Dax stayed leaning against the observation glass, one shoulder to the frame, arms folded. From here the holding room was a pale, sterile box; he could smell stone dust and metal through the vents, faint and clean, a backdrop to the far stronger scent that still clung to his palms from the villa.
Chris.
Even scrubbed clean, even dulled by exhaustion, that scent had been a miracle. Dominant omegas were almost a myth now; Lucas had been a once-in-a-generation fluke. And somehow, through a string of chance and timing, he had found another before anyone else had.
He thought of Jason on the other side of the glass. Men like him didn't court miracles. They caught them, drugged them, forced them into heat, and used them to awaken recessives and to chain them to alphas who would be dependent forever. If Jason had gotten to Chris first… Dax's jaw flexed once, the only outward sign of the fury coiled under his skin.
