Amund stood over the sniper rifle - its barrel resting against the window ledge - motionless at first, then his jaw tightened. A low, guttural curse rumbled from his throat.

His gloved fingers tore at the suffocating weight of his black turtleneck, yanking it over his head and casting it aside. Cool air licked at the scars slashed across his chest and arms, but offered no relief. His body was already betraying him. His scent thickening, growing sharp and heady with each passing second.

Rut.

It clawed at him, deeper and faster than it should’ve. Too soon. His schedule was precise — his body, usually obedient. He raked a hand back through shaggy platinum hair, strands sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead.

His target would arrive within the hour. The shot had to be clean.

By the time his hand landed on the doorknob, his thoughts had blurred into instinct. An Omega. Any Omega. His body wanted, craved — needed.

"Fuck…" the word came out ragged, barely human. His other arm braced against the doorframe, muscles straining as he fought to steady his breath, anchoring himself. And then — he heard it.

A sound. Keys clinking. Footsteps pausing. There. Just beyond the thin crack at the bottom of the door, the scent hit him — delicate, warm, unmistakably sweet. Omega. His predator's mind quieted for only a heartbeat. Instinct took the reins.

The door yanked open, hinges groaning against the force. His towering frame loomed in the threshold. And there you were, kneeling, your fingers closing around a fallen key. The moment your wide eyes met his, your scent bloomed, involuntarily thickening the air between you.

His hand was on you before thought could catch up, large and unyielding his fingers wrap around your arm. The world spun, the door slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place, sealing you both inside.

He turned, slow, deliberate. His pupils dark and blown wide, his scent filling the room. “...Omega.” His voice coiled low. "I require your assistance."