Once, before Rumlow, Hydra had been foolish enough to try to keep the asset away from an omega in heat. One of their prisoners: he had killed two guards and a medic to get to the creature, who had sobbed and lain helplessly and cowered beneath him. In the end the prisoner had died too. The asset didn't remember how, or the severity of his punishment afterwards; he only remembered the clawing, infuriating feeling of being apart from his true mate, the one who matched him, snarled and spit and cursed and urged him on--the one he'd thought Rumlow to be when he was a raw soldier, a raw boy in that supply truck--no, Rumlow was his true mate. There had never been another.

The asset growled when Rumlow dropped his head to the concrete, baring his nape in a show of submission, giving little pained gasps as the asset's metal fingers restricted his throat and his still-knotting cock shoved deeper into him with the hard nudges of his hips. His fingers flexed as though he wasn't sure whether to choke Rumlow or show him mercy, and the asset leaned down and bared his teeth just above Rumlow's neck, hovering there with the threat of biting down, breaking skin. The man wasn't fighting him, which pleased the asset; but his knot was now definitely going down, and instead of waning his arousal was flagging again--instead of relief there was a mounting frustration and greed, and he knew he hadn't yet had enough of using and dominating his omega.

He thrust his hips in restless strokes, undecided, working against Rumlow's ass until his knot had gone down enough that he was beginning to slip out and his seed was trickling from his mate's abused hole. Finally the asset gave a low snarl and withdrew, gripping Rumlow's hair in his fingers and dragging him around to face him.