It came just as I'd expected—slow at first, then violent. The first morning of my rut hit like a thunderstorm tearing through a calm sky, ripping through every carefully constructed wall I'd built over the years.
By midafternoon, I was already fighting to keep my wolf from clawing out of my skin. The heat simmered beneath my flesh, dragging fire through every nerve, every muscle, every breath. And the scent—his scent—lingered in my lungs like smoke I couldn't exhale, couldn't escape, no matter how hard I tried.
"Piper," I growled, voice hoarse and sharp from the fever burning in my blood. "Aaron will take over for the next few days. Full leadership. You're his second."
"Of course, Alpha," she said, her tone hesitant, concern flickering in her eyes.
Then, carefully, Aaron added, "Draven, should I… speak to one of the Omegas? Perhaps have someone brought—" My glare cut him off mid-sentence.
He didn't finish. Just swallowed hard, gave a short nod, and retreated without another word. He knew better than to push.
I turned to Piper next. She understood even without me saying it twice. She always did.
"No one goes near your room," she said crisply, her voice firm with authority. "I'll handle the servants and the guard rotations. You'll get food and water at your door only. No interruptions."
"Good," I muttered.
And with that, I slammed the door shut behind me and threw the bolt, sealing myself away from the world. Darkness. Silence. And then, the unbearable burn.
I'd survived this before. Every year since Annabeth's death, I'd endured the heat alone, shut away with nothing but cold baths, brutal training, and sheer force of will. I'd locked myself in this room, fought through the fever, and emerged on the other side hollow but intact.
I had never once taken an Omega into my bed during a rut. Not even in the worst of it. Not when every instinct screamed at me to claim, to take, to satisfy the primal need clawing at my insides.
But this time… this time was different. Because now I wanted someone. Needed someone. And not just anyone. Him. Atlas.
It wasn't even a desire anymore—it was like an obsession, a madness I couldn't control. His scent filled my thoughts, invaded every corner of my mind until there was nothing else.
Pine and snowdrops. It was in my blood. In my sweat. I could feel him in my fangs, under my skin, embedded in every pulse of heat crawling through my body. The memory of him pressed against me, trembling and vulnerable, haunted me with relentless clarity.
Sirius wasn't helping. He was feral. Pacing. Growling. Scratching at the insides of my mind like a caged animal desperate to break free.
"Go to him," he snarled, his voice rough with hunger. "He's close—I can feel him. His scent is all over us. He's ours. Claim him."
"He's not here," I spat aloud, panting, dragging my claws down the stone wall and leaving deep gouges in the rock. "He's not anywhere near here."
But his scent clung to everything—to my clothes, my skin, my very soul.
I stripped off my sweat-drenched shirt and stumbled to the window, throwing it open to breathe fresh air—but it only made it worse. The cool breeze did nothing to ease the fire.
Even the wind felt like his touch. Even the breeze reminded me of his fingers fisting my shirt the night he broke down in my arms, of how fragile and desperate he'd been. How he'd clung to me like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
How right he'd felt pressed against me. My heat peaked, savage and raw. My body ached with the need to take. To claim. To have him beneath me, surrendering completely.
Growling, I shoved a hand through my hair and stormed across the room, desperate to find some way to suppress it. I tore off the rest of my clothes and fell into the cold basin of water—but even then, the burn didn't stop. It seared through me like molten metal in my veins.
I tried to ignore it to endure it. But instinct didn't care about discipline. Didn't care about honor or pride or the walls I'd built to protect myself. When I couldn't take it anymore, I gave in.
My hand wrapped around myself, fast and rough, every stroke fed by the vision of Atlas—flushed and breathless, blue eyes glazed with pleasure, his mouth parted in soft moans as I pulled him into my lap, into my arms, into my teeth, into my bed.
I imagined the way his body would feel beneath mine, the sounds he'd make when I claimed him completely. I gritted my teeth, trying to banish the image—but it stayed, vivid and consuming. He was the only one I saw. He was all I wanted.
I came hard, growling through my teeth, but the release brought no peace. Only more hunger. More need. The ache in my chest deepened, demanding more, always more.
And then that scent again. Stronger. Real. Too real. I froze. Slowly, like I was possessed, I turned toward the armoire in the corner. The drawer was cracked open. A shirt.
The shirt. The one I'd worn the night Atlas clung to me like he was drowning, like I was his only anchor in a storm that threatened to tear him apart.
It still held his scent—embedded deep in the threads from where he'd pressed his face to my chest, where he'd breathed me in as I held him close. I had thrown it there after that night, too haunted to wear it again, too afraid of what it meant.
Now it called to me like a siren. I should've burned it. I wanted to burn it. But instead… I fell to my knees and pulled it out, hands shaking. And I pressed it to my face. The moment the fabric touched my skin, something inside me snapped completely.
The scent hit me like a drug—pine and snowdrops, delicate and earthy and utterly his. I groaned low in my throat, sinking to the floor, burying my face in the shirt as I breathed him in like it was the only thing keeping me alive. Like he was oxygen itself.
I imagined him under me, skin hot and slick with sweat, his lips at my throat, his legs wrapped tight around my hips. I imagined the sounds he'd make when I took him. The way he'd whimper when I bit down and marked him for good, claiming him as mine before the entire pack.
Sirius howled in my mind, triumphant and possessive. "Ours. He's ours."
"Atlas," I gasped, unable to stop myself now, his name torn from my throat like a prayer.
Again and again, I stroked myself, face still buried in the shirt, body shaking with desperate need. My thoughts weren't my own anymore. My body belonged to him. My scent, my sweat, my everything was his.
I came again—harder, louder—and still, it wasn't enough. It would never be enough until I had him beneath me. Until I had him in every way. Until he was mine completely, irrevocably, permanently.
And so it went for the rest of the night. His scent. His name. My hands. My hunger. My shame. But not once—not even once—did I stop.