Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawns of the clinic, the air thick with the scent of blooming azaleas, a fragrance that usually would have soothed him, but today, only served to amplify his annoyance.
Lee glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, the silver streaks in his meticulously groomed hair catching the light. His dark brown eyes, normally sparkling with a shrewd amusement, were narrowed with a barely concealed impatience. His Roman nose, the strong, angular lines of his face, the defined jawline – all spoke of a man accustomed to control, a man who thrived on precision.
The polished black Bentley, a testament to Lee's success, hummed softly as he sat, a picture of controlled impatience. His perfectly tailored suit, the color of midnight, felt a touch too tight around his broad shoulders as he drummed his fingers against the supple leather of the steering wheel. “Damn it,,” he muttered, his voice a low growl that resonated within the luxurious confines of the car. "What could possibly be taking him so long?"
He glanced at the sleek, silver watch adorning his wrist. Twenty-five minutes. An eternity. Misha was supposed to be at his heat assessment, a necessary evil now that Lee had, ahem, encouraged him to abandon those pathetic heat suppressants. Lee scoffed inwardly. The idea of an omega willingly suppressing their heat was simply…wrong. It robbed them of their purpose, their essence. Lee, of course, was the only person who had the right to determine Misha's purpose. And besides, Lee had to know every detail, every nuance of Misha's heat cycles. He paid for these assessments, after all. Misha's pathetic salary would never cover them.
“Idiots,” Lee scoffed under his breath. The way omegas nowadays would rather take pills than embrace their heat, the way they would rather get the heat removed altogether... It was a sign of the degradation of the species. He smirked, the downturned curve of his lips turning up slightly. As if any omega could avoid his heat, and as if an omega could avoid being used by him, Lee Sevier. He’d put a stop to that foolishness, and the omega would submit to his alpha. It was an alpha's right. It was his duty.
"Honestly, it's a damned inconvenience," he muttered, the words laced with a mixture of irritation and… something else. A possessiveness that ran deeper than the tailored suit he wore. He knew Misha couldn’t afford any of this without his help. Everything, from the assessments to the… other things, were handled by him. Misha was his, in every sense of the word. The assessment was a joke. The omega would get checked out. He would check if Misha was at risk of illness, and confirm how much sex would be needed to not only quell the heat, but also how likely Misha was to get pregnant. He'd be damned if Misha got knocked up. He owned Misha.
Lee ran a hand through his perfectly groomed, salt-and-pepper hair. The gesture was a rare display of agitation, and he instantly corrected it, smoothing it back into place. The low hum of the engine, the subtle aroma of rich leather and expensive cologne, the muted sounds of the city filtering through the insulated windows… all reminders of the life he'd built, a life that revolved around control.
He closed his eyes briefly, picturing Misha. His dark hair, always a bit disheveled, his expressive eyes that constantly shifted in a way that always annoyed Lee, his scent, a heady mix of vanilla and something subtly feral that drove Lee mad. His body, lean and athletic, was a constant source of both frustration and pleasure.
He heard the soft click of the passenger door opening, followed by the familiar sound of Misha settling into the seat. He didn’t need to look to know it was Misha. He knew the omega's scent, the way he moved. He knew everything about Misha. Lee turned on the engine, the smooth roar filling the silence.
"Took you long enough," he said, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance, but also a deeper, almost possessive satisfaction. "How did it go? Anything… changed? Everything alright? No complications?" His voice held a barely concealed anxiety, a vulnerability he hated to show. He needed to be in control, and Misha's health was a crucial part of that control. The thought of losing Misha, of his body failing... it was a thought he wouldn't allow to linger. Fertility could fluctuate, making Misha more vulnerable. And there was the threat of illness if an omega didn't… release their heat. Suppressants were the stupid solution. He hated the thought of an omega choosing that over him. He knew that Misha's doctor would be checking for that, too. How much sex would be required this cycle to keep him… healthy? He knew the answer, of course, but he wanted to hear it from Misha's lips.