Chapter 3

Nyra

I’m not supposed to be on this floor again. Technically, I’m not even assigned tonight. But my shift ended late, and my feet—traitorous things—carried me past corridor twelve like they were following a thread only they could feel. The cart rattles behind me, half-full. I pause near the utility door, pretending to sort linens, pretending I didn’t just walk three turns off-route for no reason. There is no sound. No movement. No growl behind blackout glass. But the air is heavy. Thick. Humid. Alive.

And there—again—that scent. It’s faint. Threadbare. Tangled with bleach and recycled air. But underneath it lies something unmistakably… him. Pine smoke. Heat-soaked metal. A musk that doesn’t belong anywhere near human lungs. And yet I breathe it in like oxygen. My stomach tightens. My skin flushes. I back away from the vent like I’ve been caught. It’s not the same as before. Fainter. Muted. But it still coils deep inside me, like something I remember but was never allowed to live.

In the breakroom, the fluorescent lights buzz cold and blue overhead. Jana’s face is smashed into her folded arms, mouth open, snoring. I sit across from her and press my fists into my thighs to stop the shaking. This isn’t normal. The wolves here… they don’t smell like that. They reek of drugs and dirty sheets and the last handler’s cologne. They smell like chemicals and despair. Like pain sold by the hour.

He—whatever he is—smelled awake.

Present.

Real.

The heat that rolled off him wasn’t fabricated. It was instinct. They say ranked wolves are gone. Alphas culled. Betas broken. Anyone too dominant, too strong, too unpredictable—hunted to extinction after the riots. Only omegas are used now. Easier to cage. Easier to sedate. Easier to fuck. I’ve seen glimpses—slumped over in transport cages, twitching through fake heat, shuddering under handlers they didn’t choose.

He didn’t look like that.

He didn’t move like that.

He didn’t even growl.

He watched me.

And my body… responded.

Not with fear. Not exactly.

With something worse.

Recognition.

That night, I try to sleep, but every time I close my eyes I feel that heat again—like it’s soaked into my skin, wrapped tight around my lungs. I’m sweating before I even touch the blanket. My thighs ache in a way I don’t have language for. It’s not hunger. Not arousal. It’s… panic laced with want. I throw the blanket off and pace the dorm once. Twice. My fingers tremble as I unfasten my shirt. The fabric sticks to the sweat in the hollow of my spine. I slide a hand down my stomach. Just for relief. Just to quiet the buzz that’s been building since I looked into those eyes.

I close my eyes and let my palm slip lower. I’m wet. Too wet. It’s ridiculous. Embarrassing. My body’s betraying me over a stranger in a cage. But I keep going. Not because I want to. Because I have to. The ache is turning sharp now, slicing through my muscles and nerves until the only way out is through. I touch myself, slowly, breath caught in my throat. And I see gold. Not light. Not warmth. Eyes.

Watching.

Claiming.

I cry out into the dark, wrist jerking, legs locking tight around the phantom of his breath. It doesn’t feel soft. It doesn’t feel human. It feels like being hunted. And I come like I’m being devoured.

I wake up cold. The sheets are damp. My thighs are sticky. My heart stutters when I remember what I did. What I saw. I don’t dream like that. I don’t even touch myself. Not since—No. I don’t go there. I strip the bed, throw the sheets into the bin, and shower so hot I can’t feel anything but burn. Still, it lingers. The pulse. The echo of a touch that wasn’t mine.

I wear the same shirt I wore when I first saw him. Not because I mean to. It’s just the one I reach for. The one I forget to put in the laundry chute. It doesn’t smell like him anymore. But when I wear it, I dream less. Not peaceful dreams. Not safe ones. But less empty. Sometimes, in the dream, I hear footsteps outside my dorm. Slow. Heavy. Dragging heat behind them like a storm. I wake clutching the pillow like it can stop me from slipping under again.

Once, during training, a handler told us: “If your skin crawls, listen to it. Your instincts are smarter than your logic.” They were talking about heat trace. Residual scent that clings to walls after a wolf’s been through a session. Said it could trigger stress responses. Hallucinations. Even pleasure, if the chemical mix hits the wrong nerve. But this isn’t that.

It’s not chemical.

It’s him.

I don’t go back to the chute corridor. I don’t have to. The scent is gone from the hallway. Gone from the vent. But I carry it now. Everywhere. I chase it. Two turns into corridor twelve. Down the stairwell past Linen Storage B. Past the chute room, where it first hit me like a drug. But there’s nothing left. No pine. No heat. No hum of air that feels alive. Just sterile light and scrubbed floors. Still, I linger. Breathing deeper than I should. Slower. Like maybe I’ll find him again in the spaces between molecules. Like maybe he’ll call me back. Because it soothed me as much as it ached. And I don’t know how to be without it.

On the third night, I wake in the dark with my hand already between my legs. Two fingers buried deep. My other hand clutching the blanket in a fist. I’m soaked. My skin’s burning. My breath skips like I’ve been chasing something and still haven’t caught it. My hips grind into my hand like they’ve been moving this way for hours. Chasing an edge I can’t quite reach. The friction is almost too much. Too sharp. But I don’t stop. I can’t.

My whole body feels swollen with want, nerves stretched thin, sweat pooling at the small of my back. I add another finger—stretching, curling, gasping—and my thighs lock around my hand like a trap. But it’s still not enough. I need more. Deeper. Rougher. Like I’m trying to drag something out of myself I don’t understand. I press harder, grinding heel to clit, panting into the darkness. The silence hums around me. Hot. Electric. Waiting.

His scent isn’t here anymore. But my body remembers. The pull of it. The ache. The raw need thrumming just under the surface. It builds again—slow, then sharper. I chase it. Grind against my fingers, legs shaking, pulse stuttering. Still not enough.

Not until I stop pretending I don’t know what I want.

Not until I stop pretending I don’t know who I want.

And then—His name tears from me like it was never mine to hold.

“Rane.”

That’s all it takes. My body locks up. Pleasure slams through me—hot, sharp, overwhelming. I come hard. Mouth open. Back arched. His name still echoing in the dark. Even though I’ve never said it out loud before. Even though I shouldn’t know it.

I do.

And somehow—I always have.