Riven had never blended foundation before in his life, but today? He was doing it like his life depended on it.
Because it kind of did.
"Too orange," he muttered, dabbing at the bonding mark on his neck with a sponge that definitely wasn't meant for anything more than dollar-store Halloween makeup. He swore under his breath and wiped it off with the back of his sleeve, only to reveal the raw, healing bite beneath it. It throbbed like it had a heartbeat of its own.
"Ugh, why do you glow like a damn beacon of shame?"
He swiped again, this time with concealer. Then powder. Then more concealer. Then—what the hell, he even tried a layer of shimmery eyeshadow for some reason.
It didn't help.
The mark was still there. Mocking him.
His hands were shaking, and the scent—God, the scent—was impossible to get rid of. It clung to his skin, to his hair, to every inch of that cheap hoodie he'd yanked on over Ria's too-sheer nightgown. He'd Febreezed himself. Twice. He'd stolen her floral deodorant and rolled it over every pulse point. He even rubbed lemon juice on his wrists because the internet said citrus might help.
It didn't.
He still smelled like heat. And Alpha. And very, very bad decisions.
And just as he was setting a final puff of powder with the grace of a drunk toddler, he heard the front door open.
Shit.
He froze, sponge halfway to his cheek, staring at the cracked mirror like it could save him. The door slammed and he flinched.
Then came the footsteps. Sharp. Fast. Very high-heel-y.
"Riven?"
Ria's voice was not gentle.
He bolted from the bathroom—technically, her bedroom's walk-in closet that doubled as a glam station—and nearly tripped on the rug. He caught himself just in time and tried to act casual, leaning against the wall like some bored teenager.
"Hey," he said. Voice high. Fake. Horribly guilty.
Ria walked into the room like a Category 5 hurricane, hair still pinned up from whatever photoshoot she'd ditched, heels in one hand and her phone in the other. She looked at him once and stopped walking.
Dead silence.
Her nose twitched.
Oh no.
"Riven," she said slowly, calmly. Too calmly. "Why does it smell like you just got railed by a pack of Alphas?"
"I—wow, okay, rude."
"Don't."
He shrank a little while she stepped closer. Her face was the exact opposite of makeup-influencer glam now. Lips tight. Cheeks flushed with rage.
And when her eyes dropped to the sloppily concealed bite mark?
She slapped him.
Hard.
His head snapped to the side, cheek stinging.
"You told me—!" she shouted. "You promised you wouldn't let anything happen!"
"I didn't let anything happen!" he shouted back. "You forced me to go in there!"
"It was supposed to be a lie down and pretend you're dead situation, not a get bonded and filled up situation!"
"You didn't say they were going to bite me!"
"They weren't supposed to!"
"Well, guess what!" Riven threw his arms out. "Somebody did!"
Ria screamed into her hands. Like, full-bodied, movie villain scream. She spun on her heel, then spun back around, jabbing a finger at him.
"You ruined everything."
Riven blinked. "Okay, I ruined it?"
"Yes!" she snapped. "I had a contract! A very expensive, very complicated, very NDA-filled contract with four elite Alphas! If they back out because of this—"
"They didn't even know it was me!"
"They do now!" she hissed. "They called me. They're sniffing around. Asking questions. They said one of them bit you. Ares thinks I'm hiding an Omega twin—which, by the way, I am!"
"I said no!" Riven shot back. "I told you I didn't want to do it. You shoved me into a bed and said it was just a favor—"
"Yeah, and you were supposed to act like a sack of potatoes, not arch your back like a porn star!"
Riven blushed furiously. "I wasn't trying! My body just—did things!"
Ria let out another shriek. This one sounded like it caused her physical pain. She turned away, gripping her temples.
"This is it," she muttered. "My career's over. My heat profile's ruined. If they file breach of contract, I'll have to pay the clause—"
She turned back. "You will have to pay the clause."
Riven's eyes widened. "I don't have that kind of money!"
"You better figure it out."
And then, she shoved his backpack into his chest.
"Get out."
His mouth dropped open. "You're kicking me out?"
"You're a walking Alpha magnet right now," she said. "And if they show up here again and see you, it's over for both of us."
"I don't even know who bit me!"
"Doesn't matter. You've got a bond mark, and one of them is already claiming you. If any of the others get territorial, I'm screwed. Literally and legally."
Riven backed toward the door, still holding the bag she'd packed for him. She must've done it before she even came in. Like she knew.
"Ria…"
"Don't. Just go. Hide somewhere. Figure your shit out. And for the love of God, don't go into heat again."
He lingered a second longer, then left. The door slammed shut behind him.
******
The bunkhouse smelled like despair and body spray.
It was a budget lodging place near the city center—technically legal, technically clean, and filled with way too many beds per room. Riven had paid for the cheapest option: a shared bunk with three other guys, all betas, all loud, and none of them remotely polite.
He climbed into the top bunk, face still hot from the earlier fight, and tried to make himself as small as possible.
Someone farted in their sleep.
"Perfect," Riven whispered into the darkness. "Exactly what I wanted in life."
The sheets were scratchy. The mattress felt like cardboard. But at least the others couldn't scent him, he'd doubled up on deodorant, lemon water, and even stole a charcoal face mask from the communal bathroom and smeared it on his wrists. It wasn't doing much, but it helped some.
Until his bunkmate started sniffing.
"Hey," the guy under him said. "You wearing perfume or something?"
Riven's stomach dropped. "No."
"It's weird. You smell like… cinnamon toast and, like, anxiety."
"I think that's just you, bro," Riven said quickly, rolling to his side.
The guy didn't shut up. "You sure? 'Cause now it smells like… sex?"
"I will kill you in your sleep," Riven muttered into his pillow.
****
Two and a half weeks later, Riven was dying.
Not literally. But maybe emotionally. Or stomach-ly.
He'd been throwing up every morning. His skin was hypersensitive. He couldn't smell anything without gagging. And worst of all, his favorite hoodie no longer fit right.
The zipper didn't close. His chest felt weird. And he cried over a commercial about puppies last night.
So, naturally, he found himself at a drugstore in a hoodie, sunglasses, and a scarf like he was on the run from the law.
He grabbed a box of heat suppressants and tried to look casual. Then, with the stealth of a raccoon stealing snacks, he snatched a pregnancy test from the shelf and shoved it into his pocket before pretending to examine vitamins.
The cashier stared.
"...These aren't for me," Riven said too loudly. "They're for my sister."
The cashier raised an eyebrow.
"She's an Omega."
A slow nod. "And you're not?"
"Definitely not."
"You're holding your stomach."
"I have gas."
"You're sweating."
"It's hot."
"You're wearing a scarf in August."
Riven shoved money into her hand and bolted.
****
Ten minutes later, he was back at the bunkhouse bathroom, crouched in a stall with shaking hands and a test stick balanced on a napkin.
One line.
Still one.
Then…
Two.
Riven stared.
Then blinked.
Then laughed.
Then covered his mouth and almost screamed. He read the instructions three times.
"Positive," he whispered. "That means—"
He looked down at his stomach. "Oh my god," he said, voice breaking. "I'm pregnant."
Someone banged on the stall door. "Yo! You okay in there?"
Riven gripped the test, knees to chest, forehead on his arm.
Everything hurt.
"I'm gonna kill her," he muttered. "I'm gonna kill my sister."
And then he laughed again, half-hysterical. "Great. I'm homeless, bonded, possibly claimed by a stranger and now I'm pregnant."
Another pause.
"…Does this mean I have to stop eating street shawarma?"
Because honestly, that might've been the worst part of all.