After ending the call with Thayer, Nyxen rose from his chair and set the phone down with deliberate care. His steps were unhurried as he crossed the dim suite, shadows from the floor-to-ceiling windows sliding across his bare chest.
Riven lay on the bed, breath shallow, lashes trembling against flushed cheeks.
Nyxen sat on the edge of the mattress, his weight dipping it slightly. He studied the man's face for a long moment, expression unreadable.
"Sleeping now," he murmured, voice low, almost indulgent. "After nearly dragging an entire deck into ruin."
He reached out, brushing damp strands of hair from Riven's forehead. The motion was gentle, almost lover-like—but his fingers lingered a moment too long, tracing the line of his temple, tilting his head to expose the pale column of his throat. Faint bruises—marks of earlier heat—blossomed there like evidence.
Nyxen's mouth curved, a quiet, dangerous satisfaction flickering in his eyes. His gaze slid across the wreckage of the room: clothes discarded, sheets tangled, the air still heavy with clashing scents.
He exhaled, slow and measured, as memory pulled him back.
Riven had begun to unravel the moment they'd left the chaos of the Upper Deck. His skin burned, his pupils blown wide, his voice husky and fractured.
"I'm hot," he'd kept whispering, as though confessing a sin.
Nyxen had tried to hold the line, to guide him without giving in—but Riven pressed closer, lips brushing his jaw, breath spilling heat against his skin.
"Riven, stop," Nyxen warned, turning his head away.
But Riven didn't stop. His fingers slid up Nyxen's throat, searching, clutching. By the time they reached the suite, the air was suffocating with Omega-scent.
Nyxen laid him down gently, meaning to step back. But Riven's hand shot out—catching his neck, dragging him down. Their bodies collided, the impact stealing a breath.
"What are you doing?" Nyxen hissed, his hand clamping around Riven's wrist.
"I want you," Riven breathed, voice trembling between plea and hunger.
Nyxen froze. He knew what this was—pheromone haze, not true desire. The same trap as five years ago.
"You'll regret it when you wake," he said tightly, forcing the words past the pull in his chest. "So stop."
He pried Riven's hand loose and pushed himself upright, stepping back into the shadows.
On the bed, Riven writhed weakly—panting, collar tugged loose, his body flushed and fevered. His fingers fumbled against his own skin as though searching for relief, but all he found was emptiness.
Nyxen stood over him, jaw clenched, watching. Resisting.
Riven's heat-hazed eyes fluttered shut at last, exhaustion claiming him.
Nyxen lowered himself back to the mattress, silent. His gaze lingered on that vulnerable throat, on the rise and fall of a chest still heaving. One hand hovered, then drew back.
Dangerously tender. Possessive. Patient.
He would wait.
Riven started stripping, fumbling at his clothes like they were suffocating him.
"Enough," Nyxen snapped, catching his wrist before the shirt came off.
The coat was already tossed aside, buttons undone. The fabric hung loose, baring flushed skin. His scent spilled thick into the room, hot and intoxicating.
"I can't take it anymore," Riven whispered, voice raw.
He seized Nyxen's tie and yanked him down—fast, desperate, unrelenting.
Their mouths collided. Not a kiss. A strike. A claim.
Riven kissed like an Alpha—forceful, consuming, reckless. His tongue invaded, demanding, pulling Nyxen under.
Nyxen's eyes flew open. His pulse spiked.
"Stop," he ground out, forcing himself to tear away, shoving just enough distance between them to breathe.
Riven looked wrecked—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glazed with need. Beautiful. Dangerous.
Nyxen's fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to devour him. Tear him open. But he held himself back, teeth gritted.
Five years. Five years of silence. Five years of starving.
And now—Riven, burning beneath him, begging without even knowing.
He couldn't. Not like this. Not when the haze wasn't his to claim.
"You'll regret it when you wake," he rasped, voice low with strain. "So stop."
He pushed away, breaking contact. Every muscle screamed in protest.
Riven lay panting, trembling, tugging at his own collar as if to peel off his own skin.
Then his pupils blew wide. A sharp note cut through his scent—luring, predatory, impossible to ignore.
Nyxen staggered back, hand clamping his throat as his body answered instantly.
The air thickened, heat clawing up his spine. His rut—triggered.
Panic knifed through him.
He wasn't supposed to feel this. His nature resisted pheromones. But this wasn't resistance. This was a collapse.
The last time had been five years ago. With Riven. He'd lost control then.
He wouldn't let it happen again.
Riven's voice broke, ragged and furious. "I hate this Omega scent. Get it out of me. I can't— I can't think."
He was splitting apart. His body rejected the pheromone, yet clawed for release. The contradiction made him frantic, wild-eyed, trembling.
Clothes hit the floor—shirt ripped open, belt tugged loose, hands shaking as he tried to strip himself bare.
Nyxen stepped forward to stop him—then froze.
Heat flared in his own veins. His pheromones stirred, thickening the air, reaching for Riven like a predator scenting wounded prey.
He bared his teeth. Forced it down. For now.
Riven swayed where he stood, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. He wasn't himself anymore—just instinct wrapped in fragile flesh.
And Nyxen knew: one touch might break the leash he held on himself.
"I want you," Riven whispered, voice cracked and raw. His fingers dragged across Nyxen's chest—hesitant, clumsy, but deliberate. His scent spilled out in waves, cloying and irresistible, wrapping Nyxen in chains he almost welcomed.
Nyxen's body locked. His own pheromones pressed back, holding him taut, trembling with restraint.
Too strong, he thought—just as Riven slammed him into the wall.
Wood groaned under Nyxen's weight.
Riven tried to smile, but desperation warped it. His hands fumbled at Nyxen's tie, tugging, pulling, frantic like a drowning man clawing at the only thing keeping him afloat.
Nyxen caught his wrist mid-motion, grip vice-like. "Enough," he rasped, low and dangerous. "You don't even know what you're inviting."
But Riven ignored him—no, defied him. He crushed their mouths together.
Nyxen's eyes flashed wide, then narrowed. The kiss was violent, a collision of teeth and tongue, Riven devouring him like a man starving.
And the pheromones—sharp, intoxicating—hit Nyxen like a blade to the gut. His restraint split. Instinct tore free, hot and merciless.
Rut. Already rising. Already clawing its way out.
He tried to breathe, tried to hold the line—but Riven was pressed against him, burning, flushed, lips swollen from the brutal kiss.
Five years. Five years of silence. Five years of hunger. And now Riven, shaking, begging, forcing him to the edge.
"You want me too," Riven panted, voice breaking even as his smile curved sharp. His hands framed Nyxen's face, trembling. "Take me."
Nyxen's breath caught. His voice came out a growl.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he whispered, dark and strained.