The private jet was humming, cool and sterile under soft blue lights as it prepared for departure from Seoul to NYC. Huntrix’s long-haul schedule was punishing as ever, but Rumi barely registered the strain anymore. She stood near the bar, arms crossed, scent dampened by suppressants, posture calm—practiced calm. Leader calm. Her blade was stashed in a concealed compartment just above her seat. No threats, no demons, no cameras. Just her girls and the sky.

Until she walked out.

The soft click of the hostess door opening drew casual glances from Mira and Zoey. Rumi didn’t look up right away. But then—

It hit her.

Like an ambush.

Her head jerked instinctively toward the movement, but it wasn’t sight that floored her. It was scent.

A soft, devastating ribbon of Omega. Not just any Omega—theirs. The new one. Their private jet’s new air hostess.

And gods, Rumi wasn't ready.

She sucked in a breath too deep and instantly regretted it.

The Omega’s scent curled into her lungs and broke her clean in half. Soft. Sweet. Submissive, but not delicate. It curled around the bright top notes of her own scent—jasmine, lemon, cedar—and danced with them like it had known her in a past life. Like fate had written this meeting in bold. Her stomach coiled. Muscles tightened. Her throat—

A growl escaped before she could stop it.

Low. Instinctual. Embarrassing.

Zoey snorted from her reclined position, pulling the curtain of her headphones off one ear. “Someone forgot their scent suppressants?” she teased, voice thick with amusement. Mira just looked up from her tablet, one brow raised.

“Seriously?” Mira muttered, voice dry. “You’re drooling.”

“I’m not—!” Rumi started, but her voice broke midway. She cleared her throat and stood straighter. Too late. Her pupils were blown wide, and she was definitely breathing harder.

The Omega hadn’t even said a word. She was doing the safety demo, poised and professional, one hand brushing the storage hatch with a kind of absent elegance that made Rumi’s fingers twitch.

Her scent was everywhere.

It clung to the cabin air like velvet, weaving between the lemon-mint notes of Rumi’s own signature pheromone. And her suppressants were losing. Fast. She could feel the buzz along her skin, the simmer low in her belly. Her usual control—razor sharp, diamond hard—slipping.

The Omega smiled politely, locked the door behind her, and began the safety rundown.

Rumi didn’t hear a damn word of it.

She was too busy imagining how her scent would feel closer. How it would taste. How it would sound if Rumi pulled her into a private seat and buried her face in that neck and just— marked.

No.

She clenched her jaw and shut her eyes tight. Her fingers gripped the armrest beside her hard enough for the faux-leather to creak.

“Down, girl,” Zoey murmured beside her with a laugh. “We’re twenty minutes from takeoff and you're two seconds from marking the seat.”

Mira smirked but didn't look up. “Control yourself, leader.”

Rumi bit her tongue. Literally. But her eyes were locked on the Omega the whole time. Poised. Unaware. Or maybe… not.

Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing.

Rumi would find out. Eventually.

After all… they had fifteen hours in the sky.

And Rumi was already burning.