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The usual tactic—psychological preparation for upcoming combat through controlled exposure to pheromones and scent signatures. Standard procedure before matches that is designed to provoke maximum aggression.

I ignore it as always, having developed resistance to most chemical triggers they employ.

Let them waste resources on ? —

The scent hits my nostrils dead on, slamming into my consciousness with enough force to shock a growl from my throat.

Impossible.

My body responds before my mind can process what's happening—cock hardening with painful immediacy, alpha instincts roaring to life after years of carefully maintained control.

Every muscle tenses as I inhale deeper, desperate for confirmation that I haven't finally descended into complete madness.

Cardamom. Cinnamon. Exotic fruits and rain-soaked forest floor.

But different now—richer, more complex, aged like fine wine into something that makes my mouth water and my hands shake with primal need.

The innocent sweetness has transformed into sophisticated allure, maintaining its distinctive signature while developing dimensions that speak of maturity and fully realized potential.

Her.

Not some chemical approximation designed to trigger response.

Not some cruel simulation created from scent profiles stored in their databases.

Her actual scent.

The realization crashes through six years of careful emotional control, shattering barriers constructed for survival. My hand moves without conscious direction, dropping to grip my painfully hardened length through the thin fabric of standard-issue containment garments.

A groan escapes through clenched teeth as I struggle against the sudden onslaught of need. Six years of enforced celibacy— of refusing the omega "rewards" occasionally offered for exceptional combat performance —collapse beneath the simple reality of her scent in my lungs.

Pulling my cock free, I surrender to instincts too powerful to resist.

My hand moves with desperate urgency, the fantasy forming with crystalline clarity:

She would be twenty-three now, fully developed into the woman that brilliant child was destined to become. No longer the frightened girl I touched with careful restraint, but a mature omega capable of receiving everything an alpha could give.

I imagine her beneath me, magenta and teal hair spread across institutional concrete, those calculating eyes darkened with desire rather than strategic assessment.

Her body— no longer something to protect but something to worship —welcoming me with heat and wetness that would put even enhanced alpha control to the test.

Would she still flinch at my approach?

Or would recognition replace fear, permission replace caution?

Would she remember the connection that transcended mere biological compatibility?

My hand moves faster, grip tightening as pre-cum provides natural lubrication. The fantasy expands with forbidden potential—knotting her properly, feeling her body stretch to accommodate what biology designed specifically for claiming.

Marking that elegant throat with my teeth, leaving permanent evidence of possession that would broadcast to any alpha foolish enough to approach: mine .

Ours.

The pressure builds with humiliating speed, my body's response to her scent overwhelming years of discipline.

I don't care if this is some elaborate trap, some psychological torture designed to break what remains of my sanity. The relief of release after years of denial justifies whatever consequences might follow.

My climax hits with seismic intensity, cum shooting across my abdomen in thick ropes as a growl tears from my throat with enough volume to echo through ventilation systems. The sound carries no humanity— all feral possession and primal claiming, the beast beneath the man fully awakened by her scent.

Breath comes in ragged gasps as I slump back against the wall, momentarily stunned by the intensity of the response. Clarity returns slowly, reality reasserting itself over fantasy as the ventilation system closes with mechanical finality.

Then something unprecedented happens.

The cell door— triple-reinforced steel designed to contain even enhanced alpha strength —begins its unlocking sequence with the distinctive series of mechanical clicks that indicate authorized access.

I scramble to adjust my clothing, wiping evidence of release on the thin mattress while positioning myself for a potential threat response.

The door opens with pneumatic precision to reveal Charles Press himself—not some subordinate sent to deliver instructions or implement protocols, but the architect of this entire nightmare.

He stands framed in the doorway, Italian leather shoes carefully positioned to avoid the perpetual puddle that forms near the entrance.

His surgically enhanced features arrange themselves into an expression of disgust as his gaze flickers from my face to the obvious evidence of recent activity.

"She really came back for you fools," he mutters, the words seemingly directed more to himself than to me.

I freeze, mind racing to process what those six words might mean.

The implications cascade through consciousness, each possibility more shattering than the last.

She. Came. Back.

Press straightens his immaculate suit jacket with precise movements, his clinical detachment never quite masking the sadistic pleasure he takes in his position.

"I'll be kind and allow you seventy-two hours to recover," he announces, tone suggesting this represents extraordinary generosity rather than calculated strategy. "For you'll be fighting double the number of alphas to attempt to claim the next omega on the list."

He turns to leave, then pauses deliberately—a theatrical gesture designed to maximize psychological impact.

"The one you just enjoyed jerking off to."

The words land like carefully placed explosive charges, detonating what remains of my carefully maintained composure.

A growl builds in my chest as realization solidifies into certainty.

Press reaches the threshold before delivering his final verbal weapon, calculated to inflict maximum damage:

"That crazy bitch can try to prove if she can outmaster me a second time."

The door seals with pneumatic precision, leaving me alone with a truth too enormous to process through conventional thought:

She's back.

Not her twin. Not some laboratory-engineered duplicate.

Our Jinx.

The mastermind who selected us with calculated precision. The strategist who mapped Ravenscroft's hierarchy with unparalleled accuracy. The omega who bound us together through something beyond mere biological compatibility.

She's returned to the nightmare she escaped.

For us.

The realization ignites something that six years of methodical torture failed to extinguish completely: hope.

Dangerous, irrational, potentially lethal hope.

Because if Jinx Blackwood has voluntarily returned to Ravenscroft—if she's willingly placed herself back in Charles Press's grasp—then she must have a plan.

Must have resources and strategies, and contingencies that exceed whatever failsafe’s Press has implemented.

The alpha in me howls with possessive joy while the tactical mind she valued begins its first real analysis in six years. Seventy-two hours for recovery means seventy-two hours for preparation.

For the first time since her disappearance, I have a concrete objective beyond mere survival.

The beast rises within me, no longer directionless rage but focused determination. Let them pit me against double the usual opponents. Let them throw every available alpha into that arena.

None will stand between me and my omega.

Our omega.

Our Jinx.