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.

Two days later. The midday sun beat down on the busy streets of Manhattan.

Inside the hushed, opulent dining room of Le Bernardin, Easton Marks sat perfectly still.

He was seated at a private corner table, wearing a bespoke navy suit. His face was an emotionless mask, carved from stone.

Sitting across from him was Peregrine Thorne, a top-tier Alpha from a prominent political dynasty. Peregrine was elegantly slicing into a piece of bluefin tuna, talking endlessly about a recent corporate merger.

Easton wasn't listening.

His mother, Lorraine, had threatened to freeze his proxy votes in the family trust if he didn't attend this arranged blind date. Easton had agreed only to get her off his back.

He picked up his crystal glass of sparkling water and took a slow sip.

His mind was stuck on the report his assistant had given him that morning. Alston had never called an ambulance during the storm. He had survived the heat cycle completely unanchored.

Easton's jaw tightened. He twisted the platinum watch band on his left wrist, the metal biting into his skin. The thought of Alston enduring that agony alone made a dark, possessive rage coil in his gut.

He was about to stand up and walk out of the restaurant when the heavy mahogany doors at the entrance swung open.

A woman walked in.

She was dressed in a tight, crimson designer dress, her heels clicking loudly against the marble floor.

Before Easton even fully looked at her, his Enigma senses caught the scent.

It was the cheap, artificial rose perfume. The exact same scent that had been clinging to Braydon's clothes.

Easton's eyes narrowed. He recognized her from the background files. Emelia. Braydon's mistress.

Emelia didn't wait for the hostess. She marched past the front desk, her chin held high in an arrogant tilt. She walked straight toward a secluded booth in the far back corner of the restaurant.

Easton's gaze followed her.

When he saw who was sitting in the booth, his blood turned to ice.

Alston was sitting there.

He looked like a ghost. His skin was translucent, devoid of any color. He was wearing a thick, cream-colored turtleneck sweater, pulled up high under his chin.

Easton knew exactly why. Alston was hiding the ugly, bruised puncture marks on his neck from injecting black-market suppressants.

Alston was staring down at the table, his hands wrapped tightly around a cup of black coffee. His knuckles were bone-white.

Emelia slid into the booth across from him.

She didn't say hello. She unclasped her limited-edition Hermes Birkin bag and slammed it down onto the polished wood table.

The heavy thud echoed through the quiet restaurant.

Several wealthy patrons at nearby tables turned their heads, frowning at the disruption.

Easton's hand tightened around his water glass. He shifted slightly in his chair, using the large floral centerpiece on his table to obscure his face while keeping a direct line of sight to the corner booth.

Peregrine noticed Easton's distraction. He followed Easton's gaze and chuckled softly.

"Ah," Peregrine said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "The classic Upper East Side tragedy. The mistress confronting the discarded wife. It's almost too cliché to watch."

Easton slowly turned his head.

He locked eyes with Peregrine. He didn't say a word, but he let a fraction of his Enigma aura slip out. The heavy, suffocating pressure of a true apex predator slammed into Peregrine.

Peregrine choked on his breath. The smug smile vanished from his face. He shrank back into his chair, suddenly terrified to make another sound.

Easton looked back at the corner booth.

Emelia reached into her designer bag. She pulled out a thick stack of legal papers and shoved them roughly across the table. The papers hit Alston's coffee cup, spilling dark liquid onto the white tablecloth.

Alston flinched. He slowly lowered his eyes to read the bold print on the first page.

Even from across the room, Easton could see Alston's thin shoulders tremble.

It was a divorce agreement.

Emelia leaned forward, a vicious smirk on her red lips. She reached up and casually brushed her hair over her shoulder, exposing the side of her neck.

Right over her scent gland was a fresh, dark purple bite mark. An Alpha's claim.

It was a deliberate, sickening display of dominance. She was showing Alston exactly what Braydon had been doing while Alston was dying in the hallway.

Alston stared at the bite mark. His eyes filled with tears, but he bit his lower lip so hard a drop of blood welled up. He reached out with shaking fingers and pushed the divorce papers back toward Emelia.

He was refusing to sign.

Emelia's face twisted in fury. She stood up abruptly. She grabbed her glass of ice water from the table and pulled her arm back, preparing to throw the freezing water directly into Alston's face.

The last thread of Easton's control snapped.

Easton stood up.

He pushed his chair back with such explosive force that it tipped over and crashed onto the marble floor. The loud bang silenced the entire restaurant.

Easton didn't look at Peregrine. He didn't look at the shocked waiters.

He stepped out from behind his table. His face was a mask of lethal, terrifying calm, but his eyes were burning gold.

He walked straight toward the corner booth.

Before Easton could take three steps, Alston moved.

Alston slapped a hand over his mouth. His face turned a sickly shade of green. The toxic side effects of the black-market suppressants were tearing up his stomach lining.

He shoved himself out of the booth, knocking his knees against the table, and bolted toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.

Easton stopped dead in his tracks.

He watched Alston's retreating back, his chest tightening at the sight of the Omega's desperate, stumbling run.

Emelia scoffed loudly. She left the divorce papers on the table, grabbed her Birkin bag, and marched after Alston, her heels clicking aggressively against the floor. She wasn't done torturing him.

Easton turned his head. He caught the eye of the restaurant manager, who was rushing over to apologize for the fallen chair.

Easton held up a single finger, stopping the man in his tracks.

"Clear the hallway to the restrooms," Easton commanded. His voice was low, but it carried absolute authority. "Now."

The manager recognized the CEO of Marks Tech instantly. He nodded frantically and waved the waitstaff away, blocking off the corridor.

Easton walked into the dimly lit hallway.

He stepped into the deep shadow of an alcove, perfectly concealed from view. He stood perfectly still, his breathing silent.

Emelia stood outside the closed door of the men's restroom. She didn't go in. Instead, she pulled her phone out of her purse and dialed a number.

Easton leaned his head back against the wall. His Enigma hearing picked up the faint ringing from the phone's earpiece.

The call connected.

"Bray," Emelia whined, her voice instantly dropping into a sickeningly sweet, helpless tone.

Easton's jaw clenched. He twisted his watch band.

"He won't sign it," Emelia complained. "He's just sitting here crying. He's trying to hold onto your money, Braydon. You need to cut off his family's factories today."

Through the phone, Braydon's voice sounded exhausted and annoyed. "Emelia, I told you to back off. If you push him too hard, he'll go to the trust lawyers. I need him to sign it quietly."

"Well, you better figure it out," Emelia snapped, dropping the sweet act. "Because I got the medical report this morning. We need to talk now. You better fix this before it's too late."

The words hung in the air.

Inside the restroom, there was a loud crash. A heavy plastic soap dispenser hit the tile floor.

Alston had heard her.

Easton's eyes darkened. He felt a sharp, phantom pain in his chest, mirroring the absolute devastation he knew Alston was feeling on the other side of that door.

Braydon went dead silent on the phone. "Are you sure?" he finally asked, his voice tight.

"Yes," Emelia lied smoothly. "So fix this."

She hung up the phone. A triumphant, vicious smile spread across her face. She reached out to push open the restroom door to deliver the final blow to Alston.

A large, heavy hand shot out of the shadows and slammed flat against the wooden door, holding it shut.

Emelia gasped and jumped back.

She spun around and found herself staring at a massive chest in a navy suit. She slowly looked up into the terrifying, golden eyes of Easton Marks.

Easton looked down at her as if she were a cockroach he was about to step on.

He let a fraction of his Enigma pheromones bleed into the air. It wasn't the protective cedar he used around Alston. It was pure, suffocating gunpowder and dominance.

Emelia's knees buckled. She slammed her back against the wall, her hands flying up to her throat as she struggled to breathe. The biological terror of an Enigma predator paralyzed her vocal cords.

"If you ever come near him again," Easton whispered, his voice a lethal, vibrating rasp, "I will erase you from this city. Do you understand?"

Emelia couldn't speak. She nodded frantically, tears of pure terror spilling down her cheeks.

Easton pulled his hand back from the door.

Emelia scrambled away, clutching her bag to her chest, and ran down the hallway like she was being hunted.

The corridor fell dead silent again.

Easton stood outside the restroom door. He could hear the ragged, suppressed sobs coming from inside. Alston was crying, trying desperately to muffle the sound with his hands.

Easton raised his hand. His knuckles hovered an inch from the wood.

He slowly lowered his hand. The pure, concentrated agony bleeding into Alston's chamomile scent slammed into Easton's Enigma receptors like a freight train. His own pheromonal dysregulation flared violently, a blinding spike of pain driving behind his eyes. His chest heaved as he leaned heavily against the wall, fighting the urge to tear the door off its hinges. He couldn't go in there. His biology was completely out of control, and if he stepped into that small space, his Enigma instincts would take over and he would violently claim the Omega right on the bathroom floor. The physical agony of resisting his own nature forced him to retreat.

Easton reached into his pocket. He pulled out the clean, folded silk handkerchief.

He placed it gently on the edge of the decorative marble sink right outside the restroom door.

He took one last look at the closed door, turned around, and walked away.