I never expected Francesca to linger at my throat during the document exchange, her fingers pressing just long enough to make my pulse race under the pack's gaze. The collar buckled half-open against my skin, and the rival's stare promised challenges if I accepted what my body already craved. Exile taught me to fear this kind of ownership, yet her command pulled me forward anyway.

In the records room she ordered me still with her palm at my spine, leash fastened to the drawer so I could not move without permission. Every clipped word degraded the omega I was, mixing safety with the threat that she might never fully claim what she touched. I trembled but stayed, needing the marks she could leave more than I feared the rejection they would bring.

Will she keep the collar on me when the assembly turns against us both?

Gillian Elwood

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