[POV: JAXSON]

"Don't touch me, Remi. Just put the kit on the counter and walk away."

My voice was a shredded rasp, barely audible over the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears. The locker room was dead silent, but the air was screaming. I sat on the low wooden bench, my head hanging between my shoulders, watching the crimson droplets hit the floor. One. Two. Three. Each splash was a drumbeat of failure.

"You're bleeding through your shirt, Jaxson. You can't reach the gash on your shoulder," she said.

Her voice was too soft. It was a velvet ribbon wrapping around my jagged nerves, pulling them tight. I could smell her the moment she stepped over the threshold. Lilies. Rain. And that underlying, intoxicating heat that made my wolf want to rip its way out of my ribcage.

"I said stay back," I growled, but the sound lacked its usual bite.

My back was a roadmap of agony. The hit at the boards had done more than crack a rib; it had opened an old wound, a reminder of a life I was supposed to have conquered. I felt the warmth of the blood soaking into the fabric of my jersey, heavy and cloying.

"The team doctor is gone. Our parents are three states away. Who else is going to do it?"

I heard her footsteps. They were light, hesitant, yet steady. Each step she took toward me made the air in the room grow thinner. My lungs burned as I tried to pull in enough oxygen to stay upright. The lights in the training room flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the sterile white walls.

"I don't need your help," I hissed.

"Liars don't bleed this much," she countered.

I felt the bench shift as she sat behind me. The proximity was a physical blow. The heat radiating from her body was a localized sun, warming the chilled, sweat-damp skin of my neck. I closed my eyes, my jaw locking so hard I heard the bone creak.

I felt her fingers graze the hem of my jersey. It was the lightest touch, a mere ghost of a movement, but it sent a bolt of pure, unadulterated electricity straight to my marrow. My vision didn't just blur; it turned a molten, Alpha-gold.

"Lift your arms," she whispered.

I obeyed. Not because I wanted to, but because my body was no longer mine. I was a passenger in a vessel controlled by the bond we both pretended didn't exist. I pulled the jersey over my head, the fabric dragging against the raw skin of my back.

The air hit the wound, a sharp, cold sting that made me hiss. But the cold was nothing compared to the heat of her gaze. I could feel her eyes traveling over my scars, mapping the history of every fight I’d ever won—and the one I was currently losing.

"It's deep," she breathed.

I felt her hand settle on my shoulder blade to steady herself. Her palm was slick with a cold sweat that mirrored my own. Her touch was like a branding iron. Where her skin met mine, the world ceased to be a room of lockers and ice. It became a vacuum of sensation, a narrow tunnel where only the two of us existed.

[POV: REMI]

"Try to keep still. This is going to sting."

My hands were shaking so violently I almost dropped the bottle of antiseptic. My heart wasn't just hammering; it was a frantic, trapped thing, trying to break through my ribs to get to him. The sound of it echoed in my ears, a rhythmic thud that drowned out the hum of the industrial refrigerator in the corner.

I looked at his back. It was a landscape of power and pain. The muscles were bunched, quivering under the surface like a bowstring pulled to the breaking point. The wound was a jagged red line, weeping blood that looked too dark, too rich.

"Just do it," he growled.

I soaked a gauze pad and pressed it to the gash.

Jaxson’s entire body jolted. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat—not a scream, but a whine, deep and animalistic. It was a sound I felt in my own chest, a sympathetic vibration that made my wolf stir from its long, forced slumber.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice breaking.

"Don't be," he snapped, his voice tight with an agony that had nothing to do with the antiseptic.

I moved the gauze in a slow, circular motion. The metallic tang of his blood filled my senses, mixing with the dark chocolate scent of his skin. It was an overwhelming combination, a drug that made my head swim and my knees feel like water.

I found myself leaning closer. I couldn't help it. The bond was a physical tether, pulling my chest toward his back. I wanted to press my face against his skin. I wanted to lick the blood away. The thoughts were intrusive, primal, and terrifying.

"Remi," he warned, his voice a low vibration that I felt through the tips of my fingers.

"I know," I said, but I didn't pull away.

My fingers moved from the wound to the uninjured skin of his shoulder. He was so hot. It felt like he was running a fever of a hundred and five. The heat wasn't just physical; it was spiritual. It was the mark on my neck finally finding its match.

I watched the skin of his back ripple as I touched him. A series of fine shivers erupted across his shoulders. I followed the line of a scar that ran from his neck to his mid-back, my touch lingering on the jagged edges.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp and lethal against the dim light. His eyes were glowing, the amber light reflecting off the stainless steel of the medical cart.

"Because you're hurting," I said.

"We're both hurting," he countered. "Every second you're in this room, you're twisting the knife."

"Then let it twist," I said, a sudden, fierce defiance rising in my chest.

I moved my hand to the base of his neck, right where his own mark was hidden beneath the hair. The moment my skin made contact with that specific spot, the room exploded.

It wasn't a sound. It was a shockwave. A surge of white-hot energy blasted through my arm, hitting my heart with the force of a freight train. My vision went white. I felt a cry rip from my throat, but it was lost in the sudden, deafening roar of his own voice.

[POV: JAXSON]

"Enough!"

I spun around, my hand flying out to catch her by the waist. I didn't pull her in; I caught her as she fell. The contact was a catastrophe. The moment my hand closed around the silk of her dress, the bond snapped shut like a steel trap.

The heat was no longer a pulse. It was a wildfire. It roared through my veins, incinerating every bit of logic and restraint I had spent years building.

Remi gasped, her hands flying to my chest to steady herself. Her fingers dug into my pectoral muscles, her nails grazing my skin. Her eyes were wide, the gold irises glowing with a light that rivaled my own.

"Jaxson," she breathed, her voice a plea and a challenge all at once.

We stared at each other. The silence in the room was so thick it felt like we were underwater. I could hear her heart. I could hear the blood rushing through her carotid artery. I could hear the frantic, high-pitched whine of her wolf, answering the roar of mine.

The electricity between us was visible now, tiny blue sparks jumping between our skin where we touched. My skin felt like it was being peeled back, exposing the raw, aching soul beneath.

"You should run," I whispered. My hand on her waist tightened, pulling her closer until our chests were centimeters apart. "You should run as fast as you can."

"I'm tired of running," she said.

She did it then. She reached up and cupped my face. Her palms were hot now, the cold sweat gone, replaced by the fever of the bond. She looked at my mouth, and I felt my resolve shatter like glass under a hammer.

I leaned in, my nose brushing hers. I could taste her breath on my lips—sweet, like honey and desperation. My wolf was clawing at the back of my eyes, demanding I claim what was mine.

"If I touch you," I groaned, my eyes closing as I inhaled her scent, "I won't be able to stop. Do you understand? There is no brotherly love here. There is only this."

"I know," she whispered.

She leaned in, her lips grazing the corner of mine. It was a spark in a powder keg. I groaned, my head dropping to the crook of her neck. I buried my face in her hair, my teeth grazing the skin right above her mark.

I felt her shudder, a long, convulsive tremor that ended in her arching her back against my arm.

"Stay," I commanded, the word a ragged prayer.

"I can't," she whispered, even as she pressed herself closer.

We stayed like that for an eternity, two broken things trying to fuse together in the dark. The heat eventually settled from a wildfire into a slow, agonizing burn. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving us both trembling and hollowed out.

Eventually, the weight of the world returned. The ticking of the clock. The smell of the antiseptic. The reality of the lies.

I pulled back, my hands dropping from her waist as if I'd been burned. I couldn't look at her. I turned away, grabbing my discarded jersey and pulling it on with jerky, uncoordinated movements.

"Go home, Remi," I said, my voice dead. "I'll be back late."

[POV: REMI]

I didn't argue. I couldn't. My body felt like it had been turned inside out and left to dry in the wind. I walked out of the training room, my feet feeling heavy, as if I were walking through deep mud.

The drive home was a blur of streetlights and shadows. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. When I finally reached the mansion, the silence of the house felt like a physical weight. I went straight to my room, locking the door behind me.

I needed to feel normal. I needed to touch something that wasn't Jaxson.

I reached for my phone, which I’d left charging on the nightstand. It felt unusually heavy in my hand. I frowned, turning it over. The custom case I’d bought—a thick, rugged plastic—seemed slightly misaligned at the corner.

I picked at the edge with my fingernail. It gave way with a soft click.

The case popped off.

I stared at the back of the phone. There, nestled in a small hollow of the plastic casing, was a tiny, flat silver disc. It was no larger than a shirt button, but it had a small, pulsing green light that blinked with a rhythmic, mechanical precision.

A tracker.

My stomach dropped into a cold, dark abyss. My hands began to shake so hard the phone clattered onto the hardwood floor.

I hadn't changed this case in six months.

I sat on the edge of my bed, the room spinning around me. Six months. Six months of every movement, every secret meeting, every desperate attempt to escape being broadcast to someone.

I thought of Jaxson’s face when he found me at the party. I thought of the way he always seemed to know exactly when I was planning to leave.

The door to the hallway creaked.

I looked up, my heart stopping in my chest. Jaxson was standing there, his silhouette framed by the hallway light. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the phone on the floor.

"You weren't supposed to find that, Remi," he said.

His voice wasn't angry. It was worse. It was disappointed. He stepped into the room, and I saw what he was holding in his hand.

It was a tablet. On the screen was a map of the city, and a single, glowing red dot was centered exactly where I was sitting.

"Who else is watching me, Jaxson?" I asked, my voice a hollowed-out shell. "Is it just you, or is the High Council on the other end of this too?"

Jaxson didn't answer. He walked to the window and pulled the heavy curtains shut, plunging the room into darkness.

"The Council isn't watching you, Remi," he said, his voice coming from the shadows. "They're using the tracker to find the man who's coming to kill us both."

The window behind him shattered.

[POV: REMI]

"Where are you hiding the key, Jaxson?"

The question died in the hollow, cavernous silence of the mansion’s main hall. My own voice sounded like breaking glass to my ears—thin, sharp, and dangerously fragile. I stood at the threshold of the East Wing, my fingers tracing the cold, ornate brass of the double doors.

My palms were slick with a cold, viscous sweat that made my grip on the handle slide. Every hair on my arms stood on end, reacting to the heavy, pressurized atmosphere radiating from behind the wood. My heart wasn't just beating; it was a frantic prisoner, throwing itself against the bars of my ribs with such violence that I felt bruised from the inside out.

He wasn't here. I knew he was at the rink, bleeding out his rage onto the ice, yet the house felt saturated with his presence. It was a physical weight, a thick blanket of dark chocolate and ozone that seemed to pour out from under the door frame.

"I know you're in there," I whispered, the lie a small comfort.

I reached into the pocket of my robe, my fingers closing around the heavy iron key I had swiped from his bedside table while he slept. The metal was freezing, a jagged bite against my skin. My breath hitched, a sharp gasp that burned my throat as I slid the key into the lock.

Click.

The sound echoed like a gunshot through the marble hallway. I froze, my ears ringing with the sudden, sharp silence that followed. I waited for a hand to clamp onto my shoulder, for his growl to vibrate through my spine.

Nothing.

I pushed the door open.

The air that hit me was different. It wasn't the sterile, cold air of the rest of the mansion. It was warm. Suffocatingly warm. And then the scent hit me—a wave of wild jasmine and crushed vanilla.

My stomach did a slow, sickening flip. I stopped breathing, my mouth falling open as I tasted the air. It was my perfume. But not the one I wore now. It was the specific, vintage scent I had used a year ago, a bottle I thought I had lost during the move.

"How?" I breathed.

The East Wing was supposed to be a storage area, a place for his old trophies and discarded gear. Instead, I found myself in a long, dimly lit corridor. The floor was covered in a plush, crimson carpet that swallowed the sound of my footsteps. The walls were lined with flickering sconces that cast long, dancing shadows.

I moved forward, my knees trembling so violently I had to lean against the wall for support. The wallpaper felt like silk under my fingertips, a luxurious texture that felt out of place in Jaxson’s world of steel and ice.

At the end of the hallway stood a single, heavy door. It was reinforced with iron bands, looking more like a vault than a room.

"What are you keeping from me?"

My voice was a ragged edge. I reached for the handle, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm that matched the pulsing heat of the mark on my neck. The skin there was beginning to throb, a deep, rhythmic ache that signaled his proximity—or his obsession.

I pushed. The door groaned, a heavy, metallic protest that vibrated through my teeth.

I stepped inside.

It was a training room. Heavy punching bags hung from the ceiling, their leather surfaces scarred and beaten. A set of weights sat in the corner, the iron gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.

But it was wrong.

The air here was thick with the jasmine scent, so concentrated it felt like I was drowning in a vat of it. My eyes darted around the room, searching for the source.

I saw the heavy squat rack against the far wall. It was bolted to the floor, but as I stepped closer, I noticed the scratch marks on the hardwood. It had been moved. Frequently.

I grabbed the steel bar, my muscles straining as I pulled. The rack moved with a low, grinding screech.

Behind it was a door. A small, unassuming wooden door with a simple latch.

My hand shook as I reached for it. My vision blurred, a red haze of fear and curiosity clouding my sight. I felt a drop of cold sweat slide down my spine, making me shiver despite the heat.

"Don't do this, Remi," I whispered to myself. "Turn around. Go back to your room."

But the bond wouldn't let me. It was a physical pull, a hook in my gut dragging me forward.

I lifted the latch.

[POV: JAXSON]

"She found it."

The words were a snarl that ripped through the silence of my locker room. I sat on the bench, my skates still on, the blade of my left foot digging a deep, jagged trench into the rubber flooring.

My heart was a wildfire. I could feel her. I could feel the exact moment she crossed the threshold into the East Wing. The bond didn't just vibrate; it shrieked. It was a siren in my blood, alerting me to the violation of my most sacred sanctuary.

"Jaxson? You okay, man?"

I didn't even look at the teammate who had spoken. I stood up, the movement so sudden and violent that the bench flipped backward, clattering against the lockers.

"Out!" I roared.

The room cleared in seconds. I was alone with the scent of her fear. It was reaching me across the city, a sharp, metallic tang that made my nostrils flare and my wolf howl. She was touching the door. She was lifting the latch.

"Damn it, Remi," I hissed, my fist slamming into the metal locker door.

The thin steel buckled under my blow, leaving a deep, jagged dent. I didn't feel the pain. I only felt the exposure. The raw, bleeding vulnerability of having my soul laid bare.

I grabbed my keys and ran. I didn't change. I didn't shower. I tore out of the arena, the tires of my SUV screaming as I peeled out of the lot.

Every red light was a personal insult. Every car in my way was an obstacle to be crushed. My vision was a strobe light of amber and black. The mark on my neck was a searing brand, burning through my shirt, telling me that she was inside.

She was seeing the truth.

The truth I had spent a year hiding behind hockey games and cold silences.

I reached the mansion in record time, the stone gates swinging open as I neared. I didn't park; I left the car idling in the driveway and burst through the front doors.

"Remi!"

My voice echoed through the house, a desperate, predatory call. I could smell the jasmine. It was escaping the East Wing, filling the foyer like a poisonous gas.

I ran toward the wing, my heavy boots thudding against the marble. I reached the training room, seeing the squat rack moved aside.

The wooden door was standing wide open.

The silence coming from that room was the most terrifying thing I had ever heard. It wasn't the silence of emptiness. It was the silence of a heart stopping.

I stepped into the doorway, my chest heaving, sweat dripping from my hair.

"Remi," I said, my voice breaking. "I can explain."

She was standing in the center of the small, windowless room. She looked like a ghost, her skin so pale it was almost translucent. Her hands were pressed against her mouth, her eyes fixed on the walls.

She didn't look at me. She couldn't.

Because the walls weren't covered in trophies. They weren't covered in hockey memorabilia.

They were covered in her.

[POV: REMI]

"You're sick," I whispered.

The word barely made it past my lips. My throat felt like it was coated in ash. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was standing in the center of a nightmare, and the walls were closing in to crush me.

There were hundreds of them.

Photographs. Sketches. Notes.

There was a photo of me at the grocery store from three months ago. I was laughing at something on my phone. I didn't even know he was there.

There was a sketch of me sleeping, the detail so fine I could see the individual lashes against my cheek. He had drawn it from the perspective of my bedside.

"Remi, listen to me," Jaxson’s voice came from behind me. It was low, vibrating with a desperate, animalistic energy.

I didn't turn. I couldn't take my eyes off the center wall.

There, pinned to the corkboard, were strands of my hair. Each one labeled with a date. There were dried flowers from bouquets I thought I’d thrown away. There was a glove I’d lost in the park last winter.

And in the very center, framed in gold, was a copy of the blood test.

But it wasn't the one I had seen.

This one had a red stamp across the top. PROPERTY OF THE HIGH COUNCIL. SUBJECT: OMEGA PRIME.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice finally cracking into a sob. I turned to face him, my legs giving out. I sank to the floor, my silk robe billowing around me like a shroud.

Jaxson was standing in the doorway, his eyes glowing a terrifying, molten gold. He looked feral, his jersey torn, his chest heaving with a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of my heart.

"It’s the reason I track you," he said, his voice dropping to a guttural growl. "It’s the reason I don't let you leave the house."

"You're a stalker," I spat, the bile rising in my throat. "You’ve been watching me like... like a predator."

"I am a predator!" he roared, stepping into the room.

The space was so small his presence felt like a physical weight, pressing me into the floor. He knelt down in front of me, his hands grabbing my shoulders. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my arms.

"I’m the only predator that isn't trying to kill you, Remi!"

"You’re the one who shredded my letter!" I screamed, hitting his chest with my fists. "You’re the one who keeps me in a cage!"

"Because the moment you step outside that cage, you're dead!" He shook me, his face inches from mine. "Do you see the dates on those photos? Those are the days someone tried to take you. Those are the days I had to kill to keep you safe!"

I froze. My hands stopped their assault, resting against the hot, damp fabric of his jersey. My heart skipped a beat, then another. The ringing in my ears intensified until the world felt like it was tilting.

"What?" I whispered.

Jaxson let go of my shoulders, his hands moving to cup my face. His palms were scorching, the heat of the bond exploding between us. I felt a shiver of terror and desire race down my spine, a conflict so intense I thought I would shatter.

"You're not just a mate, Remi," he breathed, his thumb grazing my lower lip. "You're the first Omega Prime born in a century. Every Alpha in the three-state area is hunting your scent. If I don't keep you here, if I don't keep you covered in my scent, they will tear you apart."

I looked into his eyes and saw the truth. It wasn't just obsession. It was a desperate, soul-crushing terror.

"Is that why you lied?" I asked. "Is that why you pretended we were siblings?"

"I had to hide you," he whispered. "Even from yourself."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine. I could feel his heartbeat—heavy, jagged, and utterly devoted. I should have run. I should have hated him.

But as I looked at the wall covered in my life, I felt the reversal. I felt the power shift. He hadn't just been watching me. He had been worshiping me.

"You're mine, Jaxson," I said, my voice suddenly cold and clear.

He pulled back, a look of shock crossing his face. "What?"

"If I'm this prize, this 'Prime,' then you're not my jailer," I said, standing up and looking down at him. "You're my guard dog. And it's time you started acting like it."

Jaxson stared at me, his jaw dropping. The Alpha-gold in his eyes flickered, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated submission.

And then, the house shook.

A boom, like a physical strike, vibrated through the floorboards. The jasmine scent in the room was suddenly drowned out by the smell of smoke and burning rubber.

Jaxson lunged for me, throwing his body over mine as the ceiling of the East Wing was ripped away by something with claws the size of scythes.

"They're here," Jaxson hissed, his claws extending from his fingertips.

I looked up through the gaping hole in the roof.

A helicopter hovered above, but it wasn't the police. A man was descending on a cable, his eyes glowing a bright, sickly violet.

"Remi!" the man shouted over the roar of the blades. "Your father sent me. It's time to come home to the Council."

Jaxson didn't look at the man. He looked at me, his eyes pleading.

"Don't go," he whispered.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said, reaching for his hand.

But as my fingers touched his, I felt a sharp, stinging pain in my neck. I reached up, my hand coming away with a small, silver dart.

The world began to fade to black.

"Jaxson..." I gasped.