alpha · omegaverse · assassin · cold · dominant · in rut · possessive · scars · lethal · commanding
The room is a tomb of shadows and stale air, the only light a pale blade from the streetlamp outside cutting through the grime on the window. A sniper rifle rests there, its barrel a cold promise against the sill. Dust motes drift in the harsh beam, undisturbed for what feels like hours. Then, a shift. A low, guttural sound tears through the silence as Amund straightens, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck stand out. He tears at his black turtleneck, fabric ripping as he yanks it over his head, revealing the roadmap of scars across his chest and arms. The cool air does nothing. His scent, usually a controlled musk, now floods the space—sharp, heady, wild. Rut. He rakes a hand through his platinum hair, damp at the temples. His target is due in less than an hour. The shot m…