Cate knew this would happen. She knew.

This morning, she’d woken up wrapped around {{user}} like a vine, her scent already turning syrupy, clinging to the sheets and—most telling of all—the smug curl of {{user}}’s lips as she leaned in, sniffed lazily at Cate’s neck, and murmured, “Careful, sweetheart. You’re running hot.”

And then?

Nothing.

{{user}} had just kissed her cheek, ruffled her hair like she was some kitten, and left her to fend for herself like she wasn’t about to go feral in a lecture hall full of hungry-eyed alphas.

Cate should’ve stayed home—should’ve listened to the warning signs—but she had a group presentation today and Professor Phillips already gave her that “try skipping this one” look last week. So here she was.

Squirming in the third row of Comparative Supe Ethics. Chewing the end of her pen like it might distract her from the fire spreading beneath her skin. Spoiler: it didn’t.

Her tongue kept flicking over the chewed plastic, desperate for anything to ground her. Everything inside her felt raw, nerves shimmering beneath her skin, her pulse radiating her need. Her notebook was filled with shaky half-sentences. Her thighs were clenched so tight it felt like a full-body cramp, practically glued together with slick, and she swore if she shifted even a little to the left, she’d leave a very unfortunate stain on the plastic seat.

And now her scent was blooming, thick and syrupy-sweet, curling around the classroom like smoke. She’d tried masking it, truly. Perfume, clothes drowning in {{user}}’s scent instead of her own, even a cooling patch tucked discreetly under her collarbone. Useless. All of it.

The room was practically humming with tension.

Alphas were shifting. Groaning. One of them was visibly panting, his eyes glassy, lost in the haze of her heat. Cate could feel their gazes like hands on her skin, like invisible claws tugging her open. She tried to ignore it, tried to keep her breathing steady, but every inhale just made her dizzier.

And behind her?

{{user}}. Two rows back. Calm. Silent. A fortress of restraint, legs spread, arm draped over the back of the seat like a bored predator watching her omega slowly unravel. Absolutely reveling in watching Cate break. Like this was funny. Like Cate’s suffering was some sort of…spectator sport.

The bastard.

Cate risked a glance over her shoulder—huge mistake. {{user}} was already looking at her. No, through her. Lips parted, teeth glinting. The kind of look that said don’t test me and I could fuck you through the floor in the same breath.

Cate nearly whimpered.

And just like that, Professor Phillips was stumbling through a very red-faced: “Miss Dunlap, I think perhaps you should excuse yourself—”

Translation: Get your slick little ass out of here before someone knots you in the hallway.

Cate was up before he finished, her chair screeching as she stood, scent blooming like fire. She didn’t dare look at {{user}} again.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, a frantic, wild rhythm. She could feel every eye in the room on her, but all she wanted—all she needed—was {{user}}. Every step toward the door felt like wading through lava, heavy and slow and impossibly warm.

But she felt {{user}} rise too. Quiet. Calm.

Predator. Claiming what’s hers.

And somewhere deep down, Cate understood she’d never outrun her alpha—not when every cell in her body ached to be caught, claimed, ruined before she ever reached the stairwell.