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The cool night air burned in Wallace’s lungs, each ragged breath a small victory against the steep incline of the trail. He’d needed this. A punishing, late-night jog to sweat out the lingering anxiety of a busy day at the call center, the cloying praise from supervisors, the cheap break room donuts. The forest, this trail, was his sanctuary, a place where the only scent was damp earth and pine, the only sound the frantic drumming of his own heart and the crunch of gravel and dirt under his worn-out sneakers.
Wallace is an omega, but not the delicate, wilting flower kind. He was built sturdy, with a dry wit and a backbone forged in the fires of putting up with Scott Pilgrim’s nonsense. He’d never been one for the whole alpha/omega song and dance. Those primal theatrics are both tedious and beneath him. No. Wallace managed his heats with suppressants, cold showers, and a healthy dose of sarcasm. He is always in control.
Or so he thought.
The shift in the atmosphere was subtle at first. A change in pressure, a prickle on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with sweat. The scent of the forest was suddenly…polluted. Overlaid with something thick, musky, and impossibly potent. It was an alpha scent, but not one he recognized completely. It was younger, sharper, and vibrating with a barely contained energy that set his teeth on edge. Rut. Fresh, violent, and unchecked.
Wallace’s jog faltered. He told himself to keep moving, to put distance between himself and whatever hormonal nightmare was tearing through the woods. But his feet were rooted to the trail, a prey animal frozen by the presence of a predator. A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness of the pines, resolving into the shape of a man. Tall, athletic, with a shock of platinum blond hair that was almost white in the sliver of moonlight.
Todd Ingram.
Wallace’s stomach dropped. He knew the guy by reputation and association, but only the basics--the bassist for The Clash at Demonhead, a nineteen-year-old prodigy, a vegan psychic, and, apparently, an alpha. Up close, the psychic part wasn’t a gimmick. Wallace could feel a low-level hum against his skin, an invasive mental presence that felt like sharp nails on a chalkboard.
“Hey,” Todd drawled, his voice a lazy, arrogant purr that didn’t match the frantic energy rolling off him in waves. That lack of control told Wallace that Todd had maybe only had four ruts so far in his life. His eyes, glowing faintly in the dark, roamed over Wallace’s body with an unnerving possessiveness. “Out for a stroll, Omega?”
The condescension was a physical blow. Wallace’s hackles rose.
“Piss off. I’m not interested.”
He tried to sidestep, to continue his job, but Todd moved with a speed that defied physics, blocking the path.
“I don’t remember asking if you were interested,” Todd replied, his smile widening into something predatory. The rut scent intensified, a suffocating blanket of arousal and aggression. It was so strong it was making Wallace’s head swim, his own carefully managed biology starting to betray him. A slick warmth began to gather between his thighs, a treacherous response to the overwhelming alpha presence.
Todd’s nostrils flared.
“There it is,” he breathed, his voice dropping to a low growl. He stepped closer, invading Wallace’s space, the heat radiating from his body like a furnace. “You can say no all you want. But your body…it’s screaming ‘yes.’”
Wallace shoved him, a hard, two-handed push to the chest. It was like shoving a brick wall. Todd didn’t even rock back on his heels. He just laughed, a high, bratty sound that was utterly infuriating.
“Feisty.”
Then he moved.
It wasn’t a fight. It was an ambush. A blur of motion, a grip like iron on Wallace’s arms that wrenched them behind his back. The world spun as Todd slammed him face-down onto the dew-coated grass at the side of the trail. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, stunning him. He struggled, kicking and bucking, but it was useless. Todd was stronger, fueled by the mindless, single-minded drive of his rut.
Tearing sounds filled the air as Todd ripped Wallace’s running shorts and boxers away. The cool night air hit his exposed skin, followed by the searing heat of Todd’s body pressing down on him. There was no preparation, no finesse. It was a brutal, primal act of claiming. Todd forced his way inside with a guttural groan, a painful, unrelenting intrusion that tore a raw scream from Wallace’s throat.
The pain was blinding, a white-hot agony that eclipsed everything else. He was being split open, used, his body a mere vessel for the alpha’s rut-fueled rage. He could feel Todd’s teeth grazing the nape of his neck, a threat and a promise. The scent of rut, sweat, and crushed grass filled his senses, a toxic cocktail. He was being knotted, stretched to his absolute limit, and there was nothing he could do but endure it.
It wasn’t just a physical violation. It was a psychic assault. Todd wasn’t just in his body; he was in his head. Wallace could feel the other man’s glee, his sadistic delight in Wallace’s pain and fear. It was a sick, intoxicating feedback loop. Todd enjoyed his helplessness, and the psychic proof of that enjoyment was a violation almost worse than the physical one. He wasn’t just being raped; he was being mentally toyed with, his suffering a source of entertainment for his attacker.
The crescendo of the rut seemed to last for an eternity, a frantic, punishing rhythm that eventually crested in a series of violent shudders. After biting over Wallace’s mating glands quickly but sharply, Todd collapsed on top of him, his weight a suffocating blanket, his knot still locked deep inside. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged gasps for air and the chirping of crickets, utterly indifferent to the atrocity that had just occurred. Blood trickled from the bite mark on Wallace’s neck
Then, as the biological violence subsided, something else began to take its place. An imprint.
It started as a faint, red thread weaving through the haze of pain and violation. Twisting this…assault into a connection. A bond. It was the most sickening, twisted thing Wallace had ever felt. His omega biology, in its ultimate betrayal, was bonding with its captor. He could feel Todd’s emotions not as an invasive force anymore, but as a part of himself. The smug satisfaction, the fading adrenaline, the possessive pride. And beneath it all, a flicker of something…else. A confusing, magnetic pull toward the man who had just destroyed him.
Todd shifted, his knot finally softening enough to pull free. The sensation was agonizing, and Wallace whimpered into the damp grass. He felt empty, bruised, and utterly broken.
Todd rolled off him, lying on his back a few feet away. He was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his pale skin. For a moment, he was silent. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse. “Fuck.”
Wallace didn’t move. He couldn’t. He just stared up at the canopy of leaves, the moonlight filtering through to paint dappled patterns on his vision. He felt Todd’s confusion through the new, sickening bond. The rut was fading, but the imprint was hardening, setting like concrete.
“You…” Todd started, then stopped. He propped himself up on an elbow to look at Wallace. The predatory smirk was gone, replaced by a wary, almost vulnerable expression. “You’re not…screaming. Or crying.”
“What’s the point?” Wallace’s voice was a raw, broken thing. He felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rise in his chest. “Is this the part where you get all remorseful and beg for forgiveness? Save it. I don’t care.”
“No,” Todd replied slowly, his gaze intense. He was feeling the imprint, too. He could feel Wallace’s pain, his humiliation, and the terrifying, unwanted attraction blooming beneath it. “It’s…I’ve never…” he seemed lost for words, a far cry from the arrogant alpha from moments before.
Wallace finally pushed himself up onto his side, his body screaming in protest. He looked at Todd, really looked at him. Naked, flushed, and looking disturbingly young without the arrogance to armor him. The imprint was a live wire between them. Wallace could feel Todd’s shock, his dawning horror at what he’d done to an almost-stranger now that the rut-fog was clearing. And he could feel his own, horrifying response: a twisted, masochistic desire to see that horror, to wallow in it. To make the sadistic brat who’d hurt him feel every ounce of pain he was feeling.
He was an omega. He was supposed to be nurturing, forgiving, to seek comfort in his alpha. But as he looked at the pathetic, confused alpha lying in the grass, all Wallace felt was a cold, sharp, and utterly predatory need to make him pay.
“Get up,” Wallace commanded, his voice gaining a sliver of its usual strength.
Todd blinked, surprised by the authority in his tone. The imprint, the nascent bond, made him want to obey. He slowly got to his feet, standing awkwardly in the moonlight.
Wallace pushed himself up, his legs trembling. He was naked, bruised, and leaking slick and cum, but he stood tall. He closed the distance between them, his eyes locked on Todd’s. The alpha flinched, expecting a blow, expecting tears. Instead, Wallace reached out and placed a hand flat on Todd’s chest, right over his frantically beating heart. Through the imprint, he felt a jolt of pure, electric fear from the alpha.
“You’re in rut,” Wallace said, his voice a low, dangerous purr that was a twisted mirror of Todd’s earlier arrogance. “And your body wants one thing. But you’re not in charge anymore. I am.”
The power dynamic had inverted so violently it made Todd dizzy. He could feel the truth of Wallace’s words through the bond, an iron will wrapped in ice where there should have been a fragile, broken omega. The rut was still a fire in his blood, a demanding ache for more, more, more, but it was now tethered to Wallace’s whim.
“What…what are you going to do?” Todd’s voice was thin, stripped of its earlier confidence. He was a psychic, but he couldn't read Wallace. The omega's mind was a fortress, all he got were the sharp, cold edges of his intent—even with the bond.
Wallace’s lips twisted into a grim smile. He leaned in, his own scent—sharper now, tinged with the metallic tang of his pain and the sweet, damning smell of his own arousal—washed over Todd. “We’re going to finish what you started. But my way.”
He shoved Todd, not with the futile desperation from before, but with a focused, commanding strength. Caught off guard by the sudden dominance in the bond, Todd stumbled backward, tripping over an unseen root and landing hard on his ass in the damp leaves. He looked up at Wallace, eyes wide with a dawning, terrified comprehension.
Wallace followed him down, straddling his hips. He was still sore, still aching, but the pain was fuel. It was a cold, clean fire burning away the shock and leaving only purpose. He took Todd’s face in his hands, his grip like a vise. Through the imprint, he fed the alpha a carefully curated diet of sensation: the searing pain of the initial breach, the humiliation of being held down, the sickening violation of the psychic intrusion. Todd gasped, his body arching as if he were the one being violated.
“Feel that?” Wallace hissed. “That’s me. That’s what you did.”
He then shifted the current, letting his own treacherous arousal bleed through the link. The slick heat, the involuntary clench of his body around a phantom knot, the horrifying pulse of pleasure that had spiked through the agony. Todd’s expression crumbled from fear to abject confusion. He was feeling Wallace’s pleasure at his own rape, and it was destroying him.
“Why…why does it…” Todd stammered, unable to form the words.
“Because my biology is a fucking traitor,” Wallace snarled, his voice breaking. “And now, so is yours.” He rocked his hips, grinding his bare ass against Todd’s renewed, rut-hardened cock. The alpha let out a choked groan, his hands coming up to grip Wallace’s thighs, not to throw him off, but to hold him there. The bond demanded it. His body demanded it. His mind was screaming.
“Please,” Todd whispered, the word torn from him. It wasn't clear if he was begging for more or for it to stop.
“Please what?” Wallace leaned down, his lips brushing against Todd’s ear. “Please fuck you again? Please claim you? Please make you mine?” He bit down hard on the lobe, not a playful nip, but a possessive, punishing bite. Todd cried out, a sound of pain and overwhelming pleasure. “You wanted an omega, you asshole? You got one. Now you’re going to learn what that really means.”
With a decisive movement, Wallace reached between them and lined Todd’s throbbing cock up with his abused, still-slick entrance. He didn’t slam down. He sank, slowly, deliberately, forcing Todd to feel every inch of the entry he had so brutally stolen. Through the bond, he let the alpha feel the burn, the stretch, the echo of the agony from before, but layered with it was the dark, heady pleasure of his own control. He was taking back the violation, turning it into a weapon.
Todd’s head thrashed against the ground, his hands clamped on Wallace’s hips. He was trapped, impaled not just by his body, but by the omega he had attacked. He could feel Wallace’s pain, his rage, his humiliation, and the terrifying, all-consuming lust that was now consuming them both. The rut was no longer his to command; it was a storm, and Wallace was its eye.
Wallace began to move, a slow, punishing rhythm that was nothing like the frantic rut-fucking from before. Each downward roll of his hips was a statement. Each rise was a threat. He was using Todd’s body, using the bond, to carve his name into the alpha’s soul. He wasn’t just being fucked; he was the one doing the fucking, in every way that mattered. He looked down at Todd’s face, contorted in a mask of agonized ecstasy, and felt a surge of dark, triumphant satisfaction.
“Look at me,” Wallace commanded, his voice ringing with an authority that was absolute through the bond. Todd’s eyes, glowing and unfocused, struggled to meet his. “You’re going to knot me again,” Wallace said, the promise a death sentence. “And this time, you’re going to be the one who begs.”
The words hung in the air, a curse and a sacrament. Todd’s mind, still reeling from the psychic onslaught, seized on the command. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a biological imperative transmitted through the bond, overriding every shred of his own will. The rut, which had been a raging wildfire, was now a contained inferno, focused entirely on the omega riding him with a chilling, deliberate grace.
“Wallace…” Todd choked out, his hands scrabbling at the damp earth, looking for an anchor in a sea of sensation he couldn't control. The arrogance was gone, the psychic hum was now a frantic, desperate plea for mercy that only Wallace could hear. He could feel the alpha’s horror warring with his primal need, a civil war being waged in his soul.
“Beg,” Wallace repeated, his voice devoid of all warmth. He rolled his hips, a slow, grinding circle that made Todd’s vision blur. He let the alpha feel the phantom pain, the memory of the brutal entry, then immediately followed it with the sharp, undeniable pleasure of his own body clenching around him. It was a punishment and a reward, a torture so exquisite it was breaking Todd’s mind.
Tears leaked from the corners of Todd’s eyes, tracing clean paths through the dirt on his temples. He had never felt anything like this. He was the prodigy, the psychic, the alpha apex. He was used to being in control, to bending the world to his will. But Wallace… Wallace was inside him, behind his eyes, rewriting his reality from the inside out. The bond wasn't a connection; it was a leash.
“Please,” Todd whispered, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Please, what?” Wallace demanded, his pace quickening slightly, the slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely in the quiet woods. He leaned forward, his breath hot against Todd’s cheek. “You have to say it. Tell me what you want.”
The internal struggle was visible on Todd’s face. His pride, his very identity, was being shredded. But the bond, the rut, the omega’s cruel command—it was an unstoppable force. He was drowning in Wallace’s pain and his own suffocating desire. “Please…let me…let me knot you,” he finally gasped, the words a shattered confession of his total submission.
A triumphant, predatory smile touched Wallace’s lips.
“Good boy.” He slammed down, taking Todd to the hilt in a single, brutal motion that tore a raw cry from both of them. He set a punishing rhythm now, no longer holding back. He chased the climax, not for his own pleasure, but for the final act of this twisted revenge.
He could feel it building in Todd, the tell-tale pulsing, the frantic swelling at his base. The alpha was a writhing, sobbing mess beneath him, completely overwhelmed. And through the bond, Wallace felt the knot begin to form. It was an echo of the first time, a blooming pressure, but this time, he was the one orchestrating the symphony of their shared agony.
“Now,” Wallace growled, his own voice thick with lust and power. “Do it now.”
With a final, guttural scream, Todd’s knot swelled to its full, agonizing size, locking them together in the most intimate of prisons. The force of it sent Wallace over the edge, his own orgasm crashing through him with the force of a tidal wave. It was a violent, shattering release, a climax born of rage and violation, not passion. His body clenched around the knot, milking it, demanding every last drop.
He collapsed forward, his forehead resting against Todd’s, their bodies locked together, trembling in the aftermath. The forest was silent save for their ragged, shared breaths. The psychic noise was gone, replaced by a profound, humming stillness. The bond was no longer a weapon; it was a fact. A permanent, unbreakable tether.
For a long time, they just lay there. Wallace could feel Todd’s emotions now with a startling clarity. The searing shame, the soul-crushing guilt, the terror of what he had become, and what Wallace had made him. And beneath it all, a terrifying, undeniable thread of… devotion. The bond was doing its work. It was forging a connection that transcended the horrific nature of its conception. It was tying the broken omega to his rapist, and the rapist to his victim, in a knot of their own making.
Wallace pushed himself up, his muscles screaming. He looked down at Todd. The alpha’s eyes were closed, his face streaked with tears and dirt. He looked wrecked, utterly destroyed. Wallace felt a flicker of something. Not pity. Not forgiveness. It was colder than that. It was the calm satisfaction of a predator that had successfully defended its territory and now owned the interloper.
He reached out, not with violence, but with a strange, detached curiosity, and brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from Todd’s sweaty forehead. The alpha flinched at the touch, but didn't pull away. He couldn't.
“Get up,” Wallace said again, his voice quiet now, but still holding the unshakeable authority of the bond. “We’re going back to my place.”
Todd’s eyes opened, wide and lost. “Why?”
“Because,” Wallace said, a dark, finality in his tone. “You’re my alpha now. And you have a lot to atone for.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you into my nest, Alpha,” Wallace sneered. The bond was strong, unfortunately, so it wasn’t so much as luck as it was force. A bonded alpha and omega easily share nests and dens—it’s in their nature. But Wallace wouldn’t hesitate to cut Todd down some, after everything.
The words hit Todd like a physical blow, and through the newly forged bond, Wallace felt the sting of it as a sharp, satisfying pang of his own. The sneer on Wallace’s face was a mask for the cold, hard satisfaction churning in his gut. He led the way, not taking Todd’s hand, not looking back. He didn’t need to. He could feel the alpha’s presence behind him like a second shadow, a tether of raw, anxious energy that pulled taut every time the distance between them grew more than a few feet.
Walking was a new kind of agony. The burn in his muscles from the jog was a distant memory, replaced by a deep, internal ache with every step. He could feel the slickness on his thighs, a humiliating, constant reminder of his body’s betrayal. But beneath the pain and shame, there was the thrum of the bond, a live wire connecting him to the man trailing him like a scolded dog. He could feel Todd’s confusion, his dawning horror, and the terrifying, unwanted pull of submission that Wallace’s dominance had forced upon him.
Wallace’s apartment was his sanctuary. A curated space of sharp lines, dark wood, and shelves groaning with books and vinyl. It smelled of him—old paper, coffee, and the clean, subtle scent of his own untriggered omega nature. It was a fortress. And tonight, he was bringing the enemy inside.
He didn't bother with the lights, navigating the familiar space in the moonlight streaming through the large window. He stopped in the center of his living room, turning to face Todd. The alpha stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking utterly lost. He was still naked, streaked with dirt and dried sweat, a stark, wild thing against the backdrop of Wallace’s controlled, civilized world.
“Stay there,” Wallace commanded, his voice flat. He felt Todd’s instant, instinctual urge to obey, the alpha’s muscles locking in place as if held by an invisible force.
Wallace disappeared into his bedroom, returning a moment later with a thick, plush throw blanket and a towel. He threw the towel at Todd’s chest. “Clean yourself up. You’re getting shit on my floor.”
The words were meant to cut, and they did. Wallace felt the prickle of humiliation from the alpha. He watched, unmoving, as Todd clumsily wiped himself down, his movements stiff and unsure.
When he was done, Wallace gestured to the large, low-slung sofa. “Sit.”
Todd obeyed, sinking onto the cushions as if his legs could no longer hold him. He looked small, stripped of his psychic arrogance and alpha posturing. He was just a man. A terrified, bonded young man.
Wallace then turned his attention to the sofa. He began to build the nest. It was an instinct he’d always suppressed, finding the ritual archaic and demeaning. But now, he uses it like a weapon. He grabbed pillows from his armchair, a soft fleece throw from the back of a dining chair. He moved with a deliberate, economical grace, arranging and rearranging the soft materials, creating a cocoon of comfort and safety on the cushions beside the alpha.
He could feel Todd’s reaction through the bond. A wave of profound, instinctual longing. The sight of an omega preparing a nest, even a hostile one, was a balm to the fractured alpha. It spoke of home, of belonging, of safety. It was everything his biology craved, and it was being offered by the man he had brutalized. The conflicting emotions were a chaotic storm in Todd’s mind, and Wallace savored every moment of it.
Once the nest was to his satisfaction—a precise, almost militaristic arrangement of softness—Wallace climbed onto the sofa. He didn't look at Todd. He settled into the nest, arranging the blankets around himself with a finality that brooked no argument. He was establishing his territory, claiming his space, and forcing the alpha to be a spectator to it.
He lay on his side, his back to Todd, creating a barrier of blankets and pillows between them. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken horrors. He could feel Todd’s gaze on his back, a physical weight. He could feel the alpha’s desperate, pathetic need to reach out, to touch, to offer comfort, to seek it.
Finally, Wallace broke the silence, his voice low and dangerous in the dim room. “You know what a nest is for, Alpha?” He didn't wait for an answer. “It’s for safety. For warmth. For the omega to feel secure enough to let their guard down.” He shifted slightly, letting the blanket fall away from his shoulder, a sliver of pale skin in the moonlight. “This is the only place you will ever be safe from me. Because in here,” he said, tapping his own temple, “you are mine. And I will never, ever let you forget it.”
Wallace made sure that Todd stayed on the outskirts of his nest. Todd isn’t stupid enough to try anything again—not without knowing me may be castrated on the spot. The alpha whined quietly as he watched Wallace get comfortable in the nest. The whine was a pathetic, broken sound, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. It was the noise of a cornered animal, and Wallace drank it in. He didn’t move, didn’t even open his eyes, but he felt the sound vibrate through the bond, a pathetic little plea that scratched an itch deep inside him. The floor was cold, hard, and unforgiving. Good.
Through the closed lids of his eyes, Wallace could picture him: the prodigy bassist, the vegan psychic, the arrogant alpha, curled up on the hardwood like a stray dog. The image was a balm to the ragged edges of his soul. He could feel Todd’s every shiver, every ache, every wave of profound misery. The bond was a two-way street, and Wallace was using it to monitor his prisoner.
Sleep was a foreign country. His body screamed for it, every muscle a deep, bruised ache, but his mind was a razor-sharp sentinel, refusing to sheath itself. Every creak of the building, every distant car horn, every shift of Todd’s body on the floor was cataloged and assessed. He was in his own bed, his own nest, but he had never felt less safe. Or more in control.
He drifted, hovering in the twilight state between waking and sleeping, his awareness strung taut between them. He was processing the violation, compartmentalizing it, storing the sharp, jagged pieces of it away to be used as weapons later. The pain was a resource. The humiliation was fuel. And the bond… the bond was the leash.
He felt it when Todd’s exhaustion finally won. The alpha’s mind went fuzzy, the frantic edge of his anxiety softening into the dull, rhythmic pulse of deep sleep. Only then did Wallace allow himself to follow. He slipped under, not into rest, but into a state of hyper-vigilant repose, his subconscious still tuned to the frequency of the man on his floor.
Hours later, he was jolted awake not by a sound, but by a feeling. A spike of pure, animal panic from Todd. Wallace’s eyes snapped open. The pre-dawn light was just beginning to gray the window, casting long, skeletal shadows across the room. He didn’t move. He just listened with his mind.
He could feel it now. A nightmare. Todd was trapped in the psychic replay of his own crime. Through the bond, Wallace got fragmented, horrifying flashes: the scent of crushed grass, the feeling of Wallace’s bones yielding under his grip, the raw, terrorized scream that had been torn from his victim’s throat. But in the nightmare, Todd was experiencing it from Wallace’s perspective. He was the one being pinned, the one being torn open, the one feeling the sickening invasion of his own mind.
Wallace felt a savage, unadulterated joy. This was better than any revenge he could have concocted while awake. Todd was torturing himself for him.
Todd whimpered in his sleep, a high, distressed sound. His legs twitched. He was dreaming of the knot, the agonizing stretch, the feeling of being utterly owned and broken. Wallace lay perfectly still, a cruel, satisfied smile touching his lips in the gloom. He fed the nightmare, just a little. He pushed a single, clear memory through the bond—the moment he had leaned down and whispered, “You’re my alpha now,” and felt the jolt of pure horror it sent through Todd’s dreaming mind.
The alpha on the floor let out a choked gasp and jerked awake. Wallace felt his consciousness slam back into his body, felt the frantic, disoriented panic as he tried to separate the dream from reality. He could feel Todd’s heart hammering, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. He could feel the slick sheen of nightmare-sweat on his skin.
Wallace finally rolled over, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at the alpha huddled on his floor. Todd’s eyes were wide, glowing faintly in the dim light as they fixed on Wallace. He looked utterly wrecked, haunted by the ghost of his own violence.
“Bad dream?” Wallace’s voice was a soft, mocking purr.
Todd just stared at him, his chest heaving. He couldn’t speak. The shame was a physical force, choking him. He could feel Wallace’s satisfaction, his cold amusement, and it was a confirmation of every fear the nightmare had dredged up.
Wallace’s smile widened. “Good.” He lay back down, turning his back to the alpha once more. “Go back to sleep, alpha. We have a long day tomorrow.”
He closed his eyes, leaving Todd to shiver in the cold, alone with the ghosts he had created and the omega who now owned them.
The cold was a physical thing, seeping into Todd’s bones from the hardwood floor. It was nothing compared to the ice flowing through his veins, a constant, frigid stream of remorse that originated from the golden thread of the bond connecting him to the man on the sofa. He felt bad. It was a pathetic, inadequate word for the chasm of self-loathing that had opened up inside him.
He deserved this. He knew it with a certainty that resonated in every cell of his body. He deserved the cold floor, the aching muscles, the visceral humiliation of being treated like a rabid animal. He deserved Wallace’s contempt, his sneers, his cold, calculating revenge. An alpha’s rut was no excuse for what he’d done. It was an explanation, a biological imperative, but it wasn’t a pardon. He had violated Wallace. He had taken something that wasn’t his to take, and he had shattered the man’s sense of safety, of control.
The alpha replayed it in his head, not as a nightmare this time, but as a sober, waking judgment. He remembered the shift in the forest air, the scent of omega that had short-circuited his higher brain functions. He remembered the single, primal directive that had taken over: rut, knot, fuck, breed, omega. The words hadn't been thoughts; they'd been impulses, instincts that had bypassed reason and morality entirely. Wallace was just…there. The nearest omega. The solution to a biological firestorm.
And now, he was paying the price. But the price wasn't the cold floor or the scorn. The true punishment was the bond.
God, the bond.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it was like trying to block out his own heartbeat. It was a constant, humming channel of pure, unfiltered Wallace. He could feel everything. Not just the big, obvious things like anger and pain, but the subtle, insidious nuances. He could feel the low-grade ache in Wallace’s lower back where he’d been slammed into the ground. He could feel the phantom soreness, the lingering tenderness that made even the softest nest a bed of thorns. He could feel the dry, scratchy feeling in Wallace’s throat from screaming.
Worst of all, he could feel the flashes of satisfaction Wallace felt at his misery. It was a sick, sharp spike of pleasure that cut Todd to the quick every time it surged through the bond. Wallace was enjoying his suffering. Todd had always been a sadist, in a bratty, teasing way. He enjoyed watching people squirm. To be on the receiving end of that, to feel his own pain as a source of pleasure for his victim, was a uniquely exquisite form of hell.
He could feel the undercurrent of something else, too. Something terrifying. Beneath the pain, the rage, the cold satisfaction, there was a flicker of unwanted, horrifying attraction. It wasn't love. It wasn't even fondness. It was the bond’s malignant work, a magnetic pull forged in trauma. It was the omega biology, the ultimate traitor, responding to its alpha. Wallace hated it, and Todd could feel that self-loathing as clearly as his own. It was a feedback loop of misery: Wallace’s attraction to his rapist made him hate himself, and Todd could feel that self-hatred, which in turn made him feel even more like a monster.
He shivered again, pulling his knees tighter to his chest. He was an alpha. He was supposed to be strong, a protector, a provider. He was supposed to build nests, not be barred from them. He was supposed to soothe his omega, not be the source of his every agony. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to get up, to climb onto that sofa, to gather Wallace into his arms, to apologize, to fix this.
But he couldn’t. The bond held him in check. Wallace’s will was a psychic command, more powerful than any of his own desires. He was a pet on a leash, and he had bitten the hand that fed him. Now he just had to lie there and wait, feeling every ounce of the consequences. He deserved it. But knowing he deserved it didn't make the agony of the bond any less real. It just made him wish he could die.
The first gray light of morning filtered through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was a peaceful, domestic scene that felt like a sick joke. Reality didn't creep in; it crashed through the door like a SWAT team. Wallace’s eyes snapped open, the sleepless vigil giving way to the sharp, unforgiving clarity of day.
He was sore. A deep, bone-deep ache that was a constant, physical reminder of the previous night. But more than that, he could feel Todd. The alpha was a dull, throbbing ball of misery on the floor, his psychic signature a messy, soupy mix of guilt, self-loathing, and a cloying, pathetic need to be near him. It was disgusting. It was also exhilarating.
Wallace sat up, the movement sending a sharp twinge through his hips. He ignored it. He looked down at Todd, who was already awake, staring at him with wide, haunted eyes like a worshipper at a shrine he’d desecrated.
“Morning,” Wallace said, his voice flat and cold. He felt the jolt of hope from the alpha, a foolish little spark that Wallace immediately crushed. “Get up. You smell.”
The command, transmitted through the bond, was absolute. Todd scrambled to his feet, his limbs stiff from the cold floor. He stood there, naked and uncertain, looking like a lost boy. Wallace felt a surge of contempt. He was supposed to be this big, bad alpha? This was what was left of him after a little reality?
Wallace swung his legs out of the nest, his bare feet hitting the floor. He stood, stretching with deliberate slowness, forcing Todd to watch. He could feel the alpha’s gaze on him, a mix of shame and a horrifying, involuntary appreciation. Wallace was bruised and he’d been violated, but he was still whole. He was in charge.
“Shower,” Wallace commanded, pointing a thumb toward the bathroom. “You have five minutes. Use my soap. I want you to smell like me.” He saw the flicker of confusion in Todd’s eyes. The alpha’s instincts would be screaming at the thought of being covered in another’s scent, especially an omega’s. But the bond overrode it. He could feel Todd’s reluctant, shameful compliance.
While Todd was in the shower, Wallace moved to the kitchen. He opened his fridge, a bastion of normalcy in a world that had tilted on its axis. He pulled out eggs, bacon, and a carton of orange juice. He was going to make breakfast. Not for him and his lover. Not for him and his new alpha. He was going to make breakfast for his captive. And he was going to use every moment to twist the knife.
Todd emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, a towel wrapped around his waist. He was clean, but his hair was still damp and plastered to his forehead, making him look young and vulnerable. He smelled of Wallace’s own sandalwood soap, a scent that was now a mark of ownership.
“Sit,” Wallace said, gesturing to a barstool at the kitchen counter. Todd obeyed without a word.
The omega cooked with brutal efficiency. The sizzle of bacon, the crackle of eggs in the pan—it was all part of the performance. He plated the food with an almost artistic precision, placing a heaping portion in front of Todd and a single, small piece of dry toast in front of himself. He could feel Todd’s hunger, a gnawing ache amplified by the rut, but also his confusion and apprehension.
“Aren’t you…eating?” Todd asked, his voice hoarse.
Wallace picked up his piece of toast and took a bite, his eyes never leaving Todd’s. “I’m not hungry.”
He let the statement hang in the air, a lie that they both knew was a lie. He was starving. But he would not break bread with this shitty alpha. He would not share a meal. He would make Todd watch him starve himself while the alpha’s own body screamed for nourishment.
He could feel Todd’s turmoil through the bond. The alpha’s instincts were screaming at him to provide, to make sure his omega was fed and cared for. The sight of Wallace eating nothing while he had a plate full of food was a form of psychological torture. It was a direct assault on his very nature.
“I’m sorry,” Todd whispered, the words barely audible. “For…everything.”
Wallace’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. He pushed his plate, with its single half-eaten piece of toast, across the counter until it was right in front of Todd. “Sorry doesn’t feed me, Alpha,” he purred, his voice dripping with condescension. “But you can. Eat.”
The command was clear. Todd stared at the plate, then at Wallace’s full plate of food, then back at Wallace’s face. The implication was crushing. He was being ordered to eat his omega’s scraps. It was the most emasculating, humiliating thing Wallace could think of. Through the bond, he felt the wave of soul-crushing shame wash over Todd, so potent it almost made him feel dizzy.
Tears welled in Todd’s eyes again, but he picked up the piece of toast with a trembling hand and brought it to his lips. He took a bite, chewing mechanically, his gaze fixed on the countertop. He was broken. And Wallace was just getting started.
They both had lives. Todd had a band, a girlfriend, and a reputation. Wallace had a job, friends, a routine. Today, those lives would collide. Today, Wallace would start dismantling Todd’s, piece by piece, using the unbreakable chain of the bond to drag him down into the miserable pit he now inhabited. And he was going to enjoy every second of it.