Chapter Text
At the end of the day, it's just biology.
Penelope tells herself this endlessly. At the end of the day, it's just biology. At the end of the day, she will survive it. At the end of the day—
It is also fucking horrible.
She stopped using suppressants early on, because while they did regulate her heat cycles, they also made her feel like a raving lunatic most of the time. She vacillated from feeling flat to feeling everything at once, irritable to euphoric. Most days, she could not predict which version of Penelope she was going to be, and while the regulation of her cycles was a benefit, she could not continue feeling so splintered every single day when she could simply feel it occasionally. So, she stopped them. Started some homoeopathic regimens that help regulate them somewhat, the timing typically arriving before or after a season change.
Still, while predictable, her heats are awful.
Her ex-boyfriend had been adequate. Penelope hates that this is the kindest thing she can say about someone she dated for too many years, but there it is. He helped her through her cycles with a kind of detachment she appreciated at the time. It was clinical and uncomplicated. She had chosen Alfie, in part, because of what he was not. He was a beta, and therefore predictable. He never made her skin prickle when he entered a room. Never made her lose her train of thought mid-sentence. He could not give her what an Alpha could during her heats, but he was present and patient, and she told herself that was enough. Told herself, for five years, that manageable was the same thing as good.
When they ended things three months ago, about half a decade too late, she had not considered this particular consequence.
Now she is considering it quite a bit.
Today, she and Sophie meet at their usual café for their usual Saturday morning ritual of yoga and brunch. Typically, Penelope finds comfort in these routines, the predictability of them, but today she cannot shut her brain off during class. Today, her favourite pastry sits untouched in front of her. The pressure behind her eyes started two days ago, a dull throb that sharpens when she moves too quickly. Her skin feels too warm and too tight. These are the signs and she knows them well. She has four days. Maybe five.
"You could find someone," Sophie says gently. She is three weeks past her own heat, settled in that way Penelope envies. "I mean, that's what the centres are for. Unattached Omegas go through it safely, find someone compatible for the duration."
Penelope nearly gags at the thought. "I know what the centres are for."
"I'm just saying." Sophie shrugs. "It’s an option."
Penelope presses her fingers into her temple. She has thought about it. Of course, she has. But there is something about handing herself over to a stranger that makes bile burn at the back of her throat. Too many unknowns in an already miserable situation.
"Alphas are complicated," she says.
Sophie presses her lips into a thin line. "So is suffering alone for five days."
Penelope doesn't answer. Sophie watches her for a moment, then reaches into her bag. She pulls out her phone, scrolls for a moment, and slides it across the table.
"Look," she says. "I asked around. Benedict mentioned that he knows someone. An Alpha. Unattached. His ruts are apparently..." She pauses, clearly choosing her words. "The timing is similar."
Penelope looks at the phone. A contact, initials she recognises immediately—
Her stomach drops.
"Sophie—”
"—Ben says he disappears every time," Sophie continues. "Goes off somewhere alone because they're intense. And the timing is close to yours. Not that Ben knows about your heats specifically, I didn't say anything, but—"
"Sophie."
"—The pattern is just interesting, don't you think? That it might line up that way, with someone who—"
"Why," Penelope interrupts, her voice thinner than she intends, "why would he do that?"
Sophie stops, tilting her head. "Why would he not?"
Penelope stares at the initials on the screen. C.B. Colin Bridgerton. Eloise's brother. The one who has spoken to her perhaps a dozen times in her entire life, always polite, always kind, and always looking right through her.
"I doubt it would be a hardship for him, Pen," Sophie says, her voice softening.
Penelope shakes her head. The pressure behind her eyes is getting worse, and she knows she needs to go home.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
But Penelope does not know how. She has spent years watching Colin Bridgerton from across rooms, from the periphery of his sister's life. He has never looked at her the way he looks at other women, and she learned a long time ago to stop waiting for him to.
"He doesn't know me," she finally says. "Not really."
Sophie is quiet for a moment. Then she shrugs, pulling her phone back across the table.
"Maybe not," she says. "But the offer is there. If you want it."
Penelope stares at the space where the phone had been. Where she can still see the ghost of those initials.
"Just think about it, Penelope."
She thinks about little else for the rest of the day.
She met Colin at sixteen, in the heat of summer. Eloise had invited her to Aubrey Hall for the first time, and Penelope was nervous in the way she was always nervous: too aware of her own body, her own voice, the space she occupies. She was Eloise's new friend from school, the quiet one she had already heard Anthony say.
Prior to that week, she had been showing signs for months: sSensitivity to scent and, the occasional flush of heat that felt consuming. Her mother had explained what was coming in her clipped and clinical way, and Penelope had read everything she could find on the subject. She was prepared for everything—except Colin.
He came through the front door with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a grin that seemed to fill the entire room. He was twenty-one, just finished at university, and in a few weeks would be leaving for his first long trip abroad. Penelope knew this because Eloise had talked about little else. She knew he was the third son, the charming one. She was also acutely aware that he was objectively handsome.
What she did not know, what she could not possibly prepare for, was the way her entire body responded to his presence. It was immediate and visceral. Her skin prickled and her heart rate spiked as her belly tightened in a way she did not yet have language for. Colin glanced at her as Eloise made introductions, his smile warm and unremarkable,but Penelope felt it everywhere.
"Lovely to meet you," he said, his smile faltering just slightly. His gaze caught on her face for a moment too long, and his expression shifted before looking away.
She managed only a nod, and he was gone a moment later, bounding up the stairs to find his mother, and Penelope stood in the foyer with her pulse drumming in her ears and a strange, shaky feeling in her legs. She thought, later, that he must have found her awkward. A nervous child cluttering his mother's foyer, because for the remainder of that visit, Colin was polite but distant. He barely looked at her, and when he did, it was brief and careful, like she was something to be managed.
She presented six days later.
It happened at home, in her childhood bedroom, and was nothing like what she expected. The books described it as a slow unfurling. Hers was sudden and brutal, a fever that spiked in the middle of the night and left her gasping, soaked in sweat, her body aching to be filled. Her mother handled it with efficiency and very little comfort. A doctor was called. Medication was administered. She was told this is normal, that first heats are often intense, that her body will regulate with time.
Colin left for Greece less than a week later.
He wrote. Postcards, mostly, addressed to the family. Eloise read them aloud sometimes when Penelope visited, tales of sunburnt shoulders and food that made him weep with joy, making fun of him as she did. At the bottom of one, in a hastily scrawled afterthought: Tell Penelope I said hello.
She thought about those five words for an embarrassing amount of time.
Years passed. Colin left and returned and left again. This became the rhythm of him, the pattern she learned to expect. He was never home for long. A few weeks here, a month there, just enough time to remind her what it felt like to be in the same room as him before he disappeared again.
Once, he left her birthday dinner before the cake was cut. Eloise said something about an early flight, but Penelope checked later. There were no flights to Buenos Aires until the following afternoon. She did not know what to do with that information, so she folded it up and put it away with everything else she did not allow herself to examine.
When he was home, he was polite. Friendly, even. He asked about her studies, her writing. Remembered details she did not expect him to remember. But he did not touch her. Did not let his gaze linger. Did not stand too close.
There was one night she had never been able to fully dismiss. It was Christmas, five years ago, when she had slipped away from charades and hidden in the library, and Colin had found her. They talked, not for very long, but longer than usual, and while they did, he sat across from her and asked about the book she was reading, and his attention felt different that night, sharper, more deliberate.
Then he had said her name. Penelope. Not Pen, which Eloise called her, but her full name, and she quite liked how it sounded in his mouth.
Eloise walked in before he could finish the sentence. Three weeks later, he was on a plane to the other end of the world, and he stayed away for six months.
She told herself it meant nothing. A half-started thought, abandoned easily. Forgotten, probably, before he cleared customs.
She learned about his ruts from Eloise, who mentioned them once in passing, irritated that Colin had gone off grid again during her birthday weekend. "He always does this," Eloise complained. "Disappears for a week and no one can reach him."
Penelope hummed in sympathy. Her own heat had started two days prior.
Ten years of this. Ten years of watching him from the edges of rooms, of polite conversation and careful distance, of the same ache in her gut every time he left.
Like most everything else in her life, she taught herself how to live with it.
The days after brunch with Sophie blur together.
Penelope goes to work. Comes home. Eats meals she does not taste and watches television she does not absorb. The pressure behind her eyes becomes a constant companion, dull and persistent. Her skin grows more sensitive. Fabrics that typically do not bother her now feel abrasive, wrong even. She finds herself running her hands along her sheets at night, restless and searching for relief.
Three days until her heat. Then two.
Her Google history knows her too well, showing her targeted ads of centres every time she is on socials. One night, already feeling as though she wants to tear off her skin, she pulls up the website on her phone, scrolling through the sterile descriptions and stock photos of calming rooms and understanding staff. Closes the app. Opens it again. Closes it.
She thinks about doing it alone. She has done it before, early on, when she was young and stubborn and convinced she did not need anyone. It is miserable, painful in a way that feels less like biology and more like punishment. She survived it, but she does not want to do it again.
She thinks about Colin.
And this is the problem. This has always been the problem. She cannot stop thinking about Colin. She taught herself, very early on, to never, ever think about him, but then the headaches start, and her skin feels too tight, and he is all she can think about. It is intensified now, ever since her meeting with Sophie, ever since the mere idea of him possibly helping her was planted.
She digs out an old photo one evening, a group shot from some Bridgerton gathering years before. She finds him in the frame, laughing at something off-camera. Studies his face. Tries to feel nothing. Fails.
Her hand is between her legs before she has made the conscious decision to put it there.
It is over quickly. Embarrassingly so. She comes with her eyes still on the screen, his name caught somewhere in her throat, and the relief lasts only seconds before the ache returns, worse than before.
She clicks of her phone and lies in the dark.
Tries not to think about what she has just done, and fails at that too.
One day before her heat, Penelope sits on her bed with her phone in her hands. The contact Sophie sent her is still there, saved but untouched. She has looked at it a dozen times. Has typed out messages and deleted them, told herself this is a terrible idea, that she is setting herself up for humiliation. Has already decided he will say no, or worse, say yes out of pity.
Her hands are shaking. Her body is already beginning to betray her, warmth pooling low in her belly, her thoughts scattering at the edges. She needs to decide. She clicks on the messaging app. Closes it. She goes to her photos. Finds the one from the night before. Her hand is between her legs again before she can stop herself, pressing, searching, but unlike twenty-four hours ago, it is not enough. It only makes it worse.
Penelope types out a message. Deletes it. Types it again.
Her thumb hovers over the send button for a long moment.
Then she presses it.
Penelope to Colin Bridgerton
27 September 2025
[21:03]
Penelope: Hi. I hope it’s not too late. This is Penelope Featherington. Sophie gave me your number. I was wondering if we could talk
Penelope: possibly tomorrow
Penelope: If not, please ignore this
She drops her phone onto the mattress. Presses the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Her room is dark save for the lamp on her nightstand. Her body feels wrong. Restless. Like her skin does not fit properly. She has started nesting without meaning to, blankets pulled from the closet and piled at the foot of her bed, pillows arranged and rearranged until nothing feels right.
It might be too late. He might already be somewhere else, off-grid, the way Eloise always complained about. He might see her name and feel nothing but awkward obligation.
Her phone buzzes.
Colin Bridgerton to Penelope
27 September 2025
[21:08]
Colin Bridgerton: Hi Penelope.
Colin Bridgerton: I didn't think you would reach out.
Colin Bridgerton: Can I call? It might be easier to talk.
Her face burns.
She sits up too fast, her head spinning as she stares at the screen. I didn't think you would reach out. What does that mean? Had he expected her to? Had he wanted her to? This is so stupid. She is so fucking stupid. This entire thing should be transactional. They both need something. It does not have to mean more than that.
And yet, her heart is racing.
Penelope: Sure.
Her phone rings almost immediately, his name filling the screen. Penelope can do nothing but stare at it for a full two seconds before answering. She puts it on the speaker without thinking.
"Hi," she says. Breathless already.
"Hi."
His voice fills her bedroom, and her body responds before her mind catches up. Her skin prickles, her thighs pressing together. And it is just his voice, just two letters, and she is already unravelling.
"Um." She laughs a little unsteadily. "So."
"Yeah." She can hear the smile in it. "I know."
She does not know what he knows. She is not sure she wants to ask.
"I..." She picks at her lip with her teeth. "Sophie mentioned that you... That your ruts are…"
"…Around the same time as your heats." His voice is careful. "Yes."
She blinks. "You knew?"
A pause.
When he speaks again, his tone has shifted lower. He hums, and she swears she can feel the vibrations of it in her bones. "I’ve known for a while, Penelope."
The words land in her chest and stick there, right between her ribs. She does not know what to do with them. Cannot hold onto the thought long enough to examine it because her body is humming, her skin too tight, everything pulling her back under.
"How are you feeling?" He asks.
She laughs, but it comes out shaky. "Awful. My head has been pounding for days. I can’t get comfortable." She stops. Swallows. "I can’t… I can’t settle."
He hums and she feels it vibrate along her spine.
"I’m sorry," he says. "I wish I could..."
He trails off.
"How are you?" She asks quietly.
"Honestly?" He exhales, and she can hear the strain in it. "Barely holding on. I’m close to my rut. I can feel it." Another pause. "It’s been difficult to concentrate."
"On what?"
"Anything that’s not you.”
Her breath catches. The words sink into her skin and bones, warm and heavy. She does not know what to say to that, cannot say anything at all, really, her thoughts too muddled, her body singularly focused on need. Her hand has drifted to her stomach without her permission, fingers tracing the hem of her shirt.
"Colin..."
"I want to help you, Penelope." His voice is steady now. "If you’ll let me. But I need you to be sure. I need to know this is what you want."
Her fingers slip beneath the waistband of her underwear, and the amount of slick between her thighs is embarrassing. The first brush of her fingers against her cunt makes her gasp, quiet but unmistakable. She wonders if he heard it. Hopes he did. Hopes he did not.
"I am sure," she breathes. "Yes. I am sure."
The sound he makes is somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "Are you touching yourself?"
She bites her bottom lip and finds she cannot lie. "Yes."
"Good,” he all but growls. "That’s good, Penelope. You’re doing so well."
Her hips roll against her hand. Her eyes flutter closed. The praise spreads through her, simultaneously loosening the tension in her chest while building it back up.
"I just want..." She loses the thought. Finds it again. "I want to be good. For you."
She hears movement on his end. Something knocked over. A muffled curse.
"You are." His voice has gone rough at the edges. "God, you are perfect. I need you to listen to me now, alright? Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"I’m coming to you. I need to sort a few things first, but I’ll be there in an hour. Can you send me your address?"
She nods. Remembers he cannot see her.
"Yes."
"Good girl."
The words hit her somewhere primal. Her back arches off the bed. A sound escapes her throat, desperate and needy, and she hears his breath catch on the other end of the line.
"Do not come." Gentle but firm. "Not until I get there. Can you do that for me?"
Her fingers still. It takes everything she has.
"I... yes."
"Promise me, Penelope."
"I promise."
"Good." She can hear him moving. Gathering things. His breath is uneven. "I’ll be there soon. Keep the door unlocked for me."
"Colin?"
"Yes?"
She does not know what she wants to say. Only that she does not want him to hang up. Does not want the sound of his voice to leave her yet.
"Don’t take too long," she whispers. "Please."
His laugh is low and strained. “Pen,” he says, and it sounds so good in his mouth. “I’ll be there soon.”
The line goes dead, and Penelope lies in the dark, with her hand still between her legs, and her heart pounding in her throat.
She does not remember unlocking the door.
She must have, at some point, because when the knock comes, she is already halfway across the room, her legs unsteady beneath her, her heart in her throat. The flat is dim. She has not turned on the lights in days because of the sensitivity, and could not be bothered to do it now, too consumed with what should have been the simple task of lying and waiting and trying not to touch herself.
She failed at that too, but it does not matter because she opens the door, and Colin is there.
He looks wrecked. His hair is dishevelled, like he has been running his hands through it. His shirt is untucked. His eyes find hers immediately, and his expression shifts and softens and sharpens all at once.
"Hi," she breathes.
The corners of his mouth lift, just barely.
He sets his bag down by the door. Moves toward her slowly, deliberately careful, she notes, and when he reaches her, for a moment he simply stands there before he takes her hand and lifts it to his mouth.
His lips press against her palm. She can feel his breath, warm and unsteady.
"Hi," he says softly. His mouth moves to her fingers and she can do nothing but watch, frozen, as his tongue darts out and traces the tips of them.
He pauses. Pulls back just enough to look at her. One eyebrow raised. "Penelope."
Her stomach drops.
"I thought," he says slowly, his voice deceptively mild, "that I told you not to come until I got here."
Her face burns. “I..." She swallows. "I couldn’t help it."
"Couldn’t help it," he repeats. His thumb traces a slow circle against her wrist. "Twice, from what I can tell."
Her eyes widen. "I’m sorry.”
Colin hums and looks amused. "You’ll pay for that," he says, almost conversationally. "Later. When you can think clearly enough to appreciate it."
Heat floods through her, sudden and sharp. "Okay," she breathes.
His smile widens. "Good girl. We’ll get there." He presses another kiss to her wrist. Finds her pulse point. His teeth graze the skin, and she cannot help it, the sound that escapes her, hungry and desperate. "But first. When did you last eat?"
She blinks. The question does not make sense. She is burning up, she is desperate, she needs him inside her, and he wants to know about food.
"What?"
"Eat, Penelope. When did you last eat something?"
She tries to think. Cannot remember. "This morning. Maybe yesterday? I don’t know."
The playfulness in his expression softens into concern.
"Water?"
"I..." She shakes her head. "I don’t remember."
He exhales. Nods once. His hand slides up her arm, settles at the curve of her neck. His thumb traces her jaw.
"Okay," he says. "We are going to take care of that first."
"Colin, I need—"
"I know what you need." His tone is gentle, but firm. "And I am going to give it to you. All of it. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
The tears come suddenly, hot and fast, and she is mortified. This is not how this was supposed to go. She is supposed to be handling this. Instead, she is falling apart, and he has not even kissed her properly yet.
"Hey." His other hand comes up. He is holding her face now, tilting it toward him. "Hey. I am here. I have you."
"I don’t know why I’m—"
"It’s your heat. It’s okay. You’re okay." He presses his forehead to hers. Breathes with her. "I am going to take care of you, Pen. I promise. But you need to eat something first. And drink some water. And then I am going to take you apart so thoroughly you won’t remember your own name." His thumb brushes away a tear. "Deal?"
She laughs, wet and shaky. "Deal.”
He guides her to the kitchen. Sits her on a stool at the counter and moves through her space like he belongs there, opening cupboards, finding a glass. He fills it with water and places it in her hands. Watches her drink. Refills it when she finishes. Finds crackers in her cupboard, a banana on her counter, sets both in front of her.
"Eat," he says.
She does. He stands close enough that she can feel the heat of him but does not touch her. She eats mechanically, barely tasting anything, aware only of his presence, his scent, the way her body is screaming at her to close the distance between them.
When she finishes, he takes the glass from her hands. Sets it aside.
"Your nest," he says. "Is it ready?" She nods. "Show me."
She rises on unsteady legs. Takes his hand without thinking about it, and he lets her, follows her down the hallway to her bedroom door. She hesitates there. Suddenly aware of the mess. The evidence of her desperation scattered across the sheets, but Colin is not deterred. He steps past her, into her room, into her space, and towards the bed. There, she has gathered blankets from every corner of her flat, clothes, pillows, combining them all into a nest with a care she never bothered to take before.
He is quiet for a long moment. "It’s perfect."
He turns to face her. His expression is open in a way she has never seen previously. Soft and intent all at once. "You did so well, Penelope."
The praise hits her low in the belly and spreads outward and upward until she feels her eyes sting and does not understand why.
"Come here," he says.
She goes.
Colin catches her face in his hands the moment she is close enough, and her entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His palms are warm and broad, and she leans into them without meaning to, her body moving toward his like gravity.
"Pen," he murmurs, just her name, and then he kisses her.
It is not soft. His mouth meets hers, and the chasm breaks open between them, ten years of careful distance collapsing in the space of a breath. His hand slides into her hair, gripping, tilting her head back so he can lick into her mouth. His tongue sweeps against hers, and she tastes coffee and mint, and something underneath that is just him, something that makes her head spin and her cunt clench around nothing.
She moans into his mouth. Her hands find his shirt, fist the fabric, pull him closer. She wants to climb inside him. Wants him to fill her until there is no space left. Wants him so badly she cannot think, cannot breathe, cannot do anything except press herself against him and whine.
"Easy," he murmurs against her lips. But his voice is strained, his breathing ragged. He is barely holding on. She can feel it. Can smell it, his scent thickening in the air around them, cedar and something darker, muskier. It makes her slick, makes her ache. "I have you."
He walks her backwards toward the nest. She goes willingly, lets him lower her down into the blankets and pillows, lets him arrange her the way he wants. She would let him do anything right now. Anything at all.
He pulls back to look at her. She is wearing only a t-shirt, soft and worn, and his eyes move over her slowly. She watches his nostrils flare, watches him breathe her in. Anticipation builds along her ribs.
"You smell incredible," he says, his voice rough. "Do you know that? Like you were made for me."
She shivers. Cannot help it.
He reaches for the hem of her shirt. "Yes?"
"Yes. Please. Colin, please—"
He pulls it over her head and she is bare beneath him, wet and aching and desperate. His eyes drop to her breasts, her stomach, the slick shine between her thighs, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at you."
He is still dressed, and it is maddening. She reaches for him, but he catches her wrists, pins them gently above her head.
"Not yet," he says. "You owe me, remember? You came twice without me. I think you need to earn it."
Her cunt clenches at his words. "Colin—"
"On your knees."
It is not a request. She scrambles to obey, turning over, pressing her face into the pillows and raising her hips. She can feel how wet she is, slick dripping down her thighs, and she should be embarrassed, but she is not. She is beyond that. She is nothing but want and need, and the singular purpose of easing the ache and the clawing panic that has been perpetually building in the back of her throat.
"That’s it," he murmurs behind her. His hands find her hips, her arse, spreading her open. "So pretty, Pen. So fucking pretty."
She feels his breath against her cunt and jerks, gasping. But he does not put his mouth on her. Instead, she feels his fingers, two of them, sliding through her folds, gathering the slick there.
"So wet for me," he says. "Have you been like this all night?"
"Yes." The word comes out broken. "Since your voice. Since the phone. I can’t—I need—"
He pushes both fingers inside her, and she cries out, her back arching. He does not go slow. Does not ease her into it. He curls his fingers and finds that spot inside her immediately, like he has always known where it is, like her body is something he has long since memorised.
"Colin." She is sobbing now, rocking back against his hand. "Please. Please, I need more."
He gives her a third finger, and the stretch makes her eyes blur. His other hand presses flat against her lower back, holding her in place as he fucks her with his fingers, deep and relentless. His thumb brushes over her other hole, teasing, pressing just slightly, and she keens.
"You like that?" His voice is dark. Curious. "You want me to fill you everywhere, don't you? Greedy girl."
"Yes." She does not care how desperate she sounds. "Yes, please, I want—"
She comes before she can finish the sentence. It crashes through her without warning, her cunt clenching around his fingers, her whole body shaking. She screams into the pillow, and he works her through it, murmuring praise she cannot process.
"Good girl. That’s it. So beautiful when you come."
She is still trembling when he pulls his fingers out. She whines at the loss, empty and aching. Feels him shift behind her, hears the rustle of fabric.
"Turn over," he says. "I want to see your face."
She obeys on shaky limbs. He has stripped off his shirt, his trousers, everything. He is kneeling between her thighs, and she cannot stop staring at his cock, thick and hard and flushed, the head wet and shining.
He catches her looking. Smiles, slow and wicked. "You want this?"
"Yes." She reaches for him, wraps her fingers around his shaft. He is hot and heavy in her hand; she strokes him, watches his jaw clench, watches his hips jerk into her grip. "I want you inside me. I want you to fill me up. Please, Colin. Alpha—"
The word slips out before she can stop it. She feels him shudder, feels his cock twitch in her hand.
"Say that again," he growls.
"Alpha." She pulls him closer, guides him to her entrance. "Please. I need you."
He notches himself against her, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, thick and blunt, and she holds her breath.
He does not push in.
"Look at me," he demands roughly.
She opens her eyes. He is watching her face, his jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple. The effort of holding still is costing him, she can see it in the tremor of his arms, the flare of his nostrils.
"I need to see you," he chokes out. "I need to watch."
She nods, holds his gaze, and he pushes in. Just the head. Just enough to stretch her open, and she gasps at the intrusion. He is big. Bigger than she expected, bigger than she has had, and her body resists for a moment before yielding.
He stops. Waits. His thumb finds her clit and circles slowly, coaxing her to relax around him.
"More," she breathes.
He gives her another inch slowly, and she feels every bit of it, the drag of him against her walls, the way her body opens to accommodate him. Her hands find his shoulders and grip hard.
"That's it." His voice is strained. "You’re taking me so well."
Another inch. Another. She is panting now, overwhelmed by the fullness of him, by the way he fills spaces she did not know were empty, and then he stops again. She can feel him holding back, the tremor in his arms, the rigid set of his jaw. Everything in him seems coiled tight, desperate to move, but he is waiting. Making sure.
"Okay?" he asks.
She pulls him down and kisses him, messy and desperate, and he must take it as permission granted, because then he is sinking the rest of the way in one long stroke. She cries out into his mouth as he bottoms out.
For a moment, neither of them moves. He is everywhere. Inside her, around her, his weight pressing her into the nest, his breath ragged against her cheek. She has never felt so full. So claimed. So exactly where she is supposed to be.
“Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to hers. "You feel—Penelope, you feel so fucking good."
She cannot speak. Can only cling to him and shake and try to remember how to breathe. Her cunt is stretched tight around him, fluttering, adjusting. It burns, and it is perfect.
"Move," she finally manages. "Please move."
He does. The first thrust punches a sound out of her, high and desperate. The second has her wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He fucks her hard, harder than she expected, his hips snapping against hers with a rhythm that makes the bed shake. She can hear how wet she is, the obscene slick sound of him sliding in and out, and it only makes her wetter.
"So tight," he pants against her throat. "So perfect. Made for me. You were made for me, weren't you?"
"Yes." She does not know if it is true. She does not care. "Yes, yours, I am yours—"
He shifts the angle deeper, and she screams, clawing at his back, leaving marks, and he groans like he loves it. She finds her mouth at his throat without deciding to put it there. His pulse beats against her lips, and she feels the want, sudden and certain and frightening—her teeth, right there, breaking skin, leaving something of herself on him that does not come off. She pulls back, allowing the thought to drift into the haze.
"That’s it," he says. "Take it. Take all of me."
She can feel his knot starting to swell at the base of his cock, catching on her rim with every thrust. The pressure is almost too much, pleasure and pain blurring together, and she is going to come again, she is going to—
"Not yet." His hand slides between them, finds her clit, presses down hard. "You wait for me. You come when I tell you."
She sobs. It is too much. She cannot hold on.
"Colin, please, I cannot—"
"Yes, you can." He kisses her, biting at her lip. "You can be good for me. I know you can."
He fucks her harder. His knot swells bigger, catching and tugging with every stroke. She is shaking, crying, so close it hurts.
"Please," she begs. "Please, please, please—"
"Now." His thumb circles her clit, fast and rough. "Come for me now."
The orgasm rips through her, violent and consuming. Her cunt clamps down on him, and she feels his knot lock inside her, feels him groan and spill into her in hot pulses. His teeth find her shoulder, biting down hard, and the pain makes her come again, or maybe she never stopped, she cannot tell anymore. There is only pleasure, only him, only the feeling of being completely and utterly full.
They collapse together, panting. His weight settles over her, and she welcomes it, craves it. His knot pulses inside her, tying them together, and she feels each spurt of his come like a brand.
"Okay?" He manages roughly.
She laughs, the sound wet and half-hysterical.
"Yes," she breathes. "I am okay."
He shifts them carefully, rolling onto his side and pulling her with him. They are still locked together, his cock still buried inside her, and she can feel him softening slowly. His hand strokes down her spine, soothing.
"That was..." He trails off. Presses a kiss to her forehead. "Penelope."
She knows what he means. She does not have words for it either.
"Hi," she whispers.
He laughs, soft and breathless. "Hi."
She closes her eyes. Lets herself drift. His heartbeat is steady against her cheek and his scent surrounds her and for the first time in days, the ache has lessened.
______________________
Colin remembers the exact moment he ruined his own life.
He was twenty-one, sunburnt from a weekend at the coast, thinking about nothing more significant than whether he had packed enough socks for Greece. He came through the front door and saw a girl standing next to Eloise in the foyer. Red hair. Nervous hands. An oversized cardigan that swallowed her frame.
His body knew before his mind did. His skin went tight. His lungs stopped working. Every instinct he had narrowed to a single word, so loud it drowned out everything else.
Mine.
She was sixteen. Eloise's school friend. A child.
He said something polite. He does not remember what. He remembers the way her scent reached him, faint and not yet fully developed, but already enough to make his hands shake. Honeysuckle. Citrus. Something underneath that he would spend the next decade trying to forget.
He took the stairs two at a time. Locked himself in his childhood bathroom and gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles ached.
She is sixteen. She is Eloise's friend. You are a monster for feeling this.
He avoided her for the rest of that visit. Brief and polite when avoidance was impossible. He caught his mother watching him once, her gaze careful, but she said nothing.
Benedict called six days after Colin landed in Athens.
"The Featherington girl presented," his brother said, casual. A piece of gossip. "Mum says it was intense. First heats usually are."
Colin stood on a balcony overlooking the Aegean and did the math.
Six days.
He had triggered it. His presence, his proximity, whatever his body had been broadcasting, had pushed a sixteen-year-old girl into her first heat.
He stayed in Greece for eight months. Wrote postcards to the family. Added her name once, at the bottom, because he could not stop himself: Tell Penelope I said hello.
He thought about those five words for longer than he would ever admit.
Ten years. Ten fucking years.
The years that followed were an exercise in restraint.
He built a life around avoiding her. Not obviously, not in any way she would notice, but carefully. He timed his visits home to miss events when she was most likely to be around. He kept their interactions short and polite, friendly but distant. He asked about her studies, her work, her writing, because he could not help himself, because he wanted to know everything about her, but he did not touch her. Did not allow his gaze to linger. Never allowed himself to stand too close.
Five years ago, he almost told her.
It was Christmas at Aubrey Hall. She was twenty-one, no longer a child he had to protect from himself, and he had spent months working up the courage. This was the year. He would find a moment. He had to.
She was wearing green velvet. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the curve of her neck, and he had to look away twice during dinner because the urge to put his mouth there was becoming difficult to manage.
He found her in the library after dessert. She had escaped charades, curled into a window seat with a book, and she was startled when he came in.
"Colin." She straightened. "I thought everyone was still playing."
"Needed a break." He sat in the chair across from her. Too close. His pulse was loud in his ears. "What are you reading?"
She showed him. They talked about it for a few minutes, her clever and animated, him barely tracking the words, because he was watching her mouth.
Then a pause. A silence that stretched.
"Penelope," he said. His heart was slamming. "I’ve been wanting to tell you—"
The door opened. Eloise burst in already mid-sentence, something about their mother and teams and Colin, you have to come save me from Anthony.
Penelope's expression flattened. She smiled, polite and distant, the way she always smiled at him.
"You should go," she said. "Eloise needs you."
He went.
Three weeks later, still replaying that moment, he booked a flight to Buenos Aires. He could not stay. Could not watch her at family gatherings, so close and so unreachable, with that half-finished sentence rotting in his throat.
He was gone for six months. When he came back, Penelope had a boyfriend.
Eloise mentioned it casually. Some Beta named Alfred. Penelope seemed happy, although he could not understand how someone nicknamed Alfie could fulfil her the way he knew he would. Still, Colin smiled. Said something appropriate. Excused himself to the garden, where he stood in the January cold until he could feel his face again.
She dated Alfie for five years. Colin watched from whatever distance he could manufacture, pleasant when their paths crossed, careful never to linger, and told himself this was right. She had chosen. She was happy. The ache behind his ribs was just biology misfiring, a glitch that would fade.
It did not fade.
She thought he did not see her. He knew this. Had always known it, could read it in the way she looked at him, the careful blankness she wore like armour. She thought she was invisible to him.
The truth was laughable because he saw everything. Saw and memorised and attempted to compartmentalise. Every new haircut. Every nervous laugh. Every time she bit her lip or tucked her hair behind her ear or smiled at whatever Eloise said. He catalogued her like a man obsessed, which he supposed he was.
He has spent ten years thinking about her during his ruts.
Alone, locked away, his body desperate and aching, he would close his eyes and imagine her face. Her voice. The way she might feel beneath him. It was the only way he could survive the relentless need. He would come with her name on his lips, and then lie in the aftermath, hollow and restless, reaching for someone who was not there.
He told himself it was biology. Told himself his body had fixated on her because of that first meeting, because of pheromones and timing, and the unfortunate coincidence of her standing in his mother's foyer at the exact wrong moment. He told himself the wanting would fade eventually. That he would find someone else, someone available, someone who did not look at him with careful blankness like she was trying very hard not to feel anything at all.
It never faded. It only grew. And lying here now, with her breath warm against his chest and her heartbeat steady beneath his palm, he finally understands why.
It was never just biology.
Or rather, it was always more than that. The biology was not a malfunction, not a misfiring of instinct. It was recognition. His body knew before his mind caught up. Knew that she was his, that he was hers, that the hollow ache he carried for a decade was not just need but absence.
He found out from Benedict, three months ago.
They were at a pub, watching rugby, and Benedict mentioned it like it was nothing. "Sophie said Penelope and that bloke ended things. Few months back, apparently."
Colin kept his eyes on the screen. Lifted his pint. Set it down.
"Good for her," he said. "She deserves better."
Benedict looked at him a moment too long. "You could—"
"Watch the match, Ben."
His brother let it go. But three weeks later, he mentioned that he had given Colin's number to Sophie. "Friend of hers was asking about your travels. Seemed curious."
Colin did not ask which friend. He already knew.
He started checking his phone more often after that. Told himself he was being pathetic, that she would not reach out, and even if she did, it would not mean what he wanted it to mean.
The text came on a Saturday night. He was two days into the early signs of his rut, pacing his flat, trying to decide whether to book a hotel or suffer through it alone.
His phone buzzed.
Penelope Featherington.
He read the message three times. Then he called her, because he had been waiting for ten years, and he could not make himself wait another minute.
Colin has imagined this moment a thousand times.
Not this exactly. Not her tucked against his chest, trembling, his knot still pulsing inside her, her cunt fluttering around him with the aftershocks. He could not have imagined this. Could not have known how it would feel to finally, finally have her. But it was always her. In the dark, alone, during ruts that left him hollowed out and aching. It was her face. Her voice. The way she might sound when she came.
The reality is so much better. So much worse. Because now he knows, and he will never be able to unknow it.
She shifts against him, a small sound escaping her throat, and his arms tighten instinctively. He presses his mouth to her hair. Breathes her in. Honeysuckle and citrus, and something that is just Penelope, something that has haunted him for a decade.
He does not know what happens when her heat breaks. Does not know if she feels what he feels, or if this is just a convenient arrangement to her, two people whose bodies happen to be compatible. The thought makes fear twist in his chest.
But that is a problem for later. For now, she is here. She is warm and real and his.
For now, he holds her in the aftermath, his knot softening slowly. He feels it, the gradual release, his cock slipping from her in a wet rush that makes them both shudder. She whimpers at the loss, her hips pressing back against him instinctively, seeking, and his hand slides to her belly to hold her still.
"Easy," he murmurs. "I’m—I’m not going anywhere."
She makes a mewling sound, nestling closer into him. She is drifting, he can tell, her body wrung out and sated, the sharp edge of her heat temporarily blunted. He should let her sleep. Should give her time to recover before the next wave hits.
Instead, he pulls her closer. Buries his face in her hair. Lets himself have this moment, this impossible, perfect moment, because he has waited so long and he does not know if he will ever stop being greedy for her.
"Penelope," he says, just to feel her name in his mouth.
She hums as she turns her face into the pillow. Her breathing is starting to even out, slow and steady, and he watches her slip toward sleep.
Later, she wakes, reaching for him.
He has not slept. His rut is a low burn in his blood, manageable for now but building, and he has spent the last hour watching her face in the dim light, memorising the scatter of freckles across her nose, the way her lips part slightly when she breathes.
Her hand finds his chest. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused, and then she sees him, and her expression shifts into awareness. He catches her finers. Brings them to his mouth. Kisses her palm, her fingers, the inside of her wrist where her pulse flutters.
"How do you feel?"
"Empty." The word comes out plaintive, almost petulant, and he laughs despite himself. "I need you again. Is that—can we—"
He is already rolling her onto her back. Already settling between her thighs, his cock hardening against her, her slick coating him as he rocks against her.
"You can have whatever you want," he tells her, probably a bit too honestly. "Anything. Everything."
She pulls him down and kisses him, messy and desperate, and he sinks into her in one long stroke.
This time is slower. He draws it out, savouring every gasp and moan he pulls from her. He wants to learn her, to know what makes her shiver, what makes her sob, what makes her dig her nails into his back and beg.
"You are so beautiful," he breathes against her throat. "Do you know that? Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
She shakes her head. Of course, she does not know. She has spent a decade convinced he did not see her, and he has spent a decade seeing nothing else.
"Everything," he says. "You do everything to me, Penelope. You always have."
Her cunt clenches around him. He groans, his hips stuttering, and he has to stop moving for a moment, or he will come too fast, will knot her before he is ready, and he is not ready. He wants to live inside her forever.
"Colin." Her voice is thin, wavering. "Please. I need—"
"I know." He starts to move again, faster and harder than before. "I know what you need. I am going to give it to you. Going to fill you up so good, sweetheart. Going to make you feel so full you cannot think about anything else."
She cries out. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he loses himself in her. In the heat of her, the slick grip of her cunt, the sounds she makes when he hits that spot inside her that makes her scream.
His knot starts to swell and he does not hold back this time. Lets it catch on her rim, lets it stretch her, lets himself be locked inside her where he belongs.
"Yours," he gasps as he comes, spilling into her. "I am yours, Penelope. Always. Always been yours."
She comes around him with a sob, her whole body shaking, and he holds her through it, his knot pulsing inside her, his heart cracking open in his chest.
She is half-asleep when she says it, her voice loose and distant.
"You’ll leave again."
Colin goes still. "What?"
"After." She is not fully present. Drifting. "When the heat breaks. You will go somewhere. You always go somewhere."
The words land like a blow to the chest.
"Penelope." He shifts, tries to see her face. Her eyes are closed. "Penelope, look at me."
Her eyes flutter open. Hazy. Unfocused.
"I am not leaving," he says, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I am not going anywhere. Not after this."
She blinks, slowly, and suddenly she is more present, more aware.
"You say that now." Her voice is thin. "But the heat will break. And you’ll remember that you don’t actually—"
"Don't." He cups her face in his hands. "Don't tell me what I feel."
"You never said anything." She is fully awake now. He can see the hurt in her eyes, years of it, surfacing. "Ten years. You never once—"
"I tried." The words scrape out of him. "Christmas. Five years ago. The library."
She stares at him.
"You were reading," he continues. "Green dress. I sat across from you and I was about to tell you. And then Eloise walked in, and you smiled at me like I was nothing, and I could not—" He stops. Breathes. "Three weeks later you were with someone else."
Her mouth opens. Closes.
"I remember that night," she says slowly. "I remember you started to say something. And then you left. For six months." She laughs, but there is no humour in it. "I thought you had seen something in my face. Something that made you uncomfortable. I thought you were running away from me."
"I was running from myself." He presses his forehead to hers. "I’ve been running from myself for ten years. Because I wanted you so much it terrified me, and you were sixteen when I met you, and then you were with someone else, and I could never find the right moment to—"
"I was never with him." Her voice cracks. "Not really. Not the way I wanted to be with you."
Colin cannot breathe.
"I thought I was invisible to you," she whispers. "I thought you looked right through me."
"I have never seen anything else." His thumb traces her cheekbone. "Not since I was twenty-one. Not since you stood in my mother's foyer and everything I thought I knew about my life rearranged itself around you."
Her eyes are wet. She does not look away.
The heat rises again before either of them can speak. Her scent thickens, her body arching toward him, and he catches her, holds her, gives her what she needs.
But later, when the wave passes, she finds his hand in the dark.
"I saw you too," she says quietly. "I always did."
The heat builds in waves.
He learns to read them. The flush that creeps up her chest. The way her breathing changes. The restless way she moves, seeking friction, seeking him. He learns to anticipate, to be ready, to give her what she needs before she has to ask.
They fuck in the nest. On the floor when they do not make it to the bed. Against the wall when she climbs him in the hallway, desperate and demanding.
He feeds her between rounds. Makes her drink water. Washes her in the shower, his hands gentle on her oversensitised skin. He washes her slowly. Her shoulders, her back, the curve of her hips. She makes a sound when his hands slide between her thighs, half protest and half plea.
"Colin."
"Shh." He does not linger there. Moves on to her legs, her calves, and she whines at the loss of contact. "You still owe me."
Her eyes flutter open. "What?"
"You came twice before I arrived." He turns off the water. Reaches for a towel and wraps it around her, rubbing gently. "I told you I would make you pay for that."
Her breath catches. The haze of her heat is there, simmering, but the wave has passed for now. She is present enough to understand what he is saying. Once they are finished in the shower, he guides her back to the nest. Sits her on the edge of the bed and kneels in front of her, spreading her thighs with his hands.
"Colin, please, I need—"
"I know what you need." He presses a kiss to the inside of her knee. "But you are going to wait for it."
She watches him lower his mouth to her thigh. He kisses his way up, slow and deliberate, his breath warm against her skin. She is already wet, slick gathering, her body anticipating. When he reaches the crease where her thigh meets her hip, he pauses. Breathes her in.
"You smell so good here." His nose brushes against her folds and she jerks, gasping. "I could stay here for hours."
"Please—"
He licks her once. A single, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit, and she cries out, her hips bucking. He pins her down with one hand on her stomach and does it again. And again. Each stroke of his tongue deliberate and unhurried, building her up and then pulling back just before she tips over.
"Colin." She is shaking. "I need to come. Please let me come."
"Not yet."
He slides two fingers inside her, crooking them to find that spot, and sucks her clit into his mouth. She sobs, her hands flying to his hair, gripping hard. He works her steadily, reading the tension in her thighs, the pitch of her voice. Every time she gets close, he slows. Lets her hover on the edge until she is crying, actually crying, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Please." Her voice is wrecked. "Please, I will be good, I promise, I will be so good—"
He pulls off. Looks up at her. Her face is flushed, her chest heaving, her eyes wet and desperate.
"You came twice without permission," he says. "So you are going to give me three before I let you have my knot. Understand?"
She nods frantically.
"Words, Penelope."
"Yes. Yes, I understand."
"Good girl."
Colin puts his mouth back on her and does not stop until she is screaming.
His rut takes hold fully on the second day.
The careful control he has been maintaining starts to fray. His thoughts narrow, sharpen, until there is only her. Only the need to claim, to fill, to breed. He fucks her harder, faster, his teeth finding her shoulder, her neck, biting down but never in the right place. Never on her gland. Not yet. Not until she asks.
"More," she begs, and he gives her more.
"Harder," she cries, and he gives her that too.
He loses track of how many times he knots her. Loses track of time entirely. There is only Penelope, her body beneath his, around his, her scent in his lungs, her voice in his ears.
And somewhere, beneath the haze of his rut, a desperate, terrified hope: that this will not end. That she will want him after. That this is not just biology.
He cannot lose her now. Not after finally having her.
He would not survive it.
On the third morning, something shifts.
He feels it before he opens his eyes. The quality of the air has changed. Her scent is softer, the sharp edge of desperation smoothed into something gentler. Still there. Still pulling at him. But quieter now, like a storm that has spent itself.
Penelope is awake. He can tell by the way she breathes, shallow and uneven, and when he opens his eyes, she is watching him. Her gaze is clear in a way it has not been for days. Present. Aware.
"Hi," she whispers.
"Hi."
She does not look away. Her hand finds his chest, presses flat over his heart. He wonders if she can feel how fast it is beating. Wonders if she knows what it means, having her look at him like this.
"I can think again," she says. "Mostly."
He huffs a laugh. "Is that good or bad?"
"I haven’t decided yet."
Her hand slides up his chest, over his collarbone, along the side of his neck. She is mapping him, he realises, and he holds still and lets her, barely breathing, afraid to break whatever spell has settled over them.
"Colin," she murmurs, and fuck does he love it when she says his name.
"Yes?"
She does not answer. Just leans forward and kisses him. It is soft and tentative, a far cry from everything they have shared together in the last seventy-two hours. Her lips brush against his once, then twice, gentle and searching, and he lets her lead. Lets her set the pace. Quite enjoys following her wherever she wants to take him. But then her tongue slides against his and fire sparks along his spine, his rut flaring back to life, and he groans into her mouth and pulls her closer. Her body arches into his instinctively, and he can feel the heat of her, can smell the slick starting to gather between her thighs. The fever has not broken entirely, and he rolls her onto her back. Settles between her thighs, his cock already hard and aching. She spreads her legs for him without hesitation, her hips lifting, seeking.
"Please," she breathes. "I need—"
"I know." He reaches down, finds her cunt with his fingers. She is wet and dripping. "I know what you need."
He pushes two fingers inside her and she gasps, her back arching off the bed. He works her slowly, curling his fingers, finding the spot he knows makes her shake. She is so responsive. So perfect. He could do this for hours, could watch her fall apart on his hand over and over, but his cock is throbbing and his rut is clawing at him; he needs to be inside her.
He pulls his fingers out and she whines at the loss. "Shh." He notches himself at her entrance. Pauses. Looks down at her, at her flushed cheeks and parted lips, her eyes blown dark with want. "I have you."
He pushes in.
She cries out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He sinks into her slowly, inch by inch, savouring the way her cunt stretches around him. "Fuck," he breathes. "Penelope."
He bottoms out and holds there, buried inside her, giving her time to adjust. She is trembling beneath him. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, and he presses a kiss to them, then to her forehead.
This time is different from the others. Slower and more deliberate. He fucks her with long, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in. He wants to feel every inch of her. Wants to memorise the way she clenches around him, the sounds she makes, the way her body moves beneath his.
She wraps her legs around his waist. Pulls him deeper. Her hands slide up his back, nails dragging, and he groans at the sting of it.
"So good," he pants against her throat. "You feel so fucking good, Pen."
She arches into him. Her cunt flutters around his cock and he can feel his knot starting to swell, can feel the pressure building at the base of his spine. He is close. Too close. He wants to make this last but his body has other ideas, his rut demanding: claim, fill, breed.
He shifts the angle. Hits that spot inside her that makes her scream. She claws at his back, sobbing his name, and the sound of it nearly undoes him.
"That’s it," he growls. "Let me hear you. I want to hear you come."
He fucks her harder and faster, his knot swelling, catching on her rim with every thrust, stretching her wider. She is shaking, crying, her cunt clenching around him so tight he can barely move.
"Colin—" Her voice breaks. "I’m going to—"
"Do it. Come for me. Come on my cock, Penelope."
He feels it the moment it happens, the way her whole body seizes, the way her cunt clamps down on him. She screams into his shoulder, her teeth grazing his skin, and then—
She bites.
Her teeth sink into his throat without warning, breaking skin.
And everything stops.
For a moment, he cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot do anything except feel. The pain is bright and perfect. It radiates outward from the bite, spreading through his blood, and his entire body feels like it is being cleaved open, making room for her, and he comes suddenly and quickly, his orgasm ripping through him. His knot locks inside her, and he spills into her, his hips jerking, his whole body shaking. She is still biting him, her teeth still in his flesh, and he can feel the bruise forming, can feel the mark she is leaving on his skin.
She is claiming him. She is making him hers.
The sound that escapes him is a groan and a sob tangled together and he buries his face in her hair and holds her so tight he is afraid he might break her.
"Penelope," he gasps. "Pen—"
She releases his throat. Pulls back. Her eyes are wide and dazed. "I—" She stares at him. At the mark on his neck. "Colin, I did not mean—"
"Don’t." He cups her face in his hands. Forces her to look at him. "Don’t apologise. Don’t take it back."
He shifts without thinking, pulling her up with him, needing her closer. She moves with him easily, her thighs bracketing his hips, his knot still buried inside her. The new angle makes them both gasp—deeper somehow, impossibly more.
Her breath catches. "You wanted—"
"I have wanted you to claim me since I was twenty-one years old." His voice is raw. Wrecked. "I have spent ten years wanting to belong to you, Penelope. Ten years of hoping. Don’t tell me you didn’t mean it. Please."
She stares at him, moisture in the corner of her eyes, lips trembling. "I meant it," she whispers.
He closes his eyes. Presses his forehead to hers. He can feel his heartbeat in the mark on his throat, can feel her pulse where they are still joined.
"Bite me," she says.
He opens his eyes.
"Penelope—"
"I want it." Her hand finds the back of his neck. In his lap, she rises slightly, tilts her head, baring her throat to him. Her gland is swollen, flushed. Her scent is concentrated there, the honeysuckle gone thick and sweet, and his mouth waters. "I want to be yours. Please, Colin."
He should wait. Should make sure she is clear-headed, that this is what she really wants. But she is looking at him with those eyes, blue and with flecks of gold, full of certainty, and he cannot think about anything but the idea of belonging to her and her alone. He lowers his mouth to her neck. Finds her gland, swollen and hot, beneath his lips. He can smell her there, concentrated and sweet, and his mouth waters.
"Mine," he breathes against her skin, just before his teeth sink in.
He feels it everywhere. In his blood, in his bones, in the space behind his ribs where his heart is pounding. He feels her, not just around him but inside him, a presence that settles into the empty spaces he did not know he had. Her pleasure, her relief, her overwhelming, terrifying love.
She gasps beneath him. Her body arches, her cunt clenching around his softening knot, and she comes again, sudden and sharp. He holds her through it, his teeth still in her flesh, tasting copper and salt and a hint of sweetness underneath.
When he finally releases her, they are both shaking.
He looks down at the mark on her neck. Red and angry, already starting to bruise.
"Okay?" He manages hoarsely.
She laughs. It comes out wet and trembling. "Yeah," she breathes. "I’m okay."
He shifts them carefully, mindful of the knot still tying them together. Pulls her against his chest, his arm heavy around her waist. He can feel her heartbeat against his palm. Can feel the bond humming between them, warm and steady.
They lie there in silence. Breathing together. Adjusting.
Her fingers find the mark on his throat. Trace the edges of it gently. "I did not plan that," she says quietly.
"I know."
"I just—" She pauses. "My body knew. Before my mind caught up."
He presses a kiss to her shoulder. To the mark he left on her neck.
"Biology," he says.
She laughs softly. "Biology."
______________________
She wakes to sunlight and stillness.
The heat is gone, her body finally beginning to feel like her own again. Sore and wrung out, but hers. She can think in full sentences. Can feel the edges of herself clearly.
She can also feel Colin.
Not just physically, though he is pressed against her back, his arm heavy across her waist. But somewhere deeper. A warmth in her chest, steady and constant, like a second pulse.
She touches the mark on her neck. Tender. Real.
"Stop poking it."
His voice is rough with sleep. She feels his smile against her shoulder.
"I’m checking."
"It’s permanent. That’s the point."
She turns in his arms so she can look at him. He is wrecked, with dark circles under his eyes, stubble, hair flattened on one side. She has never found him more beautiful.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
They look at each other for a beat..
”So.”
"So,” she says. “We are, uh, bonded now.”
"We are."
"For life."
His mouth twists slightly at the corner. "That’s how it works."
"Eloise is going to kill us."
He laughs, sudden and warm, and she feels it in her own chest..
"She’ll be furious we didn’t consult her," he agrees. "And then she will be insufferable. She’s been telling me for years that I was obvious."
Penelope frowns. "You were not obvious."
"I left your birthday dinner early because you laughed at something Anthony said and I couldn’t stand it."
She stares at him. The birthday dinner. The early flight that did not exist.
"I checked the flights," she says slowly. "There was nothing to Buenos Aires until the next afternoon."
"I sat in the airport for fourteen hours." He traces her jaw with his thumb. "Cheaper than staying in the same room with you."
She does not know whether to laugh or cry.
"Benedict figured it out years ago," he adds. "Why do you think he gave Sophie my number?"
She is going to have words with Sophie. Many words.
"Why did no one tell me?"
"You weren’t looking." His voice is gentle. "You had already decided what I felt. I could never find a way past it."
She thinks about that. Ten years of certainty that she was invisible to him. Ten years of a door she had locked from the inside.
"I was an idiot," she says.
"We both were." He kisses her forehead. "But we have time now."
She settles against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under her ear, and she can feel it doubled in the bond.
"I should text Sophie," she murmurs. "Tell her I’m alive."
"Later."
"And we should eat. Real food."
"Later."
"And at some point, we need to talk about—"
He rolls her onto her back so he can settle over her. The bond hums with intent, and her body responds instantly, not with the frantic desperation of heat but with want..
"Later," he says against her mouth. "Right now, I want to take my time with you."
She smiles, pulling him closer, and for the first time in ten years, neither of them is waiting for anything.