Ivan – POV
Maksim's been stalking me like I'm made of glass.
Every turn, every shift in my scent, he's there—hovering.
I guess with my heat only days away, the paranoia is warranted. He's been assigned full-time for a reason.
The shoot wraps cleanly.
No drama. No tantrums. Just me, posing, smirking, and pretending I'm not wondering what Harry decided to do.
But I did what I could.
I go home after, order in something indulgent, and crash. My body is tired, my hormones buzz in the background like a timer running out. I fall asleep in Zander's hoodie from the island—the gray one with the faint tear at the hem, that I stole well borrowed permanently.
It's the scent. That's what does it.
---
The shrill ring of my phone jerks me from sleep. My hand fumbles across the bedside table in the dark, and I squint at the screen.
Zander.
I answer, voice rough with sleep.
"Hello?"
"I'm sorry—did I wake you?"
His voice, low and smooth and just a little uncertain, crackles softly through the speaker. It makes me sit up, heart rate ticking up with it.
"It's fine," I say with a yawn. "What's up?"
"I left a package outside your door," he says, and I'm already swinging my legs off the bed.
"Really? Why didn't you knock?" I stretch as I shuffle toward the door, rubbing at my eyes.
There's a pause.
Then I hear the sound of a door gently shutting, and footsteps.
"I wanted to. But… with your pheromones leaking out through the cracks, I couldn't trust myself."
There's the faint creak of him sitting down. Probably in his car. Probably still in that ridiculous suit.
And now I can perfectly picture it.
Zander Vale, all six feet of controlled dominance, sweating through his dress shirt, desperately trying not to pop a button, fighting a raging hard-on from just my scent seeping under the door.
Oh. That image is delicious.
"What's wrong with my pheromones?" I ask, voice light as I twirl a finger in my hair, already grinning.
"You know what's wrong with them," he grumbles, and the frustration in his voice sends a thrill down my spine.
I giggle—yes, giggle—and set the phone down on speaker before opening the door.
Outside sits a gift bag. Innocent. Chic. Suspiciously weighted.
I bring it back into my room and settle into bed, curling the blanket around my legs.
"Zander, still there?"
"Yeah."
His voice is faint now, through speaker, but it's still warm. Still low. Still him.
I pull out the first item—
A hoodie.
Nothing fancy. Worn. Even though it's designer.
But drenched in him.
I bring it to my face and breathe in like it's a drug, like I've been deprived, like this is some chemical I was born needing and finally got my hands on. My knees weaken.
I'm so glad no one saw that. It would be humiliating.
This secondary gender thing is the worst.
"Heard omegas need their alpha's scent during heat," he says carefully.
"So I sent some clothes over."
Alpha.
That word again.
"Their alpha, huh? And you're mine?" I tease, slipping the hoodie on and basking in the weight of it.
There's a long pause.
Then, softly—
"…Am I not?"
That hits harder than it should.
The uncertainty in his voice. The vulnerability.
My teasing wasn't meant to wound. I shift.
"Maybe." I draw out the word. Then, mischievously: "You do realize the reason I was at that club the night we met was to find an alpha to spend my heat with?"
"I've never been more grateful that I didn't turn down that invitation," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I reach for the last item in the gift bag, after a couple more pheromone and scent soaked shirts.
It's a box.
I open it.
And I stare.
Oh. My. God.
Inside sits a dildo.
A very... detailed one.
Veins. Texture. Shape. Size.
I pick it up slowly, like it might explode. There's a remote tucked underneath. I press the button.
It vibrates.
"So I've opened the box… and, um—thank you??" I say, still holding it mid-air like a forbidden relic.
"Is this not too big??"
He mumbles something over the phone. I only catch the end.
"…after me."
I blink.
"What?"
A throat clears.
"It's… molded after me. Uh. Mine."
I choke.
"Really?"
I hold it up again in disbelief.This is what he's packing?
My brain searches through memories. We haven't gone all the way. But even what we've done… I don't remember it being this big.
No.
This?
This thing would split me.
"I don't know, Zander. Isn't this too big?" I ask weakly, half-horrified, half-impressed.
His laughter fills the phone.
Rich. Amused. Just a little smug.
It's unfair, really.
He sounds like sin wrapped in velvet. Like the kind of alpha you read about in novels where the omega ends up crying in bed—in the good way.
And I hate that I love the sound of it.
But this? This is not a laughing matter.
"Zander," I say, holding the monstrosity aloft like I've just uncovered a cursed relic.
"I'm being serious. This is a weapon. It needs a license."
He chuckles again, utterly unbothered.
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm not. I've held actual weapons. This has more veins."
I spin it in my hand like I'm about to duel someone with it.
"And it vibrates, Zander. It has a remote. Why does it have settings?"
"Options," he corrects, smug again. "Customization."
I groan and drop back onto the bed, the hoodie riding up slightly. The scent of him clings to my skin like heat itself.
"I'm going to die. I'm going to try it, and I'm going to die, and Maksim will find me in the morning with this horror story still vibrating between my thighs."
There's a silence on the line.
A pause that stretches, heavy and warm.
Then Zander clears his throat, his voice a little deeper, a little more serious—like the laughter just melted into something molten.
"I did not need that mental image, Ivan."
There's a low edge of amusement still in his tone, but it's quieter now. More focused.
"And this is temporary," he adds. "Your next heat, you'll have the real thing."
He says it like a promise.
Like something carved into stone.
And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
My fingers curl around the remote again, playing with the edges of it. The air feels warmer, thicker.
"Why not this heat?" I murmur, lowering myself back onto the bed, my voice feather-light as I toy with the dildo.
"Because," he says, slowly, deliberately, "we're doing this whole healthy-relationship bit, remember? No rushed decisions. No hormonal desperation. I don't want the first time I finally have you to be when you're dazed, shaking, and not thinking straight."
"I want you," he says, voice growing deeper, "coherent. Clear. And very, very aware of what I'm doing to you."
And damn it.
I smile.
This man.
Look at him, wanting my consent, my clarity, my brain, before my body.He has no idea how attractive that is.
"Well, if you put it like that," I say, flopping back against the pillows and glancing at the… stand-in in my hands, "I guess I have no argument."
I lift the toy slightly, eyeing it skeptically.
"I'll settle for this guy for now."
Zander groans.
"Ivan, please stop talking about it like it's a person."
"He's been through a lot," I say solemnly, stroking it like a melodramatic villain.
"I can tell."
His groan turns into a strangled laugh, and I can practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I hope you know I'm regretting this entire gift bag now."
"Too late." I grin. "It's mine. And I'm naming him."
"Don't—"
"Big Z."
There's a soft thud on his end of the call, and the call ends.