Page 164 of Unmarked

Safe.

And if that sounds like prison, congratulations. You understand exactly what I meant it to be.

The door at the end of the hall looms like a final boss, all steel and biometric locks and military-grade soundproofing. I don’t need a camera feed to know she’s behind it, I can feel her through the walls - hot, restless, spent, probably; but not satisfied. Not settled.

And definitely not mine.Yet.

Which means we’re not done here.

They thought they could handle her. Thought they could satisfy an omega like her by half-bonding and half-fucking and whispering poetic nonsense against her neck like it was foreplay and therapy all rolled into one.

Clowns.

Bonding is a spark. Knotting is a claim.

But marking? That’s the lock. The seal. The thing that lasts when the heat fades and all the pretty words stop working.

And none of them have done it.

Not Theo with his reverent hand-holding.

Not Ash with his disciplined rut-denial.

Not even Kai, who has all the self-restraint of a raccoon let loose in a bakery.

They bonded her, but they didn’t finish her.

So here we are.

I place my hand on the access panel, and the door hisses open with satisfying dramatic flair. The pressure releases, and the scent hits me like a sledgehammer wrapped in silk.

Slick. Heat. Hers.

Underneath it, unfortunately, are the ghosts of them.

Theo’s warmth. Ash’s storm. Kai’s chaos.

I breathe through the disgust. I’ve survived worse. Corporate retreats, for example.

I step inside, and there she is.

Rhea.

Curled in the center of the nest like something holy and profane at the same time. Skin flushed, hair damp and clean, lips parted like she forgot to finish a thought. There’s a single sheet wrapped around her, barely. The curve of her hip peeks through. Her thigh shifts just slightly - enough to remind me she’s naked underneath.

Not a trap. A dare.

The nest itself is chaos, a mess of pillows and scent-worn shirts. Some of them are mine. I spot one balled near her head, close enough that she must’ve slept with it, and my chest does something treasonous and ridiculous like ache.

The second she sees me, something changes.

Not just her expression, her whole body.

Her toes curl. Her breath catches. Her hands fist in the sheet like it personally offended her.

Instinct.

I know the signs. I invented the goddamn manual.

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