"Ashen!" His mother's worried voice filled the room as she rushed to his side.
He sat propped against crisp white pillows, an IV drip feeding slowly into his arm. The sterile scent of disinfectant clung to the air, sharp and cold against the faint trace of his own pheromones still lingering — weakened, scattered from the shock of earlier.
He looked up, guilt and relief flickering in his pale lavender eyes. "Ma…?"
"What happened? Are you hurt?" She clasped his arm, scanning him desperately for wounds, as if she expected to find blood hidden beneath the hospital gown. "The hospital called me — they said you were here. What trouble did you get yourself into this time?"
Asheren shook his head quickly. "I'm fine. I just need rest. Don't panic, Ma." His voice was soft, but his breathing was still unsteady, chest rising too quickly, betraying the crash of adrenaline.
Inside, his thoughts twisted bitterly. I'm supposed to be an Alpha. Alphas don't falter. We protect, we command… we don't freeze when we see blood. Yet he couldn't erase the memory of crimson spraying across his hands, the metallic tang flooding his senses, the helpless weight of fear pressing down on his chest.
For a moment, I wasn't an Alpha at all. I was just… scared.
He clenched his jaw, forcing the tremor out of his breath, and lifted his eyes back to his mother, desperate to convince her — and maybe himself — that he was all right.
"Really?" Doubt laced her voice, her brows drawn tight.
"Really. The doctor said I can go home once the IV is finished. I only… lost my breath for a while. That's all."
He tried to smile, but it faltered at the edges. "They're just being overly cautious."
His mother's hand tightened on his. "Ashen… you're all I have. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you." Her voice cracked on the last words, the weight of her fear pressing down heavier than any pheromones could.
Before he could answer, a doctor approached — a striking woman in a white coat, her presence precise and professional. "You can be discharged now," she said with a polite nod.
"Thank you, Doctor, for looking after my son," his mother said quickly.
"It's my job. Excuse me, I have rounds to continue." With that, the doctor turned and left, her figure disappearing down the corridor. Both mother and son followed her with their eyes until she was gone.
When Asheren turned back, he caught the shadow in his mother's gaze — a sadness she tried to hide with a faint smile.
"Ma…" His voice softened. "Should we skip the family gathering?"
She blinked, startled. "Why would we?"
"Because you'll be uncomfortable there." His eyes lowered, lavender irises clouded with something heavier than exhaustion. "We can tell them I'm not feeling well."
His mother sighed, shaking her head. "That's not possible. You're part of that family too. It's your right to be there — and your grandfather doesn't take absence kindly. You know that."
Asheren hesitated, then glanced back at her. "Will you be okay?"
Her grip on his hand tightened. This time, her smile reached her eyes, fragile but sincere. "You'll be with me. Of course I'll be okay."
He forced a small smile in return, though the heaviness in his chest didn't ease.
The Thessara Hotel's grand restaurant had been closed off for the evening. Only the family was permitted here tonight — a rare summons from Lucien Thessara, the patriarch whose word was law.
Asheren walked beside his mother, Nyra, her delicate Omega pheromones faint and restrained, like the lingering sweetness of jasmine at dusk. She carried herself with quiet grace, though her lowered gaze betrayed the unease of a woman who had spent her life in the shadows of this family.
In the lobby, they were met by Draven, Asheren's father. His Alpha pheromones pressed sharp and metallic, demanding respect even in stillness. Yet his expression softened when he looked at Nyra. He kissed her cheek briefly before turning to his son.
"I'm glad you came. I was worried after the incident. Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," Asheren answered, though the memory of blood and gunfire still gnawed at his chest.
"Good." Draven's grip on his son's shoulder was firm, brief — a reminder of acknowledgment, but also distance. He turned to guide Nyra inside. Asheren followed silently, his lavender eyes lowered.
Inside the restaurant, the air thickened with power. At the head of the table sat Lucien Thessara, the Alpha patriarch. His pheromones filled the room like ancient oak roots, heavy, commanding, immovable. Age had not lessened his dominance; if anything, it had distilled it into something sharper, colder.
Seated close to him was Siora, Draven's legal wife — a refined Omega whose pheromones were subtle but dignified, carrying the polished sweetness of roses. She sat with the poise of someone who belonged here, unlike Nyra.
Beside her were her three sons:
Alaric, the eldest, radiating Alpha discipline and sharp authority, his aura cut like a blade across the room.
Kael, the second son, an Omega male, relaxed in his chair with an artistic elegance, his pheromones touched with spice and silk.
Renzo, the youngest, an Omega male whose energy still carried the unrefined warmth of youth, shifting uneasily under the heavy air.
Further down sat Aveline, Draven's sister, her Omega presence graceful and carefully adorned. Her husband, Marek, a composed Alpha, sat beside her — his aura steady, calculated, like a strategist biding his time. Their daughter, Eira, the young doctor who had recently treated Asheren, sat quietly near them, her Omega pheromones cool, professional, betraying nothing of her thoughts.
Asheren felt every look that darted toward him and his mother. He could feel the judgment woven into the air — the subtle tightening of lips, the weight of glares that burned his skin. He was the illegitimate Alpha, born of Nyra, the Omega mistress. No matter what he did, he carried that stain. His instincts screamed to unfurl his pheromones in defiance, but he held them back, coiled tight in his chest.
Lucien's deep voice cut across the table, silencing the murmurs. "Now that we are complete… let us eat."
Servants moved like clockwork, setting plates and pouring wine. The clink of silverware filled the air, yet for Asheren, every bite tasted heavy, his throat tight. The silence pressed thicker than the food. Why had his grandfather gathered them?
It was only after dessert was served that Lucien spoke again. "You've all heard the story of my time during the Korean War," he began, his voice carrying the weight of memory and command.
Asheren tensed. He knew this story — Nyra had whispered it to him once. A tale of a promise forged between Lucien and a fellow soldier, sealed in blood and survival. He had dismissed it as something out of novels, too romantic to be real.
Across the table, Alaric leaned forward, his Alpha aura sharpening. "Yes, Grandfather. But what does that have to do with tonight?"
Lucien's gaze swept the table, dark and resolute. "I have recently reunited with that man. And now, we will honor the vow we swore. One of my grandchild will be given in marriage to his son."
The air cracked with tension. Pheromones flared — sharp, startled, indignant. For a moment, no one spoke, the weight of the patriarch's words suffocating the table.
Finally, Marek spoke, his Alpha voice steady. "If I'm not mistaken… your comrade is General Aurelian Bryant — now the owner of the largest shopping empire in the country?"
The name hung heavy in the air, heavier than any scent, heavier than the silence that followed.