He brought him into a hotel room, laying him gently on the bed. But the moment he let go, Riven reached again, fingers curling into his shirt, fumbling with the buttons.
"I'm hot," Riven whispered over and over, voice thick with need and confusion.
"Stop." The man caught his hands, holding them firm. He sat beside him, grounding the moment with quiet strength.
"You shouldn't be doing this," he said. "You reek of Omega pheromones."
He looked at Riven—and saw everything.
The fear. The fire. The scent clings like betrayal.
Rage simmered. Not at Riven—but at the world that had done this to him. That had left him vulnerable. That had taught him to hate what he was.
And beneath that rage, something else stirred.
A need to protect. To claim. To rewrite the scars others had carved into him.
"Wait—" he started, voice unsteady. But Riven was already on him. The kiss landed fast, reckless. Like he didn't care who this man was—only what he needed.
For a moment, the stranger froze. Shock punched through him. The pheromones were everywhere, heavy in the air, tearing at his self-control. Riven wasn't thinking. Couldn't. And the worst part? He knew it.
The man grabbed his arm, trying to push him back. "Are you trying to make me lose it?" His voice broke, half-gasp, half-snarl.
Riven didn't answer. He yanked his shirt up, baring skin pale and fever-bright. For a heartbeat, the man's breath caught. That shouldn't matter. But it did.
"I hate it," Riven muttered, voice low, shaking. "I hate how I smell. It's like it's not even me."
He kept tugging at his clothes, mumbling about the heat, the scent, the way it clung like shame.
"I said stop," the man snapped, grabbing Riven's wrists, holding him together by force alone.
But Riven didn't stop. His fingers slid up, curled behind the man's neck, and he dragged him into another kiss. No warning. No words. Just raw, aching need.
It was messy. Too much. And for a second—he let it happen.
Then he wrenched back, breath ragged. "You need to stop," he whispered, voice rough. "You need to lie down."
"No." Riven's answer was barely a breath, but it struck like thunder. "I need this to end. I can't take it anymore."
He reached again, trembling. "I hate it. I hate the smell. I hate what it's doing to me."
His grip tightened, pulling the man close, eyes wide with pleading. "I need you."
The man's jaw locked. His voice dropped low, tight. "Do you even know what you're saying?"
Because he knew Riven wasn't himself. Not with pheromones this thick. Not with his body screaming for relief.
"I want you," Riven whispered, voice broken, seductive in its desperation.
Heat clawed through him, relentless. The ache. The instinct he'd buried for so long—it was all crashing down now.
"Help me erase this scent," Riven begged. "I don't want it. I don't want to smell like this."
He kissed him again—harder this time, like his life depended on it.
And for one terrible heartbeat, the man almost kissed him back.
The kiss landed hard. Desperate. Riven wasn't asking—he was begging with his body. He moved like something inside him had snapped, like the heat had burned through every layer of control he had left.
The man caught his wrist, tried to push him back. "Are you trying to drive me insane?" he gasped, eyes locked on Riven's flushed face.
But Riven didn't stop. He yanked his shirt up, exposing pale skin, sweat shimmering across toned abs. For a second, the man froze. Just that glimpse was enough to rattle him.
"I hate it," Riven muttered, voice low and shaking. "I hate how I smell. Make it go away."
His hands fumbled at his clothes, tugging, restless, like he could peel the shame off his own skin.
"I said stop," the man growled, catching his wrists before he could strip further.
But Riven surged up again, fingers curling behind his neck, pulling him into another kiss. No warning. No hesitation. Just raw, aching need.
Desperation crashed against desire. And for a heartbeat, he let it happen.
Then he broke away, breath uneven. "You need to stop," he whispered. His voice was rough, but the edges frayed softer.
"You need to lie down."
"No." Riven's answer was barely a breath, but it struck like thunder. "I need this to end. I can't take it anymore."
He reached for him again, trembling. "I hate it. I hate what it's doing to me."
His grip tightened, pulling the man closer, eyes pleading. "I need you."
The man's jaw clenched. His voice dropped low, tight. "Do you even know what you're saying?"
Because he knew Riven wasn't himself. Not with pheromones this thick. Not with his body screaming for relief.
"I want you," Riven whispered. His voice was broken, seductive in its desperation.
Heat clawed through him, relentless. The ache. The instinct he'd buried for so long—it was all crashing through now.
"Help me erase this scent," Riven begged. "I don't want it. I don't want to smell like this."
He kissed him again—hard, desperate—like his life depended on it.
And this time, all restraint from this man collapsed, and then he kissed him back. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was rewriting every trace of someone else with his own. His touch was careful, fingertips grazing Riven's wrist as though testing the edge of a flame.
His mouth brushed against his temple, slid to his ear, and the words spilled out in a whisper.
Their bodies burned with the same heat, breaths tangling, skin slick with want. Riven tried to shift on top of him—but the man moved first. Effortless. In a single motion, he had Riven pinned beneath him.
"You're not topping me, my scented Alpha," he murmured, voice low, teasing against Riven's cheek.
Riven's pride wanted to fight, but his body betrayed him. The stranger's pheromones rolled over him—heady, grounding, impossible to resist. They didn't choke him like the Omegas had. They soothed him. Drew him under.
And gods, he wanted it. Wanted to be touched. Wanted to be undone.
The man kissed him again—slow, reverent—like every inch of Riven's skin deserved worship. His lips traced collarbone and throat, drinking in his scent until his pupils flared, violet burning into something darker. Hungrier.
Slate-grey dissolved to a red that no human should have worn. Middlemist Red. Heat and hunger. Instinct clawing at the edges. His mouth hovered at the curve of Riven's neck, right above the place where bond marks bloom.
Bite. Mark. Claim.
Every nerve in Riven's body screamed for it. But he froze.
Because he knew if he marked him now, they'd be bound—forever.
His jaw clenched. Breath ragged. "I won't mark you," he whispered, voice breaking with restraint. "Not like this. But I can take away their scent. If you'll let me…"
Riven's chest heaved. His voice wouldn't come, so he nodded. Silent.
Surrendering.
Riven lay beneath him, chest heaving, body burning. He should have resisted. Should have fought. Instead, he let go.
The man's hands traced him slowly, reverent rather than rushed, peeling away clothes with care. Not torn. Not frantic. Just folded aside, as if stripping away shame instead of fabric.
His mouth followed, mapping Riven's body in soft vows—collarbone, chest, stomach—each kiss whispering you are not filthy, you are not less.
Riven trembled, caught between humiliation and relief. No one had ever touched him like this. Like he was precious. Like the last page of a forbidden book.