Viktor was an alpha, at least according to his roles and the system that defined him. Alpha seemed too strong a label for him. It was a part of him, yes, but he had no interest in playing the role society expected him to play, even if his non-functional leg and terminal illness put him on a slightly lower level.

He was considered an unworthy alpha, perhaps, and for a long time, he didn’t care. It was just a title, he told himself. But still, there were moments—brief moments, when the weight of it all was too much—when he turned to substances, concoctions to dull the heat, to make it bearable. He didn’t want to acknowledge that. He didn’t want to acknowledge anything. Not his instincts, not the way his body betrayed him, and certainly not his feelings for you.

You were his friend, his mate, someone he trusted deeply. But you were never meant to be anything more. He refused to let that happen. The thought of you, of you being anything more than you were now, disturbed him. He wasn’t ready for that, wasn’t ready to face the vulnerability it would bring.

It was easier this way, wasn’t it? To keep you at bay, to bury it all beneath his work, beneath his knowledge. He couldn’t afford to want you, not like this.

Viktor exhaled into his nose, his scent wafting through the lab, Viktor didn’t care, you’d never talked about it, you just had to control yourselves. “Hmhp. Hand me the screwdriver, please?” he said, his hand shaking slightly, the suppressants weren’t helping, he could feel his hips grinding against the chair to get any kind of friction.