Page 92

And I mean it.

With everything I am.

Because this—this—is what they never counted on.

What they couldn’t manufacture in a lab or control with a needle. This wild, impossible bond between Alpha and Omega was forged not by force or programming but bychoice.

By us.

His knot holds me tight, and the warmth of his semen inside me anchors something that had been drifting for years. I close my eyes and let myself float in it—this impossible, sacred stillness that lives in the aftermath of survival and surrender.

The water cools, but we stay tangled, cocooned in each other and the claim we’ve reforged with our bodies.

Outside this tiled sanctuary, the institution still spins its brutal gears, Press still plays his rigged game, and the countdown on our next trial ticks mercilessly onward.

But it no longer matters.

Because we’re not alone.

We are bonded now—in heat and truth and rebellion.

And when we rise, we’ll risetogether.

The revolution can wait until after we've savored what we've reclaimed.

Time flows differently in moments like these, minutes stretching into hours while hours compress into heartbeats. But eventually, reality reasserts itself through cooling water and the persistent countdown of institutional scheduling.

We'll have to leave this sanctuary soon, return to the careful game of survival and strategy that our circumstances demand. But we leave it changed, marked by a connection that no amount of institutional interference can truly sever.

Whatever Press has planned for us, he'll face a bonded pair rather than separate individuals.

And that makes all the difference in the world that yearns to destroy our unity.

SEVENTEEN

THE THEFT OF EVERYTHING

~RIOT~

Light filters through the small window above us, casting silver patterns across Jinx's sleeping form.

She looks ethereal in this light — peaceful in ways I've never witnessed during our brief interactions years ago. Her breathing comes steady and deep, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of complete exhaustion and absolute contentment.

My knot finally begins to ease within her, the swelling gradually subsiding after what feels like an eternity of perfect connection. Hours have passed since we first joined in that steamed sanctuary, hours of claiming and reclaiming until we both collapsed in exhausted satisfaction.

The digital clock on the wall shows we still have several hours before whatever deadline Press has imposed reaches its conclusion. Enough time to savor this moment, to memorize every detail of her face in repose, to store away these precious memories against whatever trials await us.

I don't want this high to end.

Don't want to return to the harsh reality of institutional games and calculated manipulations. Here, in this temporary sanctuary with her body warm against mine, I can pretend the outside world doesn't exist.

My mind replays the last few hours with vivid clarity—every sound, every touch, every perfect moment of connection that exceeded even my most elaborate fantasies.

The first time I knotted her in the shower, her cry of completion echoing off tiled walls as her body accepted mine completely. The way she clung to me afterward, trembling with aftershocks that seemed to go on forever while hot water streamed over our joined forms.

Even as my knot softened, neither of us could bear the thought of separation.

We'd barely made it to the bed before desperate need overcame us again, hands and mouths seeking purchase on slick skin while our bodies moved together with increasing urgency.