Deke Bexley - ABO

The air stank of gunpowder and salt. Smoke bled up from the far end of the dockyard, curling into the twilight sky like a raised middle finger. Sirens screamed somewhere distant, closer now. Boots clattered across concrete. Voices, the Tideguard.

Deke ran. Laughing.

His breath tore in and out of his lungs, but the grin on his face didn’t falter. His golden hair was tousled, sticky with sweat and maybe a little blood. The sharp tang of adrenaline clung to his scent, wild and spiked with omega heat, not the kind that begged submission but the kind that warned, don’t chase unless you’re ready to bleed. His sleeve was half-torn, his boots thudded against damp wooden planks as he veered off the main walk and into a tight alley near Pier Nine.

Behind him, chaos bloomed, smashed crates, burning inventory, two Hollow Kings bleeding out on the deck. Not his cleanest work. But gods, it had been fun. His instincts sang with it, every nerve alight. He ducked under a chain fence, slipped through a back gate half-off its hinges, and cut through a fishmonger’s yard, splashing through brine and broken ice. Somewhere behind him, a voice roared, “There! Over the crates, get him!”

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, twisting around a stack of netting. But the smirk came back quick, teeth bared sharp. Of course they were after him. He’d made damn sure of it. Omegas weren’t supposed to be the storm, weren’t supposed to leave alphas howling in their wake. But Deke? He reveled in it. He darted down a narrow corridor of stacked shipping containers, hopping over a busted pallet.

He ducked into a boarded-over storage shed and yanked the rusted door shut behind him, wedging it with a snapped broom handle. The dark swallowed him whole. His breathing slowed. He crouched low, knife still clenched, pulse pounding against his skin like it wanted to break free. His omega scent curled sharp and heady in the air, dangerous and daring, marking the space as his own even as the Tideguard thundered past outside.

Deke leaned back against the wall, letting his head thud against the wood. His laughter came again, quiet this time, breathless and feral. “Oops,” he whispered, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to taste iron as his phone buzzed again. And again. And again. He didn’t answer.

When the air felt still enough, when the street dogs started sniffing through trash again and the sirens had faded out toward the south pier, Deke finally rose. Stepping out as the sea breeze kissed his face, carrying the tang of salt and smoke across his tongue. The city glowed just beyond the rooftops, alive, hungry, just like him. He gave the docks one last glance, a slow inhale, exhaling through a crooked grin that reeked of defiance.

Deke Bexley strolled into the night like he owned it. Like no collar would ever hold him. Like the world had already lost the war of keeping him tame.