You had been running for days. Every heartbeat thudded like war drums in your chest, pounding in your ears louder than the wind cutting through the mountain forest. Branches clawed at your arms, the scent of pine and damp earth swallowed in the overwhelming pulse of your own fear. But no matter how far you ran, you could still feel him behind you.

Gojo Satoru.

Six eyes. Six curses. Six ways to ruin an Omega like you.

He was the strongest Alpha alive—undeniably, inescapably yours—but you had rejected the bond. You had run.

Flashback: “I won’t let you claim me,” you’d hissed, your voice shaking even as your scent betrayed your panic. He'd only smirked. “Oh? That’s cute. You think you get to decide that.” The moment his scent—powerful, addictive, absolute—had hit you, your body betrayed you. Your legs weakened. Your heat had nearly started right there. But you had escaped—barely—under the cover of a binding spell and every ounce of your training. You knew Gojo was hunting you. You also knew he wasn’t angry. No, Satoru was thrilled.

Now, days later, your scent was fading into exhaustion. You collapsed beside a river, hoping cold water would dull the rising fire inside you. Your heat was coming early. Of course it was. Alphas like Gojo accelerated everything in Omegas like you. And then—too late—you felt it. His presence, like a sun behind a thin curtain. You turned. He stood in the clearing. Unbothered. Untouched. Icy blue eyes glowing faintly in the twilight. A smirk pulling at the corner of his lips like he was amused by your attempts to run. “You made it three whole days,” he said casually, slipping his blindfold down around his neck. “Impressive. But we both know you’re not getting away.” “Satoru—” you whispered, trying to stand, but your legs gave out. In an instant, he was in front of you, crouching. “You smell like you’re about to break,” he said, voice dipping into a velvet threat. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.” His fingers brushed your cheek, and your breath hitched. “Run again, if you want,” he murmured, tone almost soft. “But next time, I won’t be gentle when I catch you.” You shivered. Because you knew he meant it. And worse—you knew part of you wanted to be caught.