The air above the grand podium simmered.
There was no blood, no physical fight—only the precise dance of strategy and ego.
In their world, destroying the opponent was secondary. What truly mattered was control. Absolute dominance.
Adam was in his element.
He moved with the natural confidence of a predator at the top of the food chain.
Every smile was a calculation, every gesture a silent declaration of power.
He was at home, surrounded by the imminent glory of the tournament.
That's when Damián saw him.
Far away, on the edge of the crowd, Adam seemed carved by the very light around him—less a man and more a living painting—ethereal, yet overwhelmingly real.
For a moment, the noise of the arena vanished.
The air fled from Damián's lungs.
And there, between them, floated the pain of a goodbye that never really happened.
Adam saw him too.
The glance they shared didn't last, but it cracked something.
Cracks in their pride, in the absence, in the unanswered questions.
Without thinking, Adam walked toward him.
The world around him blurred.
Nothing else existed—only the two of them.
A few meters apart, they faced each other.
Little by little, the distance between them became minimal, but it still felt like an abyss.
— "You... arrived..." — Adam's voice came out low, as if he were breathing for the first time.
— "No drama. I just ran a little late." — Damián smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes.
They didn't touch. Not yet.
But the space between them burned like a restrained embrace. Like a suspended desire.
While Adam and Damián floated in their own private universe, somewhere else in the crowd, the impact landed like a dry punch.
Disbelieving, Zeki Wilson saw him.
The figure solidified before him, his eyes betraying him—wide, refusing to process the grotesque reality unfolding.
Mason. Standing right there.
Alive. Present. Smiling.
The same Mason who had vanished without explanation or any significant reason—after the fight with Can-Bey, after the attack on the Wilson estate, after the chaos.
Mason had disappeared like a wildfire that consumes everything and vanishes without leaving smoke, without leaving a trace that it ever existed.
But now, he was there. Visible… And… There was someone very important with Mason; he wasn't by himself.
It was unbelievable. Mason was right there, standing beside Andrews Williams.
An Alpha Prime, just like his brother.
What was that *thing* doing near someone of such stature?
Something ignited inside Zeki—a surge of revolt, a spark barely contained.
No one disappeared without his brother Can-Bey Wilson's permission.
No omega. No beta. And especially not a simple sex worker—a worthless prostitute.
People like Mason didn't even have the right to a dignified existence.
The powerful ones, those who could pay, decided who arrived and who left.
Zeki Wilson's gaze locked in place—cold, sharp, laced with silent demands for an explanation.
A bitter disgust rose in his throat, Mason's presence scraping against his patience, violating his sight.
Zeki's glare remained fixed, cold, unwavering.
And that was the moment Mason froze.
He saw Zeki Wilson.
Mason felt the ground vanish beneath him.
The instant Zeki entered his field of vision, it was as if a glass ceiling had crashed down on him, trapping him and shattering his facade into a thousand pieces.
His blood pounded painfully at his temples, a relentless pulse.
His stomach twisted into a tight knot.
Fear burned through him like a forty-two-degree fever, a sharp chill slicing through every fiber of his body, prickling his skin, drying his mouth.
He was exposed. Uncovered.
Did Can-Bey find out?
Was the guilt already written on his face?
Panic tightened around him, suffocating.
The urge to run surged—desperate, primal.
But Mason knew—there was nowhere to run.
He tried to hold Zeki's gaze, tried to look whole, but his body betrayed him—his hands slick with cold sweat, his knees heavy as lead, threatening to buckle.
In an instinctive, almost primal reflex, he clutched Andrews' arm, gripping it with unnecessary force.
Andrews felt the sudden pressure, the sharp tension in Mason's hold.
The change in his breathing and the silent panic in Mason's eyes would have gone unnoticed by most—but not by him.
His gaze followed the direction Mason was staring—and found Zeki Wilson.
For a heartbeat, time froze.
Zeki approached, perfectly masked by polite indifference, and offered a faint smile.
It wasn't warm—a formal, almost imperceptible nod aimed at Andrews.
The kind of smile exchanged between long-time acquaintances.
But in Zeki's case, it carried a hidden chill, a veiled warning beneath the surface.
Andrews didn't break eye contact with Zeki.
His hand moved naturally, resting on Mason's back—a subtle but unmistakably protective gesture.
It wasn't an intimate embrace—it was a shield, an invisible barrier between Mason and Zeki's piercing gaze.
The message was clear: *he's with me.*
While Andrews held Zeki in his steady, defiant stare, a heavier presence lingered in the distance.
Can-Bey Wilson.
The air in the arena crackled with electricity, but for Can-Bey, everything narrowed to a single point: *Mason.*
He saw him there, leaning on Andrews Williams, parading himself like a new acquisition.
And somehow, Can-Bey felt like just another client.
His fingers clenched involuntarily, knuckles whitening under the silent pressure.
His jaw tightened, the movement nearly imperceptible.
Can-Bey didn't show it.
He wouldn't shout, wouldn't lash out, wouldn't give that damned prostitute the luxury of seeing him lose control.
But the bitter taste in his mouth was undeniable.
It was the taste of being replaced.
Mason, who had once laid in his bed as if it were an altar, now clung to another Alpha Prime like a refugee.
And the worst part? He was smiling.
Can-Bey didn't need to look again. He didn't have to.
Mason standing next to Andrews was like a blade reopening the same wound.
He didn't want Mason back. Not after he fled.
But he hated that Mason was fine.
He hated that he looked free.
And when Mason, in a pure reflex of terror, squeezed Andrews' arm—Can-Bey almost laughed.
He knows he still belongs to me, doesn't he?—he thought, his dark eyes locked on the scene.
No one disappears without my permission...
At that moment, Elizabeth Kadman stepped into the room, her flowing dress catching the light like moth wings.
Her eyes lit up the moment they found Damián.
— Damián, my dear! — She cupped his face in both hands, holding him as if he were a long-lost son. — I've missed you so much.
She pulled back slightly, still holding his arms, and smiled:
— You look absolutely stunning.
Damián leaned in, accepting the affection.
— Lady Elizabeth, you embarrass me with such generosity. I missed you too.
Malcolm Kadman, standing beside her, shook Benjamin Williams' hand with the smile of someone who never plays to lose.
— Benjamin. This year's competition will be… interesting.
Benjamin returned the handshake, his fingers gripping just a second longer than necessary.
— It always is, Malcolm. I never forget the day you lost to me.
Malcolm laughed, still holding his hand.
— You cheated, Benjamin. You threw dust in my eyes. You've always been a cheat.
Benjamin smiled, satisfied.
— And you've always been a terrible loser. The game never ends, Malcolm. Only the board changes.
They let go, but their eyes kept playing.
Mallet Campbell approached, his measured steps marked by the rhythm of his cane, steady like a war clock. Sarah Campbell followed behind, her smile as polished as the jewels around her neck.
— Benjamin. — Mallet nodded, a greeting exchanged between equals. — Your family is perfect. Congratulations.
— Lord Mallet, I appreciate it. — Benjamin accepted the compliment with the grace of someone who already knew.
Across the room, Aster broke away from the formal circle and ran toward Mason and Damián, his eyes shining with relief.
— Finally! — He huffed, throwing his arms in the air. — I was already squirming like a worm on a hook, shaking hands with hundreds of strangers.
Mason and Damián laughed.
Aster hugged them without ceremony, a firm, genuine bond—as if he had found a home between them.
For a moment, Mason allowed himself to relax.
There, among the Kadmans, Campbells, and Williams, he felt protected. He belonged.
— I was worried. I missed you both. Don't leave me behind again.
— We won't disappear again. It was just a quick escape. — Mason grumbled, lightly punching Aster's shoulder.
Their laughter mixed with the crowd's noise—a fleeting bubble of comfort.
Beatrice Phillips approached, arm in arm with Jared, but her eyes locked onto Aster like sharp claws. She hated him. That cursed bastard omega.
She swallowed the scene, poisoned by it.
Mallet's compliment to Benjamin burned her like vinegar: Benjamin had two dominant sons—Andrews and Damián. A solid dynasty.
Oliver, her legitimate son, was an excellent alpha, but not dominant. And Clarice, despite her good genes, wasn't enough.
How could Jared's bastard be the only dominant? The only heir with the superior trait?
Beatrice's blood boiled.
How could the bastard carry what should have belonged to Oliver?
Robert Phillips leaned discreetly toward Benjamin.
— Your alliance with the Kadmans is as valuable as Elizabeth's smile.
Benjamin didn't hesitate.
— Your union with the Campbells is also precious. — His eyes found Aster. — He is, without a doubt, your finest genetic legacy.
Robert bit down on a bitter smile.
— Curious, isn't it? — His eyes tracked Aster with clinical precision. — The omega inherited the best part of me. The dominant trait.
— Dominants will always be the most valuable currency. — Benjamin concluded, with the ease of someone speaking about assets.
— And they will always be the most dangerous. — Robert added, without hiding his pride.
The pride of being a dominant alpha who had successfully passed on the legacy that mattered most.
Across the hall, Ziggy wandered, wide-eyed, absorbing every detail like he had stumbled into another world.
— Is this a fairy tale castle? — he whispered, incredulous.
Andrews laughed—the first genuine expression he'd shown that night.
— Relax, Ziggy. This is just the lobby. — He winked, with the calm of someone who had long since mastered that world.
Ziggy shook his head, half in disbelief.
— If this is just the lobby, what the hell is the rest?
Andrews gave a half-smile.
— The rest? The rest is where the real game begins.
Meanwhile, Taylor May was chatting with Clarice Phillips. Gunnar and Gretta watched from a distance, carefully tracking the movements of the families around them.
— You haven't gotten over him yet, have you? — Taylor teased, her tense smile paired with a discreet glance at Aster.
Clarice pressed her lips together, feigning neutrality.
— "Getting over" is such an elegant word for such a ridiculous situation. I simply… don't comment.
Taylor let out a short laugh.
— Of course you don't comment. You're better than that—you collect grudges.
— And you collect disappointments, Taylor. Still dreaming about an impossible alpha?
— Maybe. — Taylor paused, her voice low. — Maybe I don't want to just dream anymore. Maybe I don't want to just watch.
The two of them laughed, sharp, bound together by pain and pride.
From afar, Gunnar watched the tight bond of the great families with dark, heavy eyes.
— One day, I'll pull someone away from that table. — he murmured, more to himself than to Gretta.
She simply placed her hand gently on her son's shoulder.
Adam was still standing beside Callum, replying with automatic phrases, his mind elsewhere, his gaze locked across the hall.
Locked on him.
On Damián.
He hated to admit it, but he couldn't stop looking.
At every gesture, every step—as if the whole world were pushing him toward that body he already knew better than his own home.
The body that was his.
— Adam? — Callum tilted his head, noticing his absence. — Are you even listening?
Adam smiled. That sharp, dangerous smile—the one you wear when you've already made a decision no one can stop.
— No.
And without another word, he left Callum behind.
The people, the glances, the sound of the hall—all of it faded into the background.
He crossed the distance with steady steps. There was no rush, but there was hunger. Hunger laced into every movement.
When he got close, Damián was already waiting—as if he had sensed Adam's path all along.
Their eyes met, and something invisible closed the space between them.
There was no discomfort.
There were no doubts.
There was only the two of them.
Adam stopped right in front of him—so close that Damián's scent hit him like a muffled punch.
Unmistakable pheromones. A biological signature that tore him apart from the inside.
He leaned in slowly, lowering his face until his lips nearly brushed Damián's ear.
— I bet you a kiss we're going to fuck tonight. — His voice came out low, deep, intimate. A clean, deliberate hit.
But before Damián could answer, Adam murmured, even closer:
— Actually… it's a terrible bet. Because you're already mine. You always were. And you know it.
Damián's body trembled subtly, his hands clenched into fists, as if trying to brace against the weight of those words—as if he could defend himself from the truth.
But he couldn't.
Their eyes locked again.
The smile tugging at the corner of Damián's mouth was an invitation, a challenge, and a surrender—all at once.
— Are you really betting? — Damián whispered, teasing him back.
Adam didn't hesitate.
— That bet's already lost.
And as if time had been waiting for that exact moment, he pulled Damián into a firm, warm, possessive embrace.
An embrace that was more than a touch—it was a silent scream: *you are my space, my scent, my absence, and my present.*
Damián melted into him like he had never left.
The kind of fit that isn't improvised—it's recognized.
Before letting go, Adam pressed his lips briefly to the curve of Damián's neck—a quick kiss, like a seal. A reminder. A mark.
That was when Benjamin Williams approached, clearing his throat softly—a discreet sound, but enough to remind them there was still an audience.
Adam turned slowly.
Benjamin was already extending his hand with ease, a sharp smile on his face, his gaze impossible to read.
— Good to see you too. — The handshake was firm, laced with dry humor and the old authority of someone who knew exactly where he stood.
Adam held his hand, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
— The honor is mine. — he replied, with a subtle reverence in his eyes, as if quietly answering: *I know exactly what you're telling me.*
Damián watched them both in silence, a quiet smile forming on his lips, the warmth of Adam's embrace still lingering on his skin.
*Having a father… maybe it feels like this.*
Benjamin released Adam's hand and, with a final glance of veiled approval, walked away—leaving behind a message well delivered: *that's my son.*
That was when Sarah Campbell appeared, her posture impeccable as always, clapping her hands softly to gather the guests' attention.
— Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to gather. The opening speech will begin shortly. — She smiled with graceful efficiency, then turned on her heels, ready to lead the next part of the event.
Adam glanced at Damián one last time, his eyes still loaded with intention.
— Later. — he said, low, like a promise.
— Later. — Damián replied, as if he'd been waiting for that all along.
As the two of them separated and walked to their respective places, the hall seemed whole again—but they knew: nothing would feel whole until they found each other again later.