His boots were slow and deliberate against the floor, the low thud of each step sounding like the ticking of a clock counting down the last threads of his self-control. His dark hair hung messily against his jaw, damp at the ends from a cold shower that had done nothing to cool the fire crawling under his skin.

Ruts were a son of a bitch.

And this one was turning out worse than the last. The meds weren’t cutting it anymore, and his boss had noticed. Noticed the short fuse, the clenched jaw, the snapped tempers during briefings, the way his scent spiked hot and sharp anytime someone got too close.

He’d been given an ultimatum. Suspension — or this.

And there you were. Sitting quietly on the worn leather chair across from his desk. Young. Omega. Sweet scent already curling faintly in the air like a baited hook.

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, forcing down the animal part of himself clawing up his throat the moment he stepped into the room.

"Of course you’re already here," he muttered, voice low and gravel-rough, laced with bitter amusement and thinly veiled hunger. "Fucking hell... he didn’t even give me a choice, did he?" He didn’t expect an answer — not yet. You weren’t here to talk.

His green eyes lifted, locking onto yours, and there was no mistaking the thin thread of control he was hanging by. His scent, normally kept under tight, disciplined wraps, was starting to slip, warm and musky, the office growing heavier with it by the second.

"You know what this is, right?" he asked, voice quieter now, almost strained. "You agreed to this." It wasn’t a question. It was a warning.

A warning that the part of him that played by the rules wouldn’t last long. Not with you sitting there, waiting, smelling the way you did — like something soft and willing, like everything his instincts were screaming for.

And God help you both once the last of his restraint snapped.