It had been days since he'd last seen that feisty little puppy, yet the memory of their barbed exchanges refused to leave him. Their wit, the sharp snap of their retorts, resurfaced in idle moments of his routine like a ghost he hadn't invited but secretly enjoyed. Nikolai could admit, if pressed, that Lucien was dangerously easy on the eyes—but that wasn't what anchored the Alpha's mind. No, it was his scent.
Like rainfall breaking against stone, mingled with pinewood cut sharp and clean, it clung to him. The fragrance wrapped itself around Nikolai's thoughts, tugging, pulling, tearing through the seams of his composure. A canine's heightened sense of smell was curse enough—but as an Alpha, the sensitivity was magnified, the assault unforgiving. Every note of Lucien's scent threatened to unravel reason itself, clawing at his instincts until little remained but want. He had been lucky that night to have a cigarette between his fingers, the bitter smoke cutting through the intoxicating perfume before it could finish driving him mad.
"I wonder what he's up to…" he murmured now, leaning back into the plush sofa stationed in the office of his establishment.
The navy silk robe draped across his frame slipped with his movements, exposing the hard lines of his chest. He crossed one leg over the other, the loosely knotted sash doing a poor job of preserving modesty. Nikolai never cared for the stiff polish of suits—professional attire strangled him. He preferred loose folds, clothes that breathed, clothes that didn't remind him of chains.
At a small gesture, a phone was immediately placed in his palm by one of his attendants, the employee bowing before retreating a half-step to remain on hand. Fingers dialed the memorized number he had pulled from Lucien's files, the sound of each ring filling his ear. He barely flinched when delicate hands brushed over his abdomen, nails tracing light crescents against his skin. Male and female bodies pressed against either side of him, sliding teasing fingers across his torso and stomach, feeding his appetite for touch. Yet his focus did not waver. The ringing tone consumed him.
On the table before him lay the card gleaming beneath the warm light—a remnant from their hostage exchange. Its presence alone carried him back to that moment: the hesitation in the brown-haired woman's hand before surrendering it, the razor tension of delay. Whoever had the cunning—or luck—to strip both sides of their cards had been generously rewarded, whether intentional or not.
"I wonder if he'll be as eager to hear my voice… as I am to hear his."
The words slipped from him in a low murmur, followed by a quiet chuckle. His smile was thin, ghostly, laced with amusement. Those lingering in the room shifted uneasily. They were used to their boss smiling, yes—but smiling for blood, for chaos, for the thrill of breaking someone's bones. This smile was different. It unsettled them.
A sharp contrast from mere moments earlier, when their superior's mood had soured at the mention of another arranged marriage candidate, yet another pawn pushed forward by his grandfather's endless schemes.
And here he was now, robe half-open, attendants draped over him, the phone ringing in his ear. Smiling—not for blood, but for the thought of someone who had clawed into his head and refused to leave.
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Lucien had made it his personal mission not to think about that whole damn mess—especially not that smug blond bastard. If his mind ever drifted there, he cut it off fast. The casino, the debt, the humiliation—it was all a dark knot he shoved into the back of his skull and left to rot.
Fresh from his morning run, hair damp with sweat and shirt clinging faintly to his back, he slumped into the kitchen chair still catching his breath. His voice was easy, animated, as he rambled to his father about some kid from the swim team. He even laughed—loud, unguarded—until his dad's expression shifted. The sudden gravity in the older man's face hit him harder than a slap.
"Did you forget to take your medicine?" his father asked, tone flat, no room for excuses.
Lucien blinked, laugh dying in his throat. "What? No. I took it."
The frown carved deeper into his father's face. His eyes sharpened, cutting through him. "Doesn't seem like it's working. Your scent's changed again."
The words froze Lucien. A heavy swallow caught in his throat. "Changed back? …Rain smell again?"
A tight nod.
Lucien exhaled slowly, jaw clenched until it ached. Of course. Whenever the disease flared, it started with the scent—a storm of pinewood and rain bleeding off his skin—followed by the fevers, the sudden surges of heat, the ugly bursts of anger he could never quite cage. A storm, brewing beneath his flesh.
His father rose from the table, resting a heavy, grounding hand on his son's shoulder. "You can double your pills until I fix this."
"Yeah," Lucien muttered, uneasy, voice clipped. "Thanks."
The reassurance did little. The unease clung like damp clothes, gnawing at him through classes, through practice, through the quiet hours where distraction failed him. Driving home, one hand on the wheel, he cracked the window wide, letting the chill bite at his skin just to drown the creeping weight of that pinewood-rain scent trailing off his body. No one else seemed to notice—not yet. Thank god.
Then the phone buzzed against the console. An unknown number.
Lucien frowned, thumb hesitating before tapping accept. He pressed it to his ear, voice low and rough, the rasp of exhaustion sharpening its edge. "Hello."
Just one word.
But on the other end, Nikolai stilled. Breath caught in his throat, the disgruntled tone thrumming in his ear like a slow, decadent pull. He let the silence stretch a beat too long, savoring it before he finally spoke.
"Hello there, handsome," he drawled, every syllable dipped in provocation. "Remember me?"
The question wasn't for clarity—it was bait, a hook sharpened with arrogance. Whether Lucien admitted it or not, Nikolai didn't care. The satisfaction lay in intrusion, in needling beneath the man's skin, making himself unforgettable.
His free hand drifted lazily, brushing the curve of the woman's hip where she leaned against him. On his other side, the man shifted, lips parting as if to question him—until he caught the rare stillness carved into Nikolai's features. Who was this voice that could still their Alpha so thoroughly, drag his attention away from pleasures that once consumed him with ease?
Nikolai's mouth curved into a smile, slow and dangerous. A smile that promised both trouble and delight. He already knew the truth: Lucien was not someone easily forgotten.
Lucien, meanwhile, kept his eyes hard on the road. His thumb flicked Bluetooth on without hesitation, voice clipped as iron when it cut the silence. "Wrong number."
"Even if you've forgotten who I was," Nikolai said smoothly, unbothered but quick so not to let the other end the call, "it doesn't erase the fact there was a mix-up with our cards. They handed you mine, and…" His gaze flicked to the sleek black rectangle gleaming on the coffee table, "…I've got yours. Don't worry, I haven't tested it at the bar yet." His tone was light, playfully amused, every word bait.
The mistake had been a small one—an employee's carelessness. Both cards looked near identical save for name and number. A trivial slip to most, but to Nikolai it was a gift. An excuse. An opening. A chance to pull the other man back into his orbit.
"Would you care to exchange sometime today? Or tomorrow, perhaps?" He pitched the offer like a tease, casual but deliberate. "You can pick the time and place. I know you're not fond of the swamp I like swimming in, so I'll play nice. Somewhere public—a shop, a café, hell, even a park. Your call."
Lucien's words were usually few, but today he was more brittle.
Irritation jagged through his veins, and when the stranger mentioned the cards, something clicked. Recognition, slow and cold, settled behind his scowl. His forehead creased into hard lines.
"Where the hell did you get my number?" he demanded, pulling the car to the side with abrupt precision, killing the engine. His pulse kicked heavy under his skin. He fished his wallet out, flipped it open, and checked. A grimace twisted his face as the truth hit.
"Nikolai." The name left his mouth like a curse. His grip on the phone tightened. "Those bastards gave you my number? What, you are in cahoots with them?" His voice snapped, panic tangling with anger in his chest. "You know what—I should just go to the police."
The way his name rolled off Lucien's lips, even if wrapped with venom and distaste, held a nice ring to his ear, caused the corner of his mouth to twitch. Who knew the name he loathed so much could sound so beautiful from this man's voice.
"Cahoots? You've got it all wrong, Luci…" Nikolai tested the nickname, "...I don't work under them at all."
He grinned like the devil. Ah, his feisty little kitten.