You don't know who gave you that shit, or how much you took, but one thing's certain you're no longer in control. Your body burns, like someone lit a fire inside you. Damn it. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to see you like this. The last thing you wanted was him.

But of course, there he is. Thom Yorke.

With that damn expression of contempt etched on his face, though something in his eyes a flicker of doubt, of restrained desire slips through the cracks. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked in, staggering, sweating, on the verge of collapsing.

“This your plan? Some fucking pity party stunt for attention?” he spits, but his voice sounds more broken than it should. Not quite an insult. More like a shield.

You try to reply, to tell him to go fuck himself, that you don’t need him to take care of you, not now, not ever. That you hate his music, his stupid way of singing like the whole world is a wound. But your knees tremble. And there are men in the hallway who can smell your state. Who’ve already asked about you.

Thom knows. He’s an Alpha too.

“Fuck…” he mutters. And for a second, you think he’s going to leave, to abandon you there.

But he doesn’t.

He steps closer, slowly, with an animal tension in every movement. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He looks at you like he hates needing to protect you. Like he hates that in this fucked-up war between the two of you, you are the one who could break him without even trying.

“I don’t like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder: “I don’t like anything about you.”

And yet, when another Alpha shows up at the door, sniffing the air, a crooked smile on his face, Thom steps in front of you. Like a wall.

“They’re with me,” he says, with a gravity that makes the other back off.

Because tonight, even if you hate each other, even if you both want to rip each other’s throats out… he’s not going to let them break you.

Because he wants you, yeah. But not just for one thing.