The metal door resisted him at first, its rusted hinge groaning like something waking up after years of sleep. Eli flinched at the noise, then slipped inside, hugging the archival tube to his chest. The warehouse swallowed him whole—vast, dark, chilled, with dust drifting like ash in a shaft of late-afternoon light.
"This… doesn't look like a donor's storage site," he murmured under his breath, voice barely above a whisper.
His footsteps echoed anyway.
He looked down at the slip of paper the university's coordinator had handed him.
Building 12C. South Dock entrance. Ask for Mr. Rami.
Nothing about condemned warehouse or floors missing in places or the weird smell of metal in the air.
Still—he'd done stranger deliveries before. Private collectors always liked seclusion.
He walked further in, adjusting his thin sweater as a draft slid down his spine. The tube of seventeenth-century maritime maps felt heavier than it should. Maybe it was just the silence. Even abandoned spaces usually made some noise—rats, birds, water dripping.
This one only breathed.
Eli hesitated near a collapsed shelving unit. The dust looked recently disturbed. Not footprints—more like something heavy had been dragged. He squinted. The light didn't reach far enough to tell.
A sensible person, he thought, would turn around.
But he'd promised he'd deliver these personally, and he didn't want to get chewed out again for backing out of a job. So he kept going, guiding himself by thin slivers of light coming through the broken skylights above.
Far ahead—deep in the shadowed end of the warehouse—something thudded. A sharp crack, then the sound of something—someone—slamming into a wall.
Eli froze.
Another sound followed: low, guttural. Not quite human. Then a muffled shout, the scrape of boots against concrete, metal clattering.
His heart ticked faster.
Maybe Mr. Rami dropped something, he tried to tell himself.
But no. No. That wasn't a "dropping something" noise. That was… struggle. Violence. Something alive and furious and close enough that the air seemed to vibrate.
Eli shifted his grip on the archive tube and took one tentative step backward.
The sound came again—this time a snarl. Something crashing. A voice snapping, "Hold him—!"
Eli's breath caught.
That wasn't a delivery.
That wasn't a donor.
That wasn't anything normal.
He turned—slowly, carefully—intending to retrace his exact steps to the exit. But the silence snapped tight again. Every instinct he'd spent his whole life burying clawed to the surface.
Don't run. Don't draw attention. Don't make noise.
He inched backward, eyes fixed on the dark corridor where the sounds had come from, hands trembling so hard the archival tube rattled lightly against his chest.
He winced at the noise.
And then—
from the darkness at the far end of the warehouse—
something moved.
A shadow peeled itself from the wall, straightening into a man's silhouette.
Eli didn't breathe.
The silhouette advanced—stalking, not walking.
Eli's breath stuttered in his throat.
The figure stepped out of the shadows, and the slant of light from a broken skylight finally caught his face.
He wasn't wearing a mask.
He wasn't hiding.
He was simply… wrong.
Too still in some places, too sharp in others, like every muscle had been pulled tight around a violent core. His shirt was half-torn open, streaked with drying blood that wasn't all his. His hair was damp with sweat, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed along the side of his neck.
And his eyes—
god—
his eyes weren't fully human.
The pupils blown wide.
The irises ringed with something feral, instinct-heavy, glowing faintly like an animal caught in headlights.
Eli's knees nearly buckled.
Two men followed behind the stranger, trying to keep their distance without letting him out of reach. One had a bruised cheek, the other a ripped sleeve, both panting like they'd been wrestling with something that wasn't supposed to be wrestled with.
"Boss," one whispered, voice trembling, "you need to breathe—"
The stranger didn't look at him.
His gaze was locked—pinned—on Eli.
Eli took one shallow step back.
The stranger moved one slow step forward, perfectly mirroring him. Controlled. Silent. A predator not stalking prey from hunger, but from instinct—some ancient mechanism clicking into place.
The two men behind him tensed.
"Boss, don't—he's just a kid—"
The stranger's head snapped toward the speaker with a snarl so raw and vicious the sound scraped down Eli's spine. The man instantly shut up.
Eli squeezed the archival tube until his fingers went numb.
He didn't dare speak.
Didn't dare breathe.
Didn't dare think.
The stranger's gaze dragged down him—assessing, calculating, then something darker. His nostrils flared. His breath hitched sharply, as if smelling something he didn't expect.
And then—
He stepped closer.
No hesitation.
No question.
No words.
Just a slow, predatory advance.
The two men moved with him automatically, forming a wedge around him as if trying to cage in a force they barely contained.
"Fuck," one of them muttered under his breath. "He scented him."
Eli didn't understand what that meant.
The stranger did.
Because in the next second—
he lunged.
Not a full sprint.
Not an attack.
A terrifying, fluid surge forward that hit the air like a shockwave, boots striking the concrete with lethal purpose.
Eli's body reacted before his mind did—
he stumbled back, heel sliding on dust—
The floor creaked.
The stranger froze mid-step.
His eyes blew even wider, breath shuddering out of him in an almost… painful exhale.
And that was worse.
That stillness.
That rattled breath.
That sense that Eli had just triggered something irreversible.
The men exchanged a panicked look.
"Oh, shit," one whispered. "It's happening again."
The stranger—
this feral, violent, barely restrained alpha—
took another step toward Eli.
And this time, nothing on earth was going to stop him.
He kept coming, closing the distance—
silent, trembling, intense—
until Eli could hear his breathing twist into something wild.
Something hungry.
Something claiming.
He didn't touch Eli.
Not yet.
He just stared—
like Eli was the center of gravity
and he had finally found the thing pulling him apart from the inside.
The two men didn't dare move.
No one did.
Eli stood there, heart pounding loud enough he was sure the stranger could hear it.
Then the alpha opened his mouth—
slowly—
as if forming a word he didn't know how to say.
But no sound came.
Just a low, feral growl
that vibrated straight through
The growl vibrated between them, low enough that Eli felt it more than heard it. His legs finally caught up to the panic in his throat—he stepped back, too quickly, heel scraping over loose grit.
The noise was barely anything. A soft skid. A startled exhale.
But to the man in front of him, it was a spark thrown into gasoline.
The alpha's muscles tensed so sharply his entire frame jerked. His eyes snapped wide—black swallowing color—before he moved.
Not rushed.
Not clumsy.
Not human.
He advanced with a terrifying, measured precision, each step heavy enough to echo through Eli's ribs.
"Don't—" one of the men behind him started.
The alpha didn't let him finish.
A guttural snarl tore out of him, sharp and warning, and both men lifted their hands instantly in surrender—as if they'd been burned.
Eli backed up again.
The alpha mirrored him, breathing too fast now, chest rising in tight, shallow pulls. Something was wrong—visibly wrong—with him. Eli knew nothing about alphas beyond distant generalities, but instinct screamed that this wasn't normal aggression.
This was instinct hijacking a body.
Eli forced a shaky whisper out.
"I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— I'm just lost, I swear, I don't know who you are—"
The alpha's entire body jolted at the sound of his voice.
Not in recognition.
In reaction.
Eli clamped his mouth shut instantly.
One of the men—shorter, stockier—took the chance to reach for a gun tucked into the back of his waistband.
"Might as well drop the kid before boss tears him apart," he muttered. "He's a witness. Orders—"
The metallic slide of the gun clearing leather was the loudest sound in the warehouse.
Eli froze.
The alpha didn't.
He turned on the man so fast Eli barely tracked the motion. A flash of teeth. A violent jerk forward. The barrel of the gun never fully rose.
"Boss—" the man gasped, stumbling back. "I—I wasn't gonna— it's procedure—"
Another snarl.
This one deeper.
Possessive.
The alpha positioned himself between Eli and the guns without seeming to decide to do it.
The second man hissed under his breath.
"He's locking onto the kid."
"He's doing what?" the first muttered.
"Locking. Are you blind? He's in a half-feral state and the kid walked right into it. His instincts think—"
The alpha whipped his head toward them, fangs bared in a soundless threat.
Neither finished their sentence.
Eli swallowed hard, throat painfully dry.
Every fiber of him screamed to run.
But his feet felt stapled to the floor.
The alpha looked back at him like that tiny movement—Eli's throat shifting, the pulse jumping under his skin—was the most important thing happening in the universe.
He took another step.
Eli whispered, "Please… don't."
The alpha inhaled sharply, like the single word punched through his ribs. He made a noise—something raw, torn from a place deeper than thought—and his hand twitched at his side, fingers flexing as if fighting the urge to reach out.
Eli's back hit one of the old warehouse pillars.
The alpha stalked closer, step by deliberate step, his breath growing ragged, his pupils swallowing the last traces of human color. Every move radiated tension—as if his body wanted ten different things at once and he could barely hold it together.
"Boss," one of the men begged, voice trembling now, "you've gotta stop. You don't know what you'll do if you touch him—"
The alpha growled.
The air vibrated.
Eli didn't dare breathe.
The alpha stopped inches from him. Inches. Close enough that Eli could see the tremor in his jaw, the way his hands curled and uncurled like he was clinging to the last threads of self-restraint.
His breath ghosted over Eli's cheek—hot, uneven, shaking.
He spoke his first word.
A single, fractured command scraped from somewhere deep:
"Don't… run."
The words weren't a threat.
They were an instinct.
A plea.
A warning.
Eli's pulse hammered against his skin.
The alpha leaned in—just a fraction—breathing him in like it hurt.
And then, with a violent shudder, he moved closer still.
No one dared stop him.
The alpha closed that last sliver of distance—
—then everything froze.
Not Eli.
Not the guards.
Him.
His entire body locked up so abruptly Eli thought, for a fractured second, that he'd been stabbed from behind. His breath hitched—shallow, strangled—and his pupils blew open until nothing was left but a ring of nearly glowing black.
Eli didn't understand what changed.
All he knew was that the predator who had been closing in
simply
stopped.
Not willingly.
Not gently.
Stopped like someone had yanked a chain threaded straight through his spine.
The alpha inhaled again—just a single, fractured breath—right against the place where Eli's neck met his shoulder.
And something in him… broke.
A trembling shudder ripped down his back, so violent it made his boots scrape the concrete.
Eli pressed tighter to the pillar, pulse hammering under his skin.
The shorter guard swore under his breath.
"Oh, hell. It's the omega scent."
The taller guard paled.
"No. No way. Not him. He said he'd never—"
"He's locked," the shorter whispered, horrified. "Shit, he's actually locking—"
The alpha's fingertips twitched inches from Eli's hip—barely a movement, yet every muscle in his arm strained like he was physically fighting himself.
His jaw clenched so hard Eli heard his teeth grind.
Another breath dragged in—slow, involuntary, like someone drowning and gasping for the surface—
—and the alpha made a sound Eli didn't have a name for.
Not a growl.
Not a snarl.
A low, guttural, wounded noise that vibrated in his chest, shaking through Eli's ribs like he'd been struck.
Eli flinched.
The alpha flinched harder.
The guards exchanged a panicked look.
"Boss," the taller whispered, "you gotta pull back. You can't bond in this state—"
The alpha jerked his head toward him with a feral hiss, shoulders snapping taut, protective in a way that wasn't remotely rational.
Eli whispered, "Wh-what's happening to you…?"
The question hit the alpha like a blow.
His eyes snapped to Eli's—not the wild, unfocused stare from before, but something far sharper.
Something terrified.
His throat bobbed as if trying—failing—to form words. His hand lifted an inch and then stopped mid-air, fingers trembling like reaching any farther would shatter him.
Eli's chest tightened.
He'd been terrified of this man—still was—but something about the shaking in the alpha's shoulders, the way he couldn't seem to move or breathe right, made fear twist into something more complicated.
The alpha leaned in again—just a breath's width—like he couldn't fight the pull anymore.
His nose brushed the air by Eli's skin.
Not touching.
Hovering.
Quivering.
Another inhalation.
Another shudder.
Another broken sound, softer this time, almost—
almost like a plea.
Then—
His knees buckled.
Eli's hand shot out without thinking, catching his arm.
The alpha's entire body jerked at the contact—like the touch burned and soothed at the same time—and his breath tore out of him in a sharp, guttural exhale.
The guards were whispering frantically now:
"It's the Lock."
"He's bonded."
"He's actually bonded—"
The alpha's trembling worsened.
His fingers curled around nothing.
His forehead nearly touched Eli's shoulder.
Eli whispered, barely audible, "You… you're shaking…"
The alpha growled—
a broken, trembling thing—
and leaned closer.
Too close.
Close enough that Eli realized something terrifying:
He wasn't being hunted anymore.
He was being claimed.
Eli barely understood what he was holding onto—
only that the alpha's weight sagged unexpectedly, muscles trembling under his grip like coiled wires about to snap.
The alpha's breath dragged in again, shaky and uneven.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
Starved.
He angled his head, nose brushing the air near Eli's throat, and the sound that tore out of him this time—
it wasn't a growl.
It wasn't even anger.
It was possession, stripped down to instinct.
The two guards reacted instantly.
"Don't let him scent him again—pull him back!" the taller one hissed.
He reached forward—carefully, slowly—
And that was the wrong move.
Eli didn't even see the alpha transition from trembling to murderous.
He just felt the air snap.
A violent, guttural roar exploded out of the alpha—
a noise so primal it rattled the steel beams overhead.
His body whipped around, tearing free from Eli's grasp like the touch seared him.
Before the guard's fingers even brushed Eli's sleeve—
—the alpha was on him.
One hand slammed the man into a support beam so hard dust rained down from the rafters. The guard choked on a breath, gun clattering to the floor.
"Boss—! Dante—stop, STOP—!" the shorter guard shouted.
Dante didn't hear a thing.
His entire body was between Eli and the threat, breath heaving, eyes wild and blown out. He snarled at the shorter guard next, one hand already reaching for the man's collar in warning.
Eli's pulse hammered against his skin.
The realization hit him in a cold wave:
He wasn't being protected.
He was being guarded.
Possessively.
Dangerously.
The taller guard wheezed, pinned to the beam by Dante's forearm.
"I—I wasn't going to hurt him—!"
Dante's head snapped forward—his forehead nearly colliding with the guard's—teeth bared in a silent, vicious snarl.
The man froze.
The shorter guard raised his hands slowly.
"Boss… you're scaring the kid. You gotta let him breathe."
Dante didn't look away from the guard he'd trapped.
But his fingers tightened.
Too tight.
The man's boots scraped desperately against the concrete.
"Boss, please—!"
For a terrifying second, Eli thought he'd crush the man's windpipe out of sheer instinct.
Eli's voice came out before he even decided to speak.
"Stop."
Dante jerked—violently—like the single word hit him in the spine.
The pressure on the guard's throat loosened by a fraction.
Eli swallowed hard, voice barely steady.
"I… I'm okay. Y-you don't need to—hurt anyone."
Dante's head turned toward him in one slow, unnatural movement.
His breathing changed—
slower
but deeper
like every inhale was tied to something Eli couldn't see.
The guards knew.
Eli could read it in their faces.
Fear, awe, dread.
"That's it," the shorter guard whispered, eyes darting between them. "He's responding only to the omega. No one else."
Dante's gaze locked on Eli.
Not on the guns.
Not on the threat.
Not on the chaos he caused.
Just Eli.
His chest rose and fell in ragged pulls, but his hand slipped away from the guard's throat. The man collapsed to his knees, coughing, gasping for air.
Dante ignored him entirely.
His attention was fixed, unblinking, trembling—
as if Eli were the only thing holding him upright.
Then Dante spoke again, the words rough and cracked:
"No one… touches him."
Not an order.
Not to the room.
To himself.
A vow.
The guards exchanged a terrified look.
Eli's breath hitched.
Dante stepped toward him—slow, deliberate, unsteady—and for one awful moment Eli thought he'd be dragged into that impossible gravity again.
But Dante stopped.
Inches away.
Breathing hard.
Shaking.
A warning rumble vibrated in his chest as he looked back at his men.
"If anyone," he said, voice deepening into something feral,
"touches him…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Every man in that warehouse paled.
Dante's eyes returned to Eli like magnets snapping back into place.
And Eli realized—
He wasn't getting out of this warehouse
without him.
The warehouse felt too quiet after that sentence—
as if every sound had been swallowed whole.
Dante didn't move.
Not at first.
He stood there, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, hands still trembling at his sides as if the instinct to drag Eli closer warred violently with something more human.
The shorter guard risked a glance at Eli, voice barely above a whisper.
"Boss… what do you want us to do with him?"
The question shouldn't have been dangerous.
But Dante reacted like a fuse had been lit.
His head snapped toward the man so sharply his neck cracked.
A warning rumble vibrated through the room—low, protective, final.
Then, with a rough inhale that sounded like it scraped his throat raw, Dante forced out two words:
"Bring him."
Eli's breath hitched.
"N-no—no, wait— I didn't see anything, I swear— I won't tell anyone— I don't even know your name—"
Dante flinched.
That tiny sentence—I don't know your name—
hit him strangely, visibly, like Eli had dragged a finger across a bruise.
He took a step toward Eli—
only for the taller guard to jerk upright, coughing and pale.
"Boss," he rasped, "he's terrified. At least let him calm down—"
Dante growled.
A deep, vibrating sound that echoed through the metal beams overhead.
The guard shut up instantly.
The short guard swallowed hard, edging toward Eli with his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture.
"Kid… don't fight. Please. He's not in a state where he can handle—"
"No," Eli said, voice shaking but firming with desperation. "Don't touch me."
The guard froze mid-step.
Dante didn't.
He moved so fast Eli barely registered it—
a blur of muscle and instinct that slammed to a stop right in front of him.
Too close.
Too intense.
Too much.
His breath hit Eli's cheek again—
shaky, ragged, like he hated the air he was breathing but couldn't stop taking it in.
Eli pressed back against the pillar.
Dante leaned in, not touching, but close enough that Eli felt the faint tremor running through him.
"Come," Dante murmured.
The word wasn't gentle.
It wasn't commanding either.
It sounded like a need so raw it barely held shape.
Eli whispered, "I don't want—"
Dante blinked.
Slow.
Painful.
He didn't snarl.
He didn't threaten.
He just breathed Eli in—
—and whispered a rough, almost broken echo:
"I can't… leave you."
Eli's stomach dropped.
The guards exchanged a look of pure dread.
"Boss," the shorter one said cautiously, "we need to move. The rival crew might double back. We can't stay here."
Dante didn't look away from Eli.
Not even for a second.
He finally stepped back one inch—
just enough for the guards to move—but his body stayed angled between Eli and the rest of the world.
A shield.
A cage.
Both at once.
The shorter guard exhaled in relief and gestured toward the service exit.
"Kid, we'll… just walk. Slowly. No one's gonna hurt you."
Eli's feet wouldn't move.
His heart felt lodged in his throat, pounding against bone.
Dante noticed.
Of course he did.
He let out a soft, frustrated sound—almost a huff—and reached out a hand.
Not touching him.
Just offering it.
His fingers curled in a silent motion:
Come to me.
Eli's legs gave way to instinct before his mind did.
He stepped forward.
Barely.
But Dante reacted like Eli had crossed a chasm—his shoulders dropped, tension bleeding out just enough that he could finally breathe.
The guards moved quickly, forming a loose circle around them, guns low but ready.
Eli allowed himself to be guided—not grabbed—toward the dimly lit exit, the cold air shifting as they stepped into the night.
The city swallowed them in darkness.
A black car idled by the curb, engine humming like it had been waiting only for this moment.
Eli hesitated again.
Dante was immediately at his back—
not touching,
but close enough that the warmth of him pressed through the night air.
He exhaled, rough, trembling, almost frustrated with himself, and whispered:
"Get in."
Not a threat.
A truth.
A vow.
A sentence that meant Eli no longer had a choice—
because Dante had already made it for both of them.
Eli's hand shook on the door handle.
He climbed in.
Dante followed.
Close.
Silent.
Locked onto him with every breath.
The doors shut.
The night swallowed the warehouse behind them.
And Eli realized—
he wasn't being taken away.
He was being taken by someone.
Someone who couldn't let him go.
The silhouette wasn't walking.
It was stalking.