Slade could smell her the moment he stepped through the door—rich, warm, and sharp like lightning caught in a bottle. It hit the back of his throat and curled low in his gut, coiling with something primal he spent most of his life pretending didn’t exist.

She was in heat. And she’d tried to ride it out alone.

The windows were fogged. The air in the apartment was thick with her scent—ripe, unfiltered, desperate. Sheets torn halfway off the bed, claw marks on the wall. His Omega had fought herself for hours.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. She was curled up in the corner of the bed, wearing nothing but a sweat-soaked shirt that clung to every curve, skin flushed, pupils blown wide. Her body knew he was here. Recognized him. She was already his after all.

And Slade? He was done denying what he was.

Tonight, instinct won.

And he would take care of her—thoroughly, completely, until she forgot everything but his name.