POV: Aurora
The thirty-first floor empties faster than on other days.
Lina walks past my cubicle with her backpack on.
"I'm leaving," she says. "Are you staying?"
Dante's email with "early tomorrow" is still in my inbox.
"A little longer," I reply. "I want to finish Seraphim's summary."
"Don't fall in love with the tower," she says. "If you get dizzy, text me."
"I'll try," I say.
She leaves. The floor falls silent.
Organizing data is easier than thinking about omega, protection, or Valcourt.
After a while, my body feels heavy. A thick heat rises from my chest to my neck. I take off my blazer, tie my hair back, drink some water. Nothing lowers the temperature.
The air becomes dense, clinging to my skin. As if something inside me were pushing.
I sigh, save the file, and get up to get some coffee. I take two steps and the world shrinks.
My vision fills with spots. My heart races. Smells explode: paper, plastic, my own soap.
I rest my hand on the edge of the cubicle.
"Breathe," I whisper.
I breathe, but the heat descends to my stomach and settles lower, heavy, uncomfortable. It's not just dizziness. It's hunger for something I can't name.
I walk to the machine. The hallway is empty. I pour coffee and the steam hits my face.
I return to my desk.
The elevator doors open and he steps out.
Dark suit, loosened tie. Dante walks as if this floor were his. His scent reaches me first: storm, amber, clean skin. The heat inside me rises a notch, almost a jolt.
"Aurora," he says.
He stops in front of me.
"I thought you had already left," he adds.
"I wanted to get the report done early," I reply, gripping the cup tightly.
Up close, his scent envelops me. My heart races, my breath catches. I feel every beat between my ribs and lower, where the heat becomes a pulse.
Dante frowns.
"You're pale," he says. "And you're burning up."
He raises his hand, hesitates for a second, and places the back of it on my forehead. His skin is cool. Mine is not.
The contact is minimal, but a shock runs down my spine. The cup shakes. I take half a step back.
"I'm fine," I lie. "I just got dizzy."
He lowers his hand.
"It doesn't seem like it," he replies. "Sit down."
I shake my head, but the floor tilts. The cup slips from my hand. He catches it before it falls, sets it on my desk, and with his other hand, wraps his arm around my forearm to guide me to the chair.
His touch is firm, warm. I sit down.
"Take a deep breath," he says.
I obey. Air enters my lungs, but my chest still feels tight.
"How long have you been feeling this way?" he asks.
"A while," I reply. "It used to be milder. Since he arrived... it got worse."
His gaze darkens.
"Let's go upstairs," he says. "The air is stuffy in here. You need some cold air."
"I can stay," I reply impulsively.
"No," he cuts me off. "Get up."
His voice drops a half tone. My body obeys.
We walk to a service elevator. It's empty. I step inside and he stands in front of me, near the buttons. The space is small.
The metal wall is cold against my back. Dante's scent fills the cabin, storm and amber, with something else, something cruder.
The elevator goes up.
With every meter, the smell becomes more concentrated. The heat in my abdomen throbs insistently. I squeeze my legs together without thinking.
The doors open on a technical floor. Bare corridors, white light. We step out onto a service terrace.
The night air hits my face. It's cold. I take a deep breath. The dizziness subsides, but the internal heat only drops half a degree.
Dante leans on the railing, a meter away.
"It was to be expected," he says.
"What?" I ask.
"What I told you would happen," he replies. "Your body is changing phase. Your reactions to certain smells will increase. What was once a nuisance now feels more like an urgency."
The word tightens my stomach.
"Smells like yours?" I ask.
His amber eyes lock onto mine.
"Mine," he admits. "And others like me. That's why I want this to happen with me nearby and not with just anyone in a hallway."
I grip the railing.
"I can't choose who's next to me when I get dizzy," I say.
"In here, yes," he replies. "We can adjust your schedule, your routes. I prefer that to imagining this in an elevator full of people who only see you as an opportunity."
I think of Elias and his warning about protection.
"How long until... the next thing?" I ask.
"There's no exact date," he says. "But it's no longer months. It's weeks." Maybe days, if something triggers the process.
Something like coming up here alone with him. Something like his scent clinging to my skin.
The wind lifts a strand of my hair. Dante reaches out, catches it, and brushes it away from my face. His fingers brush my cheek and the edge of my neck before he lets go.
The gesture seems innocent. My body doesn't feel that way.
The heat descends, concentrated between my legs. I find it hard to swallow. For a second, I imagine his hand on the back of my neck, his body pressed against mine against the railing. The image is so clear that I feel embarrassed.
I blink to scare it away.
"This is dangerous," I say.
"I know," he replies. "That's why we're here, with fresh air, and not in an office with the door closed."
"The problem isn't just what's happening to me," I add quietly. "The problem is that the only person who understands this and can handle it is the same man who has the right to decide what to do with me if I lose control."
Our eyes meet.
"That's exactly why," he says. "If it comes to that, I'd rather the decisions be made by someone who has already committed to protecting you, not someone who wants to buy you or break you."
Inside, I'm still burning.
And I realize something that scares me more than the heat and Valcourt:
I'm not just afraid of losing control.
Part of me fears the moment when I stop wanting to resist.