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His hand stills momentarily against my collarbone, surprise evident despite careful control.

"Breeding program?" The question emerges with barely contained anger.

"Not like you're thinking," I clarify quickly. "They didn't force physically incompatible people together. But they did...encourage certain couples through financial incentives and social manipulation. Tracked bloodlines for generations, looking for particular genetic combinations."

His touch resumes its gentle exploration, spreading soap across my back in circular motions that soothe tired muscles while maintaining careful distance from open wounds requiring more cautious treatment.

"The Blackwood lineage carried markers they considered particularly valuable," I continue, eyes drifting closed as his fingers work magic against tense shoulders.

"When my parents produced twins—identical in appearance but divergent in cognitive development—Press considered it a research goldmine.

Perfect opportunity to study nature versus nurture in a controlled environment. "

Understanding dawns in Riot's expression—recognition of experimental methodology beneath institutional deception and clinical terminology.

His hands move lower, tracing the curve of my spine with deliberate thoroughness that sends pleasant tingling through nerve endings typically programmed for combat assessment rather than sensual appreciation.

"They separated us early," I whisper, the admission carrying the weight of a painful truth rarely acknowledged even in private thoughts.

"Kept my sister in a luxurious external environment while subjecting me to institutional conditioning and enhancement protocols.

Wanted to see how differently we'd develop despite identical genetic makeup. "

Riot's growl carries genuine outrage beneath carefully controlled volume, not performing anger for my benefit but expressing an authentic emotional response to institutional cruelty.

The sound vibrates through the small space with surprising intensity, creating almost a physical presence between rising steam and cascading water.

"The experiment succeeded beyond their expectations," I add with a bitter smile that holds no genuine humor.

"We developed completely different skill sets and psychological profiles despite sharing identical DNA.

Nature versus nurture demonstrated with perfect clarity through twin subjects—exactly what institutional research parameters sought to establish. "

His hands resume their gentle washing, moving from my back to my arms with meticulous attention to areas requiring more careful handling.

The soap creates a slick barrier between calloused fingers and sensitive skin—the contact simultaneously cleansing and arousing in ways that defy simple categorization or conventional description.

"When I met you the first time," I continue, voice dropping lower as memory surfaces with visceral clarity, "I was supposed to be nothing more than a research subject demonstrating omega response to alpha proximity.

But what happened between us transcended institutional parameters or experimental methodology. "

His chest presses against my back as his arms encircle my waist—not aggressive restraint but a gentle embrace that offers support without demanding submission.

The contact sends electricity racing through nerve endings already sensitized from combat and proximity, biological response activating beneath tactical awareness with intensity that defies control methodology or suppression protocols.

"You recognized something in me beyond designation or experimental value," I whisper, head falling back against his shoulder as his hands continue their gentle exploration. "And I recognized something in you that defied institutional categorization or clinical assessment."

"I did," he confirms, voice carrying a rougher cadence that betrays growing arousal despite careful control. "Even then—even with you so young and circumstances so controlled, I knew you were different. Special. Mine in ways that transcended institutional assignment or biological compatibility."

The admission sends fresh heat pooling between my legs—slick gathering with embarrassing speed despite the absence of direct stimulation or explicit intent.

My body responds to his words with intensity that defies logical explanation or tactical rationalization—omega biology recognizing its alpha beyond conscious thought or strategic consideration.

I turn within his embrace, facing him directly as water continues streaming over both our bodies in glistening rivulets.

The movement brings us chest to chest, his considerable height advantage creating perfect alignment of bodies designed for complementary function beyond mere physical coupling or designation dynamics.

"How long are you going to wait?" The question emerges breathless yet direct, characteristic precision wrapped in genuine desire rather than calculated provocation.

His brow furrows slightly, confusion momentarily replacing arousal despite our intimate positioning and mutual state of undress.

"What do you mean?"

My hands rise to frame his face, fingers tracing features I've carried in memory through six years of separation with reverent thoroughness.

The contact creates a connection beyond simple physical touch—tactile confirmation of presence after extended absence, reality asserting itself against preserved recollection with beautiful finality.

"How long until you claim me already?" The whispered question carries no hesitation despite its boldness— just genuine desire and unmistakable intent.

Something shifts in his expression— micro-reactions that speak of internal conflict between alpha instinct and careful restraint, between possessive need and conscious consideration.

His hands tighten fractionally at my waist, the slight pressure communicating desire without imposing intent or assuming consent beyond what's been explicitly offered.

"Is that what you really want?" The question emerges quietly yet intensely, carrying the weight of genuine inquiry rather than rhetorical challenge or performative hesitation.

No doubt about my desire, but genuine concern regarding potential regret or future reconsideration—respect for agency beyond biological imperative or designation dynamics.

Our eyes lock as steam continues rising around us, creating a dreamlike quality to this momentary sanctuary carved from institutional horror through nothing more than heated water and transparent barriers.

In this shared space, stripped of tactical facades and operational necessities, truth flows with surprising ease between bodies designed for complementary function beyond mere physical coupling or institutional categorization.

His hands lift me effortlessly, pressing my back against the cool shower tiles as water continues cascading around us in heated rivulets.

The contrast between cold ceramic and his burning skin makes me gasp, every nerve ending alive with sensation that transcends mere physical contact.

"Six years," he breathes against my throat, his voice raw with emotion that cuts deeper than any blade. "Six fucking years I've dreamed of this moment."

His mouth finds mine again with desperate hunger that speaks of starvation beyond physical need.

This kiss carries the weight of time stolen, of connections severed, of hope preserved through systematic torture designed to break exactly what we're rebuilding in this steamed sanctuary.

I taste the desperation on his tongue, feel it in the way his hands grip my thighs with trembling intensity. Not from weakness but from the overwhelming reality that fantasy has finally materialized into flesh and blood and willing surrender.

"I thought about you every day," I whisper between kisses, my own voice thick with tears I didn't realize were falling. "In that other life, wearing someone else's name, I carried you with me like a secret treasure no one could steal."

A growl rumbles through his chest at my words, primal satisfaction mixing with protective rage at what institutional separation cost us both.

His hips press forward, the hard length of him sliding against my slick folds with delicious friction that makes coherent thought scatter like leaves in hurricane winds.

"Tell me again," he demands, mouth moving to my ear where his breath creates shivers that race down my spine. "Tell me this is what you want."

"This is what I want," I breathe without hesitation, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. "You. Here. Now. All of it."

The confession seems to snap whatever restraint he's been maintaining.

His mouth crashes against mine with renewed intensity while one hand slides between our bodies, fingers finding my center with unerring accuracy born from alpha instinct rather than experience.

I cry out at the contact, head falling back against the tiles as he explores with careful thoroughness. His touch carries reverence despite the desperation driving us both—worship disguised as claiming, devotion wrapped in primal need.

"So wet for me already," he murmurs with wonder, fingers stroking through my arousal with gentle insistence. "So perfect. So ready."

"Please," I gasp, the word torn from somewhere deeper than pride or tactical calculation. "I need you. Need this. Need to feel whole again."

It feels odd to hear myself beg. Almost foreign and unnatural, and yet submitting to him, to my Alpha, seems so effortlessly right and almost righteous, I can’t dare take the time to second-guess it.

His response comes as action rather than words— the broad head of his cock replacing his fingers at my entrance, pressing forward with careful control that speaks to consideration despite overwhelming desire.

The stretch makes me whimper, my body working to accommodate his considerable size. It's been too long, too many years since anyone touched me with genuine care rather than clinical detachment.