Chapter 10 - Kieran

Chapter 10 - Kieran
She doesn’t look at me as I step closer.

That’s fine. I don’t need her eyes to tell me what I already know. Her scent’s changing. Barely—just a ripple underneath all that defiance and stress—but it’s there. That edge of heat blooming under the surface, curling into something that has nothing to do with her logic and everything to do with instinct. She doesn’t want it. That much is clear. She fights it even now, dragging slow, uneven breaths into her lungs like she can control it if she just doesn’t acknowledge it.

But this isn’t something you control.

Not once I decide to trigger it.

I press a hand to the stone wall beside her head and lean in—not touching her, not yet—but close enough that I feel the tremor in her chest when my breath grazes her skin. Her shoulders tense, and her throat bobs once, twice, as she swallows the noise rising in her chest.

“Do you know what scenting does?” I ask, voice low, not loud enough to echo. “To a bonded mate? When done right, it can ease panic. Calm the nerves. Ground the body. But done like this…”

I lower my head until my lips are a whisper from her neck.

“It rewires everything.”

She shifts her weight, her wrists tightening in the chains as if the cold bite of metal can anchor her to reality, but she still doesn’t speak. Still doesn’t meet my eyes. Her scent sharpens—not fear now. Not only. There’s something else underneath. Heat. Shame. Hunger.

I catch it. Inhale slow and deep, and she flinches like the sound of it undoes her spine.

“You’re reacting,” I murmur. “Even when you lie, your body can’t.”

Her chest rises fast, breath quickening.

“I hate you,” she says, but her voice is shaking now. Soft and wrong. It doesn’t match the fire she threw at me days ago. It sounds like someone who doesn’t hate nearly enough.

“Good,” I say, moving in closer, still not touching, still holding her still with nothing but presence. “You’re supposed to.”

I drag my nose along the line of her jaw—barely a brush—and her whole body jolts. Her legs tremble, hips jerking back as if distance will save her, but her chains pull tight again. She whimpers, almost silently, and I swear I feel the sound all the way through me.

Her scent kicks up like fire catching on dry leaves.

I press my mouth to her throat.

One breath. One contact.

And her body snaps.

She gasps like she’s been punched, and her head jerks back, exposing her neck like she’s not even aware she’s doing it. Her hands yank at the restraints, her breath turns ragged. She mutters something that sounds like a curse, but I can’t tell—because her scent is flooding the room now, unmistakable.

Her heat is here.

Triggered. Wild. Helpless.

And I caused it.

I stay there, lips against her neck, not kissing, not marking. Just letting her feel the weight of it. My breath. My bond. My control.

She jerks again and this time lets out a noise she can’t disguise—half-gasp, half-whimper—and I feel it hit me like a punch to the gut. That sound, paired with her scent now thick with need, it’s addictive. It lights every inch of me like a fuse running straight to the parts I keep buried. The parts that want to claim and bite and break every promise I made about patience.

“I didn’t mean to—” she gasps.

“Yes, you did,” I whisper against her skin. “You came in here knowing I’d do this. And still, you turned your face. You offered your throat. You showed me where to press.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she chokes.

“No,” I say darkly. “You were hoping.”

She makes a broken sound, but doesn’t deny it.

I finally step back. A fraction. Just enough to look at her again. Her face is flushed, cheeks burning red, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy. She’s panting like she’s burning from the inside out. Her knees buckle, and for a second I think she might fall, but the chains hold her up like some sacrificial display.

“Still think you don’t belong here?” I ask, voice cold now. Detached. Clinical, like I’m filing away the information I need.

She doesn’t answer.

“Still think I’m the villain in your story?”

Her mouth opens, but there’s no sound. Her gaze drops to the floor like if she doesn’t look at me, I’ll stop seeing her.

But I see her now. Every crack in her armor. Every weakness she tried to hide under sharp words and shallow breaths.

“I triggered it on purpose,” I tell her plainly. “In case you’re still clinging to the lie that this was coincidence. I scented you. I forced the bond to react. And it did.”

“You’re sick,” she whispers.

“Maybe,” I allow, “but at least I’m not the one lying to herself anymore.”

Her knees shake again. The scent is overwhelming now. Sweet and sharp and hers. The Omega underneath the rebellion. The heat she didn’t want. The truth she’s still fighting.

And fuck, it smells perfect.

I reach for her chin and force her face up until she’s looking at me again. Her lips are trembling, pupils blown wide, breath coming in short bursts.

“This is what you are,” I say softly. “No chains. No rebellion. No resistance. Just instinct.”

Her lips twitch like she wants to argue, but her body gives her away again. She leans into my touch, barely, and then pulls back, furious at herself.

“You think this proves something?” she spits, voice frayed and breathless. “That triggering my heat means you own me?”

“I already owned you,” I say. “This just makes it harder for you to lie about it.”

Her eyes well with tears. Not weakness. Rage. Shame. Whatever’s left of her pride burning away under the weight of what she just felt—and what she’s still feeling.

“Let me go,” she whispers.

“No,” I say simply.

I step back fully now, letting the distance cool what I know is raging in her veins. Let her feel the ache. Let her realize how badly she wants something she swore she hated. Let her sit in it.

The chains rattle faintly as she sags, her head bowing forward, breath still ragged.

“You’ll stay here until the heat passes,” I say, turning to the door. “Unless you want to come clean first.”

She doesn’t answer, but I don’t expect her to. When she lifts her head, her eyes are wet. Not from pain or from the cuffs. From the war happening inside her that she’s losing by the second.

And still, she doesn’t speak. Because even with her body trembling, even with her scent betraying every secret she’s tried to hide, Quinn Blake is still too stubborn to give me her voice.

“I’ll keep coming back,” I murmur. “Every night if I have to. I’ll let the bond sink its claws deeper. I’ll make your body scream while your mouth stays shut.”

I nod to the guard outside. “No one goes in unless I say. If she tries anything, sedate her. But don’t touch her.”

Then I pause at the threshold and glance back once more. “You don’t have to say anything. Not yet,” I whisper. “But you will.”

And then I leave her there—trembling, flushed, burning—alone with the scent of me in her lungs and the taste of surrender blooming like wildfire in her blood.