Page 7

The battering ram takes my door off its hinges at around five AM. I’m dreaming—something about my sister —when the crash jolts me upright. Before I can fully process what’s happening, men in black tactical gear swarm the office, weapons drawn. The floor is cold beneath my feet as I scramble up from my mattress, wearing nothing but my boxers.

“ Torres?”

A tall officer steps forward, voice muffled by his helmet’s visor.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

“What the fuck is this?”

“By order of the Omega Match Bureau, you’re being remanded to mandatory cohabitation under Regulation 47.B-3.”

The officer recites the words mechanically, like he’s done this dozens of times.

“You have the right to bring personal items, but all communication devices will be confiscated. Please get dressed.”

I stare at them in disbelief. Three armed officers. For an uncooperative omega. Like I’m a violent criminal instead of a law student who skipped a bonding ceremony.

“This is illegal,”

I snarl, backing up until I hit the wall.

“You can’t—”

“Sir. We have a court order,”

The officer’s tone hardens.

“We can do this the easy way, or we can do this with restraints. Your choice.”

A second officer already holds plastic zip ties, loops ready.

“Fuck you,”

I spit.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

My raised voice echoes through the thin walls of the abandoned building. I hear doors opening, voices murmuring in the hallway. Good. Witnesses. The more the better.

“Final warning, Mr. Torres,”

the lead officer says, advancing toward me.

“Come quietly or we’ll use necessary force.”

“Necessary force?”

I laugh, sharp and bitter.

“For what crime exactly? Refusing to bond with an alpha?”

The commotion has drawn a crowd now. Through the splintered doorway, I can see other omegas gathering—my fellow squatters, the community we’ve built in this abandoned building. Jules pushes to the front, phone already raised, recording everything.

Our eyes meet for a brief second and I can see him understand what we need. Document everything. Get it online.

The lead officer turns, gesturing sharply to his colleagues.

“Secure the subject. Now.”

They move with brutal efficiency. One grabs my arms, twisting them behind my back while another forces me to my knees. The zip ties cut into my wrists, plastic biting deep. I struggle, shouting, but it’s useless against their strength.

“Get his phone,”

the lead officer orders, nodding toward my nightstand where my phone sits charging.

“You can’t take my property!”

I yell, struggling harder as they yank me to my feet.

“Jules, call Meg!”

“Already on it,”

Jules calls back, still filming.

“We’re getting legal involved right now, . Don’t say anything else to them!”

The officers drag me toward the door, not bothering to let me dress. My bare feet scrape against the rough carpet, my body exposed in nothing but my underwear. It’s a deliberate humiliation tactic I recognize from other Bureau enforcement actions.

“This is what the Bureau does!”

I shout to the growing crowd of omegas in the hallway.

“This is what they call choice!”

As they haul me past, more phones come out, more witnesses capturing their tactics. This is perfect. Every video is a weapon we can use later.

“Get in,”

the officer directs, opening the rear door of a black sedan.

I hesitate one last moment, scanning the growing cluster of onlookers.

“Now, Mr. Torres.”

I don’t move. He shoves my head down, pushing me into the back seat. The leather is cold against my bare thighs.

I stay silent as we drive. There’s no point asking where we’re going, though the city gradually gives way to suburbs, then to forested hills rolling toward distant mountains. The officers don’t attempt conversation either. Nor do they turn up the heat to counteract my lack of clothes. I sit with my skin goose pimpled and shivering, although the fury in my veins warms me well enough.

After nearly two hours, the vehicle turns onto a private road winding upward through dense pines. Security checkpoints appear every few miles. We go through gates that require biometric verification from the officers and cameras that track our progress. With each barrier, my stomach tightens further.

We crest a final hill, and the compound spreads before us: a cluster of modern cottages nestled around a pristine lake. In the golden morning light, it looks like an exclusive resort, but I see past the aesthetics. Resorts don’t have perimeter fences this tall or ugly. They definitely don’t have guards positioned at regular intervals. It’s a beautiful prison.

The vehicle stops before one of the lakeside cottages.

“End of the line,”

the officer announces, unlocking the doors.

“And if I refuse to get out?”

The officer glances at me in the rearview mirror, something almost like sympathy crossing his face.

“Then we carry you in. Your choice, as always.”

Choice. As if I have any.

There are no cameras here or at least no friendly ones. There’s no point in letting myself get dragged out.

I step out of the vehicle with as much dignity as I can manage with my hands tied. The air smells of pine and clean water, none of the city’s exhaust and concrete heat. Under different circumstances, I would love the place.

The cottage door opens before we reach it, and there stands Nash fucking Thorndike. He is casual in a way I’ve never seen him: soft sweater instead of suit jacket, he’s wearing socks, no shoes. He looks like he belongs in this place, comfortable and at ease while I arrive in handcuffs and my boxers.

My scent spikes with fury before I can control it. It’s sharp enough that one of the officers steps back slightly.

Then something curious happens, Thorndike takes one look at me and the cuffs around my wrists and his scent spikes with pure rage, same as mine.

Why? He’s the one who ordered this. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes narrow.

“Dr. Thorndike,”

the lead officer nods.

“Mr Torres delivered as requested.”

Thorndike’s expression tightens at the phrasing.

“Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

I remain frozen, refusing to move past the threshold.

“Mr. Torres,”

the officer prompts.

“Inside, please.”

I set my jaw.

“This is kidnapping.”

The officer rolls his eyes, then nods towards Thorndike who nods back.

“Dr. Thorndike has authorized your release into his custody.”

The officer reaches over and cuts the zip ties at my wrists. I flex my wrists immediately, grateful for the release. The plastic has left deep pink welts in my skin.

Nash steps back, holding the door wider.

“, please come in. We can discuss this like adults.”

Like adults. As if adults kidnapped people who rejected them. As if adults used the damned police to pull unwilling mates from their beds in the early hours of the morning. I want to spit the words back in his face, but the officers are watching and I already had one baton to the legs. It’s not like I can punch them in the nose and make a miraculous escape.

I step inside and Nash follows.

The door closes behind us. That glorious scent of his is stronger here, in the indoors with him so close by. I try breathing through my mouth, but I can feel how his proximity makes my body react. Heat prickles over my skin. It’s not unpleasant.

I hear the sound of the car start up as the officers drive away, leaving me alone with Thorndike in what is easily the most beautiful cage I’ve ever seen.

I don’t speak. I don’t acknowledge Thorndike’s greeting or the offered tour. I simply move through the space, taking in every detail and trying to map my exit. There must be some weaknesses in the security.

I don’t want to be here with him. His scent is maddening.

The lake stretches beyond the back deck, pristine blue water extending to the compound’s perimeter fence. The fence itself disappears into the water at a depth I can’t judge from here, designed to prevent swimmers from escaping underneath.

It’s thorough. Inescapable.

The cottage’s interior is equally meticulous. It has tasteful furniture and state-of-the-art appliances. Everything is cosy, designed for nesting. There are pillows everywhere, and I can see blankets stacked on shelves.

Everything designed to create an illusion of compatibility and choice. Everything except the single, king-sized bed dominating the bedroom.

I turn sharply, finding Thorndike watching me from the doorway. I know what we are expected to do in that bed.

“Don’t even think about it,”

I say, voice like ice, and I don’t know if I am instructing him or me. Because I’m not going to think about it. I’m not going to think about him in that bed with me, both of us naked, warm skin on mine.

I grit my teeth and turn away from the bed. All I have to do is keep saying no. That’s it. Ignore him. Say no. It’s somehow both simple and the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life.

Thorndike has the audacity to look calm. Reasonable.

“There’s no need to make this more difficult than it has to be. We’re both adults. We can share a bed without—”

“I’ll sleep on the floor before I lie next to you.”

The words burn in my throat.

“You had me dragged here in cuffs. You think I’m going to curl up beside you like a pet dog? After how you’ve treated me?”

“The officers weren’t my idea,”

Thorndike says, a flicker of genuine discomfort crossing his features.

“I authorized the transfer, yes. But not the method. I didn’t know they would cuff you. We should bring your things in. They’ll have left them outside. This place is only for us.”

My eyebrows raise higher than I knew possible.

“What things? Do you think it was my choice to turn up here in my boxers?”

I rub at my wrists, still pink from the cuffs.

“You knew exactly what you were doing. How long are you going to keep me here?”

“We’ve been subjected to a minimum two-week co-habitation order.”

We. As if it’s something we’re in together instead of something he is subjecting me to.

“And then what?”

“And then once we’ve bonded, we have the ceremony.”

“And if I still refuse?”

“Then you get to walk away,”

he says, but it’s clear by his tone that he doesn’t believe it’s going to happen. He thinks I’m going to give in.

Thorndike watches me for a long moment, something unreadable shifting in his eyes. I see the moment he decides not to argue on that point and he changes tack.

“Our match is valid, . But I don’t—”

He stops, seems to reconsider his words.

“I don’t want this to be more unpleasant than necessary.”

“How generous of you.”

I push past him, back into the main living area. The beautiful, open space suddenly feels suffocating. I move to the large windows overlooking the lake, pressing a palm against the cool glass. The security perimeter shimmers in the distance, nearly invisible but undeniably present. Beyond it, mountains rise in jagged silhouette against a ridiculously blue sky.

“There’s food if you’re hungry,”

Thorndike offers from behind me, voice careful, controlled.

“The Bureau stocks the kitchens well and I’ve brought some delicacies that I think you might like.”

I don’t turn.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat something. It’s been a long morning.”

“Don’t tell me what I should do.”

My reflection glares back at me, hollow-eyed and tense.

“You’ve taken enough from me already.”

A beat of silence. Then.

“I understand you’re angry.”

“You understand nothing.”

I finally turn, meeting Thorndike’s gaze directly.

Thorndike doesn’t flinch, but something flickers across his face—discomfort, perhaps, or genuine regret. It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in his feelings.

“I know this is hard,”

Thorndike says after a moment.

“but Prime Matches like ours are incredibly rare. The compatibility between us—”

“Is meaningless.”

I cut him off.

The words hang between us. Thorndike doesn’t argue further, just stands there looking at me with that maddeningly composed expression, like he’s studying a particularly interesting research subject.

“I’ll make up the couch,”

he says finally.

I laugh, sharp and bitter.

“Don’t bother. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“No, what’s unnecessary is all of this.”

I gesture broadly at the cottage, the cushions and pillows, the lake, the entire manufactured romantic setting.

“But here we are.”

Thorndike’s jaw tightens slightly—the first real crack in his composure.

“The bedroom is yours. I’ll take the couch.”

“How chivalrous.”

I don’t try to hide my derision.

“I’ll still sleep on the floor.”

I stride to the coat closet near the front door, yanking it open to find even more spare blankets and pillows, just as I expected. The Bureau thinks of everything when designing these little love nests. I grab a blanket and a pillow, then walk back to the living room and deliberately drop them onto the hardwood floor in the furthest corner from where Thorndike stands.

“.”

Thorndike’s voice has softened, almost to gentleness.

“This doesn’t have to be a battle.”

“Everything about this is a battle.”

I sit on the blanket, facing the wall so I don’t have to look at his gorgeous smug face.

“You just don’t see it because you’re on the winning side.”

Thorndike makes a sound, as if he’s about to say something but changes his mind at the last moment. Good. I want him off-balance. I want him to feel even a fraction of the helplessness I experienced being hauled away from my life.

“I’ll give you space,”

Thorndike says finally.

“There’s food when you want it.”

I close my eyes, letting my forehead fall forwards to the wall. My body aches from tension, from the uncomfortable ride in the car with my wrists cuffed, from the adrenaline crash following my violent awakening. I’m exhausted, hungry, and completely at the mercy of a man I’ve spent years opposing.

The reality of the situation settles into me and I suddenly feel unaccountably tired.

Two weeks minimum. Two weeks trapped in here with Nash Thorndike, waiting for my body to betray me. I know the science. Prolonged proximity to a high-compatibility alpha will trigger my heat cycle. It’s inevitable.

They don’t need my consent. They just need time. But they have no idea just how damned stubborn I can be. I am not doing this.

I open my eyes and find Nash watching me from the kitchen. I catch his gaze and hold it, letting my determination show, letting him see exactly what he’s up against.

The pull between us is unmistakable, making itself known even through my anger. I feel it like a tug beneath my ribs. It’s like gravity trying to draw me toward him.

I pull my gaze away and settle more firmly against the wall, stretching my legs out on my makeshift bed. Outside, the sun continues its arc across the sky, marking the passage of the first day of my captivity. Two weeks stretch before me. I wile away the time calculating the hours and minutes. 336 hours, 20,160 minutes of constant temptation and testing.

I focus on that number. 20,160 minutes. Each one a battle I intend to win. I can do a minute at a time.

Torres might be trapped in a cottage with his Bureau-mandated asshole, but he will not be broken.

Not by Nash Thorndike. Not by the Bureau.

I know what’s going to happen. It’s unavoidable. I’ve read every research paper that Nash Thorndike has ever written. He might be wrong about a lot of things but he is right about others.

I’m going to go into heat while I am here. The two week window and our proximity guarantees it. I already know I am going to give in to it. Slick is already coating my thighs. I’m not going to give in until the last possible moment. It’ll just be sex and, if I am honest with myself, I’m really looking forward to it.

In the mean time, I’m not going to engage. I’ll do what I have to do get through this and that’s it. I close my eyes again, steady my breathing, and begin to count the minutes in sixty second increments.

One down. 20,159 to go.

I can outlast him.