The first sign was a peculiar sensitivity to the air. Three days ago, the recycled oxygen of the Belle Reve black-ops van had smelled only of gun oil, stale coffee, and Economos’s faint, anxious sweat. Now, Adrian could distinguish the individual threads of the tapestry. He could smell the synthetic pine of the cleaning wipes Harcourt used on her guns, the leather of Peacemaker’s vest, the sweet, waxy scent of the protein bar you were eating in the passenger seat.

Especially you.

It was your scent that had begun to change for him, or rather, his perception of it had sharpened into a blade. It was always there, a quiet, grounding presence—something like clean laundry warmed in the sun, with an undercurrent of ozone, like the air right after a summer storm. A classic, unassuming Alpha scent. He’d never thought much of it before, just as he’d never thought much about his own quiet, Omega nature. It was a biological footnote, less relevant to his life than the trajectory of a .50 caliber round.

But now, with the low, insistent thrum of pre-heat warming his blood, your scent was all he could think about. It was a magnet, pulling at something deep in his marrow.

He was quiet, quieter than usual. He’d forgone his usual commentary on the tactical inefficiency of the highway’s traffic flow, instead pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the world smear past. He felt… porous. As if the barriers between himself and everything else were thinning. The rough texture of the seatbelt against his neck was an agony. The fluorescent light above his head buzzed like a hornet in his skull.

And you kept looking back at him. Your eyes, usually full of a companionable, easy-going patience, now held a question. “You okay back there, Ads?” you’d asked, using the silly, affectionate nickname that no one else was allowed.

He’d just nodded, his throat too tight to form words. No, he’d screamed internally. I’m not okay. I think I might be malfunctioning. And the only thing that sounds like it would fix it is you.

The realization was a quiet, terrifying explosion. It wasn’t a general, hormonal craving for an Alpha. It was a specific, targeted need. For you. The idea of a stranger, some prescribed, anonymous Alpha, touching him during the coming storm of his heat made his skin crawl with a revulsion so sharp it was almost violent. The thought of you, though… of your steady hands, your calm voice… it sent a wave of heat through him so intense he shuddered.‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎