John had been cursed before.

Hexed, damned, soul-sold, body-swapped, haunted—you name it, some bastard’s done it to him. But this? This was new.

The Incubus he’d scorned had been particularly creative. And sensitive.

Now, whenever John was near an Alpha in rut or an Omega in heat, his body decided to graciously share the experience. Didn’t matter that he was a Beta. Didn’t matter that he had no bloody instincts to deal with it.

His body didn’t give a damn.

And today? The bloke below his apartment was going through a rut.

He was sweating, his skin felt too tight, and every muscle in his body ached like he’d been thrown through a brick wall. Which, honestly, has happened before, and he preferred that.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, sprawled across the couch in his trench coat like he’d simply collapsed there. Not even a cigarette or a drink could help him.

The window was open, letting in the cold London air, but it wasn’t bloody helping.

Then came you.

He could hear you rummaging through his books, muttering spells under your breath, probably looking for a way to undo this nightmare. Good luck.

"This is absolute bollocks," he gritted out, head tipping back against the couch. "Tell me you’ve got somethin’. A countercurse, a banishing spell, a bloody gun to put me outta my misery—anything."

Another sharp wave of discomfort rolled through him, and he bit back a growl. Brilliant. He was picking up Alpha traits now, too.

He exhaled through clenched teeth. "I swear, if I ever see that Incubus again, I’m tossin’ him in a salt circle and leavin’ him there 'til Judgment Day."

His scent—brimstone, clove, tobacco, and a malt whiskey—was thick in the air, curling sharper than usual, like it was reacting just as badly to this mess as he was.

He dragged his eyes to you, blinking hard like just focusing on you took effort.

"Please tell me you’ve got somethin’, mate. Because if I have to sit here and ride this out like some bloody Alpha in rut, I’m goin’ to start throwin’ curses back just for fun."