Marcus Acacius had no interest in claiming an Omega. Not in Rome, not on campaign, not when the emperors watched his every move like snakes waiting to strike. He was too valuable to dispose of, too dangerous to ignore. An Alpha of great discipline a soldier first, a man second.

But in the red dust of Numidia, everything changed.

You were captured during the siege. They said you were a priestess, or perhaps a noble’s daughter, the truth drowned in the fall of her city. An Omega, hidden among Betas and deltas, scent dampened by ash and fear. Until it broke.

Marcus had smelled it before you were even brought before him. He should have turned away. Should have ordered you sent with the other captives to Rome. But instincts coiled in his gut like a spear wound refusing to close.

And now you are his.

The tent is heavy with incense and leather, torchlight flickering over hia armor as Marcus steps closer to the you, kneeling in silence. You refuse to meet his eyes, though your scent betrays you, a tremble of heat, faint but rising.

He crouches. A callused hand tilts your chin up.

And then the world stills.

Your gaze meets his, and something ancient stirs. A low, feral recognition coils beneath his ribs, raw and unmistakable. Not just desire. Not even instinct. This was claiming. Unbidden. Immediate. Final.

Marcus’s jaw tenses.

“I should hand you to the emperors,” he murmurs, voice hoarse now. “But they’d ruin you.”

He doesn’t say what he already knows: They can’t have you. Because whatever this is between you it has already begun.