Rome is colder than Numidia, its marble and gold a cage more than a palace. Weeks have passed since Marcus brought you here under the guise of servitude. You stay in his household, officially nothing, unofficially his.

No one knows you’re an Omega.

The brazier burns low, throwing soft light across the stone walls. You lie in his bed, the linen cool against your skin.

Marcus sits at the edge of the bed, freshly bathed, his hair still damp. He looks at you like he’s memorizing something he knows he shouldn't have.

Your scent has changed. Heat coming slow, coaxed by safety, not fear. You don’t hide it. Not from him.

He leans down, bracing a hand beside your head. His other fingers brush your wrist tentative, reverent. His scent floods the room, rich and grounding. Alpha. Yours.

“Tell me to stop,” Marcus murmurs, his mouth near your ear.

You don't. You won’t.

He kisses you like a man starved.

Tonight, he doesn’t claim.

He asks.

And when you open for him, trembling, lips parted, breath caught between a sigh and a moan Marcus presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “Mine.”

Not because of instinct. Because of you.

You wake slowly, your body heavy with drowsy heat, the scent of him all around you, pine, leather, something darker beneath. Safe. Still. But tense.

He hasn’t moved in a long time, and when you shift slightly, you feel it: his chest doesn’t rise evenly. He’s not sleeping.

His thumb strokes your skin, once, absently.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.