My scent was still in the air.
Low and steady. Not dominant. Not overt.
Just a thread of familiarity. Something warm and grounding in a room designed to break him.
Nine's breathing slowed slightly when it reached him. Not relaxed—he would never relax here—but there was a flicker of ease in the lines of his shoulders.
Then the drugs kicked deeper.
And his body began to betray him.
It started in his thighs.
Little tremors, barely visible. Muscles tightening, then releasing. A shift in posture he probably didn't even notice—his hips rolling against the restraints in a tiny, unconscious rhythm.
Not for pleasure.
Just instinct.
He blinked more slowly now, and when his gaze found mine again, it wasn't steady.
It shimmered.
He's slipping, Nyx whispered. The heat's taking him.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
Just stood there while the instructor made another note, adjusted the restraints, and stepped back to monitor.
Nine's chest was rising faster now. Too fast. He turned his head from side to side slowly, as if he could shake the feeling away.
Then he whimpered.
Short. Fragile.
His legs twitched, knees shifting against the mat. He pulled at the wrist cuffs—not to escape, not in defiance—but like he needed to move. Needed to curl in on himself, or reach for something. For someone.
My scent lingered, but it wasn't enough.
His mouth opened.
No words. Just a soft, shuddering inhale.
Then—
"Please..."
It was barely a whisper.
But it shattered me.
He didn't even know what he was asking for.
The instructors said nothing. They didn't even glance up.
This was part of the data.
Nine was on his back now, hips shifting in jerky, desperate little motions. His eyes had gone unfocused—glassy and wet, lashes fluttering with each shallow breath.
The drug had hit its peak.
And his body was starving.
But there was no one to touch him.
No one to soothe the ache.
No one to explain what was happening, or why his blood felt like fire and every breath made him want to cry.
He sobbed.
Once.
Short. Panicked.
Then again—longer, sharper. His body curled slightly under the restraints as if trying to fold in on itself, his knees knocking together while his hips rolled up and thrust—helpless and aimless—into the empty air.
He didn't even seem to realize he was doing it.
His lips moved, but no real words came out.
Just a jumble of syllables.
My name wasn't among them.
But his eyes never left mine.
Like he was asking for something I couldn't give.
And begging for it anyway.
Help me. Please. It hurts. Please. I don't understand. Please.
I wanted to move.
Step closer.
Touch his cheek.
Unbind his wrists.
Hold him down and tell him it was okay.
But I couldn't.
Not here.
Not yet.
Nyx was howling inside me, clawing at the walls of my skull.
They're burning him. You said you'd protect him. DO SOMETHING.
Nine gasped again, and this time he tried to speak. But the words broke halfway through, lost in a cry that hitched at the end, torn out of his chest like it didn't belong there.
He was writhing now.
Not sensually.
Not erotically.
Just desperately.
One hand clenched into a fist, tugging at the restraint hard enough to shake the frame. The other curled and uncurled rhythmically, like maybe it could find something to hold onto if he just reached far enough.
His scent was everywhere now.
Thick. Frenzied.
Sweet with submission, but sour with confusion.
His hips bucked again—harder this time. Three times in a row. A frustrated, unconscious rhythm against nothing.
Then he sobbed again.
Higher. Sharper.
His voice broke.
And still—his eyes never left mine.
"I'm here," I whispered, though I wasn't supposed to speak. "I'm here."
He didn't respond.
But his chest hitched.
Then again.
Until the rhythm of his cries matched the rhythm of his hips—need, need, need, need—with no name, no outlet, no comfort.
The instructor finally looked up.
"Responsive," he noted blandly. "Body seeking contact. Retain isolation."
I wanted to scream.
He's not a lab rat.
He's my mate.
But I stood there and said nothing.
Because if I moved now—if I broke rank—they'd take me out of the room.
And he would be alone again.
Nine twisted against the restraints, chest arched slightly, head thrown back in agony.
He was crying openly now.
Slick, silent tears.
Not from pain alone.
From confusion.
From the hunger his body didn't know how to process.
He sobbed again, this time with a broken, choked noise that sounded like a word—but wasn't.
I stepped forward—just one pace—and released my pheromones again.
Soothing.
Soft.
Steady.
His body jerked once. Then slowed.
His hips twitched again—but not as violently.
His hands stopped straining.
His chest heaved.
And then he breathed—deeply, shakily—through the scent of me in the room.
And for one fragile moment...
He calmed.
Just a little.
Just enough to remember that I was still here.
________________________________________________________________________
My scent still hung in the air.
It wasn't enough.
Not against what was happening to him.
Nine lay stretched out on the padded bench, trembling, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp bursts as the drug coursed through him. The restraints held his arms and legs in a loose spread, but he wasn't fighting them. He wasn't trying to get away.
He was shaking because he couldn't stop it. Because his body was spiraling, and he didn't understand why.
I could smell it.
The heat was fully setting in now. His scent had gone from soft confusion to pure, raw need — thick and pulsing with desperate want. The kind that twisted your gut if you were anywhere near him. The kind that made your instincts claw and pace.
And Nine had no idea how to make it stop.
He whimpered again. His knees shifted slightly apart, then snapped together like his body couldn't decide if it wanted to expose itself or hide.
His lips moved.
No sound. Just shapes.
His hips bucked again. Sharper this time. Repeated. Like a reflex he couldn't control.
His back arched. He let out a sob — broken and high-pitched, and not meant for anyone but me.
And gods help me, he looked at me like I could make it stop.
Like I was the one who could touch him, soothe him, fix him.
But I couldn't.
Not here.
Not yet.
"Subject entering peak stimulation window," one of the handlers said from behind a monitor. "Biometric signs at 126% of baseline. Beginning involuntary verbalization."
Nine sobbed again. "P-please—"
My heart cracked.
"Please," he gasped again, this time louder. Not at anyone. Not even at me.
Just into the room.
His hips lifted off the bench, bucking into air. Again. Again. Again.
His scent flooded every corner. Not just sweet now. Overripe. Cloying. Tangled in the edge of panic.
His thighs trembled with every breath. His toes curled, and he whimpered like the noise had been knocked out of him by something inside his chest.
He was crying now.
Tears slid down the sides of his face into his hair. His jaw clenched. His lips parted again, trembling. "Please—need—please, it's—"
The rest dissolved into incoherent sobs.
He didn't know what he was asking for.
Only that something inside him was screaming. Burning. Demanding to be touched, to be filled, to be claimed—
And no one was coming.
Not really.
He twisted on the bench again, as if trying to crawl into himself, his hips still rolling against the air like his body thought he could find friction. His wrists pulled against the cuffs. Soft groans escaped his lips now, broken by whimpers, slurred with sobs.
I took another step forward. Closer.
I released more of my pheromones.
Soothing.
His head jerked slightly, as if scent alone had reached through the haze.
His body froze.
Then crumpled.
Just for a second.
His muscles spasmed. His lips formed another breathless "please." Then again. Then again.
"Please—please—it hurts—"
And then he broke.
He sobbed openly, raw and loud, back arching off the bench as he begged in sounds more than words. Each thrust of his hips made the bench creak. His arms shook in the cuffs. He was pleading to be held, to be touched, to be seen.
The handler spoke again. "Subject is demonstrating full omega cycle behavior. Recommend continuation for 14.7 minutes."
I didn't care.
I didn't care how long they wanted to stretch this out.
All I saw was him.
All I heard was the broken, helpless way he whispered my name now, soft and slurred like it wasn't even a word anymore.
"R-Rhea… please…"
He was begging for me.
And I couldn't even hold him.
I stepped closer.
Closer.
My scent filled the room.
He gasped and tilted his head toward me, mouth open, eyes unfocused but reaching.
"I'm here," I whispered, even though no one told me I could speak.
He whimpered.
And I knew then, this wasn't just torture.
This was trauma.
This was how they broke him.
And I would not let them finish.