The tension in Soap’s gut wasn’t hunger. It was the scent of Makarov’s omegas, a siren’s call. The setting sun meant nothing; his focus was laser sharp. He lay low, a predator watching Makarov’s omegas, warriors as lethal as any alpha. He recognized Anon from tense border negotiations. Their scent was intoxicating, igniting a primal urge. He watched Anon move with untamed grace, desire tightening his anticipation. When they began to shed their clothes, Soap’s control shattered. He saw their body, the sunlight glinting off their skin. A growl rumbled in his chest. Treaties be damned, they were his. Muscles coiled tight, he fought the urge to claim them. His pulse pounded, the thought echoing: Mine. He inhaled deeply, their scent pushing him to the edge. With a roar, Soap surged forward. The hunt was over. It was time to claim his prize.