Page 19 of The Omega Accountant

I unbuttoned my shirt slowly, the fabric sticking to the wound asIpeeled it away.Theslash along my side was approximately four inches long, deep enough to require stitches but having missed anything vital.Luca'ssharp intake of breath confirmed whatIalready knew—it looked worse than it was.

"You need a hospital," he said, voice tight.

"No hospitals."Theresponse was automatic, mafia doctrine ingrained since childhood. "It'snot as bad as it looks."

"You're not a doctor," he countered, but his hands were already reaching for the antiseptic, accepting the reality that hospitals weren't an option in our world.

"Neither are you."

"I had a clumsy brother and a mother who worked double shifts."Hedampened gauze with antiseptic, his movements revealing practiced familiarity. "Sitstill.Thiswill hurt."

The warning came a second before the burning sting of antiseptic against raw flesh.Iremained motionless through years of discipline, though my muscles tensed involuntarily.Lucaworked with clinical precision, cleaning the wound methodically, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You've done this before,"Iobserved, studying the careful movements of his hands near my skin.

"Often enough."Hediscarded bloodied gauze, reaching for fresh supplies. "Mybrother found trouble wherever he went.Beingomega meantIlearned to patch things up without attracting attention."

Another piece of his history revealed, another layer beneath the quiet accountant facade.Ifiled the information away, assembling a more complete picture ofLucaBianchiwith each fragment he offered.

"This needs stitches," he said, examining the clean wound. "Ican do it, but?—"

"Do it,"Iinterrupted, trusting his assessment more thanI'dexpected to.

He hesitated only briefly before nodding, opening the suture kit with practiced movements.Hishands remained steady as he prepared the needle, his focus absolute.Whenhe stepped closer to begin stitching, his scent enveloped me—honey and citrus intensified by concentration, by proximity, by the fading effectiveness of his suppressants.

The first puncture of the needle sent a sharp spasm through my side.Myjaw clenched involuntarily, muscles tensing beneathLuca'shands as my breath hitched—a momentary surrender to pain quickly mastered.Thephysical discomfort barely registered after that initial response, eclipsed by the effect of his scent, his presence, his unexpected competence in adversity.Thisclose,Icould see the fine tension in his jaw, the determination in his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands that he mastered through sheer will.

Strong in ways my father would never recognize.

His scent thickened in the closed space between us, the notes growing richer, more complex.Thesuppressant patch behind his ear—the second he'd applied since the earlier incident—was already showing signs of fatigue, the edges curling slightly as his elevated heart rate and proximity to an injured alpha overwhelmed its chemical barriers.

My nostrils flared involuntarily, drawing his scent deeper into my lungs.Beneaththe dominant scent lay subtle notesIhadn't consciously cataloged before—something warm and earthy, like sun-baked soil after rain, and a fainter trace like ripening fruit on the edge of sweetness.Distinctive.Unmistakable.His.

My gums ached suddenly, canines throbbing with the primitive urge to extend, to claim, to mark the vulnerable juncture of neck and shoulder now inches from my face asLucabent to his task.Icould see his pulse fluttering beneath the delicate skin of his throat, could trace the slightly swollen scent gland that his failing suppressants could no longer completely conceal.

One movement.That'sall it would take.Onesurge forward to press my teeth against that gland, to break skin, to exchange the biochemicals that would forever alter us both—his scent permanently marked with mine, my biology irrevocably attuned to his, the claiming bond forged beyond paper documentation or verbal declaration.

Mine.Thethought pounded in my blood with each heartbeat.Mineto protect.Mineto claim.Mine.

I gripped the edge of the counter, marble cracking beneath the pressure of fingers now white-knuckled with restraint.Thesound—subtle but distinct—registered inLuca'sawareness.Hishands paused in their careful work, eyes lifting to meet mine.

What he saw there must have triggered some primal recognition—omega registering alpha on the edge of control.Hispupils dilated, a soft gasp escaping before he could suppress it.Hisscent shifted instantly, honey notes deepening with something dark and sweet, citrus sharpening with awareness that translated even through chemical barriers.

Sweat beaded along my hairline, dripping down my temple despite the cool air of the kitchen.Myvision narrowed, peripheral details fading as focus zeroed in on the pulsing vein beneath the skin of his throat.Thecounter edge crumbled further under my grip, fine dust of crushed marble raining silently to the floor.Everymuscle in my body had gone rigid, coiled with the effort of maintaining position when every instinct demandedIsurge forward, claim, bite, mark.

"Matteo?"Myname emerged as question and recognition simultaneously, his voice pitched lower than usual.

"Finish,"Imanaged, the word emerging through clenched teeth, control maintained through years of discipline now fraying at the edges. "Quickly."

Understanding flashed across his features, followed by something more complex—fear mixed with fascination, caution layered over instinctive response to alpha in protective rut.Theomega recognizing danger not to himself but to the careful boundaries we'd established between us.

His fingers trembled slightly as he tied off another stitch, his breathing quickening in pattern that matched my own.Theair between us had become charged with pheromones neither could fully suppress—alpha aggression triggered by injury and threat to claimed territory, omega response amplified by proximity and caretaking instinct.

"Almost done," he murmured, voice steadier than his scent suggested possible.

I forced my gaze away from the pulse point at his throat, focusing instead on the generic patterns of the kitchen backsplash, on the clinical aspects of what was happening rather than the biological imperative now roaring through my system.

Just stitches.Justwound care.Notthe omegaI'dclaimed on paper now close enough to mark permanently, his scent calling to something primal beneath civilized veneer.

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