing beside you, standing with you, their expressions twisted into something ugly.

“Oh, come on, Jungkook,” one of them laughed, clapping a hand against his shoulder. “Really? You’re making it too easy.”

Another chuckled, arms crossing as he eyed you with an amused smirk. “What, is this your new way of keeping her in line? Pretend to be nice, get her hopes up, then drop her harder than before?”

Jungkook’s blood turned to ice.

He barely registered the words—all he saw was you.

The way your breath hitched. The way your fingers curled tighter. The way your body tensed as if bracing for impact, as if you had already accepted their mockery before it had even fully left their mouths, as if you believed them.

Like you had done this a hundred times before.

And Jungkook—hated it.

Hated the way you didn’t fight back, hated the way you still defaulted to this, to expecting it. Hated that you were more than capable of wiping the fucking floor with half of them but you still—still—

Instinct took over.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Jungkook moved.

A step forward—not away from you, but in front of you.

The shift was immediate.

The laughter faltered. The sneers wavered. They weren’t expecting that.

Because never—not once—had Jeon Jungkook ever placed himself between you and them.

The air turned thick, charged with something heavy, something dangerous.

Jungkook didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just stared.

And for the first time, his packmates hesitated.

Because this wasn’t the Jungkook they knew.

The Jungkook they knew laughed at you, mocked you, threw you to the wolves because it was fun, because it was easy. This Jungkook wasn’t laughing.

This Jungkook was looking at them like he was one second away from tearing their fucking throats out. His jaw clenched, his shoulders squared, his presence radiating something that was no longer just posturing—it was a warning.

And still—still, he hated that it had taken him this long to feel this way.

Hated that only now did the need to protect you consume him.

That only now, when it might already be too late, did he realize you had always been worth protecting.

The packmates who had been so quick to sneer, so confident in their mockery, suddenly found themselves hesitating, uncertain. Their eyes flickered between Jungkook and you, as if trying to make sense of what they were seeing—as if they couldn’t comprehend the sudden change in him.

Jungkook could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, trying to fit this moment into the narrative they had always believed. Because in their eyes, there was no way—no fucking way—that this was real. That Jeon Jungkook, their golden boy, their alpha, was actually standing between them and you.

He could feel their confusion, their disbelief, thick in the air between them. And then—the moment of hesitation broke.

One of them scoffed, shaking his head. “Alright, Jungkook. We get it.”

Another smirked, though there was a flicker of unease in his expression. “Yeah. You had us for a second.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked, his muscles coiling tight.

They didn’t get it.

And when they turned to each other, exchanging knowing looks, their laughter starting up again—as if this was all just some elaborate new joke at your expense—something inside Jungkook snapped.

His voice came out low, dangerous. “Do you think I’m joking?”

The laughter stopped.

Jungkook took a slow, deliberate step forward, his expression dark, his presence suddenly suffocating. The easy confidence that usually radiated from him was gone—this was something else entirely. Something cold, something sharp, something that carried weight.

“You think this is me fucking around?” His voice was quiet, but it carried, slicing through the air like a blade. “That this is just some new way to mess with her?”

No one answered.

Jungkook let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “You don’t get to laugh.” His gaze cut through them.

One of them shuffled uncomfortably, but before they could speak, Jungkook cut them off.

“I mean it,” he said, voice like stone. “You don’t fucking laugh at her again. You don’t talk down to her. You don’t fucking touch her.”

A pause.

“You do, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. And then—one by one, they backed down.

Jungkook didn’t move until they turned, murmuring amongst themselves as they walked away, their laughter now uneasy, their jokes less certain. He heard the words slip between them, muttered under their breath—“This is just Jungkook’s new game. Give it a few days.”

Jungkook’s teeth ground together.

He wanted to tear the thought from their skulls. Wanted to shake them until they understood—until they saw what he saw, felt what he felt.

But it was too late.

And as he turned back to you—the shift hit him like a blow to the chest.

You were staring at him, your body stiff, your expression carefully blank. But it wasn’t the usual guarded neutrality you wore around the pack.

This was different.

This was wary. This was uncertain.

Jungkook felt his stomach drop.

No.

He had felt it before—just for a second. That fragile, delicate moment when you had started to let your guard down, when you had begun to step into something lighter with him, something that almost—almost—felt safe.

And now, just like that, it was gone.

His throat bobbed as he tried to figure out what to say, how to fix this, how to reach you again.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer now, quieter. “Are you—”

“Why did you do that?”

Your voice cut through him—not angry, not accusing. Just... uncertain.

Jungkook hesitated. He could still feel their words clinging to the air, their doubts sinking into the space between you. This is just Jungkook’s new game.

Fuck.

How could he make you believe him when even his own packmates didn’t?

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet your gaze, to hold it steady despite the way his chest ached.

“Because they were wrong,” he said simply. “About you. About me.”

You inhaled sharply, but you didn’t look away.

Jungkook’s hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you, to do something—anything—to ease the wariness in your eyes. Instead, he took a slow breath, forcing himself to think. To find something, anything, that could break the tension, that could pull you back from whatever edge you were teetering on.

Then, suddenly—he knew.

A spark of something familiar flickered in his chest, and he let out a breath, forcing a small, lopsided grin.

“C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the game stall behind him. “I still owe you a prize, don’t I?”

Your brows furrowed. “Jungkook—”

“Let me win you something,” he interrupted, stepping closer—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to ground. “It’s only fair, after all.”

You hesitated.

And for a moment, he thought you might refuse.

But then—slowly, cautiously—you nodded.

Jungkook’s chest loosened just the tiniest bit.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

But for now—for this moment—it was something.

For the next two hours, Jungkook did everything he could to make you feel comfortable.

He made it his personal mission, dragging you from stall to stall, challenging you to games he was far too skilled at—only to pretend he wasn’t, just to see the flicker of determination in your eyes as you tried to best him. He let you win once, and when you narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, accusing him of letting you, he only smirked and shrugged.

(He had let you win. Of course, he had. But he wouldn’t admit it, because he liked the way it made you scoff and roll your eyes, the way it made you—just for a second—drop your guard.)

He won you prizes. Too many. More than you could carry. Every time you tried to refuse, he would only smirk, placing them in your arms with an ease that left you grumbling under your breath.

And he got you food—again.

The first time, you didn’t protest. The second time, you huffed but accepted. The third time, you stared at him, bewildered.

“Jungkook.”

His grin was all too pleased as he handed you something sweet, a smug glint in his eyes. “Eat.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “I’ll explode.”

A beat of silence. Then—the quietest huff of laughter.

It was barely there. So small, so fleeting.

But it was real.

Jungkook’s breath caught, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might betray him. Because fuck, he wanted to hear nothing else. He wanted to hear you laugh again. And again. And again.

His grin softened into something else entirely, something genuine. Something he didn’t think he had ever shown you before. “Then I guess I’ll have to carry you home when you do.”

You scoffed, nudging his shoulder lightly—but you took the food.

Jungkook ached at how easy this felt.

For the first time, he felt like he was on solid ground with you.

His moment shattered the second Yoongi appeared.

It was subtle at first—just a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye, a figure leaning against one of the wooden stalls. Arms crossed, gaze steady, watching.

But Jungkook felt it the instant you tensed.

The warmth between you both—the fragile, tentative peace he had spent the past two hours carefully piecing together—vanished. The soft laughter, the playful bickering, the easy moments he had crafted, gone in an instant.

Jungkook watched—seething, helpless—as you looked at Yoongi and smiled.

Not forced. Not polite. Real.

A smile you hadn’t once given him.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Yoongi pushed off the stall, moving toward you with a familiar ease that made Jungkook’s stomach twist. He walked like he belonged at your side, like he had the right to step into your space without hesitation.

Jungkook had spent the last few hours carefully earning every inch closer to you. Yoongi didn’t have to.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Yoongi said, his voice smooth, measured.

Jungkook bristled.

Because Yoongi was looking at the prizes Jungkook had won you. At the way you were carrying more than you could possibly hold, arms full of his gifts, his offerings, his proof that he was trying, that he was changing, that he was someone you could trust.

But Yoongi—Yoongi was amused.

Like it was a joke.

Like Jungkook was a joke.

“I suppose I am,” you replied, adjusting the weight of the prizes in your arms.

Jungkook clenched his fists.

He wanted you to say it was because of him.

And then—Yoongi touched you.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t nothing.

It was deliberate, under the pretense of checking your injuries.

His fingers brushed against the inside of your wrist, barely there, light but firm, enough to feel the warmth of his skin against yours. Enough for his scent to cling.

Jungkook’s vision blurred. His body tensed, instincts screaming, but he couldn’t react. Not yet. Not when you didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

But Jungkook knew better.

Yoongi’s fingertips lingered too long. His eyes flickered too knowingly. And when he spoke—when he murmured, “I thought only you had left a mark on me, but my ribs still hurt with every breath I take”—it was too much.

Jungkook barely contained his growl.

Then, you chuckled.

You chuckled.

Jungkook’s nails bit into his palms.

“You did get a few good punches in,” you admitted, casual, easy, like it didn’t kill Jungkook to see you so comfortable with him. “I’ll feel them for a while.”

Jungkook wanted to rip Yoongi’s hand off of you.

Instead, he clenched his teeth and forced himself to breathe.

Yoongi hummed, finally releasing your wrist—but the damage was done.

His scent clung to you now. Not just faintly, not just a passing trace—it was fresh. Strong.

And you—you didn’t even notice.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay still.

To not grab your wrist, drag you away, wipe the smell off you himself.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, the back of his jaw aching from the tension he held.

He could feel his wolf pacing, snarl curling at the edges of his mind, demanding—fix it. Remove it. Make it right.

Yoongi didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t care.

“Have you thought about what I said?” Yoongi asked, his voice quieter now. More serious.

Jungkook’s chest tightened painfully.

Because he knew exactly what Yoongi was asking.

Yoongi had asked you to leave.

To come with him. To his pack. To his home.

And now—now he wanted your answer.

Jungkook forced himself to look away, to breathe, to keep his hands at his sides and not tear you away from Yoongi and demand that you never fucking leave.

“I want to wait until morning.”

Yoongi’s head tilted slightly, gaze sharp. “Morning?”

You nodded, shifting on your feet. “When the packs leave the festival grounds.”

Jungkook’s heart nearly stopped.

You weren’t saying no. But you weren’t saying yes.

You were giving yourself time. Time to think. Time to question whatever this was. To understand your feelings. And maybe, to say goodbye.

One thing became clear to Jungkook in that moment—he wasn’t going to waste a single second he still had with you. Because if you were still questioning him, still wondering if he was loyal to you—if you had a place within your pack that had made you doubt him so easily—then he would prove it to you.

He would make you stay.

Jungkook finally exhaled, stepping closer—not aggressively, but firmly. The air between him and Yoongi was tense.

“This conversation can wait until morning,” Jungkook said, finality in his tone.

Yoongi raised a brow, gaze flickering between the two of you before he exhaled. He didn’t say anything else, but Jungkook could feel the doubt in his stare. Then, Yoongi tilted his head, considering something.

“We’re having a BBQ later,” he said, his eyes flickering between the two of you. “You should come.”

Jungkook stiffened.

Yoongi wasn’t talking to him.

He was talking to you.

And you—you were actually thinking about it.

Jungkook didn’t let you answer.

“We already ate.”

The word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and final.

Yoongi raised a brow, gaze darkening, but Jungkook didn’t care.

He was done.

He was done with the way Yoongi looked at you. With the way Yoongi spoke to you, like you already belonged to him, his pack. With the way you let his scent stay on you.

The way it twisted something deep in his gut, something raw and uncontrollable.

Yoongi held his stare for a long moment, unreadable. Then, finally, he sighed, lifting his hands in a mock surrender.

“Your loss.”

Jungkook said nothing. Just turned. It was pure instinct when he ushered you away from Yoongi, away from the weight of his gaze, away from the scent he had left on you like a stain Jungkook couldn't fucking ignore. When he finally stopped, it was in a quieter part of the grounds, where the festival noise hummed rather than roared, where the air wasn’t thick with the weight of too many bodies pressed close together.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Show me your wrist.”

Jungkook exhaled sharply, eyes flickering over your face, searching, as if looking for something he couldn't quite name. Then, just as quickly, his gaze dropped.

To your wrist.

To the place Yoongi had touched.

His jaw tightened.

Before you could react, before you could even question it, his hand reached out, hovering just above your skin.

"Show me," he muttered.

You blinked, still rattled, still trying to process what just happened.

"What?"

"Your wrist," he said, voice low, edged with something unreadable. "Where he touched you."

You hesitated, instinct screaming at you to pull away, to leave before this became something you couldn't take back.

But—fuck.

He was looking at you like that again.

Like you were important. Like you mattered. Like you were something he could lose.

And for some stupid, ridiculous reason—you wanted to be just that to him.

Still, you slowly lifted your wrist, offering it to him, confused. Wary.

Jungkook didn’t immediately touch you. Instead, he let his fingers hover over your skin, the warmth of him so close, yet not quite there. You expected something rough, something forceful, something to remind you exactly who he was.

But instead—

He was gentle.

His fingers brushed against your pulse point, barely-there, softer than you ever thought him capable of.

And then—his expression shifted.

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering over his features as his thumb ghosted over the spot where Yoongi’s scent still clung.

A sharp breath left his lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“You barely smell like yourself,” he muttered, voice tight. “Not with the festival, not with—” he cut himself off, jaw clenching. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t even smell you properly.”

His gaze snapped to yours then, dark, searching.

“Let me fix it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched. His grip on your wrist didn’t tighten, but he didn’t pull away either.

“I want to lay my scent over his,” he said, voice steady, unwavering. “I want to—” he hesitated, inhaling sharply before forcing himself to continue. “I need you to smell like me again. Please.”

Your breath hitched.

Because—no.

No, no, no.

This wasn't happening.

This—this whole thing, this night, his sudden kindness, the games, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you—

The scenting. The gifts. The food, earlier. The way he had asked. The way his voice had softened when he said it, like it was something that actually mattered.

This—this was how Alphas behaved around their omegas. How they courted their mates.

And Jungkook had to know that.

It couldn’t be real.

It had to be a joke.

A cruel, twisted joke.

Even for Jungkook.

“Are you—” your voice faltered, cracking as you shook your head. “Are you serious?”

His jaw tightened.

“You’re telling me you suddenly care?” your voice was sharper now, rising, your heart hammering. “After years of treating me like shit—this? This is what you expect me to believe?”

Jungkook didn’t look away.

“Yes.”

You scoffed, taking a step back, forcing him to let you go. Losing some of the gifts on the ground.

“This is cruel,” you whispered, something raw bleeding into your voice. “Even for you.”

Jungkook flinched.

For a moment, just a brief moment, you saw it—the flicker of something in his expression. Guilt.

And then, just as quickly, determination.

“No,” he said, firm.

You blinked, startled by the intensity of his voice.

“I don’t want you to think that,” he continued, his tone rough, almost desperate. “I know I have no fucking right to ask for anything from you, but I swear—I will spend every single fucking day proving to you that I mean it.” His breath was uneven, his eyes dark and unreadable. “That if you even honestly consider staying—I will be the best goddamn mate you could ever have.”

Your heart stopped.

Mate.

He said it.

Not as a joke, not in passing, not with a smirk or a cruel edge—he meant it.

He actually, genuinely meant it.

Your stomach twisted, breath shaking as you tried to process his words.

Because this—this was too much.

This was too real.

And Jungkook—Jungkook must have realized it.

Because just as quickly as he had spoken, his gaze shifted.

Softened.

And then, he sighed.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You said nothing, still too caught up in your own spiraling thoughts, still trying to understand what the hell was happening.

Jungkook hesitated, then looked back at you, his voice quieter this time.

“I love your scent,” he admitted, the honesty in his tone knocking the breath from your lungs. “I just—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I hate not being able to smell it.”

His throat bobbed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“I hate that he covered it up.”

Your chest ached.

Because—fuck.

He really, really meant it.

You were shaking.

And you didn’t even know why.

Jungkook’s presence was too much.

His words. His touch. The weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a storm, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to stay standing.

Your mind felt like it was folding in on itself, twisting with every word Jungkook had said, every inch of space he refused to give you. The festival, the laughter, the distant hum of celebration—it all turned cruel.

The festival had felt warm before, alive with laughter and the scents of grilled meats and spiced sweets. The lantern lights had flickered gently, welcoming, the hum of voices wrapping around you like an embrace. The way walking, talking with him through it made you feel like you belonged.

But now?

Now, the sounds of the festival felt cruel.

The laughter in the distance mocked you.

The warmth of the festival fires burned too hot, too close.

The prizes Jungkook had won you hung heavy in your hands, their weight an anchor you hadn't asked for. The small stuffed wolf, the silly little trinkets—they meant nothing. But Jungkook had won them for you. Had looked at you with something akin to pride when he handed them over, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

He was too much.

All of it—too much.

You were still shaking.

And Jungkook must have realized it.

Your scent changed, the shift barely noticeable under the layers of festival smoke, grilled meat, and—worst of all—Yoongi. But it was there.

And it was panic.

Jungkook’s heart clenched. His instincts screamed at him to fix it. To calm you, to make you feel safe—to make it stop.

His own body went rigid.

Because fuck.

That was the last thing he wanted.

All he had wanted—all he had been trying to do for the past hours—was make you feel safe.

So, slowly, carefully, he moved.

So slow, you didn’t realize it in your panic.

Like he was approaching a startled animal, as if the slightest movement could send you bolting.

And then, before you could fully process it—his arms wrapped around you.

Engulfed you.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding.

It was careful.

And it was warm.

Shielded you.

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other pressing between your shoulders, tucking you against him. Firm but careful, his touch uncertain but solid—so solid.

You froze.

Because what was this?

What the hell was this?

He didn’t try to scent you. He wouldn’t. Not without you allowing it. But he had to do something.

So instead, he just—held you.

His breath, steady and warm, brushed against your ear, his voice low, soothing as he whispered. Low, steady words against your ear, softer than you thought he was capable of.

“You’re okay.”

You weren’t.

“I’ve got you.”

He shouldn’t.

“Just breathe.”

And you hated him for it.

Hated that his voice was soothing. Hated that his arms felt safe. Hated that you felt wanted. Hated that you were longing for this. Hated that he smelled calming. Hated that, despite every inch of your mind screaming at you to pull away—

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched, throat tightening as something inside you cracked.

You sniffled.

A small, tiny sound—barely there.

But Jungkook heard it.

Felt it.

And his whole body tensed, muscles locking as if a single wrong move could shatter you completely. His Omega was crying.

His Omega.

Fuck.

It didn’t matter if you hadn’t accepted it yet—if you were still fighting it, still trying to deny what was standing right in front of you.

Because fuck—

You were crying.

Not sobbing. Not wailing. But the quiet, shaking kind.

The kind that hurt.

And he would not let you go through this alone.

--------

A mile away, Nesta, the academy’s newest philosophy teacher, moved with a regal grace. She carried herself with a poised, commanding presence, her blonde hair catching the moonlight in pale threads, blue eyes glinting with calm intelligence. Her senses drank the night, the steady heartbeat of a sleeping owl, the sighing wind, when it suddenly caught an unnatural snarl, pure malice slicing the harmony of the night.

But, the Professor of Music caught the scent first, like rotting meat and charged air. She lowered her head, a warning growl rumbling in her powerful chest. She was the main predator here, or so she believed.

Suddenly, the thing that erupted from the thicket was a perversion of nature, all claws and teeth with sightless eyes, as it moved with a terrifying speed. The fight was a brutal cacophony. Isadora was strong and fast, a master of her form. But this creature was an abomination. It didn’t fight to eat or defend, it fought to destroy.

Her wolf instincts screamed to survive but every move she made seemed futile. Claws like scythes found their mark, tearing through muscles on Isadora’s side. A pained, choked yelp was torn from her as she was thrown against an oak. The sickening crunch of bone sent a shiver of terror through her spine. Shame and frustration flooded her. She was supposed to be the dangerous predator, the one in control, and yet here she was pinned and bleeding on the brink of defeat.

The creature was on her again, its weight immense. Pure agony erupted across her back as it sought to tear her apart. The world narrowed to pain, the metallic scent of her own blood, and the horrific snapping of its jaws. Panic bled into desperation, into an animalistic fury tinged with terror. She was trapped in her own body, a prisoner of pain, and each second stretched like an eternity. Defeat felt suffocating and the world narrowed to sickening combination of fear and helplessness.

Nesta moved with preternatural speed. She burst into the clearing, and her vampire eyes absorbed the scene in a single, horrifying instant, the monstrous thing from forbidden bestiaries, and the great wolf it was killing. She knew it was Isadora.

Her chest tightened with painful surge of protectiveness and desire. This was her colleague, the infuriating, brilliant werewolf who commanded attention without demanding it, whose music drifted from the school rooms like a siren’s call, and whose nervous fidgeting, Nesta had secretly found endearing.

Even in the chaos of battle, Isadora’s dominance shone through the way she fought despite the overwhelming odds.  Nesta’s gaze swept over her, noting the mix of fragility and strength that Isadora carried so naturally, a balance the vampire herself struggled to achieve. Isadora’s fire, her fear, her desperate fight for survival, all of it drew her in, sparking an instinctual recognition. Predator to predator, two beings who were dangerous and undeniably alive in each other’s presence.

But her own composure, her stillness, the authority she held naturally, contrasted with Isadora’s restless energy. Where others might fear her quiet, measured power, Isadora saw beauty in it, a stubborn, unyielding strength that mirrored her own will. And Nesta, for her part, admired how Isadora could both tremble and strike, falter and dominate, never fully contained, yet entirely commanding.

“Get away from her!” Nesta screamed.

The monster hesitated, head swiveling as the vampire stepped forward, her presence radiating power. Her movements were fluid, predatory, every step calculated, every gesture a powerful threat. She bared her fangs and her eyes shifted from soft blue to fiery crimson.

Nesta lunged with inhuman speed, her strength amplified by centuries of reflex and instinct. She moved like a shadow incarnate, dodging snapping jaws and whipping talons, forcing the monster back step by step. Her aura of ancient menace pressed on it, a psychic weight of pure command that rattled even this abomination.

The creature hesitated, shrieking in frustration, and faltered under her relentless assault. With a final, desperate screech, it turned to flee, recoiling from the new predator that Nesta had become. But as it twisted, one of its whip-like talons lashed out blindly. Nesta’s focus had been Isadora and instinct made her flinch too late. The talon raked across her knee, a searing, violent pain erupting instantly. She cried out, stumbling, but her gaze remained locked on the wolf, as the monster vanished into the shadows.

The silence it left was broken only by the ragged, wet gasps of the wounded wolf. Pain radiated through Isadora’s body, each heartbeat a sharp stab of agony. Her muscles trembled uncontrollably, as the world spun around her like a storm, colors and sounds blurring together. Every breath was a struggle, shallow and rasping, and a creeping dread twisted her stomach. She was disoriented, unsure which way was safe, which way might bring further death.

Nesta limped forward, every step sent a jolt of fire from her knee. “Isadora?”

The wolf was a ruin. Deep wounds bled freely, staining its fur crimson. One leg was bent unnaturally. Its breathing was a shallow, desperate struggle. Her mind spun, a haze of pain and fear. She wanted to obey, to calm herself, to listen, but the world was chaotic and disorienting. She could smell blood, hear the pounding of her own heart, feel the searing heat of her injuries, yet she couldn't process anything fully. All she knew was terror and a desperate, primal need to survive.

Nesta fell to her knees, a movement that sent another blast of agony through her leg. “Oh, Isadora...” she whispered. She could help, but not like this. She needed Isadora human. “Please, listen to me.” she said, her voice low and urgent, fighting to keep the pain from her tone. “You have to change back. I can’t help you like this. You need to shift.”

The werewolf’s clouded eyes fluttered open. It saw a blurry figure, smelling of lavender and old power. In its agony, its primal brain registered only a threat. Survival screamed its final command. With a last burst of strength, Isadora’s head snapped up. Jaws that could crush bone clamped down on Nesta’s shoulder, just above her collarbone.

The pain was an explosion of white light. It was the physical puncture of fangs, the grinding against bone, but it was also something more, a violent, toxic shockwave that seemed to poison her very blood. A choked cry escaped the vampire, but she didn’t pull away. Her supernatural's instinct screamed to recoil, to lash out, to protect herself, but her heart, full of love and devotion, anchored her. She went utterly still, forcing her body to obey a different instinct, to protect, to calm, to hold.

Every nerve screamed from the bite, yet her mind focused entirely on the werewolf before her. Tears of pure agony welled in her crimson eyes, but her voice, when she found it, was a soft, broken melody. “Shh, it’s alright. It’s Nesta. You’re safe now. Let go, Isadora, please. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She brought her right hand up, slowly, and placed it gently on the wolf’s blood-matted head, ignoring that every fiber of her being ached, but it was nothing compared to the terror she felt for Isadora. “I’m here with you.”

Recognition flickered in the wolf’s eyes. The jaw loosened and the massive head slumped back, a low whine suffering escaping its throat. Nesta swayed, clutching her shoulder, as dark blood seeped through her fingers. The wound was deep, the muscle shredded. Her arm was useless, while her knee screamed with every heartbeat, but Isadora was still bleeding out.

“You have to change back.” Nesta begged, her voice tight. “Please, come back to me.”

It was the final plea that pierced through the haze of agony and fear suffocating Isadora’s mind. Her body trembled uncontrollably as a low, pained groan escaped her chest. The air around her shimmered, and she felt her bones and muscles twist in violent, unnatural alignment.

Where the wolf had lain, now she was fully herself, Isadora Capri. Naked, curled defensively on her side, her skin pale and streaked with blood. Her breathing came in ragged, shallow bursts. Panic still licked at the edges of her mind. She could feel the deep slashes across her back, side and the sharp sting of every tiny cut and bruise. Her muscles spasmed with pain, and her body shook violently.

She wanted to curl further into herself, to disappear, but the sound of Nesta’s voice, a lifeline of warmth kept her tethered to the present. Her eyes, clouded moments ago, now blinked open slowly, catching sight of vampire’s figure. Even through the pain, even through the blood and bruises, her heart beat a fragile rhythm of relief. Nesta was there. Nesta had fought for her. For the first time since the attack, a flicker of trust and hope nudged at the edge of her panic.

The vampire shrugged out of her long, tailored crimson coat, leaving her in a fitted red blouse and elegant, tight black trousers. Ignoring the screaming protests from her shoulder and knee, she pulled the coat around Isadora’s body, cocooning her against the chill. “I’ve got you.” she murmured, voice tight with effort and concern.

She had one working arm and one good leg, an impossible equation, but desperation fueled her movements. Sliding her good arm under Isadora’s knees and carefully tucking her injured arm behind the woman’s back, she gritted her teeth. With a sob of effort, she lifted, her bad knee buckling but somehow holding. She began to half-run, half-stagger through the dark woods. A limping, broken shadow fueled by fear, adrenaline, and the relentless drive to keep Isadora safe.

-

Somehow, she made it to her quarters. Every step was agony, the bite on her shoulder burned like fire, her knee screamed with each movement, but she forced herself forward. She shouldered the door open and gently laid Isadora on her bed, careful not to jostle her broken leg or scrape the fresh wounds.

Her hands shook slightly as she worked with frantic, focused efficiency. Each motion, cleaning the blood, bandaging, splinting the leg, was a battle against both her injuries and the fear that she might not be fast enough.

Whispering soft reassurances, she murmured, “You’re safe. Just rest, I’m here.” The words were meant to steady Isadora, but they also steadied herself, anchoring her in purpose.

As Nesta carefully moved to tend a particularly deep slash along Isadora’s side, her fingers brushed against faint, long scars along the hip. She noted them silently, her eyes tracing the pale lines with a mixture of concern and tenderness. Isadora’s body had endured so much, and yet she lay here, still carrying an unspoken strength that made Nesta’s chest tighten with something more than protective instinct.

Once Isadora was finally stable, the vampire allowed herself a brief, shuddering pause. Pain radiated from her shoulder, each pulse reminding her of the venom coursing through her veins. Werewolf venom wasn’t lethal, but it was insidious, a potent toxin that burned through her system. And she realized with a cold dread, that it seemed to block her supernatural healing at its source. Her knee, too, throbbed with an unnatural heat, the flesh ragged and stubbornly refusing to knit together.

She bandaged both injuries as best she could, every movement clumsy, every breath a quiet battle against the pain. And yet, through it all, she pushed the agony aside. Every flinch, every stab of fire, every throb of venom-fueled torment was irrelevant. Isadora needed her. Her own suffering became a distant echo, a small price to pay to keep the one she loved alive.

Nesta’s thoughts flickered in a chaotic mix of worry, determination, and something tender that she had rarely allowed herself to feel, love. She hated the vulnerability, hated that her body betrayed her in this moment, yet every beat of pain reminded her why she couldn’t and wouldn’t fail. Isadora needed her and Nesta would endure anything to make sure she stayed safe.

Even in Isadora’s unconscious state, her mind flickered with fractured awareness. Pain clawed through her whole body, a relentless symphony of agony, her leg screaming, her back burning, the slash across her side pulsing with each heartbeat. Yet amidst the haze of torment, another presence registered, soft, steady, and impossibly close.

Her wolfish instincts stirred, alert and wary, confused by the calm dominance of the figure near her. A faint, fragmented thought touched her, barely coherent through the pain, I’m not alone.

And in that flicker of awareness, relief bloomed. Each shallow, ragged breath she drew seemed slightly steadier. Even amidst the haze of shock and suffering, she could feel Nesta guarding. It was enough to keep her tethered between unconsciousness and the abyss of despair.

Nesta watched her breathe, each breath a small victory. And though Isadora couldn’t respond or move, she felt safer than before, clinging to the steady, protective warmth of the vampire by her side.

-

Hours passed, the moon sank beyond the treetops and the faint pink of dawn bled across the horizon. At some point, exhaustion had claimed Nesta, her body too exhausted to fight the weight of it. But a low, raw moan shattered her fragile sleep, jerking her awake with a bolt of dread.

Isadora was stirring. Her body trembled again, muscles seizing with each shallow breath. Her face twisted as confusion flickered across her features, agony as consciousness brought her back into her body.

“Don’t move.” Nesta said softly, leaning forward, though her shoulder screamed with every movement. Her voice carried steady, hypnotic calm she used in the classroom. “Please, don’t try to move again. You’re badly hurt.”

Amber eyes fluttered open, and they immediately locked on the blue ones with sudden clarity. Recognition cracked through the haze. “Nesta?” Her voice was a dry, splintered whisper, every syllable scraping her throat raw. Her gaze darted wildly around the unfamiliar room, the bandages, the basin stained crimson. And then the memories returned. The night, the monster, the crushing weight, her body breaking, and the blur of a figure she had bitten in blind panic.

Her eyes snapped back to Nesta and stopped. The bandaged shoulder, the dark stain of blood seeping through the line, the rigid line of pain carved into her features. Isadora’s stomach lurched. Horror widened her eyes as the truth crashed over her. “No...” she whispered, voice trembling. “I bit you.”

The taste of it slammed into her memory, intoxicating and terrible. Nesta’s blood, the vampire’s blood. She gagged on the thought, bile rising in her throat, as tears welled, spilling down her temples unchecked. “I’m so sorry.” she choked, the words tumbling over themselves, frantic and broken. “I didn’t know, it hurt so much... The pain, I didn’t...” Her voice broke into sobs.

She tried to shake her head, but the movement sent fire lancing through her skull. Her body seized in protest, gasping raggedly with the effort. Panic roared inside her, fear of what she had done, fear of what she had ruined, fear of the wolf inside her that had lashed out against the only person who had been trying to save her.

And beneath it all, shame, because a part of her still remembered the feel of Nesta’s skin beneath her teeth. The way her presence had steadied even that moment of madness. That shame was the cruelest of all, because it was tangled with something else. She couldn’t name it, only feel. Even now, staring at the vampire who had nearly died for her.

“Shh, it’s alright.” Nesta said, leaning forward. With her good hand, she gently brushed a tear from Isadora’s cheek. Her thumb lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her restraint warring with the old ache in her chest. “You were protecting yourself. I understand.”

“It’s not alright!” Isadora cried, her voice breaking. “You saved me and I hurt you.” Her throat tightened as the memory seared through her, Nesta stepping between her and the monster, fangs bared in defiance, crimson eyes blazing with fury for her. “Why would you do that? We hate each other.” The words hung like a weapon between them, sharp and defensive. But even as she said it, they felt false.

The vampire’s gaze softened, the rigid walls of her control crumbling. She looked at Isadora as though she were unraveling a long-held secret. “We don’t hate each other, Isa.” she whispered, voice heavy with truth. “I could never hate you.”

All their heated debates, their challenging glances, the way their very presences had bristled against one another, it had never been hatred. It had been tension, recognition, desire disguised as conflict. A desperate, dangerous dance around the truth.

“I don’t hate you either.” Isadora whispered, the admission tumbling from her lips before she could stop it. It left her breathless, her chest aching with the weight of honesty. “I...” But her words broke off as a violent shiver wracked her body, pain and exhaustion twisting her features and she cried out.

“You’re going into shock again. Please rest.” Nesta murmured, her composure snapping back into place.

“Don’t go.” Isadora pleaded. Her hand twitched on the blanket, inching toward Nesta’s. She hated the desperation in her voice, hated how small it made her feel, but she couldn’t stop it. The thought of being alone, of waking up without Nesta there, hollowed her out with terror.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Nesta promised. Her voice was firm, but the softness in her eyes betrayed her. She hesitated, centuries of discipline warning her against crossing this fragile line but still, she made a choice. Moving slowly, she said. “Scoot over, just a little.”

Understanding washed through Isadora, flooding her with warmth and relief. She shifted with difficulty, pushing herself toward the side of the bed. Every motion sent pain flaring, but the anticipation of Nesta beside her dulled the edges.

The vampire eased down on her right side, her bad shoulder aching with the motion. Carefully, she curled her arm over Isadora’s waist, tentative at first, then firmer as she felt the werewolf relax into her hold.

They were nose to nose, breaths mingling in the dim light. Isadora’s eyes studied Nesta’s face, catching the flecks of silver glinting in her irises. Up close, the vampire’s cool presence was soothing and magnetic. She could feel the chill of her skin against the heat of her own fevered body, and it was oddly comforting.

“Is this alright?” Nesta asked softly.

Isadora nodded, fresh tears slipping free, though they were no longer tears of fear but of relief. “Thank you for saving me.”

Nesta’s answer came wordlessly. She leaned forward, closing the last inch of distance, and pressed her lips to Isadora’s forehead.

The werewolf's heart stuttered, her instincts both soothed and stirred by the gesture. The bite that marked the vampire’s shoulder still haunted her, guilt pressing heavy, but in this moment she felt something deeper.

Exhaustion claimed them both at last, their bodies curled together in the quiet sanctuary of the bed. Outside, the world carried on, but within these walls the chaos was held at bay. Two predators now entangled slept in peace, bound by blood and pain, and something perilously close to love.

-

The first thing Isadora was aware of was warmth. Not the feverish burn of wounds, but a grounding heat along her back and legs. For a moment, in that fragile borderland between dreams and waking, she almost believed she was safe. The second was pain, a dull, throbbing symphony echoing through her body, but strangely, the agony felt muted, softened by the scent. It filled her lungs before thought could form. Lavender, books and beneath it all, the vampire, sharp and soothing at once. The recognition cut through her haze like lightning.

Her eyes fluttered open to the pale grey of late morning filtering through the window. She was curled on her side, while Nesta was pressed flush against her back, an arm draped carefully over her waist, holding her close even in sleep. For a heartbeat, she forgot to breathe. The intimacy was overwhelming, every inch of the vampire’s presence against her, cool and solid.

But, soon the awareness struck like a blade. She was fully naked. The night before unfurled in vivid fragments, the monster, the agony, Nesta’s arms lifting her when she should have collapsed, the blood, the desperate battle to keep her alive. And worst of all the bite.

The memory crashed over her with ruthless clarity and a fresh wave of guilt hit so violently it stole her breath. She hadn’t just hurt Nesta, she had marked her. A claim no vampire could ignore, a brand that would make her an outcast among her own kind.

Isadora squeezed her eyes shut, tears welling hot. She had ruined her. Nesta had saved her life, and in return, she had left her claimed in a way that could never be undone. And yet, the feel of Nesta’s arm around her, the strength of her body, the soft press of her breath against the back of her neck, it all felt like home.

The war inside her deepened, guilt and terror clashing with a dangerous, undeniable yearning. She wanted to turn, to bury her face against Nesta’s chest, to let herself believe she could stay there. But the mark on the vampire’s shoulder burned in her mind, an unforgivable truth.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, Isadora shifted just enough to look at Nesta’s face. The vampire’s brow was faintly furrowed, as if caught in some lingering nightmare. Her breathing, too shallow and too quick, was all wrong for her kind. Pain clung to her even in sleep. And her skin was paler than the moonlight itself.

Isadora’s chest tightened, as her gaze drifted to the bandage on Nesta’s shoulder. It stood out, a cruel reminder of what she had done. The guilt twisted inside her, sharp and sickening. 

She knew too well what it meant. Sometimes, a werewolf’s bite carried more than venom. The act itself was a primal declaration, a violent carving of instinct into flesh. The way her wolf had latched onto Nesta wasn’t random, it had been a territorial response. The bite carried her signature, her claim.

Her stomach knotted, bile rising in her throat. She had marked Nesta. And the consequences, to any vampire who so much as looked at her, that scar would scream a truth that could not be hidden. Claimed, taken, off-limits. It would bind her in ways no words could undo.

Isadora’s trembling hand hovered just above the bandage, aching to touch and yet unable to bear the thought. Nesta would never escape it. She would be cast out of the hierarchies she had stood so proudly in for centuries. An outcast forever.

I didn’t just hurt her. I destroyed her. She wanted to sob, to tear the memory from existence, to wake Nesta and beg for forgiveness she didn’t deserve. But the vampire’s arm was still draped protectively around her waist, even in sleep, as if Nesta herself feared she might vanish.

That gentle, unyielding touch broke her. Her chest hitched in silence, every breath a struggle against the wave of despair threatening to consume her. I’ve ruined you, and you’re still holding on to me.

A soft, pained sound escaped Nesta’s lips. Her body twitched, her brow tightening, and her eyes fluttered open. They were clouded with pain for a heartbeat before they found focus on Isadora. Despite the shadows under her eyes, a tired smile curved her lips. “You’re awake.”

The tenderness of it made Isadora’s chest ache. “You’re in pain.” she said, her voice rough with too many emotions she couldn’t contain. “Let me help. Perhaps, I can get you something. Tell me what you need.”

She tried to push herself up on one elbow, desperate to do something, but the effort ripped a white-hot bolt through her battered back and leg. She gasped, collapsing back to the pillow with a strangled cry of frustration.

“Stop.” Nesta said softly, but her tone carried an unyielding authority that stilled her immediately. Her good hand lifted and pressed lightly against Isadora’s chest, holding her down with the gentlest pressure. “You’re in no condition to help. And I’m fine, it’s manageable.”

Total liar, Isadora thought. She could see the tension in Nesta’s jaw, the faint tremors that ran through her fingers, the way her breathing caught every few moments. She was suffering, and she was pretending for her sake.

“You’re not fine.” Isadora whispered, her throat raw, eyes stinging. She had never been one to cry in front of the others, never allowed herself that weakness. But now, after the attack, her defenses had been shattered. The tears came hot and helpless. “Nesta, the bite...” She couldn’t finish. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly, the words choking her. The truth was too monstrous to speak aloud.

Nesta’s gaze softened, quiet understanding flickering in her now blue eyes. She already knew. “I know, Isa.” she said quietly.

The simplicity of it crushed Isadora. “You know?” she breathed, horrified, her voice cracking. “You know what it means? That I’ve...”

“That you’ve claimed me?” Nesta finished for her. Her tone was impossibly calm.

Isadora flinched at the word, tears spilling over. “I’ve ruined you.” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’ve made you an outcast. No vampire will ever... They’ll all know. They’ll see the mark, and they’ll know a werewolf claimed you.” Her breath shuddered as she forced the word out, dripping with shame.

Her body shook with silent sobs. Her wolf form had saved her by destroying the one person who didn’t deserve it. Nesta had been strong, stubborn, composed, and now because of her she would be reduced to cruel whispers, suspicion, and exile.

The vampire’s hand cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Isadora, look at me.” she said gently. “Please.”

Isadora did, even as her vision blurred with tears.

“I don’t care.” Nesta said firmly.

The werewolf blinked, stunned. “You don’t care?” she whispered, almost afraid to believe it.

Nesta’s thumb brushed a tear away. “Let them whisper. Let them turn their backs. I won’t turn mine. I chose to stand between you and the monster, and I would choose it again. A thousand times.” There was no hesitation in her voice.

Isadora’s breath hitched, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. For so long she had felt torn between wolf and woman, strength and fragility, belonging and isolation. But in this moment, in Nesta’s gaze, she felt seen. And that terrified her more than anything.

“Your life, your future...” Isadora’s voice broke. “You’ve lost it all because of me. Because I couldn’t control...”

“My future was a lonely, endless stretch of centuries before I met you. I care about you. Not the whispers and not the approval of my kind. You.” Nesta interrupted, her tone gentle but unyielding. Her cool fingers tilted Isadora’s chin until their eyes met, refusing to let her look away. “I chose to calm you down in a wolf form. And I would choose it again. The mark, it’s just a scar. It changes nothing about how I feel.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and irrevocable. The silence that followed was electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.

“How do you feel?” Isadora whispered. The question was dangerous, trembling at the edge of hope and fear. She didn’t know if she could survive the answer.

Nesta’s blue eyes, still touched with that vampiric crimson locked onto hers. “I feel like the most infuriating, brilliant, beautiful werewolf I have ever known somehow found a way to conduct a symphony in my cold heart. I feel everything, when I’m with you. Even when we’re arguing.”

Isadora’s breath hitched. A sob tore free, half relief and half joy. “The arguments, the debates...” She laughed through the tears. “It was the only way I knew how to get close to you. To keep your attention. To see the fire in your eyes. I’ve been in love with you since the first day we argued.”

Nesta’s lips curved into a smile that was breathtaking, even framed by exhaustion and pain. “I’ve been inlove with you since the first time I heard you play. It sounded like your soul was weeping through the strings. It was the most beautiful and at the same time heartbreaking thing I’d ever heard.”

For a moment, the world disappeared, the pain, the wounds, the consequences. There was only them, and the bleeding truth finally spoken. Inside Isadora, relief and terror warred. Relief that she was not alone in this longing. Terror that she could still lose Nesta, if the wounds, or the venom, or the cruel world outside their room had its way. But above all was love.

And in Nesta, there was a quiet awe. Centuries of restraint had calcified her heart, but Isadora’s confession cracked it wide open. She felt fragile and fierce all at once, broken yet complete. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the terrifying beauty of holding Isadora’s love in her hands.

They lay there for a long moment, suspended in peace, the confessions between them resonating like the final chord of a symphony that had taken years to compose. Their breaths mingled, warm and uneven, eyes locked as if neither dared to blink and lose this fragile moment. But, slowly Nesta shifted, as if to rise. Her intent was simple, fetch water, tend to Isadora, but her body betrayed her. The moment she put weight on her left leg, agony shot through her knee like fire. A sharp hiss escaped her, her face tightening as she clutched at the mattress for support.

“Your knee.” Isadora said instantly, her voice sharp with alarm, concern piercing the fog of exhaustion and confession. She pushed up onto one elbow despite the protest of her wounds, her eyes scanning Nesta with fierce focus. “The monster got you too.”

“It’s nothing.” Nesta tried to dismiss, her pride stiffening her spine. She forced her tone calm, measured. She had lived centuries hiding pain and one more injury was nothing compared to the guilt shining in Isadora’s eyes.

But Isadora wasn’t fooled. The scent of Nesta’s blood was thick in the air, and the way her body moved told the truth. She shook her head, ginger curls tumbling around her face. “It’s not nothing.” Her voice hardened, the professor breaking through the lover, commanding even in her naked vulnerability. “Let me see.”

Nesta froze, startled not by the demand itself, but by the authority in it. That wolfish dominance slid through Isadora’s tone.

Inside Isadora, the fear was like a drumbeat. She had already nearly lost Nesta once tonight, and the thought that she might be hiding a wound, downplaying it, was unbearable. She couldn’t stand to be protected at the cost of Nesta’s body, her future, her life. “Don’t you dare keep this from me. Not after everything.”

Reluctantly, Nesta nodded. Her pride screamed against it, but something in the woman’s tone left no room for retreat. With care, Isadora pushed back the blanket, her hands trembling from the storm inside her.

The bandage on the vampire’s knee was already stained through, dark and sluggish against the pale linen. Isadora’s chest constricted. She had seen wounds like this before, on other wolves, on hunters unlucky enough to cross them. But never on someone she loved.

Her fingers, far gentler than she ever believed they could be, worked, peeling the bandage back with reverence, as though afraid she might hurt Nesta more by touching her at all. But, what lay beneath stole her breath. The wound was ugly, deep, a vicious crescent that had split muscle. The skin around it was swollen, inflamed, angry red streaked with black veins spreading out like poisoned roots. The flesh remained torn and gaping, stubbornly refusing to knit back together.

Isadora’s breath hitched, a sharp, broken sound. She knew instantly that the monster had dealt a grievous wound. But the bite she had sunk into Nesta’s shoulder in blind, agonized instinct had poisoned the one thing vampires had that mortals didn’t. Their healing. The venom from her fangs hadn’t killed Nesta, but it had stolen from her the ability to mend, to endure centuries unscathed.

“Oh, my girl...” Isadora whispered, her voice breaking, thick with horror and guilt.

Nesta watched her, and she saw it. The understanding, the pity, and it was unbearable. She had withstood centuries of solitude, of thirst, of the lonely ache of immortality, but that look shattered something inside her.

Her shoulders slumped, her eyes darted away, shame dragging her down. “It’s not getting better.” she admitted, voice small, raw in a way she had never allowed herself to be. “The bite blocked something. I can feel it, like a void where my healing should be.”

Her hand trembled as she tried to push herself upright, as if putting distance between them could preserve some scrap of dignity. “A vampire who can’t heal, just a limping outcast.” The words came bitter and hollow, steeped in self-loathing, a confession dredged up from the deepest shadows of her soul.

“Don’t say that.” Isadora rasped, fierce and unflinching.

“Why not?” Nesta snapped, though the fight lacked heat. “It’s the truth. The mark on my shoulder might claim I’m yours, but you don’t have to be bound to such a broken thing. You don’t have to be shackled with me.” Her voice cracked on the word broken, and it gutted her to speak it aloud. “You can find someone whole. Someone better.”

Isadora’s heart felt like it was splitting open, torn between guilt and love so sharp it hurt to breathe. All the grief she had buried, all the desperate longing she had denied, came roaring up inside her with unstoppable force. Her body screamed in protest as she forced herself upright, every torn muscle and battered bone flaring with pain, but she didn’t care. She had to reach her.

“Listen to me.” she said, her voice trembling with urgency. “You are not broken, you are hurt. There is a world of difference.”

For so long, Nesta had worn her stoicism like armor, but the truth of those words pierced through the cracks. Hurt, not broken.

“And you are not a thing.” Isadora pressed on, her amber eyes fierce. “You are my Nesta. The woman who fought a monster for me. The woman who carried me home while bleeding herself. The woman whose heart is so vast it has room for music, kindness, love...” her lips quivered with the admission “And for a difficult werewolf.”

Tears streamed down Nesta’s face. She had endured centuries of solitude without weeping, and now every drop burned, but she couldn’t stop them.

“The mark on your shoulder? It makes you mine.” Isadora whispered, her thumb stroking Nesta’s wet cheek. “And this?” She touched the bandage on the knee with infinite tenderness, her fingers reverent as though she touched something holy. “This is just a part of your story now. Our story. If you limp, I will be your cane. If your body won’t heal fast enough, then I’ll stay at your side with every healing potion and remedy I know. And if other vampires turn their backs on you, then they were never worthy of you in the first place.”

Nesta’s lips trembled. No one had ever spoken to her like this. Not with pity, not with duty, but with love. A fierce love that refused to see her as less. Isadora leaned forward, their foreheads resting together, the heat of her skin searing, grounding. Her amber eyes glowed with possessive fire, Nesta could feel it like a tangible force binding them.

“You think you can push me away? That I would ever want anyone else?” Isadora’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Nesta, you are not a shackle. You are the melody I’ve been searching for my entire life. You are my harmony. I will choose you, I choose you today, with your wounds, pain and your fears. I will choose you tomorrow, and the day after that. I will choose you every single day for the rest of my life. You are my everything.”

The words struck Nesta like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. For so long, she had feared to be tossed away when she is not useful anymore. But now she was seen, utterly, fully, with every flaw laid bare. And instead of rejection, there was only love.

Her chest heaved, a sob tearing loose from her throat, but it was no longer despair. It was release. Acceptance. She leaned into Isadora’s touch, her trembling body finally letting go of its iron grip on composure. “You’ll really stay?” she whispered, her voice so raw it sounded like the first true vulnerability of her immortal life.

Isadora’s tears fell freely now, mingling with Nesta’s as she kissed her forehead, each salt-streaked cheek, and finally, with infinite slowness, her lips. The werewolf’s lips moved with authority, declaring what her words had already spoken, I am yours, and you are mine.

Nesta yielded beneath her, not out of weakness but in awe. For centuries she had been the one who held control, who held power. But now she let go, surrendering to the fierce certainty of a woman who had been scarred and still chose to give her everything.

“I am already yours.” Isadora breathed against her lips, her voice steady with unshakable truth. “And you are mine. Scars and all. Now and always.”

Nesta closed her eyes and let herself believe it. The tight band of despair that had bound her heart loosened, replaced by terrifying and beautiful hope.

And as the light grew stronger, spilling through the curtains, they held each other. Two wounded predators, bound not by obligation or a bite mark, but by love that had been forged in pain and blood.