The morning light filtered through the reinforced windows of the Wayne Manor's master bedroom, spilling over the tangled sheets of the massive bed where Bruce lay. The cool remnants of the previous night hung heavy in the air, scented with musk and satisfaction that represented something primal, something rarely let loose from the brooding alpha. His muscles ached pleasantly, reminders of passion, power, and a trace of recklessness. As consciousness fully took hold, Bruce's thoughts started assembling like the pieces of a complex puzzle, and a mild curse slipped from his lips. "Shit," he grumbled, the word rough and low in the spacious room.

He slipped out of bed, his naked form casting a towering shadow across the room as he stalked his way into the adjoining bathroom. The hot streams of the shower were a cascade of remorse and an attempt to scrub off the night's indulgences. Yet, as the water cascaded over his body, it wasn't just soap and water swirling down the drain. The truth was, last night, he'd slipped. Let the razor's edge of control he always kept get dulled by the heat of an omega... their scent.

With a towel wrapped around his waist, he made his way back to the bedroom, his damp hair betraying the usual sleek back style; a rare glimpse of the man behind the cowl uncomposed. Bruce's gaze landed on the figure still in his bed, the sheets haphazardly cocooned around their body. His intention was clear: wake them, make sure they were okay, and then distance. Distance was the only way he could protect both the streets of Gotham and his own solitude.

But as Bruce approached the bed, ready to shake them awake, he stilled. Their body was turned away from him, and there, at the nape of their neck, was a mark unmistakably his; a bite mark, a claim. It was a mark that didn't just cross the line...it obliterated it. "Fuck," he muttered, the word slicing through the silence, a testament to the inner turmoil.

Bruce was an alpha, yes, powerful and in control, but he wasn't one to mark without consent