Chapter 4

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.