"Weren't you with Riven?" Thayer asked as Eli stepped into the Nexus lobby, morning light still clinging faintly to his shoulders. But his stride—quiet, deliberate—felt heavier.
Eli didn't look up. "I dropped Lior at school. Riven left before me."
He paused just a fraction. "He should be here."
Thayer fell into step beside him. "He hasn't arrived."
Eli stopped. Abrupt. Controlled. Thayer nearly ran into him—and then froze when Eli turned.
That stare. Slate-grey with a violet undertone, cool enough to peel you open. No pheromone, no trace of scent—yet Thayer's breath shortened as if his own body recognized something it couldn't name.
Then Eli looked away as if nothing had passed between them. He tapped his watch, slid out his phone, and with a few quick swipes, pulled up the CCTV feed.
There. Riven. A sleek car door. A man stepping out.
Eli's expression didn't shift much—but Thayer saw it. A subtle tightening of the jaw, a flicker in his eyes that sharpened, almost calculating.
"What is it?" Thayer asked, low.
Eli didn't answer right away. He just studied the screen, motionless. When he finally spoke, it was flat, quiet:
"He's at the Virellian estate."
The words carried no urgency. Just a fact. Stripped bare.
He stepped into the elevator just as Ivan bounded up, throwing an arm across his shoulders.
"Eli! Didn't wait for me? Secretary Thayer, free at last? Not glued to your S-Class boss?"
Thayer said nothing. His eyes hadn't left Eli.
Ivan blinked. "What's with the long face? You look like someone fried your whole system. You good?"
"Didn't sleep," Eli murmured, brushing him off. No glance. No inflection.
"Didn't sleep? Shocker. You're always welded to that screen. Get a life, man."
Eli walked on, silent, sat at his desk, and pulled up another feed. His hands moved with precise, mechanical ease. His eyes stayed fixed, unreadable.
Thayer lingered in the hum of the lobby, a chill crawling beneath his collar. Eli wasn't panicked. He wasn't even visibly concerned.
He was something else.
And Thayer couldn't tell if that made Riven safer—or not at all.
Riven crossed the threshold of the Virellian estate with Auren and Ellis at his side. The air inside was colder than he remembered—marble floors gleaming like ice, portraits of ancestors staring down in silent judgment.
Waiting for him were Cassian and Ronan, their sons standing just behind them. Four sets of younger eyes, all sharp and watchful, like carrion birds circling.
Five years. And not a flicker of warmth. Only the same old contempt.
"Well," Ronan drawled, stepping forward, his smile a slash of teeth. "The prodigal S-Class returns. Dragged home on a leash, no less. Good work, Auren."
His gaze cut to Riven. "Word is you left Rowen and Robin in the hospital. A pheromone surge that almost killed them—was that your way of proving you're the biggest Alpha in the room? Or just a tantrum you couldn't control?"
Riven's eyes locked on him, steady. "They earned it."
A scoff. "Listen to him," Ronan said, turning slightly so his sons could hear. "One promotion and suddenly he thinks he's untouchable. CEO of Nexus, savior of Omegas—what next? Should we all bow?"
Riven's fists tightened. "I don't owe you anything. Not respect. Not obedience. You cut me off. You made sure I was alone. And now you want me to care about family?" His voice sharpened. "Tell me—would you have preferred I died five years ago, like you wished?"
A murmur rippled through the room.
Riven pressed on, each word clipped. "Don't act like you've forgotten. You wanted me handed to researchers. Dissected. Studied. Not treated as blood, not even as human."
His chest ached; his scent pressed against the edges of his restraint, aching to rise. He forced it down.
He couldn't afford another loss of control—not here, in their house, surrounded.
Across the room, Zion smirked. Malrick leaned close to his brother, whispering something that made both boys laugh under their breath. The sound crawled under Riven's skin.
"You shouldn't speak to your uncles like that," Auren said at last, his voice flat, a quiet edge of warning beneath it.
Riven turned to him slowly, eyes like glass. "How should I speak then? Should I bow my head and thank them for treating me like a lab rat? For discarding me the moment I became inconvenient?"
The silence after was suffocating.
And still, no one stepped forward to defend him.
Before Auren could answer, another voice slid through the tension—calm, unhurried, but carrying weight.
"Is this how you greet family?" Lucien stepped into the hall, his presence shifting the air. His pheromone rolled out, not heavy, not oppressive—just enough to remind them who ruled here. Authority woven into breath.
"Grandpa," Riven exhaled. His body faltered, then steadied, and he crossed the floor to embrace him.
Lucien let him. One hand pressed to the back of Riven's neck, firm but not unkind. "You came back in one piece," he said, his tone unreadable—warmth laced with something harder beneath.
The storm broke. Around Riven, Lucien's aura softened. His voice gentled. His focus narrowed.
Everyone else felt it. Saw it. And hated it.
Because when Riven appeared, Lucien changed. He smiled. He listened. He looked at no one else.
"Come," Lucien said, steering Riven toward his study. "We'll talk there." He glanced at his secretary. "Have something brought up."
The secretary bowed and slipped away.
The silence that followed curdled.
Cassian's mouth twisted. "There it is. Riven, the golden child. The rest of us—ghosts."
"He shouldn't even be here," Ronan muttered. "He should've stayed gone."
Zion's lip curled. "A breeding S-Class. That's what he is. Not a miracle—an embarrassment."
"And now he works for Nexus," Cassian spat. "Our enemy flaunts him, and what do people see? That the Virellians couldn't even control their own."
Auren said nothing. He didn't have to. They all knew.
If Riven stayed, Lucien's eyes would never look their way again.
To them, Riven was a disgrace—an Alpha who'd shamed their bloodline, a reminder of everything they wanted buried.
To Lucien… he was something else. The favorite. The exception. The one who eclipsed them all.
And that made it worse.