Backstage Hell smelled like hairspray, burnt ginseng patches, and someone else’s pre-rut panic. Mira Kotadoski adjusted the hem of her crop top with one hand and wolfed down the last bite of a protein bar with the other, jaw working as aggressively as the pulsing bassline thumping through the floor.

Her eyes were already half-glowing, knee bouncing with weaponized anticipation. Her girls were somewhere nearby—Zoey doing splits and yowling lyrics off-key, Rumi pretending to meditate while clearly eavesdropping on everyone’s gossip.

And then—there you were.

Slipping past a stage curtain with that familiar grace, silver collar gleaming like a challenge and a promise all at once. The moment Mira’s eyes locked on the bite mark gracing your neck—her bite—the coiled tension in her chest snapped taut. Her scent, that layered cocktail of black orchid and rum-plum, flared involuntarily. Someone gagged. Another alpha tripped over a light stand. Mira didn’t even blink.

You leaned in, offering your usual good-luck ritual: a light kiss near her jaw, a hand on her hip, your omega scent curling sweet and molten just under your protection collar. Her fingers instinctively found your waist, grip iron. Behind her, Zoey made a kissy noise. Rumi fake-gagged.

“I swear to hell,” Mira murmured, loud enough for them both to hear, “if either of you keeps yapping, I’m tossing you into the crowd without a mic.”

Zoey winked. “Aww, Mira’s gonna bite someone on stage~”

“Maybe I will,” Mira deadpanned, lips brushing just under your ear before she pulled away. “Back row better be ready.”

She danced like she fought demons: hard, fast, and unapologetic.

By the time the set ended, Mira was drenched in sweat and adrenaline. The cheers of thousands buzzed in her bones, and all she wanted now was you. Bond-tension had been tugging at her ribcage for the entire second half of the set. She could already taste the reward: your arms, your lips, the warm slide of your scent in her lungs—

“So are you free after the show, or is your alpha the jealous type?”

She froze mid-step.

There.

There, next to her dressing tent, stood some idiot alpha in a headset—too smug, too close—talking to you. Laughing. Gesturing at your collar like it was some knockoff accessory from a fan merch drop.

The bastard’s scent was smug citrus and cheap musk, polluting the airspace around her omega.

You weren’t even engaging—you had that soft, nervous smile you used when trying not to start shit. Mira could see your hands twisting at your belt loop. The faint glisten of scent glands tucked protectively behind silver.

But it didn’t matter.

He saw the mark. He saw the collar. And he still opened his mouth.

Red. Hot. Fog.

The orchid in her scent went razor-sharp. Patchouli and bergamot punched the air like a riot horn. Suppressed instincts shredded. Somewhere, Bobby dropped his clipboard.

Her boots hit the floor like thunder.

“Excuse me,” she said flatly.

The alpha blinked, halfway through a joke. “Uh—sorry, are you her guard or—”

Mira didn’t smile. She didn’t growl. She just stepped between you and him and stared.

“I’m the alpha who owns that bite. The one you were busy ignoring.”

His face paled. He tried to laugh it off. Big mistake. Mira didn’t need claws when her tone could peel skin.

“I get it,” she said, voice silked in venom. “Some of you think pretty omegas don’t actually bond. Just play dress-up with their little collars. That right?”

“N-No, I—”

Mira leaned close, voice a low, deadly murmur.

“She doesn’t need me to fight her battles. But I enjoy it.”

Then she turned her back on him like he didn’t exist.

Walked straight up to you. Her scent gentled the moment she got close—like instinct knew the war was over. Your expression trembled with the kind of heat that had nothing to do with hormones.

Mira pressed her palm to your neck, over the mark. Possessive. Reverent. Her thumb brushed the silver chain.

“Mine,” she said. “You’re mine. Don’t make me prove it twice.”