Bred by My Ex's Boss

Alston's blood ran cold. He froze, the phone pressed hard against his ear. How did he know? The terrifying Enigma had answered on the first ring, sounding as if he had been sitting in the dark, waiting for this exact moment. The sheer impossibility of the statement felt like a key turning in a lock, opening up a much deeper, primal fear within Alston's chest. Yet, beneath that terror, it brought a twisted, undeniable sliver of hope. Alston opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

Before he could make a sound, heavy footsteps approached the bathroom door.

"Alston," Braydon's voice called out through the wood.

It wasn't the violent roar from last night. It was a groggy, strained rasp. Braydon was hungover, and the reality of what he had almost done was clearly setting in.

Alston's thumb immediately slammed down on the mute button on his phone screen. He pulled the device tight against his chest, holding his breath.

On the other side of the door, Braydon rubbed his pounding temples. He looked down at the dried blood on his sleeve from the pen stab.

Panic was clawing at Braydon's chest. If Alston reported an attempted forced marking, it would trigger a mandatory investigation under the Omega Protection Act. The scandal would destroy his career and sever his access to the trust fund.

He needed to fix this. Fast.

"Look, Alston, I'm... I'm sorry about last night," Braydon said, pitching his voice to sound reasonable, almost condescending. "I had too much to drink. The stress at work has been insane."

Alston stared at the locked door. His stomach churned with disgust.

"But you have to admit," Braydon continued, his tone shifting to lay the blame, "walking around the house without a Scent Patch right after your heat? You were practically begging for an Alpha reaction. You need to be more responsible."

Alston's eyes widened. A cold, hard knot formed in his chest. He was being blamed for his own assault.

"I'll make it up to you," Braydon offered smoothly. "I'll leave my black card on the counter. Go down to Fifth Avenue. Buy whatever you want. If you're good, I might even take you to that boring art gallery opening this weekend."

It was a bribe. A pathetic, insulting bribe to buy his silence.

Alston looked down at the phone pressed against his chest.

He slowly lifted his thumb. He pressed the unmute button.

He didn't say a word. He just held the phone up, letting the microphone catch every single syllable of Braydon's toxic, manipulative speech.

On the other end of the line, Easton sat in his office, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. He listened to the Alpha try to buy his way out of assault with a credit card. The urge to drive to the penthouse and snap Braydon's neck was almost blinding.

Alston placed the phone quietly on the edge of the sink.

He stood up. He turned on the cold water tap, splashed his face, and stared at his reflection. The fear was gone. Only a cold, absolute resolve remained.

He walked over to the door and unlocked the deadbolt.

He pulled the door open.

Braydon stood in the hallway, looking relieved. He reached out, trying to cup Alston's cheek to seal the fake apology.

Alston turned his head sharply, dodging the touch.

"I need to go to the hospital," Alston said. His voice was completely flat, devoid of any emotion. "My head hit the floor hard. I feel dizzy."

Braydon's hand dropped. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Fine. But you go to the Hayden private clinic. And you tell them you slipped in the shower. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Alston lied smoothly.

Braydon nodded, satisfied that he still had control. "I'll have the driver bring the car around."

Braydon turned and walked toward the kitchen to get coffee.

Alston stepped back into the bathroom and picked up his phone.

"Do you want me to send someone to handle him?" Easton's voice vibrated through the speaker, dark and lethal.

"No," Alston whispered. "I need a medical report. A real one. One that his family can't bury."

Easton was silent for two seconds. "I'm sending you an address," Easton commanded. "It's a private facility. Ditch his driver. Take a cab."

The call disconnected.

Alston walked out of the bathroom and into the guest room. He opened his bedside drawer and pulled out a high-strength Scent Patch.

He peeled the backing off and slapped it hard against the bruised skin of his neck.

It was a physical barrier. A declaration of war. He was shutting off his scent, and he was shutting off his submission.

Alston grabbed his coat, walked out of the penthouse, and stepped into the elevator. He was finally ready to burn the cage down.