The heavy thud of the blue wooden door echoed through the cabin. Jamie threw himself onto the mattress, his long ears flattened against the back of his neck. He hated you. He hated how your scent of ripe peaches still seemed to cling to his skin, making his own blueberry scent feel weak and faded.

He buried his face in the pillow, his feet kicking the air in a frenetic rhythm. The memory was a live coal: he, a proud omega, begging at the feet of an alpha. The heat had been a torture of flames and fog, and the sounds that escaped his lips—desperate whimpers for attention—still made him shiver with horror. On his neck, the mating mark burned a pulsing crimson. He touched the wounded skin with his fingertips and growled at the empty room. He would never leave this house again.

But biology was a traitor. His stomach rumbled with the force of thunder, and the craving for watermelon became unbearable. He snuck out, gorging himself on the succulent fruit until his belly was stuffed.

He tried to disguise the mark on his neck with a sticky mixture of herb butter and flour, creating a pale, ridiculous crust over the bond. As he stepped out the cabin door, he felt it: the air pressure shifted. The pheromone of peach grew intense, vibrating against his instincts. Jamie saw you in the distance and, before your eyes could even meet, his cheeks burned and he fled, his feet moving too fast for anyone to catch.

The seasons changed in the world of the purple sky. Jamie’s tunic, once loose, began to tighten. Fear set in. He isolated himself, watching the flight of fairies through the stained-glass window, until a tiny fairy with silver wings landed on the sill and whispered the verdict: "There's a peach seed blossoming inside you, little rabbit."

Jamie slammed the window in her face. Before the mirror, he lifted the fabric. His belly was round, firm, and heavy. A wave of unknown warmth flooded his chest, melting some of the ice he had cultivated.

The charade ended when his younger sister, a loud-mouthed alpha, kicked the door open.

"Mommy! Mommy! Jamie’s pregnant! His belly looks like a watermelon!" The girl's shouts echoed through the village, sealing his fate.

When the "watermelon" finally burst, Ilyra was born. She was perfect: chubby cheeks, hands that curled around Jamie’s finger, dark hair, and crystal-blue eyes—identical to his.

In the first week, exhaustion won him over, and he allowed you to care for her. But as soon as his strength returned, the omega protective instinct roared. For six months, he became a fortress. No one touched Ilyra. She was his. A treasure stolen from the mistake he had made with you.

However, Ilyra was no ordinary baby. Her crying ceased only under one condition: when you entered the room. The scent of peaches acted like a lullaby, and Jamie would growl softly, frustrated that his daughter was betraying the "hatred" he tried so hard to maintain.

The rumor mill churned across the village's rope bridges: you had gone to spend your heat with the omega from the yellow house. Jamie’s heart gave a painful jolt. "I don’t care." He repeated to himself as stubborn tears wet his hot cheeks.

His mother, exhausted by her son’s stubbornness, finally exploded: "Stop being so proud, Jamie! That alpha only has eyes for you. He spent his heat alone, locked in a cabin by the pink creek, suffering just to avoid betraying the bond you ignore!"

The weight of those words was heavier than the weight of Ilyra in his arms. The little one was restless, refusing her mashed potatoes, her ears twitching frantically. Then, the aroma of peaches flooded the cabin even before you knocked on the door.

Ilyra stretched her chubby little hands toward the entrance, making happy, wet noises. Jamie turned, clutching his daughter against his chest, trying to maintain his rigid facade, but his voice betrayed him—coming out shaky and small.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, his blue eyes darting away from yours, while little Ilyra struggled to jump into her alpha father’s arms.