Chapter Text
Summer, 1971
It happened on a day that smelled like grass, a summer afternoon thick with the sounds of cicadas screaming from the trees.
Brian Moser was outside, crouched in the overgrown backyard behind their house, watching a cricket struggle in the dirt. His fingers were streaked with dust and the sticky remains of a popsicle he had eaten hours ago, the taste of artificial cherry still clinging to his tongue. He had been playing here for what felt like forever, lost in his own little world of dirt and bugs and sunshine.
And then, suddenly, his skin was too tight.
It was subtle at first, a sluggish heat curling in his stomach, like the way the air inside the car felt when his mother forgot to crack the windows. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable. But then it got worse. A lot worse.
The warmth bloomed into something hotter, creeping up his spine, crawling beneath his skin like a thousand tiny legs. Sweat prickled along his forehead, dampened his hair at the nape of his neck.
His mouth was dry. His vision blurred, and the cricket in front of him swam in and out of focus, its spindly legs twitching in slow motion. He felt dizzy. Wrong.
Then the ground lurched up to meet him.
Brian hit the dirt face-first, cheek pressed against the sun-baked earth, heartbeat thrumming too fast in his chest. “Mom–“ a thin, keening noise escaped his throat, something animalistic and unfamiliar. His stomach twisted sharply, a deep, hollow ache unfurling in his core.
It felt like something inside him was trying to claw its way out.
“Mommy!” He didn’t understand what was happening.
Somewhere far away, he thought he heard his mother’s voice, the sharp edge of panic curling around his name. The world dimmed at the edges, closing in like a camera shutter.
And then, nothing.
…
Brian woke up in the hospital, blinking blearily at the harsh light above him. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his limbs leaden against the stiff sheets. His body still burned, but the fever had lessened, settling into a dull, lingering heat beneath his skin.
His mother was beside him, her face pale and tight, her fingers gripping the edge of the hospital bed like she was afraid it might disappear. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, her hair disheveled, like she had been running her hands through it over and over again.
And in her arms, Dexter was crying.
Brian’s little brother was just a baby, still small and soft, his face scrunched up in misery. His tiny fists curled against their mother’s shoulder, his chubby legs kicking restlessly. He looked ridiculous. And cute. Really, really cute.
Brian tried to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Easy there, kid,” a voice said.
He turned his head—slowly, because everything felt too slow, like he was underwater—and saw a man in a white coat standing beside the bed. The doctor. His face was lined with something Brian didn’t understand, something cautious and assessing.
“How are you feeling?”
Brian swallowed, his throat dry. “Hot,” he said, his voice scratchy and weak.
The doctor nodded, like that was expected. “You had a fever,” he said. “A pretty bad one.”
Brian glanced at his mother. She was still gripping the bed, her knuckles white.
“What happened?” he asked, frowning.
The doctor hesitated, exchanging a look with his mother. There was something behind his eyes, something unreadable. But then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“You went into rut.”
Brian blinked. “Huh?”
“You presented early,” the doctor clarified, his voice gentle, like he was talking to a skittish animal. “Way too early. The average age for presentation is puberty, but your body decided to jump the gun.”
Brian stared at him, uncomprehending. The words didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
His mother made a strangled noise, something halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“He’s only five,” she whispered, shaking her head. “This isn’t supposed to happen, right?”
The doctor sighed. “It’s rare, but not impossible,” he said. “Early presentation does happen, though usually under extreme circumstances. Genetic factors, stress—sometimes it’s just a fluke. But it means Brian will have to be monitored closely. His body isn’t ready for this, and we don’t know how his hormones will stabilize as he grows.”
Brian’s brain latched onto the only part of that he could process. “So I’m an Alpha?” he asked slowly.
The doctor nodded. “Yes.”
It should have meant something. It should have been exciting, maybe. Important. But all Brian felt was strange.
His mother was still staring at him, her expression raw. She reached out suddenly, cupping his face in her trembling hands.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “My baby.”
Brian squirmed, uncomfortable. “Mom,” he mumbled, embarrassed.
But she just held him tighter, like she was afraid he might disappear.
Dexter had stopped crying, now just making little snuffling noises against her shoulder. Brian reached out, fingers brushing against the fine, soft hair on his brother’s head. Dexter was still so small, so fragile.
For some reason, looking at him made Brian feel heavier. Like there was something new settling in his bones, something ancient and instinctive. A responsibility.
He didn’t like it.
“Will I have to stay here?” he asked, trying to shake off the feeling.
The doctor hesitated. “For a little while,” he said. “Just until we make sure your fever stays down.”
Brian frowned but didn’t argue. His head was still too foggy, his limbs too heavy.
His mother smoothed his hair back, murmuring something soft in his ear, something he couldn’t quite hear. He let his eyes slip closed, exhaustion pulling him under again.
As he drifted off, he felt Dexter’s tiny fingers curl around his own.
And for the first time, Brian felt afraid.
…
The world smelled different now.
It was a strange thing to notice, but Brian had been noticing a lot of strange things lately. He could smell the damp wood of the floorboards, the cheap detergent his mother used to wash his clothes, the faint trace of something sweeter—milk, maybe?—lingering on Dexter’s breath.
And then, of course, there was the overwhelming scent of his mother. She smelled like warmth, like lavender soap, like something soft and familiar and his. He had always known her as his mother, but now it felt different, felt different.
Laura Moser sat beside him on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, thin fingers knotting and twisting in the loose fabric of her dress. She was trying to smile—Brian could tell—but her hands betrayed her, wringing together in nervous little movements.
He watched her, head tilted, body still aching from whatever had happened to him at the hospital. It had been days, but he still felt tired, like his limbs weren’t quite his, like his body was growing in ways he didn’t understand yet.
His mother took a breath. Then, at last, she spoke.
“Brian,” she said softly, voice careful, “you know you’re… different now.”
Brian nodded. He didn’t know what else to do.
Laura reached for his hand, holding it between both of hers. Her grip was too warm. Brian twitched, trying not to pull away, because the feeling of touch was more stronger now, like everything inside him was too aware, too alert.
“You’re an Alpha,” she said, as if it was a secret. “Do you know what that means?”
Brian frowned. “The doctor said it, but… I don’t really understand.”
His mother nodded like she had expected that answer. She hesitated for a moment, chewing her lip, before finally finding the words.
“People are born different,” she said. “Some are Betas, and they… they don’t really have second genders. They’re just normal. Like most people.”
Brian didn’t say anything.
“And then there are Omegas.”
Laura’s voice tightened a little on the word, something almost bitter in the way she said it. Brian noticed, but he didn’t understand.
“Omegas are—” She stopped, tried again. “They’re more delicate than Alphas. They have different instincts. They’re the ones who… who need protecting.”
She squeezed his hand a little, as if trying to make him understand something she hadn’t said yet. Brian still didn’t know what it was.
“And then there are Alphas,” she continued. “Like you.”
Brian shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Alphas are strong,” she said. “They’re natural leaders. They feel things very deeply. Sometimes too deeply.” Her lips curved into a faint, distant smile. “You’re going to notice that now. How things feel stronger. You might get angry more easily. Or—” her eyes softened—“you might get protective.”
Brian straightened.
His mother exhaled, shaking her head. “I know it’s a lot, sweetheart. And I know you’re too young to understand all of it now, but…” She let go of his hand, smoothing it over his hair instead, fingers warm and soft against his scalp. Brian closed his eyes, leaning into it before he could stop himself.
“It’s a good thing,” she said. “Being an Alpha. It means you can protect people. You can protect me.”
Brian’s eyes snapped open.
“And Dexter.”
At that, something moved inside him, something deep, something instinctive, something that curled hot and tight in his chest.
Protect them.
The thought came so quickly, so powerfully, that it almost scared him. He turned, staring at the tiny bundle in his mother’s arms—the little thing with dark eyes and soft baby-fat cheeks, drooling slightly against the fabric of his mother’s dress. Dexter was barely more than a year old. Small. Helpless.
Mine.
Brian swallowed hard, fingers clenching into his knees.
His mother was watching him closely now, eyes bright, lips parted like she had been waiting for that moment, for that realization to settle into his bones. “That’s right,” she said, stroking his hair. “You’re the big brother, Brian. You’re an Alpha. That means it’s your job to look after us.”
The words felt heavy. And Brian… liked it.
He nodded, the movement stiff but certain. His mother smiled at him, that soft, sad smile she always had, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“My good boy,” she murmured.
Brian exhaled, letting himself lean against her, pressing his nose against her shoulder. He could smell her scent again—lavender, warmth, his. And underneath it, something smaller, something fainter, but just as his.
Dexter stirred in their mother’s arms, making a small noise, but didn’t wake up. Brian’s fingers twitched, reaching out, resting lightly over the fabric of his brother’s blanket. He felt the warmth of him, the tiny rise and fall of his breath, the little pulse of life beneath his fingertips.
Brian swallowed against the strange, aching feeling in his chest.
His mother had said it was a good thing to be an Alpha, to protect.
And Brian was going to do exactly that.
No matter what.
…
1972
The heat of the Florida sun pressed down on the cracked pavement, kids are running barefoot despite the burning sidewalk, their laughter echoing through the neighborhood. But Brian didn’t run with them. He never did.
The other kids had never interested him much. He liked to watch them sometimes, from the steps of their small house, the way they tripped over each other in the rush of a game, how easily they bruised, how quickly they cried. He could smell their sweat from here, the sour tang of too much sugar and dirt rubbed into their skin, and it made his nose wrinkle.
Brian preferred being alone. He liked the quiet, the predictable rhythm of his own company. Or at least, that had been true until Dexter.
Dexter had just turned two, still chubby-cheeked and clumsy, more interested in watching the world than running through it. He wasn’t like the other kids. He was soft in a way that Brian couldn’t quite explain, as if he belonged in Brian’s world and not in theirs.
When they were outside together, Dexter never ran ahead, he stayed close, always watching Brian, always giggling when Brian did something as simple as moving. Skating in slow loops on the sidewalk, Brian could hear his little brother laughing from the curb, small hands clapping together in delight.
Brian would glance at him, chest warm with something odd and tight, and do another spin just to see that laugh again.
It had been like this ever since Brian had presented.
His mother had told him it would change things. That it was important. That being an Alpha meant something.
He hadn’t really understood what she meant at first until he could smell the scents.
It wasn’t just smell, not really. It was deeper than that. He could tell when someone was nervous before they even opened their mouth, could taste lies curling sour in the air. He could pick up a scent in a crowd and follow it like a thread, weaving between the bodies of strangers without thinking.
Most of the time, he wished he couldn’t.
Adults smelled awful. Heavy, bitter, some of them sharp like something burned and others sickly sweet like rotting fruit. It made his stomach twist, made him want to back away, to scrunch his nose and turn his face. It wasn’t that he hated people, exactly—it was that he couldn’t stand being near them.
But his mother smelled safe.
And Dexter—
Dexter smelled like something Brian didn’t even have a word for. He smelled like lavender and cinnamon.
If safety had a scent, if warmth had a shape, it would be his baby brother curled up on his chest, the slow, steady breathing of sleep, tiny fingers gripping at Brian’s shirt even in his dreams.
His mother said he’d feel things more now.
She’d smiled when she told him, brushing the hair from his face, her touch warm, the scent of her lavender lotion grounding him.
“You might feel everything too much, baby,” she had said. “That’s part of being an Alpha. You’ll be overprotective sometimes, and possessive. You’ll want to take care of people. And that’s a good thing, Brian. It means you can protect our family.”
At that, Brian had exhaled, something inside him easing just a little. He hadn’t understood most of what she had told him—instincts, scent-marking, pheromones—but that part, that part made sense.
Dexter needed him.
And Brian needed Dexter.
It was that simple.
Even now, as Dexter toddled through the yard, stomping clumsily through the grass, Brian watched him with careful eyes, scanning the sidewalk, the road, the neighbors' doors. There wasn’t any real danger here but that didn’t stop his instincts from sharpening whenever his brother moved more than a few steps away.
Dexter’s small hands hovered over the dirt, eyes wide and curious, before he crouched down and pressed a single finger to the ground.
Brian tilted his head, skated closer, already picking up the faint, bitter scent of something crushed under Dexter’s shoe.
“Bug,” Dexter said, voice tiny, barely more than a breath. His bottom lip wobbled.
Brian crouched down next to him, peering at the smudge of brown and red against the dirt. A cricket, maybe. Or what was left of it.
Dexter’s face crumpled, and before the tears could even start, Brian reached out, pressing a careful hand to his little brother’s back.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You didn’t mean to.”
Dexter sniffled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, and Brian exhaled slowly, curling an arm around him. He didn’t know why it felt important, why it felt like something pressing down on his ribs, but it did.
He tightened his grip just slightly, letting Dexter’s scent settle into his lungs.
His mother said Alphas found comfort in his family’s scent.
Brian just hadn’t expected his to be this.
Dexter squirmed.
It started as a small thing, a twitch of discomfort, a little wiggle on the old couch as he watched Brian lazily stack his army men into an execution line.
But the twitch didn’t stop. It grew, his tiny shoulders hunching, fingers scratching at his neck, short and frustrated, like he was trying to get rid of something crawling under his skin.
Brian noticed it, of course. He always noticed when something was off about Dexter. “Hey,” he said, frowning, dropping a plastic soldier to the floor. “What’s wrong with you?”
Dexter scratched harder. “Itchy.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “So scratch it.”
“I am,” Dexter whined. He turned his head, trying to reach the spot with his little fingers, but he was missing it, getting more frustrated by the second.
He was rubbing harder now, his fingers pressing into his skin, raking along it, but whatever he was trying to get rid of, it wasn’t working. He let out a frustrated breath, his face scrunching up, his movements getting more frantic. His hands weren’t big enough. He wasn’t reaching it properly. And Brian could tell that was making him upset.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Brian sighed, setting aside the rest of his soldiers. “Where?”
Dexter huffed and dropped his hands. “Back of my neck.”
Brian leaned closer, squinting at the skin there. It was smooth, pale, unmarked. No bug bites, no rash, not even a single red spot.
“There’s nothing there,” Brian said.
Dexter wriggled impatiently. “Still itchy.”
Brian had half a mind to tell him to suck it up—he was being a total baby about it. But then Dexter made a tiny, unhappy sound, almost like a whimper, and Brian immediately stilled. He didn’t like that sound.
With a sigh, he reached out, placing his palm flat against the back of Dexter’s neck. “Here?”
Dexter flinched at first, then went completely still.
Brian almost pulled his hand away, but then—
“…Feels nice,” Dexter murmured.
Brian frowned but didn’t move his hand.
He could feel it now. The way Dexter’s skin was unusually warm. How his little shoulders trembled ever so slightly before settling. Brian’s fingers twitched, and then, without thinking much about it, he started rubbing slow circles over the spot.
Dexter let out a breath and melted against him.
Brian stiffened. He wasn’t used to this.
He had always been the one to soothe Dexter when he got upset, when he tripped over his own feet, when he got scared of the dark, when he cried over a bug he stepped on.
Brian knew how to comfort him. He knew how to hold him, how to pat his head, how to distract him with one of those stupid rubber dinosaurs they had scattered all over the house. But this, this was different.
This wasn’t crying. This wasn’t fear.
This was something else that Brian didn’t understand.
Dexter was pressing closer, his body going slack against Brian’s chest, his breath coming out in slow, pleased exhales. Brian wasn’t used to it.
Wasn’t used to the warmth.
Wasn’t used to the feeling of this—whatever this was.
His fingers kept moving. Smoothing over the soft skin, scratching lightly, pressing into the spot whenever Dexter gave a little shift, like he was wordlessly asking for more.
Brian swallowed.
He could feel it now, something curling in his stomach, something heavy and strange. It wasn’t bad, exactly, but it was new. Unfamiliar. A sensation he had no name for.
And then, somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought slithered its way in.
Bite him.
It was quick and sudden.
Brian stiffened, and immediately pulled his hand away.
Dexter made a tiny noise of complaint, shifting slightly in his arms, and Brian forced himself to keep going, rubbing again, keeping Dexter calm.
But the thought didn’t leave. It sat there, coiled in his brain like a snake, whispering, insistent.
Bite him.
Sink your teeth in.
Mark him.
Brian swallowed hard, staring at the delicate curve of Dexter’s neck, at the spot he had been rubbing so gently for the past few minutes.
Dexter smelled nice. He always did. He was warm and soft, and Brian liked touching him. He liked soothing him, liked fixing whatever was wrong. But this—this wasn’t normal, right?
His fingers twitched.
His mouth felt dry.
His teeth felt—
He shut his eyes.
No.
He was just being weird. It was just one of those strange thoughts that meant nothing, like when you stood on the edge of a high place and your brain whispered, jump.
He didn’t want to bite Dexter.
…Did he?
Brian let out a slow breath and peeled his hand away, fingers curling into a fist.
Dexter made a small sound of protest, tilting his head back. “Done?” he asked, sleepily.
Brian forced a smirk. “Yeah, shrimp. You good now?”
Dexter blinked at him drowsily, then smiled, small and soft. “Yeah. Thanks, Biney.”
Brian’s chest ached.
“Anytime,” he murmured.
…
That night, Brian lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, his fingers curled into the sheets. The room was dark, shadows stretching long and thin across the walls, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside. The sound of crickets filled the air, a steady, rhythmic hum, but Brian barely heard it.
He couldn’t stop thinking about earlier. About the way Dexter had melted into his hands, the way his body had gone soft and pliant, like he belonged there. The way his scent had filled Brian’s lungs—sweet and right.
And then, that thought.
The one that had come out of nowhere, curling like smoke in his mind.
It wouldn’t go away.
Brian turned his head, staring at the dark shape in the crib across the room. Dexter was sleeping, his tiny form curled up beneath a thin blanket, his breath coming out in slow, steady little puffs. He looked peaceful. Safe.
Brian exhaled, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He was only five, but even he knew this wasn’t normal.
He should ask. He had to ask.
With a quiet breath, Brian slid out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor. He padded out of the room, careful not to make any noise.
The house was dark, but he knew the way.
Down the hall. Past the bathroom. To the last door on the left.
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he knocked.
There was a pause. Then a sleepy murmur.
“Brian?”
He bit his lip. “Mom?”
Another pause. Then a rustle of blankets, the click of a lamp, and the door cracked open. Laura Moser stood there, blinking down at him, her eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Brian hesitated. He didn’t know how to say it, didn’t know how to put it into words.
But he had to.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, voice small.
Laura frowned, concerned now. She stepped back, gesturing him inside.
Brian walked in, climbing onto the bed, curling up against her side like he used to when he was smaller. Laura ran a gentle hand through his hair, smoothing it down. “What is it, baby?” she asked softly.
Brian swallowed.
Then, before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out.
“Is it normal to wanna… mark someone?”
The air went still.
Laura’s hand paused.
“…Mark?” she repeated, voice careful.
Brian nodded. “Like… bite them.”
Silence.
Brian felt his heart pick up, a slow, steady thump-thump-thump against his ribs. His mother’s hand had gone still against his hair, and when he turned his head to look at her, her face was—
Confused, maybe even a little scared.
Brian’s stomach twisted.
“Who?” she asked finally.
Brian hesitated. Then, quietly, “…Dexter.”
Laura inhaled sharply.
For a long moment, she didn’t say anything.
Brian felt something cold settle in his chest.
He knew it. He knew it wasn’t normal.
His throat felt tight. His skin prickled. He wished he hadn’t said anything.
Then, finally, Laura exhaled.
Her hand started moving again, brushing through his hair, slow and rhythmic, soothing.
“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured. “It’s okay.”
Brian swallowed hard. “…Is it?”
Laura nodded, but her face was still tight, like she wasn’t sure how much of that was true.
“It’s… normal to want to mark someone you care about,” she said after a moment. “That’s just… part of being an Alpha. You’re supposed to be protective. You’re supposed to claim things.”
Brian’s fingers curled in the sheets.
“And Dexter’s family,” Laura continued, her voice softer now. “It’s okay if you feel like you want to protect him. That’s a good thing.”
Brian stayed quiet.
Laura tilted his chin up, making him look at her. “Do you want to hurt him?” she asked gently.
Brian’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Then it’s okay,” Laura said.
Brian wanted to believe her.
But something in the way she was looking at him—like she was trying too hard to sound sure—made his stomach twist all over again.
He curled in closer, pressing his face against her side.
Laura sighed and kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay,” she whispered again.
Brian squeezed his eyes shut, he wasn’t so sure.
…
That policeman kept coming to their house. Always uninvited, always reeking of something like rotten bacon, cheap aftershave, and the stale musk of sweat that clung to him even in the cool evening air.
Brian didn’t like him. Not the way he slouched against their doorframe like he belonged there, not the way his voice dropped into something slow and syrupy when he talked to Mom, not the way his heavy-lidded eyes flicked over their small, cluttered living room like he was measuring its worth.
But most of all, Brian didn’t like his smell. It was thick and greasy, like old meat left too long in the fridge. It clung to the air, made Brian’s stomach churn.
Mom acted different when he was around. Her voice got lighter, higher, the way it did when she spoke to people at the grocery store, polite and a little too sweet.
She wore makeup when she knew he was coming, smoothed down her dress before opening the door. She looked happy, maybe. But Brian wasn’t sure.
Tonight, when the man showed up again, Brian didn’t even bother pretending to be polite. He answered the door because Mom was still in the kitchen, humming as she set out glasses, and the man gave him that stupid, half-lazy grin. “Hey, kid,” he said, like he thought Brian should be happy to see him.
Brian didn’t answer. He just stared, unblinking.
The man’s smile faltered, but only for a second. Then he leaned past Brian, looking into the house. “Your mom around?”
Brian turned, walking away without a word. He heard the man chuckle behind him, muttering something about rude kids, but Brian didn’t care. He didn’t care about him.
He only cared that Dexter was still playing on the floor, chubby fingers gripping his stuffed elephant, completely unaware of the way Mom’s laugh changed when she stepped into the doorway, the way the man’s hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer as he kissed her cheek.
Brian clenched his fists. He looked away.
He didn’t want to be here.
“Dex,” he said, voice sharp enough that Dexter looked up immediately. “Let’s go to the park.”
Dexter beamed, dropping his toy. “Really?”
Brian nodded. He grabbed their shoes, shoved Dexter’s small feet into his, and led him out the door before Mom could even look up from the man’s hands on her waist.
The park wasn’t far—just down the block, past the corner store, where the swings always creaked, and the slide was just a little too tall for Dexter. But he loved it. Brian didn’t. He hated the other kids, their shrill laughter, their sweaty, cloying smells. But Dexter wanted to go, and Brian wanted to be anywhere but home.
So they went.
Brian helped Dexter onto the swings, pushing him just enough that he squealed with delight, kicking his feet in the air.
Brian watched him, arms crossed, shifting uncomfortably when a group of older kids ran past, their scents overwhelming and irritating.
He needed space. Just for a second.
“I’m gonna go find some rocks,” Brian told Dexter. “Stay here.”
Dexter nodded, still kicking happily.
Brian walked a little ways away, not far, just to the edge of the park where the grass met the cracked sidewalk, scanning for something interesting. He crouched down, picking through the dirt, feeling the rough edges of small stones between his fingers, cool against his skin.
Then, something made him look up.
Dexter wasn’t on the swings anymore.
Brian’s stomach lurched. He scanned the playground, heart hammering, until—there. Near the trees. Standing in front of a man. A fat tall man with ugly mug. His shoulders were hunched, his arms oddly still at his sides.
But worst of all is his smell, like motor oil and burnt rubber. Something acidic and wrong that made Brian’s stomach twist.
Brian dropped the rocks. He moved fast.
By the time he reached them, he could hear the man speaking, his voice smooth and deliberate, like someone who had practiced every word but didn’t really know what they meant. “He’s stuck,” the man was saying. “I need help.”
Dexter, bright-eyed and curious, tilted his head. “What stuck?”
The man nodded. “My dog. Over there.” He pointed past the trees, toward the street.
Brian grabbed Dexter’s arm, yanking him back. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The man’s eyes flicked to him, slow and assessing. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I just need help.”
Brian hissed, his grip tightened. “Go away.”
Every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn around, to grab Dexter and run, to put as much distance between them and this man as possible.
But Dexter—God, Dexter, with his big brown eyes, his too-soft heart—he was already tugging at Brian’s hand, looking up at him, pleading. “Biney, we have to help.”
And the man who smelled like burning rubber and motor oil was nodding and so encouraging. His voice smooth, low, almost soothing. “It’s just up the road. Not far.”
Brian’s grip on Dexter tightened. “Where?”
The man gestured past the trees, past the edge of the park, toward the street that led out of the neighborhood. “Across,” he said simply. “Just there.”
Brian hesitated. His skin crawled.
His breath felt too thick, too slow in his chest. Something was wrong. He knew it. But Dexter was staring up at him, brows furrowed, waiting for him to say yes. Waiting for Brian to do what was right.
Brian swallowed, he could say no, drag Dexter home and tell Mom. But then he remembered that the policeman still in the house, Brian wanted to puke at him.
Besides, the man wasn’t doing anything. He wasn’t grabbing them. He wasn’t yelling or threatening or anything that Brian could point to and say, “That’s bad. That’s why we can’t go.”
He was just smiling. Calm and convincing.
And Dexter was already pulling him forward.
“Biney,” Dexter whined.
Brian’s jaw clenched. He exhaled sharply. “Fine.”
The man smiled wider.
Brian kept his hand clamped around Dexter’s wrist like a vice.
***
They walked past the trees, past the street. The sky darkened. The air thickened. Brian didn’t like it. Every step felt wrong. The road stretched longer than it should have, the houses thinning out, until there weren’t any anymore—just empty land, patches of dry grass, and cracked pavement.
Dexter hummed beside him, oblivious.
The man walked just ahead, his pace slow, steady, like he knew exactly where he was going. Like he had done this before.
Brian’s stomach twisted.
He had to stop. He had to grab Dexter and—
There it was, a garage. Small, squat, wood rotting at the edges. Tucked into the space between two dead trees, its doors slanted off their hinges. The smell of rust and old gasoline curled in the air.
Brian’s fingers dug into Dexter’s wrist. “Where’s the dog?” Brian demanded.
The man turned to him, head tilting just a fraction to the side.
He smiled, and then he moved fast, too fast. Brian couldn’t see it. A sharp shove—two hands, solid, heavy—slamming into Brian’s chest.
Brian stumbled, gasped—Dexter yelped, and then everything is dark, the wooden door slammed shut.
Dexter's scream.
Brian hit the ground hard, shoulder slamming against something rough. He tried to scramble up, but weight, so much weight, pressed down on his chest, forcing the air from his lungs.
The man is now kneeling on him, holding him down.
Dexter screamed again. “Biney!”
Brian snarled, twisting, shoving—his little body burned with Alpha instinct, fight fight fight, get up, get up, GET UP—
But the man was too big, too heavy. The rotten motor oil smell is getting stronger and the man is smiling, his yellow teeth gleaming under the darkness of the garage.
“You’re strong,” the man said, almost admiringly. “That’s good.”
Brian thrashed while Dexter was still screaming, crying, small fists pounding uselessly against the garage walls.
“LET GO,” Brian roared, legs kicking, back arching, fingers clawing at the man’s arms.
The man chuckled. Like this was funny. Like this was a joke.
And Brian, he saw red. He lunged, teeth snapping—BITE HIM, GET HIM OFF, GET DEXTER OUT—But the man moved, grip shifting, slamming Brian’s head down hard enough to make his vision blur.
Brian gasped. His head rang.
Dexter sobbed.
The man leaned down. Close. Too close. His breath was hot against Brian’s ear.
“You smell different,” he murmured.
Brian froze.
“Holy shit,” the man said. “You’re an Alpha. Holy shit, that's fucking funny.”
A thick, calloused hand pressed against Brian’s neck, fingers curling just under his jaw. Holding. Feeling.
Brian’s pulse pounded, breath shuddering.
Dexter. He had to get to Dexter. He had to get them out—
The man’s grip tightened.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It won’t hurt. Not at first.”
The man's cold, calloused hand gripped Brian's wrist with an iron hold, forcing his fingers to fumble at the zipper of his pants. Brian's heart pounded in his chest as he felt himself being stripped bare before this stranger, exposed and vulnerable.
”Let’s see what we got here.” The man chuckled.
With a swift tug, Brian's fly opened wide, revealing his genital. The cool air kissed his sensitive skin as the stranger leaned in for inspection.
For a long moment, there was silence save for Brian's ragged breathing. Then came a low click of disappointment from the other man's tongue. “Shit your cock is just like an Alpha, so ugly.”
Disgust etched across the stranger's features like acid on stone. His grip on Brian tightened almost painfully as he hauled him up by the shoulders and spun him around to face the wall. Rough hands bound Brian's wrists behind him with cruel efficiency using some unknown material that bit into his flesh.
Brian thrashed, or tried to. His body bucked against the restraints, muscles straining until they burned, but the rope held fast, cutting deeper with every useless twist.
The man didn’t even glance back as he stepped away, his boots thudding against the cracked concrete floor with the dull rhythm of a death knell.
Brian’s eyes darted wildly, there was Dexter, slumped in the corner like a discarded rag doll, his lanky frame half-swallowed by the shadows. Brian’s stomach lurched. He knew what was coming, could feel it in the marrow of his bones, a creeping dread that turned his blood to ice.
”Don’t touch him!” Brian trashed.
The man reached Dexter in two strides, his meaty hand closing around the boy’s arm with a sickening crack of bone against bone. Dexter yelped, he hauled Dexter up as if he weighed nothing, then flung him down onto the filthy floor with a force that rattled the room.
“You can watch,” the man growled, and smirked.
The man knelt, his knees crunching into the grime, and his hands moved unbuttoning Dexter’s shirt with deliberate slowness.
The fabric parted to reveal pale skin stretched taut over ribs, a canvas of vulnerability that seemed to ignite something feral in the man’s stare.
He smirked, a twisted curl of his lips, and then his fist crashed down, slamming into Dexter’s stomach with a wet, meaty thud. Dexter doubled over, choking on his own breath, a pitiful whimper bubbling from his throat.
Brian’s vision blurred, rage and terror warring within him as he yanked against the ropes again, the fibers sawing into his wrists until warm blood trickled down his fingers. “Stop, please!” he roared.
The man didn’t even turn, his focus locked on Dexter, who lay gasping, clutching his gut as if he could hold himself together. The man’s hands roamed lower, tearing at Dexter’s pants with a violence that shredded the denim like paper.
The sound was deafening—a ripping, rending cacophony that drowned out Dexter’s feeble cries. His underwear followed, yanked down to expose trembling thighs and the soft, defenseless flesh between them.
The man paused, his head tilting as if savoring the sight, and then he struck again. A backhand, this time, striking Dexter’s head to the side with a crack that echoed like a gunshot. Blood sprayed from his split lip, a vivid arc of crimson that glistened in the dim light before splattering onto the floor.
Dexter’s body went slack for a moment, stunned into submission, and the man seized the opportunity, pinning him down with a knee pressed cruelly into his chest. “Stay still, you little shit,” he snarled, spit flying from his mouth to land in wet flecks on Dexter’s face.
The man’s hands roamed, clawing at Dexter’s chest, his neck, leaving red welts and smears of filth in their wake. He yanked Dexter’s head back by the hair, exposing the vulnerable curve of his throat, and bit down, hard, drawing a fresh spurt of blood that trickled down to pool in the hollow of his collarbone.
Dexter’s body trembled, the air thickened with the coppery scent of blood, the musky stench of semen, and the sharp tang of urine as Dexter’s bladder gave way in his terror.
Brian cried, he cried so hard, he couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t protect him, I couldn’t protect, Dexter.
Mom, Mom, please–anyone, help us—
When the man is done, he turned to Brian with a grin that was all teeth and venom. Without warning, his hand lashed out, cracking across Brian’s face with a wet smack that snapped his head to the side.
Pain bloomed hot and bright, a stinging flare that radiated from his cheek to his jaw, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache gnawing at his guts.
The man laughed—a harsh, barking sound that ricocheted off the mold-streaked walls like a stray bullet.
“Some fucking alpha you are,” he sneered, his voice dripping with scorn, thick as the spit he hocked onto the floor. “Couldn’t even protect your little bitch brother. Useless piece of shit.”
He bent down, his sausage-thick fingers fumbling with the ropes around Brian’s wrists, yanking them free with a roughness that left raw, red welts.
The blood rushed back into Brian’s hands, a prickling fire, but he barely felt it. The man stood, gave him one last dismissive glance and lumbered out, his boots thudding into the distance until the silence swallowed him whole.
He didn’t look back at Dexter, didn’t give a fuck about the wreckage he’d left behind.
Why would he?
Dexter lay there, a crumpled heap on the piss-soaked concrete, his chest hitching with shallow, ragged breaths. Urine pooled beneath him, mingling with the sticky sheen of semen that streaked his thighs, a grotesque testament to the man’s filth.
***
Brian’s knees hit the floor, the impact jarring his bones as he crawled toward his brother, hands trembling, fingers slick with his own blood. Tears burned tracks down his face, hot and useless, as he reached Dexter and pulled him into his arms.
“Dex,” he whispered, voice cracking like glass underfoot. “Dex, I’m here.”
But Dexter didn’t answer, didn’t move beyond the faint shudder of his breathing. Brian cradled him tighter, rocking back and forth, like what his mother used to do to him.
The smell hit him then—sharp, rancid, a cocktail of sweat and semen and that bastard’s musk, clinging to Dexter like a second skin. It wasn’t his brother anymore, it was a stranger’s stench, a violation that burrowed into Brian’s nose and coiled around his brain.
He gagged, bile surging up his throat, and hated himself for it, hated the disgust, hated the weakness, hated the alpha blood that pulsed uselessly in his veins.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words spilling over each other, ragged sobs. “I’m sorry, Dex, please forgive me.”
The smell wouldn’t let go. It clawed at him, driving him toward something primal. His hands tightened on Dexter’s limp form, fingers digging into the boy’s shoulders as a growl rumbled up from his chest.
He needed it gone, needed that filth off his little brother, out of his soul.
His Alpha instinct took over, and he shifted Dexter in his arms, tilting his head to expose the pale, vulnerable curve of his neck.
Brian’s teeth bared, a flash of white in the dimness, and he sank them into the soft flesh at the nape, biting down hard.
Blood welled up, hot and coppery, spilling over his tongue, and Dexter twitched—a faint, broken whimper escaping his lips.
Something snapped into place. A bond, electric and visceral, surged through Brian’s veins, flooding his mind with Dexter’s pain, his fear, his shame. It hit him like a sledgehammer, every jagged edge of his brother’s torment, every silent scream.
Brian gasped, choking on the weight of it, but relief followed. He could feel Dexter now, really feel him, and it was all that mattered—saving him, shielding him, washing away the horror from this fucked-up place.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped, tears streaming faster, soaking into Dexter’s matted hair. “You’re mine, Dexter. It’s safe now, it’s safe. I will protect you, I will never let you go.”
His voice broke, a jagged shard of sound, and he pressed his forehead to Dexter’s, smearing blood and tears between them. “I will kill him, I swear. I will find him and kill him, please, Dexter wake up–”
The words were a mantra, a self-inflicted wound, and at that moment, Brian promised to himself that he would get stronger, and be the Alpha his mother taught him to be.
…
After the garage incident, they stopped playing outside.
Brian wouldn't let go of Dexter. Even when their mother peeled him away for a bath, even when she coaxed him with his favorite food, even when she begged, Brian wouldn't let him go.
And Dexter didn’t want to be let go.
They were never apart now. Not even for a second. They slept in the same bed, curled together like two pieces of something broken.
When Brian turned in his sleep, Dexter followed. When Dexter shifted, Brian’s arm would tighten instinctively, a protective snarl curling in his throat even in dreams.
They bathed together. Brian washed Dexter’s hair, fingers moving through wet strands with gentleness, scrubbing away at something that would never come off. Dexter washed Brian’s arms, pressing close, pressing too close, because he needed to feel him, needed to know he was real.
And Laura watched all of it.
She cried at night. Quietly. In the kitchen, in the bathroom with the door locked, in the hollow space between midnight and morning. She cried because her boys were not her boys anymore.
When they were found, Brian had no shoes. His feet were bloody. His shirt had been ripped in half, and there were bruises everywhere, swollen blue and purple blooming across his ribs, his face, his arms. But he hadn’t let go of Dexter.
Not once.
And Dexter—her sweet baby Dexter—had been limp in his arms, eyes open but not seeing, blood trailing from his lip, his tiny hands locked into Brian’s shirt so tight they had to be pried open.
Harry had been the one to find them.
Harry Morgan, her boyfriend.
Harry had killed the sick bastard.
Shot him twice in the chest, once in the head. That was what he told her, jaw clenched so tight his teeth nearly cracked. That was what the other cops told her, too.
"He wasn’t gonna make it to trial anyway."
That was what they all said.
But that didn’t fix anything, Brian and Dexter were still ruined.
Laura didn’t notice the bite at first.
It wasn’t until a week later, when she was dressing Dexter after a bath, that she saw it. A small, half-moon scar pressed into the soft skin of his neck, right where it met his shoulder.
Her breath caught.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered, fingers ghosting over it.
Dexter didn’t flinch. He just blinked up at her, empty, hollow.
She knew what it was. A bond bite.
Brian had marked him.
She could still see the faint pink of where it had healed, the deep-set grooves where small, sharp teeth had dug in and clamped down. She could imagine it perfectly—Brian in some blind, desperate haze, sinking his teeth into Dexter’s neck because he was terrified, because he couldn’t lose him.
Laura knew she should be horrified. Knew she should take him to the hospital, see if there was a way to sever it, undo it, fix it.
But… she didn’t.
Because Dexter wasn’t scared and he wasn’t hurt. He just looked at her with those big, empty eyes, like nothing in the world mattered except Brian.
And Brian, God, Brian.
Brian wouldn’t let go, and Laura wouldn’t dare to hurt them even more.
So Laura let it be.
Let her boys be together.
Because that was all they had left of each other.
…
1973
Brian wanted to die.
He had wanted to die in that garage, when his body was pressed against the cold, rotting floorboards, his limbs twisted, bound, useless. He had wanted to stop breathing, to stop seeing, to stop hearing the wet, broken sounds of Dexter sobbing, screaming, clawing at the ground with his tiny hands, desperate for help that would never come.
Brian had laid there, the ropes biting into his wrists, and he had wanted to die. Because dying would be easier. Because dying would mean not having to listen, not having to see.
Not having to watch as the man’s rough, dirty hands gripped at Dexter’s small, shaking body. Not having to feel the way his inner Alpha shrieked and trembled and begged him to do something, do something, do something.
But Brian had been powerless.
So he had wanted to die.
And now, kneeling in the blood-soaked wreckage of some strange place, his hands sticky, his face wet, his stomach churning with nausea and horror and an emptiness so deep it felt like his soul had been ripped out of his body—he wanted to die all over again.
The chainsaw had been so loud.
Louder than anything he had ever heard in his life. Louder than the TV blaring in the living room. Louder than the sounds of traffic outside their home. Louder than the screaming in his own head.
Louder than his mother.
It had drowned out everything, roaring and buzzing and slicing until there was nothing left but red, until her screams had been swallowed whole by the wet, sucking sound of flesh being torn apart.
Brian had seen it. Every second of it. He had watched as the blade bit into her skin, as it ripped through muscle and tendon, as it painted the walls with bright, glistening pieces of the only person who had ever held him and told him it was okay.
And he had done nothing.
Nothing but stand there, frozen, a useless fucking Alpha who couldn’t protect anyone.
The blood had come in waves, splashing against the floor, against his feet, against his hands. He hadn’t even realized he was screaming until his throat was raw, until his lungs burned, until the only sound left in the world was Dexter’s voice, trembling.
Biney, Biney, I’m scared.
Dexter, who was still clinging to him, his small body curled against Brian’s chest, his arms wrapped so tightly around Brian’s ribs it almost hurt. He was shaking, his breath coming in sharp little gasps, his fingers digging into Brian’s shirt, his tiny hands clutching like he thought Brian might disappear if he let go.
Brian held him just as tightly.
He rocked him, whispering through the bond, letting the words seep from his mind into Dexter’s, soft and steady, a lifeline in the storm.
I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
Dexter understood.
Dexter always understood.
Ever since Brian had bitten him, they had been connected in ways no one else could ever hope to understand. The bond between them pulsed like a second heartbeat, threading through their veins, linking their minds, their bodies, their pain.
Through it, Brian could feel everything—Dexter’s fear, his confusion, the dull, aching emptiness settling into the spaces where their mother used to be.
It hurt.
It hurt worse than anything had ever hurt before.
But at least they had each other.
And then the trailer door opened. The light from outside burned into Brian’s eyes, stark and unforgiving, slicing through the dark like a blade. He squinted against it, his vision blurring, his head spinning, and then—
Harry Morgan.
The policeman.
Mama’s boyfriend.
Brian barely had time to react before Harry was stepping into the trailer, his eyes sweeping over the scene, his mouth tightening, his shoulders stiffening.
Brian watched as his gaze landed on their mother’s remains—on the blood, on the mess, on them.
And then he moved straight toward Dexter.
Brian barely had time to tighten his grip before Harry was reaching down, his strong hands wrapping around Dexter’s small frame, pulling him away. "Wait!"
Dexter screamed.
Brian lunged.
His arms locked around his brother, his bondmate, his everything. "Don't–Dexter, don't leave me!"
But Harry was stronger. Brian fought, thrashed, kicked, bit, but the weight of the blood, the weight of his own exhaustion, the weight of everything held him down.
Dexter was ripped from his grasp.
"Dexter!"
Brian screamed, the bond howled.
Dexter kicked, reaching for him, sobbing, his little fingers stretching toward Brian even as Harry carried him away.
Brian reached back.
Their hands almost touched.
And Brian was alone.
The silence was deafening.
The bond wailed in protest, the ache of separation sharp and sickening, a gaping hole where Dexter was supposed to be. Brian clawed at his own chest, gasping, trembling, curling in on himself as the pain hit him like a sledgehammer.
Dexter was gone and Brian couldn’t breathe.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his forehead to the blood-stained floor, and let the sobs rip out of his throat. Dexter was crying for him.
He could feel it.
Neither of them understanding why it felt like they had just lost everything.
…
Present, 1989
Dexter stood in front of the mirror, straightening his cap and gown, knowing full well he looked ridiculous. A paper-thin attempt at normalcy, a stiff costume meant to make him blend in. And it worked.
Behind him, Debra was sitting on the bed, legs spread out, aggressively chewing gum like it had personally offended her. "Jesus fuck, Dex, would you hurry up? It’s not like you give a shit, but I don’t wanna be late just because you’re having some existential crisis over a polyester gown."
Dexter didn’t bother responding. He wasn’t having a crisis. A crisis implied some kind of strong emotion, and he didn’t have those. Not really. He functioned, he reacted, but feelings—actual, human feelings—were always just outside his grasp, like a song playing in another room, muffled, distorted, barely there.
What he did have was the ever-present itch on the back of his neck, the place where his bond mark sat. A permanent reminder of something Dexter didn’t understand.
Something he had no memory of.
"Deb, why do I have this?" He turned and pulled his collar down just enough to expose the mark.
Debra rolled her eyes. "Oh my god, again? You’ve had that thing since forever, Dex. Why do you care so much all of a sudden? Just pretend it doesn’t exist, like you do with every other weird shit in your life."
He had been pretending. For as long as he could remember, he had ignored it. A bond mark with no bond. As someone who had never presented, his life had always felt off, like he was playing a role in someone else's script.
Dexter sighed, if he never presented that means he’s a Beta, right?
Harry never talked about it. Never explained why Dexter had a mark when no Alpha had ever claimed him. And now Harry was dead, taking the answers with him.
Dexter’s jaw clenched slightly as he thought about it. The man who had raised him, shaped him, the only real father he had ever known, gone. And not in some peaceful, expected way. No, Harry had been taken from them in a way that left scars deeper than flesh.
The official report said heart attack. Sudden and unexpected. A tragedy. But Dexter knew better. He remembered the night vividly. The way Harry had staggered into the house, pale and sweating, hands trembling.
The way he had looked at Dexter like a man who was afraid. Really afraid.
Then, just hours later, he was dead. And the strangest thing? There was no scent of someone else in the house. No panic, no sign of struggle. Just absence. Like someone had carefully wiped him away.
Dexter had searched for answers, but they never came. No one questioned it. No autopsy. Just a quiet funeral, a closed casket, and the unspoken expectation that they would move on.
Except Dexter couldn’t move on. Not really. Because something was missing, something had been missing for as long as he could remember, and Harry had been the only one who might have had the answers.
And now he was gone.
"It just doesn’t make sense," Dexter muttered, adjusting his gown again.
"Neither does your face, but here we are," Deb shot back, smirking.
Dexter snorted despite himself. "Wow. Incredible insult. Really, you should write poetry."
"Fuck you, I would if you’d hurry the hell up!" Debra stood, punching him lightly in the shoulder. "Come on, we gotta go."
Dexter sighed. The bond mark still tingled, the itch still there, but he let Debra drag him out the door anyway.
The gymnasium was packed, the heat trapped under high ceilings, mixing with the scents of perfume, sweat, and excitement. Hundreds of bodies pressed together in cheap blue gowns, the murmurs of students and the occasional shout from a proud parent bouncing off the walls.
Dexter sat among his classmates, his fake smile expertly in place, his hands resting stiffly on his lap. One by one, names were called, and students crossed the stage, some waving enthusiastically, others barely managing a nod.
When his name was called—Dexter Morgan—he stood, walked, shook hands with the principal, and took his diploma.
After the ceremony, the crowd spilled onto the football field, a mess of hugging families and thrown caps. Cameras flashed, voices overlapped.
Dexter was pulled into pictures he didn’t ask for, forced into the grip of classmates he barely spoke to. His smile remained, as practiced as ever, and he gave just enough nods, just enough generic "Yeah, man, we made it" responses to keep up appearances.
Debra, however, was crying.
"I can’t fucking believe it," she sniffled, wiping at her face aggressively like she could punch the tears back in. "I didn’t think you’d actually survive high school."
Dexter frowned. "Thanks?"
"No, I mean, like… fuck, Dad would be so proud of you. If he were still here, y'know? He always said you were gonna be something great."
Dexter didn’t know what to say to that. He never did. Debra, for all her foul-mouthed bravado, had the ability to be painfully sincere when he least expected it.
And he—well, he should feel something, right? He should miss Harry, should feel that hole in his life the way Debra did. But all he could manage was a vague, distant sense of absence, like looking at an empty chair and knowing someone used to sit there, but not quite remembering who.
So, he did the only thing he knew to do, he awkwardly patted Debra’s back.
"There, there," he said flatly.
Debra let out a watery laugh. "God, you’re such an asshole." But she grabbed him, pulled him into a tight hug anyway, and for a moment, Dexter let himself pretend that it meant something.
As they wove through the crowd of graduates and families, Debra continued talking, her voice a mix of excitement and exhaustion. "You look funky in that gown, by the way. Like, seriously, who designed these things? A sadist? They make everyone look like a bloated marshmallow."
Dexter was about to respond when Debra suddenly stopped, her nose scrunching up as if she had just walked into a particularly foul stench. Then, without warning, she reached over and clamped her hand over his nose.
"What the hell—" Dexter tried to pull back, but Debra’s grip was firm.
"Shut up for a second," she hissed, her eyes darting around the room. "Do you smell that?"
Dexter frowned. "Smell what?"
Debra let go, but her expression was still tense. Around them, the mood of the room had subtly shifted. People—specifically Alphas and Omegas—were sniffing the air, glancing around in mild confusion or curiosity. Some looked irritated, others intrigued.
"Someone’s flashing their Alpha scent around like a goddamn perfume counter," Debra muttered, her lips curling slightly in annoyance. "Fucking obnoxious."
Dexter still couldn’t smell anything. But then, as if something had been flipped inside him, the bond mark on his neck burned. His entire body flinched at the sensation, his breath hitching as he instinctively reached up to claw at the back of his neck.
"Dex?" Debra’s voice was no longer annoyed, now she sounded worried.
Dexter barely heard her. His vision swam, his knees buckling as he crouched down, one hand gripping the fabric of his gown while the other pressed against his lower abdomen.
Heat pooled there, sharp and unbearable, as if something inside him had finally cracked open. His skin was damp with sweat, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
He couldn’t understand what was happening to him.
"Dexter, holy shit—" Debra grabbed him, her grip iron-strong as she forced him upright. She was panicking now, glancing around at the Alphas in the room, some of whom had started to notice.
"Oh, fuck me sideways," she groaned. "You’re presenting. Right now? Are you fucking kidding me? You had eighteen years and you pick this moment? Jesus Christ, Dexter!"
Dexter barely processed her words. He was burning, aching, longing for something, someone.
Debra tightened her hold on him and snarled at a few Alphas who had begun eyeing Dexter with interest. "Back the fuck off!" she snapped. "I swear to god—"
She didn’t wait for a response. Wrapping one of Dexter’s arms around her shoulders, she half-dragged, half-carried him toward the exit, her body tense and protective. "C’mon, big brother, let’s get you to the fucking nurse before someone decides to make a goddamn scene."
Dexter barely heard her. The only thing he could focus on was the burning, the unbearable pull inside him, and the bond mark that felt like it was alive, screaming for something he didn’t understand.