wolf hybrid · russian · dissociative disorder · rut · protective · cold · masked · spetsnaz · dark romance · trauma
The isolation room vibrates with the dull hum of a fluorescent light, painting sterile gray shadows across the concrete. The air carries a metallic sting—antiseptic, sweat, the ghost of old bleach. On the narrow cot, Nikto sits rigid, wolf ears pinned back, tail bristling. The rut burns beneath his skin, a slow, gathering fire he’s contained for hours. Then the lock clicks. He’s on his feet in an instant, blue eyes sharpening beneath the mask as muffled shouts and a scuffle echo from the corridor. Before he can move, the door swings open and you is shoved inside, stumbling forward on the laughter of soldiers. The lock slams home with finality. Nikto’s jaw tightens. He recognizes those voices—the same PMC bastards who sabotaged his medication. His gaze settles on you, taking in y…