Chapter 65 –
Ivan – POV
The sun is sinking low over the island horizon, casting long golden rays across the porch as a soft wind stirs the trees. I sit curled up in one of the wooden chairs, my arms hugging my knees, the oversized hoodie I stole from Zander doing little to combat the heat burning beneath my skin.
I feel feverish. Not the flu kind. Not even the kind from too much sun.
No—the kind that coils beneath your skin, a slow heat that hums in your blood, the start of something hormonal and inevitable.
My body knows.
Zander, of course, noticed first. He's observant when it comes to me.
He'd gone into town just an hour ago, frantic and grumbling under his breath, in search of medication and cool packs.
And now I sit alone, restless and overheated, trying not to focus on the throb in the back of my neck or the way the light breeze makes my skin feel too sensitive.
The door creaks open behind me.
"Oh dear," Jeremy's gentle voice says. I glance over my shoulder, already red in the face.
He walks over and crouches beside me, worry in his warm brown eyes. "Come with me."
---
He helps me up and guides me inside—back to Zander's childhood bedroom, which I've been occupying this past week. It's small, simple, but oddly comforting. The wallpaper is faded with time, and there's a stack of old books on the desk. I've never asked him about them.
Zander's been banished to the couch since day one of our arrival—by my decree, not his father's. He'd grumbled about it like a teenager grounded from his games, but I know he doesn't mind.
Jeremy settles me onto the bed with practiced ease, adjusting the pillow behind my back like it's second nature.
Then he pauses, observing me with gentle but perceptive eyes.
"Your pheromones are out of control," he says quietly.
"Are you due for your heat soon?"
I freeze.
A full-body jolt of embarrassment surges through me.
"N-No," I stammer.
"No, it's not going to happen for a couple of weeks. Three, maybe two. Give or take."
I want to dig a hole in the floor and vanish inside it. My cheeks are scalding hot, and this hoodie is suffocating.
Jeremy doesn't comment on my obvious mortification. He just gives a soft nod and leaves the room.
When he returns, he's holding a small, sleek black box. He opens it carefully on the nightstand, revealing a few vials, packets, and a syringe. My stomach lurches at the sight.
"I picked these up in secret a few days ago," he says as he prepares the syringe with clinical grace.
"I noticed your pheromones starting to spike. I bought this for you—" a small smile touches his lips, sad but knowing.
"My body stopped responding that way the day I lost the love of my life."
My heart aches at the softness in his voice.
Zander's alpha father.
Gone, but clearly never far from Jeremy's heart.
It's strange. I've heard the stories. In marked pairs, pheromones bond uniquely. When one dies, it leaves a scar—not just emotional, but physical. Some omegas never go through another cycle again. Some alphas lose all sense of scent.
There are surgeries now. Hormonal treatments. But they say you're never the same.
Which is why, nowadays, marking is a rarity.
An intimate commitment beyond marriage, one that binds your soul as much as your body.
And the reason why omega chokers—aside from being fashion statements—became necessary.
Protection.
Autonomy.
I swallow.
I like Zander.
Hell, I may even love him.
But enough to be marked?
To bind myself that deeply?
To give someone the power to ruin me with their absence?
I don't know.
"Ready?" Jeremy asks gently, holding up the syringe.
I nod slowly, offering my arm and looking away, eyes squeezed shut.
The prick is brief, but I still flinch, hating the feeling of something foreign slipping beneath my skin.
"This will help stabilize you and knock you out for a bit," he murmurs, easing me down onto the bed.
His hand adjusts the blanket over my hips, tucking me in with a practiced tenderness I haven't felt in years or ever.
He pauses.
"I also bought contraceptives," he adds with a teasing edge.
"But if you decide to conceive my first grandchild here on the island—"
"No!" I squeak, shaking my head wildly, already halfway buried in the sheets in shame.
Why is he like this?!
He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself.
"Alright, alright. Get some rest."
And then—softly, unexpectedly—his hand brushes a few strands of hair from my damp forehead.
It's such a simple gesture. Parental. Comforting.
My heart lurches.
Because I've never had that before.
Not like this.
I close my eyes, already drowsy from the suppressors, but something tugs at me.
Something tender. Raw.
"Wait..."
My voice is a whisper, barely audible.
I don't open my eyes. I'm too afraid to see his face.
"Can you... stay with me.....Just until I fall asleep."
There's a pause. A beat of silence.
Then—
"Of course."
I feel the mattress dip behind me. The soft exhale of someone sitting down and then, a warm hand running slowly, gently through my hair.
A rhythm that lulls me like a lullaby.
And just before I slip under, I wonder—
What kind of expression is he wearing right now?