The rest of the party passed in a haze of polite smiles and calculated small talk. I played my part—elegant, distant, untouchable—while Darius orbited me like gravity he couldn't quite escape. Every time another alpha drifted too close, his hand found the curve of my waist or the nape of my neck. Not possessive in the loud, theatrical way some men do. Quiet. Precise. The kind of claim that doesn't need words because the air itself carries it.
By the time the last guests filtered out, the ballroom felt too big and too empty. The string quartet had packed up. The chandeliers dimmed to a soft amber glow. Darius didn't speak as we rode the private elevator back to the penthouse level. He stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, but he didn't touch. Not yet.
The doors opened directly into the living area—floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping three sides, Frankfurt sprawling below in a glittering carpet of light. The Main River snaked through it like black ink spilled across silver. Modern, minimalist, cold. Exactly what I'd expected from a man like him.
He shed his jacket, tossed it over the back of a leather sofa. Tie followed. Top two buttons of his shirt undone. The casual unraveling should have made him look relaxed. It didn't. It made him look like a predator deciding how slowly to stalk.
"You're quiet," he said, crossing to the bar cart. Crystal decanter. Two glasses. He poured amber liquid into both without asking if I wanted one.
"I'm thinking." I stayed near the windows, arms folded, watching his reflection in the glass. "About how long it takes to suffocate in a cage made of money."
He paused, glass halfway to his lips. Then he carried both over, offering one. "You're not a prisoner."
I took the glass but didn't drink. "Tell that to the security detail downstairs. Or the fact that my phone was confiscated the moment I woke up. Or the engagement ring still sitting in its box because I refused to wear it tonight."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You'll wear it eventually."
"Optimistic."
"Realistic." He stepped closer. The scent of him—dark amber, smoke, now laced with whiskey—curled around me. My skin prickled. The faint heat that had teased me on the balcony was no longer faint. It was building, slow and insistent, like a tide creeping higher.
I set the untouched glass on the windowsill. "I'm going to bed."
His hand caught my wrist before I could turn. Gentle this time. Almost careful. "Not yet."
I looked down at his fingers encircling my skin, then back up at his face. "You don't get to decide that."
"I'm not deciding." His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse that betrayed me again. "I'm asking."
The word sounded foreign in his mouth. Asking. From Darius Hartmann, it felt like a concession wrapped in velvet.
I didn't pull away. "Why?"
"Because you're burning up." His voice dropped lower. "And you're trying to pretend you're not."
Heat flooded my cheeks—anger, embarrassment, something worse. The suppressants had worn off completely now. My body didn't care about pride or escape plans. It only knew proximity, scent, alpha. Biology overriding everything else with brutal efficiency.
"I've handled worse," I said, but the words came out thinner than I intended.
"Have you?" He released my wrist only to slide his hand up my arm, slow, deliberate. "Because from where I'm standing, you're shaking."
I was. Fine tremors running under my skin. I hated him for noticing. Hated myself more for not stepping back.
He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched mine. "Let me help."
The offer hung between us—simple, dangerous. Help in this world meant one thing for an omega in pre-heat facing an unmated alpha. Relief. Release. A temporary reprieve that came with strings I wasn't ready to tie.
"No." The word scraped out. "I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity." His breath ghosted across my lips. "It's necessity."
I laughed—short, bitter. "You think I'm going to fall apart and beg? That I'll spread for the first alpha who offers?"
His eyes darkened. "I think you're too proud to ask. And too smart to suffer alone when you don't have to."
Silence stretched. Thick. Electric.
The heat crested suddenly—sharp, vicious, like a blade under my ribs. I sucked in a breath, knees buckling for half a second before I caught myself against the window. Glass cold against my palms.
Darius moved faster than I expected. One arm around my waist, the other cradling the back of my neck. He pulled me against him, solid, unyielding. His scent enveloped me completely now—no escape, no air that didn't taste like him.
"Breathe," he murmured against my temple. "Just breathe."
I did. Shallow at first, then deeper. Each inhale dragged more of him inside me. Each exhale pushed a little more resistance out.
His hand slid to the base of my skull, fingers threading through silver strands. Not pulling. Holding. Steady.
"I won't mark you," he said quietly. "Not tonight. Not unless you say the word."
I closed my eyes. The room tilted. My body screamed for more—skin, teeth, knot—while my mind clung to the last shreds of control.
"Then what?" My voice cracked on the question.
"Then I stay." Simple. Certain. "Until it passes."
I should have said no. Should have shoved him away, locked myself in a room, ridden it out alone like I'd planned. But the heat was merciless, and his presence was the only thing keeping the edges from fraying completely.
I nodded once. Small. Reluctant.
He didn't gloat. Didn't smirk. Just guided me away from the window, through the shadowed hallway, into a bedroom that wasn't the one I'd woken in. His. Dark wood, charcoal linens, the same city view but from a higher vantage.
He eased me onto the edge of the bed. Knelt in front of me—knees bracketing mine, hands resting lightly on my thighs. Not advancing. Waiting.
"Tell me what you need," he said.
I looked down at him—Darius Hartmann, ruthless, untouchable, on his knees for me. The sight did something dangerous to the last wall I had left.
"Touch me," I whispered. "Just… touch me."
His hands moved—slow, reverent almost. Up my thighs, over my hips, under the open collar of my shirt. Palms warm against fevered skin. He leaned in, lips brushing the side of my neck—not biting, not claiming. Just resting there. Breathing me in.
I shuddered. Arched without meaning to.
He caught me when I swayed. Pulled me down with him until we were tangled on the sheets—clothes half-undone, bodies pressed close, heat bleeding between us.
No words after that. Just skin. Hands. Mouths finding collarbones, wrists, the sensitive spot behind my ear. He kept every promise—never crossed the line into full claiming. But he gave enough. Enough to dull the knife-edge of the heat. Enough to make me forget, for a few hours, that I was supposed to be running.
When the worst of the wave finally ebbed, I lay against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. His arm draped over me, heavy, protective.
I should have felt trapped.
Instead I felt… still.
Dangerous thought.
I closed my eyes before he could see it in mine.
Morning would come soon enough. With it, reality. Plans. Escape routes.
But for now, in the dark, with his scent wrapped around me like armor, I let myself rest.
Just this once.