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.

The storm finally broke over Manhattan three days later.

Thunder rattled the windows of the Hayden penthouse. Lightning flashed, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor of the small guest bedroom.

On the narrow twin bed, Alston screamed.

His body arched off the mattress, his spine bowing as a violent muscle spasm ripped through his abdomen. His skin was burning, slick with a thick layer of feverish sweat.

His heat had triggered early.

The air in the small room was thick and suffocating. The usually subtle scent of chamomile had mutated. It was now heavy, sickeningly sweet, and laced with the intoxicating smell of fermented honey. It was the biological distress signal of an Omega in agonizing need of an Alpha's bite.

Alston collapsed back onto the damp sheets, gasping for air. His lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass.

He rolled onto his side, his trembling hand reaching blindly for the nightstand.

His fingers brushed against the cold plastic of the syringe. He had bought it hours ago from a shadowed alley in Queens. The black-market suppressant was a murky, yellowish liquid.

Another cramp hit him, harder this time.

Alston's hand jerked. His fingers knocked against the syringe.

It rolled off the edge of the nightstand and dropped to the floor, bouncing once before rolling underneath the heavy oak dresser.

"No," Alston sobbed, his voice cracking. "No, please."

He tried to lean over the edge of the bed to reach it, but his arms gave out. He fell onto the carpet, his knees hitting the floor hard.

The biological craving for an Alpha was tearing his mind apart. His body was screaming for the one person who was supposed to protect him.

Alston dragged himself across the floor. He used his elbows to pull his dead weight forward, crawling out of the guest room and into the dark hallway.

He needed Braydon. He just needed a temporary bite to break the fever.

He dragged himself toward the master bedroom at the end of the hall.

As he got closer, he saw a thin sliver of yellow light glowing beneath the door.

Braydon was home. He had come back from the Hamptons early because of the storm.

A desperate surge of hope flared in Alston's chest. He pushed himself up against the heavy oak door, his sweaty palms smearing against the wood.

He raised his fist and pounded weakly on the door.

"Braydon," Alston rasped, his throat raw. "Braydon, please. Help me."

Inside the room, the sound of rustling sheets stopped.

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor.

"Go back to your room, Alston," Braydon's voice barked through the wood. It was thick with sleep and extreme irritation. "I told you I didn't want to deal with you this weekend."

Alston's legs gave out completely. He slid down the door, his forehead resting against the cold wood.

"Please," Alston begged, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat. "My heat... it's early. I dropped the medicine. I just need a bite. Just one bite."

Silence stretched on the other side of the door.

Then, a loud, metallic click echoed in the hallway.

Braydon had thrown the deadbolt. He had locked the door from the inside.

The sound of that lock turning hit Alston harder than a physical blow. It shattered the last pathetic piece of hope holding his heart together.

Then, Alston smelled it.

Seeping through the crack under the door was the unmistakable, cloying scent of artificial rose perfume.

Emelia was in there. Braydon had brought his mistress into their marital home, into their bed, while his husband was dying in the hallway.

The sheer, suffocating humiliation of it burned away the haze of the fever.

Alston bit down on his own forearm. He bit down so hard his teeth broke the skin. The sharp, piercing pain of his own teeth tearing into his flesh shocked his system, giving him a split second of clarity.

He let go of his arm. Blood trickled down his wrist.

He didn't cry anymore. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at the locked door.

Alston turned around. He dragged himself back down the hallway, his fingernails scraping against the hardwood floor. He crawled back into the guest room and collapsed next to the dresser.

He reached his bloody hand underneath the heavy wood. His fingers brushed the plastic syringe.

He pulled it out.

He didn't have the strength to find an alcohol wipe. He didn't care about the air bubbles.

Alston ripped the cap off with his teeth. With the last ounce of his strength, he grabbed the fabric of his sweat-soaked pants and viciously tore it aside, exposing the pale, trembling skin of his thigh. He jammed the thick, dull needle straight into the muscle.

He pushed the plunger down, forcing the burning, acidic liquid into his bloodstream.

The pain was unimaginable. It felt like liquid fire racing through his veins.

Alston's vision went completely black, and he slumped sideways onto the floor, losing consciousness.

Across the city, in the sterile, soundproof basement of the Marks Tech building.

Easton Marks sat in a leather medical chair.

His private physician was wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his bicep. The monitors next to the chair were beeping frantically.

"Your Enigma fluctuations are critical, Mr. Marks," the doctor said, his voice tight with panic. "If you don't find a compatible anchor to stabilize your pheromones, your nervous system is going to start shutting down."

Easton ripped the blood pressure cuff off his arm. He threw it across the room.

He stood up, his chest heaving. He walked over to the reinforced glass wall that looked out into the underground garage.

Suddenly, a massive, invisible weight slammed into Easton's chest.

He staggered forward, his hands slapping against the glass to catch his balance.

His heart skipped a beat, then started hammering at a terrifying speed. His Enigma instincts flared to life, violent and screaming.

He could feel it. The biological tether.

Somewhere in the city, the perfect chamomile scent was being suffocated. The Omega was in excruciating pain. The distress signal was so strong it was bypassing physical distance, hitting Easton's Enigma receptors directly.

Easton's eyes snapped open. The irises were entirely swallowed by the dark gold of a predator ready to kill.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for his assistant.

"Monitor all emergency medical dispatches around the Hayden penthouse," Easton ordered, his voice a lethal, vibrating growl.

"Sir," the assistant replied instantly. "No ambulances dispatched. But the Hayden building's security logs show Braydon Hayden entered the penthouse an hour ago. With a female guest."

The image formed in Easton's mind instantly.

Braydon had locked his Omega out while he screwed his mistress. Alston was suffering through a heat cycle alone, dying on the floor.

A terrifying, guttural snarl ripped from Easton's throat.

He pulled his fist back and slammed it directly into the reinforced glass.

The bulletproof glass spider-webbed under the sheer force of the blow. Blood dripped from Easton's split knuckles, splashing onto the pristine white floor.

Easton stared at his bloody hand. A slow, dark, terrifying smile spread across his face.

A primal, dark ecstasy burned in his blood. The prey was isolated, and his biology was screaming to claim what was rightfully his.