"It's a shame," Thayer murmured. "Looks like you won't get a chance to speak with him tonight. Those suits have been waiting years to meet the man behind Raventhorne. Doesn't look like they're letting go anytime soon."
"Yeah," Riven said quietly, eyes still fixed on the crowd. "It's a shame."
He had wanted to thank him. Properly. Not just for the suit or the party—but for everything else that had gone unsaid. But with his brothers prowling close and the Emperor buried beneath businessmen, the moment wasn't safe.
Then—a tug. Sticky fingers on his sleeve. Wide eyes.
"Papa," Lior whispered, breathless with excitement. "I got you something."
Riven crouched down, brushing windblown strands from his son's face. "You did?"
Lior nodded solemnly, then fished a small object from his pocket. A silver brooch, slightly scuffed, shaped like a flower in bloom. Its ridged petals caught the lantern light, and at the center, a tiny opal shimmered faintly.
"I saw it at one of the stalls," Lior said, voice hushed like he was sharing a secret. "It looked like your smile."
His lips tugged upward in a proud grin. "Happy birthday, Papa."
Riven blinked. His throat tightened. His chest ached. This was the first gift his son had ever given him.
"You always smell like flowers when you hug me," Lior added softly, shy now. "I wanted you to have one that doesn't go away."
Riven took the brooch gently, cradling it in his palm. The metal was cool. But the gesture—warm, radiant.
"Lior," he whispered, voice thick, "this is the most beautiful thing anyone's ever given me."
Beaming, Lior stretched upward, clipping the brooch onto his coat. It snagged, crooked, and imperfect, but Riven didn't adjust it. He left it exactly as his son placed it.
"Dada helped me pick the best one," Lior said proudly.
The word landed like a stone in water.
Riven froze. His smile faltered. His hand lingered near the brooch but didn't move.
He had told himself it was nothing. Just a dream. Just a sleepy murmur when Lior had whispered "Dada" in his sleep.
But now—hearing it bright, certain, alive—
"Lior," Riven said carefully, keeping his voice soft, "who do you mean by Dada?"
"It's a secret," Lior said with a mischievous grin, eyes sparkling.
"Oh?" Riven arched a brow, feigning a pout. "Now you're keeping secrets from me?"
The boy's grin faltered. He studied Riven's face, saw the mock frown—and guilt flooded him. His small hand darted out, clutching Riven's sleeve.
"Papa, don't be mad," he whispered, voice small, worried.
Riven's chest eased. He bent and pressed a kiss to his son's brow.
"Papa's not mad at you," she murmured, soft enough for only him. "But secrets aren't for us, alright?"
"I'm a good boy," Lior mumbled, gaze sliding down. "It's just…"
He trailed off.
Riven waited, searching his son's face. He knew him—knew the weight he put on words. This wasn't mischief. This was something lodged deeper.
Eli's name flickered unbidden in Riven's mind, sharp as a blade. Was that who Lior meant when he whispered "Dada"? Or was it worse—that he was reaching for something Riven could never give?
The thought knotted tight in Riven's chest. Gratitude. Fear. Jealousy. All tangled, indistinguishable.
A few feet away, Thayer glanced over—then deliberately turned back to the crowd, giving them space.
Riven pulled Lior into his arms, pressing cheek to cheek. The flower brooch pinned crookedly on her coat glimmered under lantern light, imperfect and radiant.
From the farthest edge of the deck, beyond the lanterns' reach, someone was watching.
A pair of eyes tracked them from the shadows, steady, unblinking. He lifted his glass, movements unhurried, gaze locked on Riven as if nothing else existed.
He had been watching since the moment she arrived. She hadn't felt it. But he had.
Every movement. Every flicker of expression. Every shift in the faint trail of her scent.
Rooms bent around her, though she didn't yet see it. Gravity unrecognized.
The man's lips curved—not in warmth, but in quiet claim.
"An S-Class Alpha," he murmured, voice barely stirring the air. "With an Omega's scent."
The words lingered like smoke. His eyes gleamed with a predator's patience.
He tipped back the last of his wine, set the glass on a passing tray, and claimed another. One gulp. Then another. Fuel, not pleasure.
The air thickened. Sweet. Metallic.
Laughter cracked too sharply. A waiter stumbled, off-balance.
And then it hit.
A surge of pheromones flooded the deck—seductive, deliberate, impossible to ignore.
The shift was immediate.
Alphas across the venue stiffened, instincts snapping awake. Dominance crackled like static through the air, sharp enough to sting.
Lower-ranked guests faltered. Some trembled outright, others dropped their gazes in unconscious submission. Even seasoned Alphas reacted—some with sudden aggression, others with possessive tension, especially those flanked by Omegas.
The atmosphere warped.
Omegas flushed as if struck by heat. Skin bloomed red, breath caught, hands shook. Their bodies responded before their minds could resist.
The pheromone surge moved like smoke—thick, invasive, a biochemical key forcing locks open. Suppressed instincts flared. Dormant cravings flooded to the surface. Mate-seeking signals spilled into the air like perfume and panic.
Riven felt it instantly.
The air pressed against his skin, thick as water. His breath snagged. One hand clamped around his arm, the other tightened protectively on Lior.
He knew this feeling. Too well.
It was the same suffocating heat from five years ago—trapped in that hotel ballroom, surrounded by Omegas in full heat. A night he'd barely escaped.
Now it was happening again.
Across the crowd, Nyxen's voice cut low, sharp as steel. "Targeted release."
His gaze swept the venue, cold, precise. The Nexus suppression field was active, yet the surge bled through it, deliberate and tuned to bypass. This wasn't an accident. It was a weapon.
Chaos erupted.
Omegas staggered, some clutching at strangers, others collapsing against walls. Alphas' masks slipped, growls tearing free, postures widening in challenge, rut instincts snarling to the surface. A Beta server dropped a tray—the crash of glass cutting through the din like a gunshot.
Nyxen's jaw flexed once. His eyes narrowed. This wasn't just a breach. It was provocation.
And somewhere in the crowd, someone was watching.
Nyxen's gaze scanned, unwavering, cutting through the shifting bodies, the flushed faces, the rising heat. The party had fractured into frenzy.
Then his focus locked.
Through the chaos, through the storm of scent and hunger, his eyes fixed on Riven.