Chapter 28: The Cost of Touch

A surge of pheromones—thick, cloying, aggressively sweet—spilled into the space between them like smoke through a closed room. Not a tease. Not a mistake.

It hit like rot wrapped in sugar.

Lucas didn't breathe it in.

His lungs refused.

His mind didn't go blank, but it tried—his body remembered before his thoughts did. That scent. That tactic. The way it choked the air and forced obedience from alphas too weak to fight fairly and too proud to earn consent. The kind of scent that clung to bruises and silk sheets, that slicked the skin of men who paid for silence.

Christian's men had used it, too.

The ones he rotated in, faceless, forgettable—each one doused in pheromones so strong they drowned Lucas in heat even when he wasn't in one. Used it to make him compliant. Make him pliable.

Make him forget, quiet.

This alpha was no different.

Entitled. Grinning. Expecting that scent to open doors, legs, futures.

Lucas didn't respond—not with words, not with breath. He kept still, spine straight, expression unreadable. But his silence wasn't surrender. It was calculation. Delay. A beat before the cut.

He was already parting his lips to speak, the blade of his tongue honed—

When the shift happened.

Three new shadows broke the line of firelight—shadows that didn't blend, didn't whisper. They commanded.

Lucius was first.

His steps were silent, but the rage wasn't. It radiated from him like cold pressure in a closed room. His blue eyes had darkened—no shine, no charm, only the steady, surgical fury of a man who knew exactly what had been done.

Sirius followed, broader, slower, his anger shaped like stone—deep and ancient. Crown Prince or not, he didn't bother with etiquette. He walked straight toward the offending alpha with the expression of someone who had burned kingdoms for less.

Trevor didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

He reached Lucas's side with the precision of a man built for violence and diplomacy in equal measure. His hand didn't touch Lucas, not yet, but his body angled between them like instinct—shielding without asking. His gaze, when it fell on the alpha, could've cut glass.

The music faltered again. Then stopped.

The nobles around them didn't retreat. They fled.

Only the scent remained—thick, violating, heavy with unsanctioned want.

Sirius broke the silence first.

He looked at the alpha—a heir of some high conglomerate, but not important to Siriu now—and said, in a voice even and public:

"You will step back. Immediately."

It wasn't a request.

The air itself shifted.

The alpha blinked, surprised—as if he hadn't expected consequences. As if his name, his father's seat on some corporate board, or his press-tailored image could shield him here.

Lucas said nothing. Not yet.

But Trevor's expression was already sealed—stone and fire and no room for negotiation.

"I—I meant no disrespect," the alpha stammered, adjusting his cuffs like he could reset the moment. "It was just a greeting."

"A greeting," Sirius repeated, as if testing the weight of the word. "In front of the Empire's second prince. It's a northern vassal. And its Crown heir."

Lucius stepped forward now, smile razor-thin. "And what did you think was going to happen? That Lucas would faint? Melt into your arms? Moan, perhaps?"

The alpha flushed, panic blooming behind his eyes now.

Sirius didn't blink.

He let the silence draw blood.

Then: "Your father will receive a formal notice. Your security clearance for imperial events is revoked as of this hour. If you wish to remain solvent by the end of the fiscal quarter, I suggest you write an apology that bleeds."

The alpha looked between them—Lucius's fury, Trevor's silence, and Sirius's decree.

And finally, Lucas.

Still standing. Still untouched.

And now everyone at the party understood—truly understood—that provoking Lucas Oz of House D'Argente would not earn them gossip or scandal, not the quiet thrill of whispered speculation or the slow burn of social exile, but instead, something far more immediate, far more dangerous: the focused, unified ire of the Empire's most untouchable men.

The second prince, sharp and surgical in his rage.

 The Crown Prince, sovereign in all but title, already measuring the cost of retribution.

 And Trevor Fitzgeralt, the man who did not speak until it was far too late for apologies.

It wasn't a warning. It was a promise.

And the ballroom—opulent, overfed, powdered in power—breathed around that moment like something learning fear for the first time. No one dared meet Lucas's gaze now. They glanced, then glanced away. The brave bowed with clipped dignity. The clever began clearing a path. And a few, the ones who had overplayed their ambition tonight, quietly excused themselves, muttering about early appointments and distant obligations.

Then, the sound of heels. Unhurried. Precise. Purposeful.

Serathine moved through the crowd as if it parted for her not out of courtesy, but instinct. She carried her untouched wine glass like a blade, the trailing hem of her pale gown moving behind her like smoke. She didn't rush. She never rushed.

She reached Lucas with the composure of someone who had seen greater storms and survived them all. Her smile was perfect—not warm, not cruel. Just correct. The kind of smile that preceded entire careers collapsing by morning.

"I think it's clear now," she said softly, her voice even and entirely public, "that no one will dare to try anything remotely like that again."

Her tone wasn't performative. It was cold water poured over ambition.

She didn't look at the remaining nobles. She didn't have to.

They were already recalculating everything.

She turned slightly, her fingertips brushing Lucas's back—not possessively, not protectively, just enough to remind him she was here. She had always been here.

"I will make sure of that," she added, and there was no doubt she already had. Somewhere, letters were being drafted. Names were being crossed off guest lists. Stock values would dip before sunrise, and the scent of one reckless heir would be scrubbed out of high society before the next gala began.

Lucas didn't answer right away. He didn't need to.

He took in the chandelier above him, the way it scattered light across polished marble and court-painted smiles, how it hung from the ceiling like a crown waiting to fall. He breathed in once, just to confirm the air was his again.

Then, his voice—low, precise, calm.

"You know. I can defend myself." It wasn't defiance. It wasn't gratitude either. It was something cooler than both. A statement made not for reassurance, but for record.

Serathine paused, her expression unreadable, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth—not amusement, not indulgence. Something closer to respect.

"Yes," she said softly. "I know."

Behind them, Lucius had already started scanning the crowd again, calculating risk like it was a language he spoke better than his own name. Sirius was speaking with a member of security, his posture too casual to be relaxed. Trevor hadn't moved far from Lucas's side.

It was Trevor who spoke next, his voice low enough to be missed by anyone who hadn't earned the right to hear it.

"No one said you couldn't," he said. "We just made sure you wouldn't have to."

Lucas didn't look at him. Not directly. But the corner of his mouth curved, just barely, like the edge of a blade catching the light.

"Chivalry looks strange on you," he murmured.

Trevor gave a quiet exhale. Not a laugh—closer to a sigh sharpened by honesty.

"I'm not chivalrous," he said. "I'm territorial."

Lucas's smile widened by a fraction, then vanished like it had never been there at all.

The music resumed then, less baroque and softer, something to fill the silence without drawing attention. A new song for a new part of the night.