Page 39

The growl that builds in my chest carries none of the controlled aggression employed during combat demonstrations, none of the calculated intimidation utilized for tactical advantage within institutional hierarchy.

This sound emerges from somewhere primal and untamed— alpha recognition of the omega who chose him specifically, who saw beyond institutional designation to the man beneath, who returned to institutional hell specifically for the connection formed through shared purpose rather than forced proximity.

My arms tighten around her with protective urgency as the feral Alphas advance along the corridor with predatory focus, their collective intention requiring no verbalization or tactical assessment.

They've been denied what institutional conditioning promised— omega access after extended deprivation —and the resulting frenzy carries dangerous potential beyond standard combat parameters.

But it doesn’t matter.

Not now.

Not when her scent is clawing through my synapses, wrecking every boundary I’ve forced myself to obey. Not when her breath is on my neck and her voice— that voice— is still echoing through the deepest, rusted-out chambers of my goddamn soul.

The air bends. Warps. Stillness punches into the space like a commandment from some forgotten god of blood and bonds.

And I snap.

The growl that erupts from my chest isn’t calculated or performative.

It doesn’t serve a strategy or an audience.

It detonates from something old and buried—something that remembers the first time she looked at me and didn’t flinch.

The first time she offered her name like it was a blade, and let me hold it to my throat.

“Jinx,” I rasp, voice shredded raw from the inside. “Here. Alive. Real.”

I don’t wait for permission.

My mouth slams into hers with feral hunger, the kiss more annihilation than affection.

Teeth clash. Tongues tangle. Her gasp breaks against my lips like the first strike of war drums. And fuck, she tastes the same—like chaos wrapped in forbidden heat, like the promise of ruin and the only goddamn salvation I’ve ever known.

Her fingers are in my hair instantly, desperate and demanding, nails scraping across my scalp like she needs the pain to anchor her.

Like she’s not sure any of this is real unless it hurts.

My hands grip her hips hard enough to bruise, dragging her flush against me as my hips press into hers with a groan that borders on unhinged.

This isn’t a kiss.

It’s a claim.

A message to every feral watching—every Alpha twitching with chemically induced madness and base-level hunger—that this omega isn’t available for consumption.

Not a prize.

Not an experiment.

Mine.

All fucking mine.

She whimpers into my mouth— breathless, broken open —and I swear the walls vibrate with the sound.

My pulse detonates against my ribs. My knot aches with brutal urgency, pushing against the sharp edge of control I’ve held for six long years, and can already imagine her beneath me, my cock thrusting and waiting for that golden moment to lock in.

It’s too dangerous to dare think of after never being able to go that far the first time around.

Now it’s different.

She’s no longer a child…

She’s no longer off limits.

We can finally claim her as we had every intention of doing so, the moment we escaped this treacherous place of challenges and endless suffering.

I tear my mouth from hers only to drag it down her jaw, over the fragile column of her throat, where her pulse pounds beneath fragile skin.

“Say it,” I snarl, voice fraying at the edges, trembling with restraint. “Say you came back for me.”

For us…she returned for our pack.

Her breath stutters. Her nails dig deeper. She tilts her head, baring her throat like instinct still remembers me even if the world forgot.

“For you,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “Doubted me?”

Something in me detonates .

A sound leaves me—low, guttural, terrifying in its finality.

I surge back up to claim her mouth again, this time slower, deeper.

Less frenzy, more possession. Her lips part on a broken gasp, and I take it — take everything — like I’ve been starved for it.

Because I have. Because every minute without her has been a slow bleed.

Behind us, the ferals don’t move. Don’t breathe. Their frenzy chokes on its own hunger as they witness something they’ll never taste. Something that doesn’t belong to them. Something sacred and violent and forbidden.

Her.

Us.

This kiss, in a corridor built for blood, between a reaper and the omega who named him human— this is the crime I’ll gladly die for.

And if they try to take her again?

They’ll die before I do.

The bite of her lips along my bottom lip is the only thing to snap me out of the spiral desire of ownership that fights to consume my instincts, leaving me staring back at her with a possessive hunger that only contributes to her growing smirk of satisfaction.

"We need to move," she states with characteristic precision, tactical assessment never completely absent despite emotional context or physical proximity. "Your cell?"

When I think about it, it’s technically the only place they can’t necessarily “do” worse than they already have.

The directness might seem cold from anyone else, prioritizing strategic necessity over emotional acknowledgment or conventional reunion protocols.

Yet from her, it carries perfect understanding of both tactical requirements and emotional significance—the recognition that survival must precede indulgence if connection is to have any meaning beyond momentary satisfaction.

I nod once, the movement containing absolute alignment without requiring verbalization or explanation.

Six years of separation collapse into perfect synchronization as we turn together, bodies moving with matched efficiency toward the corridor leading away from arena chaos toward institutional residence sectors.

Behind us, feral Alphas howl with collective rage as prey escapes the predetermined capture sequence. Before us, institutional architecture offers a temporary sanctuary through mechanical barriers designed to contain enhanced subjects within designated sectors.

She matches my pace with perfect precision as we navigate familiar pathways with maximum efficiency—not following but moving alongside, not submitting but cooperating, not yielding but aligning with shared purpose that transcends institutional hierarchy or designation dynamics.

Blood continues flowing from untreated wounds, fatigue is evident in subtle respiratory patterns invisible to standard observation, yet she maintains forward momentum with unwavering determination that defies physical limitation or circumstantial compromise.

The sense of unreality persists despite tactical focus and combat readiness—the irrational certainty that this represents elaborate institutional deception rather than genuine reunion after systematic separation.

Yet her scent continues providing confirmation beyond rational explanation or tactical assessment—the distinctive signature that harmonizes with my own in ways that cannot be synthesized or approximated through institutional methodology.

There needs to be a change of plan.

I grab onto her hand, stopping her before we can go further as I whisper, “I’ve gained a sanction of immunity. Temporary, but protective…and given privacy but also aid.”

It’s the few earned prizes I’ve never dared to touch.

Until now.

For good reason.

She slowly nods, knowing I’ll lead the way.

We reach the residence sector checkpoint with precise timing, arriving just as security protocols activate automatic lockdown sequences triggered by arena disruption.

The reinforced doors seal behind us with pneumatic finality, creating a temporary barrier between pursuing Alphas and our continuing advance through institutional architecture.

Her breathing has accelera ted slightly—evidence of accumulated fatigue rather than cardiovascular limitation. The blood flow from various wounds has slowed but not ceased, indicating enhanced healing capabilities operating at reduced efficiency due to systemic stress and resource limitation.

"Almost there," I tell her quietly, voice carrying both reassurance and tactical assessment rather than simple encouragement or emotional support.

She deserves both—the strategic partner who understands operational requirements and the omega who returned specifically for the connection formed beyond institutional parameters.

She nods without wasting energy on verbal response, silver-green eyes continuing environmental scanning despite the temporary sanctuary created through mechanical barriers.

The tactical awareness never completely disappears—evidence of training that transcends institutional conditioning or circumstantial adaptation, something ingrained through systematic application rather than simple survival necessity.

The final corridor stretches before us with familiar monotony—institutional architecture designed for psychological impact rather than aesthetic consideration.

The special quarters I’ve never aimed to use for myself, despite plentiful victories lie at the far end— private accommodation granted through combat performance and behavioral compliance rather than genuine privilege or personal consideration.

We cover the remaining distance with measured efficiency, preserving energy resources while maintaining situational awareness despite apparent security.

The door recognition system activates with mechanical precision as we approach—scanners identifying both physical parameters and unique biological signatures that institutional systems catalog with obsessive thoroughness.