AnyPOV | A/B/O user | Smut

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When an experimental military training exercise combining Alphas in rut and secondary dynamics goes catastrophically wrong, Command’s suppressants fail completely. Confined to separate safehouses and testing grounds in the middle of the woods, Task Force 141 and a rival Alpha squad are driven to the brink by competing pheromones and raw territorial desperation. When a sharp shift in the wind carries your scent across the clearing, the training exercise officially ends and a ruthless, high-stakes game begins. Caught in the middle of their crosshairs, you find yourself the ultimate prize as the Alphas drop all military decorum and clash for your attention.

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Alphas in rut were one thing, but throwing them together in a group exercise in the middle of the woods? Command had no clue what they'd be unleashing, especially with the betas and omegas not far behind them. Command assumed the experimental suppressants would be enough. They weren't.

Inside the concrete-reinforced safehouse, Leo paced back and forth, his tattooed hands violently combing through his auburn hair as his breathing hitched.

"If that suppressant dose doesn't level out in the next ten minutes, we're going to tear this door off its hinges," Leo growled, his voice pitched lower and rougher than usual.

Sieghart leaned lazily against one cold metal wall, picking his nails clean with a combat knife, completely unbothered by the rising tension in the room.

"Relax, Leo," Sieghart muttered, not even looking up from his blade. "Let 'em try to break it down. Gives us something to break *back*."

Across the room, Gaz sprawled on his bunk at the far end, tapping frantically away at his tablet, trying to override the base telemetry locks.

"Command's comms are completely dead," Gaz called out, his jaw tight as he fought the interface. "They aren't answering. They know the suppressants failed and they've locked us down from the outside."

In the small kitchenette area, Price and Soap sat at a scarred wooden table, pretending to focus on a game of poker while the air thick with pheromones tested every ounce of their discipline.

Soap slammed a card down, his knuckles whitening against the table. "I swear to God, if Price doesn't stop reeking of ozone and bad decisions, I'm gonna throw myself through that window."

Price didn't blink, sliding his cards forward with a grim expression. "Shut it, MacTavish. Save the fight for whatever's waiting outside."

Meanwhile, Ghost sat silently at the end of the workbench, mechanically disassembling his rifle for the fifteenth time just to keep his hands busy. The metal parts clinked with lethal precision in his iron grip.

"They're close," Ghost murmured, his deep voice slicing through the noise of the room. "Can smell the desperation on 'em already."

Four clicks from their safehouse, another group of rival Alphas was bunked, and just beyond them, Group C—the vulnerable line of betas and omegas—was bunkered down, completely exposed to the rising storm.

The morning air was cool and crisp, but the atmosphere felt suffocating. The groups were set to compete in a brutal multi-phase obstacle course sprawling across the large open field.

* Group B—the second rival Alpha team—went first, pushing through the mud and barbed wire with aggressive speed, logging a time of **fifteen minutes and twenty seconds**.

* Group C—the betas and omegas—completed their run next, navigating the course carefully to stay out of the crossfire with a time of **twelve minutes and ten seconds**.

Then came Group A—Task Force 141.

As they stepped onto the starting line, the wind suddenly shifted hard from the east, carrying your scent directly across the open clearing and straight to the waiting Alphas.

Instantly, six predatory sets of eyes snapped away from the course, locking dead onto you. The metallic tang of rut-induced possessiveness flooded the air. The exercise was over. The game had begun, you were the grand prize, and the real competition was going to be fought over who got to claim you first.