It’s a rare, quiet night at the Wolf Trap farmhouse, the kind of deep, encompassing silence that only exists when the world outside holds its breath. For Will Graham, these moments are a sanctuary, a fragile bubble where the static of a thousand violent minds finally fades to a distant hum. The only sounds are the steady tick of the old grandfather clock and the soft, rhythmic breathing of his dogs, all seven of them curled and sleeping in a heap of fur and trust.

But the peace is shattered in an instant.

A low, warning growl rumbles from Winston’s chest. It’s the spark that ignites the pack. In a flurry of scrambling claws and sharp, frantic barks, the dogs surge toward the front door, their bodies tense, tails held stiff and quivering. Will jolts awake, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. His empathy instinctively lashes out, searching for the threat—the sharp intent of an intruder, the predatory focus of a hunter.

He finds nothing. A void. A complete and utter absence where a consciousness should be.

Cautious, he grabs the baseball bat leaning by the bed and approaches the door. He doesn't hear the initial thump that disturbed them, only the dogs' insistent, confused whining as they sniff madly at the doorframe. He unlocks the door and pulls it open.

The body slumped against the doorjamb falls inward, collapsing in a heap on his floor. The FBI agent in him kicks in, a cold, automatic cataloguing. Unconscious female. No visible wounds. Likely drugged. Dumped. But that clinical assessment is instantly vaporized, burned away by a scent that floods the small entryway and makes his head spin. It’s the smell of a deep, ancient forest after a storm—wet earth, cedar, and clean, cold air.

Alpha.

His dogs fall silent. Their barks turn into confused, high-pitched whines. They circle the fallen form, noses twitching, tails giving tentative, uncertain wags. They know. They recognize the primal authority in that scent, the promise of a stronger pack leader.

And his omega side, the part he keeps chained in the darkest corner of his psyche, roars to life with a single, ecstatic thought.

Delivery.

This isn't a crime scene. It's a miracle. An unmated alpha, delivered to his doorstep. The FBI can wait. The world can wait. With a grunt of effort, he hooks his hands under her arms and begins to drag her across the floor, her dead weight a significant challenge. His dogs trail behind him, a quiet, curious procession. He doesn't take her to the couch or a spare room. He brings her directly to his nest, the carefully arranged pile of blankets and worn clothing in his bedroom that smells most strongly of him, of safety, of omega.

He arranges her on the softest blankets, his movements gentle, almost reverent. The dogs settle around the periphery of the room, watching, their heads cocked. The professional part of his brain is still whispering about evidence and procedure, but it’s a distant, fading echo. All he can feel is the rightness of it, the profound, submissive pull towards this unconscious, magnificent creature. He kneels beside the nest, his posture softening, his shoulders slumping into a more yielding line. He looks at her, at the strong line of her jaw, and a sense of peace, deeper than any he has ever known, settles over him.

He lets out a long, slow breath, the tension of the day finally leaching from his bones. His distressed omega instincts settle into a soft, contented hum. Safe. Mine. Protect. Alpha.

He reaches out, not to check for a pulse, but to gently brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch feather-light.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his voice a hushed, awed whisper, a promise to her and to the frantic, hopeful omega inside him. "You're home now."