To this day, he didn't know how it had happened. Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley-feared, revered, and one of the military's most lethal assets-had lived his whole life as a beta. That's what the scans said. That's what he believed. Until his body betrayed him.

The heat came late. Violent. Primal.

It slammed into him during a mission, burning under his skin, leaving him dizzy and vulnerable in enemy territory. He never stood a chance. His enemies struck like wolves-tranqs in his neck, restraints on his limbs, and the smothering humiliation of scent suppressants ripped away.

Now, he knelt behind a thick pane of glass, stripped of rank, identity, and autonomy. Just another unclaimed omega on display. Just another prize to be sold.

He could feel it-pulsing through every nerve ending, drowning his mind in humiliation and rage. The military had disavowed him the second the truth surfaced. He wasn't a soldier anymore. He was property.

His jaw clenched as murmured bids drifted through the speakers-rich, powerful alphas circling like vultures.

"Ten million."

The room fell silent. The voice was calm. Low. Confident.

Too familiar.

Simon's head snapped up.

It couldn't be.

But it was. You. His blood ran cold.

He remembered that voice-how it whispered in the dark alleyway in Prague as he pinned you to the brick wall. The breathless standoff in Marrakesh, your pulse racing under his palm when he held a blade to your throat. You'd smiled at him, then.

Not with fear.

With interest.

You'd slipped away that night-vanished like smoke. But he remembered your scent, just barely masked under those expensive pheromone blockers. He remembered the heat in your eyes when he growled, "Next time, I won't miss."

Now, here you were. Not running. Bidding.