Just the steady, unwavering belief that this—us—is worth the risk.
We stare at each other. His blood paints my lips like the darkest lipstick, metallic and warm and still flowing slightly from where he bit himself open.
An offering.
A challenge.
A promise written in biology instead of ink.
My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised it hasn't burst through my ribs yet—one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, the rhythm erratic and useless because no amount of counting can prepare me for what he's asking me to do.
Bite him.
Bond with him.
Make this permanent in a way that can't be undone with paperwork or distance or second thoughts.
My eyes drift to his neck.
The left side is exposed—vulnerable, the pale column of his throat marked with that beautiful viper tattoo that winds up from his collarbone. I can see his pulse there, rapid and strong, proof of life and arousal and the same desperate hope that's currently destroying me from the inside out.
All I have to do is lean in.
Sink my teeth into the sweet spot where neck meets shoulder.
Bite down hard enough to break skin, to trigger the biological imperative that will flood both our systems with bonding hormones and lock us together permanently.
It would be so easy.
So terrifyingly easy.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to do it—my Omega biology recognizing its mate, demanding I claim him the way he's offering to be claimed. My pussy is producing slick inquantities that should be embarrassing, trying to ease the way for his knot, preparing my body for a bonding that my brain is still trying to logic its way out of.
But logic is losing.
Has been losing since the moment he caught me inside the post office, and I smelled his vanilla delight of a scent that made my body hum in delight and yearn for belonging.
My fingers are twitching against his chest—tap-tap-tap-tap—four times, four times, always four because even numbers are safe and control is all I have left.
Except I don't have control.
Haven't had it since he kissed me in the rain, surrounded by my ruined letters.
Haven't had it since I let him into my sanctuary, into my shower, into my bed, and my body, and the broken pieces of my heart I thought I'd locked away so thoroughly no one would ever find them.
He found them anyway.
Found me.
And now he's offering himself in return—blood and vows and the kind of commitment people like us aren't supposed to be capable of.
I search his eyes.
Looking for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that he doesn't fully understand what he's asking for.
That he doesn't know I'm too broken to be anyone's Omega.
That he hasn't realized bonding with me will tie him to an Omega with a body count, a trauma history that reads like a horror novel, and mental instability that makes every day a gamble on whether I'll survive until nightfall.
