The laughter and music in the hall, had begun to blur into noise.
Joshua lifted his glass, half-listening to Tristan's conversation with a foreign delegate.
Joshua, on the other hand, had never cared for such restraint. His gaze drifted over the crowd, and when he spotted Zayn, his mouth curved into a smile that was all charm and danger.
"Excuse me for a moment," he murmured, setting down his glass and slipping away.
He cut through the throng of glittering guest's like a blade through silk. The chandeliers threw golden fragments across his face, catching the amused glint in his eyes.
From a short distance, Zayn stood rigid near the crowd — posture perfect, expression distinctly not amused.
"Need a hand?" Joshua's voice came smooth, teasing.
Zayn turned, his glare immediate. "Not from you."
Joshua's grin widened. "Don't be like that. I have something important to tell you, Mr. Maverick."
Zayn gave a weary sigh, suspicion laced in his tone. "Is this another one of your tricks?"
"Perhaps," Joshua replied lightly. "But you'll want to hear this one."
Before Zayn could protest, Joshua's hand brushed his sleeve, guiding him away. The crowd parted instinctively, curiosity crackling in the air.
someone whispered. "What's with him?"
But Joshua didn't look back.
Once they reached the shadowed edge of the hall, Zayn jerked his arm free. His voice was low, dangerous. "If you ever pull that stunt again in public, I'll make sure you regret it."
Joshua only chuckled — soft, dark, a sound that made Zayn's pulse tighten in irritation.
"Just you wait, you bastard," Zayn muttered under his breath as he turned away.
He didn't see Joshua's smile — sharp as a predator's, eyes gleaming with a secret that promised ruin.
________________________________________
Above them, the night air was cooler — a quiet refuge from the noise below.
Isidore stood on the balcony, the city stretching out beneath him in silver and shadow. He had stepped outside to breathe, but the moment the wind touched him, he knew something was wrong.
His body was burning.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the erratic pound of his heart. The heat coiled deep within him, crawling up his throat, making his vision tremble at the edges.
"i was careless…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "i didn't pay attention."
The sweet scent began to spill from him — faint at first, then thicker, golden, unmistakable. He felt it leave his skin like smoke, drifting into the cold night air.
No... No, I can't let anyone smell it.
He staggered back, one hand gripping the railing, the other reaching blindly for the wall. "Suppressants," he breathed. "I need my suppressants—"
But his limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. His knees buckled, and he caught himself just before collapsing.
His throat burned. His lungs screamed for air.
How am I supposed to get down like this?
He pressed his back to the wall, eyes half-lidded, forcing his breaths. The world shimmered before him, distant and unreal.
________________________________________
Downstairs, Tristan leaned against his chair, one elbow propped on the table as Joshua disappeared into the crowd. He wasn't paying attention to the chatter around him — his mind elsewhere, half-distracted.
Then it came.
At first it was faint, like a stray memory. Then it hit him in full.
That scent.
It tore through his composure — honey-sweet, wild, laced with something that made his pulse quicken. The couch scraped against the floor as he rose sharply.
He inhaled again, disbelief etched across his face.
"Isidore…"
The word escaped like a prayer.
Tristan's guards straightened immediately. "Sir?"
"Stay here," he ordered, voice clipped. "Don't let anyone follow me. No one."
He left before they could respond, cutting through the corridor, every sense sharpened. The scent grew stronger with every step — a trail of gold he couldn't ignore.
He turned a corner, the sound of music fading behind him. His chest tightened.
Please don't let it be what I think it is.
He reached the stairway that led to the terrace. The air was dense, shimmering with the sweetness that tugged at every instinct he'd learned to suppress.
And there he was.
Isidore stood at the top, his body swaying slightly, beige hair damp against his temple. His hand gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles blanched.
Tristan's breath hitched.
"Isidore!"
The name carried too much — alarm, worry, something he didn't want to name.
Isidore flinched, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Stay away," he rasped. "Don't—"
"You can't go out like this," Tristan said, climbing the steps slowly, hands raised. "Your pheromones— they're flooding in the air."
Isidore's expression flickered between fury and fear. "It'll get fine once I take my suppressants."
"You don't look fine."
"I said it'll pass!"
His voice cracked — and with it, his balance.
He stumbled, one foot slipping on the stair.
Tristan moved without thought, catching him before he could fall. The scent surged around them, thick and dizzying.
"Damn it," Tristan muttered, his grip tightening. "You can't even walk straight."
"Let me go," Isidore snapped, breathless, trembling. "Stay away, Ashford! I don't need your help!"
"I know you don't believe me," Tristan said, voice low, controlled. "But trust me this once."
"I don't trust you."
"I know." His throat worked as he swallowed. "But I can't let you fall."
Isidore's body trembled — exhaustion, pain, or pride, Tristan couldn't tell.
"I can walk," Isidore muttered, attempting to stand on his own. His knees buckled instantly.
Tristan cursed under his breath and lifted him, arms sliding beneath his knees. Isidore gasped, one hand clutching at Tristan's coat, the heat of his body searing through the fabric.
"Where's your room?" Tristan asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Isidore's answer came faint and strained. "Just—any room. I don't care."
Tristan didn't wait. He moved quickly, descending the stairs with measured urgency.
He didn't notice the curious eyes from across the hall — didn't care. All he could hear was Isidore's uneven breathing, the faint tremor in his voice each time he whispered his name under his breath.
He reached a quiet corridor. A guest room door stood ajar.
Good enough.
He pushed it open with his shoulder and entered. The scent of cedar and linen met him — clean, grounding.
Tristan set Isidore down on the bed, careful not to startle him. He adjusted the sheets, tucking them around his shoulders.
Isidore's breath came shallow, eyes glazed. "Call Zayn," he whispered. "I need my suppressants…"
Tristan hesitated. "You're trembling. I can help you myself—"
"IF you really want to help then! Call Zayn!" Isidore snapped, his voice cracking with the strain.
Tristan flinched, then nodded quickly. "Alright. Stay still. I'll find him."
He turned toward the door — then froze when a soft sound escaped behind him.
A half-choked breath. A cry.
Tristan spun around. Isidore was curled on his side, gripping the sheets tight, his face hidden but his tears visible — quiet, relentless.
For a heartbeat, Tristan couldn't move.
Then he crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. "Does it hurt?" he asked softly.
Isidore didn't respond — only turned his face away, trembling.
Something inside Tristan broke. "Alright," he murmured, voice barely audible. "I'll get Zayn. Just hold on."
The scent lingered in the empty hall like a haunting promise, golden and heavy, refusing to fade.
The corridor was cold, but Tristan's pulse burned.
He had barely shut the door behind him before he pulled out his phone. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but urgency.
He dialed.
Once. Twice. Silence.
He grit his teeth. "Come on, Maverick… pick up."
The ringtone dragged through the hall like water dripping in a cavern.
At last, a click.
"Mister Ashford?" Zayn's voice came, slightly irritated. "Where are you? You suddenly—"
"Zayn," Tristan cut him off. His voice was sharp, breathless. "It's Isidore."
A pause.
"Yes, what about him? Did he avoid you again—?"
"He's in heat."
The words came low, flat, but they carried the force of a blow.
The silence on the other end shattered. "What?! How did it happen?" Zayn's voice spiked in panic.
"Maybe he was careless," Tristan muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. He's burning up."
"Careless?!" Zayn barked so loudly Tristan had to pull the phone from his ear. "He was fine this morning! How can this be—"
"He's safe," Tristan interrupted, his voice firm again. "In a guest room. He asked for you to. Bring his suppressants."
Zayn exhaled shakily. "I'm on my way. Tell him I'm coming."
"Good."
Tristan ended the call before the tremor in his voice could betray him.
For a long moment, he stood there—breathing in, out, in again—until his heartbeat steadied.
Then he turned and opened the door.
________________________________________
The air inside was thick now, almost liquid with heat. The soft scent of honey and fever clung to the walls, turning each breath into a slow surrender.
Isidore was curled on the bed, his back arched slightly, fingers gripping the sheets. His breath trembled, a sound too human to ignore.
"I told Maverick," Tristan said quietly, stepping closer. "He's bringing the suppressants. He'll be here soon."
Isidore stirred, his head turning toward the voice. His face was flushed—cheeks burning, hair damp and clinging to his skin. His eyes, half-lidded but sharp, found Tristan.
"Why… did you help me?" he rasped.
Tristan blinked, caught off guard. "Because you needed—"
"I slapped you this morning," Isidore interrupted, his tone brittle.
Tristan's throat tightened. "I deserved it." His gaze softened, his voice lowering. "I didn't even deserve one. I deserved a million."
Isidore let out a sharp breath, something between anger and disbelief. "Don't flatter yourself."
But Tristan wasn't smiling. He looked almost lost. "I'm sorry, Isidore. I know what I did. And I know… you still remember that night."
That night.
The words cut through the air like a blade through quiet water.
Isidore's eyes widened—then hardened. "Get out."
"But—"
"I said get out!"
The sound cracked, shaking something inside him.
Tristan's shoulders lowered. He nodded once, slow and heavy, then stepped back.
Without another word, he turned toward the door.
As it closed behind him, the faint scent of honey followed—lingering in the air, like a memory that refused to die.
Inside the dimly lit guest room, the air was thick—sweet, cloying, and fevered. Isidore clutched the sheets until his knuckles went pale. His breath trembled, his mind swirling in a haze of pheromones and memories he wished were buried six feet under.
He hated this—the helplessness, the warmth crawling under his skin, and most of all, the ghost of Tristan Ashford.
"Why," he hissed to the empty room, voice cracking against the silence, "why do you keep appearing before me?"
The words tore out of him like confessions, ragged and hoarse. "I hate you, Tristan," he whispered, pressing his palms over his face. "I hate you so much."
Outside the door, Tristan stood with his head bowed, shadows curling under his eyes. The sound of approaching footsteps stirred him—measured, hurried.
"Mr. Ashford."
Tristan lifted his gaze. "He's in there," he said quietly. "He's in pain."
Zayn's brows furrowed, sharp and assessing. "What happened, What's the matter Mr Ashford?"
Tristan ran a hand through his hair, voice caught between restraint and guilt. "He—his rut started suddenly. It must've been the stress."
Zayn exhaled, shaking his head. "Alright, we'll deal with it. Thank you for helping him."
Tristan's throat tightened. "It's nothing. Anyone would've done the same."
Zayn's lips curved faintly. "Really? Then why do you look like you've just wrestled with fate itself?"
Tristan blinked, cheeks warming. "His pheromones… they're strong. I couldn't stay inside any longer."
"Oh?" Zayn arched a brow. "And yet you carried him all the way here?"
Tristan's voice faltered. "I—I didn't have time to react. It just happened."
Zayn gave a knowing sigh. "Fine. Wait here, Mr. Ashford."
When Zayn entered, the air was heavy with the sweet scent of honey and heat. He moved quickly—pouring water, unsealing the vial of suppressants.
"Davenant," he murmured, crouching by the bedside, "you alright?"
Isidore blinked up at him, sweat tracing the curve of his cheek. His lashes trembled as Zayn pressed the glass to his lips.
"Drink."
He obeyed slowly, swallowing the suppressant as his voice returned—soft, frayed at the edges. "I didn't have time to notice it starting."
Zayn sighed. "You never do. When will you learn to take care of yourself?"
Isidore turned away, eyes dimming. "Where is that bastard?"
Zayn lifted an eyebrow. "Bastard? Come on, davenant, He's a star— the whole world adores him, and you are call him that?"
Isidore's lips curled. "Bastard, idiot, whatever he is—I don't care."
Zayn chuckled under his breath. "Alright, alright, don't get angry, Davenant."
"Whatever," Isidore muttered, curling back into the sheets.
Outside the door, Tristan pressed his ear to the wood—shameless, curious, almost boyish in his guilt. The faint murmur of his name reached him, laced with venom.
"So you still call me bastard," he whispered, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
He straightened, pushing off the doorframe, smirking to himself as the sound of Zayn's returning footsteps approached.
Tristan whistled lowly, hands in pockets, pretending innocence—though the smirk on his lips betrayed every bit of it.