A cool, deceptive scent of white tea and gardenia clung to Prince Kyon's skin, a carefully crafted lie he had worn since he could walk. It was the scent of an omega, delicate and sweet, and it was the scent the kingdom of Elysium expected of him. For years, Kyon had perfected the part: a graceful, beautiful creature with a demure smile and hands meant only for holding a fan.
But beneath the silk robes, his muscles were coiled with a strength he was forbidden to use. His true scent, burning amber and pine, lay dormant, suppressed by potent elixirs. It was the scent of a true alpha, a scent his father, the King, feared would challenge the throne and ignite a bloody war with his aggressive, older brother. Kyon was a gilded cage, a political pawn presented to the highest bidder. His life was a performance, and he was growing to hate his audience.
His latest suitor was Lord Arion, a man as harsh and unyielding as the northern mountains he came from. The so-called "Black Tiger" of the North. Arion was a true alpha, his scent of fresh rain and earth so clean and powerful it made the air around him feel thin. Kyon watched him from a distance, wary of the man's keen senses and his deep-seated distrust of the court. Arion saw through the pleasantries and the polite smiles. He saw the rot at the heart of the kingdom, and Kyon suspected he might be able to see through Kyon's carefully constructed facade, too.
The political games of the court were exhausting, a constant drain on Kyon's carefully guarded energy. One evening, after hours of forced conversation and suffocating expectations, a fever began to burn beneath his skin. He could feel his suppressants faltering. A wave of panic washed over him, a primal fear of being exposed. He had to get out. He had to breathe.
He slipped past the guards and into the royal gardens, a secluded, moonlit sanctuary where the scent of night-blooming jasmine could hopefully cover the truth. The cool night air felt like a balm on his heated skin, but it wasn't enough. The tell-tale tingle of a rut, a sensation he'd only ever experienced in secret, was beginning. His true scent, a suffocating heat, fought to break free.
He stumbled to a hidden alcove, but he wasn't alone. A figure was slumped against a stone bench, a bottle of wine hanging limply from his hand. It was Arion, his face flushed, clearly drunk and equally desperate to escape the court's oppressive atmosphere.
"Lord Arion," Kyon whispered, a mixture of alarm and mortification seizing him.
Arion blinked, his eyes unfocused. His sharp, earthy scent, usually so controlled, was muddled by the smell of alcohol. He looked up at Kyon, his gaze a blurry mixture of curiosity and primal need. "The Prince," he slurred, a ghost of a mocking smile on his lips. "Even out here, you smell like a damn flower."
Just then, a wave of heat, more powerful than any he had ever felt, crested over Kyon. The suppressants broke. His true alpha scent of burning amber and pine exploded into the night air, a sharp, dominating wave that made Arion's eyes widen. It was a raw, undeniable signal. Arion, dazed and disoriented by the alcohol, reacted on instinct, his scent of fresh rain and earth suddenly turning sweet and submissive. He was an alpha, but in that moment, in the face of Kyon's overpowering, untamed power, he was a bottom.
The night became a blur of primal instinct and unspoken truths. Kyon, no longer the demure prince but a desperate alpha, took what he needed, his long-denied instincts unleashed. He dominated, he claimed, and in the fever-fueled haze, he marked the one person who saw him for who he truly was.
He woke before dawn, a pounding headache and a wave of sick shame crashing over him. Arion was still asleep, but a deep, angry red mark was blooming on his neck. Kyon's mark. He had claimed him. Panicked, Kyon fled, leaving Arion with no memory of their encounter, only a mysterious brand on his skin and the ghost of a white tea scent in the air.
He returned to his chamber, the scent of white tea once again covering his skin, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He had made a grave mistake. A terrible, wonderful mistake. He had to pretend the night never happened. He had to. He would go on being the false omega, but now, he would have to face the one man who had a mark from his true self, and who, with every day, would be drawn closer to the truth.