The sky above Manhattan broke open.

Freezing rain lashed against the revolving glass doors of the Marks Tech headquarters. The wind howled through the concrete canyons of the city, driving the water sideways.

Alston Lindsey stood outside on the marble steps.

He was shivering so violently his teeth clicked together. He held a cheap black umbrella over his head, but the wind kept catching the edges, threatening to rip it out of his hands. His thin beige sweater offered zero protection against the biting cold.

He hugged his arms around his chest, trying to preserve whatever body heat he had left.

Ten minutes ago, he had tried to walk into the warm, dry lobby. He needed to drop off a crucial trust fund signature document that Braydon had left on the kitchen counter that morning.

The security guard, a massive Alpha named Mitch, had blocked his path.

"No unauthorized personnel past the security gates without an appointment," Mitch had said, his voice flat and uncaring.

Alston had tried to explain. He had shown the folder with Braydon's name on it. But Mitch just pointed to the heavy glass doors leading back out into the storm.

Alston bit down hard on his pale lower lip. The metallic taste of blood grounded him.

He could not cause a scene. If he embarrassed Braydon at his workplace, the consequences at home would be unbearable. So, Alston had backed away. He retreated to the only spot outside that offered a fraction of an overhang, right near the edge of the driveway.

A sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. The tires hit a deep puddle, sending a wave of dirty, freezing water splashing onto the sidewalk.

The muddy water soaked the bottom half of Alston's faded slacks.

He gasped at the sudden, icy shock. He looked down at his ruined pants, a heavy knot of humiliation forming in his throat. He dug his thumbnails deep into the sides of his index fingers, using the sharp pinch of pain to stop the tears from forming.

Inside the warm, brightly lit lobby, a group of employees stood near the coffee bar.

They were holding steaming cups, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the storm.

Sandra Fletcher, a senior analyst known for knowing everyone's business, narrowed her eyes at the pathetic figure shivering outside.

She noticed the watch on Alston's left wrist as he struggled to hold the umbrella. It was a custom, vintage Patek Philippe. A Hayden family heirloom.

Sandra gasped softly. She leaned in toward her coworkers.

"Do you see that guy out there?" Sandra whispered, pointing a manicured finger at the glass. "I saw that name on the Hayden charity gala guest list once... and look at his wrist. That's a custom Hayden family heirloom watch. Oh my god, is that the reclusive husband?"

The three employees next to her turned to stare.

"You're joking," one of them said, laughing in disbelief. "Braydon is an S-class Alpha. That guy looks like he buys his clothes at a thrift store. Why is he standing in the rain like a stray dog?"

"Because Braydon doesn't care about him," Sandra said, her tone dripping with pity and disgust. "I heard it was an arranged marriage. A financial merger. Everyone knows Braydon is still sleeping with his ex, so he keeps this one completely hidden."

The group continued to stare, their eyes dissecting Alston through the glass.

Alston felt the weight of their stares. He did not need to hear their words to know what they were saying. The pitying looks were always the same.

He lowered his head, burying his chin deep into his damp scarf to hide his face.

A sudden, violent gust of wind swept across the plaza. It caught the underside of Alston's umbrella. The metal spokes groaned, and Alston stumbled forward, his worn sneakers slipping on the wet marble.

He crashed shoulder-first into the stone pillar near the door, barely keeping his balance.

High above the street, on the top floor of the building, Easton Marks stood at his window.

He was looking down at the city, his jaw clenched tight. The whiskey had worn off, and the phantom smell of chamomile was driving him insane. He needed to find the Omega. He needed to find Braydon's mate.

Easton's eyes tracked the movement of the storm. His gaze drifted down to the plaza directly in front of his building.

He saw the black umbrella. He saw the thin figure get slammed into the stone pillar by the wind.

Even from this height, Easton's Enigma eyesight was flawless. He could see the way the person's shoulders shook. He could see the vulnerability in the posture.

Easton frowned. A wave of disgust rolled through his stomach.

He hated Omegas who played the victim. He assumed it was some desperate spouse trying to guilt-trip an executive into coming downstairs.

He turned away from the window, walking toward his desk to hit the intercom. He was going to tell security to remove the loiterer.

Before his finger could press the button, his office door opened.

His assistant walked in, holding a thick, sealed tablet.

"Mr. Marks," she said, setting the tablet on his desk. "The unredacted background file on Braydon Hayden. The security team bypassed the family privacy locks."

Easton ignored the intercom. He picked up the tablet and swiped the screen.

The file opened directly to the marital records.

There was a high-resolution photograph attached to the marriage certificate.

Easton stared at the screen. His breathing stopped.

The person in the photo had soft, tired eyes and a jawline that looked too fragile for this world. He looked gentle, but there was a stubborn set to his mouth.

The name printed below the photo was Alston Lindsey.

Easton's eyes darted from the tablet to the floor-to-ceiling window.

He looked back down at the plaza. The person shivering in the rain, the one he was just about to have thrown off the property, was wearing the exact same beige sweater as the person in the photo.

The medical data on the screen caught Easton's eye.

Alston Lindsey. Omega. Pheromone match with Braydon Hayden: 96%.

A deafening roar rushed into Easton's ears. The blood pounded in his veins, hot and fast.

He had been so stupid.

The chamomile scent did not belong to Braydon. It was never Braydon's. Braydon was just the carrier. The scent belonged to the Omega standing in the freezing rain right outside his front door.

The perfect, pure soul that his biology was screaming for was literally freezing on his doorstep.

Easton dropped the tablet onto the desk. It hit the wood with a loud clatter.

He grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair and sprinted for the door.

His assistant jumped back in shock as Easton tore past her. He didn't say a word. He looked like a predator that had just caught the scent of blood.

Easton hit the button for his private elevator. The doors slid open, and he stepped inside, his heart hammering against his ribs. The descent felt agonizingly slow. He twisted his platinum watch band, the metal digging into his skin, trying to keep the violent Enigma instincts from taking over his brain.

The elevator chimed and the doors opened to the ground floor lobby.

Easton stepped out. He ignored the gasps and the sudden silence that fell over the employees. He walked straight toward the revolving doors, his eyes fixed on the black umbrella outside.

Just as Easton reached the glass, a silver Aston Martin roared out of the building's underground VIP garage and pulled aggressively to the curb.

The driver's side door opened. Braydon stepped out into the rain. He didn't bother with an umbrella. He looked furious.

Easton stopped right inside the glass doors. His muscles locked tight.

He watched as Braydon marched up to Alston. Alston held out the manila folder with shaking hands.

Braydon snatched the folder out of Alston's grip. As he pulled the file away, Braydon's elbow shoved hard against Alston's chest.

It wasn't an accident. It was a deliberate, impatient push.

Alston stumbled backward. His heel caught the edge of the marble step, and he swayed dangerously, fighting to stay upright in the wind.

Easton's hands curled into fists at his sides. The glass of the door felt cold against his knuckles.

He watched the Omega struggle to keep his balance. He watched the Alpha turn his back without a second glance.

A dark, lethal calm settled over Easton's mind.

Braydon didn't even look back.

He grabbed the file, turned on his heel, and slid back into the warm, dry leather interior of the Aston Martin. The heavy car door slammed shut, sealing him off from the storm.

The engine revved with an obnoxious, deafening roar.

Braydon slammed his foot on the gas. The rear tires spun on the wet pavement, kicking up a massive spray of dirty street water directly onto Alston's legs. The sports car shot forward and merged into the chaotic Manhattan traffic, disappearing into the gray rain.

Alston stood completely still on the sidewalk.

His umbrella offered no protection against the water that now soaked him from the knees down. The freezing wet fabric of his pants clung to his skin.

Slowly, Alston crouched down on the sidewalk. He balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands shaking as he tried to wipe the thick, gritty mud off his pant leg. It was useless. The mud just smeared into the beige fabric.

His throat burned. A hot prickle of tears gathered behind his eyes, but he dug his thumbnails into his index fingers, forcing the emotion back down.

He was not going to cry on the street.

Behind him, the heavy glass doors of the Marks Tech building pushed open.

Easton stepped out onto the marble landing.

The second the door opened, the wind hit him. It carried the freezing rain, the smell of exhaust, and something else.

The chamomile.

Out here, without the sterile air conditioning of the boardroom, the scent was a thousand times more potent. It was pure, intoxicating, and laced with a sharp, bitter note of distress.

Easton's pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. His chest expanded as he dragged the scent deep into his lungs.

It was him.

Easton stared at the small, crouched figure by the puddle. The Omega looked like a broken porcelain doll, abandoned in the trash.

Easton's leather dress shoes made a heavy, rhythmic thud against the wet marble as he walked down the steps. He didn't care about the rain ruining his suit. He didn't care about anything except closing the physical distance between them.

With every step he took, the chamomile scent wrapped tighter around his brain, drowning out his rational thoughts.

Alston heard the heavy footsteps approaching.

He froze. Panic spiked in his chest. He thought Mitch the security guard had come out to finally drag him off the property.

Alston scrambled to stand up. His numb fingers gripped the handle of his cheap umbrella so tight his knuckles ached.

He spun around, an apology already forming on his lips.

The words died in his throat.

He crashed straight into a wall of solid muscle.

Alston gasped and stumbled back. He looked up and found himself staring into a pair of dark, predatory eyes.

The man standing in front of him was massive. He wore a soaked, expensive suit, but he didn't seem to notice the cold. His eyes were a terrifying shade of dark gold, glowing with a raw, unfiltered intensity that made Alston's breath catch.

It wasn't just the man's size that was terrifying. It was the pressure in the air around him.

The heavy, suffocating weight of an Enigma's aura pressed down on Alston's shoulders. It was an involuntary release of pheromones-cedarwood mixed with the sharp, dangerous tang of gunpowder.

Alston's knees went weak. His Omega biology recognized the apex predator instantly. He took another step back, his heart hammering in his throat.

Easton stopped exactly one foot away from Alston.

He looked down at the pale, terrified face. He saw the raindrops clinging to Alston's eyelashes. He saw the faint purple bruise of exhaustion under his eyes.

Easton didn't speak. He couldn't. If he opened his mouth, he was afraid he would just lean forward and bite the skin right over Alston's pulse point. He just stood there, breathing in the chamomile, letting it heal the agonizing ache in his spine.

"I... I'm sorry," Alston stammered, his voice trembling. "I'm leaving right now."

Another violent gust of wind ripped down the street.

The wind caught the inside of Alston's umbrella. With a loud snap, the metal frame inverted. The umbrella was ripped from Alston's grip, tumbling away down the sidewalk.

Alston let out a small gasp. He squeezed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders, bracing himself for the freezing downpour.

The rain never hit him.

A massive shadow fell over him.

Alston opened his eyes.

A massive, custom black umbrella was held steadily over his head.

Easton stood close enough now that the fabric of their coats almost touched. Easton's hand gripped the handle of the umbrella. The veins on the back of his hand stood out in thick cords. He was gripping the metal so hard his knuckles were white. He was using every ounce of his willpower to keep his free hand from grabbing Alston by the waist and pulling him flush against his chest.

Alston stared up at the man, completely bewildered.

The scent of cedar and gunpowder wrapped around him, warm and terrifyingly protective.

"Are you Braydon Hayden's mate?" Easton asked.

His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. It sounded like it was being dragged over broken glass. The suppressed madness in his tone made the hair on Alston's arms stand up.

Alston swallowed hard. He looked down at the pavement.

"Yes," Alston whispered. He gave a small, bitter nod, confirming the identity that brought him nothing but shame.

Easton's jaw tightened. A flash of pure, murderous jealousy ignited in his chest.

This perfect, beautiful creature belonged to that arrogant, abusive piece of garbage. Braydon didn't even know what he had. Braydon treated the only cure in the world like dirt on his shoe.

Easton reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket with his free hand.

He pulled out a folded, pure silk handkerchief.

He held it out toward the side of Alston's face, where a streak of dirty water had splashed onto his cheek.

Alston's eyes widened. He reached up quickly to take the fabric, not wanting this terrifying stranger to touch him.

Easton pulled the handkerchief back just an inch, avoiding Alston's fingers.

Instead, Easton stepped half an inch closer. He pressed the soft silk directly against Alston's cold cheek.

Alston sucked in a sharp breath.

He froze completely. He could feel the heat radiating from Easton's knuckles through the thin silk. The touch was incredibly gentle, but the Enigma energy behind it was overwhelmingly dominant.

Easton slowly wiped the mud away from Alston's skin. His golden eyes tracked the movement, memorizing the shape of Alston's cheekbone.

A violent shiver ripped through Alston's body. The physical proximity was too much. The pheromones were too strong.

He jerked his head back, breaking the contact.

"Thank you," Alston choked out, his voice panicked.

He didn't wait for a response. He spun around and practically ran toward a yellow cab that had just stopped at the corner to let a passenger out.

Easton didn't move to stop him.

He stood perfectly still under the black umbrella, watching Alston scramble into the back of the cab. He watched the taillights fade into the gray rain.

Easton looked down at his hand. He was gripping the silk handkerchief so tightly his fingers ached.

He slowly lifted the silk to his face and pressed it against his nose.

The fabric was soaked with the scent of chamomile and rain.

Easton closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A slow, dark smile curved the corners of his mouth.

Every cell in his body was screaming to drag the Omega into the shadows and mark that scent as his own.

The private elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

Braydon stepped out into the foyer of the Hayden family's Upper East Side penthouse. He tossed his wet car keys to the waiting valet staff and shrugged off his damp suit jacket, dropping it carelessly onto the floor.

The penthouse was a sprawling monument to cold, sterile wealth. Everything was sharp angles, black marble, and gray leather. It looked like a museum, not a home.

Braydon hated it.

He walked into the massive living room and yanked his tie loose. The faint, lingering scent of chamomile hung in the air. It was Alston's natural scent, permanently baked into the walls of the apartment.

Normally, Braydon ignored it. Tonight, it made his skin crawl with irritation.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Braydon pulled it out. The screen lit up with a text from Emelia.

Are you coming over tonight? The bed is cold without you.

Braydon's rigid shoulders instantly relaxed. The permanent scowl on his face softened. He typed back a reply, his thumbs moving quickly over the glass.

I'll be there in an hour. We're still going to the Hamptons this weekend. Pack a bag.

He hit send and tossed the phone onto the black marble kitchen island. He walked over to the crystal decanter on the bar cart and poured himself three fingers of neat bourbon.

He took a long sip, letting the alcohol burn the chill from his chest.

His mind flashed back to the pathetic sight of Alston standing in the rain outside the Marks Tech building.

Braydon's lip curled in disgust.

Alston looked like a beggar. He had no pride. He just stood there, letting the entire corporate staff look down on him. It was humiliating for the Hayden family name.

Braydon gripped the heavy crystal glass, his knuckles turning white.

He remembered the day his mother, Genevieve, had forced him to sign the marriage certificate. She had slammed the trust fund agreement down on his desk. The terms were absolute: Braydon would only inherit the controlling shares of the Hayden empire if he married an Omega with a pheromone compatibility of 95% or higher.

Alston Lindsey, the desperate son of a bankrupt manufacturing family, had tested at 96%.

Braydon took another aggressive swallow of bourbon. He slammed the glass down on the marble counter. The sharp clink echoed in the empty room.

He was trapped. Chained to a weak, useless Omega because of genetics and money.

The sound of the front door keypad beeping broke the silence.

The heavy door clicked open. Alston walked in.

He was soaking wet. He carried two heavy plastic grocery bags in his red, freezing hands. He pushed the door shut with his hip and turned around.

Alston froze the second he saw Braydon standing by the bar.

His shoulders instantly hunched inward. He lowered his eyes to the floor, trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Braydon stared at him, his eyes cold and hard.

"You looked like a stray dog begging for scraps today," Braydon said. His voice was flat, carrying across the room like a whip. "Did you enjoy embarrassing me in front of my entire firm?"

Alston flinched. His grip on the plastic bags tightened until the plastic dug into his skin.

"I was just trying to bring you the trust documents," Alston said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You said they were urgent."

The mention of the trust fund was like throwing gasoline on a fire.

Braydon's eyes darkened. He slammed his hand flat against the marble counter and pushed himself off the bar.

He stalked across the living room, closing the distance between them in seconds.

As he moved, Braydon released a suffocating wave of his S-class Alpha pheromones. The scent of burnt copper and aggression hit Alston like a physical blow.

Alston gasped. The air was sucked from his lungs. His knees buckled under the biological pressure, and he stumbled backward until his spine hit the cold wall of the foyer.

Braydon stepped into his personal space. He reached out and grabbed Alston's jaw, his large fingers digging painfully into the soft skin.

He forced Alston's head up.

"Don't ever use that fucking trust fund as an excuse to check up on me," Braydon hissed, his face inches from Alston's. "You think because my mother bought you, you have a say in my life?"

Tears welled up in Alston's eyes from the pain in his jaw, but he refused to let them fall. He dug his thumbnails into his index fingers, biting his lower lip until he tasted copper.

He stared back at Braydon, his eyes filled with a quiet, stubborn defiance.

That silent resistance made Braydon's blood boil.

He shoved Alston's face away, releasing his jaw with a look of pure revulsion.

Braydon pulled his hand back as if he had been burned. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and roughly wiped his fingers, his eyes blazing with pure revulsion.

"I won't be home for the next three days," Braydon said coldly, tossing the used wipe onto the floor. "Stay out of my way. And stop playing these pathetic, attention-seeking games."

Braydon grabbed his car keys off the console table. He walked out the front door, slamming it shut behind him.

The boom of the heavy door echoed through the penthouse.

Alston's legs gave out.

He slid down the wall, collapsing onto the hardwood floor. The grocery bags dropped from his hands. A carton of cherry tomatoes spilled out, rolling across the floor, several of them crushing under their own weight.

Alston pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in his arms. His shoulders shook violently, but he didn't make a sound. He just sat there, breathing in the cold, empty air.

A sharp vibration against his thigh made him jump.

Alston pulled his phone out of his damp pocket.

The screen was flashing red. It was an automated alert from his health tracking app.

WARNING: Heat Cycle approaching in 72 hours.

Alston stared at the red text. The blood drained from his face. A cold, paralyzing terror gripped his stomach.

His heat was coming. And Braydon was gone for three days.

Alston knew Braydon would never come back to help him through it. He would have to survive the agonizing fever alone, again.

Alston scrambled up from the floor. He ran down the hall to the guest bathroom and ripped open the medicine cabinet. He pushed aside the aspirin and bandages, searching frantically for the small blue box of suppressants.

His hand hit the back of the shelf. It was empty.

He had used the last vial during his previous cycle last month. Braydon had promised to sign a new prescription, but he had never bothered to do it.

Alston gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles turning white. He couldn't get a legal prescription for the high-grade suppressants. The FDA regulations required the signature of a bonded Alpha mate. Braydon had refused to sign the paperwork, claiming it was a waste of time.

Alston's chest he heave. He had to go to the black market. He had to buy the illegal, synthetic suppressants that tore up his stomach lining and left him vomiting blood. It was the only way to survive.

He reached into his pocket to grab his wallet.

His fingers brushed against a piece of stiff paper.

Alston pulled it out. It was a thick, matte black business card. There was no name on it. Just a single phone number embossed in silver foil.

He remembered the man in the rain. The terrifying Enigma who had wiped the mud from his face. The man had slipped this card into Alston's coat pocket without him even realizing it.

Alston stared at the silver numbers. His thumb traced the raised foil.