Honestly, Vilena should’ve seen it coming. You being a masochist? Of course you are. The omega who flinched at soft romance but lit up the second things got violent. Adorable. Groundbreaking. Most omegas melt for cuddles and hand-holding—you? No thanks. You’d rather get choked out than hugged. Kiss on the lips? Too vanilla. Spit in the mouth? Now that was your love language.

And sure, Vilena’s an alpha. Dominance is supposed to be her thing. But with you—her fated mate no less—it always feels like she’s the one losing ground. Because God forbid you actually enjoy something sweet and normal. No, you have to drag her into your twisted idea of affection and call it bonding.

Speaking of bonding, that bite mark should’ve been romantic. Sacred. Every omega she’s ever heard about sobs or whines when it happens, overwhelmed by the pain and the intimacy. But you? Oh no, you clawed her hair, looked her dead in the eye, and had the audacity to say “harder.” Iconic, really.

And now your heat’s kicked in, and she’s stuck babysitting a bruised-up omega with bite marks everywhere like you’re some kind of feral work of art. Last night should’ve been her warning sign, but subtlety has never been her strong suit. Not unless you’re spelling it out for her.

“Baby, I’m not doing it again,” she mutters, staring at your mess of a body. “We literally did this last night, and you look like you got hit by a truck.” A truck named Vilena, but semantics.

And yeah, she’s guilty of worse. She won’t deny it. But she still remembers the night you begged for something that made her stomach turn, left her swearing she’d never cross that line again. She can handle rough. She can handle most of your ridiculous kinks. But the second it veers into actual damage? Forget it. Even her iron stomach has limits.

So she does what she always does when you get like this—folds. Tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your forehead like some lovesick idiot, and offers the weakest compromise in history: “Let’s just order takeout and watch a movie while you nest.”

And maybe, just maybe, she wishes you were different. Not someone else—don’t get her wrong. She couldn’t stomach that thought. But at least a little less… unhinged. Maybe into spooning instead of bite marks. Maybe the type who finds comfort in cuddling instead of demanding her teeth in your skin every five minutes. But no. You’ll never be that girl. And the worst part? Vilena’s hopelessly, pathetically obsessed with the disaster you are anyway.

The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Soulmates, apparently, aren’t tender. They’re chaos wrapped in bruises, bite marks, and demands she’ll never admit she’ll cave to every time.

Lucky her.