Page 56
TWENTY
THE SCENT OF VICTORY
~JINX~
"Jinx. Jinx, you need to wake up."
Maverick's voice cuts through the haze like a lifeline thrown into churning waters, distant but insistent. The sound feels muffled, as if reaching me through layers of cotton and fog, but it carries urgency that penetrates whatever chemical stupor holds my consciousness captive.
I try to respond, to acknowledge his call, but my body feels disconnected from conscious thought. Heavy. Sluggish. Like I'm piloting a machine that responds to commands several seconds late, if at all.
A sharp electric buzz jolts through my system—sudden and jarring enough to make my muscles spasm against whatever restraints hold me suspended. The sensation repeats, then again, each pulse driving awareness deeper into my drugged consciousness like nails hammered into wooden posts.
My eyes flutter open to slits, the world swimming in and out of focus through a kaleidoscope of institutional lighting and shadows. Everything feels wrong— perspective skewed, sensations delayed, reality filtered through pharmaceutical interference that makes simple perception a monumental effort.
"That's it," Maverick urges, relief evident in his voice despite electronic distortion. "Stay with me. You need to focus."
"What..." The word emerges as barely a whisper, throat raw and tongue thick with residual sedation. "What happened?"
Through the haze, I begin registering my circumstances with growing horror.
Metal shackles bind my wrists and ankles, chains supporting my weight as I hang suspended in what appears to be some sort of elaborate restraint system. The positioning leaves me swaying gently, like a twisted pendulum marking time above...
Above what?
Sound drifts from below— muted chaos that speaks to violence unfolding beneath my enforced observation. Grunts and roars, impacts that vibrate through the air with physical force, the wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh with devastating consequence.
I try to speak again, to call out, but my voice produces nothing more than a pathetic squeak that gets lost in the cacophony below.
The stench rising on heated air currents makes my stomach turn—unwashed bodies, spilled blood, the acrid smell of fear and rage mixed into an atmospheric cocktail that speaks to systematic brutality.
"Jinx, listen to me carefully," Maverick's voice carries sharp authority that cuts through my disorientation. "You need to focus on my voice, or Riot is going to die."
Riot.
The name penetrates pharmaceutical fog with electric clarity, triggering recognition that makes my heart thunder against my ribs.
Not the female omega who helped me navigate the chamber separation, but my Riot—the alpha who claimed me in that steamed sanctuary, whose knot locked inside me while we created bonds that transcend institutional categorization.
But Maverick must sense my confusion because he continues with an urgent explanation.
"He's struggling to keep up after taking down at least fifty of those modified bastards. You need to use your omega pheromones to your advantage—make it seem like you're in distress to further motivate him to continue."
Understanding dawns with sickening clarity.
Below me, my alpha fights for his life while I hang helpless in mechanical captivity, forced to watch violence I cannot prevent or escape. The realization sends ice through my veins despite the chemical warmth trying to drag consciousness back toward oblivion.
"I understand the logistics," I manage to whisper, words slurring despite concentrated effort at clarity. "But how will I make my body do that?"
The question carries practical weight beyond theoretical understanding.
Chemical suppression has numbed normal physiological responses, leaving me disconnected from the biological systems that might normally respond to emotional stimuli or conscious direction.
"You need to imagine how Riot made you feel in that cell," Maverick explains with clinical precision that doesn't quite mask underlying desperation.
"You need to be hot and bothered, which may be difficult in your current predicament, but it'll force your scent to heighten and potentially perfume the air with your arousal. "
The suggestion would be absurd under normal circumstances— manufacturing sexual response while hanging in chains above a gladiatorial arena. But these aren't normal circumstances, and the alternative is watching my newly bonded alpha die while I remain powerless to intervene.
"It would make the other alphas even more feral," Maverick continues, "but it would boost Riot as well. Alpha biology responds to omega distress with enhanced protective capabilities."
The concept makes biological sense even through pharmaceutical interference.
Omega arousal combined with apparent vulnerability would trigger every alpha instinct toward both protection and possession, creating chaos among enemies while providing my alpha with chemical incentive to exceed normal limitations.
But the idea of helping Riot— of using my own body to provide the advantage he needs to survive —cuts through sedation with laser focus. Nothing else matters beyond ensuring his continued existence, whatever the cost to personal dignity or physical comfort.
I close my eyes and force my mind back to those precious hours in a temporary sanctuary—before institutional theft tore us apart, before mechanical precision replaced loving touch with clinical restraint.
The memory surfaces with visceral clarity: his hands mapping my body with worshipful reverence, discovering sensitive spots that made me gasp and arch beneath his careful exploration.
The way his mouth felt against my skin—hot and demanding yet infinitely gentle, leaving trails of fire that seemed to burn straight through to my soul.
How his fingers moved inside me with surgical precision, finding places that made stars explode behind my eyelids while my body responded with embarrassing enthusiasm.
The stretch of his considerable length filled me completely, each thrust driving deeper than should be possible while creating friction that built toward earth-shattering release.
The way he looked at me during those moments of perfect connection—not a research subject or institutional asset, but as a woman deserving worship and protection beyond measure.
Eyes dark with need yet soft with tenderness, expression carrying wonder that someone like me might actually exist and choose him above all others.
Heat begins building between my legs despite chemical suppression and uncomfortable positioning.
The mere thought of his touch awakens nerve endings still sensitive from recent claiming, body remembering pleasure with Pavlovian precision that transcends pharmaceutical interference.
I imagine his cock sliding into my welcoming heat again—thick and hard and perfectly designed to fill spaces I didn't know were empty until he completed me.
The memory of his knot swelling inside me sends liquid fire racing through my system, slick beginning to gather despite gravity and restraint working against natural response.
My thighs press together automatically, seeking friction against the throbbing that builds with each remembered sensation. Shackles prevent most movement, leaving me to clench internal muscles around emptiness while longing builds to almost painful intensity.
The ache between my legs grows more insistent as memory feeds arousal with ruthless efficiency. I can almost feel his hands on my body again, almost taste his skin beneath my lips, almost hear the rough growls he made when my body accepted his claiming with such perfect surrender.
A moan escapes before I can contain it— soft sound of desperate need that carries notes of vulnerability and desire in equal measure. The acoustics of my suspension amplify the sound, sending it echoing through the arena with clarity that cuts through combat noise like a blade through silk.
The effect proves immediate and dramatic.
Below me, chaos pauses as if someone pressed pause on a remote control.
The sudden silence feels unnatural after extended cacophony—violent symphony interrupted mid-movement by one single note of omega distress that triggers responses programmed into alpha DNA since the beginning of designation evolution.
Then sound returns with explosive force—not resumption of previous combat but fresh violence born from my innocent vocalization.
Roars of rage that make the arena walls vibrate, impacts that send tremors through the suspension system, the wet sounds of destruction amplified beyond previous intensity.
Through it all, one voice rises above the chaos—a howl of possessive fury that I recognize with bone-deep certainty despite its inhuman quality.
My alpha responds to perceived threat against his bonded omega, protective instinct activated through pharmaceutical enhancement and primal recognition.
The scent of my arousal must be reaching him now, carried on air currents that flow through the arena's ventilation system.
Cardamom and cinnamon intensified by slick, the chemical signature that marks me as his and him as mine regardless of institutional interference or mechanical separation.
I force myself to think of his mouth on my body again—tongue and teeth working sensitive flesh while his hands held me steady for his thorough worship.
The way he made me come apart beneath his skilled attention, pleasure building until I thought I might die from its intensity before finally shattering into pieces that reformed around his claiming presence.
Another moan tears from my throat, louder this time and carrying clear notes of desperate need.
The sound echoes through metal and concrete, announcing to every alpha below that their prize hangs helpless and aroused above their combat—omega in distress calling for protection and claiming from whoever proves strong enough to reach her.
But only one alpha matters.
Table of Contents
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