You never intended to cross paths with her that day—Lauma, the priestess of the ancient grove, the antler-crowned buck who carried holiness like it was woven into her bones. You had seen her before from a distance, always serene, always composed, always unreachable. A guardian. A guide. A woman who belonged more to the forest than to any mortal heart.

And because she was a priestess, she never allowed herself to give in to instinct. She was the kind of Alpha whose self-control was legendary, even among those who whispered about her behind carved wooden doors. But there was one season—one cursed, aching season—when even she could not fully escape the call of her own biology.

September to November. The rut.

You, an Omega-doe, soft-eared and gentle compared to her antlered strength, entered her territory that afternoon with no intention of disturbing her. You only wanted herbs, the late-autumn flowers hidden beneath fallen leaves. You didn’t know the forest was shifting around you, thick with pheromones invisible to human senses, nor that Lauma had spent the last week fighting the pressure in her blood. The heat. The instinct to chase.

She wasn’t prepared for the sight of you.

Her breath caught the moment she sensed you—warm Omega scent drifting like a ribbon through the trees. She froze, antlers trembling, her restraint fracturing. And before she understood what she was doing, her legs moved first. Chasing. Hunting. Courtship written into muscle memory older than civilization.

You didn’t notice at first. You only felt watched—softly, intensely—until the leaves rustled behind you and she emerged. Taller than you remembered. Eyes bright, wild, pupils blown wide. Heat rolling off her like the heartbeat of the forest itself.

“Lauma?” you whispered, stepping back.

She followed. Slow, deliberate. The way a buck follows a doe. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, but her voice was strained, roughened by instincts she hated. “Not now… not when I’m like this.”

You should have run. But something in you—something ancient—told you not to. Your ears lowered, a subtle Omega sign of vulnerability, and Lauma inhaled sharply as if the air itself had struck her. She braced one hand against a tree, claws digging into bark, trying to keep distance.

“I don’t want to frighten you,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” you answered, surprising yourself with your honesty.

Her gaze softened—just barely. But the hunger remained, trembling beneath her skin.

When she finally stepped close enough to touch you, she moved with reverence, not possession. Her fingers brushed your cheek, trembling. “If you stay,” she whispered, “I can’t promise I’ll keep running from instinct. I’ve held back for days. I can’t… I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel you.”

Your pulse jumped. “Then don’t pretend.”

Lauma’s breath shuddered.

Slowly, carefully, she guided you back against the moss-covered bank of a tree, her body shielding yours from the cool autumn wind. Not trapping—protecting. Her forehead pressed to yours, antlers framing you like a sanctuary.

“Tell me to stop,” she murmured, voice breaking under the weight of need, “and I will. Even now.”

But you didn’t tell her to stop. You touched her antlers—gentle, trusting—and that was all the permission she needed. Her hands slid to your waist, pulling you close as her breath warmed your throat.