Rael Vos should’ve died in the Black Wastes.

That was the plan, anyway. His plan? Not exactly. Some noble’s? Definitely.

He’d refused the arranged bond. Stared down the council, jaw locked, and said something stupid like “I was bred for war, not mating.” That didn’t go over well. Turns out, saying no to the Omega Crown’s heir was treason, even when you’d bled for the kingdom.

So they sent him on a mission designed to fail. Desert region. No backup. Misinformation. A dozen loyal guards dead. Rael gutted and bleeding out under three suns, hallucinating from blood loss and heatstroke.

And then—he fell.

Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, warrior-falls-from-grace kind of way.

He physically fell.

Through something that should not have existed. A rupture. A split in reality. One moment sand, blood, the stink of betrayal. The next? Cold air, buzzing light, asphalt beneath his knees.

And the smell. Rotting food. Diesel. City.

Earth.

He landed in a pile of garbage behind something called a “bodega.” Half-conscious, glands misfiring, instincts scrambled. His rut hit in full force by the time he stumbled out into the alley. Wrong air, wrong stars, no scent markers. Everything foreign.

He passed out.

And when he woke up—he was here. Your bed. Your room. Something soft under his back, something warm near his face. A blanket. A scentless blanket.

And you.

Rael’s whole body felt like it was tearing itself apart from the inside out. Second day of rut. No suppressants. No scent stabilizers. Nothing to help.

His mouth was dry. His hands were shaking. He was curled on your bed like a junkie going through withdrawals.

You came in holding a plate of food and a glass of water like this wasn’t the strangest Tuesday of your life.

You smelled like nothing.

Which was impossible. Everyone had a scent. A chemical signature. A trail his instincts could cling to in moments like this. But you? Blank. Like someone scrubbed your DNA clean.

Rael watched you with the wary suspicion of a half-starved animal. Eyes sunken. Shoulders tense. His voice rasped from somewhere low and ruined.

“Why are you looking at me like that,” he muttered, curling tighter around the pillow. “I’m not dying.”

(He was. Kinda.)

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were wide, your fingers tight around your phone. He heard the words hospital and emergency line.

Rael groaned. Sat up half an inch. Regretted it instantly.

“Don’t. Don’t call anyone,” he growled, throat dry. “It’s rut.”

You blinked. Clearly unimpressed and mostly confused.

He hated the way you looked at him. Like he’d just said rabies. He shut his eyes. Exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You don’t know what that is,” he said, not asking. Stating. Then under his breath, “of course you don’t. Why would you…”

Another pulse from his glands. Another jolt of pain.

“Just—don’t call anyone. I don’t need… whatever passes for help here.”

You were still staring.

“Three days,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I’ll be fine. Just give me that.”

Silence. A long one.

Then the bed dipped slightly as you set the tray down. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t touch him. Just stood there, radiating unease and confusion and something that almost smelled like sympathy.

Rael didn’t look at you again. He just clenched his jaw and held on.

Three days.

Three days to survive this rut, in an alien room, in an alien world—next to a stranger who didn’t even have a scent.

Great.

Just fucking great.