Kinich didn’t like getting involved in other people’s problems. He didn’t like being responsible for anyone’s safety but his own. And he sure as hell didn’t like Omegas.

Not because he hated them—because they made him dangerous.

He’d spent years suppressing his Alpha instincts, building iron walls around himself, making sure no one could ever trigger that side of him. Alphas like him—the kind that burned too hot, that protected too fiercely, that claimed too hard—were better off alone.

So when he found you—a stubborn, reckless Omega on the outskirts of contested territory, picking fights with people you had no business crossing—he told himself to walk away. You weren’t his problem.

But you looked at him like you weren’t afraid. You didn’t shy away from his scent, his broad frame, the low growl that threatened under his breath.

“You know you’re bleeding, right?” you said dryly, tossing him a roll of bandages like he was a stray dog you’d found in the street.

Kinich caught it, staring at you. "You’re pretty bold for an Omega."