Then his hands closed around Riven's waist, dragging him in with a predator's finality. His mouth crushed Riven's, kiss deep and merciless, teeth scraping, tongue claiming with ruthless hunger.
Riven gasped, body arching, clinging like he might collapse. Nyxen drove deeper, tasting him, stealing the air from his lungs.
Riven's knees buckled. He trembled, desperate, surrendering even as he fought.
They drowned together—scent, heat, memory, need—until nothing else existed but the inevitable.
And Nyxen, wolf that he was, no longer held back.
Not with prey so willing.
Not when the man he'd never stopped wanting had walked into the jaws himself.
Nyxen didn't even register how they'd reached the bed.
Clothes littered the room—shirts tangled in the sheets, belts dangling from the frame, the air choked with heat and pheromones.
Riven lay beneath him, flushed and trembling, skin slick with sweat. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, every breath carrying that maddening scent. Nyxen's mouth trailed from lips to throat, down the line of his chest—each kiss deliberate, each bite a quiet threat disguised as reverence.
Riven gasped, back arching, fists knotted in the sheets. His body yielded to every touch, shuddering under Nyxen's hands as they mapped him—hips, stomach, thighs—possessive, claiming, relentless.
It was the hunger from five years ago. The same fire. The same ache he thought he'd buried.
Now, restraint was gone. The storm had him. And still—it wasn't enough.
"Damn," Nyxen muttered against his skin, voice low, frayed. "I could devour you forever."
His lips hovered at the curve of Riven's neck, where the pulse fluttered frantically beneath damp skin. Riven shivered, a broken moan spilling from him as Nyxen pressed deeper, hips locked, breath harsh.
Nyxen's grip on his waist tightened, knuckles blanching. Buried inside him, surrounded, consumed—drowning in the scent that had haunted him like a curse.
The urge rose sharp and violent. To mark. To bite. To brand him beyond all doubt.
Nyxen's mouth lingered over that vulnerable stretch of throat. His fangs ached. His chest heaved. Every muscle trembled with restraint he no longer trusted.
"Mine," he breathed, voice raw and jagged.
Riven moaned again, tilting his head, baring his neck as though he'd been waiting for this moment—as though he wanted to be claimed.
Nyxen's jaw locked, his breath stuttered. The rut was clawing through him, stripping away the last fragments of control.
He could feel it—every nerve screaming to sink his fangs into Riven's throat, to tear through soft skin and brand him in a way no one else ever could. The taste of him hovered like a promise in the back of Nyxen's mouth.
But something inside him snapped.
Not like this.
Not when Riven's body was still burning under the haze. Not when his need was drugged instinct, not choice.
Nyxen's entire frame shook with the effort to resist. He tore himself back—an inch, no more—his breath hot and ragged against Riven's damp skin.
Then, with a guttural growl, he turned his head and drove his fangs into his own arm.
The puncture ripped clean through muscle. Pain detonated in white sparks behind his eyes. Blood surged up, hot and metallic, flooding over his tongue, spilling down his forearm in thick rivulets. The copper sting hit his nose, grounding him, dragging him back from the edge.
He gasped, chest heaving, fangs still buried in his flesh as crimson dripped steadily to the floorboards.
Beneath him, Riven lay sprawled and trembling, skin glowing with sweat, eyes half-closed and unfocused, lips parted around a faint moan. His hand twitched weakly against the sheets, reaching for him even in delirium.
Nyxen tore his fangs free with a wet snap. Blood welled from the punctures, slick and pulsing. He pressed his forehead to Riven's, heart hammering.
God, he wanted him. The heat of him. The taste of him.
But not like this.
His voice rasped, low and feral, almost to himself: Not yet. Not like this.
He bent down, brushing a kiss across Riven's brow, leaving the faintest smear of blood on his skin.
"Enough, my love," he whispered, words husky with restraint. "Before I mark you and strip away the last of your will. You don't want that… do you?"
As he spoke, a deliberate wave of his own pheromones seeped into the air—cool, heavy, absolute. They wound around Riven's intoxicating scent like chains, smothering it slowly until the haze thinned. Riven's chest eased, his breath steadied, his trembling stilled. His eyes fluttered shut, slipping into unconscious peace.
Nyxen sat back on the bed's edge, staring at the puncture in his arm. Blood still streamed down, dripping onto the carpet in small dark blooms. The wound throbbed with every heartbeat, the ache sharp, punishing.
"You're the only one who can undo me," he murmured, voice low and dangerous, gaze fixed on Riven's sleeping form. A slow smile tugged at his lips—not tender, but satisfied. Predatory.
Nyxen rose slowly, slipping from the bed without a sound. He crossed to the sofa, pulled his robe tight across his shoulders, and only then allowed the weight of the night to sink in.
Riven was S-Class. His pheromones alone could crush weaker bodies, split them apart from the inside out. If an Omega had been caught under that surge tonight, they would've been ruined—shattered beyond repair.
Even Riven hadn't been able to control it. And Nyxen had barely held his ground.
His jaw flexed, sharp with promise. "I'll hunt that freak down," he muttered. "Loose on my decks, throwing chaos like that… what if I hadn't been here? What would've been left of you?"
His gaze drifted back to the bed. To Riven, sprawled in the sheets, still flushed, still vulnerable. The sight tightened something in his chest—not softness, but a gnawing possessive ache. No one else would touch him. No one else would survive it.
And the fact that someone had breached his suppression system?
Unthinkable. Unforgivable.
"Time to rebuild it," he whispered, already dismantling the flaws in his mind, already plotting the next cage.
A sound stirred behind him.
"…What happened?" Riven's voice rasped, soft and uncertain.
He blinked at the ceiling, then pushed himself up too fast. The unfamiliar room spun. Pain lanced through his hips, sharp and merciless. He groaned, clutching his waist.
Nyxen turned. Silent. Watching.
Riven's body ached everywhere—especially low in his spine, between his thighs. The soreness was raw, humiliating.
"Not again," he muttered, voice cracking.
The sheets were tangled around his bare legs. His skin was marked—ragged crescents on his thighs, bruised kisses up his chest, dark traces at his throat. Evidence.
He stared, horror creeping in. "No way." Barely a whisper.
The memories were scattered, blurred by heat and haze. But his body remembered—the drag of teeth on his skin, the crushing weight, the hunger that had carried him under.
Just like five years ago.
His gaze caught on the table. A flower brooch. A crest pin.
His breath stopped. That pin. He'd seen it last night, gleaming on the Nexus Chairman's jacket.
"…No. That's impossible." His voice broke.
He pressed a hand to his mouth, heart racing. Of all the people—of all the beds—he had to wake in his.
What was the Chairman thinking now? Did he see weakness? Recklessness? Was he already calculating how to use this, how to bind Riven with it?
Riven's fists clenched in the sheets. "Don't think like that," he muttered sharply, trying to scold himself back into control.
Then he saw it: a folded note beside the brooch. He snatched it up, eyes scanning the neat script.
Thayer and Lior will come get you soon. We're almost docked.
Riven let out a shaky breath. Right. The clients. The fallout. The eyes waiting for him on deck.
He couldn't afford to unravel now. Not with his body wrecked, not with his pride in tatters.
He pushed himself upright, legs unsteady, and staggered toward the bathroom.
Time to wash the night from his skin. Time to face whatever came next.