Bred by My Ex's Boss

A dull, rhythmic throb hammered behind Easton Marks's eyes.

He sat at the head of the massive mahogany table in the Marks Tech boardroom. The air conditioning was set to a freezing sixty-five degrees, yet a thin layer of cold sweat coated his spine.

His Enigma biology was tearing him apart from the inside out.

The pheromonal dysregulation had been worsening for months. Right now, it felt like someone was dragging a serrated blade down his spinal cord. His lungs tightened with every breath he took. He needed an anchor. He needed a scent that did not make his stomach churn with violent rejection.

Instead, he was trapped in a room with twelve terrified executives.

The Chief Financial Officer stood at the projector. The man was trembling. Drops of sweat gathered at his hairline as he stammered through the quarterly revenue margins. The CFO's nervous Alpha scent-a sour mix of stale sweat and cheap cologne-flooded the room.

It made the bile rise in Easton's throat.

Easton pinched the bridge of his nose. The pain behind his eyes flared into a blinding white light. He reached for the heavy titanium fountain pen resting on the table.

He gripped the pen. His knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

The CFO stuttered over a decimal point.

A sharp crack echoed through the dead silence of the boardroom.

Easton had snapped the solid titanium pen cleanly in half. Black ink spilled across his fingers, dripping onto the pristine wood.

The CFO stopped talking instantly. The color drained from his face. Every executive at the table froze, their eyes fixed on the broken metal in their CEO's hand.

"There are three fatal errors in your projections," Easton said. His voice was dangerously low. It scraped against the quiet room like sandpaper. "You failed to account for the European tax tariffs, you miscalculated the supply chain deficit, and you are lying about the offshore retention rates."

The CFO opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked like he was going to vomit.

Before Easton could fire the man on the spot, the heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open.

The sudden movement drew every terrified pair of eyes to the entrance.

Braydon Hayden walked into the room.

Braydon was an S-class Alpha, the head of the acquisitions department. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than most people made in a year. He rolled his broad shoulders back and tipped his chin up in that arrogant, entitled way he always did.

"Apologies for the delay," Braydon said. His voice carried no actual remorse. "The merger documents required a final signature from legal."

Braydon walked straight toward the head of the table. He stopped right beside Easton's chair and held out the thick manila folder.

Easton did not look up at him. He was too busy trying to force air into his burning lungs. He reached out with his clean hand to take the file.

His fingertips brushed against the rough edge of the paper.

At that exact second, the central air conditioning kicked on. A rush of cold air blew down from the ceiling vent directly above them. It caught the fabric of Braydon's suit jacket and swept across the manila folder.

The air washed over Easton's face.

Easton stopped breathing.

A scent hit the back of his throat. It was faint. Barely there. But it was the most devastatingly pure thing he had ever encountered in his thirty-two years of life.

Chamomile.

It was not the artificial, cloying scent of a perfume. It was raw, sweet, and laced with a desperate, quiet sorrow. It smelled like rain on crushed flowers.

The second that scent entered his bloodstream, the agonizing pain in Easton's spine vanished.

The violent storm of his Enigma pheromones flatlined into perfect, terrifying stillness. His heart slammed against his ribs, beating so hard it bruised his chest. A heavy, dark heat coiled in the pit of his stomach.

It was the cure. It was the anchor his biology had been screaming for.

Easton's fingers clamped down on the manila folder. He gripped it so hard the thick paper crushed in his hand. The loud crinkling sound made the executives flinch.

Easton slowly lifted his head.

His eyes locked onto Braydon. He inhaled deeply through his nose, dragging the air into his lungs. He was trying to dissect the scent, to find the exact source.

The chamomile was clinging to Braydon's collar and the cuffs of his shirt.

Easton's vision narrowed until the rest of the boardroom ceased to exist. He stared at the pulse beating in the side of Braydon's neck, right above the knot of his silk tie.

A primal, horrific urge ripped through Easton's brain.

He wanted to drag this Alpha across the mahogany table. He wanted to sink his Enigma fangs into that neck and claim the scent until it belonged to him and only him. The thought was biologically insane. Enigmas did not mate with Alphas. It went against every law of nature.

But Easton's body did not care. His biology was starving, and the food was standing right in front of him.

Braydon shifted his weight. He noticed the way his boss was staring at him. The arrogant tilt of his chin faltered. He took a half-step back, his Alpha instincts screaming at him to retreat from the apex predator in the room.

Easton realized what he was doing.

He reached for his left wrist with his ink-stained hand. He twisted the cold platinum band of his watch, digging the metal into his skin. The sharp physical pain grounded him just enough to stop him from lunging out of his chair.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he forced the saliva down his dry throat.

"Report the core data," Easton ordered. His voice was entirely unrecognizable. It was a hoarse, guttural growl that belonged to an animal, not a CEO.

He threw the crushed folder onto the table and opened it, staring blindly at the numbers to hide the dark flush creeping up his neck.

Braydon cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. He stepped up to the projector and began to speak.

Easton did not hear a single word.

Every time Braydon paced across the front of the room, the scent of chamomile drifted over the table. It was agonizing. It was a physical torture. The scent would wrap around Easton's senses, soothe his burning nerves, and then fade away, leaving him starving for more.

Easton's hands shook where they rested on his thighs. The muscles in his jaw locked so tight his teeth ground together.

He could not take it anymore.

Easton shoved his chair back. The heavy chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor. The screeching sound cut Braydon off mid-sentence.

Easton stood up. He towered over everyone in the room.

"We are done here," Easton said.

He did not wait for a response. He turned and walked toward the double doors.

As he passed Braydon, Easton intentionally stepped too close. His shoulder brushed against Braydon's arm. In that fraction of a second, Easton inhaled a massive, greedy lungful of the chamomile scent.

The pure sweetness of it punched him right in the chest.

Easton pushed through the doors and walked out.

Braydon stood frozen by the projector. He stared at the empty doorway, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He had no idea what he had just done to provoke that kind of suffocating pressure.

Easton did not stop walking until he reached the top floor.

He shoved his way into his private office and slammed the heavy door shut behind him. He reached out and threw the deadbolt.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan and pressed both of his palms flat against the cold glass. He leaned his forehead against the window, dragging in huge, ragged breaths.

His chest heaved. He reached up and ripped his tie loose, popping the top two buttons of his shirt.

The Enigma possessiveness inside him was clawing at his ribs, demanding he go back down there and take what was his.

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

"Mr. Marks," his assistant's voice came through the speaker. "Do you need me to page the medical team?"

Easton walked over to the desk and slammed his fist down on the disconnect button, cutting her off.

He walked to the private bar in the corner of the office. He grabbed a crystal glass and a bottle of scotch. He poured the amber liquid until it reached the brim and downed it in one swallow.

The alcohol burned a fiery path down his throat, but it did absolutely nothing to numb his nerves.

The scent of chamomile was permanently burned into his brain.

Easton slammed the empty glass down on the marble counter. He pressed the intercom button again.

"Get me the complete personnel file on Braydon Hayden," Easton demanded. "Everything. I want it on my screen in sixty seconds."

He did not wait for an answer. He walked back to his desk and stared at the blank monitor.

A minute later, the screen lit up. Braydon's detailed background check appeared.

Easton scrolled past the education history and the financial portfolios. His eyes scanned the personal details section.

His gaze stopped dead.

Under the marital status, there was a single word.

Married.

The partner's name and details were redacted, locked behind a high-level privacy block.

Easton stared at the word. A dark, twisted sense of relief washed over him, followed immediately by a violent surge of jealousy.

If Braydon was married, the scent did not belong to him. It belonged to his mate.

Easton picked up the crystal glass from the desk. He squeezed it.

The glass shattered in his hand. Shards bit into his palm, mixing blood with the black ink still staining his skin.

Easton did not feel the pain. He just stared at the screen, a cold, predatory smile forming on his lips.

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.