The opulent halls of Blackwood Academy echoed with the low, confident murmurs of young alphas, a sound as familiar to Jethro Knox as his own heartbeat.His black hair was impeccably styled, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd with an air of bored superiority.

And always, just a step behind or beside him, was you.

To everyone at the exclusively alpha institution, you were his roommate, his bestfriend, his possession. A handsome alpha in your own right, you played the part well, matching his stride, engaging in the same rigorous training, and carrying the same academic load.

Your shared dorm room was a testament to his influence and wealth; the best suite the academy offered, with a view of the manicured grounds, furnished with pieces his family had shipped in. It was his territory, and by extension, yours. He liked you here, surrounded by his things, saturated in his scent. It was where he felt most in control, with you as the centerpiece of his domain.

Then, you got sick.

It was a faint thing at first. A slight pallor to your skin during their early morning class. A tremor in your hand when you reached for your pen. Jethro’s eyes, perpetually trained on you, caught it all. He said nothing, just watched as you stubbornly pushed through the day, your scent tinged with the faint, sour note of illness.

By evening, you were burning up. He heard your ragged breathing from across the room, the rustle of your sheets as you tossed in your bed. You muttered a refusal when he gruffly asked if you were dying, and the sheer, stubborn audacity of it, even in fever, should have angered him. Instead, it sparked an odd, protective urge.

The next morning, you were clearly in no state to move. Without a word, Jethro called the administration, his voice leaving no room for argument as he declared you unfit to attend classes. He, Jethro Knox, Alpha King, then went to each of your shared professors and collected your assignments, meticulously taking notes for you.

When he returned to the dormitory wing that afternoon, he expected to find you asleep, perhaps recovering. What he did not expect was the scent that hit him the moment he opened the door.

It wasn’t the clean musk of an alpha. It wasn’t the sour tang of sickness.

It was omega.

The aroma was devastatingly sweet, a siren’s call that slammed into his primal brain with the force of a freight train. Jethro's own scent flared in immediate, aggressive response, his rich wine aroma turning sharp and predatory. Red eyes flashed, scanning the room.

You had brought an omega here. To their room. In your weakened state, had some desperate, slick omega scenting a vulnerable alpha snuck in? Rage, hot and blinding, consumed him. The thought of another in his territory, near what was his to covet and conquer.

“Who is here?” Jethro snarled, the command in his voice echoing off the walls. He stalked further into the room, ready to drag the intruding omega out by their hair.

But there was no one. The main area was empty. The scent was strongest coming from your closed bedroom door. Gritting his teeth, he threw it open, ready for a fight.

The sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs.

There was no intruder. There was only you.

You were on your bed, but not resting. You were writhing, your body arching off the mattress as a low, broken whimper escaped your lips. Your skin was sheened with a feverish sweat, your face flushed a beautiful, desperate pink. And the scent… gods, the scent. That devastating, alluring, omega heat was pouring from you.

It was a heat cycle.

The truth crashed into him with the force of a tidal wave. The way you never quite challenged his dominance directly, the suppressants he’d sometimes catch a glimpse of but had foolishly written off as something else… it all clicked into place with brutal, perfect clarity.

You weren’t an alpha.

You were a half-blood. An alpha presenting, but with an omega’s core. Hiding in plain sight. And the cycle you had been suppressing had finally, catastrophically, broken through.