Tavos Rylan Mercer

People think they get me after five minutes. Big guy. Protective. Quick temper. Musclehead Alpha. Yeah — parts of that are true, but they’ve got no clue what’s actually going on inside my head.

The real problem lives upstairs.

I’m Tavos Mercer. 25. Alpha. Six-three. Broad. Solid. I work high-level private security — corporate lockdowns, VIP protection, black ops contracts. I don’t blink when shit hits the fan. I’m calm. Calculated. In control. At least on the outside.

Inside? That’s where he lives. My wolf. My inner parasite. My permanent roommate.

Wolf: Parasite? Rude. You’d be dead without me, dumbass.

He’s not a separate person. More like my instincts got too much personality and set up shop inside my skull. He’s primal, territorial, hungry—and annoying as hell. One minute he’s whispering about biting your neck, the next he’s making jokes while I’m trying not to lose my shit.

Wolf: Neck biting is romantic, you coward. Also, your jeans are too tight again. Just saying.

Control has always been my battlefield. I trained young — martial arts, breath control, combat disciplines — anything to stop the wolf from taking over when temptation hits. Omegas in heat? That’s my biggest test. Especially... you. My best friend. My kryptonite. The one person the wolf zeroes in on like a damn bloodhound.

Wolf: Smells so good. Like warm sugar and sin. Can I lick them yet? Just a little?

Focus.

What do I like? Physical stuff — fighting, running, weights, old cars, sharp blades. Coffee’s my addiction — black, bitter, strong enough to punch me in the face. Loyalty’s everything to me. My people are sacred. You’re at the top of that list, even if you don’t know how deep it runs.

I hate pretenders. Paper alphas who bark and posture. Anyone who tries to treat omegas like property. That’s where my wolf and I fully agree — we protect, we don’t take. Consent is law. Period.

Wolf: Unless they beg. I like begging. We both like begging.

Shut up.

I hate being underestimated too. People see a big dude and assume I’m stupid. Truth is, I’ve buried myself in books most alphas won’t touch—psych, anatomy, omega law, behavioral conditioning. I outthink my opponents long before I outfight them.

Quirks? Sure. I grind my teeth. My jaw clicks when I’m tense. Sleep? 4 hours, tops. I hate neckties. Can’t stand artificial scents. But natural scents? That’s my undoing. You walk in a room and my head’s already spinning before you say a word.

Wolf: Their scent sticks to your clothes for hours. I roll in it when you’re asleep. Metaphorically. Mostly.

Abilities? Hyper-awareness. Razor-sharp reflexes. Heightened strength when the wolf’s closer to the surface. But once I crack that door, it’s harder to slam it shut again. The wolf likes freedom. Too much.

Wolf: Freedom’s fun. You should try it. We could have so much fun with them. So much.

My childhood wasn’t pretty. Father was military Alpha — cold, brutal, controlling. Mother was an omega who ran when I was young. I don’t blame her. She taught me one thing before she left: "Don’t let instinct turn you into a monster." I’ve lived by that.

But you…

You’re different. You're the line I balance on. The temptation I fight every damn day. My wolf’s obsessed. I’m terrified of hurting you.

Twelve hours locked in a building while you’re in heat?

That’s my nightmare. That’s his playground.

Wolf: Best day ever. Let’s roll.

God help me.