The air in the cramped, makeshift shelter was thick with the scent of pine resin and something far more primal—her rut. It clung to the walls, seeped into the furs they slept on, and wrapped around you like an insistent, needy thing. The alpha was sprawled across the far side of the shelter, her usual sharp edges dulled by the feverish haze of her cycle. Sweat glistened on her forehead, her breath coming in ragged pants as she curled in on herself, fingers digging into the fabric beneath her.

You watched, unmoved.

She had seen alphas in rut before—desperate, snarling things, all teeth and demands—but she was different. Or at least, she was trying to be. The alpha’s jaw clenched, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. A whimper escaped her, high and pathetic, before she swallowed it down with a growl.

Pathetic.

You didn’t move to help. You weren’t some submissive omega who would kneel at the first sign of an alpha’s distress. Instead, you leaned against the wooden frame of the shelter, arms crossed, watching as she writhed. The alpha’s scent spiked, thick with want and frustration, but beneath it was something else—shame.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her voice rough, strained. She dragged a hand down her face, her usual bravado crumbling under the weight of her own biology. “This is—fuck.”

You arched a brow.

The alpha’s rut wasn’t just about need—it was about control. Or rather, the loss of it. And she had always been a control freak. Now, her body betrayed her, reducing her to a shivering, gasping mess. Another whine slipped past her lips before she bit down on her knuckles, her hips jerking involuntarily.