Tristan whistled softly, a low, almost mischievous note, as Zayn emerged from the guest room.
"Thank you, Mr. Ashford," Zayn said, voice steady but edged with something unspoken.
"It was nothing," Tristan replied immediately, eyes flashing. "Especially for Isidore. I would do anything for him."
Zayn's eyes widened. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "ohhh Is that it?"
"Of course I will," Tristan said, with effortless conviction.
Zayn tilted his head, amusement sharpening. "And what about the whole world? What if they knew… that Famous Tristan Ashford is having affairs?"
Tristan's lips curled, fearless. "So what? Let the whole world know that I—Tristan Ashford, Devoted Alpha—in love with someone divine, someone ethereal, someone… adorable."
Zayn's eyebrows lifted, disbelief dancing across his expression. Tristan didn't falter.
"Yes," he continued, voice softer now, more deliberate. "A little narrow-minded at times, yes—but he is mine. My omega. My… cute little omega."
Zayn's hand shot up, covering Tristan's mouth. "Enough, Mr. Ashford. What if someone nearby heard that? You wouldn't even trouble yourself, but Isidore too—he's already… fragile. We can't stress him more."
Tristan exhaled, tilting his head, a soft blush creeping across his cheeks. "Yes… you're right. I need to keep my mouth shut."
But Zayn's smirk betrayed him—he knew Tristan's restraint was a temporary illusion. If Isidore really heard Tristan's confession in full, the chaos would be unimaginable.
Tristan's gaze drifted back toward the door. "Can I just… watch him? One last time?"
Zayn's voice was teasing but firm. "You clearly know what will happen if he sees you. He'll bark at you. And kicked you out of the room."
Tristan hesitated. His fingers twitched toward the knob. "Just one last look."
Zayn sighed, resigned. Tristan closed the door behind him and stepped inside.
The sweet honey scent of pheromones still lingered, though fading, like smoke curling from a dying fire. Tristan's cheeks burned, heat pooling in his chest.
He paused, swallowing against the rush of his pulse. Then his eyes found Isidore. The omega lay tangled in the sheets, chest rising and falling with even, untroubled breaths.
The suppressants were working. Relief softened the tension in Tristan's shoulders. Yet he didn't falter. He moved a cautious step forward, drawn to Isidore's face.
Isidore's eyes were closed. The round glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose, lips parted in a faint exhale. Tristan's hand twitched, almost instinctively, reaching to remove them.
He froze. The faint trace of pheromones—warm, sweet, intoxicating—clung to Isidore even now. His cheeks flamed hotter.
"How…" Tristan whispered under his breath, voice low, almost reverent. "How can I make you forgive me?"
He lifted a strand of beige hair, brushing it back, and pressed a careful, lingering kiss to Isidore's temple. The scent flooded him, dizzying, intoxicating.
"Oh… God," Tristan breathed, voice breaking softly. "I love you. So much. Why can't you just… be with me?"
A hand, delicate and still unsteady, rested on Isidore chest. The bandage beneath it was damp with sweat. Tristan's heartbeat stuttered at once.
He bent closer, placing another gentle kiss along the curve of Isidore's temple. "I wish I could just take you away," he murmured, voice almost fragile. "Just like that. No fear, no walls, no past to haunt you."
His gaze softened, sweeping over the peaceful face before him. "But… would you ever be happy if I did that?"
The question hung in the air. Isidore didn't answer. He slept, undisturbed, unaware of Tristan's devotion and desperation.
Tristan swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper. "Please… Isidore. I'll die if you don't… if you don't let me love you. Please dear don't push me away."
He paused, breath hitching. To speak louder might startle Isidore—might awaken his beauty. Tristan shifted, letting himself simply watch, simply admire, letting every pulse of desire and devotion course through him silently.
The sheets rustled faintly as Tristan moved closer, careful, deliberate. He kissed the side of Isidore's temple, inhaled the faint honeyed warmth, memorized the fragile curve of his cheek.
His voice was almost a prayer. "You… are too perfect. Too ethereal. I could worship you forever and it would never be enough."
Isidore's hand twitched against his chest again, unconsciously pressing closer, a tether to Tristan. The sight stole Tristan's breath.
He moved a fraction closer, lips brushing the soft hair at the nape of Isidore's neck. "I wish… I could erase all your pain. Take every shadow from your past and replace it with me."
His chest rose and fell with quiet intensity, eyes tracing Isidore's delicate features. "But… I won't risk frightening you. I'll love you quietly, endlessly, even if you never know the full depth…"
Tristan's lips lingered on Isidore's temple once more, a vow in silence. His hands hovered, trembling slightly, afraid that any movement might wake him, disrupt this fragile peace.
Time slowed, the soft rhythm of Isidore's breath and the lingering scent of honey binding them together.
Tristan exhaled softly, brushing a gentle kiss along the strands of Isidore's hair. He whispered, "Sleep, my sweet omega. Let me guard you in silence…."
Tristan's fingers trailed through Isidore's hair, brushing the damp strands with careful reverence.
In sleep, Isidore shifted, a subtle turn of his head. Tristan's own bent posture brought him dangerously close. The faint warmth of Isidore's breath brushed against his lips, light and teasing, and it electrified him from spine to fingertips.
Their lips hadn't touched. Yet the proximity, the feather-light tease of breath and the softness of a sleeping omega, was punishment enough. Tristan's chest tightened. He wanted more, wanted everything, but fear and desire warred inside him.
He lowered his head slightly, drawn by instinct, testing the boundary. A kiss, light as down feathers, barely brushing Isidore's lips, as Tristan's eyes fluttered shut. The sweetness of it hit him immediately—soft, honeyed, intoxicating. His lips tingled from the delicate contact, warmth spreading through his cheeks, now flushed a deep, fervent red.
Eye's Heavy-lidded, he murmured under his breath, "I want more…"
But the words fell into the quiet room, helpless and restrained. He couldn't. If Isidore woke, if he found Tristan leaning there, it would be the end of the world—every fragile trust shattered in an instant.
Tristan pulled back fractionally, the taste lingering, his pulse racing. The kiss was brief, almost teasing, yet it left an ache that throbbed through him. He pressed a fingers to his lips, savoring the trace of honeyed warmth, and whispered again, voice trembling with want and restraint, "I want more… but I can't… I don't want you to hate.... me"
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a heartbeat, committing the moment to memory—the softness, the scent, the warmth of the sleeping omega. Even in slumber, Isidore held all of him captive.
It was enough. It had to be.
Tristan exhaled softly, pressing a lingering gaze to Isidore's sleeping features. "What should I do…" His voice trembled, barely more than a whisper, spilled into the quiet room. "ohhh damnit.?"
He felt it deep in his chest: no omega, no one in all the world, could compare to this one. None could stand beside Isidore's light, ethereal, impossible heart.
"I want… I want to make you mine," he murmured. "All of you. Until there's nothing left in the world but your love."
He rested his head lightly against the mattress, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from Isidore. A soft smile tugged at his lips. "By fate, you are already mine. You've been made for me."
His hand drifted to Isidore's bandaged wrist. He brushed the cool linen gently, then pressed a soft, respectful kiss there. "The child, the mark I placed years ago… all of it, all of you… mine."
Tristan closed his eyes, holding onto the moment as though it could sustain him forever. The feather-light kiss still lingered on his lips, an echo of the longing that burned hotter than any fire.
"Whether you admit it or not," he whispered, voice husky, "you belong to me. Always. Completely. You're mine, Isidore. All of you."
A faint sigh escaped him, soft as silk, as he allowed himself a single, lingering glance at the omega before him. He did not move further. Did not disturb the fragile peace. Just watched, just adored.
The room held the scent of honey and warmth. Tristan's heart pounded in quiet, desperate rhythm. He would wait. He would treasure this. One kiss, one feather-light kiss, was enough—for now.
Tristan drew a slow, steadying breath. He bent down again, close enough to feel the lingering warmth of Isidore even in slumber.
"Goodnight," he murmured, voice low, tender, almost reverent.
For the first time in years, his chest felt light. Unburdened. Free, even if only for a moment.
He reached for the doorknob, twisting it carefully, and stepped outside. The cool air hit him like a balm. He exhaled, letting the tension of the past half-hour slip from his shoulders.
"You took almost thirty minutes in there, Mr. Ashford," Zayn remarked dryly, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.
Tristan's eyes softened, glowing with the quiet fire of love and longing. "I never… felt this light in my life before."
Zayn blinked once, then tilted his head. "So, Mr. Ashford… shall we head back to the hall? The party's already wasted—time we can't get back."
Tristan shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "My time wasn't wasted. I'm glad I came to attend that… so-called party."
He paused, letting the words linger, then added softly, almost to himself, "I feel like drinking again."
Zayn arched a brow, skeptical. "Hours ago, you weren't even in the mood for that."
Tristan's fingers brushed Zayn's arm, curling lightly around him. "But now," he said, voice low and smooth, "I'd like to drink."
Zayn's smirk returned, faint but knowing. "Then let's go, Mr. Ashford."
Tristan's grin spread, faint and mischievous, the lightness in his chest blooming further. He glanced back once toward the guest room, a silent promise lingering in his gaze, then turned fully toward the hall.
The music and laughter below felt distant now, almost muted. Time had slowed for him, suspended in the quiet aftermath of honeyed warmth and whispered devotion.
"After you," Zayn said, voice rich, teasing.
Tristan laughed softly, stepping aside. "After me? Not quite, Mr. Maverick. You lead the way."
Tristan's hand brushed against Zayn's as he moved forward, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. The corridor stretched before them, a quiet bridge from intimate tenderness to the chaos of celebration.
Even as the echoes of the party reached them—glasses clinking, laughter spilling over chandeliers—Tristan carried the sweetness of the moment with him. Light, unburdened, and unshakably in love.
"Shall we toast, then?" he murmured, voice low, almost a purr.
"Indeed," Zayn replied, matching his tone with a hint of amusement.
Together, they descended to the hall, the noise and glitter folding around them. But Tristan's world had shifted. Nothing in the crowd mattered. Not the music, not the gold, not the idle chatter. Only the memory of that sleeping omega, the soft brush of hair, the faint scent that lingered—sweet as honey—remained.
And it made him feel, finally, unbreakably, alive.
Down somewhere in the Davenant penthouse hallway.
Maurice swayed, the warmth of three—or maybe four—shots of wine coursing through him. His green eyes were heavy-lidded, unfocused, and his brown hair fell in a casual, disheveled mess over his forehead. He murmured nonsense under his breath, fragments of thought colliding with the haze of intoxication, just as he often did when fully conscious.
He stumbled toward the main door, each step uneven, until he spotted Leon leaning lazily against the frame. The cigarette hung loosely from his mouth, smoke curling in the air like lazy ribbons.
Maurice blinked, stepped forward, and with surprising boldness, plucked the cigarette from Leon's lips. "How many times have I told you to not to smoke when I pass?" His voice was thick, slurred, but carried a peculiar authority, despite the alcohol.
Leon's eyes widened slightly. "I—I'm sorry. But I was outside… isn't it you who's lingering outside?"
Maurice staggered closer, unsteady yet insistent. His breath mingled with Leon's. "I am the special doctor of this household," he slurred, chest puffing with faux pride. "Since I am the doctor, everyone must listen to the doctor properly."
Leon's expression remained unreadable, as always, a mask of calm and amusement. He slid a hand around Maurice's waist, steadying him—or perhaps drawing him closer. "Interesting," he murmured. "Mr. Zayn was right. I couldn't understand a word you said, but you are… quite eye-catching."
Maurice pushed him away reflexively, a shiver running through him. But Leon ignored it, leaning in to brush his lips across the pale column of Maurice's exposed throat.
"Stop… what are you doing? Aren't you—aren't you a beta?" Maurice stammered, flinching at the sensation, caught between resistance and the dizzying haze of wine.
"Yes," Leon said, voice low, teasing. "So what?"
He pressed further, lips tracing lightly, deliberately, along the sensitive skin. Maurice flinched again, but didn't push him away this time. The alcohol dulled his control, left him teetering on the edge of surrender and protest.
Leon's movements were slow, confident, claiming a private indulgence amid the chaos of the party. Around them, laughter and music swelled, glasses clinked, and guests spun in oblivious revelry. Here, in this quiet corner, Leon had his moment.
Maurice's breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut as Leon's lips brushed his throat again. He trembled, shivered, caught somewhere between restraint and unthinking acquiescence.
Leon's hand slid behind the spine and Trace his finger's under the pink tailored suit jacket, teasing, steadying, coaxing. "Relax," he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Everyone's having fun… so why shouldn't we?"
Maurice's pulse raced, green eyes half-lidded. His hands hovered, uncertain, before resting lightly at Leon's chest, trying to reclaim some shred of composure he no longer felt.
Leon ignored it, intent on his private amusement. The cigarette forgotten, the music and laughter blurred into a backdrop, insignificant. The only sound that mattered was the quiet flutter of breath, the soft rustle of clothing, and the almost imperceptible heat between them.