So you did. #4
The question hangs between us, raw and honest in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to be since she arrived.
I could answer with biology—explain the hormonal cascade, the neurological rewiring, the ancient magic that binds alpha and omega together.
I could tell her it’s all chemistry, all instinct, nothing personal.
But that would be a lie.
“Because you’re mine,” I say instead. “You’ve been mine since you walked into my arena. Your body knew it before your mind did, and now your mind is catching up.” I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear. “Stop fighting it, Hannah. Let yourself fall. I’ll catch you.”
For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stands there trembling in my grip, balanced on the edge of something she can’t take back.
Then she pulls away.
The separation clearly costs her—I see the way her face contorts, the way her hands shake, the way her whole body strains toward me even as she forces herself backward. But she does it. Finds some last reserve of stubborn pride and uses it to put distance between us.
“Not yet,” she says, and her voice is wrecked. “I’m not—I can’t—”
“I know.” I let her go, even though every instinct screams at me to pull her back, to pin her down, to give her what we both know she needs. “When you’re ready, you know where to find me.”
She turns and flees the arena.
I let her go.
She won’t last much longer.
I stand in the empty training room, breathing in the scent she left behind—desperation and arousal and the first sharp notes of heat breaking through her defenses. Two days, I estimated before. Maybe less.
I was wrong.
By tomorrow night, she’ll come to me. Not because I forced her. Not because the heat left her no choice. But because she finally stopped fighting the truth she’s known since the first moment our eyes met.
She’s mine.
She’s always been mine.
And soon, she’ll be ready to admit it. Chapter 11: Hannah
The fever hits that night.
I wake in the dark with my skin on fire, drenched in sweat that’s soaked through the sheets and pooled in the hollows of my body. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My nipples ache where they press against the damp silk. And between my legs—
Between my legs, I’m dripping.
Not just wet. Dripping. The slick has soaked through my smallclothes, through the sheet beneath me, and it’s still coming—a hot, slippery flood that pulses out of me with every frantic beat of my heart.
The emptiness in my core has become something else entirely.
A void. A scream. A hollow, desperate ache that makes me want to shove my fingers inside myself and fill it with anything, anything at all.
I don’t.
I throw off the covers and stumble to the bathing chamber, my legs shaking so badly I have to catch myself on the doorframe.
The cold water is already running—I must have left it on earlier, some part of me knowing this was coming.
I strip off my soaked shift and step into the basin, gasping as the frigid water hits my burning skin.
It doesn’t help.
The chill only makes me more aware of how hot I am, how swollen and sensitive every inch of my body has become.
Water runs over my flushed skin and I whimper at the sensation—even that gentle touch feels like too much, like not enough, like exquisite torture.
My clit throbs with every heartbeat. My nipples are so hard they hurt.
And my cunt keeps clenching around nothing, desperate spasms that make me moan out loud in the empty chamber.
I grip the edge of the basin and stare at my reflection.
Flushed cheeks. Dilated pupils so wide my eyes look black.
Lips bitten red from trying not to cry out.
My breasts are heavy and swollen, nipples peaked and dark, and even watching myself breathe—watching my chest rise and fall—sends sparks of unwanted pleasure shooting through my nerve endings.
I look like a woman possessed.
I look like exactly what I am: an omega in heat.
I won’t give in. I won’t. I won’t.
The words feel like a lie even as I think them.
By morning, I can barely stand.
The fever has only gotten worse. Every brush of fabric against my skin sends pleasure-pain cascading through my body—my training leathers feel like hands stroking me, teasing me, tormenting me with every movement.
My breasts are so sensitive that even the soft leather lining feels like sandpaper against my nipples.
And the wetness between my thighs has soaked through everything I’ve tried to wear, leaving me dripping and desperate and so fucking empty I could scream.
I try to train anyway.
Force myself to pick up a practice blade, to move through the forms I’ve drilled a thousand times.
But my arms feel like they’re filled with sand, and every lunge sends friction against my swollen clit that makes me see stars.
Every stretch reminds me how hollow I feel inside, how my body is screaming for something thick and hard to fill it.
Every movement makes the slick run down my thighs in fresh rivulets.
I drop the blade twice before I give up.
Karax watches me from across the room.
He hasn’t touched me today—hasn’t come within arm’s reach.
Just stands there shirtless, all bronze muscle and silver veins, those golden eyes tracking my every stumble, every shudder, every desperate attempt to pretend I’m fine.
He’s been waiting for this. Planned for it.
Probably knows exactly how many hours I have left before the heat breaks me completely.
I hate him so much I can taste it, copper and bile at the back of my throat.
But underneath the hatred, my body is screaming at me to crawl across the floor and beg him to fuck me.
“You’re burning up.” His voice is calm. Conversational. Like he’s discussing the weather instead of watching me fall apart. “How long since the fever started?”
“I’m fine.” The words come out slurred. I try another sword form and nearly collapse, my legs giving out beneath me. I catch myself on the weapon rack, panting, and I can smell myself now—that sweet, desperate scent that fills the room like perfume. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re in heat.” He moves closer—still not touching, but close enough that his scent hits me like a wall.
Mountain stone and deep earth and Alpha, so strong it makes my knees buckle completely.
I slide down the weapon rack to the floor, crouching there like a wounded animal, my pussy clenching around nothing as my body responds to his presence without my permission.
“Your body needs something to survive this,” he continues, circling me slowly. “Fighting it will only make the suffering worse.”
“I don’t—” A wave of dizziness crashes through me and I have to stop, pressing my forehead against the cool stone floor. My cunt pulses with need, cramping around emptiness. “I don’t need anything from you.”
“You need everything from me.” His voice drops lower, rougher, and even the sound of it makes me whimper. “You’ve been empty and aching for days, and it’s only going to get worse. The cramps will intensify. Then the delirium. Then the pain that makes you wish you were dead.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him he’s wrong, that I’m stronger than this, that I won’t break just because my body is screaming for his cock, his knot, his seed—
Another wave of heat crashes through me, and I curl into myself with a moan I can’t suppress. My cunt spasms hard enough to hurt, clenching desperately around nothing, and wetness gushes down my thighs to pool on the stone beneath me. The need is so intense I see stars bursting behind my eyelids.
“Hannah.” His voice is right behind me now. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell him so strongly my mouth waters and my hips try to tilt toward him without my consent. “Let me help you.”
“No.” I force myself upright, force myself to look at him even though his face keeps swimming in and out of focus. My body sways toward him like I’m caught in his gravity. “I won’t—I can’t—”
“You can.”
His hand slides into my hair—not gripping, just cradling the back of my skull, his fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands.
The contact sends fire racing down my spine, pooling between my legs.
My nipples tighten impossibly further. My pussy clenches so hard it cramps, and I moan at just his hand in my hair, and the shame of it burns almost as hot as the need.
“You’ve been so strong,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along my hairline. “So brave. Fighting longer than any omega I’ve ever seen. But this isn’t a battle you can win alone.”
I’m shaking. My whole body trembling with need and fear and something that feels horribly like hope. I want to climb him. Want to wrap myself around his massive body and beg him to shove that cock inside me and fill the emptiness that’s driving me insane.
“I don’t want to lose myself.” The words come out broken, barely a whisper. “I don’t want to become one of those—those things. Those women with empty eyes who write letters about how happy they are.”
“You won’t lose yourself.” His other hand comes to rest on my hip, steadying me when I sway.
“You’ll still be Hannah. Still be my fierce little warrior who slapped me across the face when I pushed too hard.
” His fingers tighten in my hair—still not painful, but present. Grounding. “You’ll just also be mine.”
“That’s not—” Another cramp seizes my belly, my uterus contracting around emptiness that feels like dying. I gasp, doubling over, and he catches me before I can fall—one arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest. “That’s not better.”