Chapter 2: The Alpha’s Face

I lose track of time after that.

The heat, the knot, the overwhelming sensation of being taken over and over by someone whose face I still haven’t seen. My borrowed body knows what to do even if my mind is screaming—arching, accepting, and responding in ways that make me want to die all over again.

At some point he flips me onto my back. When the pressure finally eases enough, he pulls away just long enough for me to catch a blurred glimpse of him before he’s back, spreading my legs and pressing in again with one deep thrust.

“Look at you,” he says, voice ragged. “Taking me so well, like you were made for this.”

I can’t respond. I can barely think. All I can do is grip his shoulders and hold on as he moves with deep, measured strokes that hit something inside me and make my vision white out.

There might be a third round. Or a fourth.

Everything blurs together into sensation—his mouth on my neck, his hands on my hips and thighs, the filthy wet sounds of our bodies, his voice in my ear, sometimes praising, sometimes commanding, sometimes just groaning my name like a curse.

At some point I’m sobbing from overstimulation, from pleasure so intense it borders on pain, from the sheer overwhelming wrongness of being in a body that wants this so desperately when my mind is still reeling.

“Shh,” he murmurs, surprisingly gentle. His thumb wipes at my tears. “One more. Give me one more and then you can rest.”

I shake my head frantically. I can’t. I’ll die.

“You can.” His hand wraps around me again—I’m hard again, how is that even possible—and moves in time with his thrusts. “Come for me, omega.”

The command in his voice does something primal and inescapable.

I come with a broken cry, back arching off the bed, clenching so tightly around him that he curses and follows me over the edge. The knot swells one final time, locking us together as he fills me again.

I collapse face-first into the sheets when he finally releases me and pulls out.

I can’t move. Can’t think. My body is trembling, oversensitive, thoroughly used. There’s evidence of everything we just did trailing down my thighs, and I should be horrified, but I’m too exhausted to care.

Footsteps. The sound of water running in what must be a bathroom. Then nothing.

I should run. Get up and get out of here before this gets any worse.

But I can’t make my limbs cooperate. My legs feel like jelly. My entire body feels like it’s been taken apart and put back together wrong.

The bed dips behind me.

A warm, wet cloth touches my thigh and I flinch.

“Easy,” the alpha says, voice softer than before. “Just cleaning you up.”

He’s gentle, surprisingly so. The cloth moves carefully over my thighs and between my legs, wiping away the evidence. When he’s finished, the cloth disappears and I hear him moving around the room.

Then the bed dips again.

“Turn over.”

The voice is closer now, clearer. That same deep, commanding tone that made my body want to obey without question.

I don’t move. I can’t.

“I said turn over, omega.”

Something in the command goes straight through me—some omega instinct I don’t understand but can’t resist. My body rolls onto my back before my brain catches up.

And I finally see him.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He’s devastatingly handsome in a way that feels dangerous. Sharp features that look carved from marble, black hair falling across his forehead, mussed from everything we just did. High cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass—the kind of face that belongs on magazine covers, not in a hotel room with some random omega.

There’s a bite mark on his collarbone. Did I do that?

But it’s his eyes that stop my heart.

Gray. Cold gray, like a winter storm, like polished steel. They look down at me with an intensity that makes something in my chest clench tight. Not warm. Not kind. Assessing—like I’m a business acquisition he’s deciding whether to liquidate or keep.

His gaze drags down my body—wrecked, covered in marks, thighs still trembling—and his lips curve into something too sharp to be a smile.

“You’re even prettier when you’re not crying.”

I was crying?

He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s solving.

“Round three?” he asks, and there’s dark amusement in his voice now, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

I stare at him.

At this stranger.

This impossibly handsome stranger who just spent the last however-long locking me into oblivion and apparently isn’t done.

My brain finally catches up to my situation.

I’m naked in a stranger’s bed, in a body that isn’t mine, in a world that runs on ABO dynamics where I’m an omega and he’s an alpha and we just…

And he’s asking if I want to go again like we’re discussing another round of drinks.

“I…” My voice is still hoarse and wrecked. “I need to go.”

He raises an eyebrow.

That’s it. No question, no protest—just that single raised eyebrow like my answer is mildly interesting but ultimately irrelevant.

Then he leans back, giving me space.

“Go ahead.”

I scramble off the bed.

Bad idea. Terrible idea. My legs are jelly, and I stumble immediately, barely catching myself on the nightstand. Pain lances through my thighs, my hips, everywhere—the deep, lingering ache of being thoroughly used—and I bite down on a whimper.

He doesn’t help.

He just watches with those cold gray eyes, head tilted, like he’s cataloging exactly how broken I am.

I spot my clothes scattered across the floor and lunge for them. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely pull my pants on. The fabric hurts against my oversensitized skin. My shirt is wrinkled and smells like everything that just happened. I don’t care.

The whole time, he watches.

Assessing.

When I’m finally dressed—barely, my shirt is buttoned wrong but I can’t make my hands work properly—I risk one more glance at him.

He’s still naked, lounging against the headboard like some kind of marble sculpture, completely comfortable in his skin.

My face burns.

I grab my shoes and run.

Out of the room, through what looks like an expensive hotel corridor, past the elevator, down the stairs because I can’t wait, through the lobby where a few people turn to stare.

I must look insane. Wrecked. Freshly used.

I don’t stop running until I’m outside in the cool morning air.

Only then do I stop, bracing against a wall, trying to remember how to breathe.

What the hell just happened?

What the hell did Original Runze get me into?

And why does my body already miss the feeling of being full?

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