The concert hall descended into utter chaos. Orchestra members rose in alarm, their instruments forgotten. Ushers rushed forward, their shouts of concern lost in the frantic murmurs of a shocked audience. All eyes were on the crumpled omega on the stage floor, and on the alpha that had raced to crouch over him and shield him from view.
Jaemin's body was a dead weight in Do-hyun's arms as he cradled him, his face pale and clammy, his breath a ragged whisper. The panicked cherry blossom scent was a screaming tempest around them, an explosion of pure, unadulterated essence now that it was no longer suppressed, no longer a faint whisper. It was the scent his own alpha instincts had been searching for, had been drawn to, all along.
The roar in his mind was replaced by a singular, deafening clarity, unlocking a million tiny memories—the indescribable, magnetic pull during the Adagio, spark every time they touched, the overwhelming demand to protect the omega in his arms.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't music.
Do-hyun held Jaemin closer, his eyes blazing, a feral growl rumbling in his chest like low thunder before a storm. He noticed it then, a faint scent clinging to Jaemin's skin and clothes. It was strange, out of place—the refined, almost regal aroma of black tea and bitter bergamot. It wasn't Jaemin's scent, and it wasn't Do-hyun's. It was the ghost of a presence, a lingering note of a different kind of man, and its elegance felt sharp and wrong between them.
His gaze, sharp and full of lethal intent, swept past the shocked faces, beyond the flashing phone cameras, and finally alighted on the balcony, on the singular figure of Choi Seungcheol. The alpha was still seated, smiling. A cold, triumphant smirk, his cruel eyes full of chilling satisfaction.
He raised his hand in a slow, mocking wave.
Do-hyun's fury, a searing, white-hot blaze, was absolute. The promise he had made to Jaemin echoed in his mind: We won't let him.
But now, Choi Seungcheol had done just that, gotten to them, stolen their moment of shared victory, everything Jaemin had been struggling to rebuild with sweat and tears in the SPS. The profound sense of triumph had been completely eclipsed by the suffocating, feverish heat now coursing through his veins. The image of Jaemin, white and shaking like a leaf even as he adamantly refused to run, flashed through his mind, and in that moment, all that mattered was protecting the omega in his arms, and a single, fierce, terrifying thought:
Choi Seungcheol would pay for this.
"What's happening? Is he okay?" the stage manager yelled, rushing over, her face a mask of panic as she reached for Jaemin. "Is the Maestro okay?"
Do-hyun's protective instincts flared. "Don't touch him!" he snarled, his voice a low, commanding rumble that made the stage manager flinch back immediately. Do-hyun rocked back, pulling Jaemin's body against his—so light, why… why was he so light??—gathering him up in a single, fluid motion, his powerful cedar scent a billowing shield against the other scents in the chaos as he carried his conductor off the stage, away from the crowd and chaos.
As they reached the quiet of the back hallway, Do-hyun looked down at the man in his arms, his heart aching. Jaemin was shivering, his face flushed and body hot, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps.
With a sickening jolt, Do-hyun realized that this wasn't just a simple faint. Even without knowing very much about omegas, he instinctively recognized what was happening. This was the onset of a full heat; Jaemin's natural rhythm, shunned and kept at bay for so long by years of suppressants, was finally buckling under the immense strain.
Lips pressed together in a thin, grim line, Do-hyun made for the exit, knowing that whatever he did next would not only define their future, but would also determine if Jaemin would be able to make it to tomorrow.