The squad car pulled to a rhythmic, gravel-crunching halt in front of the Lockwood estate. The mansion sat atop the hill like a monument to vanity, its white marble columns gleaming under the fading sun like the bleached ribs of a giant.
Joshua leaned out of the window, letting out a low, melodic whistle that cut through the stagnant air. "Well, well. So this is where the legendary Kay Lockwood hides his secrets. It looks more like a museum than a home."
Zephyr didn't answer immediately. He stepped out of the car, his movements possessing a clinical, liquid grace. He adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses, his violet eyes scanning the architecture with the precision of a laser. He let out a weary sigh, shaking his head at Joshua's lack of professional decorum.
"A museum is a place for the dead, Joshua," Zephyr murmured, his voice a cool baritone. "Let us hope we are here to find a witness, not a ghost. Now, follow my lead. We are here as seekers of truth, not fans seeking an autograph."
They moved toward the grand entrance, their silhouettes stretching long and thin across the driveway.
Inside the master suite, the atmosphere was suffocating. Kay Lockwood was no longer an icon; he was a frantic animal caught in a gilded trap.
He sat in the center of his massive, silk-draped bed, his legs pulled tightly against his chest in a fetal position. His fingers were tangled in his blonde hair, his brown eyes darting toward the door at every imagined sound.
The silence of the room was shattered by the resonant, jarring chime of the grand doorbell.
Kay flinched, his entire body jolting as if he had been struck. "No," he whispered, his voice a ragged tremor. "Not yet. Please, not yet."
Downstairs, Calder Ashborne stood in the security hub, his golden eyes fixed on the monitor. The screen displayed two figures. One was a man in a police uniform, his expression breezy and deceptively light. The other was a taller man in a dark coat, his violet eyes seeming to look directly into the camera lens with a terrifying, soulful clarity.
Calder felt a cold shiver cascade down his spine. These weren't the usual reporters or star-struck fans. These were hunters.
He looked back toward the stairs, thinking of the shivering man hiding under the sheets. He had to be the wall. He had to ensure that Kay's fracture didn't become a total collapse. With a sharp, decisive movement, Calder pressed the button to unlock the grand door.
Kay, hearing the heavy clunk of the lock, scrambled backward. He dragged the heavy, ivory-colored sheets over his head, burying himself in a dark, cotton-scented cave.
"I don't want to do anything on purpose," he sobbed, the sound muffled by the fabric. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Tristan. I'm sorry, Iisdore or whatever your name is. Please just go away."
The weight of the money in the wardrobe and the memory of the cold steel in his hand felt like an anchor, pulling him deeper into the dark.
The front door swung open with a heavy, expensive groan.
Calder stood in the threshold, his broad shoulders blocking the view of the foyer. His face was a mask of professional indifference, but his golden eyes were narrowed, alert for any tactical threat.
"Hey there," Joshua chirped, flashing a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Quite a fortress you've got here. Can we meet the pretty celebrity? Just for a quick chat? We're huge fans... of justice."
Calder didn't move an inch. "Mr. Lockwood is indisposed. He is in no mood to receive guests, official or otherwise. I suggest you make an appointment through his agency."
Joshua didn't wait for permission. He stepped forward, invading Calder's personal space with a casual audacity. He tilted his head, attempting to sniff the air like he'd seen Zephyr do, but he lacked the detective's supernatural olfactory range. He just ended up laughing weirdly, a sharp, staccato sound that echoed in the hallway.
"What exactly are you doing, Officer?" Calder asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low-frequency growl.
"Just taking in the atmosphere!" Joshua winked at Calder, leaning against the doorframe. "Being an actor must be so stressful. All those props, all those knives... it's a lot to keep track of, isn't it?"
Calder felt a wave of disgust wash over him. He looked at Joshua as if the man were a particularly annoying insect. "Your point, Officer? Or are you here to audition for a comedy role?"
While Joshua played the "annoying cop," Zephyr moved in silence. He stepped up beside Joshua, standing a bit too close to Calder.
Zephyr closed his eyes. He didn't look at the house; he felt it. He inhaled slowly, filtering out the smell of floor wax and expensive lilies.
Then, he found it.
Beneath the surface layer of the home's fragrance was a sharp, lingering note. Oudh. Hemlock. The dark, resinous signature of Ormonde Jayne. It was everywhere—clinging to the air vents, embedded in the carpet, and radiating off the man standing before them.
Zephyr's violet eyes snapped open. He looked at Joshua and gave a single, microscopic nod, his eyes momentarily closing in a silent signal.
Joshua's eyes widened. The game was over. He had the confirmation he needed.
Joshua turned his smirk back to Calder, his tone shifting from breezy to biting. "Well, since your 'dear master' is in such a foul mood, we wouldn't want to disturb his beauty sleep. He needs his rest for the big performance tomorrow."
The use of the word dear made Calder's jaw tighten. He stepped forward, his golden eyes flashing with a protective heat. "Watch your tongue, Officer. Mr. Lockwood has done nothing. You have no evidence, no search warrant, and no right to be here."
Joshua chuckled, waving a hand dismissively as he and Zephyr began to back away. "Yeah, yeah. Details, details. We'll figure out who did what soon enough. It's amazing what people leave behind when they're in a hurry."
Joshua flickered his fingers toward Zephyr, and they both turned their backs on the mansion. The grand door slammed shut behind them with a finality that felt like a gavel hitting a block.
As they reached the car, Joshua practically skipped to the driver's side. He slapped his hand onto the roof, looking at Zephyr with a triumphant grin.
"So? Did you find it? Did the 'pretty detective' smell the rat?"
Zephyr pushed his glasses up his nose, his expression regaining its icy, intellectual composure. "Of course, Joshua. The scent of Ormonde Jayne is saturated in that foyer. It was on the bodyguard, it was in the vents. Kay Lockwood didn't just switch the knife; he practically bathed in the evidence before doing it."
Joshua squealed with a short, victorious burst of laughter. "Yes! Man, it wasn't even a challenge. We've got him. Now we just need to let our 'partners' know that we found the snake in the grass."
Zephyr turned his head away, a rare, faint blush creeping onto his pale cheekbones. "What exactly do you mean by 'our partners'?"
Joshua blinked, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. "Oh, sorry! I thought you and that pretty manager of my brother—what was his name? Yeah, Jesper? I thought you guys were a 'team' now. You certainly looked like you were analyzing more than just his 'demographics' back at the studio."
Zephyr's blush deepened. "I was conducting a professional assessment. His involvement as a manager makes him a person of interest."
"Sure, sure," Joshua smirked, sliding into the car. "He's a person of 'interest,' alright. Should we celebrate our win? Maybe dinner at Isidore davenant house? I hear the Davenant chef is world-class."
Zephyr pushed Joshua's hand away from the gear shift, his face set in a mask of serious focus, though his heart was racing in a way that defied logic.
"We have work to do, Joshua. Don't be absurd."
But as the car sped away from the Lockwood mansion, another handsome Alpha was beginning to realize that the most dangerous part of the investigation wasn't the crime—it was the distraction.
The heavy, velvet silence of the library had been replaced by the sterile, sun-drenched quiet of Leon's private quarters.
Maurice's eyes fluttered open, his consciousness returning in jagged, disorienting fragments. The first thing he registered was the scent—a sharp, clean aroma of cedarwood and expensive sandalwood soap. It was the olfactory fingerprint of the man who had, quite literally, unraveled him hours prior.
As the fog of sleep lifted, the memory of their collision returned with a visceral, white-hot intensity. Maurice's cheeks ignited, a vivid crimson flush creeping up to the tips of his ears.
"That bastard," he hissed, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that felt raw in his throat.
He pushed himself upright, the fine silk sheets sliding down his chest.
It was then that he realized he was no longer slick with sweat or the vestiges of their encounter. He had been meticulously cleaned, his skin smelling of the same bracing shampoo Leon used.
But the real indignity lay in his attire.
Maurice looked down at his frame. He was wearing a slate-grey Henley shirt that swallowed his torso, the hem reaching mid-thigh. The sleeves were rolled up multiple times, yet they still threatened to slip over his hands. He realized with a jolt of embarrassed shame that these were Leon's clothes.
He slid out of bed, his feet hitting the cold hardwood, and caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
He looked... ridiculous. Or perhaps, more accurately, he looked claimed. His short brown hair was a chaotic nest, no longer tied back in its usual, severe knot. The oversized shirt hung off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone and the faint, darkening marks Leon's teeth had left behind.
"Why wouldn't it be gargantuan?" Maurice muttered, tugging irritably at the fabric. "It belongs to that prehistoric beast."
A man of science, a physician of high standing—and yet here he was, drowning in the threads of a Beta enforcer who seemed to have no regard for the natural order of things.
The door handle turned with a heavy, mechanical click.
Maurice spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Leon stepped into the room, looking like a man who had just returned from a medieval siege. His white shirt was rumpled, the top buttons undone to reveal the powerful column of his neck, and his blonde hair was damp with perspiration.
He had spent the last hour acting as the Davenant estate's primary shield, dispersing the frenzied mob with a cold, lethal efficiency that had left him physically drained.
However, the moment Leon's mismatched eyes landed on the figure by the mirror, the exhaustion vanished as if it had never existed.
He froze, his breath hitching. There stood his "Doctor," bathed in the soft afternoon light, looking soft and petulant in Leon's own clothes. The sight of Maurice trying to pull the neckline of the oversized shirt back into place—his face a mask of adorable, volcanic fury—caused a surge of protective possessiveness to roar through Leon's veins.
"You're awake," Leon whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming affection
Maurice's head snapped toward him, his brown eyes flashing with a lethal, "lava-like" temper. "Why the hell would you put your pathetic clothes on me, you absolute bastard? Do you have no sense of decorum? I look like a child playing dress-up!"
Leon didn't answer with words. He moved with a sudden, predatory speed that caught Maurice entirely off guard. Despite Maurice's respectable height of 188 centimeters, Leon loomed over him at 193, a towering wall of muscle and obsidian intent.
Before Maurice could launch another verbal assault, Leon reached down and scooped him up.
Maurice let out a sharp, undignified gasp, his hands instinctively flying to Leon's broad shoulders to steady himself. Leon didn't just lift him; he held him high, as if Maurice weighed no more than a bundle of silk.
"You're way too light, Doctor," Leon murmured, his face inches from Maurice's. "We need to get some real food into you. You're all fire with no fuel."
"You idiot! Put me down this instant!" Maurice barked, though the effect was ruined by the frantic thumping of his heart against Leon's chest. "Put me down or I swear I will—"
Leon didn't let him finish. He tightened his embrace, burying his face into the crook of Maurice's neck, his nose brushing against the pulse point that was fluttering like a trapped bird.
"Or else what, Doctor?" Leon smirked, his voice vibrating against Maurice's skin. "Are you going to scold me like an old physician? Are you going to give me a lecture on personal space?"
Maurice felt a wave of shamelessness wash over him. damn it. He should be the one asserting dominance, the one providing the anchor. But in Leon's arms, the world felt strangely tilted.
The Beta was the one holding the power. The Beta was the one offering the peace.
"Put me down," Maurice repeated, though the venom had leaked out of his voice, replaced by a soft, frustrated sigh.
"No way," Leon whispered, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of his shampoo mixed with Maurice's own spicy, clinical aroma. "Just let me hold you a bit longer. It was loud outside, Maurice. Everyone was screaming. But in here... with you... it's the only place I can hear myself think."
Maurice looked down at the blonde head resting against his chest. He wanted to push him away, to reclaim his dignity and his severe, sterile persona. But the way Leon clung to him—obsessive, desperate, and oddly tender—melted the ice around his heart.
He turned his head sharply away, refusing to look at Leon's "damn handsome face," but his hands didn't push. Instead, his fingers curled slightly into the fabric of Leon's shirt.
For the first time in his life, Leon—the man born to be a secondary player in the world of Alphas—had found a singular, quiet peace.
And he had found it in the arms of a narrow-minded doctor with a temper like a wildfire.
It was a beautiful, chaotic subversion of nature.