Chapter 9

He set the pen down, tried to shake it off. Maybe it was just the heater. Maybe he was tired. But then came the flush. A slow, creeping wave of heat rising up his neck, curling under his skin like a second heartbeat. His shirt clung to his back. The tips of his ears burned. His whole body thrummed with something too familiar, too instinctive.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

His heat. It was early.

He pushed his chair back and stood, a little too fast. His knees felt soft. The center was quiet, his last student had just left, and the bakery next door had gone still. He stumbled to his desk drawer, yanking it open. Fingers trembled as he pushed past office supplies, crumpled lesson plans, until—there. The bottle.

He fumbled with the cap and popped two suppressants into his mouth, swallowing them dry. His breath came faster. Theodore gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white. It wasn't supposed to come yet. He'd timed it right. He always did. He tracked his cycles, never missed a dose. 

The heat pulsed under his skin like it was alive. His pheromones were shifting—he could smell it faintly in the room. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and sat down slowly, knees weak, spine tense.

Everything felt too loud. Too sharp. The distant hum of traffic. The soft tick of the wall clock. And somewhere under it all—beneath the pulse of heat and medication and exhaustion—was a hunger that had nothing to do with instinct.

It was longing.

For something—or someone.

No. No, no. He couldn't go there.

He closed his eyes, pressing his hand over his mouth. He'd burned that bridge. Buried it. Now, all that mattered was getting through this. Theodore leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, breathing through the waves of heat crawling down his spine. The pills would work.

They always did. He just had to breathe through it. Pretend he didn't feel the phantom press of hands on his waist, the memory of a voice low and rough in his ear. He bit the inside of his cheek until the sharpness grounded him. 

___

Damian's POV

The blueprint splayed across the table blurred as Damian rubbed his temple, the pen stilling between his fingers. It was quiet in the villa—only the low hum of the heater in the walls, the distant rustle of wind against glass inside. He should've been focused. There were supply lines to reroute, generators to test, contingencies to plan. He was working against time—11 days left, give or take.

And yet.

A tight coil in his chest had refused to unravel all morning. That feeling again. That strange, crawling sensation, like he was missing something right in front of him. His instinct screamed at him. He leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes drift toward the large digital clock on the shelf.

8:02 PM. April 23rd.

The moment he saw the date, his breath hitched.

April 23rd.

Damian's fingers clenched around the pen.

He hadn't thought about it in years. Not since everything ended. Not since the world burned. But now, now that he was back, in a body that still remembered grief like it was stitched into his bones, he felt it. The hollowed-out ache in his gut. The rising tide of unease. 

Theodore.

His name punched through Damian's mind with razor precision.

Theodore's heat.

He shot up from his chair, heart knocking hard against his ribs. The pen in his hands fell to the floor. He remembered now. This was the night it happened.

Theodore had still been working late at the tutoring center—quiet, always diligent, always alone. He had been keeping his cycle in check, careful and measured like he always was. But that night, something went wrong. Something shifted too early, too strong. His body turned on him.

And Damian hadn't been there.

No one had been.

Except the alpha next door.

Some private client's son, someone who worked in the same building. Young, unbonded, and opportunistic. Theodore had stumbled out of the tutoring center in a haze, sweat-soaked and trembling, his scent thick in the air. Desperate and unstable. His suppressants had failed. The instincts too loud to fight. 

And the alpha had followed. Coaxed him, probably cornered him. By the time someone called Damian, it was already over. Theodore was seen leaving an apartment building—head down, shirt wrinkled, a hand pressed to his chest like he was trying to hold himself together.

The media had pounced.

The news had spread like wildfire.

"Omega Caught in Heat Scandal—La Cosa CEO's Name Dragged into Elite Drama"

The media had eaten it alive. Paparazzi photos. Blurred headlines. And Damian—cold, proud, furious Damian—hadn't said a word. Not to Theodore. Not to the press. Just turned away, shut the door further between them, pretending like it didn't matter.

Even when it broke him.

Even when he knew—knew—that it wasn't Theodore's fault. That instincts had overpowered him, alone and in pain, and some opportunistic alpha had been there to take advantage. But pride was a harder chain to break than logic.

And after that, their already distant relationship became even more distant. Damian staggered back a step from the table now, breath shallow.

It was tonight.

Right now, somewhere across the city, Theodore was alone again. And this time. He wouldn't let it happen again. Damian grabbed his coat and keys with a clarity he hadn't felt in days. Plans could wait. Preparations could be paused.

Theodore mattered more. 

Damian's footsteps echoed sharply across the marble floors as he crossed the villa. He didn't bother double-checking the locks, didn't glance at the monitors or the neatly stacked emergency kits by the door. For once, they didn't matter.

He opened the door to the chill night air and slipped into his car, breath tight in his throat. The engine roared to life beneath his hands, but his grip on the steering wheel was iron steady. His pulse wasn't.

Please, he thought, Please let me be early enough this time.

Damian's jaw clenched as he turned onto the narrow street where the tutoring center sat wedged between an old bookstore and a bakery. It looked the same. It always did. Small. Quiet. Warm lights still glowing from inside. He parked in the shadows across the street, gaze locked on the building.

No other scents in the air. No other alphas nearby. Not yet.

Good.

Damian stepped out of the car and crossed the street fast, heart hammering. He was barely through the door when he smelled it fully. His instincts kicked in so violently he almost staggered.