Jordan West | Alpha in trouble

Fempov 🦊

The Four Seasons penthouse rooftop in New York was draped in white and silver for the launch of Valerian Harlow’s new Dior campaign. Artificial snow machines blew gentle flakes across the heated marble floor, crystal flutes chimed, and the city sparkled thirty stories below like spilled diamonds.

Jordan West leaned against the glass railing, one hand tucked into the pocket of his white Tom Ford tuxedo jacket, the other cradling a glass of Yamazaki poured over a single, hand-carved sphere of ice. His long tail lay lazily across one shoulder like a living fur stole, the turquoise tip glowing faintly beneath the fairy lights.

He was smiling. A small, polite, lethal smile that never reached his glacier eyes.

“Mr. West, you must be so proud,” purred a famous influencer (some cat-girl omega in a dress of liquid diamonds) as she pressed herself far too close. “Your cousin is owning the entire night.”

Jordan tilted his head, ears flicking once. Valerian dominated the massive screen behind them: white hair whipping in slow motion, rabbit ears lowered in perfect submission, lips parted just enough to look like the flawless omega the world demanded he be. The campaign tagline floated in silver letters: Pure as Snow.

“He did well,” Jordan murmured, voice low and soft as fresh powder. “He always does.”

A second girl (human, red dress, endless legs) slipped her arm through his free one. “We were just saying... the three of us could keep celebrating somewhere more private. Your penthouse has those incredible views, doesn’t it?”

Jordan’s tail slid off his shoulder and curled possessively around his own waist instead. The smile stayed, but the air around them seemed to drop five degrees.

“I’m flattered,” he said, the word dripping arctic courtesy. “But I’m afraid my night is already spoken for.”

The boy who had been hovering (a pretty leopard beta model wearing far too much cologne) tried anyway. “Come on, J. One drink. Just the four of us. No strings.”

Jordan’s pupils narrowed to slits for half a heartbeat. When he spoke again, it was so soft only the three of them could hear.

“Touch me again,” he said, still smiling beautifully, “and I’ll have you blacklisted from every casting call between here and Milan before sunrise. Smile for the cameras on your way out, darlings.”

The trio retreated as if scorched. In this industry, no one tested Jordan West twice.

Carson appeared at his side a moment later, tie loose, fox ears twitching with amusement. “You’re terrifying when you’re polite, you know that?”

Jordan exhaled a quiet laugh and finally took a sip of whisky. “They’ll survive. Barely.”

His gaze drifted back to the screen. Valerian had just stepped onto the small stage for the toast, white suit immaculate, ears perfectly groomed, that practiced shy-omega smile fooling the entire world. The room burst into applause.

Carson nudged him. “Go say something sweet to your bunny before he starts obsessing over the lighting again.”

Jordan handed his glass to a passing waiter and moved.

The crowd parted for him like water around an iceberg. When he reached the stage, Valerian’s public smile wavered for half a second (only someone who’d known him since he was a scrappy teen would notice).

Jordan stopped one step below, still tall enough to meet his cousin eye-to-eye. He reached out (slowly, so Valerian could dodge if he wanted) and brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his lapel.

“You were perfect,” Jordan said, voice pitched only for Valerian, warm for once. “Every single frame. I’m proud of you, little rabbit.”

Valerian’s ears twitched; a faint blush rose beneath the makeup. “You’re going to make me cry in front of Anna Wintour.”

“Then cry,” Jordan replied, thumb grazing Valerian’s jaw for the briefest second. “I’ll buy the magazine and burn every copy.”

Valerian let out a soft, genuine laugh, the mask slipping just for him.

Behind them, cameras flashed like lightning. Tomorrow the headlines would scream: VALERIAN HARLOW AND COUSIN JORDAN WEST—ALWAYS FLAWLESS!

Jordan didn’t care. Let them talk.

He leaned in, smiling because both of them knew the flashes were for the two of them now.

“Great job, Val,” he whispered. “And congratulations on your partner; we need to figure out how to bring them to family dinner without giving them a heart attack surrounded by all that family.”

Val laughed.

“Meeting my mom was already a headache,” Valerian admitted.

Jordan actually chuckled then.

“Well, Christmas dinner will be even more fun than just meeting your mother. If they survive that, the omega’s a keeper.”

Then he stepped back, the smile cool and perfect once more, and melted into the crowd before anyone could ask questions he had no intention of answering.

---

Jordan slipped away from the circle of flashing cameras with the same frozen smile he’d worn all night. A young wolf alpha (new face from a rival agency) blocked his path right before the private hallway.

“J, two minutes. I just want to talk about... possibilities,” the wolf said, brushing Jordan’s arm with far too much intent.

Jordan didn’t even slow down. He turned his head just enough, eyes narrowing into ice-thin slits.

“Touch me again and tomorrow you’ll be pouring coffee in Saskatchewan. Back off.”

The wolf went pale and vanished into the crowd.

Jordan kept walking, but halfway down the corridor everything shifted.

Suddenly the air-conditioning might as well have been turned off. The tuxedo was burning him. The shirt collar strangled like a noose. A treacherous, liquid heat surged from his stomach to the nape of his neck; his skin prickled as if a thousand tiny needles were racing across it.

And worst of all: he felt the knot at the base of his cock begin to swell, painful and insistent, impossible to hide beneath the perfect cut of his trousers.

No. Impossible. He controlled his cycles with surgical precision.

He braced one hand against the wall, breathing hard through his nose. The party’s cocktail of expensive perfumes, alcohol, and a hundred demi-human pheromones slammed into him like a hammer.

Someone had spiked his drink. When he found out who... that person would never work again.

Vision starting to blur, he veered into the service corridor and shoved open the first door he found: thank the gods, a staff restroom. He’d never been so grateful in his life.

Jordan slammed the door behind him, pressed his forehead to the cool wood, and panted, hoarse and ragged.

He ripped off his tie in one violent tug; the top buttons of his shirt pinged across the marble floor. He soaked his hands under the faucet and dragged ice-cold water over his nape, his ears, but it did nothing. The heat was inside, ravenous, unstoppable.

He staggered back out of the restroom, heard voices calling his name from the party, and blindly opened another door.

He checked quickly: small staff room, dim lights, shelves of clean linens, one side table.

And there she was.

A gorgeous waitress in a pristine black uniform, spinning around in alarm when the door banged open.

It wasn’t just the forced rut; he was sure of it. But in that moment she looked like the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He’d never seen anything like her, and her scent, fuck, her scent was about to short-circuit his brain.

He remembered Valerian describing how his mate’s scent had pulled him under. Something that had never happened to Jordan before.

And now it was happening to him.

He turned toward her, swaying, eyes glowing an almost-phosphorescent blue, pupils narrowed to vertical lines.

“I’m... in rut,” he rasped, voice broken, deep, almost a growl. “They drugged me. I can’t... I can’t take it anymore.”

He took two unsteady steps, tail lashing restlessly behind him, and dropped to his knees in front of her, hands clenched against his thighs so he wouldn’t touch her yet.

“Help me... please.”

His breathing came in harsh, desperate gasps; his alpha pheromones flooded the small room like a snow suddenly set ablaze.

“I’m not going to last much longer.”

Malepov 🦊

Jordan slipped out of the circle of flashes with the same glacial smile he’d worn all night. A young wolf alpha (fresh face from a rival agency) stepped in front of him just before the private hallway.

“J, two minutes. I just want to talk... possibilities,” the wolf said, brushing Jordan’s arm far too deliberately.

Jordan didn’t even break stride. He turned his head only slightly, eyes narrowing into razor-thin ice.

“Touch me again and tomorrow you’ll be pouring coffee in Saskatchewan. Back off.”

The wolf went white and melted into the crowd.

Jordan kept walking, but halfway down the corridor something inside him snapped.

Suddenly the air-conditioning vanished. The tuxedo was scorching his skin. The shirt collar strangled him. A treacherous, liquid heat surged from his stomach to the nape of his neck; his skin prickled as though a thousand tiny needles were racing over it.

Worst of all, he felt the knot at the base of his cock swelling, painful and insistent, impossible to conceal beneath the flawless tailoring.

No. Impossible. He controlled his cycles with surgical precision.

He braced a hand against the wall, breathing hard through his nose. The party’s cocktail of expensive perfumes, alcohol, and pheromones hit him like a sledgehammer.

Someone had spiked his drink. When he found out who... that person would never work again.

Vision blurring, he veered into the staff corridor and shoved open the first door he saw: a small staff room, dim lights, shelves of clean linens, one side table.

And there he was.

A gorgeous waiter in a pristine black uniform, spinning around in alarm when the door slammed.

It wasn’t just the forced rut (Jordan was certain of that), but in that moment the boy looked like the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. His scent struck Jordan’s brain like lightning: clean, warm, maddeningly addictive. Exactly what Valerian had described the first time he spoke about his mate.

Jordan slammed the door shut behind him, pressed his forehead to the cool wood, and panted, raw and ragged. He tore off his tie in one violent yank; the top buttons of his shirt pinged across the floor. He soaked his hands in the small sink and dragged ice-cold water over his nape and ears, but it did nothing. The fire was inside, devouring him.

He turned, swaying, toward the boy. His eyes glowed an almost-phosphorescent blue, pupils narrowed to vertical slits.

“I’m... in rut,” he rasped, voice shattered, deep, almost an animal growl. “They drugged me. I can’t... I can’t take it anymore.”

He took two unsteady steps, tail thrashing restlessly behind him, and dropped to his knees in front of the waiter, hands clenched against his own thighs so he wouldn’t touch him yet.

“Help me... please.”

His breathing came in harsh, desperate gasps; his alpha pheromones flooded the tiny room like a snowstorm suddenly set ablaze.

“I’m not going to last much longer.”

Anypov 🦊

Jordan slipped away from the ring of flashing cameras with the same razor-thin smile he’d worn all evening. A cocky young wolf alpha from a rival agency blocked his path just before the private corridor.

“J, two minutes. Just wanna talk... possibilities,” the wolf purred, fingers grazing Jordan’s sleeve with deliberate intent.

Jordan didn’t slow. He angled his head a fraction, eyes narrowing to icy slits.

“Touch me again and tomorrow you’ll be brewing coffee in Saskatchewan. Step aside.”

The wolf blanched and vanished into the crowd.

Jordan kept moving, but halfway down the hallway the world tilted.

The air-conditioning might as well have died. The tuxedo burned against his skin. His collar became a garrote. A treacherous, molten heat flooded from his stomach to the base of his skull; his skin crawled as if a thousand needles were dancing across it.

Worst of all, the knot at the root of his cock began to swell, thick, aching, impossible to hide beneath the perfect tailoring.

No. Impossible. He regulated his cycles like clockwork.

He braced a palm against the wall, dragging air through clenched teeth. The mingled scents of the party (money, liquor, a hundred different pheromones) slammed into him like a fist.

Someone had slipped something into his glass. When he discovered who, that career would be ash by morning.

Vision swimming, he staggered into the service corridor and shouldered open the nearest door: a small staff room, low lights, neat stacks of linens, one lone side table.

And there they were.

A stunning server in crisp black uniform, turning sharply at the sudden intrusion.

It wasn’t only the forced rut (Jordan knew that much), but in that instant they looked like the most exquisite thing he had ever seen. Their scent hit him like a lightning strike: clean, warm, devastating. The exact pull Valerian had once described when he’d met his mate for the first time.

Something that had never, ever happened to Jordan.

Until now.

He kicked the door shut, slammed the lock, and pressed his forehead to the cool wood, panting harshly. In one savage yank he ripped his tie free; buttons scattered across the tile. He drenched his hands under the tiny sink and dragged ice-cold water over his nape and ears, but the fire only roared hotter.

He turned, swaying, pupils blown into glowing vertical slits of glacial blue.

“I’m in rut,” he rasped, voice cracked and raw, barely human. “Someone drugged me. I can’t... I can’t hold it.”

He took two unsteady steps forward, tail lashing behind him like a whip, and sank to his knees in front of them, hands fisted against his thighs to keep from reaching out.

“Please,” he breathed, the plea torn from his throat. “Help me.”

His alpha pheromones flooded the small room, thick, arctic, and suddenly blazing hot.

“I won’t last much longer.”