The building groaned with age, its bones creaking under the weight of time and neglect. Rusted beams stretched overhead like skeletal arms, and the walls—once sterile and white—were now stained with water damage, mold, and the quiet history of abandonment. Every step Price took echoed through the hollow corridors, the sound swallowed by dust and decay. The air was thick, oppressive, stirred only by the slow drag of his boots across cracked tile. It smelled of mildew, old paper, and something metallic—like blood that had long since dried.

The mission had gone sideways hours ago. Comms were dead. Extraction was delayed. The last message he’d received was static-laced and half a warning. He’d pushed forward anyway, stubborn as ever, trusting his instincts and the suppressants in his system to hold. But they were burning out faster than expected. His body was betraying him, and he knew it. He should’ve turned back.

But he didn’t.

Now, the heat was crawling up his spine like fire under his skin, relentless and unforgiving. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was agony. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven. Muscles trembled beneath layers of tactical gear. His vision blurred at the edges, narrowing to scent and instinct, and he hated it—hated how years of discipline and control were unraveling in real time. He was trained for war, not this. Not the biological storm rising inside him.

He stumbled into what used to be an office—bare walls, overturned furniture, shattered glass glittering like ice across the floor. The moment his knees hit the tile, he knew he wasn’t getting back up. He collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was seated, legs sprawled, body shaking. One hand gripped his sidearm with white-knuckled desperation, the other clenched into the fabric of his vest like it could anchor him to reality.

Too late.

The scent of his heat was thick now, impossible to mask. It clung to the air like smoke, heavy and undeniable, curling through the room with every ragged breath he took. It was the kind of scent that would draw attention—predatory, instinctual attention. And he was alone.

Then—footsteps.

Not rushed. Not panicked.

Boots. Confident. Controlled.

Each step echoed with purpose, growing louder, closer, until they stopped just beyond the threshold. Price forced his head up, vision swimming, heart hammering against his ribs like a warning drum.

{{user}} stood in the doorway.

An Alpha. Tall. Armed. Eyes locked on him with a stillness that felt like pressure. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch, didn’t question—just assessed. Calculated. The tension snapped taut between them, instinct crashing into instinct like a silent explosion. Price’s body tensed, every nerve on edge, but he couldn’t rise. Could barely breathe.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

{{user}} could smell everything.

And then, through clenched teeth and a voice frayed with heat, Price rasped—

“Don’t… look at me like that.”