They’d made you sign the papers in triplicate. Three different men in matching olive uniforms. Three signatures that said you wouldn’t be you anymore. (©TRS0625CAI)

Not in the field. Not with a designation like yours.

"Omega soldiers don’t survive the front lines," they’d warned.

But you weren’t like most Omegas.

You passed every physical, cleared every trial. You took your suppressants like sacraments—burnt black pills that tasted like ash and made your hands shake for hours. And it worked. Until the day it didn’t.

“Where is she?”

Griffin's voice cut through the chatter of the training yard like a blade—easy, casual, but a little too sharp at the edges. He’d been looking for you since morning. You were never late. Not once in six months.

“Didn’t show,” one of the privates shrugged. “Sarge says she’s probably got a cold.”

Griffin's brow furrowed. You didn’t get colds. You were a damn machine on the mats. Half the unit was scared of you. The other half was in love with you.

Griffin might’ve been both.

The hallway outside your barracks was dim and stifling. The door was shut. Locked.

Griffin knocked once, then again.

“Hey. You in there?”

No answer.

He tried the knob.

Still nothing.

Then—just under the door—he smelled it. Faint, but growing. Sweet and sharp, like the moment before a match flares to life. Like honey left too long in the sun.

His jaw went tight. “Shit.”

By the time he got the door open, you were curled on the narrow cot, damp with sweat and barely holding yourself together. The sheet tangled around your legs, your arm flung over your eyes, trying to block out the light. Or maybe the world.

The scent hit him full-force now, unfiltered and raw. Heat.

Griffin froze in the doorway, every instinct in his body going rigid.

“You forgot your dose,” he said quietly, like saying it out loud might make it less true.

You didn’t answer.

Your lips were parted, your chest rising fast, and he could see the red flush blooming across your skin from here. Neck to collarbone to stomach.

He took a step in.

“Don’t,” you whispered hoarsely, voice like sandpaper and fire. “I don’t trust myself.”

Griffin stopped—but only long enough to look at you.

Really look.

Your lips were trembling. Your hands were fisted in the sheets like you were at war with yourself. And that scent—your scent—was calling to every part of him that made him an Alpha.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t let himself cross that final step.

Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was defusing a bomb.

“Doll…” His voice was low. Careful. “You think I came all this way just to leave you like this?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

So he did what Griffin Cross always did when someone needed him.

He knelt.

One hand flat on the cold floor. The other held up in surrender.

“I ain't here to take advantage. I’m here because I care. And if you tell me to walk out that door, I will.”

A pause. His voice cracked just a little.

“But I’m not lettin’ you suffer through this alone.”