Chapter Text
Your body was a map of complaints.
Your muscles were tight, you were almost positive you were covered in bruises—even if you couldn’t see them—and you had far too many joints that no longer bent without screaming out in protest; due to their rough treatment the night prior.
But still, you had managed to accomplish your goal; killing your target and getting yourself out of the building—even if it meant going on a little bit of a murder spree. You hadn’t meant to kill so many people, at first you were just aiming to knock them out so that you could make a quiet escape after being caught in the act of eliminating your target.
However, they had apparently kept a closer eye on you than you had realised, and soon enough, the entire building was alert and hunting you down. Which meant murder was just a small price to pay in exchange for escaping with your own life.
Gaara was likely going to be furious with you for what was supposed to be a clean assassination job turning into something impossible to cover up—but at the very least, there was nothing to link you to his gang. Not if you laid low for a few months.
Explaining that to him wouldn’t be too hard. You had worked loyally under him for years now, and you rarely made a mistake—this was simply an unfortunate mishap. The hardest part of all this, was getting to his office without letting your pain show.
An Omega showing weakness in a gang like Gaara’s was a recipe for disaster. So, you made sure that none of it showed. Not in your stride, or the unimpressed set of your jaw—annoyed at having to report in so soon after everything had gone to shit.
It didn’t matter that reporting in to Gaara as quickly as you were was the logical thing to do—you desperately wanted to be within the comfort of your own shitty apartment.
Granted, you would prefer to be in the apartment you would usually call home—but with your cover being blown as spectacularly as it had; that was no longer a safe option. Which meant a shitty apartment alternative.
You moved with the determination of someone who was so close to the finish line that you could practically taste the cheap takeout and lukewarm shower waiting for you at the end of it.
Though you couldn’t help but notice that the hallways of Headquarters were quieter than they should have been for the time of day—eerily so. You pushed the thought aside, refusing to acknowledge anything that might jeopardise your plans for the rest of the day.
You didn’t care. More than that, you didn’t want to care. You just wanted to give Gaara the verbal report you owed, and leave.
But Gaara’s door didn’t open when you knocked.
You stood there for a moment, jaw tight, the ache in your body sharpening with every second you were forced to stay upright.
No response. So, you knocked again; sharper this time. Still, there was nothing.
“I wouldn’t bother.”
You turned, fixing your attention on the runner nearby that had spoken; your expression enough to make him flinch.
He held a clipboard against his chest, and was visibly one of the mid-tier subordinates. Barely worth the effort it took to glare at him.
“Uh, the Boss ain’t here. He left a few days back. Personal stuff.”
You sucked in a slow breath through your nose, forcing your annoyance down before even attempting to speak; well-aware that he didn’t deserve your frustration, but more than a little tempted to use him as the outlet for it.
“Where’s Temari?” The runner shifted his weight at your question, glancing down the hallway as if he hoped someone else would come along to rescue him.
“…She had to go handle some incidents. Been gone most of the morning…she uh, might not be back til’ late.”
“Then who’s in charge?” You exhaled the words through gritted teeth—causing the runner to wince; like the words hurt him physically to even utter aloud.
“Kankuro. He’s uh…he’s in his workshop.”
Of course he was.
You didn’t waste time dismissing the nervous runner. Instead, you turned on your heel and stalked down the hall, ignoring the way your vision swam slightly at the edges—you were so close to being done for the day. You could rest soon; you just had to make it a little longer.
The closer you got to the lower levels, the stronger the scent of oil, metal, and cigarette smoke became. You pushed open the heavy door to the workshop—the hinges groaning in as much protest as your own body—and stepped inside.
The room was a familiar chaos of half-assembled weapons, open toolboxes, and papers that looked suspiciously important.
Kankuro’s back was to you, sleeves rolled up, vest hanging open and loose; and grease smudging up along his arms—staining the white of his shirt that you could see from your position. You couldn’t see the cigarette hanging from his mouth, but you knew it was there, able to see the trail of smoke curling lazily into the air.
“Look who finally dragged her arse back from her little vacation.” He drawled, not bothering to turn and face you.
You were too tired to roll your eyes at his antics.
Kankuro twisted a wrench on some half-assembled contraption in front of him, fiddling with it some more before turning to face you—the second his gaze landed on you; his expression shifted.
“Well fuck—you look like shit.”
Your spine stiffened. You were painfully aware of how you must look: blood-stained clothes, and exhaustion written into every line of your body. Not to mention whatever cuts and scrapes you currently had on display.
Still, you lifted your chin and scowled at him. “Still look better than some moron who thought a grease-smeared button-up was a fashion statement.”
Kankuro blinked, then glanced down at himself; a slow smirk tugging at his lips—clearly amused at your retort.
“Had to sit in a few meetings with Temari this morning. Apparently, looking like I just crawled out of the scrapyard wasn’t ‘professional enough.’” He flexed his hand, wiping it lazily on a nearby rag that did nothing to clean it. “Said that I had to at least pretend to be civilised.”
You snorted under your breath and moved over to his workbench, leaning against the edge of a mildly clear spot; forcing yourself to stay upright through sheer determination. You were running on fumes and fraying nerves, and every inch of your body was screaming at you to just give in—to go curl up somewhere dark and quiet, and sleep for a week.
“Well, congrats.” You muttered dryly. “You almost fooled me into thinking that you own more than two shirts.”
Kankuro gave a low laugh, shaking his head as he plucked the cigarette from his mouth and tapped it against a metal tray nearby.
“You wound me, Sweetheart. I clean up just fine when I want to. You, on the other hand—” His gaze dropped pointedly to your side, where dried blood had crusted in a long smear across your ribs. “You look like you lost a fight with a damn meat grinder.”
“And I still walked away from it.” You bit out, your tone sharper than you intended from a sharp sting of pain that decided to rear its head. “So I think I’m calling that a win.”
Kankuro clicked his tongue, eyeing you a moment longer—the casual grin still there; but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be standing.” He muttered eventually, motioning to a nearby stool. “Come sit your arse down before you pass out on my floor and I have to deal with that.”
You gave him an unimpressed look, lips in a flat line. “Wouldn’t that be a shame. You’d have to do actual work.”
“Don’t test me, (Name).” He leaned forward just enough to blow smoke toward your face, not enough to make you cough—just enough to be an arsehole. “I’ll throw your broken ass over my shoulder and toss you in the med bay if I have to.”
You would have snapped something in return if you hadn’t swayed slightly where you stood; his workbench doing nothing to help your vision from spinning. To make matters worse, Kankuro saw it.
“Alright, that’s it. Sit. Now.”
There was no teasing in his tone that time. Just the commanding lilt of an Alpha who wasn’t asking. A tone you had enjoyed the sound of a few times before—but right now, it was just a pain.
You hated that your legs responded faster than your brain, but you dropped onto the nearest stool with a muted groan. Pride wasn’t worth toppling face-first into the concrete. Not today.
Kankuro crouched in front of you, already tugging a battered first-aid kit from beneath the workbench, his cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth like it belonged there permanently.
“You know…” You trailed off, watching him sort through the kit with far too much confidence. “You’re awfully sure of yourself for someone that probably doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing.”
Kankuro glanced up, a cocky grin stretching across his lips. “Sweetheart, you think I trust anyone else here to stitch me up? You’re lucky you’ve got me and not one of those jumpy kids with a YouTube degree.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, remaining silent; deciding better than to argue with him—mostly because you were simply too tired to put in the effort, but also because, unfortunately for you, he was the better option.
“Shirt off.” He instructed, already pulling out a bottle of antiseptic; threading a needle in the next second. The items in the first-aid kit were thankfully in better shape than the kit’s outward appearance.
“You’re enjoying this way too much...” You grumbled out the words, peeling your shirt off with slow, stiff movements despite your complaint. The air hit your battered skin, and you caught the way his expression darkened for a split second before he schooled it into something more professional—or at least, as professional as he could manage.
“Yeah, well...” He trailed off, voice rough as he pulled out a clean cloth from the first-aid kit to wet with antiseptic. “You’re a hell of a lot prettier than the last guy I had to patch up.”
You snorted in amusement, squeezing your eyes shut as the first sharp sting of antiseptic lit up against an open gash on your ribs—a gash you had actually missed when you were evaluating the damage last night. “Flatter me later, Kankuro.”
“Don’t worry, Sweetheart. You’ll be begging for it by the time I’m done.” He drawled, that same cocky grin causing your pulse to race; or maybe you had just lost too much blood. It was hard to judge.
You didn’t dignify his remark with a response, focusing instead on the rhythmic way he worked—cleaning your wounds, bandaging the shallow ones, stitching up the deeper slices without hesitation.
His fingers were rough, but careful, his movements steady and sure. It was strangely comforting, in a way that only Kankuro could manage—infuriating and reassuring all at once.
“So.” His voice broke the silence after a minute. “You get the job done? Or is this a result of you failing?”
“The target is dead.” You mumbled, wincing as Kankuro tugged the first wound closed; the tight knot that followed nearly earning him a kick to the shin. “Got discovered in the middle of the act. Had to improvise.”
Kankuro clicked his tongue, sparing you a brief glance that lasted barely a second. “Gaara isn’t gonna be happy about the body count.”
“I covered my tracks.” Your voice was flat and a-matter-of-fact; annoyed at the implication you would cause problems for your boss. “There’s no connection back to us. Body count won’t matter if no one can prove who put the hit on him.”
He hummed low in his throat, clearly sceptical, but smart enough not to try and argue with you about it right now.
“You know you can’t go back to your place, right?” He asked after a moment; voice a little too casual.
You stiffened at the new direction the conversation seemed to be taking. “Of course I do. It’s fine. I’ve got a place.”
He snorted. “Yeah. Fine. Let me guess—you’ve got some shitty apartment that you call a ‘safe house.’ I bet it smells like mold, and the walls are so fucking thin, you can probably hear your neighbours breathe.”
You stayed silent at his unimpressed guess, and the heavy sigh he let out told you he already knew he was right—and that he wasn’t pleased with that fact.
“You’re staying with me ‘til everything settles down then.”
You immediately shook your head, grimacing slightly when the action jostled your aching ribs. “No. I’m not your problem, Kankuro. I’ll lay low, heal up, then disappear for a few weeks—like I’m supposed to.”
He sat back on his heels, fixing you with the same look he gave idiots who thought they could haggle with him over weapon deals. Unamused, and daring you to say something else.
“I wasn’t asking.”
Your mouth opened, a protest already forming, but one sharp tilt of his head and the warning glint in his dark eyes had the words dying in your throat.
Kankuro held your gaze for a moment longer, just to make sure you understood, then casually reached up; flicking the ash from his cigarette into a nearby ashtray—all without breaking eye-contact. It was a slow, deliberate motion, the kind that said he wasn’t in any hurry; and neither were you.
He took another drag, smoke curling lazily from his mouth, and shoved the cigarette back into the corner of his mouth; turning his attention back to your side. His rough, calloused fingers pressed gauze firmly against a particularly deep gash on your ribs; making you suck in a sharp breath.
“You’re lucky you haven’t gone into heat yet—specially when you’re this injured.” He muttered around the cigarette, voice low and edged with a roughness that wasn’t entirely from the smoke. “You’d have a line of Alphas sniffing around you.”
You scowled, his words twisting something uncomfortable in your gut. “I can handle myself, Kankuro.”
“You don’t get it, Sweetheart.” He frowned, pulling a fresh strip of medical tape free with a short, angry rip. “It’s not about whether you can fight them off. It’s about the fact you shouldn’t have to.”
He taped the gauze down with efficient, almost rough movements, and you could feel the heat of his frustration radiating off him now. Not rage—no, Kankuro wasn’t mad at you. He was mad at the thought of someone else even thinking they had the right to get close.
“You’re staying with me.” He repeated the fact, like saying it settled everything. “And let me make this real clear for you—not because you’re weak. But because you’re mine.”
You stiffened slightly, exhaustion making your tongue too heavy to stop the next words from escaping you. “Just because I happen to come to you during my heats doesn’t mean you get a say over my personal life—it especially doesn’t mean that I’m yours.”
Kankuro didn’t even blink.
He plucked the cigarette from his mouth again, flicking a fresh trail of ash into the tray, and this time, when he looked at you; the cocky smirk was gone—replaced by something darker. Something possessive enough to make your pulse skip for reasons you didn’t want to think too hard about.
“You can tell yourself that if it makes you feel better.” He spoke quietly, his voice low and steady. “But you and I both know you’re lying through your teeth.”
You opened your mouth—to argue, to deny, to say something—but he didn’t give you the chance.
“You’ve been coming to me for years now.” Kankuro shifted the cigarette back between his lips as he picked up the needle again; leaning in close to work on another of your deeper cuts. Stitching you up with steady, confident hands.
“You could’ve gone to anyone else.” He continued between the slow, easy motions of the needle through your skin. “Plenty of Alphas around here that would jump at the chance to knot a pretty thing like you during your heats. But you didn’t. You always came to me. Every. Single. Time.”
You stayed silent, your jaw clenched tight as the soft scrape of the needle pulling through your skin filled the small space between you. The truth of his words stung sharper than any wound he was tending to—and he knew it.
Kankuro tugged the thread taut with a rough surety, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin more than necessary. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it was just him. Either way, you felt the burn of his touch long after it moved on.
“You can try to deny it, Sweetheart.” He went on, voice dropping to something casual and almost conversational—like he wasn’t digging under your skin with every word. “You can act like it’s just convenient. That it’s just physical.”
He leaned back slightly, enough to glance up at you.
“But we both know better.”
You stared ahead, focusing on the stained wall across the room rather than looking at him; fighting the flush that threatened to creep up your neck. You were tired. Hurting. You didn’t have the energy for this kind of conversation, let alone the fire to fight him off the way you normally would.
Kankuro hummed low in his throat, almost like he was amused by your silence. He finished the last neat stitch, tied it off with a sharp flick of his wrist, and sat back on his heels; surveying his work. His cigarette bobbing lazily in the corner of his mouth.
“You’re mine, (Name).” He said it simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world—like you shouldn’t need to be told. “You’ve been mine for a long time. Fuck—you’ve been mine since the first time I buried my knot inside you.”
He plucked the cigarette from his mouth again, tapping the ash into the tray, before tilting his head slightly; that cocky, confident tilt you had hated so much when you first met him—and somehow hated even more now because of how right he looked doing it.
“Go ahead.” He drawled, voice low and confident. “Tell me I’m wrong. Lie to my face if you think you’ve got it in you.”
You swallowed thickly, your throat suddenly feeling too dry. You could have said something—some sharp, tired retort—but it would have sounded weak even to your own ears. So, you stayed silent. Again.
And that silence made Kankuro’s smirk deepen; slow and satisfied. Knowing that he’d won.
“That’s what I thought.” He muttered, more to himself than you, before moving to retrieve a spare, and much more casual, shirt than hung from a nearby hook on the wall. He threw it to you. “Put that on.”
You caught the fabric sluggishly, feeling the softness of it under your fingers—worn cotton, heavy with the scent of him; oil, smoke, and that faint, biting scent of Alpha that your Omega instincts immediately tried to cosy up to.
You scowled down at the shirt like it had personally offended you.
Kankuro chuckled under his breath, already moving across the room with his lazy, confident stride. He shoved aside a stack of old blueprints, kicked a toolbox out of the way, and started clearing off the battered couch tucked into the far corner of the workshop. Likely where he crashed whenever he couldn’t be bothered going home for the night.
“Come on, Sweetheart.” He tossed a wrench onto a nearby shelf with a heavy clatter, sparing you a glance from over his shoulder. “You’re gonna sleep here until it’s time to head home.”
You didn’t bother arguing with him. There wasn’t much point anymore—and gods, you were tired. Your body screamed for rest so loudly that it drowned out your usual stubbornness.
You shifted awkwardly on the stool, pulling the oversized shirt on properly, wincing as the fabric brushed over your freshly bandaged wounds; and Kankuro didn’t miss the movement—or the way your shoulders hunched slightly under the weight of exhaustion.
The couch wasn’t much better looking than the apartment you had slept in the night prior—one of the cushions was torn, and it still had the faint outline of where he’d left a pile of tools and parts earlier—but it might as well have been a five-star hotel to you right now.
Kankuro finished cleaning it off, grabbed a battered throw blanket from a shelf, and tossed it over the couch with a grunt.
“Best I can do on short notice.” He said it almost like he was apologising. “But maybe next time you do something stupid, you can give me a heads up?”
“Oh, sure. You already know my heat is getting close though—so consider this your heads up.” The snarky comment spilled past your lips before you could stop it, and Kankuro grinned at the implication; though his gaze was still sharp. Assessing. Waiting for you to topple over.
You moved toward the couch on shaky legs, every step a reminder of just how badly your body needed to shut down for a while. Kankuro was there in an instant, a steadying hand slipping around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You almost snapped at him for it. Almost. But the warmth of his palm against your hip was grounding in a way you didn’t have the energy to resent.
“Easy…” He murmured; voice pitched low for you alone as he helped lower you onto the couch; tucking the blanket around your shoulders in rough, somewhat awkward movements. His fingers brushed the side of your throat—deliberately casual—but the barest graze of his thumb over your pulse betrayed him.
“Careful, Kankuro. I might think you’ve actually got a heart if you get all affectionate on me now.”
He laughed quietly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “You’re a damn pain in the arse, you know that?”
You let your eyes slip closed, sinking deeper into the couch cushions; allowing the heavy, familiar scent of him lull your instincts into something almost like comfort.
“Yeah, yeah.” You mumbled; voice muffled against the fabric of the couch. “You clearly love it.”
There was a long pause, longer than you expected, and then Kankuro’s voice, low and uncharacteristically soft. “Yeah, I do.”
You might have dreamed that part, and after the hellish time you had, maybe you wanted to dream it. Either way, you were asleep before you could ask him.
🦊 🦊 🦊 🦊 🦊
You woke up to the bed dipping under sudden weight, and drowsy instinct moved faster than rational thought.
Your hand shot out from beneath the nest of blankets, fingers closing around the hilt of a knife you’d hidden along the side of the mattress after waking up to an empty apartment at some stage.
In one smooth—albeit painful—motion, you twisted, leveraging your weight to slam the intruder off of the bed and down onto his back on the floor with a solid thud.
But it wasn’t until you had the knife pressed against the base of his throat that the dim light from the corner lamp caught on a familiar, and far too amused, expression.
“Damn, Sweetheart…if you were trying to get me hard, you fucking succeeded.” Kankuro drawled from under you, a cocky grin tugging at his lips.
You groaned low under your breath, your grip tightening on the knife just enough to let him feel the sharp kiss of metal against his throat—more for your own satisfaction than any real threat. His hands stayed relaxed by his sides, not even bothering to push you off; like he trusted you not to actually slit him open.
Rolling your eyes, you pulled the knife away slowly; easing back just enough to ease the strain in your aching body—but the slight shift ground your hips down against him, and you caught the deep, rough groan he let out.
You ignored it. Mostly.
Your body screamed in protest from the sudden movement and your expression twisted into a tight wince. You forced yourself to breathe through the pain carefully.
Kankuro’s hand moved to your waist without hesitation, calloused fingers curving just above the worst of your injuries; holding you steady with a gentleness that you hated admitting felt good.
“You okay?” He asked lowly, his voice losing some of the teasing edge—at least for the moment.
“No.” You muttered, scowling down at him once the worst of the pain eased into a somewhat bearable ache. “Some pervert crawled into bed with me.”
Kankuro snorted, the cocky grin making a full return as his fingers lazily traced the edge of the bandage he had re-wrapped earlier before letting you sleep more in his bed. “Pervert, huh? That’s rich coming from the one grinding all over me right now.”
You scoffed, but before you could throw an insult back, he chuckled under his breath and shifted slightly beneath you; the movement dragging friction between the two of you.
“I’m just trying to get in my bed, Sweetheart. Didn’t necessarily mean to get between your thighs…” His voice was low and rough in a way that made your stomach twist. “But you know I wouldn’t say no if you’re looking for a little attention.”
You narrowed your eyes at him—and instead of answering, you ground your hips down against the thick line of his erection; slow and deliberate.
Kankuro’s breath hitched sharply, his hands clenching at your waist, nails biting into the soft cotton of the shirt he’d given you earlier—a guttural curse rumbling from his chest, low and unrestrained.
“Are you sure you aren’t the one looking for some attention?” You purred, your voice strained from the pain radiating in your body; though you still managed the smug edge you wanted.
His expression darkened immediately, a dangerous gleam replacing his usual easy-going cockiness.
“You keep grinding that sweet little pussy against me, and I’m gonna assume you’re begging for it.” His voice was pure gravel now, rough and fraying at the edges with barely-held restraint.
You smiled lazily, ignoring the pounding of your pulse and the way your body reacted instinctively to his change in demeanour. “Maybe I just like making you suffer…”
You tilted your head slightly, inwardly debating if it was such a good idea to push an Alpha close to his rut while you were as injured as you currently were. “Or maybe I just like knowing you’re one bad move away from losing control.”
“You’re playing with fire, Sweetheart.” He lifted one hand, curling it slow and heavy around the back of your neck—warm, firm pressure that was more claiming than it was restraining. His thumb brushed the sensitive spot just behind your ear, teasing the edge of your scent gland; and your body betrayed you by leaning into the touch with a soft, involuntary noise.
Kankuro’s smirk sharpened into something far more dangerous when he heard it.
“Keep talking shit—” He murmured, voice low and dark. “And I’ll bury my knot so deep inside you, that you’ll still be dripping me down your thighs when you’re recovered enough to get back to work.”
Heat coiled low in your stomach at the mental image, but you sneered instead of giving him the satisfaction of seeing it.
“You talk big for someone I had pinned under me about thirty seconds ago.” You retorted, pushing yourself upright a little more—and promptly wincing at the sharp spike of pain from your wounds.
Kankuro’s hand shifted immediately, supporting your weight without a word; his thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles against your hip.
“You’re still hurt.” He muttered; his voice thick with something harder to name—something that almost sounded like concern. “You need rest, not a knotting session that’ll wreck your body more than it already is.”
You snorted softly in amusement. “Since when do you have a conscience, Kankuro?”
“Since you showed up in my workshop a complete fucking mess.” He grinned up at you again, but it was softer somehow; still cocky though.
Reluctantly, you let yourself relax a fraction, your body slumping against his as exhaustion pulled at you. Kankuro shifted, lifting you carefully—grumbling under his breath about stubborn Omegas—and carried you back up onto the bed; your knife laying forgotten on the floor.
He lowered you onto the bed gently—though you knew he was capable of much rougher handling if the situation called for it—and even after you were settled, he hovered; his hands reluctant to leave you. It was a rare thing to see him hesitate like that.
But you were far too exhausted to call him out on it.
Instead, you shifted awkwardly against the mattress, grimacing as the ache in your muscles sharpened with the movement. The nest you’d started without meaning to—a disorganised sprawl of blankets and pillows—absorbed you easily, the faint, comforting pull of it tugging at your fraying instincts.
Kankuro stayed beside the bed for a moment longer, studying you in that slow, lazy way that he always did—like he had all the time in the world to sit there and look at you.
“Where the hell did you even go?” You questioned, mumbling the words out sleepily as you shifted your weight carefully; forcing yourself upright just enough to prevent yourself from falling back asleep. “You said you were done for the day when Temari got back—that you wanted to make sure I actually did as I was told and slept, remember?”
“Had some shit to handle.”
You frowned at the vague answer, watching through narrowed eyes as he tugged his shirt off over his head in one easy motion. Your traitorous gaze dropped to the broad, scarred expanse of his chest; catching on the flex of his muscles, and the dark wisps of his happy trail.
You cursed him inwardly when you saw the smirk. The smirk that said Kankuro knew exactly where your attention had gone.
Giving a quiet chuckle, Kankuro moved towards his dresser and swiped a pair of old sweatpants from them; sliding them on with practiced ease. The muscles in his back flexing as he moved—stealing your attention again.
“I was gathering information.” He spoke casually, acting like it wasn’t a big deal. “About the leftovers from the gang you infiltrated for your target.”
Your frown deepened, your tired brain catching up far too slowly for your liking. “I told you I had it handled.”
You pushed yourself a little higher on the bed, wincing as you did. “I covered my tracks, Kankuro.”
He paused by the dresser, looking over his shoulder at you; the corner of his mouth twitching up into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “It wasn’t about whether you handled it, Sweetheart.”
He turned fully to face you now, arms crossed lazily over his chest. “It’s about the fact that they hurt you—and while you absolutely slaughtered the ones that laid hands on you; fantastic job by the way—I’m not satisfied leaving the rest of them breathing.”
You blinked at him, caught completely off-guard.
Before you could summon a response—or even process what he had said—he moved toward the bed; reaching for the edge of the mattress like he was about to climb in. Until suddenly, he stopped, and looked at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Do you want me to crash on the couch?” He asked, voice unusually careful and free of the teasing you were used to.
“Why?”
He gestured to the mess of blankets and pillows you were half-buried in. “Sweetheart, that’s a nest you’re laying in.”
His mouth quirked up at one side, almost amused at your confused expression. “I know better than to jump into an Omega’s nest without an invite. I prefer my balls attached to my body, thanks.”
You stared at him for a moment longer, stunned by the fact that he not only recognised what your half-made nest was—but that he actually respected it enough to ask once he realised what it was.
“Wait—how the hell do you even know that?” You demanded before you could stop yourself; your voice firm with suspicion. “You come from a family full of Alphas.”
Kankuro’s grin widened into something self-satisfied as he straightened up; crossing his arms behind his head in a stretch that made the muscles in his arms flex deliciously. He looked every bit the smug asshole you were used to—and somehow, it was still irritatingly charming.
“I pay attention to you, (Name).” He spoke the words easily. “I told you that you’ve been mine from day one. So is it really that much of a surprise to find out that I gave enough of a shit to figure you out?”
You opened your mouth to tell him that he was full of shit—but the words caught in your throat, trapped there by the sudden, heavy way his gaze pinned you in place.
There was no teasing in his eyes now. No cocky smirk. Just Kankuro, looking at you like you were something important.
You swallowed thickly; your mouth suddenly too dry. Your instincts, traitorous things that they were, had you wanting to purr under the weight of that attention; all but urging you to pull him into the nest and wrap yourself around him until the ache in your chest eased.
Pushing those instincts down, you instead jerked your chin towards the bed. “Just get in the damned bed, Kankuro.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He slid onto the mattress with easy, careful movements; keeping a noticeable distance from you at first—like he was giving you the space to change your mind. Not that you were going to.
With a tired huff, you shifted closer, reaching out to snag the edge of his sweatpants before tugging him the rest of the way into bed. His rough laugh rumbled against your skin as he caught you against him, careful of your injuries but not hesitating to tangle his limbs with yours the second you let him.
You buried your face against his chest, inhaling the thick, grounding scent of him—and felt the last of your walls crumble under the steady, protective way his arms locked around your body.
“Go on, go back to sleep, Sweetheart.” He muttered, his lips brushing over the top of your head affectionately.