THE ALPHA WHO LOST CONTROL FIRST.
Zhou Shen did not believe in fate.
He believed in leverage, probability, preparation. In systems that bent predictably under pressure. In contracts written so tightly they left no room for interpretation, let alone chaos.
Fate was a word people used when they lacked discipline.
And yet—
By the time he reached his office, the scent still clung to him.
It should not have been possible. He had left the museum, exited the building, sealed himself inside a car engineered to filter even aggressive pheromones. He had not touched the omega again. He had not looked back.
Still, white tea and rain-dark stone lingered in his lungs like a provocation.
Zhou Shen locked the door behind him.
The office was glass and steel, minimal to the point of severity. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. There were no personal photographs, no indulgences. Even the air smelled neutral—scrubbed, expensive, obedient.
He loosened his tie.
The gesture was abrupt, almost violent.
His pulse was wrong. Too fast. Too present. Alpha instincts stirred beneath his skin, restless and irritated, circling a single fact with animal persistence.
Omega.
Not just any omega.
A compatible one.
Zhou Shen braced his hands against the desk, head lowering. His jaw tightened until it ached.
This was unacceptable.
He had encountered omegas before. Professionally. Socially. Even intimately, in the distant past, when expectations had demanded it. None of them had done this—had cracked something open inside him with nothing but proximity.
His body remembered the contact of their hands with obscene clarity.
Warm. Slightly trembling. Pulling away too fast.
Fear.
And beneath it—
Want.
Zhou Shen straightened sharply and reached for the suppressant vial in his drawer.
He did not take it.
His instincts recoiled at the thought, snarling, furious at the implication of artificial control. Alphas did not suppress unless forced. Suppression was for public image, for scandal, for weakness.
He closed the drawer without opening the vial.
Instead, he activated the screen on his desk.
"Chen Mingyu," he said, voice level.
"Yes, sir."
"I want a full profile on the conservation intern from Hangzhou. Name, education, medical status. Discreetly."
A pause.
"Medical status?" Chen asked carefully.
Zhou Shen's gaze flicked to the reflection in the glass—his own eyes, darker than usual.
"Yes."
Another pause, longer this time.
"…Understood."
The line disconnected.
Zhou Shen leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.
This was not possession.
This was assessment.
That was what he told himself.
Li Weiyan locked himself in the museum restroom and pressed his forehead against the cool tile.
His breathing was shallow, uneven, refusing to settle.
That Alpha.
No—that man.
The scent had slammed into him like a physical force. Cedarwood, ink, something sharp beneath it that felt like teeth behind a smile. His body had reacted before his mind, instincts flaring hot and traitorous under his skin.
It terrified him.
He had spent years training himself not to want. Not to lean. Not to soften when an Alpha entered the room.
And yet his pulse had leapt. His scent had surged, pressing against the suppressant like a living thing desperate to be known.
Stupid.
He scrubbed his face with cold water and stared at his reflection.
Pale. Too pale. His eyes were too bright, his pupils still slightly dilated. Anyone trained to look would know.
He reapplied another suppressant patch—his third today—and hissed softly as the adhesive bit into overused skin.
"You're fine," he whispered.
But his body disagreed.
The heat coiled low in his abdomen, not a full cycle—yet—but a warning. A reminder that Omegas did not get the luxury of pretending instinct did not exist.
He straightened, smoothed his clothes, and returned to work.
He did not look for the Alpha again.
That did not stop his body from listening for him.
Zhou Shen found it impossible to concentrate.
Numbers blurred. Contracts irritated him. Every interruption grated against already frayed nerves. By late afternoon, his patience was gone, burned down to something sharp and dangerous.
Chen Mingyu entered quietly.
"I have the information," he said, placing a folder on the desk.
Zhou Shen did not open it immediately.
"Speak."
"Li Weiyan. Twenty-two. Graduate-level art conservation student. Excellent academic record. No disciplinary issues."
"And?"
Chen hesitated.
"He is registered as Beta."
Zhou Shen's mouth curved—not in amusement, but in something colder.
"No," he said flatly.
Chen met his gaze. "His paperwork says Beta. His medical history is… sparse. There are gaps."
Zhou Shen opened the folder.
Photograph. Taken at an angle, candid. Weiyan was half-turned, hair falling into his eyes, expression unreadable. There was tension in his posture, a tightness that now made perfect sense.
Omega.
Unregistered, or deliberately misregistered.
Illegal.
Dangerous.
Zhou Shen closed the folder slowly.
"Does anyone else know?" he asked.
"No indication," Chen replied. "But if an Alpha with poor control were to—"
"They won't," Zhou Shen cut in.
The certainty in his voice startled even him.
Chen studied him for a moment, then said quietly, "Sir… this could be a problem."
Zhou Shen stood.
His instincts surged again, sharp and possessive, roaring at the idea of other Alphas near that omega. Near his—
He stopped the thought mid-formation.
"This is not a problem," he said. "It is a variable."
Chen did not argue.
As he left, Zhou Shen turned back to the window, fists clenched at his sides.
Outside, the city pulsed with life.
Somewhere in it, Li Weiyan was breathing.
That knowledge settled in Zhou Shen's chest like an anchor.
That night, Li Weiyan dreamed.
He stood in the museum storage room again, but the lights were dimmer, the air thick and heavy. The Alpha was there, closer this time, his presence pressing in from all sides.
"You're shaking," the Alpha said.
Weiyan tried to step back. There was nowhere to go.
A hand closed around his wrist—not rough, not gentle. Certain.
"Let go," Weiyan said, voice breaking.
The Alpha leaned in, breath warm against his ear.
"Stop lying," he murmured. "Your body already chose."
Weiyan woke gasping, sheets twisted around his legs, heat pooling low and aching.
The suppressant patch burned against his skin.
He lay there in the dark, heart pounding, and hated himself for the part of him that wished the dream had not ended.