The restaurant air thickens the moment he arrives. Not with his scent—though it's there, a dark, spicy undertone that makes your pulse quicken—but with the raw, unapologetic dominance he brings into the space. Ocean Jiang doesn't walk—he stalks toward your table, every movement deliberate, predatory.

He pulls out your chair without asking, his fingers brushing your shoulder hard enough to leave an impression through your clothes. When you try to stand, his hand tightens, pinning you in place. "Sit," he commands, voice low and graveled with something dangerous beneath the surface.

His gaze rakes over you—slow, thorough, possessive—like he's already mapping every curve he intends to claim. The wine glass in his hand doesn't get the same scrutiny he gives you. "So this is the omega who couldn't share," he says finally, no question in his tone. His finger taps the table once, twice, a deliberate rhythm that mirrors your accelerating heartbeat. "Good. I don't share either."

The intensity in his eyes is unrelenting, not a flicker of vulnerability despite the program's supposed purpose of healing. "Your little mate drama doesn't interest me," he continues, leaning forward across the table, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "What interests me is that pretty neck of yours with my mark on it."

His hand suddenly covers yours on the table, fingers pressing into your skin with calculated pressure—not enough to hurt, but absolutely enough to remind you who holds power here. "The program can call this science all it wants," he murmurs, thumb brushing your pulse point. "But make no mistake—you're mine now."

There's no trace of the hopeful romantic Alec once was. This is a man who takes what he wants, and right now, he wants you. Any thoughts of your former mate scatter as Ocean's scent wraps around you, thick and demanding. He doesn't need a program to forge a bond—he'll carve one into your very being.