"You came back alone?" Riven's brother asked, eyes narrowing as he stepped into the grand foyer of the Villerian mansion. "Where's your omega?"
The others were already waiting—siblings, cousins—perched like vultures. They'd expected him to return bonded, dragging behind some trembling omega marked for life.
Riven didn't slow down. "What omega?"
He tried to pass, but his brother blocked him. His head was pounding, his back sore, muscles heavy as stone. He didn't have the strength for their games. He just wanted silence.
"Tell us what happened," his brother pressed, grabbing his wrist.
Riven yanked free, eyes sharp. "What do you think happened?"
"You were supposed to find your match," someone muttered.
He barked a laugh—raw, bitter. "Oh, right. I was supposed to lose control. Tear into every omega in heat like some starving beast? That's what you call bonding?"
He stepped forward, voice rising.
"You locked me in that hall to prove I'd snap. You didn't want to help me—you wanted to trap me. To see if the S-Class would finally fall."
Their faces shifted, unease creeping in.
"Well, I didn't break."
The silence cracked like glass.
"An S-Class should've folded," one cousin whispered.
Riven's gaze cut through them. "Maybe yours would have. But I'm not like you."
His voice dropped, low and steady.
"Throw every underhanded trick you have. I won't play your game. I'm an S-Class Alpha for a reason. Maybe it's time for you to start recognizing I am above you.."
"What the hell did you just say?" another cousin asked, tentative.
"I don't need your gifts. I don't want them. And I'm done talking."
He turned, climbing the stairs, body dragging but stride unshaken. Halfway up, he passed his father's omega partner. They didn't speak, but the look they shared—quiet, knowing—was enough. Maybe even proud.
Riven didn't glance back. His head was still spinning, and he couldn't care less about their whispers. He kept walking, step by step, until the house swallowed him.
Behind him, the venom began to drip.
"How the hell did he get out of that hall?" someone muttered. "With that many omegas in heat? An S-Class should've folded."
Another voice, low, grudging: "Doesn't matter. He clawed his way out. That bastard's made of steel."
And finally, the knife:
"He won't last. He's just like his mother—shameless. Filthy."
But Riven was gone, the echo of his defiance heavier than their words.
Inside his room, Riven slammed the door and tore off his shirt. His skin burned, feverish, like it was trying to crawl off his bones. Cold water—that was all he could think of.
He dropped into the tub, steam rising around him, trying to drown the fire beneath his skin. But the heat wasn't just a fever. It was a memory.
The stranger's touch replayed again and again—fingers at his waist, lips grazing his throat, breath hot and unrelenting. He hadn't seen the man's face, not clearly. Just scent and sensation, blurred into one. But his body remembered.
His sore back. His aching waist. Proof of what happened.
And the longer he sat, the worse it got. The discomfort melted into something else—something dangerous. His breath hitched. His hand wandered to his neck, then down across his chest, tracing where the phantom touch still lingered.
"Stop it, Riven," he muttered, snapping his eyes open. "Pathetic."
He forced himself upright, water sloshing over porcelain.
"One night. A mistake. It won't happen again."
The words felt thin, brittle. He clenched his jaw, staring at the tiled wall.
"You can't be weak. Not here. Not in this house. They're waiting for you to break."
And they were. Every cousin, every sibling. To them, Riven was the anomaly—the threat. Born of a disgraced Omega, yet stronger than them all. An S-Class Alpha their pride couldn't endure.
So they watched. Cold stares. Cutting whispers. Waiting for the crack.
He'd never given them one. Until that night.
He'd tried to bury it, call it heat, mistake, accident. But something was wrong. His body. His scent. Even his instincts. Off-kilter. Different.
Different enough that his grandfather noticed.
When the old man summoned him, Riven knew something was coming.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Riven," his grandfather said, voice calm but sharp. "But did you mark an Omega?"
Riven froze. "What? No. You know I hate their scent. How could I—"
"You smell different. Sweet." The man's eyes narrowed, studying him like a blade under glass. "That's not how your pheromones used to be."
Riven's chest went tight. Sweet. He hadn't noticed it—until now.
"Your cousins said they were planning something," his grandfather pressed. "So? Did you mark one?"
Riven's throat closed. He thought of that night. That stranger. The blur of heat and surrender. And then it hit him—the sweetness clinging to his skin wasn't theirs. It was his. Altered. Warped. Marked.
"There's nothing like that," he snapped, sharper than he meant.
The old man leaned back, unconvinced.
Riven didn't wait. As soon as he left, he went straight to the family's doctor, quietly, without telling anyone. He needed answers. Why was his scent changing? Why his body no longer felt like his own.
Because others would notice soon. His siblings. His cousins. And once they did, they'd weaponize it. Like they always had.
That talk with his grandfather left Riven rattled.
The next day, he slipped out in secret—straight to the old man's trusted doctor.
Something was wrong. His pheromone was shifting, sharper, sweeter. Not normal. Not his. And people had started to notice.
If his siblings or cousins caught on before he figured it out, they'd use it against him. Twist it. Turn it into a weapon.
He couldn't let that happen.