He was backing away, one arm locked around Lior, the other clenched so tight his knuckles burned. His scent was shifting—Nyxen could feel it from across the room. Just like that night five years ago. The ballroom. The suffocating heat. The panic.
And now, with his son at his side, Riven was trying to fight it down. But the pheromone surge was too strong.
Nyxen's eyes narrowed as the Omegas began to close in—eyes glazed, bodies trembling, reaching for Riven's heat. He wouldn't last. Not like this. Not with that kind of pressure tearing through him.
Nyxen moved.
Fast.
Riven stumbled back, vision blurring, breath sharp and shallow. What do I do? The question slipped out, raw and hoarse, more to himself than anyone else.
The Omegas' scent pressed closer—sickly-sweet, cloying, irresistible. His body responded in kind. Instinct clawed at him. The urge to claim, to dominate, to mark—it surged up his throat like fire.
"Papa…" Lior's small voice cracked, fingers clutching at his sleeve. His wide eyes fixed on the approaching figures. "Lior's scared."
And then—
A tall figure stepped between them and the crowd.
Nyxen.
His presence slammed into the room like iron doors locking shut.
"Your scent is filth," he said, cold and absolute. His eyes cut into the nearest Omega. "No one lays claim to what's mine."
Then he released it.
A stabilizing pheromone detonated outward—cool, metallic, inexorable. It didn't soothe. It crushed. The heat in the air shattered like glass under ice.
Omegas gasped, staggered. Their skin cooled, their trembling stilled, the desperate hunger collapsing into shock and tears. Some sank to the floor. Others clung blindly to whoever was closest.
Their pheromones pulled back, retreating in confusion, leaving only silence in their wake.
Alphas broke harder. The rut snapped like a wire torn from the wall. Muscles convulsed. Breathing ragged, unsteady. Many collapsed into chairs, disoriented. A few dropped their eyes, necks exposed without realizing—submitting by instinct.
Nyxen stood unflinching, scent steady, anchoring the room in brutal order.
And Riven— He staggered, exhaling hard, his grip on Lior shaking but firm. The storm had passed.
But the silence that followed was worse.
Because inside him, something else had moved. Not fear. Not relief. Something darker. He felt it coil low in his chest—like a shadow waking, like hunger sharpening its teeth.
Alphas were still shaking off the haze, Betas forcing themselves upright as instinct slowly clawed its way back into order. Some rushed to steady disoriented Omegas, others dragged unstable Alphas back from the edge of rut. Control was returning—piecemeal, fragile—but the damage was written across every trembling body on the deck.
Then the doors slammed open.
Nexus and Raventhorne security surged in, drawn by the emergency alert. They froze at the sight before them—collapsed figures strewn across polished wood, flushed faces gleaming with sweat, the air still heavy with the residue of heat and dominance.
Thayer's gaze swept the chaos, searching, calculating—until it landed on Nyxen. Of course. He was already at the center, already pulling the room back into orbit.
"Papa!" Lior's cry cut through the din, sharp with fear.
Nyxen turned just in time to see Riven stagger—then crumple.
He moved before anyone else could breathe. One arm caught the Omega's weight, steady, unyielding. Riven hung limp against him, unconscious, breath shallow against Nyxen's shoulder.
Thayer reached them fast. "Emperor—the suppression system failed. The alert hit central command. What happened?"
Nyxen's jaw tightened, his gaze scanning the room like a blade. "Some lunatic dumped a targeted heat-inducing pheromone." His voice was low, lethal. "If he shows himself—if I catch a whiff of that rotten scent again—I'll tear him apart."
Thayer didn't argue. He didn't need to. Nyxen was steady, yes—but the steadiness was a mask stretched over violence. The calm before a storm. And every guard on deck could feel it.
The Emperor's stabilizing pheromone still clung faintly to the air, crisp and cold, anchoring the venue in unnatural quiet. Without it, they would've drowned.
Nyxen looked down at the boy still clinging to Riven's hand.
"Hey, buddy," he said, crouching just enough for his voice to meet Lior's ears. "Go with Uncle Thayer for now, alright?"
"But Papa—" Lior's voice cracked.
Nyxen pressed a hand gently against his head, steady and commanding. "It's alright. I've got him. You trust me, don't you?"
Lior's lower lip trembled. Then he nodded, small and solemn, before turning to Thayer.
"Take him," Nyxen ordered, his tone shifting back to iron. "Clean this up. No one leaves until I say."
"I'll handle it," Thayer said, already slipping into command, already barking orders to the nearest guards.
Nyxen adjusted his hold and lifted Riven fully into his arms. The unconscious Omega's head fell against his chest, the crooked flower brooch catching the lantern light.
The Emperor scanned the deck one last time—collapsed Omegas, staggering Alphas, security teams snapping to Thayer's orders. Predators would call this chaos. To Nyxen, it smelled like a hunt.
Whoever had done this wasn't reckless.
They were deliberate. Targeting. Testing.
His eyes narrowed behind the mask as he turned, carrying Riven toward the exit. The storm might have broken, but the warning remained.
And his stride made it clear to everyone watching:
Whatever the hunters wanted— They would never touch what was his.