Hours had passed since Alaric had left him locked in the room. Silas lay on the floor, his forehead pressed against the cool stone, trying to stop the world from spinning. But it wasn't the head injury that was killing him now—it was his biology.
Because he was an Omega, his body reacted to the presence of a dominant Alpha. The intense fight with Alaric, the way the Prince had pinned him down, and the raw power of Alaric's scent had triggered something deep inside Silas. His Heat was exploding days earlier than it should have.
The air in the room became thick and cloying. Silas could smell himself—a deep, rich scent of melted dark chocolate and sea salt. It was an invitation, a signal to any Alpha within a mile that he was ready. He was sweating through his silk shirt, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps that sounded too loud in the silent room.
"No... not now," he groaned, his fingers clawing at the rug. Every inch of his skin felt like it was being touched by a thousand needles of fire. His mind was screaming for his mission, for his family, for his revenge—but his body was screaming for Alaric. It was the ultimate betrayal. He felt a deep, pulsing ache in his core that only one person could satisfy.
He tried to crawl toward the bathroom to find cold water, but his muscles felt like jelly. He was a 30-year-old hardened criminal, reduced to a shivering mess by a 25-year-old's pheromones. He hated Alaric. He hated the Crown. But as the heat intensified, he realized that if Alaric walked through that door right now, Silas wouldn't try to kill him. He would beg him.