Bred by My Ex's Boss

The storm finally broke over Manhattan three days later.

Thunder rattled the windows of the Hayden penthouse. Lightning flashed, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor of the small guest bedroom.

On the narrow twin bed, Alston screamed.

His body arched off the mattress, his spine bowing as a violent muscle spasm ripped through his abdomen. His skin was burning, slick with a thick layer of feverish sweat.

His heat had triggered early.

The air in the small room was thick and suffocating. The usually subtle scent of chamomile had mutated. It was now heavy, sickeningly sweet, and laced with the intoxicating smell of fermented honey. It was the biological distress signal of an Omega in agonizing need of an Alpha's bite.

Alston collapsed back onto the damp sheets, gasping for air. His lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass.

He rolled onto his side, his trembling hand reaching blindly for the nightstand.

His fingers brushed against the cold plastic of the syringe. He had bought it hours ago from a shadowed alley in Queens. The black-market suppressant was a murky, yellowish liquid.

Another cramp hit him, harder this time.

Alston's hand jerked. His fingers knocked against the syringe.

It rolled off the edge of the nightstand and dropped to the floor, bouncing once before rolling underneath the heavy oak dresser.

"No," Alston sobbed, his voice cracking. "No, please."

He tried to lean over the edge of the bed to reach it, but his arms gave out. He fell onto the carpet, his knees hitting the floor hard.

The biological craving for an Alpha was tearing his mind apart. His body was screaming for the one person who was supposed to protect him.

Alston dragged himself across the floor. He used his elbows to pull his dead weight forward, crawling out of the guest room and into the dark hallway.

He needed Braydon. He just needed a temporary bite to break the fever.

He dragged himself toward the master bedroom at the end of the hall.

As he got closer, he saw a thin sliver of yellow light glowing beneath the door.

Braydon was home. He had come back from the Hamptons early because of the storm.

A desperate surge of hope flared in Alston's chest. He pushed himself up against the heavy oak door, his sweaty palms smearing against the wood.

He raised his fist and pounded weakly on the door.

"Braydon," Alston rasped, his throat raw. "Braydon, please. Help me."

Inside the room, the sound of rustling sheets stopped.

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor.

"Go back to your room, Alston," Braydon's voice barked through the wood. It was thick with sleep and extreme irritation. "I told you I didn't want to deal with you this weekend."

Alston's legs gave out completely. He slid down the door, his forehead resting against the cold wood.

"Please," Alston begged, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat. "My heat... it's early. I dropped the medicine. I just need a bite. Just one bite."

Silence stretched on the other side of the door.

Then, a loud, metallic click echoed in the hallway.

Braydon had thrown the deadbolt. He had locked the door from the inside.

The sound of that lock turning hit Alston harder than a physical blow. It shattered the last pathetic piece of hope holding his heart together.

Then, Alston smelled it.

Seeping through the crack under the door was the unmistakable, cloying scent of artificial rose perfume.

Emelia was in there. Braydon had brought his mistress into their marital home, into their bed, while his husband was dying in the hallway.

The sheer, suffocating humiliation of it burned away the haze of the fever.

Alston bit down on his own forearm. He bit down so hard his teeth broke the skin. The sharp, piercing pain of his own teeth tearing into his flesh shocked his system, giving him a split second of clarity.

He let go of his arm. Blood trickled down his wrist.

He didn't cry anymore. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at the locked door.

Alston turned around. He dragged himself back down the hallway, his fingernails scraping against the hardwood floor. He crawled back into the guest room and collapsed next to the dresser.

He reached his bloody hand underneath the heavy wood. His fingers brushed the plastic syringe.

He pulled it out.

He didn't have the strength to find an alcohol wipe. He didn't care about the air bubbles.

Alston ripped the cap off with his teeth. With the last ounce of his strength, he grabbed the fabric of his sweat-soaked pants and viciously tore it aside, exposing the pale, trembling skin of his thigh. He jammed the thick, dull needle straight into the muscle.

He pushed the plunger down, forcing the burning, acidic liquid into his bloodstream.

The pain was unimaginable. It felt like liquid fire racing through his veins.

Alston's vision went completely black, and he slumped sideways onto the floor, losing consciousness.

Across the city, in the sterile, soundproof basement of the Marks Tech building.

Easton Marks sat in a leather medical chair.

His private physician was wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his bicep. The monitors next to the chair were beeping frantically.

"Your Enigma fluctuations are critical, Mr. Marks," the doctor said, his voice tight with panic. "If you don't find a compatible anchor to stabilize your pheromones, your nervous system is going to start shutting down."

Easton ripped the blood pressure cuff off his arm. He threw it across the room.

He stood up, his chest heaving. He walked over to the reinforced glass wall that looked out into the underground garage.

Suddenly, a massive, invisible weight slammed into Easton's chest.

He staggered forward, his hands slapping against the glass to catch his balance.

His heart skipped a beat, then started hammering at a terrifying speed. His Enigma instincts flared to life, violent and screaming.

He could feel it. The biological tether.

Somewhere in the city, the perfect chamomile scent was being suffocated. The Omega was in excruciating pain. The distress signal was so strong it was bypassing physical distance, hitting Easton's Enigma receptors directly.

Easton's eyes snapped open. The irises were entirely swallowed by the dark gold of a predator ready to kill.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for his assistant.

"Monitor all emergency medical dispatches around the Hayden penthouse," Easton ordered, his voice a lethal, vibrating growl.

"Sir," the assistant replied instantly. "No ambulances dispatched. But the Hayden building's security logs show Braydon Hayden entered the penthouse an hour ago. With a female guest."

The image formed in Easton's mind instantly.

Braydon had locked his Omega out while he screwed his mistress. Alston was suffering through a heat cycle alone, dying on the floor.

A terrifying, guttural snarl ripped from Easton's throat.

He pulled his fist back and slammed it directly into the reinforced glass.

The bulletproof glass spider-webbed under the sheer force of the blow. Blood dripped from Easton's split knuckles, splashing onto the pristine white floor.

Easton stared at his bloody hand. A slow, dark, terrifying smile spread across his face.

A primal, dark ecstasy burned in his blood. The prey was isolated, and his biology was screaming to claim what was rightfully his.