Cass's Perspective

Cass still remembered, with sharp clarity, the first time he saw Darrien.

He had walked into the room with a quiet, effortless authority that made everyone turn their heads. A light-blue suit hugged his slender frame, the crisp white shirt beneath it spotless and tailored to perfection. His blond hair was combed back, not a single strand out of place, exposing a pair of deep sapphire-blue eyes that swept across the room with a gaze heavy with entitlement and quiet arrogance — a gaze befitting the young master of the prestigious Valmoor House.

Cass had been freelancing as a personal bodyguard for three years by then. He had already dealt with his fair share of young masters and young ladies — spoiled brats with too much money and not enough sense. Most of them omegas, high-maintenance and capricious, treating their bodyguards like accessories rather than human beings. Cass had learned not to care. His job wasn't to like them; it was to protect them.

Growing up as an orphan, Cass had spent most of his youth surrounded by kids who acted out of line towards him knowing no one would protect him or care if he got hurt. So he was used to handling bullies. To him, those rich kids were just a means to an end… a big, fat paycheck.

Cass was a beta, but his towering frame and strong, alpha-like build made him highly sought after. Job offers were never scarce. That's why, when he heard the young Valmoor master was looking for a personal bodyguard, he hadn't been tempted. Guarding a Valmoor was a whole different game. He had heard the stories — whispers of how the Valmoors used their bodyguards for things far beyond protection. Even among the elite, the Valmoors commanded a mix of reverence and unease. Their wealth and power were undeniable, but their name carried a dark undercurrent.

Cass hadn't even expected to pass the interview. Hell, he hadn't even wanted to show up — but one of his peers had insisted. So there he was, standing in the middle of The Vibe nightclub, lined up with fifty other candidates. It was the middle of the afternoon, long before opening hours, and the dance floor was unnervingly quiet. Darrien moved through the ranks like a king surveying his knights. He stopped in front of each bodyguard, sizing them up with a cool gaze, flashing a deceptively sweet smile that never quite reached his eyes.

After thirty minutes, Darrien turned toward the line and spoke with quiet finality.

"That's enough. The interview is over."

The bodyguards shifted nervously. Darrien's gaze swept over them once more before he lifted his hand and pointed.

"You," he said, locking eyes with Cass. "You will be my personal bodyguard from now on."

Cass had barely processed the words before Darrien turned and walked away. His heart hammered in his chest, but he forced himself to stay composed.

"Thank you, sir," Cass replied, voice steady.

Darrien explained the terms of the job afterwards — Cass was to be on call 24/7, even if his services were only needed on specific occasions. Darrien called him at random hours — sometimes early in the morning, sometimes late at night. Their destinations were rarely varied: the club, the university, the hotel Darrien co-owned, a shopping mall, a party. But more than that, Cass learned how misleading appearances could be.

Over the course of that year, Cass came to understand Darrien in ways he never anticipated. The more time he spent at his side, the more he realized how deceiving appearances could be — how a flawless exterior could so effortlessly conceal the cracks beneath.

To the outside world, Darrien seemed to have everything. Wealth, beauty, status — the kind of life people envied and resented in equal measure. As a first-class Valmoor omega, he was draped in privilege and influence . Most assumed he led a blissful, sheltered existence, protected from the harsh edges of reality by layers of wealth and power. But Cass quickly discovered that such assumptions couldn't have been further from the truth. Beneath the polished façade of a refined young master something entirely unexpected lay hidden.

Cass had been surprised when Darrien first told him why he'd chosen him. "You can sense pheromones almost as well as an alpha," Darrien had said, his tone calm but his eyes sharp with calculation. Cass's sensitivity to pheromones had always been an asset to his job. Darrien wasted no time training Cass to recognize the different shades of his pheromones — relaxation, amusement, tension — but above all, distress. At first, Cass had been confused. Who in their right mind would dare to threaten a Valmoor — a first-class omega with power and standing that few could rival? But he quickly learned that wealth and status didn't make someone untouchable. If anything, they made Darrien a target. Jealousy, lust, greed, and sheer idiocy — human nature's ugliest impulses — had a way of clouding judgment.

Cass had assumed his job would be about keeping Darrien safe from physical threats — rowdy crowds, potential kidnappings, the occasional infatuated alpha. He hadn't expected the real danger to come from the carefully concealed undercurrents of elite society — the subtle traps, the calculated betrayals, the unspoken wars waged behind polite smiles and champagne toasts. Darrien's distress pheromones weren't triggered by mere inconvenience or discomfort — they were sharpened weapons, designed to survive in a world where power was a double-edged sword. And Cass had learned to read them like a second language.

The first incident Cass witnessed was at a party. Darrien had told Cass to keep his distance but stay close enough to intervene if necessary. Cass followed quietly as Darrien was drawn into the garden by a group of omegas. Six alphas were waiting for them in a secluded corner.

Cass saw their expressions shift as the alphas released their pheromones — a calculated, predatory move meant to subdue Darrien. Cass started to move, but Darrien held up a hand, signaling him to stop.

Then Darrien smiled.

A slow, dangerous smile.

A wave of submission pheromones rolled off him like a tidal wave. The six alphas collapsed to their knees, gasping, clutching their heads as if in agony. Blood trickled from their noses as they began slapping themselves across the face, over and over, leaving their cheeks red and raw. The omegas tried to intervene — but Darrien's power consumed them too. They dropped to the ground, trembling, powerless.

Cass stared, stunned. Omegas couldn't subdue other omegas. That was impossible. But Darrien had done it effortlessly.

Darrien pulled out his phone and calmly filmed the whole scene — the slurred confessions, the tear-streaked faces.

Then, just as calmly, he turned to Cass. "I'm hungry," he said. "Let's go get dinner."

Cass followed, half convinced he had imagined the whole thing. But the events that followed left Cass with no room for doubt — it had all been true. Similar incidents happened more frequently than Cass had expected, many ending with swift and ruthless punishment from Darrien. But when betas were involved, things became more complicated. Darrien's omega pheromones were potent enough to overpower and disarm alphas and omegas, but they were useless against betas. And betas, it turned out, were just as dangerous as alphas — sometimes even more so.

It wasn't always about sexual dominance. Sometimes, it was pure malice — the desire to inflict as much physical harm as possible. Darrien's beauty and status made him a target for more than just lust; envy and resentment were just as dangerous. Cass, however, had grown up in rougher territory. Having spent part of his youth as a gang member, he was intimately familiar with all kinds of street brawls and underhanded tactics. The rich and privileged might have thought themselves clever with their hidden knives and dirty tricks, but to Cass, it was all painfully familiar.

His body was built for this. Broad-shouldered and lean, Cass's frame was as sturdy as any alpha's but honed with the precision of a professional fighter. His fists were heavy and fast, his reflexes sharpened by years of survival in the roughest corners of society. So when someone tried to harm Darrien — and Darrien's pheromones weren't enough to defend him — Cass was more than capable of stepping in. He had no hesitation about beating them into the ground. And he always did — swiftly and brutally.

But no matter how vigilant he was, Cass couldn't protect Darrien from everything.

Twice, Darrien had gotten hurt. The first time, he'd been stabbed in his left side. The wound had been shallow — more of a deep scratch than a true injury — but seeing blood spill from Darrien's pale skin had made Cass's stomach twist painfully. The second time had been worse. His right arm had been fractured in three places. That time, Cass had left the attacker barely breathing.

Cass had suffered more injuries than he could count over the course of his life — broken ribs, knife wounds, concussions — but none of them had shaken him the way seeing Darrien injured had. Seeing Darrien pale and trembling, blood staining his clothes, had been like having his heart ripped from his chest. And yet… Darrien hadn't reacted the way Cass had expected.

Cass had braced himself for tears, for anger, for some kind of emotional outburst — but Darrien had shown none of that. When he'd been stabbed, he had stood there with eerie calm, clutching his side with one hand and telling Cass, "It's not that bad." He'd even refused anesthetic when they stitched him up, his expression devoid of pain or fear. He hadn't even flinched when the needle pierced his skin.

It was the same with the broken arm. After Cass had left the attacker unconscious in a bloodied heap, Darrien had merely dusted himself off and said, "Cass, take me to the hospital. I think my arm's broken." Even when the doctor told him the bone was fractured in three places and asked him how much pain he was in, Darrien's response had been unnervingly detached. "It hurts a lot," he'd said in the same tone someone might use to comment on the weather.

Cass couldn't understand it. How could someone endure that kind of pain without so much as a grimace? Unless, of course… they were used to it. Pain like that — the kind that tears bone and muscle — could only be met with such composure if someone had already survived far worse. But how could that be possible? Darrien was a Valmoor. A sheltered young master. He had guards, servants — every luxury imaginable. He was supposed to be protected from this kind of suffering.

And yet… Cass was starting to realize that Darrien's strength wasn't born from privilege. It was forged from something far darker.

 As Cass was trying to make sense of it all, he began to watch Darrien more closely. And the more he observed, the more he discovered. The public image was flawless — cold refinement, aristocratic poise, and effortless dominance — but beneath it lay something far more fragile. Something wounded.

Cass gradually realized that Darrien never truly smiled. Oh, he laughed sometimes — the low, melodic sound that others heard and envied — but the gleam of amusement never quite reached his eyes. And those eyes… deep, sapphire blue, polished to perfection like precious stones. They were the eyes of someone who knew his worth and viewed the world from a position of superiority. But the longer Cass looked, the more he saw beneath that thin veil of arrogance. He saw loneliness. A profound, aching emptiness that sat just beneath the surface.

With time, Cass began to notice even more — subtle flickers of emotion that most people would have missed. Despair, pain, quiet resignation. There were moments when Darrien's gaze would drift into the distance, hollow and unseeing, as if haunted by things only he could see. Those weren't the eyes of a privileged twenty-two-year-old with his whole life ahead of him, surrounded by wealth and flattery. No — those were the eyes of someone who had witnessed horrors. Someone who carried burdens far heavier than anyone his age should bear.

Before working for Darrien, Cass had heard the rumors — that the Valmoor young master was vicious, spoiled, and cruel. But Cass had never seen any true cruelty in him. Oh, Darrien had sharp edges — his words could cut deep, and his disdain for insincerity was palpable — but he never inflicted harm without reason. His bite was reserved for those who deserved it: sycophants, liars, and the two-faced elite who sought to gain favor through manipulation.

As for being spoiled — Cass had never seen that, either. Not even when Darrien had been injured. The first time he'd been stabbed, Darrien hadn't lashed out or blamed Cass for failing to prevent it. He had simply pressed a hand to the wound, his expression calm even as blood seeped through his fingers, and said, "It's not your fault, Cass. They were hiding. You couldn't have known." His voice had been steady — almost detached — as if the pain were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

The second time had been worse — a broken arm, fractured in three places — but even then, Darrien hadn't shown anger or resentment. He hadn't cursed Cass for letting it happen. He hadn't even flinched when Cass had driven him to the hospital. He had just leaned his head against the car window and said quietly, "Don't blame yourself." And Cass had wanted to scream because how could Darrien be so calm when Cass himself was barely holding it together?

Darrien wasn't especially kind, but neither was he deliberately cruel. He didn't go out of his way to comfort others — but he never inflicted pain without reason. Cass had learned to appreciate that kind of quiet integrity.

Somehow Cass found himself beginning to care. Genuinely care. He worried when he didn't see Darrien for long stretches of time, wondering if the other Valmoor guards would protect him as well as he would. He caught himself wondering if Darrien was eating enough or sleeping enough because there were so many days when he looked pale and drawn, his eyes hollow and shadowed with exhaustion. Cass hated seeing him like that.

Even though he knew he shouldn't, Cass found himself caring a little too much about Darrien — more than a professional bodyguard should. More than what was appropriate. More than what was safe.

Of course, he had never crossed the line. And he never would.

Darrien was entirely out of his reach, belonging to a world Cass could never hope to enter. He wasn't just wealthy and powerful — he was a Valmoor, heir to a legacy that spanned generations, and a first-class omega on top of that. On top of that, Darrien already had a boyfriend — someone prestigious, well-connected, and favored by his family. Most people assumed it was only a matter of time before they were bonded, securing an alliance that would elevate both families even further.

Cass had no place in that equation. Just being by Darrien's side — protecting him, watching over him, seeing the small moments when his guarded expression softened — that was enough. Or at least, that's what Cass tried to convince himself.

Besides, Darrien was too young. Cass was nearly thirty — practically ancient compared to Darrien's twenty-two years. The difference between them stretched far beyond age, though. Darrien was a first-class omega, destined for someone equally high-ranking. And Cass… Cass was just a beta. He wasn't special. He didn't have the raw pheromonal pull of an alpha or the allure of an omega. He was just ordinary. And there was nothing extraordinary about a beta being in love with an omega as rare and coveted as Darrien Valmoor.

Cass felt ridiculous — ashamed, even — for having entertained the thought of Darrien in that way. It was foolish. Dangerous. Unforgivable. So he did what any rational person would do: he buried those feelings as deep as they would go, locking them away where they couldn't surface. Where they couldn't ruin everything.

But that didn't mean seeing Darrien hurt didn't devastate him.

Cass had seen Darrien withstand more than most people could handle. He'd watched him get stabbed and stay eerily calm, his face as still as a lake. He'd seen him sit through stitches without anesthetic, without so much as a wince. Darrien never showed weakness. Never faltered.

So when Darrien crumpled into his arms, Cass's heart nearly stopped.

It happened so suddenly — Darrien's knees giving out beneath him, his body sagging against Cass's chest like a broken doll. Cass stood there frozen for a second, so stunned that his mind refused to process what was happening. He had never seen Darrien collapse before. Never.

When the shock finally broke, Cass swept him up into his arms. His instincts overrode everything else. Protect. Defend. Save. He held Darrien close, his heart hammering wildly beneath his ribcage.

It was the first time he had ever carried Darrien. Not even when he had been stabbed had Cass picked him up like this. And he was startled by how light Darrien was — disturbingly light. His weight barely registered in Cass's arms, as if he were made of glass and air.

Cass glanced down at him, pale and slack in his hold, and for a terrifying moment, he thought Darrien might just dissolve — fade away into nothing. He had fooled himself into thinking Darrien was untouchable — indestructible — because of the strength in his gaze and the weight of his pheromones. But beneath all that quiet power was a fragile body, slender and delicate.

Cass carried him straight to the emergency room, not bothering to answer the barrage of questions from the staff. When he gave them Darrien's name, they reacted instantly. His status alone guaranteed immediate attention.

They confirmed that Darrien had lost consciousness from shock — though what had caused it, Cass wasn't sure. The doctors treated him quickly and moved him to a private room, hooked up to quiet machines that monitored his vitals.

Cass sat in the chair beside the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Darrien's chest. His face was still unnervingly pale, honey-blond lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. 

Cass's brow furrowed as he replayed the scene over and over in his mind. What could have been so shocking that it had made Darrien faint?

His thoughts kept circling back to one person — Kaylen Morrison.

What had Kaylen said to leave Darrien in such a fragile state? What words could have cut so deep that they unraveled someone as composed and guarded as Darrien?

A quiet sound drew Cass's attention. Darrien's brow tightened, a faint crease forming between his delicate brows. His lips parted, breath catching as if some unseen pain was clawing through him even now, in sleep. Cass stood immediately, instinct guiding him before thought could catch up. He leaned down, brushing his fingertips gently across Darrien's forehead, smoothing away the tension.

Darrien's expression softened almost instantly. The crease vanished. His breathing evened out.

It wasn't the first time Cass had done this.

Whenever Darrien stayed at the hotel, Cass stood guard in his room. Officially, it was part of his job. Unofficially, it had become something else entirely. Due to this, Cass had discovered early on that Darrien was plagued by nightmares.

All that pain and suffering he kept locked away during the day — concealed behind sharp words and that practiced mask of cold indifference — it bled through at night. His control slipped when sleep took him. Darrien would start tossing and turning, sometimes whimpering, sometimes gasping as if something was crushing his chest. 

At first, Cass had tried to wake him. He kneeled at Darrien's side, his hands firm on his shoulders, shaking him gently but urgently.

But Darrien's sleep was too deep, like he was trapped beneath the surface of dark waters, unreachable. His brow would tighten, his jaw would clench, but he wouldn't wake.

Cass had felt helpless. Useless. He wasn't used to feeling powerless — not when it came to protecting someone. And this wasn't some physical threat he could fight off with his fists or crush with a well-placed blow. 

What did work — surprisingly, heartbreakingly — was touch. Cass had discovered it almost by accident. In the haze of desperation, he had reached out — his hand brushing across Darrien's forehead, smoothing the tension from his brow. His fingers lingered, sliding down to Darrien's cheek, his thumb ghosting across the soft skin there. To his astonishment, Darrien had quieted. His breath steadied. His trembling stilled.

From then on, Cass had learned what soothed him.

A hand to his brow. A stroke along his temple. The warmth of fingers interlacing.

Sometimes, Cass would lean close and whisper into the darkness, his voice low and steady.

"It's okay… You're safe now. No one can hurt you. I'm here."

It worked like magic.

Darrien would relax almost instantly, settling back into sleep with a calmness that Cass rarely saw during the day. His face — so often guarded and cold — would soften into something fragile and young. Vulnerable.

But Cass knew that when Darrien slept at his house — in that vast Valmoor estate surrounded by luxury but steeped in emptiness — there was no one there to soothe him. No one to chase away the nightmares.

Cass's heart ached every time he saw Darrien's tired eyes and the dark circles beneath them, evidence of another restless night. He would wonder if Darrien had woken alone, gasping in the dark, with no one to pull him back from whatever haunted him.

If only Cass could stay by his side every night.

If only he could guard his sleep the way he guarded him during the day. Keep him safe not just from physical threats but from the shadows that crept into his dreams. Cass would have given anything to wrap his arms around Darrien and hold him until the nightmares stopped — to promise him that no harm would reach him as long as Cass was there.

But that was impossible. He wasn't allowed to cross that line.

So Cass would continue to sit at Darrien's bedside, watch over him as he slept, and hope — hopelessly — that it was enough.