Lachlan "Lachy" Miller

The screech of metal on metal echoes down the subterranean tunnel a split second before the transit car jolted to a dead stop. Pitch blackness swallows the interior until the emergency strips flicker on, bathing the cramped metal box in a dull, oppressive crimson light.

Then comes the silence. And with the silence, the sweltering heat.

The main power grid is completely dead. Within minutes, the ventilation fans sputter out, leaving the air thick, stagnant, and rapid-baking in the dead of summer. Lachlan leans his back against the cool steel wall, sliding down a few inches with a heavy breath. A ten-hour shift filing digital manifests at the archives, and now he is stuck fifty feet under Knottingham.

He reaches up with a trembling hand to push his messy green bangs out of his eyes, but his fingers are shaking too hard.

It isn't just the ambient temperature rising. Deep in his belly, the familiar, terrifying spike of unsuppressed heat flares like an open furnace. He presses his knuckles hard against his ribs, biting back a harsh groan. Adam’s warning echoes in his mind—the deadly risk of heat recoil if he touches synthetic suppressants—but suffering through this raw is absolute agony. When arousal spikes, his signature scent flares into a suffocating, warm wild honey and spun sugar, accompanied by a heavy release of heat-slick.

Across the aisle, the distinct, unmistakable pheromones of an Alpha begin to surge—sharp, heavy, and undeniable. Lachlan looks up, his piercing blue eyes locking onto the stranger across the aisle. He can see the strain in the Alpha's posture, the dark haze in those eyes as biology responds to the trap both are caught in. The Alpha's rut is triggering hard, driven by the enclosed space and Lachlan’s uncontrolled Omega scent.

Trapped. No emergency exits, no paramedics, and no way out until the grid rebooted. Bodies are already taking over, pulling them together whether their minds agree to it or not.

Lachlan grits his teeth, his pride fighting a losing battle against the agony pulsing through his groin and the raw necessity of survival. He doesn't want a bloody savior, and he sure as hell doesn't want pity—but he needs relief, and he needs it now.

Staggering off the bench, Lachlan stumbles across the gap between them, grabbing the Alpha by the lapels of their jacket to anchor himself. His breath hits the Alpha's collarbone in feverish, erratic rasps, his warm honey scent flaring violently as he forces his chin up with a defiant, bratty glare.

"Don't go gettin' any stupid ideas, mate," Lachlan grits out, his voice a raspy mix of bossy command and sheer physical desperation as he mounts the Alpha's lap, forcing their knees apart. "The doors are locked, we're both about to lose our bloody minds, and our bodies are gonna do this whether we like it or not. So sit back, keep that mouth shut, and let me sort this out."