Chapter Text
In the 200 years since the first Alpha and omega presented, the catalyst for this new breed of human has never been discovered, which may be due in part to the lack of reliable records available from that period. While multiple theories have been proposed, all hypotheses thus far have either been disproven or lack substantial evidence to be widely accepted. Further, the aetiology for designations has yet to be discovered, though significant progress has been made in understanding the biological differences between Alphas, omegas, and betas—namely, the presence of the vomeronasal organ.
Though the maturation of this organ had not previously been seen in humans, for many organisms, it plays a crucial role in detecting pheromones, which are especially important in controlling various parts of reproduction. Thus, the information processed by the vomeronasal organ triggers behavioural changes that lead to copulation. The organ develops in all human embryos in order to promote the secretion of sex hormones by the anterior hypophysis, but later regresses in beta individuals. While the vomeronasal cavities can be observed via endoscopy in said individuals, those with beta designations lack sensory neurons and nerve fibres otherwise associated with the organ. Further, the genes that code vomeronasal receptor proteins and the ionic channels necessitated in the transduction process are mutated and, as such, nonfunctional in betas. The same cannot be said for Alphas and omegas.
In these individuals, the vomeronasal organ continues to develop, as do olfactory bulbs in the brain that receive information from the vomeronasal receptor cells. As such, the sensory function of the vomeronasal organ is fully operational in Alpha and omega individuals, allowing for the detection and processing of several steroids that are now recognised as human pheromones. These chemical substances activate the anterior hypothalamus in such a way that is comparable with other mammals. Although the signalling process by which neuronal detection and transmission between the vomeronasal organ and the brain occur requires further elucidation, it is evident that the development of this organ is key to understanding Alphas and omegas.
Yet, for most individuals, the vomeronasal organ remains a mystery. In fact, most Alphas and omegas merely refer to it by their designation, labelling it their Alpha or their omega as one might describe any other organ or structure within the brain—
“Good morning, Mr Malfoy,” a voice calls out, interrupting his reading. “I’m Hermione and I’ll be assisting you today and, if all goes well, throughout your session. How are you feeling?”
Tossing the brochure to the side, Draco crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the examination table where he was encouraged to sit by the beta attendant who checked him in and took his vitals just minutes ago.
At least they didn’t make him wait.
“How do you think I’m feeling?” he snarls.
“I don’t know,” she says cheerily, “that’s why I’m asking.”
Despite his piss poor temper, the woman smiles brightly and a small dimple appears on her left cheek. It’s a perfect complement to her look.
The bubblegum pink dress that clings to her figure and the matching nurse’s cap resting just above her high ponytail are rather charming. It all might be rather innocuous, if not for the heart-shaped cutout around her tits revealing a bright pink garment that looks more bikini than brassiere. Her perfect cleavage is perfectly framed. And while it’s tempting to look, he won’t allow himself to study her tantalising breasts for too long.
Unfortunately, Draco realises he’s already guilty of the precise behaviour he’s trying to avoid when Hermione—because of course his assigned rut assistant would have the most absurd name ever—clears her throat and draws his attention back to her face.
“I feel bloody terrible!” He schools his features into an even more prominent scowl lest she thinks her outfit has any impact on him, which it absolutely does not. “You probably could have gathered as much, considering my rut is scheduled to start today. Unless…” He pauses and raises a single brow in a look that never fails to strike fear in the hearts of Malfoy Industries employees. “Is this your first time assisting an Alpha in rut?”
“On the contrary, Sir. I simply don’t like to assume.” Her smile grows more saccharine, indulgent almost. As if he’s a small toddler throwing a tantrum, rather than a 6’4, 15 stone Alpha. “Now, moving right along... I see on the questionnaire you didn’t list any chronic medical conditions or surgical history and...” She trails off as she glances down at her tablet. “It looks like no known allergies, and no medications aside from the blockers. Is that correct?”
“Obviously,” he drawls, rolling his eyes in irritation.
“There’s no need to be short with me, Mr Malfoy. I’m merely conducting the standard procedure for all new clients. Although, I should mention that if it’s me you take issue with and you would prefer to work with someone else, that can certainly be arranged—”
“No,” he cuts in. “You’re acceptable. Keep going.”
There’s a pause and, when he glances up, he finds Hermione watching him with a curious fire in her eyes. It belies her otherwise neutral expression. Yet, instead of spewing some scathing retort, like he suspects she may want to, Hermione merely smiles once more.
“Just a few more things to confirm to establish your medical history, if you’ll be so kind as to indulge me. Let’s see… It’s indicated that your last rut was six months ago and it was unpartnered. Have there been any breakthrough ruts since you provided this information?”
He glances down at his lap. “No.”
“And you’ve not had a partner during any of your previous ruts.”
“That’s right.”
“Why the change now?”
Despite his rather severe frown at the intrusive question, Hermione remains unphased—blinking slowly as she waits for him to answer.
Is he losing his touch? He’s bestowed nearly half a dozen of his most imperious expressions on her over the course of their brief acquaintance, ones that readily and promptly get him what he wants. Yet, this little omega hasn’t appeared affected even a single time. She looks to be about 5’2 and Draco can’t imagine she weighs more than nine stone soaking wet—not that he’s imagining what she might look like wet. Though, of course, now that he’s trying to avoid thinking of her that way, it’s the only thing his mind can focus on.
As if she can hear the rather inappropriate direction his thoughts have taken, Hermione shifts her weight from one foot to another restlessly. And, in doing so, she draws his attention to the part of her body he has thus far tried to avoid.
Draco knew that if he let himself look at her legs, he’d be utterly lost.
And, just as he suspected, his mind goes blank the minute he really focuses on her thick thighs. Compared to her rather revealing dress, her white thigh-high socks and platform pumps are practically innocent. Yet, somehow, it’s also the most enticing part of her attire.
To be fair, the inverted v-cut of her dress is rather alluring also, seeing how it very nicely highlights the pink thong-style knickers that barely cover her cunt.
Fortunately, she begins to tap her foot impatiently before Draco spirals too far into imagining that particular part of her body and, as if doused with a bucket of ice-cold water, he remembers he’s yet to answer why he’s just now seeking assistance for his ruts.
“They’ve become unbearable,” he mutters. “And my physician won’t up the blocker dosage.”
At that, Hermione swipes the screen of her tablet a few times and scans his record for several long minutes. He has no idea what might be so fascinating, it’s not as if he’s an anomaly.
That’s not true, his Alpha reminds him.
Most Alphas in his age group are already mated, especially those with the resources and connections he has. Of his group of friends, there are no unmatched Alphas, aside from Draco. He doesn’t want to consider why that might be, and he’s done his best to not dwell on it too much. Still, it has kept him up many nights.
“That makes sense,” she says, distracting him from his musings. “Your current dosage is as high as is recommended for an Alpha of your height and weight.”
“Oh, so you’re a doctor now, too?” he sneers, unable to stop himself.
He knows his surly attitude is hardly what the situation warrants. Hermione isn’t responsible for his inability to find a mate, she’s just the easiest target. And he knows he’s a terrible person for being so rude to her, given that she’s simply trying to do her job.
Draco would never be described as kind or friendly. Although his manners are impeccable, he typically employs a cold demeanour in his interactions—it would have been impossible for him to get where he is in life if he were chummy with everyone he met. There’s no doubt in his mind that others have often described him as ill-tempered and disagreeable. Still, he has conducted himself more unpleasantly toward Hermione than he would usually act, even towards people he doesn’t like.
And while part of his behaviour can be attributed to the surge in hormones that typically precedes and accompanies a rut, another part of it is certainly due to nerves. Draco will never admit that to anyone other than to himself, though.
The shame of needing this service is already more than he can bear.
Anxiety has plagued him ever since he first completed the application to be seen at this clinic, twisting his stomach into knots and sending sharp pains shooting through his chest. At first, he was nervous that he wouldn’t be accepted into their programme, even though there was no reason for him not to be. He had been recommended to the clinic by friends who were long-standing clients, which offered an advantage, given that they could vouch for his good character. Even so, the process was rather rigorous, requiring a hefty, non-refundable deposit, a background check, and an extensive, intrusive report of both medical and designation history.
Unfortunately, the approval of his application only led to more stress. He hadn’t realised it at the time, but focusing on the process had offered a distraction from the real source of worry. Once that was gone, his focus only shifted to ruminating and perseverating on the idea of making himself so vulnerable, so dependent on someone else—especially an omega who was a complete stranger. It was impossible not to feel deficient, given that he couldn’t meet an omega on his own, someone to build a relationship and future with.
In every other aspect of his life, Draco is all that an Alpha should be. He has the physique and the domineering personality, which, when coupled with an ability to be entirely charming when he wants, has gotten him far in all his endeavours. It also helps that he comes from money and that, at the young age of twenty-five, he took over his father’s company.
In the past four years, he’s made a name for himself, separate from Lucius Malfoy. By any reasonable means of measuring success, Draco has achieved far more than most his age.
The only area in which he’s failed is in finding an omega.
It hasn’t been for lack of trying, either. He’s gone on more dates than he can count, allowing himself to be set up by his mother and friends again and again. It always ends the same. No matter how beautiful, agreeable, and intelligent the omegas are, they always smell wrong. On paper, every single one of the women is a perfect match for him. However, despite their objective compatibility, none of the dates has gone well.
Some of the omegas he has met have such an offensive, sickening scent it was all he could do to throw down a wad of money to cover any expenses before rushing out. If he had stayed any longer, he would have surely gotten ill. Others weren’t that bad, but the faint sour notes in their aromas were too difficult to ignore over the course of drinks or dinner. If he had to endure the scent in the long term, it would certainly have been unbearable.
Thus, he has yet to ever see any omega a second time, making it impossible to get to know them well enough to find someone with whom he might spend his rut, not to mention forming a life-long bond through mating. While there were some with his designation that were less fussy about partners for the rut cycle, Draco was decidedly not so agreeable. Life would have been much easier for him if he was, but alas, his Alpha was rather stubborn, unwilling to settle for anyone who didn’t smell like the embodiment of heaven.
Quite frankly, the neutral smelling betas are far more tolerable, all things considered. Unfortunately, while the experiences he’s had in dating and sleeping with betas were satisfactory enough, none of them would have been able to provide what he needs during rut.
The Alpha and omega designations complement each other for a reason.
While some Alphas shag, date, and even marry other Alphas or betas, neither are physically capable of adequately fulfilling the needs of an Alpha in rut. And specifically for Alphas with male anatomy, omegas are the only designation able to take them.
So for those Alphas without a mate, like Draco, it’s better to endure the cycles alone.
Fortunately, with the aid of blockers, rut cycles that used to be suffered monthly now only occur twice per year. With the decreased frequency, Draco has been able to manage, somewhat, since he first presented at eighteen years old.
It wasn’t until the past year that his ruts have become too painful to continue alone, forcing him to take drastic measures and ask his friends for help in finding a solution.
The clinic at which Hermione works is the best in the entire United Kingdom, with a waitlist that would make any Alpha weep. Fortunately, with a hefty sum donated toward the research conducted there, he was able to move up the list.
Yet, even for Alphas who are approved for scheduling, it sometimes takes quite a while before the facility can find an omega with high compatibility ratings. The staff that run the programme are dedicated to ensuring that every client is assisted by an omega who can meet their every need, making it well worth the price.
That’s the only reason why Draco elected to come here in the first place—the guarantee that they would find someone whom he matched with. Someone to make the rut bearable. Even if they weren’t able to find him the perfect omega, he knew they would find a suitable one.
From the pheromone profile sent to his townhome in advance, Draco knows he and Hermione will work well together, biologically speaking.
Even now, despite the high doses of suppressants she’s sure to be taking in order to dampen her pheromones, he can catch faint notes of her scent… Oranges. It reminds him of a warm summer day, of bright sun rays shining down on him.
And while his Alpha—or rather, his vomeronasal organ, if the pamphlet is to be believed—wishes he could smell her properly, the rational part of Draco is thankful for the precautions taken by the clinic.
The mandatory suppressants every omega is required to take are just one of the multitude of protections in place to ensure the safety of all parties involved. Many less reputable clinics have been in the papers for scandals related to forced mating bonds, rut-induced injuries, and a slew of other adverse outcomes.
So, as far as Draco is concerned, the more safeguards, the better.
“Mr Malfoy?”
The sound of her voice startles Draco from his thoughts. He blinks slowly, realising Hermione may or may not have been talking to him and, if she was, he didn’t hear a single word of it.
“I’m sorry?” he blurts out, purely out of habit.
She tilts her head to the side, the corner of her mouth quirking into a grin.
“Are you actually sorry?”
“It’s an expression,” he grunts.
Despite his dismissal, Hermione’s smile doesn’t waver. She’s the epitome of professionalism, which makes him wonder just how many surly Alphas she’s dealt with before. The thought of her with another Alpha makes his blood boil, even though it shouldn’t matter—it doesn’t matter. Fortunately, before he can spiral further, she speaks again, her dulcet voice saving him from the enemy that is his own mind.
“Right, of course,” she acquiesces with a nod of her head. “Are you ready then to discuss safety precautions and limits?”
Based on the detailed packet that was sent to him ahead of time, Draco missed her review of the clinic during his musings. It’s fine, though. There’s nothing truly notable about the building which, for all intents and purposes has the appearance of a medical facility. The room that he’ll be taken to will be more like a luxury hotel suite, but it’s not as if there’s anything particularly special or notable about that, either.
“I know about the measures in place—“
“All the same, Sir, I do have to review them.”
He exhales rather loudly, arms bracing against the table and gripping it tightly, belying his otherwise neutral expression and body language.
“Fine. Just get it over with.”
“As you may be aware, all omegas are required to take suppressants to prevent a heat from occurring, which, in turn, prevents any unwanted pregnancy. Of course, the collar around my neck and the band around my arm will guard against mating bites. Neither can be taken off and if an attempt is made, it will alert our security department. You did not select the knot package, so there will be a plug in place to ensure that you will not be able to do so. Would you like to change your plan at this time?”
“No. Why would I need to knot you? It’s not as if you’re my mate.”
“Too true, Sir,” she agrees. “Any other questions thus far?”
“No,” he growls, growing more impatient with every minute that passes.
His skin is starting to itch as his hormones surge, preparing for the rut.
“Wonderful!” she says. “In that case, let’s review limits. I noticed you left that section of the application blank. Are there any you have in mind?”
Draco shakes his head. It wasn’t a required part of the form and, truthfully, he hasn’t given it much thought. He doesn’t even know where to begin.
“Well, then, I suppose we can discuss mine. I don’t offer any sort of intimacy such as cuddling or kissing above the shoulders… Not that you can kiss my neck anyway.”
A small, bubbly laugh escapes Hermione as she gestures at the silver collar around her throat. Draco merely scowls, even though it is a good rule—one he wishes he had thought of himself. Alas, he’ll never admit it.
“I also won’t be taking my clothes off entirely. As it is, these outfits are already rather revealing and while certain articles of clothing might be rearranged—“ Hermione shifts the tiny triangle scrap of fabric covering her nipple by a mere millimetre and the room feels a thousand times hotter. Yet, before he can catch a glimpse of her, she slides it back into place. “My dress and stockings stay on.”
“Fine,” he manages, his tongue suddenly heavy and his throat dry.
“I will not allow degradation of any sort. I don’t need praise, but I’m not your whore, either. You may be rough to a reasonable degree, but if I ever ask you to stop and you don’t, measures will be taken to stop the session and remove you from the premises. Are we understood?”
He nods.
“You must verbally consent, Mr Malfoy. I have a taser calibrated especially for Alphas and I’ve used it before. While you’ve already signed an agreement, I need to hear you agree as well.”
Fury races through his veins at the thought of an Alpha hurting her or making her feel so unsafe that she had to resort to defending herself. Draco has only known her for less than an hour, yet he already feels the need to protect her with his life.
That can’t be normal— Can it? He’s never felt this way about any other omega before. Though, maybe it’s just a consequence of his rut being so near… It’s not as if he’s ever been in such close proximity to an omega so close to the cycle starting.
Coughing to clear his throat, Draco says, “We’re understood.”
“Perfect. The last matter to discuss is the number of sessions total, in the event you find this arrangement satisfactory. While some professional rut assistants take a much more liberal approach to this, I have a strict limit—either four sessions total or one year of sessions, whichever comes first. Will there be any issues with this?”
“I would prefer to have a limit on the partnership, lest you get attached.”
It’s meaner than she deserves, but Draco is desperate to try and regain the upper hand. Even her muted pheromones and scent are affecting him more profoundly than he would care to admit. As if to confirm this, a bead of sweat slides down his temple.
“Research shows that Alphas are more liable to forming premature bonds,” Hermione says. “But I understand your concerns. I can assure you, I’m one of the best in my field. If needed, I can also provide glowing recommendations from other Alphas I’ve assisted in the past.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he says dismissively, his lip curling into a sneer even as his hands clench into fists by his sides. “Is there anything else we need to review?”
“No, that completes the preliminary check-up. One of our staff will be by shortly to take you to the room you’ve booked for the session. There will be a tablet with forms for you to sign and after those signatures have been recorded, I’ll join you. There are also various amenities available, including water and food, as per the preferences you noted, as well as vials of my unsuppressed pheromones.”
Draco can’t help the blush that crawls across his cheeks at the way his body reacts to hearing he’ll have access to her scent. He’s certain that Hermione notices the spike in his own pheromones, yet, ever the consummate professional, she says nothing.
Instead, with a final smile and curt nod, she leaves the room.
The next half hour passes by in a blur.
Distantly, Draco is aware of the beta staff person who comes to escort him to his suite—his home for the next two days, give or take. Once the rut begins, he’ll be in his weakest state for twelve hours. After that, his body will need rest. So he might as well make himself comfortable.
There was an option to have the rut assistant meet him in his home, but it cost a ludicrous additional fee and required an even more thorough and invasive background check and additional screening, including an inspection of his home and the agreement to allow a security detail to stay on the premises for the duration of his rut.
Ultimately, it was the right choice to just come to the facility and, as he expected, Draco has no complaints about the rooms.
As Hermione described, the tablet rests on a small table near the door, keyed to his thumbprint, which he was also required to provide during the application process. His eyes dart across the screen as he reads the various forms regarding safety, liability, and the like, but he doesn’t process any of it.
All he can focus on is her.
While he knows she can’t be far—that she’s still in the facility—his Alpha is roaring in protest at the fact that she’s not in the room with him.
How else is he supposed to protect her, if he can’t lay eyes on her at any given moment? What if one of the other Alphas here for appointments sees her, and takes her away? What will happen if she changes her mind, leaving him to suffer through his rut alone?
The gland at the base of his neck pulses painfully with every minute that passes, his skin on fire as his discomfort builds. Though he knows a dose of her pheromones will help him feel better, and although he can already think of nothing other than her, Draco refuses to pick up the vial that would deliver her scent to him. It taunts him from one of the nightstands that frame the large bed, but still, he has enough wherewithal to resist the temptation.
His rut hasn’t even begun yet, and still, Draco feels as though he might vomit at being separated from Hermione. He hasn’t even properly scented her, and he’s already obsessed.
Giving in to the urge to douse himself in her pheromones will only worsen the problem—of this much, he’s certain. And he cannot get attached to Hermione.
He refuses to get attached to her.
It doesn’t matter that even her suppressed scent was better than anything he’s ever smelled in his entire life. Even the reminder of her vivid citrusy bouquet of oranges makes his mouth water and, in a brief moment of weakness, Draco glances over at the small bedside table.
Yet, instead of going to it, he shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers and begins to pace the room, waiting for her to arrive. With his luck, Hermione would make an appearance the moment he picked up the vial. And given that he’s already suffocating from the mortification of his own internal struggle, Draco hardly needs a witness to his misery.
At least, he doesn’t need her to see more than she already will.
Just the thought of what is soon to come is enough to send his heart into overdrive. He can hear the rhythmic thumping that floods his ears, in time with his pulse. The air in the room feels stifling, sweltering. He shrugs off his jacket before hanging it over one of the chairs. For a moment, he considers doing the same with his shirt but thinks again. He doesn’t want Hermione to walk in on him half-naked, regardless of what she’s about to witness.
How desperate would that look?
Facility staff dropped off a small travel bag with some of his belongings near the door after he checked in for his session. In it, there are clothes that would certainly be more comfortable than the ones he’s wearing now. However, Draco hardly sees the point in changing when he’s liable to end up naked soon, anyway.
That reminder does little to settle his nerves.
The collar on his shirt feels too tight and the luxurious fabric now clings to his skin uncomfortably due to the sweat, a byproduct of his ever-rising internal body temperature.
In many ways, going into rut is akin to when omegas experience heat.
The only real difference is that suppressants have been researched and developed to such an extent that an omega never has to experience a heat if they don’t want to. Unfortunately, the market for blockers has not quite reached such advancements. As it is, even the best blocker requires biannual ruts, lest the hormones reach dangerous levels.
So, even though Draco has an experience that is rather similar to what an omega in heat would feel, he has the special misfortune of actually having to go through it.
It is widely believed that Alphas are the superior designation, but any who could see him now might question that. The thing is that while mated Alphas are distinguished, exceptional, and otherwise unrivalled, unmated Alphas are not.
Draco has made every effort to ignore this ever since he first presented. Even before he realised just how hard it would be to find a mate, he refused to believe that he had to find one. That made it seem like he wasn’t good enough on his own, like he needed a partner to reach his full potential. Once it became clear that mates didn’t simply land in one’s lap, he found himself faced with a choice—acknowledge that he would be immobilised and otherwise less successful until he found his mate, or cling to the belief that he could still do it on his own.
He’s lived in denial for years, ignoring the doctors and treatment teams who urged him to at least try a matching service or one that offered rut assistance. He did so until he could no longer disregard the advice of the specialists, until the rut became so debilitating that it became unsafe for him to continue experiencing them alone.
Still, even if being here is what’s best, even if it’s his only option… Draco still isn’t happy about it. It doesn’t matter how affected he is by her scent or how his own volatile emotions are likely causing a surge in hormones, which, in turn, could trigger his rut. He hates having to be here. He hates that he has to rely on her.
As if on cue, a gentle knock sounds at the door.
When he doesn’t answer, another, firmer knock fills the room.
“Come in,” he calls out.
Even to his own ears, his deep voice sounds haggard.
He drops onto the couch as the lock clicks open and, with the light streaming from the hall framing her like a halo, his angel appears.
“Everything okay, Mr Malfoy?”
He grunts in response, head falling into his hands as he rakes his fingers through his hair. Her footsteps are quiet on the thick carpet, but her scent—
It’s overwhelming.
“What did you do?” he snarls, recoiling as she sits in the seat across from him. “Why do you smell like that?”
Her countenance falls, the carefully crafted facade she wears slipping away. And even though it’s no longer than a fraction of a second, he notices. It’s becoming impossible to not notice every little thing about her, though Draco cannot fathom why. Of course, his Alpha knows.
Hermione is his omega.
His true mate… His.
At least, that’s what the Alpha would like him to believe. However, the rational part of Draco knows just how ludicrous that is. True mates don’t exist.
They’re just a rumour—a myth.
Even as he tries to convince himself that Hermione is not, in fact, the equivalent of his soulmate, her scent washes over him again.
When he glances up he finds her smiling once more, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. God, he’s a worthless bastard for lashing out at her so viciously. The guilt builds in his chest, crushing his lungs as his eyes dart across her face, trying and failing to find even a hint for how she might be feeling. And before he has the chance to apologise, she speaks.
“It’s standard protocol for an omega to spritz themselves with pheromones, both on the glands and other parts of the body. If my scent offends you or is otherwise displeasing, it’s not too late to find someone else…”
“As I said earlier—” he interjects. “You’re adequate.”
Well, so much for an apology.
A heavy, awkward silence settles between them.
Though he can’t deny that having her close has instantly calmed him, Draco has no plans of letting Hermione know just how affected he is. However, as the minutes tick by at an agonisingly slow pace, Draco nearly loses his resolve to remain quiet, obstinate, and otherwise difficult.
And in his discomfort at the situation, he soon becomes irate with Hermione.
What is she waiting for? Isn’t she the one with all the experience, with the many Alphas who can recommend her? Why doesn’t she say something? How can she stand it?
He has no idea how this goes. Even so, he’s close to speaking up, to ask a question—anything to break the godawful silence that’s threatening to suffocate him. The tension is absolutely unbearable.
Fortunately, before he makes a fool of himself, Hermione clears her throat and his gaze snaps up to meet hers.
“Shall we get started, then?” she asks.
Oh, god. No. He thought nothing could be worse than the complete silence. How wrong he was. This is much, much worse.
“Can’t we just wait for the rut to begin on its own?”
“Well, of course, we could… Many of our clients prefer to ease into it, though. Especially for their first session. Once you’re in rut, it’s likely to be a rough, frantic coupling and there will be little control over what you do or say… Alphas we work with typically find that to be a bit abrupt, as you can probably imagine, since we’re complete strangers. Foreplay won’t change that, but it tends to settle the nerves.”
A blush heats his cheeks.
Why hadn’t he realised that himself?
After all, it’s so obvious that it would be incredibly awkward to go into rut and tear the clothes off of a hired rut assistant—not Hermione, of course, since that’s one of her limits. The idea of her naked is certainly enticing, but Draco has little desire to be tased mid-fuck.
He clears his throat, desperately trying to buy himself some time as his body reacts to the thought of her completely bare. The way the dress clings to her leaves little to the imagination. And yet, he wonders whether the freckles that adorn her chest trail across her collarbones and shoulders, too.
When Hermione offers him a glass of water, he readily accepts it.
“Where should we begin?” he asks, his voice still rough.
He takes another long drink, relishing the way the cool water feels as it slides down his throat.
“I could suck you off if you’d like.”
Draco inhales sharply, sucking water into his windpipe and dissolving into a fit of coughs as his lungs reject the liquid. To add to his mortification, Hermione rushes to him and slaps at his back, trying to help him dispel the water. As a consequence of this action, her tits are directly in his line of sight and belatedly, he realizes that she must have sprayed pheromones onto her chest, given how strong her scent now is.
There are notes of ginger, too. She must be aroused. Or, rather, her body is mimicking arousal, artificially going through the necessary steps in order to ensure she’s not injured when she assists him in his rut. Yet, even though he knows that she doesn’t really want him, Draco still wants her. He wants her so, so badly.
Why does that have such a profound effect on him? It’s all fake!
The pheromones she doused her scent glands with are coupled with medications and supplements to imitate a heat episode—the time when an omega is most compatible with an Alpha. Hermione is simply doing her job, what he paid for her to do.
His dick doesn’t get the memo, though.
And if she notices the bulge in his trousers, she doesn’t comment on it.
“Would you rather my hands?” she asks, the question so innocent that Draco doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. “Or I can just…grind on you?”
His face heats further as the blush deepens. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if he resembles a tomato. It doesn’t help that Hermione is looking at him, brows furrowed in genuine concern, or the closest thing to it that Draco has ever witnessed. Meanwhile, he’s been rendered silent by the idea of a woman touching his cock, as if he’s some teenage virgin who’s never had sex before.
How much more embarrassing can it get?
Just because he hasn’t had rut sex with an omega doesn’t mean he’s suddenly inexperienced. He racks his mind trying to think of something smooth to say, some way to regain a modicum of control in the situation. It’s not as if he’s entirely hopeless when it comes to romance.
If it weren’t for the fact that he’s an Alpha, and apparently a notoriously selective, fastidious one at that, he could have easily found a partner.
Her fingers scratching his scalp pull him back to the present, to the painfully beautiful woman beside him and the way she smells good enough to eat.
“What if,” she says, her voice soft, barely more than a whisper, “I just sit on your lap. You can start with my breasts, and we’ll go from there. The pheromones I sprayed on my chest should make it easier to...rouse your desire.”
Draco just barely swallows a laugh.
The idea that she would need pheromones to make her perfect, glorious tits any more enticing is absolutely ludicrous. His cock is painfully hard just from looking at them.
Still, he nods his head.
Gently, she presses her palms to his shoulders until he leans back in his seat. Then, with the same amount of care one might use in approaching a skittish wolf, Hermione slides into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs as she settles against him.
His head swims at the closeness to Hermione as her distinct bouquet fills his lungs with every inhale. Acting purely on instinct, he runs his hands up her thighs, from the white stockings to the hem of her skirt.
A hazy fog begins to cloud his thinking as her pheromones fully take effect. He no longer has the energy to resist the pull he feels towards Hermione. Moreover, he no longer wants to. As his Alpha slowly begins to take control of his cognition, Draco wonders why he even fought it at all.
She’s the perfect omega, objectively speaking. Any Alpha would be lucky to have her, and he’s already wasted too much time trying to keep her at an arm’s length. He won’t waste another second. With a strangled groan, Draco leans forward, pressing his face into her cleavage.
Her tits are just as soft and plush as he imagined them to be and the scent of her is so strong now, it’s a wonder he doesn’t come in his trousers. The surge of hormones at being so close to her is enough to drown out any final vestiges of his rational mind as his brain melts into mush.
All that matters is her.
Turning his head, he drags his nose along the curve of her breast. He basks in her scent, allowing the warm euphoria it elicits to course through his veins. Her fingers are buried in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him tightly to her. Draco doesn’t know if it’s because Hermione wants him there or if it’s because she merely knows what to do, but at that moment, he doesn’t care. Regardless of her motivations, the small encouragement is all he needs to mouth at her soft skin, his lips exploring her delicate flavour until he reaches her nipple.
When he slides his tongue over the cloth of her bra, a low moan escapes her.
And fuck if it doesn’t sound real, like an actual reaction that he has elicited.
The pert bud is visible through the thin fabric but before he moves to pull it aside, Draco glances up at her. There’s still a part of his mind that remains rational enough to understand he’s paying her to spend time with him, that this is her job. Even so, he would like her consent.
With an encouraging smile, Hermione reaches to shift the cloth herself. Immediately, he leans forward and captures her nipple between his lips.
Then, cupping her in his hand, he sucks on her breast as if his life depends on it.
Draco is positive that he has never experienced anything more divine. Every inhale is filled with her scent and, with every hit of her pheromones, he succumbs further to his Alpha—the damned organ that is apparently responsible for all his problems.
Though, in his present state, he can hardly curse his designation, given how phenomenal it feels to be here with Hermione.
He runs his tongue over her nipple, a groan rumbling through his chest when she squirms in his lap, her cunt hot against his erection. He switches to her other nipple, pinching the one he just abandoned between his fingers and rolling it until she’s panting above him the thick, heady bouquet of their combined pheromones filling the air.
His blood reaches a boiling point when she rolls her hips against him and the tip of his cock catches against her clit, tearing a low whine from her throat.
With that, his rut begins.
Draco stands with a growl, Hermione still in his arms as he crosses the room in a few short strides and deposits her at the edge of the bed. He can’t bear it any longer. He has to be inside her. Every second that passes in which he isn’t joined with her feels like pure agony.
He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning his shirt, instead electing to tear the buttons off in one brusque movement before tossing the garment to the ground.
Hermione watches his every movement with a frenzied gaze, leaning on her elbows with her feet planted on the mattress so he can see the slick folds of her cunt glistening from beneath the tiny knickers she’s wearing. His eyes remain fixed on the apex of her thighs, admiring her as he undoes his trousers. He’ll taste her before the session is over but for now, he pulls his erection free, stroking it in several slow passes to offer the smallest sense of relief to his aching cock.
Then, hooking his arms beneath her knees, Draco pulls her toward him until her arse hangs off the edge of the mattress. He stands between her thighs, resting his length on her stomach and admiring how it passes her navel.
The best part is that despite his size especially when compared to her petite frame, Hermione could take all of it. Her body was made to take it, just as his was made to fill her during her heat. When he looks up, he finds her bright brown eyes focused on his length and his Alpha preens at impressing such a beautiful omega.
“You’re perfect,” he says softly—reverently. “Absolutely perfect.”
A demure smile spreads across her face as she catches his eye before looking away.
“Can I fuck you?” he asks.
“Of course, you can, Mr Malfoy.”
“Please, call me Draco.”
He tugs her knickers aside and, with his fist wrapped around the base of his length, drags the head of his cock along her cunt.
“Draco,” she cries when he pushes the tip inside her.
He’s never heard a sweeter melody.
“Say it again. Fuck— I need you to say it again.”
She repeats his name like a mantra as he slides his cock further into her cunt, her velvet walls moulding to his shape, gripping him so tightly Draco feels faint.
“You feel so damn good.” His hands are wrapped around her thighs, holding her legs against him so that her calves rest on his chest and her heels on his shoulders. “A fucking dream come true.”
He’s almost fully sheathed inside her when the head of his cock bumps against silicone, the plug in place preventing him from burying himself to the hilt. Still, it feels better than any other experience Draco has had. Even the stories he had heard and read about sex with omegas hardly compares. Why did he wait so long to try it?
He pulls back out, admiring the way his cock is coated in her slick.
His nerve endings are on fire as he pushes in once more. Already, he can feel the pressure building in his bollocks and he’s only just started fucking her. And despite his present state, Draco realises what a problem this is. Even his Alpha agrees. Although the rut makes it difficult to think about anything other than knotting, breeding, and mating, a part of the Alpha imperative still demands he take care of his omega.
He’s thrusting slowly, trying as hard as he can to last since it’s clear she hasn’t come yet. Even if Hermione is more sensitive due to their designations and the pheromones, there simply hasn’t been enough time for her to build to an orgasm. He wants to hold on, to make sure it’s good for her, too. Yet, despite his best efforts, it’s a losing battle.
It’s all just too much, the scent and feel of her overwhelming him in the best way possible.
“I’m close,” he says, panting. “What do you need?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Mr—” She pauses, remembering herself. “I mean, Draco. I’m fine… Just focus on you.”
With that, Hermione slides her legs off his shoulders to wrap them around his waist, using her hold on him for leverage as she moves with him. Even though it’s clear she’s trying to show him just how fine she is, Draco refuses to abandon his efforts.
Brushing his thumb between her folds, he gathers some of her slick and begins to rub slow circles on her clit. It doesn’t take much before she’s nearly as flushed as he is, pupils blown wide as her cunt begins to pulse around him.
He had every intention of making her come first. He really did.
However, the way her walls spasm around him is simply too much to bear. Too soon, before she’s had the chance to orgasm, his knot begins to expand. With a low groan, Draco pushes in as far as he can and spills rope after rope into her.
Pleasure races through his veins, crashing over him in waves.
Still, in spite of his failure, Draco continues to stimulate her, pressing his thumb to her clit until she falls apart with a little whimper, her cunt clenching down on his cock rhythmically.
His eyes are fixed on the point at which their bodies are joined, watching carefully as he pulls from her. His seed and her arousal leak out and into the cleft of her cheeks. Without really thinking, Draco drops to his knees at the edge of the bed and laps at her, his tongue first tracing over her slick thighs and the part of her arse he can reach, even as his nose is buried in her folds.
“Mr Malfoy!” she protests.
“I told you to call me Draco,” he says, nipping her clit gently and extracting a moan from Hermione. “Does it not feel good?”
The question is very nearly rhetorical, given the way her chest heaves as she props herself up on her arms to look at him. Her eyes are still dark with need, her face flushed—all clear signs of her arousal.
“It does feel good, but—“
“You don’t want it?”
“No, it’s just that—“
“What? You don’t deserve pleasure, too?”
“You already made me come once,” Hermione objects weakly.
“There’s no need to keep track, love. If you’ll let me, I’ll make you come on my tongue, and then again on my cock.”
“This is meant to be about you.”
“And this is what I want,” he insists.
With a huff, she falls back onto the mattress, her ponytail fanning around her head as he descends to the apex of her thighs once more, a smirk adorning his face at his success in getting what he wants.
As punishment for her stubbornness, he takes his time in licking, sucking, and biting her thighs, revelling in how good it feels to taste himself on her skin. He ignores her sweet cunt entirely, waiting until he’s certain that he’s properly cleaned the mess he made. Only then does he drag his tongue from the base of her cunt to her clit, lips pursing around the sensitive bud for a moment before he pushes his tongue into her.
Somehow, she tastes even better than she smells.
That’s not to say that her scent isn’t divine. Draco never imagined that any omega could ever possess such an enticing fragrance, not given his past experiences. Even the bottled pheromones he was scent by the clinic pale in comparison to scenting her directly. And that’s with the heavy doses of suppressants she’s on. Draco can’t begin to fathom how incredibly she would smell without the medications, or, even better, during her heat.
All of that being said, the tang of her arousal is a religious experience. He’s desperate to drink her in, eager to spend the rest of his life between her thighs.
If he’s lucky, her scent will be permanently fixed in his nose and lungs, and her flavour on his tongue. Then Draco could truly die a happy man. A groan tears from his throat when more slick leaks from her, covering his chin as he feasts on her.
He takes his time in bringing her second orgasm, entirely unbothered when he begins to come again, even without any stimulation. This must be what happens when a rut is assisted by an omega. And honestly, it’s not all that surprising. Her scent hangs so heavily in the air that it only makes sense it would bring about orgasm, although he’s not inside her.
He spills onto the ground, not caring about the mess he’s making. That’s why he paid such a high fee to be seen at this clinic, after all.
When she comes with little more than a contented sigh, Draco sees stars. He can feel the pleasure radiating from her small frame, from the way her back bows off the bed to how her thighs squeeze around his head. The sensation that her orgasm brings him is incomparable, unlike anything he ever expected.
This is what he was born to do—to fuck his omega, to bring her pleasure.
Most of the remainder of their twelve hours together flies by.
Draco is so lost to the Alpha drive, the instinctual need to fuck her, that details matter very little. He fucks her cunt again, spilling into her several more times before using her mouth, instead. It’s by her suggestion and Draco, eager to take whatever she’ll give him, readily agrees. At one point, he lies on the mattress alongside her and slides his cock between her thighs until he comes all over the bedsheets. Later, Hermione brings him to completion just with her hands alone. And with each orgasm, the desire to knot inside her grows.
Somewhere around the tenth hour, he’s forced to bite his tongue to prevent himself from asking her to let him, pinching the flesh so tightly between his teeth that he tastes the copper-metallic tang of blood.
In the eleventh hour, he fills his mouth with one of her tits to keep from pleading with her, from offering his entire fortune just for the chance to stretch her out with his knot and lock the two of them together.
When the twelfth hour arrives and the rut reaches its peak, he’s too far gone to care. Everything he says and does is entirely controlled by his Alpha—the vomeronasal organ and pheromones that make him who he is.
“Let me knot inside you,” Draco begs.
She’s riding him now, hands planted on his chest as she raises off him slowly before dropping back down onto his cock. The sheets are drenched in sweat and slick, but he’s too far gone to care. All that matters is knotting her.
“You know the rules,” she says sweetly, far too sweetly for someone so cruel. “You didn’t select that service.”
“Please… I need to—“
“I’m sorry, Draco, but the answer is no.”
She doesn’t sound sorry.
“Your cunt—” he groans. “It’s perfect.”
She smiles coyly.
“So you’ve said.”
“I need to be inside you.”
“You are inside me. And it feels so good being filled by you.”
A bead of precum leaks from the head, even as his cock throbs at hearing her praise.
“I’ll make you feel even better…” he says, panting. “Let me stretch you out with my knot.”
“Just enjoy this,” she says, laying a finger across his lips. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“That’s absolute rubbish! I know what I want—”
Before he can continue, she starts to climb off him and suddenly, knotting doesn’t matter anymore, not when he’s at risk of losing her.
“Wait, wait! I’m sorry!“ he exclaims.
His worries and apology are for naught, though. That much becomes clear when Hermione settles on his abdomen with her arse in his face and begins to stroke his cock with both her hands.
“No changes can be made to your plan once the rut has started.”
“I’ll give you anything you want—“
This time he’s cut off by her cunt against his mouth as she slides down until her tits are pressed to his groin, her face mere millimetres from his erection.
Her tempo never falters, fingers moving nimbly and assuredly even as her warm breath caresses the base of his cock where his knot is now forming.
Draco groans into her when her tongue brushes across the sensitive skin, more precum leaking from him as she begins to suck on his knot. His hands on her arse anchor Hermione to him, holding her in place as the fire that has steadily coursed through him reaches its breaking point.
He realises it then, finally acknowledging just how much she means to him. There’s something between them… A connection. He’s sure of it. There’s nothing he’s ever been more sure of in his life. And it’s not just because he’s on the brink of the best orgasm.
Fuck, he needs to find a way to keep her.
That’s the last semi-coherent thought Draco has before ecstasy crashes over him as he spills onto her hands, spurting onto her face and coating her with his seed.
With that, sleep claims him, his body no longer able to maintain the rut state.
When he wakes up twelve hours later, he’s alone.
Of course, he should have expected it.
No intimacy was one of her rules, after all. This knowledge doesn’t lessen the sting, despite how absurd it is for his feelings to be hurt. Draco is little more than another client to her, someone Hermione is paid to care about. It won’t stay that way, though. Not if he can help it.
He makes the first attempt to rectify the situation when he checks out of the clinic, asking the beta who is working at the front desk if he’s able to speak with his assigned rut assistant.
“Unfortunately,” the woman says in a tone that makes it quite apparent that she's not bothered by the bad news at all, “that particular staff person is not on the premises at the moment.”
She smiles at him all the while, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.
How many pathetic Alphas has she delivered the same news to—people who, like Draco, got too attached after one partnered rut?
It was a long shot anyway. Draco knew this. The facility has so many precautions to protect their employees, which, at the end of the day, he can hardly fault them for.
So with a gruff, abrupt end to the conversation, he leaves.
The drive home is spent brainstorming ways he might get ahold of her. Based on what he’s gathered from the clinic’s many brochures and pamphlets, all communication is limited to the period before and during ruts. Outside of that time frame, his best option is to go through the case manager who oversees his account.
That is, it’s the best option if he wants to go the proper route.
He could hire a private detective to find her. He certainly has the resources to do it. That feels too underhanded, though. If he wants Hermione to have any modicum of trust in him, to give him a chance at something real, he can’t resort to such methods. Still, despite his noble intentions, Draco can’t manage the self-control needed to avoid looking her up online.
He finds nothing.
Although Hermione is a rather unique name, there isn’t a single trace of her on the world wide web—not that he can find, at least.
Maybe it’s the universe telling him to bugger off for even trying to invade her privacy that way. Maybe Hermione is merely a pseudonym, which would make a fair amount of sense, given her line of work. Maybe it’s karma for making a resolution and immediately abandoning it.
Regardless of the cause behind his misfortune, there’s only one clear path forward.
Draco will simply have to call the clinic.
He waits a few days after the end of his rut to do so.
Arriving back to his townhome allows him to gain perspective. While he’s still certain that there is a bond between him and Hermione, he also understands that he can’t behave too rashly—if he comes off too strong, she’ll shut him down in an instant.
Nearly a week has passed since he saw her before he calls the woman in charge of his case. His stomach is in knots all the while, the anxiety that has become his constant companion ever since he woke up after his rut cycle ended.
“This is Lavender Brown,” a cheery voice says, filling the line.
“Hello Ms Brown, this is Draco Malfoy… I’m a client with the clinic and I was just recently in for my first, er, session.”
“Oh, hello, Mr Malfoy! I hope everything was to your liking!”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling—“
“I’m happy to help in any way I can!” Lavender chirps. “Hermione is one of our best assistants, and, if I may, one of my close friends! But if there were any issues at all—“
“No, no issues,” Draco interjects. “I was hoping to speak with her, though.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that! I know Hermione typically prefers to maintain contact only for the purposes of rut assistance, but sometimes our omegas make notes on the chart…”
The sound of rapid-fire keyboard clacking fills the line.
“Aha, here’s your chart,” Lavender says after a moment. “It looks like… Oh.”
Draco doesn’t like the sound of that, but still, he asks, “Is something the matter?”
“Erm, I’m so sorry, Sir, I haven’t ever seen this happen before— Though I’ve only been working here for the last six months— Hermione was the one who helped me get hired for the job after my worthless ex cheated on me—“
“What is it, Lavender?” Draco asks.
He can only hope that the use of her first name might be enough to catch her attention, to prevent any further nervous ramblings.
“You see, it’s just that— Well, it looks like—“ She pauses and inhales audibly. “Hermione has requested to be removed from your case.”
“What?!”
The question slips from him at too loud a volume, far too aggressive considering this woman is one of his only hopes at getting in touch with Hermione.
Thus, he takes a deep, slow breath of his own before speaking again.
“I didn’t realise that was allowed.”
“Of course, it is,” Lavender says, composed once more. “As you may be aware, we take great pride in protecting our employees. Our clients are well within their rights to request a different omega if they ever choose to do so.” Here her voice grows cold. “While some companies don’t value their omegas, we do. Our assistants are afforded the same respect and autonomy as the clients, should they choose to be reassigned.”
Although he’s losing his patience now, Draco makes a final attempt at remaining civil.
“Am I allowed to ask why the decision was made?”
“No reason was listed, I’m afraid.”
That’s a lie. Draco is sure of it.
Lavender won’t offer any further information, though.
“Thank you for your time, then.”
He hangs up the phone before she can speak again.
Immediately, he goes to the gym. He has far too much pent up frustration to be of any use to anyone, especially himself.
There are still other options, he knows there are.
All he has to do is get his anger under control first.
After several hours spent on weights, and another half hour on the treadmill set to the steepest incline, Draco feels slightly better.
Just better enough to realise his next course of action.
It’s time to speak with someone at the top. While Lavender likely doesn’t have the power to override protocol or break rules for him, Draco is certain that whomever she reports to might be more easily persuaded.
And if it’s disgusting that he would use his money in such a way, well…
Draco certainly isn’t losing any sleep over it, not when his other option is to resign himself to a fate in which he will never see Hermione again.
The mere thought of that outcome is enough to send sharp pains shooting through his chest. It won’t come to that, though.
He simply will not allow it to.
He repeats it like a mantra in the car after his workout, and in the shower. He continues to focus on it, visualising his future with her even as he makes dinner and turns down his bedsheets.
And with dreams of a reunion with his omega—of being allowed the honour to at least be in her presence once more—Draco falls asleep.
The hope that he will soon be with her again is the only way Draco manages to get through the better part of the following month. He tries and tries to get ahold of someone to help him with his issue, only to be given the runaround again and again.
Finally, without a shred of patience remaining, he settles on going to the clinic in person, demanding to be seen and insisting that his issue be resolved.
The following morning brings fresh opportunities and he leaves his home with one goal in mind. He’ll drive to the clinic and keep asking to speak with someone in charge until he gets what he wants.
It’s simple enough.
Except, somehow it all goes up in flames.
The first sign of trouble is when, after informing the receptionist of his business at the clinic, Draco is accosted by an omega.
“Hello, Sir. Have you been helped?”
The woman is pretty enough with long, wavy brown hair and big, green eyes that blink up at him when he looks in the direction of the intrusion.
“Who are you?” he says, not even bothering with civility.
“Astoria Greengrass.”
She smiles widely, even as her gaze remains calculating.
“Are you here to assist me?”
“I would love to assist you,” she purrs. “When is your next rut?”
She takes a step closer, sending Draco stumbling back as a wave of her pheromones washes over him. It would be rude to vomit all over the woman’s shoes, but if he’s forced to inhale the putrid smell emanating from her, he will.
“I don’t need that kind of assistance,” he says, lip curling into a sneer.
He should leave. Remaining in the same space with such an aggressive omega when his hormones are fluctuating wildly can only lead to trouble. Except, he can’t. Not when he’s so close to Hermione, so close to reaching his goal.
When Astoria takes another step closer despite his hostile demeanour, it’s the second sign that all is definitively not well.
However, before Draco can react, the woman steps into him and traces her thumb over the gland on his wrist. And even though it’s covered by layers of clothing, the effect is instantaneous.
Draco sees red.
The next thing he knows, he finds himself in a seclusion room with no memory of how he got there. It doesn’t cause him as much trepidation as it should, though. It would be impossible to feel any sort of fear or anxiety when she’s there.
“You have quite a bit of explaining to do.”
Her voice is sweeter than he remembers, even in her ire.
“Hi,” he breathes, sitting up on the bed where he’s been lying.
“Start talking, Mr Malfoy. Tell me why I shouldn’t have security throw you out and immediately request a restraining order.”
“I came to see you— Or came to see about seeing you, I suppose.”
“You nearly tore Astoria’s arm off and even after six of our guards managed to detain you and bring you here, you didn’t settle down until after I arrived. So thank you, but I had already gathered as much.”
“I’m sorry, I—“
“Why were you so insistent?” she asks, cutting him off with a glare. “What could possibly be so important?”
“Why won’t you be my assistant anymore?”
Hermione sighs, sounding very, very tired.
“What’s wrong?” he blurts out.
“This entire situation is wrong— Everything about it is wrong, Mr Malfoy.”
“I thought I told you to call me Draco—“
“When you were in rut!” she interjects. “Alphas make all sorts of requests and promises during their rut cycle, it’s hardly something to hold a person by.”
“I do want you to call me Draco, though.”
Although she had appeared rather animated just moments ago, a mask falls into place as she purses her lips, her otherwise warm, brown eyes growing cold.
“That implies some sort of familiarity… An acquaintance outside of what ours entails. While I was happy to acquiesce to your request during the session, considering it doesn’t directly violate any of my limits and you were paying a rather handsome sum for my services, I hardly see how it’s appropriate now.”
“I don’t want to be limited to only seeing you during sessions.”
Finally, he’s laying his cards on the table.
“We won’t have any more sessions, Mr Malfoy. I’m only here because the clinic was desperate, unable to find any other way to calm you and prevent further injury or property damage.”
Despair settles in his chest, but he won’t give up hope yet.
“You won’t see me again because you felt it, too.”
He’s taking a gamble. That much is clear. However, there are few remaining options and, really, what does he have to lose?
A flash of surprise flits across her face, followed shortly by knowing. So, he's right! He knows it and she does, too.
Even so, her voice is icy when she says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” He stands, then, but when she shrinks back, he doesn’t move any closer. “What other reason could there be?”
“Oh, maybe that you’re too desperate? Too attached? I warned you of the dangers—that Alphas often form premature feelings after a single rut cycle. And look where we are now. You’re harassing my coworkers and bosses and have been for a month! If word gets around about your little stunt today, my other clients may not even want to work with me anymore. They could very well think I'm bonded, considering you're acting like a mate would! You’re threatening everything I’ve worked for!”
“Maybe I have come on too strong—“
She snorts indelicately at that, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest.
“But, respectfully,” he continues, refusing to acknowledge her interruption, “that’s a piss poor excuse if I’ve ever heard one. You requested to be taken off my case even before all of my…attempts.”
“And just as Lavender told you the first day you called, I don’t have to provide a reason why. If my employers don’t care for an explanation, I certainly don’t owe you one. Maybe it just wasn’t that good for me— Did that ever occur to you?”
“You’re so bloody full of it,” he says with a cold, mirthless laugh. “I felt you coming on my cock, on my fingers... You might be good at your job, Sweetheart, but you’re not that good. You can’t fake that—”
“You pompous, arrogant bastard!”
It’s the only warning he gets before she flies across the room, a small hand meeting his cheek with a resounding clap as she slaps him so hard that he staggers backwards.
His knees hit the bed behind him and he falls to the mattress with a thud.
Hermione is standing in front of him and though it’s impossible for her to physically tower over him, even when he’s sitting, her presence dominates the space.
“Whether my body enjoyed it or not is hardly in question! If I say it wasn’t that good for me, then it wasn’t that good! ”
Although she's enraged, absolutely furious, she’s still the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on.
He doesn’t bother correcting her or arguing the semantics of her previous statement. The impact of her hand against his face was enough to shock him out of the frustration he was beginning to feel, to remind him that his goal is not to argue with or agitate her.
He’s trying to woo her, for fuck’s sake.
“You’re right,” he concedes. “I’m sorry. I’ve been such an arsehole and— It's no excuse but I just— I had to see you again.”
His heartfelt apology seems to take some of the steam out of her fury.
Instead of screeching at him again, she remains silent. And given how the conversation has been going thus far, Draco takes this small win for what it is.
“I realise how I’ve come across and I swear if you’ll just hear me out—“
“Why should I, Draco?”
In her anger, she uses his given name rather than the formalities she’s reverted back to and, despite the situation, his heart leaps for joy.
“You seem like the type of Alpha who always gets what he wants. By giving in to your absolute absurd and, frankly, concerning behaviour over the past month, I’m merely reinforcing the idea that you can harass and bully and cajole until you get your way.”
“You’re right,” he says again, shoulders dropping.
As silence fills the room, Draco is certain she’ll turn him away.
There’s nothing to stop Hermione from walking out those doors and out of his life for good. Frankly, given the way he’s acted, he couldn’t even blame her.
“You’re lucky I’m a curious person by nature,” she says after a moment. “I’ll give you one more chance to explain what it is you want and why you’ve been so adamant about seeing me.”
This is it.
He can’t mess it up now.
If he does, he’ll never forgive himself.
“I want you to enter an exclusive contract with me. And I know this next part will sound entirely insane but, I want to be honest with you. There’s something between us… I don’t know what it is, exactly, but I know it’s there. Your scent is the only one I’ve ever found appealing, even before the rut, and since I left you, it feels like there’s a hole in my chest. I won’t force anything on you—“
She scoffs then but doesn’t interrupt.
“Well, other than asking you to listen, but in terms of a mating bond—“
“Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“Probably,” he admits. “I just want you to know that if you agree to the contract, you never have to worry about me taking advantage or pushing for that.”
For a minute, it looks like she might be considering his offer. Then, with two words, she tears his heart out.
“I can’t.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
He believes her.
“May I ask why?”
“Why I’m sorry?”
She grins then, a small but true, genuine expression of mirth that reaches her eyes, and it’s like a small ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds.
“Why you can’t,” he clarifies.
“I have four other clients right now through the clinic. And while we are paid a salary, there are bonuses based on how many Alphas are on our caseload.”
“I’ll pay triple.”
A single, arched brow is her only response.
“Three times your salary plus the added compensation you receive for the clients.”
Her lovely, delicate features contort into a mixture of surprise and shock.
“Do you have any idea how much you’re offering?”
“It doesn’t matter, I’m good for it. I can even pay you several months in advance to prove it, or a retainer of sorts. And if you have a higher number in mind, all you have to do is name it.”
“What exactly would an exclusive contract with you entail? I know many in the general public see rut assistantships as akin to sex work… I’m not ashamed of my line of profession, nor would I ever shame others for how they choose to spend their time. And while I do engage in sex work, I’m not a sex worker. I wouldn’t be at your beck and call, whenever you’re lonely and in the mood for a quick, easy shag.”
“We wouldn’t even have to have sex outside of ruts if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t,” she says definitively.
“That’s fine. The offer is still on the table.”
“You have yet to tell me what the expectations are.”
“Right,” he says, blushing at his eagerness. “I guess I just want…your companionship.”
“You want me to be my sugar daddy? But without sex?”
“I suppose so if that’s what you’ll agree to.”
“How often would you pay me?”
“Weekly,” he answers easily.
“And when would you be needing my company, as you put it?”
“Three weekday evenings for three to four hours around dinner, and one full weekend day with flexible hours. If you choose to spend more time together, I wouldn’t be opposed to it, but that would be the minimum I ask for.”
In truth, Draco hadn’t given it much thought ahead of time. He hadn’t even expected to see her today. Now that they’re discussing it, though, his demands come readily. He’s doing a shite job at negotiating overall, given that he’s made it clear he’ll do whatever it takes to have her. Still, if she’ll agree to this, Draco will consider the entire conversation a success.
“Hmm. Would you want me to attend events with you? I imagine a man who wears such expensive suits must have the sort of job that requires fancy galas, business dinners, and the like.”
“I do. And if you’d like to attend with me, I would appreciate your company. It won’t be a requirement, though.”
“The same rules that I had before would still apply to any ruts we spend together. After either four cycles or a year of your proposed arrangement, we could reevaluate, at which time I would reserve the right to terminate the contract.”
“Understood,” he says, trying not to sound too desperate.
“And I wouldn't do intimacy outside of the rut sessions… No kissing, holding hands, cuddling, etcetera.” She pauses then, probably waiting to see if he’ll argue, before continuing, “Of course, if I did attend any events with you, that might be a possible exception to the rule, but otherwise I wouldn’t want any physical contact.”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“I would also want four times my current salary and bonuses. If I accept, I’ll have to take a leave of absence from the clinic for the duration of our time together, which would force me to transfer my current client list to another rut assistant and miss out on potential new clients.”
Finally remembering himself, Draco asks, “How much would that be monthly?”
Hermione pulls out her phone, swiping the screen silently for half a minute before turning it to face him. Her earnings statement fills the screen.
Draco takes a quick look at it before turning his eyes back toward her.
“Fine. Anything else?”
“You’ll pay for me to stay on the same brand and dosage of suppressants I currently take.”
“Of course.”
“And I need time to think about it.”
“Okay,” he agrees.
“Do you have a number I can reach you at?”
He reaches a hand toward her phone, and asks, “May I?”
She hands it to him immediately, allowing Draco to enter his information into her contacts.
“This is my private number. Very few have it so, regardless of how this plays out, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share it with others.”
A mischievous smirk quirks the corner of her mouth.
“How much do you think I could sell it for?”
“A lot,” he answers honestly.
Then he matches her grin with one of his own.
“In that case, I suppose I should thank you for trusting me.”
“There’s no need.” He hands her phone back, suppressing the shudder that races up his spine when their fingers brush. “Thank you for humouring me.”
She shrugs her shoulders, not vocalising what they both know to be true. At the end of the day, he didn’t give her much of a choice. And yet, despite how poorly he has behaved before now, Draco does appreciate her time all the same.
“I’ll be in contact soon,” she says as she turns toward the doors.
Her hand is on the handle when she glances over her shoulder to where he’s sitting, still staring at her. Then, she flashes him that smile. The one with the dimple that renders him too stunned to speak.
“Take care of yourself, Draco.”
In his astonishment, he fails to ask what ‘soon’ means.
It can’t mean long, though, right?
He expects he’ll hear from her by the end of the week.
Except one week turns to two without a word from Hermione.
At the start of the third week, Draco is finally ready to admit defeat.
He begins to spend even more time at the gym than before, using exercise as an outlet for the grief he feels at losing someone he never really had to begin with.
It’s during one of his extended sessions that he misses her call, though the voicemail she leaves is simple enough.
“I’ll do it. Let’s meet to discuss a formal contract.”
Chapter Text
“Tell me the plan.”
“We’ve gone over it at least three times, Lav.”
“And? You’re the one who always says it’s better to be overprepared.”
Hermione huffs at that, annoyed that her best friend would use her own words against her. Still, she can’t help but feel fondness at the indisputable evidence of just how much Lavender prioritises her well-being.
Ever since her parents passed shortly before her eighteenth birthday, Hermione has struggled to find people who genuinely care about her beyond her designation. The friends she thought she had in secondary school were fair-weather, leaving her entirely alone and adrift in the early years of adulthood. Her friendship with Lavender has been her one saving grace over the past two years. And to think, it all started when the other woman approached Hermione at a coffee shop to ask if she could borrow a tampon.
“Well?” Lavender prompts.
“We can go over it in the car… If we don’t leave soon we’ll be late.”
“Who cares if he has to wait a few minutes? It’s the least he can do for all the trouble he’s put you through. I still don’t think it’s a good idea—”
“I know, I know,” Hermione says in an attempt to soothe her. “You’ve made your stance on the matter quite clear. But one week of work for him will pay our rent for a month. And there’s a clause in the contract that I can back out at any time.”
“But—” Lavender protests.
“This is what I’ve decided. Now, are you dropping me off or not?”
With a loud sigh, Lavender hooks her arm around Hermione’s elbow and together, they leave their flat. To appease her friend, Hermione reviews their plan two more times during the ride to the address Draco provided. It’s fairly straightforward, but the idle chatter and thorough rehearsal do wonders at soothing both their nerves.
In fact, Hermione hardly has any time to feel anxious at all, given how demanding Lavender is in reviewing all possible contingencies.
Yet, when they pull up to the rather posh townhome that Lavender’s phone guided them to, all of Hermione’s worries come rushing back.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Lavender says softly. “I’m sure your clients at the clinic would be happy to renew their contracts. If not, we’ll figure something out. We always do.”
At that, her friend reaches across the console and lays her hand over Hermione’s, squeezing gently in a gesture of reassurance.
“I gave him my word, Lav. I have to at least see it through for one night. If the vibes are off or he makes me feel uncomfortable—”
“I’ll kill him with my own two hands.”
A smile spreads across Hermione’s face.
“I’ll help you hide the body.”
“You’re my person,” Lavender says, leaning over to wrap her arms around Hermione’s shoulders. “I would die if anything happened to you.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Hermione teases. “He had to pass the background checks through the clinic, remember? He can’t be that bad.”
“And almost every famous serial killer has managed to fool their family, friends, neighbours… Even the police!”
“Oh, come on. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Your enthusiasm is truly astounding,” Lavender mutters.
Without another word, Hermione opens the door and climbs out, a shiver coursing through her at the cool evening breeze. Objectively, it really isn’t that cold, yet her designation and the suppressants ensure that no matter where Hermione is, she’s always a bit chilly.
Lavender exits the car, too, waiting as Hermione comes to stand alongside her. Together, they walk to the front door. Even though she protested the idea of being escorted like a child, Hermione has to admit that having Lavender with her is more comforting than she realised it would be.
And when she loses all her courage at the very last moment, it’s Lavender who reaches forward to ring the doorbell. While she may not agree with Hermione’s decision, it’s clear that she’ll support her, no matter what.
Draco answers the door immediately—as if he was lingering on the other side. Maybe he was. She can almost taste his pheromones in the air, the scent of cedarwood engulfing her like a warm hug as light spills from his home.
“Hi,” he says, drawing her attention to his face.
He’s just as devastatingly handsome as she remembered.
Maybe even more so, now that he no longer wears the sneer that marked the tense beginning of their acquaintance. His current appearance is also far preferable to the lovesick puppy eyes that later accompanied his rut and the subsequent frenzy of imbalanced hormones that it induced, even after the cycle was complete.
That’s the only plausible explanation for why he behaved in such an unhinged manner following their first session—a disruption to his typical hormonal levels.
He looks calmer now, more comfortable.
“Lavender Brown.” Her friend thrusts her hand toward him in greeting. “We’ve met before.”
Confusion flits over Draco’s face, his brows knitting together as he glances away from Hermione for just a moment.
“On the phone?” Lavender supplies. “I was your case manager at the clinic…”
“Oh, right,” Draco says. “I apologise for my poor behaviour when we last spoke.”
He sounds genuine, for what it’s worth, and his acknowledgement of how inappropriately he acted seems to go a long way in soothing Lavender. Her metaphorical hackles relax, though just by a fraction. And while she’s still visibly tense, Lavender no longer looks like she’s about to murder Draco if he so much as breathes in a way that offends her.
So, all things considered, they’re making wonderful progress.
Hermione doesn’t realise just how lost she is in her own thoughts until she hears Lavender say, “I need to do a walkthrough of the home,” as if they really are in the roles they assume at the clinic.
Mortification courses through her even though she knows Lavender is only acting in her best interest. It’s what they agreed to ahead of time, all part of the plan. Still, Hermione can’t fight the blush that crawls across her cheeks and instinctive urge to flee, to get as far away as possible from this Alpha who smells better than she ever could have imagined.
She’s not entirely sure how his scent is so strong, given the minimum blocker and suppressant doses they both agreed to in the contract. It must just be the high emotions that accompany this first attempt at their new arrangement.
Admittedly, Hermione remains preoccupied with her odd reaction to him, even as she first follows Lavender and Draco into the townhome and then trails behind them as Draco indulges her friend and assuages Lavender’s concerns. He shows the pair of women that he doesn’t have any metaphorical or literal skeletons in his closet or a weird sex dungeon hidden on the upper floor of his home. It isn’t until nearly twenty minutes later that Lavender is satisfied enough to give her approval, and, with that, the trio returns to the front door.
Lavender pulls her into a tight hug before she leaves, arms wrapped tightly around Hermione’s shoulders.
“I’ll be just outside, okay?” Lavender says softly.
“Okay,” Hermione agrees. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
With a final whispered farewell Lavender leaves.
The quiet that she leaves behind her stretches on for what feels like hours before Draco speaks.
“She’s staying?”
Hermione is still facing away from him, eyes fixed on the door through which Lavender left. However, his question is a reminder that she can’t avoid him the entire night. This is a job, just like any other. Squaring her shoulders, she turns and meets his gaze.
“She insisted. She’s very protective.”
Oddly, that elicits a small smile from Draco.
“It’s good you have a friend like that.”
“I suppose,” Hermione says, unwilling to encourage this topic of conversation any further, given its personal nature. “Now, what did you have planned for tonight?”
She can see a brief look of surprise flit across his features at her curtness, though she doesn’t know why he would be shocked. It’s clearly delineated in their agreement that while she’ll spend time with him, Hermione is under no obligation to discuss any topics with which she is not comfortable. This includes anything about her own life, which her friendship is obviously a part of.
“I’m making dinner for us. Will you keep me company in the kitchen?”
Now it’s her turn to be shocked, though she does a better job at hiding it.
It makes her uncomfortable that Draco Malfoy remains an enigma and, as such, Hermione has no idea what she should expect from him. While she wouldn’t hold his surly, pre-rut behaviour against him, it’s hard to reconcile the man who was so rude to her with the one who is asking her to go with him even though he’s paying for her companionship.
“If you’d rather, I have a fairly sizable library that you can peruse while I finish up the meal preparations.”
Her eyes narrow in suspicion, even as her heart trips into a gallop. How could he possibly know about her affinity for books? Someone as rich as he is would surely have an incredible collection, but she cannot confirm whatever Draco thinks he knows about her.
“I’ll go with you…” she says in feigned nonchalance. Then, after a brief pause, she adds, “Thank you.”
Even if she doesn’t trust him, Hermione can’t forget her manners entirely.
She knows where the kitchen is, thanks to the tour that she and Lavender were afforded. Still, Draco comes alongside her, his hand hovering mere millimetres from her lower back, so close that she can feel the heat radiating from him even though he isn’t quite touching her.
And when he leaves her by the counter while he goes to the stove, Hermione finds herself missing that warmth against her better judgment. Unfortunately, there aren’t any places to sit and after several minutes of leaning against the flat marble surface and watching him work, Hermione finds herself in need of a better vantage point.
The space was very clearly designed with him in mind, given that the cabinetry and appliances are taller than Hermione is used to. She still manages to get up onto the countertop and if Draco notices her struggling, he does a good job of pretending as if he doesn’t.
It’s much easier to observe just how concentrated he is on their dinner from her new perch. The fact that it’s more comfortable, too, is just an added bonus.
His eyebrows raise ever so slightly when he turns and sees she’s made herself at home, but, even so, Hermione thinks he looks pleased. The corner of his mouth quirks in an annoyingly attractive smirk as he crosses his arm over his chest and reclines against the counter just to the left of the stove.
They’re across the room from each other, but the intensity of his gaze is enough to fill her stomach with butterflies.
It’s not that he’s even behaving in a particularly lascivious manner… She knows what it’s like to have Alphas undress her with their eyes, to be objectified and leered at because of her designation.
And that is definitively not what’s happening with Draco.
Still, sweat beads form on her temples as he continues to watch her with those entrancing grey eyes, his smoulder melting her from the inside out.
“How was your day?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“Fine,” she answers mechanically.
“Is this how it’s going to be all night?”
“Will it be a problem if I say yes?”
He chuckles to himself at that, as if he finds her retort amusing. His mirth should feel patronising, yet, for some reason, it doesn’t. Her eyes scan his face and find no malice, only a gleam that resembles fondness in the way he looks at her.
“Are you always so contrary? Obviously, you can behave however you’d like.”
Draco stands up, and for a moment, Hermione thinks he’s going to come to her. Instead, though, he turns back to the stove.
“You only have to be here,” he continues. “That’s all the contract delineates. But I do think it would be a little more pleasant if we could at least engage in small talk.”
He has a point, as much as she hates to admit it.
“How about this?” he asks. “The weather we’ve been having lately—“
She can’t help but laugh, even as she asks, “The weather? Really?”
“Do you have a better topic in mind?”
There’s a hint of challenge in his tone, one she can’t resist.
“What are you making for dinner?”
“A few things, actually,” he says, sounding a bit sheepish. “I wasn’t sure what you like, so I prepared steak and chicken, though I also have fish in the fridge if you prefer that… I have some vegetables roasting in the oven, and the risotto is just about done.”
He gathers a bit of the rice dish on a spoon and walks over to her.
“Will you taste it?” He holds out the spoon, his other hand cupped beneath it. “Wait… Do you even like risotto?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling in spite of herself.
His anxious rambling is endearing. She knows he’s only trying to impress her in an attempt to get into her good graces, just like many Alphas before him. She has something he wants, a body that he needs.
Still, Hermione can’t help but feel a bit flattered by the lengths he went to in ensuring that the meal was one she would enjoy.
She parts her lips and watches him as he guides the spoon into her mouth, his eyes fixed on hers as he waits for her assessment. Flavours burst on her tongue as she chews slowly, savouring the way the dish is cooked perfectly.
“It’s delicious.”
“Oh,” he exhales. “Good.”
He makes his way back to the stove and bends as he checks on the tray of vegetables. Her gaze lingers on his arse for a fraction of a second, the fitted trousers stretching as he leans forward to pull the sheet pan out of the oven.
“Now that your curiosity regarding our menu has been satiated, what else would you like to discuss? Or maybe you would rather spend the meal in silence?”
There it is again, that slight provocation, veiled in amenability to her preferences.
Of course, Hermione has never been one to back down from a challenge, even though she knows he’s baiting her.
So, she asks about his favourite book.
And contrary to all her expectations, the rest of the evening is filled with good food and even better conversation on a wide range of literary topics. It seems Draco is as voracious a reader as she is and, despite her earlier trepidation in allowing him to know too much, Hermione can admit that a continuous discussion on a topic that interests her makes the scheduled hours fly by.
Before she knows it, her phone is vibrating with a text from Lavender asking if she’s ready to go. A small part of her isn’t, though that only makes it even more important that she does leave. She cannot and will not allow herself to get emotionally attached.
Once was enough to learn her lesson.
Ever the gentleman, Draco walks her to the door, where they linger for several awkward minutes, little more than half a metre apart. She has to crane her neck a bit to look up at him as her eyes travel from where his hands are stuffed awkwardly in his pockets to the sharp, handsome features of his face.
The tension between them is almost palpable, the air thick with his scent to the point where she can nearly taste him. Hermione makes a mental note to make an appointment to see her doctor tomorrow morning.
The dose of suppressants she’s currently on clearly isn’t working the way it’s supposed to, given that she’s fighting the urge to kiss him with every ounce of her self-control. And with their eyes locked on one another, Hermione is having a harder and harder time remembering why she shouldn’t just go for it. Though she doesn’t fully understand how, her vomeronasal organ has taken the reins—overriding all her previous caution in dealing with Draco.
It isn’t until a soft knock on the door is followed by a more insistent one that the trance is broken and, with a hurried good-bye, Hermione dashes out, past Lavender and toward the car.
She doesn’t mention the odd way Draco affects her to Lavender.
Regardless of how much money she might be making, there’s no way that her friend will allow her to continue the arrangement knowing the risk Hermione is taking. Although she and Lavender didn’t meet until long after what Hermione now refers to as the incident, the other woman is well aware of how incredibly devastating that period of her life was for her.
It doesn’t seem worth bringing up anyway, especially after the change in suppressant dosage proves to be an effective antidote to her problem.
Once Hermione begins the higher dose, it no longer feels like her skin is on fire every time she inhales the distinctive bouquet that she has come to associate with Draco.
At first, she thought three nights a week might be too much proximity, given her heightened reaction. However, once the suppressants work as they should, Hermione can bear to spend time with him without feeling like she wants to tear off his clothes, and hers, too. She no longer wants to climb him like a tree, to beg him to mate her and breed her and all those other drives that she comes to attribute to her vomeronasal organ.
The next two months fly by and she hardly even notices.
As always, Hermione takes her medication regimen religiously and never leaves for her evenings with Draco without triple checking that she has the auto-injectable drug intended for breakthrough heats. Despite the trepidation she may have had at the start, the arrangement she has with Draco is objectively easier work for more for less money.
And even though she didn’t want to like him or enjoy the time they spent together, Hermione has to admit that he isn’t all that bad. He never tries to pressure her for more, seeming content to feed her and pass the evening discussing books they’re reading or watching movies—always from opposite sides of his long couch.
That’s why when he asks her if she would like to attend a gala in place of one of the nights she would normally spend at his home, Hermione agrees. Though he offers to pay her an added bonus for the evening, she insists it’s not necessary. Still, he has a gown and shoes sent to her address, and when the gala finally arrives, he picks her up in a fancy sports car with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a small jewellery box in the other—just like it’s a real date.
The bracelet perfectly complements the dusty pink silk dress that he chose for her, adding the finishing touch to her look. It’s such a thoughtful gesture that Hermione can’t help but feel a bit giddy, even though she does a good job of maintaining composure and simply offering her gratitude. Still, she can almost feel her frozen heart thawing at how considerate Draco is, at how invested he has shown himself to be. A spark of hope blooms in her chest and for the first time, she allows herself to consider that he may care for her truly.
Maybe, just maybe, this can be more than a job. She’s never allowed herself to dream of what it would be like to have a mate. It wasn’t a luxury she could afford. Yet, with the way Draco looks at her as he obligingly clasps the bracelet around her wrist, it’s hard to not wonder whether it might be in the cards for them.
A soft blush blooms on his cheekbones when she smiles and when he offers his arm to her to walk her to the waiting car, her dreams of a future with Draco take root.
He’s rarely apart from her throughout the evening, other than to fetch her a drink or when she excuses herself to the bathroom. Otherwise, her hand remains securely tucked in the crook of his elbow as he talks with colleagues. Thus, it only seems natural when he guides her toward their table with his hand gently pressed to the small of her back, his skin against hers as warm as ever.
They don’t sit immediately, instead lingering by the place settings as he catches up with someone he hasn’t seen for a long while. Hermione doesn’t mind. She doesn’t even have the chance to mind with the way his hand feels as it drifts lower, almost to the top of her arse before his fingers slide along the line of her hip and waist. She barely manages to suppress a shudder when he drags his fingertips across the curve of her spine, but even so, Draco notices a shift.
He tears his gaze away from the man speaking to glance down at her, his brow arching ever so slightly in silent question: Is she okay?
Hermione merely smiles back reassuringly.
She has a job to do and she has no doubt that the gesture from Draco was not done with any malintent. Either he didn’t realise what he was doing, or he’s keeping up the pretence that they’re there as a couple.
None of his associates can know that she’s basically a hired date—his sugar baby. And no one would expect their arrangement either, given that the two of them are no more than eight years apart in age. To any onlooker, they’re just a normal couple enjoying a night out, just like they might be someday.
Maybe she’ll bring it up to Draco later, when they’re alone. Or, maybe not. He has always been respectful of her boundaries, after all. Regardless, that’s a problem for future Hermione to consider.
For now, she simply plays along and allows herself to enjoy the evening.
He’s a perfect gentleman throughout the course of the meal and when the dancing begins, she hardly has any reason to decline Draco’s request to join the swaying couples.
Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, though.
Despite the fantasies that have occupied her thoughts for the majority of the night, this proximity might be a little too much given their current surroundings.
His fingers are scorching against the bare skin of her back, and he has that look in his molten grey eyes, the one she has begun to notice more and more often. He wants to kiss her.
She knows it. And she might just let him. It’s the least of all the indecent things she wants to do to him—to do with him.
Except, just as she begins to lean closer to Draco, a painfully familiar scent invades her senses.
And it doesn’t matter that years have passed since she last saw the Alpha to whom the scent belongs, or that the love she thought she felt for the man has long since been replaced—first by hatred and then by indifference.
As the distinctive smell grows stronger, Hermione tears herself from Draco’s hold, twisting and searching through the spinning bodies for the source of that odour…
Viktor.
She can’t let him be near her, given she knows exactly how it will go.
He’ll pretend they’re old friends, like he wasn’t the one who taught her all the hard-learned lessons she now holds as absolute truths. And even though she no longer cares whether he lives or dies, she refuses to be subjected to any sort of interaction with him.
When she finally spots him in the crowd, Hermione finds that he’s already looking in her direction.
Her stomach flips as she remembers the acute pain she experienced at his hands, accompanied by the horror of realising she is headed down the same path with Draco.
Even though she’s managed to maintain boundaries in their arrangement, she’s getting too comfortable with him. She actually looks forward to their evenings together, a sure sign that she’s getting too close. It’s just a matter of time before she begins to make exceptions for him, to cross lines in all the ways she learned only lead to heartache.
Hermione doesn’t wait to see if Viktor is alone or if he is trying to approach her.
“I have to go,” she says, turning back toward Draco.
“What’s wrong?”
There’s worry etched on his face and it only serves to make her feel worse. Bile rises in her throat as she inhales a shaky breath, trying to focus on Draco’s scent and hating herself for it all the while.
He shouldn’t bring her this much comfort, and yet…
“I don’t feel well.”
“Was it the dinner?”
She twists her hands in the fabric of her dress, a nervous habit. They’re standing there in the middle of the dancefloor with hardly any space between them and for a moment, Hermione wonders if she could simply bury herself in his embrace and hide from the world.
“No…” she says with a sigh. “I don’t know… I’ll just… I’ll see you next week.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“That’s okay—”
“I insist,” Draco says.
Just like that, the discussion is over.
And without having to be asked, Draco makes their exit as urgent and hurried as Hermione wanted it to be. Within five minutes, he bids farewell to several people with little more than a curt nod, collects his and Hermione’s coats, and slides the valet an extra bill to ensure his car is brought with the utmost haste.
It isn’t until they’re on the road toward her flat that he speaks again.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” she says quietly.
A brief pause, and then, “It has to do with that other Alpha, doesn’t it?”
Oh, god.
There’s an edge to his voice and suddenly the panic that had slowly begun to abate returns with full force.
Does he think she’s breaking the terms of their contract?
Although he was lenient in many regards and more than generous in terms of the sum he paid her, the exclusivity of the arrangement was the one non-negotiable aspect of their agreement.
“He’s someone I knew a long time ago…” Hermione starts, glancing over to find Draco’s eyes fixed on the road. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him in years, and I had no desire for that to change.”
His hold on the steering wheel loosens.
“Okay.”
For a moment, Hermione thought he might be worried about her—maybe even protective of her.
Yet, it seems her initial impressions were correct. He’s merely concerned that she is upholding the parameters of what they agreed upon.
It’s a harsh reminder, but a necessary one. Hermione can’t believe that she allowed herself to dream to the point of delusion, and in that state she has willfully misinterpreted everything. The way Draco has behaved is merely a sign of his good breeding, of the etiquette lessons and manners that were instilled in him from an early age.
If not that, then it’s all simply part of keeping up appearances.
They don’t speak another word for the rest of the drive, other than when she thanks him for the ride and bids him goodnight.
And when she sees him a few days later on the next evening she is scheduled to spend with him, it’s as if the conversation never happened at all.
She goes into it with a renewed sense of professionalism, a determination to uphold the boundaries that have brought her success as a rut assistant. After all, that is still what this is, with the added time spent playing at some kind of pseudo-relationship.
None of it is real, though, and it’s imperative she remembers that.
There’s no future for her with Draco, just like there wasn’t one for her with Viktor.
Then and now, she serves little purpose in their lives beyond the relief that her designation offers during ruts. With that in mind, she builds the walls back up that she allowed herself to slowly dismantle around Draco. She stops engaging him in meaningful discourse and directs their time together to be more heavily geared towards movies and other activities that require little conversation. They exchange small talk over meals and then spend the remainder of the evenings in relative silence.
He doesn’t fight her on it, and Hermione offers no explanation.
It does make their time spent together more uncomfortable, just like he predicted that first night, but it’s for the best.
Two weeks pass by in this new routine and, stupidly, Hermione allows herself to think the worst is past. She focuses on making the arrangement between them work. It helps to remind herself that the money she’s making will allow her to save enough to support herself so she’s able to go to university and maybe even open up a little bookshop like she always dreamed of.
She pushes Viktor as far from her mind as possible, allowing herself to believe that perhaps she just imagined he was there at the gala that night.
And she mostly succeeds.
Until he shows up at her flat.
It’s the middle of the day and Lavender is at work when a knock at their door startles her from her reading. Reaching for her favourite worn bookmark, Hermione sets her book aside and goes to see who it is.
She’s still so focused on what she’s just read that she doesn’t even realise it’s Viktor on her doorstep until the door is halfway open.
“Oh,” she says, startled. “Can I help you?”
“Hermione,” he says by way of greeting. “I’ve been looking for you.”
His thick accent is just as it was, bringing back a flood of memories of all the intimate times they spent tangled with each other.
“What do you want?”
“To talk to you. Can I come in?”
“No, you can’t,” she spits out. “And I’m only going to ask once more… What do you want?”
“I’ve been looking for you,” he repeats.
“You said that already. Though... How did you find me?”
She doesn’t live at the same address as before—when they were involved. And due to her line of work, her information isn’t listed anywhere online. Though she does use her legal, given name when interacting with clients of the clinic, she has made herself a virtual ghost in online spaces.
“It was a bit difficult,” he says, chuckling to himself as if this entire situation is comical on any level. “But I haven’t rested since seeing you at the gala… I just had to see you. That man you were with… He’s a client, yes? I see you’re still not mated.”
He glances pointedly at the gland on her neck and Hermione visibly recoils, both at the absolute uncouth comment regarding her status and the discomfort of the way he’s looking at her.
“My relationship with him is none of your business,” she hisses.
Despite her venom-laced retort, Viktor takes a step closer. His hands are raised in a clear gesture that he means no harm, but it does nothing to make her feel better. Not for the first time, she wishes she had her taser.
She doesn’t think Viktor would attack her, but who’s to say?
It’s been so long since she knew him.
“I meant no offence, Hermione.”
She feels ill, ready to lose her breakfast all over his shoes at the way he purrs her name—as if he cherishes her.
“I only wanted to say that if he is just a client,” Viktor continues, “it means there’s still a chance for us, now that my wife is no longer a barrier.”
Her blood runs cold, a sense of revulsion twisting her already sensitive stomach into knots as she tries and fails to make sense of what Viktor is saying.
“What?” she asks.
“She passed away just a few months back.”
“And you decide to stalk me, so you can tell me that we can finally be together?”
“Well, yes,” he says, for the first time looking slightly abashed. “I thought that’s what you wanted… You said—”
“I said a lot of things!” she interjects. “I was young and naive! There was a lot I thought I wanted, though time has certainly given me the perspective that you still seem to be lacking.”
“I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“That should be the least of your concerns. Whatever you thought we shared, whatever connection you thought there was between us… It wasn’t real. Nothing that we did or said was real, it was all a direct consequence of your rut and the pheromones.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but a scathing look from Hermione is enough to shut him up.
“I want you to leave. Forget my address… Forget that I ever existed. I don’t ever want to see you again. Are we understood?”
A single nod is all she allows him before slamming the door shut in his face.
Her back hits the wall as she slides into a curled ball, her arms wrapped around her legs and head resting on her knees until Lavender returns later that evening.
The emotional aftermath of her conversation with Viktor takes a bigger toll on Hermione than she ever would have thought, forcing her to cancel on Draco for three nights of their scheduled nights before she feels up to seeing him again.
It isn’t until over a week after seeing Viktor that she finds herself driving to Draco’s townhome, mentally rehearsing what she’ll say to him once she gets there. She wants to give some sort of explanation—she owes him that much at least, given how understanding and supportive he’s been throughout the entire ordeal. Of course, he doesn’t know the details of what happened, just that she hasn’t been feeling well.
Still, his insistence on paying her for the week and offering to bring her food or whatever she needs is more than Hermione deserves.
“Hi,” she says when he answers the door. “Can we talk?”
Regardless of how wrong it is, the sight and smell of him instantly relaxes her. And given how rough it’s been lately, Hermione can’t help but cling to any modicum of comfort.
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes and no…” She sighs, bracing herself for the conversation that she’s about to have and all the unpleasant memories she’s going to revisit. “Can I tell you over dinner?”
He nods and opens the door fully, granting her entrance and following behind her as she makes her way to the kitchen, as is now their routine. It isn’t until they’re seated across from each other at his dining room table that she begins.
“The Alpha we saw the night of the gala… His name is Viktor. He was the first Alpha that I worked with as a rut assistant, though we didn’t call it that and it wasn’t at the clinic where I met you.”
She looks up from the food on her plate that she’s been pushing around to find him watching her, stone-faced. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking or feeling, and it only serves to fuel her anxiety. Still, she’s come too far to back out now. So, with a deep breath and a prayer for courage, she forges on.
“I was eighteen when he and I met. My parents had just died, and I was looking for ways to make money. I found a Reddit ad for an Alpha seeking an omega to assist during ruts. The pay was good enough, so I contacted him. He was married, but his wife knew of the arrangement and for all intents and purposes, it was supposed to be like the services the clinic offers…”
“But that’s not what happened.”
“No, it’s not,” she confirms. “We did only spend his ruts together, but because he wasn’t on a high dose of blockers, we saw each other every month. He said a lot of things during those times, like how he loved me and was going to leave his wife to be with me. And like a fool, I believed him. I fancied myself in love with him, too.”
There’s a sharp inhale from across the table and when Hermione looks up, the weight of his gaze is nearly suffocating. Within seconds, though, a cool mask of indifference falls across his features once more.
“I know now that my feelings were just a product of the pheromones. I don’t love him and I didn’t then either, though I can’t deny that I was very attached. That’s why it was so crushing when I asked him to meet me outside of his rut and he said no. I tried again. I told him that I wanted to talk about us—our future. He said that there was no future for us. Regardless of how he felt about me, he was never going to leave his wife. His duty was to her.”
“That’s why you have so many rules now.”
“Yes,” she says, a sad smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “To protect myself.”
“I understand,” he says in a stilted tone.
Hermione still can’t get a good read on how he’s feeling and though the conversation feels rather strained, she isn’t sure if it’s because the topic makes him uncomfortable or he’s just trying to make an effort to act as though he cares.
“Is there a reason you’re telling me this all now?”
“Viktor came by last week, it’s why I wasn’t able to keep our… appointments.”
His eyes narrow.
“I thought you weren’t in contact with him anymore.”
“I’m not! He, erm, saw me at the gala and found me.”
At that, Draco slams his hands against the table, causing the silverware to rattle and Hermione to start.
“He what ?”
“We didn’t do anything—”
“I’m not worried about that,” Draco interjects. “I’m concerned about your safety! If any Alpha can just track you down and show up at your flat—”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, trying to assuage him. “Viktor may be persistent, but he’s harmless. Kind of like someone else I know.”
She arches her brow and flashes him a confident smirk, despite how she feels, hoping he remembers just how tenacious he was in making sure he talked to her.
“I would never look up your address and violate your privacy,” Draco mutters under his breath. “Only a bloody creep would do that, unannounced and unsolicited.”
“Regardless, it’s fine. He showed up to make a love confession of sorts, and I asked him never to contact me again. I just… I don’t know. I wanted to clear the air between us. You’ve been more than generous and fair as an employer and while I still think all the boundaries we discussed at the start are important, I figured I owed you.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Hermione. Whatever you’re willing to give me, I’ll happily accept, but don’t ever feel as though you have to do something you don’t want to do, just for my benefit. While I appreciate the clarification, I don’t ever want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“I don’t,” she says. “Never when I’m around you.”
Hermione watches the smile that statement elicits from Draco, and now that she’s paying attention, she can see him visibly loosen.
They leave it at that, finishing their meal in easy silence. Afterwards, Hermione asks him to show her the library for the first time, and that’s where they spend the rest of the night.
Over the next month, there’s a shift in their relationship to a friendship of sorts.
It seems that finally being open with Draco about her past permitted a newfound trust and sense of camaraderie to blossom. And while there is a voice in the back of her mind that still screams danger, Hermione allows the change to happen naturally.
She tells herself that it’s okay to be friends with someone she works with… After all, Lavender spent nearly a year as the case manager to whom Hermione was assigned, during which time they maintained a healthy friendship and lived as flatmates.
Hermione doesn’t see why it would be any different with Draco, aside from their designations, of course. Yet, with the suppressants and blockers, they’re more than protected and there are still several months until his next rut.
With this rationale in mind, she allows herself to now accept the jumpers he offers when they’re watching a movie and she gets cold. Before she realises what’s happening, she’s amassed a collection of his clothing in her own closet, to the point that he no longer has any jumpers left. Though it wasn’t like he had many to start with given that Alphas nearly always run hot and have little need for warm, heavy clothing to keep them comfortable during the cold months of the year.
After that, he ensures there’s always a blanket available for her.
Hermione isn’t quite sure how they progress to sitting alongside the couch, arms touching and thighs pressed to one another. Maybe it’s that one evening he makes a snarky remark about how body heat is the best way to stay warm and Hermione, as defiant and willful as ever, cannot allow his goading to go unanswered.
Of course, it only leads to her downfall.
She sits down next to him out of spite, only to discover that Draco is, unfortunately, correct. It is much warmer sitting close to him on the couch... He’s practically like her own personal space heater. Thus, from that point on, she has no choice but to continue doing so.
The change does little to concern her, though.
It’s not as if friends cannot sit alongside one another.
In fact, friends sometimes even lay their heads in one another’s lap, as Hermione does with Draco when she wants to stretch out. The physical contact is innocent enough, and when he doesn’t protest, she continues to do it. The warmth that he emits is intoxicating and like a moth to a flame, Hermione can’t help but seek it out.
He soon follows suit and starts to lay behind her, their bodies nearly slotting together. Hermione tells herself it’s fine. After all, friends cuddle all the time and his couch is deep enough that they can situate themselves side by side without being pressed to one another.
Besides, Draco always maintains the boundaries she set forth. With his head propped on his hand and his other arm at his side, he still doesn’t touch her.
Not until she asks him to, that is.
The night that it all falls apart starts like any other.
After a delicious pasta dinner, one that he makes often after Hermione mentions it’s her favourite, they retire to the living room for a movie. There’s a new one out that she wants to see and, of course, Draco agrees. The meal makes her a bit sleepy, so she suggests they spread out, as they’ve done many times.
Unfortunately, she won’t realise until later what a mistake that is. Though in all fairness, it’s the second of two mistakes. Her first mistake is failing to do enough research on the movie.
As it turns out, the particular film she chose contains a rather graphic sex scene.
On the television screen, two women are tangled together as all the pent up tension that has built between them over the course of the movie finally releases. The women cling to each other, kissing in such a way that tangibly conveys their desperation and want. One woman pulls the other onto the bed, lips teasing as she mouths a trail from neck to chest to stomach to hips and beyond. It’s clear the darker haired woman has experience. She’s the one driving the entire interaction as she buries her face between the brunette woman’s thighs and begins to devour her.
At that, Hermione starts to feel a familiar ache building. And, as is only natural when one experiences arousal, she rubs her own thighs together. While she tries to be as inconspicuous as possible, Draco notices because, of course, he does.
Mortification wells in her chest when he clears his throat. Her face blushes a furious red, sweat beading on her temples as her mind races at all the things he might say at catching her.
Except, when he finally does speak, it’s none of what she imagined.
“Let me help you,” Draco murmurs.
His warm breath tickles her neck and shoulder as goosebumps ripple across her skin.
And, even though she knows how wrong it is—how it goes against absolutely everything she stands for—Hermione so desperately wants to take him up on his offer. There is no doubt that if she ignores him, Draco will simply allow the moment to pass. Never once in their interactions has he ever pressured her physically or sexually.
In fact, any increase in the level of contact between them has always been initiated by Hermione. She was the one who chose to reveal more about herself, who began stealing his jumpers and later, his warmth.
She shouldn’t acknowledge him.
She should pretend that she didn’t hear him.
Every logical part of her brain tells her so.
Yet, once again, her vomeronasal organ takes control.
Hermione turns her head to look at him, lip pulled between her teeth as she assesses his countenance. He could merely be teasing her, after all, and she might just die of embarrassment if she agrees only to find out he was joking.
The heat in his gaze is unmistakable, though. It’s enough to warm her to her core as she watches him watch her, his desire so palpable that it takes her breath away. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and his eyes drift to her mouth.
That’s the precise moment she abandons all reason and nods, a silent answer to his offer to help.
“Can I touch you?” he asks.
Hermione nods again, just a single dip of her chin.
It isn’t until Draco shifts that Hermione registers how close they already are. All it takes is a slight change in his position and his chest is against her back so that she has to crane her neck to look at him.
His hand hovers just over her hip.
“Show me where you need me.”
Wrapping her fingers around his, Hermione guides his hand to her chest until he’s palming her breast. A low whimper catches in her throat when he squeezes experimentally, his fingers digging into the sensitive flesh.
“God,” he says. “You’re so beautiful.”
“More,” she manages to choke out.
“More? Like this?”
Draco pinches her nipple, slowly rolling the pert bud between his thumb and finger until she moans. It’s a quiet little noise, but all the encouragement he needs.
“Can I touch you here?”
He traces down the ladder of her ribs.
All she can do is nod her head.
“And how about here?” he asks.
His fingers tighten around her hip, dragging her more firmly against him. And though she can’t imagine that his erection would have appeared just like that, it’s the first time she truly understands just how aroused he is, too. It should scare her—they’re moving so quickly and she wants him so badly. And yet, despite the shrinking rational part of her brain that screams at her to stop, Hermione grinds her arse against him.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve dreamed about you, just like this.”
Hearing his confession emboldens her even more—to the point that Hermione takes his hand and presses it to the apex of her thighs. There are several layers separating skin from skin, but his touch still feels better than anything she’s ever experienced. His fingers move in slow, measured strokes, gauging her reactions as she squirms in his hold, even as he continues to murmur praises in her ear.
It’s all Hermione can do to not instantly fall to pieces.
Yet, beyond the familiar tension that signals her impending orgasm, there’s also a fire rippling beneath her skin and with every slide of his fingers against her clitoris, the flame builds.
It all feels so dangerous, so forbidden.
Hermione is helpless to the high that he brings.
A heady bouquet of orange, ginger, cedarwood, and bergamot fills the air and the effect is absolutely intoxicating. Her mind feels fuzzy as she barrels closer to the edge, all the sensations in her body focused solely on the places he’s touching her.
The walls of her cunt begin to pulse around nothing, ecstasy imminent.
Then, his lips brush against her neck, just above her mating gland.
And just like that, reality crashes over her like a bucket of ice-cold water.
She leaps from the couch as if electrified, only glancing back for a moment to catch a glimpse of Draco—a rosy flush colours his cheeks and his hair is dishevelled. Of course, she doesn’t look long enough to notice his erection, surely thick and visible even in the joggers he’s wearing.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” she says.
Before he can respond, she flees.
The drive to her flat happens in a blur and the following day, she doesn’t remember any of it. In fact, she doesn’t have time to process the events of that night at all.
When she wakes up the next morning, she feels more ill than she’s ever felt in her entire life, as though she has some super version of the common flu. Her muscles ache and even the smallest movement takes significant effort as a profound fatigue settles into her bones. Even though she wraps herself in one of his jumpers, chills still wrack through her body. So she burrows into a mountain of anything warm she can find—including several of his sweaters as well as multiple blankets.
She’s still cold, even though her skin is feverish to the touch and her body coated with a thin sheen of sweat.
If Lavender were in town, it would be an easy fix. Her friend could drive her to the doctor, Hermione could get a prescription, and a few days later, she would be right as rain. Alas, Lavender is woefully out of the country with her mother, leaving Hermione to her own devices.
It’s fine, though.
At least, that’s what Hermione tells herself during the first four days.
She manages to drink sips of water to stave off dehydration, and there’s enough food in the flat that she can feed herself. Yet, when the fourth day rolls around and her symptoms haven’t improved, Hermione does start to worry.
Rather than feeling better, like expected for the course of the illness, she feels worse. She would call Lavender, except that her phone died and she can’t find the charger. Even looking for the blasted thing requires more energy than she could possibly muster.
So Hermione buries further into her cocoon and drifts in and out of sleep, hoping that, with rest, her body will recuperate.
She isn’t sure how many days have passed when a distant pounding disturbs her slumber. She thinks it’s a dream, at first, except it becomes louder somehow—even more frantic. That’s when her sluggish brain wakes up enough to remember who she is and where she is. And with that, Hermione feels the cold shock of panic course through her.
What if something has happened to Lavender, and Hermione is being notified?
It takes some effort to get herself dressed, even if it’s little more than to slide some leggings on beneath the oversized jumper. She still wraps herself in two blankets before making the slow progression to the door, though even when she arrives she doesn’t immediately open it.
Hermione learned her lesson with Viktor and even in her current state, she won’t make the same mistake twice.
“Who is it?” she calls out through the door.
There’s a pause and for a moment, she worries Viktor might have actually returned and she’ll be forced to call the police. She isn’t going to waste any time with him this time around, she simply cannot be bothered.
Then, a familiar voice calls out.
“It’s Draco.”
Turning the deadbolt, Hermione leaves the chain in place as she opens the door a fraction. He looks a complete wreck, though she isn’t exactly one to judge.
“What do you want?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”
“Lavender called me… She hasn’t heard from you in nearly a week and she was nervous. She didn’t realise we were done and I didn’t think it was my place to tell her.”
“She’s been gone on a trip,” Hermione says with a heavy sigh. “How did she even get your number?”
“I think she found it through my file, which I’m not sure is entirely ethical or legal. Given the situation though, it was probably warranted.”
A small noise of acknowledgement escapes her, and it’s the best she can do. The exertion is starting to wear on her and she can already feel herself swaying on her feet.
“Will you open the door? I won’t hurt you.”
“I know you won’t.”
And she does.
It hurts to raise her arm to unlatch the chain lock, but Hermione manages. Still, she clings to the doorknob for support, her eyes drifting shut as she focuses all her energy on remaining upright.
“Hermione?”
She tries to focus on his voice, but it’s like he’s talking to her through a thick layer of glass.
“Hermione!”
Strong arms wrap around her waist as she stumbles forward, her fall broken by a solid wall of muscle. She can’t help but bury her face in his chest, his scent washing over her and providing more relief than she’s felt in days.
“How long have you been sick?” Draco asks.
“I dunno,” she mumbles. “Since I left your house.”
“That long? Fuck, Hermione, why didn’t you call?”
“I’m not your responsibility.”
“Because you keep pushing me away!”
She doesn’t realise she’s crying until his thumbs brush across her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just worried. Lavender is worried, too. Let me come in. You can call her and I’ll make you something to eat.”
“M’fine on my own,” she protests.
“No, you clearly aren’t.”
“My phone is dead.”
“You can use mine. Please, Hermione. Let me do this. Or let me take you to the hospital.”
“No hospital,” she says, shaking her head with so much force that the world begins to spin again. “I don’t do hospitals.”
That much she knows, even now. She hasn’t stepped foot in an actual hospital since her parents died, and that isn't going to change now just because she’s feeling under the weather.
“Fine,” he agrees. “Can I come in?”
“Will you leave if I say no?” she retorts with as much ire as she can muster.
“There’s my girl,” he says, smiling for the first time since he arrived. “But, no. I won’t.”
“Then come in, I guess.”
At that, Draco walks with her into the flat, though he’s more so carrying her, to be completely honest. He only lets her go when they’re a few steps from her room, handing her his phone before he turns back to the kitchen.
With her arm braced against the wall, Hermione manages to make it back to her room independently, though, by the time she arrives, she’s drenched in sweat. Tossing the blanket around her onto the pile already on her bed, she considers stripping off his jumper, too.
And as the sounds of him puttering about the kitchen filter to her, she decides on it. The discarded sweater joins the heap, replaced by a large shirt. Even if a sports bra would be the best option in helping her cool off, Hermione doesn’t think she can bear the way it would feel against her skin, which has become increasingly sensitive to the touch.
Her leggings are soaking, too, but there really isn’t much to be done about that. Crawling back onto her bed, she grabs Draco’s phone. Oddly, it’s not passcode protected, though it makes sense once she realises it isn’t his personal device. The factory settings are still set, making it easy for her to navigate to the phone app and dial Lavender’s number from memory.
The start of the call with her friend is easy enough as Hermione assures Lavender that she’ll be fine, that Lavender doesn’t need to return early from her trip, and she will charge her phone and check in with Lavender the following day. The odd part is when Lavender asks Hermione about her symptoms.
Silence fills the line after Hermione describes how she’s been feeling, after which Lavender asks if she’s been taking her suppressants regularly.
Of course, she has.
Even during illness, Hermione knows nothing is as imperative as maintaining her medication regimen. That seems to assuage Lavender, who ends the call by telling Hermione that she loves her, just like they always do. Hermione returns the sentiment, promising to take care of herself and reassuring her friend that she really is okay.
As soon as she ends the call, however, Hermione slumps back onto the bed, her energy completely drained. She isn’t even sure how much time passes before Draco’s voice rouses her out of the semi-conscious state that she seems to exist in now.
When she opens her eyes, there are two of him standing in front of her—then three. She blinks rapidly to clear her vision before trying again, relieved to find only one Draco before her.
Except, the expression on his face does little to help her feel better.
She can’t tell if he looks pained or disgusted, but the effect is the same.
A sharp pain blooms in her chest at the awareness that he likely feels revulsion at seeing her at her most vulnerable.
Only a misplaced sense of duty must be keeping him here now, and Hermione feels like she might throw up at the thought.
“You can go now,” she says, shrinking into a small ball on her bed in hopes that the pile of fabrics she has amassed might swallow her whole. “Thank you for your help, but I’ll be okay.”
“Are those my jumpers?”
Bugger.
Shame courses through her as she realises that her mountain, which has offered so much comfort to her during these past few days, is partially composed of his clothing.
“Hermione… Did you make a nest?”
That catches her attention, her head whipping as she looks at him.
“A nest? Are you insane? Only omegas in heat make nests.”
She hates the way his brows furrow in pity, his eyes flickering across her face as if he’s trying to decipher whether she’s serious or not, which, of course, she is.
“I’m not in heat,” she says in a weak attempt to convince both him and herself. “I take my suppressants regularly. It’s just a bad flu. I’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Hermione—”
“No, don’t!”
“I’m just trying to help—”
“I don’t care! I’m not a charity case for you to—”
“I don’t see you that way,” he protests.
“Then why are you still here?”
“I’m scared, Hermione. You need to go to the hospital. On the off chance that you are in heat, they’ll be able to help you.”
“I don’t want their help.”
Goddammit, she’s crying again.
“You need to be seen, Hermione. Your scent, it’s—”
“Terrible, I know. You said as much when we first met.”
A pained look crosses his face.
“I was an arsehole that day. I’m so sorry. You have to know I don’t actually think that.”
She does, of course. He wouldn’t continue to want to spend time with her if he actually found her to be repulsive.
Half a minute passes in silence as her foggy mind struggles to make sense of what’s happening, of the reality of the situation.
While it’s extremely rare, there have been recorded cases of breakthrough heats for omegas on suppressants.
These omegas can still end up in a heat cycle if…
Well, it only happens if they are in close proximity to their true mate.
Her thoughts are interrupted when Draco slides a tray onto her lap.
“You need to eat. Regardless of what you’re sick with, you need your strength.”
She takes a small spoon of the soup he prepared before nibbling on one a cracker. It does help her feel slightly better, though not as good as the glass of water that she gulps down.
“I’m going into heat,” she finally admits.
It hurts to say it aloud, but no good will come from continued denial.
“I can take you to the hospital,” Draco offers.
Hermione merely shakes her head.
It probably would be the best option and maybe she’ll still end up there, but she doesn’t want to. Not if another alternative is available.
“Do you have any Alpha friends you can call? For this type of situation? I know your phone is dead but there must be some way to get ahold of your… Well, friends?”
She shakes her head again, gaze dropping to her lap. She has never felt more pathetic in her entire life, but the reality of it is that beyond Lavender and Draco, Hermione really doesn’t have many others in her life.
And one of those two people is practically her employer, who clearly isn’t in any rush to help her himself.
Still, he’s the only person she can even ask.
Even if Lavender was here, it’s not as if she could do much. She’s not an Alpha. All she could do is drive Hermione to the hospital, just like Draco already offered to. Maybe she should just go with that.
It’s the safest option, at least where her heart is concerned.
Even if he does agree, it might only be out of obligation.
“We really do need to get you help, Hermione. It’s not safe for you to go through it alone and I obviously can’t stay.”
Well, there it is.
The answer to her question.
“Why not?” she asks, her voice small as her eyes well with tears again.
Even though she already assumed as much, it still stings to hear him actually say it. The implied rejection is more than she can bear and with a strangled sob, she begins to cry.
Silence falls between them except for her sniffles, though it isn’t until minutes pass that Hermione realises he has yet to say anything.
“You should go,” she says finally.
“What? I’m trying to help you—“
“I don’t need your help. Not like that. You don’t—” she says before pausing to inhale a shaky breath. “You don’t want me. So, just go. I’ll call emergency medical services.”
Pressure builds in her chest and fresh tears run down her cheeks, but she’ll be fine. She’s overcome despair before, though it may not have been at the hands of her mate. Regardless, whoever Draco might be to her doesn’t matter. She’ll persevere, just like she always does.
“Why would you think I don’t want you?” he asks quietly.
At that, Hermione glances up.
Draco is looking at her with such an intensity it’s a wonder she doesn’t melt into a puddle.
“Why else wouldn’t you want to stay?”
“I can’t just keep an eye on you while you’re in heat… You must know that. I’m flattered you think my self-control is that strong but… Well, your pheromones will be stronger. And I won’t take advantage of you like that.”
She blinks at him owlishly, struggling to figure out just what he’s trying to say.
“Look,” he says, sighing and combing his fingers through his hair. “If I could stay and just ensure that you’re eating and drinking enough to not die, I would in a heartbeat. I would go get you the best knotting toys that are available and ensure your kitchen is fully stocked. But that won’t be enough… I’m going to want to fuck you.”
“I want that, too.”
“And beyond that—“ He pauses as if what she said has finally registered. “Wait. What?”
“I want you to help me through my heat,” she repeats.
“You can’t possibly mean that. It’s just your omega talking.”
“I do mean it. My vomeronasal organ might play a role but I think, well… I think you might be the reason for it. The heat, that is.”
He opens his mouth to protest but shuts it promptly when Hermione raises her hand in a motion for him to hear her out.
“I’m not saying it’s your fault, per se, just that our biology…” She pauses for a moment, struggling to find the right words to explain what she’s thinking in a way that will be palatable to him. “How compatible we are as an Alpha and omega… That could be why.”
It’s the only plausible explanation, really, given how careful she is about her suppressants. She doesn’t say that part aloud, though. For some reason, she suspects that Draco isn’t the type to believe in true mates.
“We’re more than our compatibility. I want this to be your choice.”
“I am choosing you, Draco.”
At that moment, Hermione has never been so sure in her entire life. Beyond all that he’s already done for her in the past half hour or so, Draco has proven himself to be everything she ever wanted. In the months since their arrangement began, he has taken better care of her than their contract dictated. From making sure to cook meals she enjoys to always respecting her physical boundaries, he has shown her time and time again how much he values her as a person and an omega. Through it all, her heart tried to hope, but her mind was her own worst enemy as it constantly looked for reasons not to trust in his integrity.
“But only if you want to,” she adds. “Otherwise, I probably should go to the hospital.”
As if to confirm this, a wave of nausea washes over her, almost distracting Hermione from what Draco says next as a genuine smile spreads across his face.
“Of course, I want to, you silly omega. I’m bloody in love with you.”
It’s her turn to be shocked.
“I’m sorry, you’re what ?”
He sits on the bed then, setting her tray of half-eaten food aside and taking her hands in his.
“I’m in love with you, Hermione. I’ve been bewitched ever since we first met…” he says, looking at her with such a profound sense of adoration that both takes her breath away and raises her already painfully high arousal. “I know it may be hard to believe considering how atrociously I behaved, but I truly was smitten even then.” He smiles and brings her fingers to his mouth to press a gentle, tentative kiss. “After all this time, quite possibly the best bloody months of my life, I think it’s safe to say I’m rather enamoured.”
“Are you— Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything. It’s okay if you don’t love me back, or if you’re not ready to say it. I just want you to know that I want to be here for you, even if it’s just as a heat assistant. Do they have those?”
She nods as laughter escapes her.
“Well, then, I’ll be that for you. I’ll be whatever you need me to be, at whatever pace makes you most comfortable.
“I love you, too,” she confesses.
Even if she refused to acknowledge it before, she knows it to be true. There’s no way her body would react so severely to his pheromones if there wasn’t a connection between them, if her heart and soul weren’t wholly his.
And though he was an absolute wanker when they first met, Draco has proven himself time and time again.
His smile grows as he leans toward her.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
“Please,” she whispers.
A low whimper escapes her the moment their lips meet. For all intents and purposes, the kiss is rather chaste, merely his mouth moulding to hers. There’s no tongue, no teeth. Yet, it’s all it takes to push her over the brink as the fire crawling beneath her skin is lit into a full flame—her heat growing ever closer.
Falling back onto the mattress, Hermione pulls Draco with her until he’s hovering above her. As she buries her hands in his hair and wraps her legs around his waist, she deepens the kiss, her tongue brushing hesitantly across the seam of his lips. When he groans at the contact, she takes the opportunity to taste him.
And while she wishes they could continue kissing, her body needs more.
“Fuck me,” she begs, lips brushing against his with each word.
“Do you have a collar and armband here? Like the ones you wore at the clinic?”
“No, I—” She gasps as he licks the column of her throat. “I’ve never had this happen before.”
At that, he pulls away and Hermione has to swallow a whine of discontent at the separation.
“This is your first heat? Ever?”
“Yes,” she admits. Then, “Please… I need you.”
“I know, Sweetheart. I just don’t want to risk biting you.”
“It’s okay. We’ll be okay. A mating bond won’t take unless you’re in rut, too.”
“But—”
“I trust you, Draco.”
It’s all the reassurance he needs.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
Before she can respond, he’s licking and kissing and sucking on her neck once more and Hermione is left with no choice but to simply surrender to the overwhelming sensations. She can feel the slick leaking from her cunt as she becomes more and more aroused, her leggings growing saturated with her arousal.
Draco kisses a trail down to her collarbone, tugging her shirt to the side to access more of her skin before continuing his descent. His nose brushes over her nipples, already pert and sensitive. He doesn’t linger long, though, as he mouths at her stomach, her pelvis, and then…
“Look at you,” he says reverently. “You’re so wet. Is this all for me?”
He looks up at her from his place between her legs, thighs on either side of his face.
“All for you… Only for you.”
“You’re bloody perfect.”
Fuck, his praise does things to her.
He drags his lips over the gland tucked away on her thigh before licking a long stripe over her cunt. And even though the thin fabric of her leggings separate his mouth from her skin, it’s enough to send her over the edge.
With that, her heat truly begins.
It’s like nothing Hermione has ever felt before.
Every nerve in her body feels like it’s on fire. She thinks she might burn from the inside out until there’s nothing left of her, unless…
Another surge of slick spills from her and Draco must be able to smell the difference. When Hermione glances down, his pupils are blown wide, dark with need and desire.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Please,” she cries out.
With a low growl, he grabs at the seam of her leggings and tears the garment in two. And just like that, his face is buried in her cunt. His nose bumps against her clitoris as Draco plunges his tongue into her, groaning as she coats him with even more slick.
“You taste so damn good,” he says, his voice muffled against her skin. “My beautiful, perfect omega. I’m going to take such good care of you.”
“I need your cock,” she pleads. “I want you to knot me.”
His lips close around her clitoris, causing waves of pleasure to crash over her as he sucks on the sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I might die if you don’t knot me.”
“That’s not true, Sweetheart.” With one final lick to her cunt, he crawls back up her body to kiss her again. “But I do love to hear you say it. Would you like my knot?”
“How many times do I have to ask?” she says, pouting.
“I would like to hear it again. I’ve waited so long for you to want me.”
She sighs, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him to her until their noses touch.
“I want your knot. I want you to fill me with your cock. Fuck me till I don’t remember my name.”
A low, guttural, primal sound escapes him.
“How are you even real? You’re a dream come true.”
Unable to wait any longer, Hermione peels her leggings off and tosses them to the side. She doesn’t bother with her shirt. Instead, she grips his cock through his trousers and rubs him in several long strokes. When he groans, she grows braver and undoes his button before tugging down his zipper and tucking her hand into his briefs.
Fuck, she almost forgot how big his cock is, but now that it weighs heavy against her palm, all the vivid details of helping him through his rut come rushing back. She had to use two hands to encircle him entirely and that was before he knotted.
Oh, god.
His knot.
“What’s wrong, love?”
He must sense her anxiety. Maybe he can even taste it in her pheromones as he laps at the gland her neck in a way that makes her ache with need.
“What if it won’t fit? What if… What if I can’t take you fully ?”
Panic washes over as her mind begins to catastrophise.
If he isn’t able to knot her, then he has no use for her. He might think he loves her now, but what good is an omega who can’t be bred? Of course, they could still seal the mating bond, but she would only be sentencing him to a life of unfulfillment. And even if he says he’s okay with it, eventually he’ll resent her—
“Hermione.”
His deep voice breaks through her racing thoughts.
“Look at me,” he commands.
Her eyes are drawn to him immediately.
“You need to relax. I know you’re scared but trust me.”
He kisses her neck then, gently pressing his teeth into the sensitive skin of her gland. A jolt of pleasure shoots up her spine.
“It will fit,” he continues. “I’m going to fuck you, and then I’m going to knot you. And you’re going to take it, because you’re made for me. Just like I’m made for you.”
“Alpha,” she whimpers.
“I’ll take good care of you, my precious omega.”
“Please… I need you.”
Weight braced on one arm, Draco pushes his trousers down past his arse and takes his length in hand. His face is pressed to her neck when he lines his cock to her cunt, the head of it hot against her folds as he begins to push inside her. He takes his time, gauging her reactions as her walls mould around him, already fluttering at just the feel of being filled by him.
It’s more incredible than any sensation she could ever dream of.
“You have the most incredible cunt,” he groans. “I almost thought my memories of it were too good to be true. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”
Hermione makes some incoherent response, her brain and tongue clearly experiencing a disconnect as words fail her. Instead of a proper verbal response, she twines her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and drags his face to hers to kiss him.
Their tongues are tangled together when he bottoms out. It isn’t until he pulls away, breaking the kiss to look down toward where their bodies are joined that Hermione even registers how deep he is inside her—how full she is of Draco. When she glances down, she sees a bulge on her stomach where the head of his cock rests just below the surface of her skin. It seems Draco is looking at the same point, given how he reverently runs his hand across it before looking back at her.
“You’re such a good girl,” he says softly. “Look how well you take me.”
“I need…” She gasps as he shifts, somehow pushing himself even more deeply into her, more so than she thought was even possible. “I need you to move.”
“I’ll fuck you like you deserve to be fucked. Would you like that, baby?”
“God, yes.”
He begins to thrust at a languid pace, pulling out until just the tip remains inside her before sliding into her fully again. The lewd sound of his hips slapping against her slick skin fills the room, though Hermione hardly pays it any mind. She’s too focused on how it feels to finally be joined with him.
His mouth is hot against hers as their tongues brush against one another. The weight of him pressing her into the mattress is delicious, everything she could have ever wanted. She feels safe—protected. It’s hard to tell where she ends and he begins. Even so, she wraps her legs around him more tightly, squeezing his hips with her thighs as she digs her heels into his arse and tugs him more firmly against her.
His pelvis is pressed directly to her clitoris at this angle and when he grinds against her, it’s the final push that she needs.
She comes with a moan, though maybe it’s more of a wail.
It’s hard to tell when ecstasy is coursing through her, simultaneously fueling and relieving the fire that already races through her veins.
When Draco bends his neck to suck on her scent gland, it only intensifies the orgasm. His sole focus is on her as she falls to pieces in his arms. Only when the waves of her orgasm begin to abate does he pull away, looking down at her with eyes so dark that the ring of his grey irises is barely visible.
“Can I knot you?”
The same insecurities from before come rushing back as her eyes grow wide. He’s so large already… He can’t possibly grow even more, can he? Of course, he can. She’s seen just how big his knot is. And as much as she wants it, she just isn’t sure she can take it.
“It’s not going to fit.”
“Yes, it will, love. Do you still want it?”
When she nods, he takes both of her hands in one of his and holds them above her head. Then, leaning in close, he kisses her gently, capturing her lips before brushing his tongue against hers.
“Focus on me,” he murmurs.
And she does.
Admittedly, the stretch as the base of his cock swells is a little uncomfortable, but, just like Draco promised, she can take it. His knot locks them together, and in doing so, triggers another orgasm. Hermione can feel the warm ropes of seed hit her cervix as her cunt clenches down around him, waves of pleasure washing over her.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re absolutely incredible.”
She cries out, head thrown back as she bares her neck to him. It’s an instinctive gesture but maybe, just maybe, she wants him to bite her. No, Hermione knows she does. Her gland is aching, desperate for his touch. Rather than ask, though, she bites her tongue.
There’s no way she can ask, no way she’ll allow herself to.
Yet, despite this awareness, she still feels an incredible urge to utter it.
Instead, she says, “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Sweetheart. You’re mine. My darling, perfect omega.”
“I’m yours,” she agrees.
At that moment, Hermione would gladly abandon every single one of her feminist ideals if it means Draco calling him hers again. Somehow, though, what he says next is even better.
“I’m going to take care of you. No one will ever hurt you. You won’t ever want for anything. For as long as you’ll have me, for as long as you’ll let me, you’re mine to cherish.”
He seals the promise with a kiss.
And over the next seven days, he makes good on that promise.
At some point during the first twenty-four hours, they lose their clothes.
They remain naked for the duration of the week.
Draco tends to her every need throughout her heat, from ensuring that she takes breaks to rest and refuel to making certain that she’s never alone for long. It only took one time of waking up by herself and immediately panicking to teach him that lesson.
Later, Hermione can only imagine how difficult it must have been to have a needy omega clinging to him while he tried to make food for them, or the awkwardness of having to swath her in a blanket coated with his scent while he used the restroom.
After the heat, she offers thanks to every deity in the universe that Lavender remained away for the duration of her cycle.
While it’s happening, though, all she can do is act based on instinct.
She has no idea how to behave and very little sense of what’s proper. Her vomeronasal organ—her omega—is entirely in control, guiding every action and nearly every utterance.
It’s the only explanation for why, on the seventh and final day of her heat, Hermione does the very thing she tried to avoid.
Although she can feel the cycle nearing its end, she still needs Draco just as desperately as she did the first day. And so, with her weight resting on her elbows and her arse high in the air, she cries out for more as Draco pounds into her. She relishes the way his fingers dig into her hips and thighs in a way that will almost certainly leave bruises. Just the idea of his marks on her is enough to push her closer to her peak.
Maybe it’s the thought of marks that causes it.
Or it might be that the instincts she suppressed for so long have finally come to the surface.
Regardless, the end result is the same.
“Mate me, Alpha,” she pleads, her voice weak.
“Hermione—”
She doesn’t like his tone.
“Please, please, please.”
Draco drapes himself over her frame as he rests his weight on his forearms and continues to slam into her again and again. His skin sticks to hers in a way that should be disgusting. Hermione merely revels in their closeness.
“I want to bite you,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against her ear. “I want you to be mine forever. There’s nothing I want more.”
“Then why won’t you?”
“You know why.”
She does know why. She knows that she knows. She just can’t remember. It doesn’t help that Draco is hitting that sensitive spot within her every time he thrusts, or that he’s lapping at her scent gland again.
“Tell me why. Then I’ll give you my knot.”
Her cunt squeezes around him.
Why does she like that so much?
She doesn’t realise that she’s gotten distracted until he speaks again.
“Be good for me, Sweetheart. Tell me why.”
“You’re not in a rut.”
“That’s part of it,” he agrees breathlessly. “The other part is that I won’t mate you until we talk about it outside of your heat. And we will talk about it. Now, be a good girl for me and come.”
She remembers nothing of what happens after that other than the sheer euphoria that washes over her, followed by the most peaceful rest she has had in years.
When she wakes up, a heavy arm is slung across her waist.
She turns in his hold to find him already alert, watching her with a tentative look on his face.
“Hi,” she says, smiling up at him.
“How are you feeling?”
Hermione rolls her neck and stretches her arms above her head.
“Honestly? I feel… fantastic. Better than ever.”
“That’s good,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “So, what’s next?”
“Next?” she asks, perplexed. “Next for what?”
“For us.”
Oh.
The worry etched almost imperceptibly on his face is because of her. Draco is worried that she’s going to get cold feet—that she’s going to run. Honestly, he might even think that all she professed, from want to love to need, was just a consequence of her heat.
Both assumptions are fair, all things considered.
Still, Hermione has absolutely no intent on leaving. And while her pheromones certainly did influence her behavior by fueling her disinhibition, she meant every single word she said.
“Hmm. I was thinking of a long hot shower,” she says after a pause, “and if you’d like to join me, I’ll even scrub your back for you. After that, I think a hearty breakfast is in order. I’m absolutely famished.” She smiles up at him then. “I know we have a lot to talk about, but… As for what’s next for us? I was thinking about forever.”
At that, he grins so broadly that she can just make out a tiny dimple in his cheek and it fills her heart with so much joy.
“Forever, then.”
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