When I opened my eyes, everything smelled like him.
Cedar, smoke, and that faint, wild-mint undertone that wrapped around my senses like silk ribbons. It should've been comforting—except it wasn't. It was dangerous. It reminded my body exactly where I was and who I was with.
The Alpha King.
And worse, I was still alive.
"Oh moon goddess, I didn't die of embarrassment," I whispered, sitting up. The sheets were soft, the bed ridiculously comfortable, and the faint hum of city traffic below said morning had already arrived.
I glanced around. No guards. No footsteps. No sign of him.
Perfect.
My head no longer throbbed, and the suppressant he'd given me had tamed my heat enough to function. My plan was simple: leave quietly, thank him later by letter (because face-to-face would be suicide), and start over. Again.
I found my clothes—wrinkled, blood-stained, and smelling like panic—and made my way to the door, walking on tiptoe. Each step creaked softly on the polished floor.
The main hall was empty, sunlight spilling through the massive windows. The city sparkled below. For a moment, I almost admired the view—Then my eyes landed on him.
He was sitting on the couch, casual as sin, sipping coffee.
Of course he was awake.
Of course.
His eyes lifted lazily, silver irises glinting under the morning light. "Going somewhere?"
My soul left my body.
"Oh! Uh—just—stretching my legs," I said with a nervous laugh that sounded like a dying bird.
He set his cup down. "With your shoes on."
"Cardio," I blurted.
He arched a brow. "Cardio."
I nodded furiously. "Yes. You know, heart health. Very important. Gotta run before breakfast."
Silence.
Then, softly—too softly—"You were planning to leave."
I swallowed. "I didn't want to impose."
"You were injured. And in heat."
"Yes, but I'm better now."
He stood, and I swear, the man could make standing up look like an act of war. "You think I'd let an unclaimed Omega in recovery wander through the city alone?"
When he said it like that, I realized how bad it sounded.
"I'll be fine," I said weakly. "I'm very low-profile. Average. Practically invisible."
"That's not reassuring."
He crossed the space between us in slow, deliberate steps. His pheromones rolled through the air, steady but dominant—reminding me that I was in his territory, breathing his scent, wearing his blanket.
He stopped just a few inches away. I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze.
"You shouldn't run," he said quietly. "Not until your scent stabilizes."
I wanted to argue. I really did. But every instinct I had screamed that defying an Alpha King was a terrible idea.
"I just—don't want to trouble you," I murmured, eyes darting away.
He studied me for a moment. "You talk like someone who's been punished for asking help before."
That hit a little too close.
"Maybe," I said softly.
Something flickered behind his eyes—curiosity, maybe even empathy—but it vanished as quickly as it came. He sighed. "Eat something. Then you can decide what to do."
I didn't argue again. Mostly because I was too busy staring at how his shirt sleeves were rolled up, veins running along his forearms like carved lines of marble.
Focus, woman. Don't ogle the Alpha King.
He turned away, unaware of my internal crisis, and I exhaled shakily.
I ended up staying.
One day became two. Then three.
He never told me to leave, and I didn't dare ask. His staff—if he had any—never appeared. It was like he lived in this entire apartment alone, silent and self-contained.
I tried to make myself useful: cooked meals, cleaned the guest room, watered the plants (which, frankly, were dying).
He never complained. In fact, the more I hovered around, the more... normal things started to feel.
Sometimes he worked in silence at the table, papers spread before him. Other times, he'd glance up when I passed and ask something mundane:"Do you always hum when you cook?""Why are there three kinds of sugar in that jar?""Is that... carrot cake?"
(Yes, yes, and yes.)
And every night, when the city lights shimmered outside the massive window, I caught him watching them in silence. Like he was waiting for something—or someone.
That thought made my chest ache in ways I didn't expect.
On the fourth night, I brought him tea.
He sat where he always did, one hand resting against his jaw, eyes distant. The window was open, the city breeze slipping in.
"This might help you sleep," I said softly.
He looked up, gaze sharp again. "You've been restless."
I froze mid-step. "How do you—"
"You move around at night."
Oh.
"I'm just... not used to soft beds," I said, forcing a laugh.
He took the cup from me, his fingers brushing mine again—just like before. That tiny contact sent heat flooding through my veins.
I pulled back too quickly. "Sorry."
He didn't let go right away. "Your scent has changed."
I blinked. "Changed?"
"It's... softer." His eyes narrowed slightly, as though analyzing something invisible. "Before, it was bitter—like fear. Now, it's calmer."
I looked down. "Maybe because I finally stopped running."
He hummed quietly, then set the cup down. "You're not from this city."
My heart skipped. "Why?"
"The way you move. The way you look at things. Like everything's both familiar and foreign."
I tried to laugh. "You sound like a detective."
"I have to be," he murmured, half to himself. "Everyone lies to me eventually."
The words hung between us, heavier than they should've been.
I hesitated before sitting down across from him. "Do you always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like every sentence comes with a backstory."
He smirked faintly. "And you talk like every answer is a deflection."
I froze. "I'm just... private."
"So am I."
We stared at each other—two people sitting inches apart, both hiding things the other didn't know how to name.
And for a moment, the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was... alive.
Later that night, lying in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about the look he gave me earlier. That flicker of recognition. Like he almost knew.
Like he'd seen me before.
And maybe he had.
Through a window. Across a street. Years—or lifetimes—ago.
I turned to face the ceiling, groaning softly. "If he remembers I used to be the creepy omega who watched him eat cereal shirtless, I'll throw myself off the balcony."
But deep down, another voice whispered.
What if he already knows, and he's just waiting for you to admit it?
The thought lingered long after I fell asleep, heart pounding softly beneath the echo of cedar and mint.