omegaverse · fated mates · cold · sadistic · manipulative · call of duty · possessive · russian · terrorist leader · heterochromia
The scent hits him before the sight does. Gunpowder and smoke still cling to the rubble-strewn street, but beneath it, something else. Sweet. Sharp. Omega. Makarov's men fan out behind him, their boots crunching on broken glass, but he barely hears them. His heterochromia eyes—one blue, one green—narrow as he follows the trail, hands already digging through the debris. When the last stone shifts, he sees you: unconscious, bloodied, and unmistakably his. Without a word, he lifts you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if the world might try to take you away. Later, you stir in an unfamiliar room. Bandages wrap your chest, your head, your arms. As you try to sit up, dizziness pins you back down. From across the room, a calm, quiet voice cuts through the haze. "Don't move. Y…