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.

The next morning, the sky over Long Island was a bleak, heavy gray.

Alston drove his beat-up sedan through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Hayden family estate. The tires crunched over the pristine white gravel driveway.

His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached. On the passenger seat rested a crumpled copy of the divorce agreement.

He was done. The revelation of Emelia's pregnancy had severed the last pathetic thread of loyalty he held for his marriage.

A stiff, silent butler escorted Alston to the glass-enclosed sunroom at the back of the mansion.

Genevieve Hayden, Braydon's mother, stood among the blooming white rose bushes. She wore a flawless Chanel suit and held a pair of silver pruning shears.

She didn't turn around when Alston entered.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here unannounced on a Tuesday, Alston," Genevieve said coldly. Snip. A perfect white rose fell to the floor.

Alston took a deep breath. He walked over to the wrought-iron patio table and placed the crumpled divorce papers on the glass surface.

"I want a divorce," Alston said. His voice shook slightly, but he forced himself to stand tall.

Genevieve finally stopped pruning. She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the papers on the table. She didn't look angry. She looked profoundly bored.

She set the shears down and picked up a porcelain teacup.

"Are you stupid, or just having a temper tantrum?" Genevieve asked, taking a sip of her tea. "Did you forget who is keeping your family's pathetic little manufacturing company afloat?"

Alston dug his thumbnails into his fingers. "Braydon got his mistress pregnant. That violates the morality clause in the Omega Protection Act. I have the right to leave."

Genevieve laughed. It was a sharp, cruel sound.

"The Omega Protection Act is for people who can afford lawyers, Alston," she sneered. "Alphas have mistresses. It is a biological reality. Your job was to give me a grandson with a 96% genetic match. You failed."

She walked up to Alston. She reached out and patted his cheek. The physical contact was demeaning, like she was petting a disobedient dog.

"If you file those papers," Genevieve whispered, her eyes turning hard, "I will pull the credit lines on your father's factories tomorrow morning. Your family will be on the street by Friday."

Alston felt the blood drain from his face. The air in the sunroom suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

"You can't do that," Alston choked out.

"I can do whatever I want," Genevieve replied smoothly. "In fact, you are going to call a press conference this Friday. You are going to stand next to Braydon, smile for the cameras, and deny these ridiculous rumors about a mistress."

She picked up the divorce papers and tore them in half, dropping the pieces onto the floor.

"Go home, Alston. And learn your place."

Alston stumbled backward. The sheer, crushing weight of the capitalistic violence pressing down on him made his chest cave in. He was trapped. There was no legal way out.

He turned and ran out of the sunroom, gasping for air.

At that exact moment, in the Marks Tech boardroom in Manhattan.

Easton sat at the head of the table. Braydon stood at the projector, confidently presenting the final numbers for the European merger.

Braydon was smiling. He looked incredibly satisfied with himself, riding the high of whatever he had done the night before.

As Braydon paced near the head of the table, Easton inhaled.

The scent hit him.

It wasn't chamomile. It was the sickening, artificial stench of rose perfume, layered heavily over Braydon's natural Alpha scent.

Braydon had gone straight from his mistress's bed to the office.

A wave of pure, violent nausea rolled through Easton's stomach. The absolute disrespect. The sheer audacity of this pathetic Alpha, parading around covered in another Omega's scent while Alston was suffering.

Easton's vision tinted red.

He picked up the heavy metal laser pointer resting on the table.

He gripped it in both hands. His Enigma strength flared.

Snap.

The thick metal cylinder broke cleanly in two. A jagged edge of the broken metal sliced deep into the pad of Easton's thumb.

The loud crack echoed like a gunshot.

Braydon stopped mid-sentence. The entire room of executives froze in terror.

Easton didn't flinch. He didn't look at his bleeding thumb. He slowly raised his eyes and locked them onto Braydon.

"Your projections are garbage," Easton said. His voice was a deadly, quiet whisper that made the hair on the back of Braydon's neck stand up.

"Sir?" Braydon stammered, his confident smile vanishing. "The data is solid. We ran the models-"

"The models are flawed because you are incompetent," Easton interrupted, his voice rising in volume, laced with a crushing Enigma pressure. "You missed a five percent variance in the offshore accounts. You are careless. You are sloppy. And you are a liability to my company."

Braydon's face turned beet red. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the sheer weight of Easton's aura forced him to look down at the floor.

Easton pulled a wet wipe from the dispenser on the table and slowly wiped the blood from his thumb.

"Redo the entire portfolio," Easton ordered coldly. "And get out of my sight."

Braydon swallowed hard, gathered his files with shaking hands, and practically ran out of the room.

Easton tossed the bloody wipe into the trash.

He pulled out his phone beneath the table and typed a heavily encrypted message to his private legal team.

Get me a detailed, unredacted report of all business dealings and financial leverage between the Hayden family trust and the Lindsey manufacturing factories. I want every single document on my desk immediately.

It was past midnight when Braydon finally returned to the penthouse.

He was furious. The humiliation of being dressed down like an intern in front of the entire executive board burned in his chest. He had gone straight to a high-end Alpha club after work, drowning his bruised ego in expensive scotch.

He stumbled out of the private elevator, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. The heavy stench of alcohol radiated from his pores.

The penthouse was dark, except for a sliver of light spilling from beneath the guest bedroom door.

Braydon kicked off his shoes and walked heavily down the hallway. He shoved the guest room door open without knocking.

Alston was sitting at the small desk in the corner. He was hunched over a stack of his family's factory financial ledgers, desperately trying to find a way out of the debt.

The sudden crash of the door made Alston jump. He dropped his pen and spun around in his chair.

Because he was in his own home, and because his heat cycle had just ended, Alston's skin was highly sensitive. He wasn't wearing a Scent Patch on his neck.

The pure, unfiltered scent of chamomile flooded the room.

Braydon froze in the doorway.

The alcohol in his bloodstream reacted violently with the sudden hit of Omega pheromones. His S-class Alpha instincts, already agitated and aggressive from the humiliation at work, completely bypassed his rational brain.

His eyes dilated. He stared at the pale, exposed skin of Alston's neck.

He needed to assert dominance. He needed to mark his territory to prove he was still in control.

Braydon let out a low, guttural growl.

He lunged across the room.

Alston didn't even have time to scream. Braydon's massive weight slammed into him, knocking the heavy desk chair backward.

They crashed onto the hardwood floor. Alston's head cracked against the wood, sending a blinding flash of white light through his vision.

"Braydon, stop!" Alston gasped, pushing his hands against his husband's chest.

Braydon didn't listen. His heavy body pinned Alston to the floor. His large, rough hand clamped down on Alston's jaw, forcing his head to the side to expose the scent gland on his neck.

The suffocating smell of bourbon and aggressive Alpha pheromones made Alston gag.

"You're mine," Braydon slurred, his hot breath hitting Alston's skin. "You do what I say."

Braydon opened his mouth. His elongated Alpha canines grazed the delicate skin of Alston's neck.

Pure, primal terror exploded in Alston's chest. If Braydon bit him now, in this state, it would be a permanent, violent bond. It would destroy him.

Alston's hand scrambled blindly across the floorboards.

His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the heavy fountain pen he had dropped.

Alston gripped the pen tightly in his fist.

Just as Braydon drove his teeth down toward the flesh, Alston swung his arm up with every ounce of strength he had left.

He drove the sharp metal nib of the pen directly into the thick muscle of Braydon's bicep.

Braydon roared in pain.

The sudden shock of the puncture wound made Braydon's grip loosen for a fraction of a second.

Alston didn't hesitate. He shoved his knee hard into Braydon's stomach, scrambling out from underneath the heavy body.

He scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving, and sprinted out of the guest room.

He ran down the dark hallway and threw himself into the master bathroom. He slammed the heavy door shut and hit the deadbolt just as Braydon's weight crashed against the other side.

The wood splintered slightly under the impact.

"Open the door!" Braydon bellowed, pounding his fists against the wood. "Open the fucking door, Alston!"

Alston backed away until his legs hit the edge of the porcelain bathtub. He slid down to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. He clamped his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut as the violent pounding shook the walls.

He sat there, trembling uncontrollably, as the minutes dragged into hours.

Eventually, the pounding stopped. Braydon's angry shouts turned into slurred curses, and then, finally, silence.

Alston didn't move. He stayed curled in a ball on the cold tile floor until the first gray light of dawn crept through the frosted bathroom window.

He slowly lowered his hands. His body ached. His neck was bruised from Braydon's grip.

He looked up at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His clothes were torn. His eyes were hollow and dead.

This wasn't just a bad marriage anymore. This was a cage, and the animal inside it was trying to kill him.

Alston reached into the pocket of his pants.

His fingers pulled out the matte black business card.

He didn't hesitate this time. He didn't think about the consequences. He pulled out his phone and dialed the silver numbers.

The phone rang exactly once.

"Have you finally figured it out?" Easton's low, gravelly voice came through the speaker. The sound of it sent a strange, grounding shiver down Alston's spine.