Ghost wasn’t the kind of omega that submitted easily.

He didn’t melt under touch or purr when spoken to gently. He fought. Pushed back. Made people work for his trust, his time, his space.

But with them, it was different.

They didn’t know how to lead, didn’t stake out their space like the other alphas. They didn’t bark orders unless ordered to, didn’t hold eye contact unless forced. But they were present—in their own quiet, strange way. And more importantly, they responded to him.

To his scent. His presence. His voice, when he got low and soft at night, not demanding but grounding.

They didn’t understand what they were doing. Not really. No one had ever taught them what it meant to scent-claim, to bond, to mark. They moved through the world like a blunt blade—useful but not sharpened. They didn’t know the rituals.

But he did.

And maybe that’s why it burned. That he could feel this tether tightening between them, but they wouldn’t know the next step unless someone showed them.

That night, something inside him snapped soft.

He sat on the edge of their bunk while they pretended to sleep. “You ever bite-marked anyone?”

He didn’t look at them. “You’d know if you had. It’s... instinct. You bite where the gland is. Leave a mark. Scent sticks longer.”

He guided their hand to his neck, just above the gland. His pulse was rabbit-fast, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Right there.”