Chapter Text
The elevator ride up was too quiet. Forty floors of silence, the kind that made your stomach sit heavy no matter how fast the car climbed. When the doors slid open, the apartment looked exactly like it always did—polished floors, big windows spilling city light, a vase of lilies someone from management had dropped off while they were underground. It smelled too clean, too normal, and Rumi hated it on sight.
Zoey went straight into caretaker mode, keys clattering into the bowl by the door. “Shoes off, water, bed. No interviews tonight. Bobby can handle the vultures.” Her voice was too bright, which meant she was about two seconds from crying.
Mira didn’t even bother pretending. She shut the door behind them, stood there for one long beat, and then fixed Rumi with a look that was all concern wrapped in steel. “Something’s off,” she said, voice low.
Rumi tried for a joke, but it came out thin. “Wow. Observant. I just crawled out of a cave-in.”
“Not that.” Mira’s eyes flicked to the scarf around her neck. Not accusing, just worried, sharp the way only Mira’s eyes could be. “What’s that from?”
Rumi’s hand flew up automatically, covering the plain grey scarf—Zoey’s, borrowed, hiding what should have stayed hidden. “Accessory,” she said lightly. “Don’t get protective. It’s from the emergency drawer.”
Too late. Mira’s whole posture sharpened, but her voice stayed steady. “Whoever it was… they’re lucky I didn’t see it. I’d have made sure they regretted it.” Her scent spiked—tart cherries and vanilla, sweet with a bite, more warning than threat. Then, softer: “You need a collar, Rumi. Tonight. It’s not safe otherwise.”
Zoey slipped between them fast, hand finding Rumi’s shoulder. Beta warmth radiated off her like a blanket. “Kitchen. Sit. Both of you.” She shot Mira a look that translated to enough.
Rumi let herself be steered, because fighting Zoey when she used that tone was impossible.
Mira stayed standing, arms crossed, scent still sharp in the air. But when she spoke again, it wasn’t biting—it was tired, heavy with worry. “You smell like stress. Don’t lie about it.”
…
Finally, as Rumi tried to walk past, Mira’s voice caught her. Not sharp, just weighted. “Rumi.”
She paused, breath caught in her throat.
“You’re safe,” Mira said. Not a question, not exactly an order either. Just four words that demanded truth.
…
When Rumi mumbled the reassurance, Mira’s jaw clicked, but she didn’t push harder. She let it go, stepping back, giving space. Then, almost awkwardly, she muttered, “Shower. I’ll… make tea.”
Zoey blinked. “You? Tea?”
“I can boil water,” Mira said, but this time there was no snap in it—just the dry edge of someone trying to anchor the room.
The bathroom mirrors were merciless under LED light, but Rumi almost preferred that. Mirrors didn’t let you lie to yourself the way shadows did. She untied the scarf with careful fingers, avoiding her own reflection until the fabric came loose.
The mark had faded into something deceptively ordinary—a bruise tucked under the corner of her jaw, faint crescents like the shadow of teeth. Ordinary, unless you knew how to read it. Her stomach twisted.
She cranked the water hotter than it needed to be and stepped under until her skin went red. Dust streaked down the drain in gray rivulets. The shampoo smelled like fake coconut, like a cheap beach vacation, like anything but what she actually wanted.
The bond didn’t wash away. It sat low in her ribs, steady as a hum, not sound but sensation—like a machine behind the wall, running whether she wanted it to or not. Ignore it, and it shifted into silence until she almost believed it was gone. Listen, and it roared back, patient, inescapable.
She pressed the heel of her hand over it. The mark answered. Not pain. Not comfort either. Just there. Her vision blurred at the edges the way it did when she stood up too fast. She braced against the tile, cold under her palm, and breathed until the world steadied.
Heat is weather, not command, she told herself, the old line drilled into her since training. That one she had words for. Bonds… she didn’t. And she refused to scrawl the beginning of one in steam on the mirror.
She dried off, skin pink from water that had been too hot, and went to the drawer she hadn’t opened in years. Her hand found the box shoved all the way to the back, lacquered wood with the city’s crest carved into the lid. Dust clung to the grooves. She hesitated, then pulled it out.
The collar lay where she’d left it—deep purple leather, fine stitching, gold curling across it in sprawling peonies. A gift, the day she was sworn in, same as Mira’s new sword sheath and Zoey’s leather-bound journal. For them, tokens of honor. For her, a reminder. Omegas got collars. Pretty ones, sure. Ornamental, protective. As if she hadn’t already dragged herself bloody through enough hunts to prove she didn’t need one. As if the nation had decided their voice of fire should also come with a leash.
She remembered the way she’d forced a smile at the ceremony, bowing her head so the cameras could catch the light glinting off the gold, then hiding it away the moment she got home. She’d told herself she’d never wear it. Never need it.
Now she buckled it in place with careful fingers. The leather was cool at first, then warmed quickly against her skin. The weight settled on her collarbones, heavier than memory, and the hum under her ribs answered it like it had been waiting.
When she stepped back into the living room, she carried herself like nothing had changed. The collar gleamed dark against her throat, the gold catching on the lamplight where a scarf had been.
The kettle clicked. Zoey’s laugh—low, real—floated from the couch. Rumi walked toward it like she hadn’t just caved to the one thing she’d sworn she never would.
Zoey spotted her first. “Owww, I totally forgot you still had that,” she said, pointing at the collar, eyes wide but smiling. “I can’t believe you kept it. It looks… actually really pretty on you.”
Rumi rolled her eyes, but heat prickled at her neck all the same.
Mira’s gaze was sharper, landing on the collar and not moving. Her scent shifted—cherry-vanilla with a bite. “Rumi, we could smell you two in that cave from miles away,” she said, voice steady but not cruel. “If he was in… that state… he could’ve taken advantage. You know you can tell us anything, right? We wouldn’t judge you for a second.”
The words made something inside Rumi twist. For half a second, she almost said it. Almost told them about the heat in the cave, about how it hadn’t been one-sided, about how Jinu had been careful, diligent, reverent in a way no one would believe. She let herself feel a glint of hope—imagine her girls marching down to tear into him on her behalf, only to find out she’d wanted it too.
But then she pictured the fallout. The press. The optics. The fragile truce holding the country together. They’d never believe it was mutual. Not with the bond this raw. Not with her collar shining under the lamplight.
Her throat closed around the truth. “Girls, I’m fine,” slipped out instead. Too quick, too easy. She shrugged, tugging the collar with restless fingers. “His… condition. His pheromones just triggered my instincts. Nothing even happened. He was super respectful.”
Her face burned at the memory of just how respectful he’d been—paying attention to every sensitive spot, holding himself back like his life depended on it.
Zoey blinked at her, confused but trying to be supportive. Mira’s jaw worked once, then she gave a slow nod and stepped back, like she was giving space.
“Okay,” Zoey said finally, bright again. “You’ve had such a long day. No one would blame you if you sleep straight through until five minutes before the conference tomorrow. If you need to cancel, we’ll cover. Bobby can fight off the press for a few more days.”
“Bobby loves a fight,” Mira muttered, reaching for the kettle.
The tea Mira managed was herbal and a little bitter, but it came with mugs and steam, which was what mattered. Zoey curled up cross-legged on the couch, Mira stayed standing, arms crossed, and Rumi perched in the armchair like a guest in her own home.
They tried to talk about what happened underground. Zoey gentle, Mira blunt. Rumi kept her answers trimmed, neat, polished the way she knew they’d have to be when the cameras rolled again. “We set rules. We rationed. He was respectful.”
Mira’s eyes flicked once more to the collar, but she let it go.
The world seeped back in anyway—Bobby’s texts, management’s demands for “unity optics,” the reminder that the press conference loomed.
Rumi wanted to scream. Instead she pressed her fingers to the collar and smiled like a politician. “We’ll be there.”
Zoey sighed, Mira groaned, but neither argued. That was the job.
Later, they drifted into the easy geometry of best friends too tired to fight: Zoey stealing the blanket, Mira pretending her feet under Zoey’s thigh was strategy, not comfort. They teased about a fan rumor—Zoey reporting that people online thought Mira was secretly married, Mira groaning about an energy-drink can being mistaken for a wedding ring.
Rumi laughed, raw but real. The collar hummed against her skin.
When her phone buzzed again, she didn’t look. She let herself exist in the small miracle of this room: the lilies, the steam rising from abandoned mugs, the city glittering beyond the glass, and her girls here, still choosing her.
The bond tugged under her ribs like a secret thread. She told herself it was nothing. She told herself she’d believe it tomorrow.
Tonight, Zoey made gossip sound like a bedtime story. Mira drank tea she clearly hated just to keep her hands busy. And Rumi let herself be quiet for once—cataloguing details instead of leading: the rug’s scratch under her heel, the lilies’ obnoxious perfume, the glow bouncing off the glass. The hum under her ribs didn’t vanish, but it gentled, like it had agreed to ride in the backseat as long as she kept both hands on the wheel.
When she stood, both of them stood. Habit. Walk each other to doors, even when those doors only led to bedrooms. Zoey kissed her cheek, smelling like laundry and stage sweat, the most human perfume in the world. Mira didn’t touch, but she stood at the hall like a guard dog with better manners.
“Door open or closed?” Zoey asked, sing-song, reviving the old joke about storms and closet monsters.
“Closed,” Rumi said, and then,“but not locked.”
“Noted,” Mira said. “Shout if you need.”
Rumi softened her mouth into something like gratitude. “Night.”
“Night,” Zoey sang, a lullaby wrapped in one syllable.
“Night,” Mira said, which in her voice meant: I’ll kill whoever tries the handle.
…
The door clicked soft behind her and the tower swallowed the sound like it was being careful. For the first time since the ceiling fell in, she was alone with the hum and the mark and the mess of thoughts she’d been smoothing into statements all afternoon.
She sat on the edge of the bed and unclasped the collar, careful fingers finding the catch by muscle memory she didn’t want to admit she had. The purple leather came loose with a soft sigh, too elegant for what it really was. In the low light it looked almost beautiful—fine stitching, gold peonies curling across the band like someone had wanted it to be art.
The leather curled into her palm like a snake returning to coil. She set it on the dresser. It looked smaller there than she remembered, like a discarded prop, a leash no one had asked for. Without it, the skin just above the hollow of her collarbone—off to the right, where the pulse beat closest to the surface—felt raw, exposed. Truer, as if the absence itself was an admission.
She touched it once, brief and reluctant. The bond hummed back immediately—low, steady, not pain but presence. As if to say: there is a line between you and him now, whether you want it or not.
“It’s biology,” she told the room, because putting it into sound gave it structure. “It’s rut. It’s hormones. Nothing to read into.”
The words fell flat. She knew it. Saying them out loud felt like reciting a press line to an empty audience. Practice for when someone eventually asked, point-blank, if anything had happened down there.
But her head and her body weren’t cooperating. Her head told her Jinu was the same cocky, infuriating half-demon idol he’d always been—loud onstage, too charming off it, always leaning just close enough to make people swoon without ever tipping all the way in. Surrounded constantly: omegas pressing forward at fansigns, betas hanging on his every word, even alphas circling him like they thought they had a chance. He could have had anyone. He probably had. She wasn’t naïve enough to think otherwise.
Her body, though—her body kept whispering a different record. It replayed moments she couldn’t stop feeling, no matter how hard she tried to file them away as rut-instinct. The way he’d said her name when the seal trembled—soft, almost broken, like a prayer. The way his hands had hovered on his knees, then deliberately settled, as if to show her he could hold himself back. The way he’d tried to ask instead of take. And the kiss—messy, real, devastatingly human. Nothing rehearsed. Nothing that felt like performance. For a breath, she’d believed it meant something more than biology.
That was the danger. That was the lie. Heat and rut made mouths betray people. Everyone knew it. They said things they didn’t mean. Or worse, said the things they meant too much and would never admit sober. Safer to call it hormones. Safer to dismiss the memory as a trick of biology.
Except she could still taste him—bright citrus sparking like a struck match, layered over the darker pull of sandalwood and that dry mineral edge that reminded her of storms before they broke. It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t easy to ignore. It was sharp, electric, the kind of taste that lit her nerves like a fuse and refused to be written off as anything simple. No explanation, no excuse, scrubbed it away.
She rolled back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, counting breaths like a metronome. In. Out. Hold. Release. A discipline drilled into her in training, meant to steady nerves before a mission. Now it was just a rhythm she could hide inside. She tried to be logical. If he didn’t remember, then none of it mattered. That had been the line, hadn’t it? His blank eyes after the rescue, polite confusion when she tried not to flinch near him. If he didn’t remember, she could shove the whole thing into a box labeled survival and bury it under the weight of press releases. A sealed file. Not evidence. Not confession.
But thinking like that required distance she didn’t have. Every time she closed her eyes, the hum was there—bond steady, patient, alive. She could almost trick herself into feeling him through it, like a presence just out of sight, not loud enough to touch but undeniable all the same. It sat under her ribs like a pulse she couldn’t call her own.
And gods help her, she missed him.
The ache settled in her chest like a bruise: humiliating, feral, stubborn. She’d spent years teaching herself not to need, not to lean, not to crave softness. The war had demanded it. The stage had reinforced it. Huntrix didn’t get to falter. But now—now she couldn’t stop the thud of want that came with the memory of his voice telling her, “I’m here.” That ugly, fragile tenderness. That impossible restraint in the middle of rut.
It had been the one thing she hadn’t expected from him. Not with Jinu. Not with the boy who half the time looked like he wanted to be anywhere but near her. The boy who had the world at his fingertips, who could snap his fingers and have a dozen partners if he wanted. Jinu, who was always surrounded—omegas pressing close in crowds, betas laughing too loud at his jokes, even the occasional alpha leaning in like they might have a shot. He could have had any of them. Probably had. She wasn’t naïve enough to think otherwise.
And yet her chest ached like what happened underground hadn’t been rut at all, but a choice. A moment shared. A kiss that still felt real when she replayed it against her will. The way his hands had held back when they could have demanded. The way his voice had broken around the words “tell me to stop,” as though her will was the only anchor keeping him upright. The way he’d kissed her—not clean, not practiced, but messy, too human to be mistaken for performance.
She pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum and breathed until the edges blurred. Headstrong, always. Independent, always. The war had forced her into adulthood too fast, had carved out the child who once thought maybe—someday—bond, family, a life with someone. She’d buried those soft little wishes beneath medals, microphones, endless proof she didn’t need anyone.
But under all that iron, in the soft places no one got to see, she’d always known the appeal of what omegas whispered about: bonds, homes, a hand held without question. A family, maybe. Safety, not as a cage, but as a choice. She’d never admitted it out loud. She’d told herself she didn’t need it.
And she hadn’t imagined it would happen like this. Not trapped underground. Not with him.
The thought turned dangerous the second she let it wander. What then? What if he met someone else? What if he wanted to bond them, while she was left carrying this thing alone?
She didn’t even know how it worked for alphas. Nobody did. Not really. No one had tried, or if they had, the stories hadn’t survived. She was sure of it—this had to be the first time anyone had been this stupid, this unlucky, this caught. Omegas only got one shot. That was the law, etched into their blood, a rule older than treaties and stage contracts. Once bonded, every other door shut. Permanently. The idea of another alpha touching her now made her stomach pitch, instinct already twisting against the thought.
But alphas… maybe it was different. Maybe their bodies bent where omegas broke. Maybe they could fake it, grit their teeth and go through the motions with someone else. Maybe ignorance softened the edges. And Jinu—Jinu didn’t know.
That should have comforted her. It didn’t.
Because even if he could live like nothing had happened, she couldn’t. She was tethered. Bond humming steady under her ribs, merciless as breath. Whether he remembered or not, whether he ever looked at her that way again, she’d feel this until she died.
No. She shut the thought down, harsh, like slamming a door. She had years before that mattered. Years. By then she’d have told him. By then maybe it would all blur into nothing more than an awkward story. They’d laugh, maybe. She’d roll her eyes, he’d sigh, disappointed, but that would be it. Surely.
Her stomach still hurt.
Because what did moving on even mean when there were no second chances? When the only other option was the old stories: ancient magic, desperate lovers, bonds broken with blood. Dangerous, always dangerous. Sometimes both mates died. Sometimes only one, leaving the other cracked in half. Sometimes neither—but people whispered they came out ruined, hollow where the tether used to live.
She hated herself for even imagining it: him years from now, standing across a stage, realizing the mark on her throat wasn’t just a bruise. Realizing it was forever. That look—sharp with disappointment, maybe pity—that was the one thing she didn’t think she could stand.
And gods, if anyone else found out? Huntrix’s omega bonded underground to the Saja Boys’ half-demon alpha. No witnesses, no proof, just dust and magic. The rumors would write themselves. Whispers of coercion, of war scars ripped back open. The peace they’d all bled for, undone by the suggestion of teeth and skin. They wouldn’t see survival. They’d see weakness. Scandal. Fracture.
The stakes made her want to crawl out of her own skin.
She curled tight, yanking the sheet higher until it pressed hard against her collarbone, as if covering it could change the truth underneath. Her phone buzzed once—Bobby, management, whoever—but she ignored it. Tomorrow she’d put on the face, the voice, the act. She’d sit under lights, thank the nation for their prayers, promise recovery was proof of unity. Tomorrow she’d stand next to Jinu and pretend her chest didn’t clench every time his eyes flickered like maybe—just maybe—he remembered.
Tonight there was no act. Tonight she lay in the dark with the bond humming steady and patient, like a hand she couldn’t shake. She told herself it was hormones. Just biology. Not affection. Not real. A body’s trick.
Still, the memory burned sharp: citrus sparking like a match, sandalwood catching low, that mineral edge like a storm about to break. Not biology. Not routine. Something lit and waiting under her ribs.
She tried to call it weather. She tried to call it nothing. But in the silence, with no one listening, the ache grew louder. Ugly, jealous, humiliating. Because against every rule, against every scar, against her own pride—she missed him.
Backstage was already too bright.
Not the lights—those were still warming up over the press dais, throwing patches of white across the floor like taped-off crime scenes. It was the attention. The second Rumi stepped through the double doors, the room re-angled itself toward her and didn’t bother pretending otherwise.
She’d put the collar on herself, hands steady in her dressing-room mirror, the click of the buckle loud in a room that had been quiet on purpose. Purple leather, gold peony scrollwork—clean, ceremonial. It sat high enough to hide what needed hiding. It also announced things she wasn’t sure she wanted to announce. Collars weren’t fashion; they were structure. Omegas wore them as both shield and signal—protection against the wrong kind of approach, and declaration of whether they were claimed or not. Rumi had never worn one in public. Scarves had always been enough. Posture had been enough. Her stare had been enough to make people forget they had opinions.
But tonight was different. Tonight she would stand in front of the nation for the first time since the cave. With her throat bare, the questions would be louder than she could stand. Putting on the collar almost felt like giving in—if the circumstances were different, maybe it would have been.
She didn’t get three steps in before a stylist squeaked, “Rumi-ssi—oh my god,” and then the tide hit.
They weren’t invasive about it; they were affectionate, the way people get around a symbol that makes them feel safer. Compliments rose and collided.
“It looks incredible with your skin tone.”
“Iconic.”
“So elegant. The nation is going to sob.”
“Can we—just a quick shot for socials?”
A phone lifted. Flash popped. The image appeared, her profile caught in clean lines: winged liner, pressed jacket, the thin gleam of gold catching at the throat. It looked like a poster. She smiled like a poster. That was the job.
Across the room, the Saja Boys had already colonized a couch and a catering table like it was a dorm lounge. Romance whistled, low and delighted, and bounced to his feet. “No way. Park Rumi in hardware?”
Abby made a ta-da gesture with both hands. “Historic. Someone write the date down.”
“Someone already did,” Baby muttered, screen glow cutting sharp across his jaw. “Tags are a bloodbath. In a flattering way.”
Mystery had claimed the couch arm like a throne, one leg dangling. “Half the country’s gonna pass out live on broadcast. Management’ll call it audience engagement.”
Rumi let herself be maneuvered toward the long table that would be her battlefield in ten minutes. Staff swarmed—tugging her jacket hem, blotting powder along her nose, rapid-fire chatter overlapping.
“Chin a little higher, Rumi-ssi—yes, hold it.”
“Gloss or balm? Balm’s stronger.”
“Collar’s reading great on camera; drop the lights two points.”
“Bobby says say recovery instead of rescue. Clear?”
“Copy,” she said. Just that. Short. Clean. The kind of answer that didn’t wobble.
And then—without looking, without trying—she felt him.
Jinu never had to make an entrance. He just… shifted the air, like the room remembered gravity wrong when he was in it. He slid into the chair one over, long legs stretched, elbow hooked behind him in studied laziness. Abby cracked a joke, staff laughed, Jinu tossed one more in and doubled the volume. Controlled chaos.
She told herself not to look. She aimed her eyes at Zoey, desperate for a save. But her gaze snagged anyway, zipper-caught, and landed on him.
He wasn’t smiling. Not really. His eyes did a slow drag—collar, mouth, eyes, back again.
“New look?” he asked at last, pitched low like it was nothing. A throwaway. Except it wasn’t. His voice carried something unsteady beneath the polish, like he was trying to place a song he half-remembered.
Her stomach dipped. “Management loves props,” she said lightly, tugging the collar as if it were just another accessory.
He didn’t look away.
A producer’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Huntrix—two reminders. Collapse story capped at thirty seconds, unity questions answered with gratitude, no seal details. Technical debrief later.”
“Got it,” Rumi said automatically. Her mouth shaped the words too neatly. Good girl, her brain muttered, bitter as ever.
Zoey appeared at her side like a ghost, already unscrewing a water bottle. “Drink. And for god’s sake drop your shoulders before you blow a nerve.”
Rumi swallowed, the water cold and too loud sliding down. “Better?”
“Marginally,” Zoey said, then tipped her chin toward the corner. “Though Mira’s about to laser a hole in the floor.”
Sure enough, Mira loomed behind Rumi’s chair like an alpha shadow, arms crossed, cherry-vanilla scent sharp as cut glass. “Reporters smell blood.”
“Not helpful,” Zoey muttered, brushing her thumb quick against Rumi’s wrist—her code for I see you, breathe. Then, quieter: “If someone asks something idiotic, blink twice. I’ll take out a mic stand.”
“Make it dramatic,” Rumi whispered back.
“Or I’ll just carry you out,” Mira deadpanned.
Romance perked from the couch. “We could all carry her. Team bonding.”
“You can bond with the catering table,” Mira shot back.
“Noted,” Romance said, delighted.
Across the room, Abby speared melon like a weapon. “If one more person says unity, I’m starting a drinking game.”
Jinu chuckled, low and easy. It slid under Rumi’s skin like static in her veins. He still hadn’t looked away.
“Collar suits her,” Romance announced suddenly, fork gesturing.
“Hero mode,” Abby agreed.
Zoey snorted. “Hero mode isn’t a fashion line.”
“Tell that to management,” Abby said, already chewing.
A stylist leaned in, brush sweeping across Rumi’s cheekbone. “Reads strong. You look… powerful.”
The word landed sideways, but she tilted her chin anyway. “Thanks.”
Then—soft, close—“Rumi.”
She turned. Jinu’s face was built for cameras, but his eyes weren’t performing. She braced for the usual quip, the cocky line that would break tension and make her roll her eyes. Instead:
“You okay?”
Not staged. Not for the press. Real.
Her throat caught. Fine was right there, the easy script. Instead, the truth slipped out: “I’m here.”
Something eased at his mouth, not quite a smile but less sharp. “Okay.”
Romance fanned the air between them. “What is this, telepathy?”
“Shut up,” Abby said, grinning. “They’re doing the eye thing again.”
Rumi rolled her eyes, grateful for the interruption. “Your job is to not incriminate us.”
“Define incriminate,” Abby started, but Zoey cut in, smooth as glass: “Anything they can clip into twelve seconds with dramatic TikTok audio.”
Romance groaned. “Brutal.”
Finally Jinu leaned back, lazy again. “With you two, twelve seconds is generous.”
Abby flicked a grape. Jinu caught it blind, popped it into his mouth, smirked. Crew laughed. The room loosened.
Rumi stared straight ahead, ignoring the hum in her chest that felt too much like a bell rung just for her.
“Two minutes,” the manager barked. “First row softball, second row wild cards, third row tabloids. Collapse: short. Gratitude first. Recovery, not rescue. Clear?”
“Clear,” Rumi said, clipped.
“Last checks. Mics live in thirty.”
Chairs scraped. Everyone slid into place. Jinu dropped into the chair beside her like gravity knew his name. His knee brushed hers under the table. Once, then again—slow, deliberate. This time he didn’t move. The bond thrummed low under her ribs like a wire pulled taut.
Zoey leaned in, whispering without looking up from her phone. “You’re trending. Hashtag QueenCollar. Also: OurProtector.”
“Gross,” Mira muttered.
“What’s worse?” Rumi asked.
Zoey smirked. “Huntrix is Mother.”
“Absolutely not,” Mira said, so flat Abby burst out laughing.
“Thirty seconds!” the stage manager shouted.
Rumi reached for her water. Her hand shook. Zoey pressed two fingers to her wrist—two beats, breathe. Mira shifted just close enough that her braid brushed Rumi’s shoulder, quiet shield.
The lights warmed. The red signal blinked.
And then Jinu leaned in, voice pitched only for her. “Don’t let them corner you.”
She blinked, startled. That wasn’t him. Jinu was supposed to smirk, to throw a cocky line that made her roll her eyes and remember her spine. Not… this. Not quiet encouragement that landed steadier than the table under her hands. When had he become the one speaking like he meant to hold her up instead of knock her off balance?
Her throat tightened. “I won’t,” she said, softer than she meant. “I’m here.”
Something eased at his mouth—less tension, almost relief. “Good.”
The red light locked on. Live.
…
The lights were brutal. Rumi had learned long ago not to squint, but that didn’t mean her eyes didn’t sting. Flashbulbs popped across the press line, followed by the hum of recording crystals. Dozens of reporters, three rows deep, notebooks and mics lifted like weapons.
She sat straight-backed, palms flat against the table. Mira and Zoey flanked her chair just out of frame, steady and silent. To her right, the Saja Boys settled with practiced ease: Romance smoothing his jacket like a stage magician, Abby tossing an easy smile that belonged on a billboard, Baby leaning back with his chin tilted high. And Jinu—slouched like the chair was built for him, elbow hooked, every line of his body casual performance.
“Good evening,” the moderator said into the mic, a thin smile plastered across his face. “We’ll begin with questions about the mission response.”
A hand shot up instantly from the first row. Safe softball, as promised. “How are you feeling, Rumi-ssi? You were underground for four days. The nation is relieved to see you here.”
“Grateful,” Rumi said evenly, her press-voice already sliding into place. “We’re grateful to our rescue teams, to the citizens who kept vigil, to everyone who sent strength while we were away. Recovery doesn’t happen alone. I’m standing here because of all of you.”
A polite wave of murmurs. Pens scribbled.
“Follow-up,” another reporter called. “Did you and Jinu-ssi work together during the collapse?”
Her throat jumped. “We maintained protocol,” she said, steady. “We kept communication clear. We endured.”
Beside her, Jinu’s voice slipped in, smooth as honey. “Translation: she did the heavy lifting while I tried not to be dead weight.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Reporters scribbled faster. Rumi cut him a sharp side-eye under the table, hissed through her teeth, “Not helping.”
His knee nudged hers once, just enough to feel. “I’m always helping.”
She faced the cameras again, mask intact, though the bond buzzed like it had clocked his smirk.
Another hand rose. “Rumi-ssi, we can’t help but notice—you’re wearing a collar tonight. It’s the first time the public has seen you in one. Is this a new policy? A personal statement?”
The question landed heavy. She smoothed her hand over the purple leather without meaning to. The gold peonies caught under the lights, gleaming like they had been waiting for this moment.
“It’s a choice,” she said clearly. “Omegas are more than the marks we carry. Tonight I chose to wear what was given to me when I swore my oath. Not because I need protection—but because it matters for young omegas to see that their strength can look different. Collars can be a leash, yes. But they can also be armor. Mine is the latter.”
A flash storm of camera clicks. One reporter in the second row actually clutched his chest, like she’d landed a lyric.
Behind her, Zoey whispered, “That’ll trend in five seconds.”
“Already is,” Mira muttered.
From the couch, Romance leaned toward his mic. “Looks good on her, doesn’t it?”
Abby chimed in, grinning. “Power move.”
The room chuckled, charmed.
Rumi’s jaw twitched. She didn’t dare look at Jinu—didn’t want to confirm whether his stare burned the way it had in prep—but she could feel it anyway. He said nothing, which was worse.
The next questions didn’t fall to her. One reporter lobbed a query about Saja’s training regimen, and Jinu caught it with the same grace he always had, tossing back a line so quick it felt rehearsed. Something about Abby being allergic to mornings. Laughter again, cameras clicking like cicadas. Another question, this time about collaboration between groups, and he volleyed that too, sliding the spotlight toward Romance with a grin sharp enough to draw a chorus of chuckles.
Rumi sat there, spine perfect, palms flat, face arranged into the smile she’d practiced until her cheekbones ached. But inside, every time his voice slipped into the air, the bond hummed in answer like it couldn’t help itself. She hated that she noticed the rhythm of his breathing more than the flash of cameras. Hated that she could tell, without looking, exactly when he leaned forward to rest his elbow on the table, when his grin tipped toward a smirk, when the air shifted because he was watching her again.
She tried to distract herself the way she always did—running through her girls like beads on a string. Zoey: solid at her back, scrolling headlines already, ready to shield her with a quip if the questions cut too deep. Mira: arms crossed, cherry-vanilla scent sharp, eyes sweeping the room like a soldier waiting for the next blast. The thought steadied her for a breath.
But then Jinu laughed again—low, easy, perfectly timed—and the hum under her ribs kicked like it had recognized the sound. He was effortless, back in his element, fielding questions like the golden boy he was. And she hated herself for wishing, even for a second, that some of that ease was for her.
The next reporter didn’t bother with softballs. “If Huntrix’s power is so effective, how do you explain the rogue demon sightings that continue in the east? Citizens worry your magic is weakening.”
Rumi’s nails pressed crescents into the table’s underside. “Demons don’t vanish overnight. Cleansing is ongoing, coordinated, and difficult. Huntrix hasn’t faltered. We’ve been on the front lines every step.”
The reporter tilted her head, unsatisfied. “But the collapse—surely if your magic was as strong as it once was, you wouldn’t have needed four days to survive.”
“Recovery doesn’t happen in straight lines,” Rumi said, voice sharpened to cut. “Huntrix is not weaker. We are working.”
Beside her, Jinu shifted. His scent curled sharper, citrus turning bitter, sandalwood deepening to something musty and dense. To the cameras he still looked lazy, but under the table his foot tapped once, twice, three times. She felt it in her chest, the bond humming in warning.
Another question, sharper still: “Huntrix sings, the Saja Boys fight. But the seal underground—was your voice not enough? Did you require reinforcement from outside your group?”
Her teeth clicked together before she answered. “We are allies. No one breaks a seal alone. That’s why we fight together.”
The reporter smirked like she’d won something. “So Huntrix can’t guarantee protection anymore?”
Her pulse jumped. Jinu’s arms crossed tight across his chest, muscles shifting under fabric. The air between them charged with a low thrum of restrained temper.
Then the dagger.
“Rumi-ssi,” a man in the second row said, voice slicing through the din, “there are rumors Huntrix has been growing unstable since the collapse. Can the nation rely on you?”
The bond twanged like a struck wire. The citrus-sandalwood burned the back of her throat.
She drew breath, spine iron. “Huntrix—”
The crack of Jinu’s hand on the table drowned her out. The sound echoed sharp as a gunshot. His growl followed, guttural, unfiltered. “Enough. This is done.”
The room froze.
He shoved back his chair, rising to full height, shadows cutting under the harsh lights. No smile. No joke. Just storm. He stalked offstage without a backward glance. Cameras leapt after him like dogs on a scent.
Chaos erupted.
“Is there something between Huntrix and the Saja Boys?”
“Did Jinu just defend Rumi?”
“Are the groups aligned more closely than management has said?”
The moderator nearly tripped over the mic wire lunging forward. “Thank you, thank you—we appreciate your time,” he blurted, voice thin with strain. “The conference is adjourned for the evening. Both teams have had a long recovery. We’ll provide official statements tomorrow.”
He plastered on a smile that looked painted, bowing slightly as staff fanned out to corral the press. “We apologize for the abrupt ending. Please, please direct all follow-up to our communications office.”
Rumi pushed back her chair with practiced grace, smoothing her jacket even as her pulse hammered. Her mouth shaped the polite curve of apology she’d trained into her bones. “Thank you,” she said to no one in particular, to everyone at once. “We’ll continue to work hard for the nation.”
Zoey mirrored her, voice soft but clear as she dipped her head. “We’re grateful for your patience.”
Mira didn’t bow, but her chin tipped sharp enough to slice. It counted.
Behind them, Romance stood fast, palms raised in placation. “Sorry, sorry—Jinu’s not feeling one hundred percent. Long week.” He offered the line with easy charm, eyes bright as if this was nothing more than a scheduling hiccup.
Abby picked up the thread without missing a beat. “We’ll all be back tomorrow, don’t worry. We’re fine.” His smile stretched billboard-bright, daring anyone to say otherwise.
Baby—never a talker—simply bowed low, shoulders hunched in apology. The cameras drank it in.
Through all of it, Jinu’s chair sat empty, shoved back from the table like the ghost of a fight no one wanted to admit happened.
The stage manager rushed forward, headset askew. “We’re so sorry, everyone. Truly. That’ll conclude tonight’s remarks.” He gestured frantically at staff, who moved like brooms sweeping up glass: ushering the press line toward the exit, waving down the crystal recorders, promising more access later.
Rumi let herself be steered into the wings, lights dimming behind them, but the crack of Jinu’s hand on the table still echoed in her chest. Cocky, flirty Jinu—who knew exactly how to play a room, who’d never lost control onstage a day in his life. And now this.
Apologies flowed around her, smooth as oil poured over water, sealing the cracks for the public eye. But inside, the question lodged sharp:
What had gotten into him?
……
The spin started before they’d even left the press hall.
Management didn’t call it spin, of course. They called it “pivoting the narrative.” A glossy memo slid across the table before the reporters had even stopped shouting about Jinu’s exit: Unity Celebration, 8 p.m. — Palace Ballroom.
The language was all bullet-pointed reassurance: champagne reception. shared strength. Huntrix and the Saja Boys presenting a united front.
Translated, it meant: smile until your jaw aches, keep the cameras fed, make the nation forget the growl that cracked a table mic in half.
By the time the cars dropped them at the hotel, the girls had been re-dressed, re-powdered; collars polished and hair retouched until they looked like a curated set. The ballroom glittered behind glass doors, chandeliers scattering a thousand tiny suns across marble floors. String music floated above the hum of conversation. Waiters glided with trays of champagne that refracted the glow into shards of light.
The guests had already arrived—government ministers, corporate sponsors, influencers, executives—and when Huntrix and the Saja Boys stepped in, the room pivoted like a camera lens snapping into focus. Applause swelled, too loud, too polished. Rumi felt the weight of it settle at the base of her throat.
The dress cinched tighter than the press jacket had, “structure reads as power” still echoing from her stylist’s lips. The collar gleamed at her neck—purple leather, gold peonies flashing under the chandeliers. In the drawer it had been decoration. Tonight it was a headline. Armor, if she wanted it to be. A leash, if anyone else decided to see it that way.
And everyone was seeing.
The room loved them. Of course it did. The Saja Boys moved through the ballroom like they’d been poured there—effortless, buoyant, a current everyone else adjusted to without noticing they’d adjusted. Lights found them. Laughter rearranged itself to accommodate their timing. Jinu was three conversations at once, that maddening blend of present and untouchable, smiling as if he’d invented the idea and would be kind enough to license it to the rest of the planet. Huntrix hummed in the air like a frequency, half-perfume, half-memory, the collar at Rumi’s neck turning every glance into an interpretation exercise.
The girls knew their choreography. Zoey’s hand on Rumi’s elbow when the questions got too pointed. Mira’s soft “we’re keeping it light tonight” to a sponsor who wanted to pivot to destiny on camera. The words came easier when she had them at her sides—Zoey’s sunshine slanting the harshness off her edges, Mira’s gravity bringing the floor back when it tried to skate out from under her. They played it like a string trio: Rumi offered the melody, Zoey riffed it, Mira landed the bassline. When the conversations ran too long, the girls gently intervened with a laugh, a topic change, an excuse that sounded like kindness.
“She’s wiped,” Zoey stage-whispered to an earnest young editor who wanted to trade trauma narratives like baseball cards. “Long week, big hearts, little batteries. Ten words or less or you have to Venmo us for emotional labor.”
The editor laughed, grateful to be let in on the joke of being human. “Ten words,” she promised. “You look beautiful. How are you holding up?”
Rumi could do that one. “Hydration, delegation, celebration,” she said, counting off on manicured fingers. “And boundary setting.”
Mira’s mouth crooked. “You heard the woman,” she said to the editor, a velvet thing hiding a blade. “We’re letting the night be pretty and light. No dissertations.”
They moved, then, to a different cluster, and another, the way river water moves around rocks. Rumi’s smile worked like a muscle that had been trained past soreness. The collar lay warm against the notch of her throat, too intimate for this lighting. Every time somebody’s gaze snagged there, the bond inside her answered like someone had run a finger down a harp string. She told it to behave. It complained without words and then sulked.
The boys were fine. Floating. Joking. Bobby had coaxed a maître d’ into letting him behind the bar for exactly thirty seconds and then made a flourish of returning the shaker like a missing crown. Romance kept accidentally standing in the path of cameras and then pretending he’d been paid to block them. Jinu moved efficiently through attention like a knife through chiffon—no snags, no blood, just clean lines. He had a way of applauding other people with his face that made them look like they had accomplished something by making him laugh. She resented it and loved it and wanted to crawl out of her own skin.
By the time the sixth mini-conversation turned into the seventh, by the time the same compliment had been wrapped in three different synonyms, Rumi felt the room change temperature. Not the thermostat—her own internal weather. The shallow breath that meant she was counting her ribs instead of using them. The too-full glitter of chandeliers. The steady bloom of cologne, champagne, heat, electricity.
“I’m going to get a drink,” she told Zoey, mouth barely moving. That was their rule: say the real thing the simplest way.
Zoey’s eyes flicked immediately, reading her like sheet music. “Two minutes,” she said, as if they were talking about lip gloss and not leaving a stage. “Call us if some weirdo tries talking to you and I’ll invent a fire.”
Mira didn’t smile. She never pretended for the sake of pretend. She just dipped her chin in that quiet way that meant I saw the thing you didn’t say. Her cherry-vanilla alpha scent sharpened the air by a degree, a silent perimeter.
Rumi ghosted sideways through bodies, avoiding the easy snares—the man who wanted to tell her about the time he’d almost dated a demon and what it taught him about women; the woman who wanted to fight her own boss by using Rumi as a weapon. She let the crowd fold around her like curtains, then slipped out a seam and into a little square of shade near a pillar. It was not truly a corner. Corners don’t exist at events like this. But it was the closest thing to one, and close enough.
“Driest champagne you’ve got,” she told the bartender, and when the flute touched her hand she let the cold anchor her. She leaned her shoulder against marble, letting the stone steal heat from her skin. The relief stung. She breathed into it. She let her gaze climb the room once, just to place herself on the map—to remind herself she was more than a dot being triangulated by other people’s wants.
The Saja Boys had already scattered into the current, playing their parts. Baby had a hand slung across a producer’s shoulder, Mystery was sprawled in a chair with a half-circle of fans orbiting him, Abby threw his head back when he laughed like the world had given him the punchline. They looked untouchable, golden, doing what they did best.
And then there was Jinu.
No spotlight on him, no mic in hand—just leaning loose against the arm of a chair, laughing at the right beats, letting people orbit him the way they always did. But his eyes weren’t on the guest with an arm around him. Weren’t on the cameras. They were on her.
Direct. Steady. Not the cocky smirk he usually wielded like a shield. Something quieter. Something that felt like being checked on.
Her heart skipped—an actual skip, traitorous and sharp. She jerked her gaze back to her glass, throat tight. What was up with him today?
She pressed her thumb under the rim, forcing her shoulders back into shape. She was fine. It was champagne and exhaustion and nothing more.
She did not hear the approach. Predators tended to make their edges soft until they were already around you.
“Miss Rumi,” a voice said, rich and familiar in the way stranger’s voices are when they’ve practiced being welcome. A hand extended into her field of vision like it belonged there. The watch on the wrist cost a mortgage. The suit was navy and tailored within a whisper. The hair had been convinced to lie by product and vanity. He smelled like cinnamon and pear, thick and insistent and too sweet, the kind of scent that tries to be sophisticated and winds up invasive. The bond under her sternum flared—as if someone had struck two pieces of metal together right at the base of her throat.
She did not take his hand. She let her eyes climb to his face. Younger than the gray-suited minister who had earlier offered “strategy” with a smile like a receipt. This one tried to wear youth as proof of relevance. His grin sharpened when he saw where she was looking. He dropped his gaze to the collar, let it slide just long enough to be a disrespect, and then dragged it back up like a man who wanted credit for remembering where eyes go.
He moved in like he’d been invited, like gravity owed him the space.
“At last,” he said, warmth dialed up like theater lights. “That’s a powerful choice.” His eyes dropped to her collar, lingered. “Makes you look… available for better things.”
Her smile went porcelain. “Good evening,” she said evenly, the kind of polite that cameras couldn’t twist. She took a half-sip of champagne and let the sting anchor her throat.
He leaned in closer, voice pitched into that faux-intimate register men use when they want a hallway to feel like a secret. “A woman like you shouldn’t be boxed into a stage,” he murmured. “You should be seated at the table. With the right alliances—” his glance flicked again, a silent I see what you’re wearing, I know what it means “—you could shape the future.”
The cinnamon-pear of his scent pushed too thick, syrup in her nose. The bond crackled against her ribs, frantic, like a radio stuck between stations.
Zoey’s laugh carried across the room—bright, deliberate, drawing attention elsewhere. Mira’s head turned, shoulders sharpening into silent warning. But the man didn’t care. He was enjoying himself too much.
“We have private suites upstairs,” he added, all velvet and teeth. “If you’d like to talk without distractions.” His wrist tilted so his watch winked in the light, like the punctuation mark on an invitation.
“I’m not interested,” Rumi said flat, no sugar. The word landed clean between them.
He blinked—then smiled, as if she’d played coy. “Not now, perhaps. But think about it. With the right companionship, your brand could go global.”
His hand lifted and planted on the pillar beside her head, wrist angled just so—mocking the schoolboy kabedon gesture, but older, meaner, dressed in money. He didn’t touch her, but he made a wall of himself anyway, close enough the cameras could misread it as intimacy.
Her jaw tightened. “Move.”
He didn’t. “I’m only trying to help,” he said smoothly. “There are conversations that change careers. You just need to know where to have them.”
The bond rattled her ribs. The cinnamon stung hot behind her eyes. She braced to duck under his arm, but he mirrored her shift, practiced block. He’d rehearsed this. He’d done it before.
And then—
“Excuse me.”
The voice cut silk over steel. The air changed temperature.
Jinu slid into the geometry of the moment like the space had always been his. He didn’t crowd her; he stood just close enough that the man’s wrist, the whole posture, collapsed into a mistake. Champagne in his hand, jacket loose, eyes steady and unreadable.
The man startled, half-turning. Jinu’s gaze met his and didn’t move. Not mocking. Not joking. Just enough weight to tilt the balance of the room.
“That’s close enough,” Jinu said. His tone was smooth, but there was iron under it. Not a shout. Not a scene. Just the kind of sentence you couldn’t pretend you didn’t understand.
Laughter flickered around them—grateful, nervous, relieved at the cue. Cameras pivoted; the focus shifted like a flock of birds.
The man’s wrist dropped, his civility snapping back on like a mask. “Of course,” he said, retreat painted as grace. “I didn’t mean—”
“Do better,” Jinu said, not loud. The words landed like a coin in a jar—small sound, big meaning.
The man’s mouth opened, closed, recalibrated. He darted a look at the nearest lens and found himself uninteresting. He smiled at no one in particular, nodded at a server, lost momentum, slid away. Cinnamon dragged after him like a stain.
Rumi’s body did a thing she didn’t give it permission for: it let go. Relief left her like a muscle unclenching so fast it hurt. The bond sang—no, not sang, screamed, a struck wire shivering under skin. Her brain made a hot, bright, stupid leap: alpha protected me. And then a harder correction, like slapping her own hand away from a flame. Not my alpha. The thought punched out of her mouth before it chose a volume.
“Not my alpha,” she said, too loud for the pocket they had carved, loud enough that three heads nearby turned, curious, then politely uninterested when there was no blood.
Jinu’s gaze flicked to her. Not confusion, not offense. A fast, private check like you bleeding? you breathing? you burning? He angled his shoulder so the curious eyes saw nothing worth cataloguing. “You okay?” he asked—stage voice for the room: harmless, amused; private voice layered under it: tell me now.
She could have said yes. The real answer barreled out anyway, fanged and clumsy. “Don’t—” she heard herself and wanted to pull on the emergency brake of her mouth—“don’t do the thing where you tell me later you took care of it.” Her skin was too thin. Everything felt like a script being forced on her. “I can’t do the… the quip about saving me. Not—” the word scraped—“not today.”
His face changed by a millimeter. If you weren’t her, you wouldn’t have seen it. The hinge on the burnished thing shifted. A muscle betrayed him under his jaw. “I wasn’t going to quip,” he said, and the low thread under the harmless tone vibrated like a warning to the old gods. “I was going to say he was out of line and I wanted to break his wrist.”
“Jinu,” Zoey hissed from twenty feet away, a stage whisper pitched like a violin note. You good?
“I’m fine,” Rumi called back, the word landing too bright. She could feel eyes tilt their way: not a storm, just the breeze you get before a storm decides to exist. She needed out. Not forever. Just enough to put skin back on bone.
“I’m—” she made a shape with the champagne, almost sloshed, rescued it like she’d caught herself mid-fall and then laughed too hard—that fake party laugh she hated—“air. I need air.”
Mira’s gaze found her, sharp, then gentled. She nodded once, the go, I’ve got you signal, and pivoted to occupy a cluster that had been reaching sticky hands toward Rumi’s corner. Zoey lifted her phone like she’d gotten a text from God and launched into a new joke, catching two cameras, three donors, and a bored actor in the net of her chatter. Rumi took the door that wasn’t a door—the seam of staff traffic—and slipped through.
The service hallway threw the bass behind walls. Lemon cleaner and dust; the rectangular ugliness Rumi loved in spaces that don’t have to perform. She counted stairs because counting gave panic something to do. The metal landing was cold through the sole of her heel. The door at the top resisted like a person who had learned boundaries; she pushed; it made a small complaint and then allowed itself to be opened.
Wind washed her. The city exhaled. Neon stitched the horizon to itself. The rooftop had that specific loneliness that made sense—no mirrors built into the view, just windows with other people’s lives trapped behind them. She went to the parapet and braced both hands. The stone bit into her palms and made them hers again.
It didn’t take him long. Of course it didn’t. She didn’t hear the door so much as feel the air on her left change—like the temperature had shifted by a degree just to let her know he was here. He came to stand close enough to register, not so close that she could call it crowding. His forearms braced on the railing, eyes pointed toward the skyline like he’d been here all along.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Wind and neon did the talking, carrying the ballroom noise away in pieces. Rumi let herself breathe until her voice stopped shaking in her chest.
“I just hated that,” she admitted, shaking her head. “The way he was looking at me… like he already owned the conversation. Like I was supposed to play along.” She rubbed at her arm. “It made my whole body feel wrong. Like… itchy on the inside.”
Jinu’s jaw flexed, the only tell. “Yeah. He was gross,” he said finally, plain, like calling a spade a spade. “And too close.”
Her laugh came out thin, humorless. “Understatement of the year.”
He shifted his weight, head angling toward her without turning all the way. “You handled it, though. You didn’t need me to do anything.”
“Didn’t feel like handling it,” she muttered. Her shoulders hitched. “Felt like standing there hoping my face didn’t betray me.”
She hesitated, then glanced at him sideways. “Back at the press conference…” Her voice came out smaller than she meant. “When you—when you said all that. On camera. You didn’t have to.” She bit her lip. “You made it sound like I was… untouchable. Like I wasn’t someone they could pick apart.”
He was quiet long enough that she regretted asking. Then: “They were trying to turn you into a headline. I don’t like headlines.” A shrug, like it cost him nothing. But his jaw was tight. “And you looked like you wanted to punch through the podium. The media already paints us as the bad guys anyway, I figured I could take the swing for you.”
Her throat tightened. The memory of his words—sharp, public, claiming—pressed at her again, fresh and dizzying. She wanted to ask more, wanted to untangle what he’d meant, but his voice softened into something else before she could.
He was quiet for a second. Then, with a sigh: “You’ve been running nonstop since the cave. Since the press. You’re running on fumes. You should get some real rest, Rumi. I’m—” He cut himself off, rubbed the back of his neck, then admitted, softer, “I’m worried about you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. She bit the inside of her cheek, her chest buzzing in a way that had nothing to do with champagne. The bond was thrumming, too loud, demanding something. She wanted to snap at it, shove it down. Instead, her body betrayed her.
She glanced sideways at him, half-expecting some smug one-liner. That was usually his move — a smartass quip to break tension, to make the world feel less sharp. Her shoulders braced for it.
But he didn’t joke. Didn’t say a word.
He just opened his arms, casual, patient, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Her throat tightened. Instinct moved faster than thought. She stepped into him, let her forehead rest against the curve where his shoulder met his neck. His body went warm around her immediately, steady, anchoring.
And then—his scent hit her.
Citrus, sharp and clean, undercut by sandalwood, warm and grounding. It hit like gravity. Her nerves stopped shorting out, every muscle in her body unclenching at once.
Any sane alpha wouldn’t let an unbonded omega do this. Would’ve laughed it off, would’ve pulled back, would’ve worried about how it looked. Because scenting wasn’t momentary; it lingered. Hours later, anyone with a nose would catch it. It announced something intimate that hadn’t even been spoken. The wrong impression. The kind of impression that changed conversations.
But Jinu didn’t move. Didn’t question. He just tilted his chin higher, opening his throat more, angling to give her the access she hadn’t even asked for.
She pressed closer, face tucked against the warm line of his neck, lungs dragging citrus and sandalwood in deep like it was medicine. The buzz under her skin finally slowed. The bond sang at her, so loud it hurt, the hum of it winding under her ribs like a wire pulled too tight. She told herself it was just hormones, just biology, nothing deeper than that. Just exhaustion and adrenaline and her body trying to trick her.
But even as her muscles unclenched, her brain whispered the thing she hated most: He’s only doing this because of the bond. Any sane alpha wouldn’t let an unbonded omega scent them like this, not unless they had to. Not unless biology was screaming at them. Jinu would never actually want to hold her this way. If the bond weren’t a factor, he’d probably laugh, make some dumb joke, keep it light.
The thought stung—sharp, fast, like pressing on a bruise. She almost pulled back, almost ruined the fragile peace they’d carved out here.
And then, quietly, he said, “Better?”
It was such a simple word, but the way he asked it—low, careful, almost vulnerable—hit the exact spot where the sadness had just bloomed. Like he’d felt the shift in her chest even though he couldn’t possibly know.
She startled, then pasted a quick smile as she eased back, pretending her throat wasn’t tight. “Yeah. Better.”
His eyes lingered on her face a second too long, searching. Then he gave her a small, crooked smile. “Good. You really should get some rest, though. You’ve been running yourself into the ground all week.”
The concern in his tone nearly undid her again. She straightened, snapped her mask back on before the ground could slip out. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Me?” His hand came up, mock-offended. “Never. I’m the picture of normal.”
She huffed, tension breaking, but her cheeks were still hot. “Just… don’t be a dick about it, Jinu.”
His grin widened. “Low bar,” he said, dry and easy. “But I’ll take the win.”
The silence stretched, not heavy this time but charged, like static waiting for a spark. Rumi’s pulse stuttered. His eyes were still on her, lingering too long, and she suddenly realized how close they were standing. Close enough that if she tilted her chin up a little, if he leaned down just a fraction—
Her breath caught. His gaze dropped to her mouth for a second too long, then snapped back up like he’d burned himself.
The bond sang at her, cruel and insistent: yes, yes, this, closer. Her fingers twitched against her skirt, tempted.
The silence stretched, not heavy this time but charged, like static waiting for a spark. Rumi’s pulse stuttered. His eyes were still on her, lingering too long, and she suddenly realized how close they were standing. Close enough that if she tilted her chin up a little, if he leaned down just a fraction—
Her breath caught. His gaze dipped to her mouth for a heartbeat too long, then snapped back up like he’d burned himself. The bond thrummed at her, cruel and insistent: yes, yes, this, closer.
She cleared her throat, too sharp in the quiet, and he mirrored it with an awkward little cough of his own—two people breaking a spell neither would name. He straightened his jacket like it had been the problem all along.
Her chest still buzzed. Butterflies crawled under her skin, hot and restless, like her body had decided it knew a secret her brain refused to touch. She shoved the feeling down hard. Told herself it was nothing. Told herself it was the bond, stupid biology tricking her nerves, making her believe something that wasn’t there.
It had to be one-sided. Of course it was. Jinu would never actually want… whatever that almost was. He was just being decent, just reacting to instincts neither of them had asked for. She wasn’t going to force him into anything just because their bodies hummed at the same frequency now.
But the bond—oh, the bond hated that answer. It pulsed sharp in her chest, angry, insistent: no, no, no, he’s right there, don’t pull away, he’s yours.
She pressed her lips together, smoothed her skirt, pretended her hands weren’t shaking.
“Anyway,” he said, voice casual to the point of parody. “We should probably get back before Zoey turns crowd control into performance art.”
Her laugh came out strangled, half-relief, half-regret. She smoothed her skirt, tucked hair behind her ear, while he fussed with a cuff like the wind had gotten the better of it.
“Okay,” she said, too brightly. “Downstairs.”
“Before Mira commits murder in a three-piece suit,” he added, deadpan, shoving his hands into his pockets.
That made her smile despite herself.
……
They tumbled back into the apartment in a tangle of heels, jewelry, and leftover adrenaline. Zoey kicked her shoes halfway across the living room and flopped onto the couch like she’d been personally wronged by gravity. Mira unzipped her dress with clinical precision, draping it over the back of a chair as if neatness could erase the memory of six hours of schmoozing.
Rumi was the last one through the door, tugging pins out of her hair. She’d barely made it three steps inside before Zoey sat up, nose wrinkling.
“Uh-huh.” Her tone was wicked. “You smell different.”
Rumi froze, pulse jumping. “It’s champagne.”
Mira arched a brow. “That is not champagne.”
Zoey leaned forward, inhaling like a bloodhound. “Nope. Definitely citrus. And—what is that? Sandalwood? Rumi, babe, you’re giving ‘expensive cologne commercial.’”
Rumi rolled her eyes hard enough to ache. “It was crowded. I got jostled. Do you want me to smell like cinnamon-pear nightmare guy instead?”
That shut them up instantly. Both of her best friends groaned in unison.
“Ugh, him,” Zoey said, shuddering so hard the couch creaked. “He had pervy uncle at a wedding energy.”
“More like CEO with NDAs in his desk drawer,” Mira muttered, deadpan.
Rumi barked out a laugh despite herself, dropping her bag on the counter. “Exactly. Gross. End of story.”
Zoey’s grin sharpened. “Not end of story. Because you vanished for like ten minutes, and then you come back smelling like…” She waved her hands dramatically. “Not-pear.”
Mira cut in, tone casual but eyes way too sharp. “Did Jinu say something?”
Rumi stiffened, then forced her shoulders loose. “He was annoyingly calm,” Rumi said. “Smiled, said ‘do better, honestly, that was the smartest thing anyone said all night.”
Zoey squealed. “Ugh, iconic. ‘Do better.’ I’m putting that on a tote bag.”
“Please don’t,” Mira said, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
Rumi groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Can we not dissect my evening like a group project? I just want to sleep for a year.”
They laughed, the teasing softening back into warmth, and that was how the night began to loosen its grip—jokes, groans, the safe chorus of best friends who knew when to poke and when to shut up.
“Are you okay, though?” Zoey asked finally, quieter. “Really.”
Rumi shrugged, because people expected big gestures and she only had a small honest one. “Tired,” she said. “Annoyed. Also I ate something too spicy at the pass-around, so my insides are dramatic.” It was absurd and true. Mira saw through it anyway and gave her knitting-fingers a look that said I know you better than you know yourself right now.
“You did good,” Mira said, because Mira handed out validations like breath mints. “You were Rumi: friendly, sharp, not a punchline. Nobody made you into one.”
“Except the navy guy,” Zoey added, and they all laughed again until the sound knocked the last edges off the night.
They untangled into the bedroom like three ships coming into harbor—stories traded under breath, plans for tomorrow whispered like spellwork. Zoey fell asleep like a light going out: quick, immediate, undramatic. Mira checked Rumi’s face with the patience of someone who reads maps in eyes and said, “Text me if you want to re-route tomorrow. Don’t second-guess yourself tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” Rumi said, and meant it mostly. She kissed both their cheeks with a kind of clumsy gratitude and pushed at the covers until the bed accepted her.
Lying there, the city hummed outside: a distant ambulance, a late-night bird, the odd laugh from an upstairs balcony. Rumi let the sound cradle her, counted her breaths like a dull mantra, tried to peel the night’s sting from her limbs. For a while she convinced herself the rooftop had been a neat, self-contained event—the man was gross, Jinu had been decent, they’d gone home, they’d laughed, and everything that complicated the shape of the evening lived outside her like a television program she’d watched. She told herself the bond was a new thing, a biological hiccup. It was wind-chimes in her ribs and nothing more. Biology, she repeated in the hollow places where fear collected. Biology. Exhaustion. Stress. That’s it.
Then she felt it: a tug, subtle at first, like a single finger tracing the inside of her sternum. It wasn’t a thought so much as a pressure, a thread tightening toward the south. Her eyes snapped open in the dark. For a beat she lay there and breathed, telling herself the most reasonable thing she could muster—it’s just the bond; it’s a thing they don’t have control over; it’s not a promise; it’s a newness that feels like electricity but it’s not a soul. She repeated it until the words felt mechanical.
Her ribs throbbed in time with the pulse of that stubborn little tug. She could have texted him—one word, a check-in—and maybe she would have, in another life. Instead she turned her face into the pillow and forced the breath to shallow, as if if she minimized herself she would stop making noise that pulled him like a magnet across a city he didn’t know how to cross.
She told herself, one last, tired way of saying it: this was biology. A mistake. A misfire. Not destiny, not meaning. She folded that reasoning like a paper fortune, shoved it under the mattress of her mind where it might not wrinkle the truth.
The last thought that came to her before sleep finally took her was small and terrible and unarguably true: the bond wasn’t supposed to feel like longing. It was supposed to feel like choice. Instead, it felt like a secret she couldn’t tell without burning the world down