"Sure, you'll be okay here?" Riven asked, watching Lior spoon cereal into his mouth at the breakfast table.
It was his first official day at Nexus. The job didn't scare him. Leaving Lior alone did.
Back in New Zealand, the house had been a fortress—cameras in every corner, motion sensors wired to his phone, even the nanny chipped with a tracker. He could monitor everything with a glance at a screen.
Here? They'd been in the country two days. No cameras. No nanny. No school. Just a condo that smelled too new, too quiet. Too watched.
"Lior's a big boy," the child said, tilting his head, catching the worry in his papa's eyes. "Don't you trust me?"
Riven's chest ached. "I do. But you're still Papa's little puppy."
He reached across, pinching his son's nose, and earned a giggle.
"Lior will be fine," the boy said, tugging the sling of his phone. "See? I've got this."
Riven glanced at it. He'd set everything himself—speed dial to his number, emergency services locked in, his contact info taped to the back. In theory, it was enough.
But theories didn't stop threats. And the silence in these walls didn't feel empty—it felt arranged.
"Every hour," Riven said, crouching beside him. "Call me. Even if nothing's wrong. And don't open the door. Not for anyone."
"Got it." Lior held out his pinky.
Riven hooked it. "Promise?"
"Promise." They sealed it with a thumb press.
The ritual steadied him, if only for a breath. He kissed his son's forehead, shouldered his bag, and forced himself to the door.
"Be good," he said softly.
"I always am," Lior replied, swinging his feet under the table, cereal bowl empty.
Riven lingered in the doorway, throat tight, before pulling it shut behind him.
The lock clicked. The quiet pressed in. And as he walked away, one thought gnawed at him: he'd just left his entire world in the hands of a five-year-old—alone, in a place that already felt like it belonged to someone else.
Thayer drummed his fingers on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview.
"How long are you gonna keep watching that kid? He's safe. You wired the place yourself. Cameras in every corner. Even if we're talking privacy—"
He cut himself off when Nyxen finally looked up, gaze flat and sharp.
"I'm not invading his privacy," Nyxen said evenly. His voice carried no heat, only certainty. "I'm safeguarding what's mine. I don't need the bedroom or the bathroom. The rest is enough."
On his phone screen, the feed showed Lior stacking blocks in the living room. Nyxen's thumb brushed over the image like it was sacred text.
Thayer shifted. He'd been through this before—Nyxen's obsession, his certainty. No detail escaped him, not when it came to Riven. Not when it came to the boy.
"You did well with the playroom," Nyxen murmured, eyes never leaving the feed. "But the mats—you're sure they'll hold? Children crack their skulls on less."
"They're safe," Thayer said, clipped. "The room's padded tighter than a military bunker. Kid's not going to bleed on your watch."
A sudden kick hit the back of his seat. Hard.
Thayer stiffened, biting back a curse. He always forgot—until moments like this—that Nyxen's empire hadn't smoothed out the jagged edges. He could still turn vicious without warning.
"Watch your mouth," Nyxen said quietly, though his gaze never shifted from the screen.
Thayer gripped the wheel tighter. He'd been at Nyxen's side since he was sixteen, seen him carve out a kingdom from nothing. Brilliant. Ruthless. Untouchable. But beneath the polish, there was still that raw, unbroken will—a fanatic's certainty.
And Lior—Thayer knew it the way one knows a storm is coming—was the axis of it now.
"You heading in or what?" Thayer asked finally.
"Everything's ready?" Nyxen asked.
"Done. You're the last piece."
At last, Nyxen lifted his gaze from the boy on the screen. A faint smile touched his mouth—one of possession, of inevitability.
"Good," he murmured. "Then let's begin."
Riven arrived at Nexus just past eight. The security guard greeted him with a cheerful nod, like they'd been neighbors for years.
He forced a polite smile, suspicion flickering. How could the man look so familiar with him already?
Inside, he braced himself—waiting for yesterday's gauntlet. The stares. The whispers. The subtle scent-checks.
But the lobby was quiet. No one rushed to greet him. No one watched.
Relief slipped out in a breath. Too easy. Too clean.
He stepped into the elevator, moving like a shadow. No pheromone trail. No ripple in the air. Just silence.
He'd dosed with inhibitors that morning—habit, caution, survival. His scent was never stable. Some days it hit like an Alpha in rut. Other days it sank into something softer. Wrong. Inhibitors blurred the edges, kept questions at bay.
It was the only reason he'd lasted this long as an S-Class without someone calling the bluff.
But Nexus had its own system. Hidden, seamless. The moment he entered the building, the air changed—scrubbed clean. A scent filtration grid, woven into the vents. It stripped every trace from the atmosphere, erased every signature until the place smelled of nothing at all.
Here, no one needed inhibitors.
Except him.
The realization landed heavy. His control—the one thing that kept him safe—was redundant here. Worse than redundant. It marked him.
If the building was watching—and he felt it was—then it already knew.