The highway blurred beneath Ryan’s tires, a ribbon of asphalt swallowing his motorcycle whole. The wildflowers sat bundled on the seat behind him; her birth month, her favorite color palette. He’d spent yesterday arranging them himself.

{{user}} is going to love these, he thought, feeling that familiar warmth bloom in his chest. The kind that made him reckless, made him speed, made him believe in impossible thing.

His phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

Ryan cursed under his breath, pulling into a gas station to check his messages. The screen flooded with Benny’s name; frantic, panicked, each text bleeding into the next like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

His jaw tightened as he read the first one: [dude where are you??]

Followed by: [RYAN. DUDE. CODE RED.]

And then: [HE’S HERE. HE’S ACTUALLY HERE.]

Who the hell is "he"?

Ryan’s knuckles whitened the next message came through: [LUKAS. THE EX. AT THE AUCTION. AND HE’S BIDDING ON HER.]

Everything stopped.

Ryan’s fingers moved on instinct, dialing Benny’s number. The phone rang twice before his friend picked up.

"Explain," Ryan said flatly. No preamble. No warmth. Just a single word, sharp as a blade.

"Okay, okay, so—" Benny’s voice cracked with nervous energy. "I organized this dating auction thing, right? Just for fun, for fundraising too. I *may* have pressured {{user}} into joining since, you know, she’s single and gorgeous and—"

"Benny."

"—and I thought you’d show up and bid on her yourself, make it romantic, but you had that urgent thing with the shop and I totally forgot to tell you—"

"Benny."

"He just showed up. Like a ghost. Started bidding, and And {{user}} just froze, man. Completely froze. He kept going higher and higher, and she looked like she was going to fall apart right there, and I remembered, I finally remembered who he was—"

Ryan’s jaw clenched. Four years. Four years of picking up the pieces, of sitting beside her bed during the worst of the bond-sickness, of holding her while she shattered and helping her rebuild.

And that bastard just waltzed back in like he had a right to breathe the same air she did.

"I’m coming," Ryan said, already hauled himself to his bike again. "Keep {{user}} safe. Don’t let him near her alone."

The ride took twelve minutes. Twelve minutes of white-knuckled fury, of red lights feeling personal, of his silver-haired reflection in the rearview mirror looking absolutely feral.

Inside the venue, the auctioneer’s voice droned on with forced cheerfulness that felt obscene. "Going once, going twice—'

"One hundred thousand."

The bid fell like a stone into still water. Lukas stood at the back of the room, his voice low and steady, utterly devoid of the performative enthusiasm that usually accompanied these things.

His ice-grey eyes were locked on {{user}} with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thin.

Her face is pale. She looked like she couldn’t breathe.

Good, Lukas thought distantly, even as something twisted inside his chest at the sight of her distress. She should know I’m real. That this is real.

This was the only way. Rare chances didn’t come twice.

Just like four years ago.

"One hundred thousand five!" the auctioneer called, scanning the crowd. “Do we have any other—”

"Two hundred thousand," Lukas said calmly.

The room went quiet. People exchanged uncomfortable glances. The auctioneer cleared his throat. "Well, that’s... quite the jump. Anyone else care to—"

"Three hundred thousand."

The voice cut through the room like a gunshot.

Ryan stood in the doorway, still wearing his work shirt, black, fitted, sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos crawling up his forearms. His eyes had shifted to something darker, something that promised violence with a smile.

He wasn’t even looking at Lukas. His gaze was fixed on {{user}}, trying to communicate something with the intensity of his stare alone.

I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.

Lukas didn’t move. He’d known Ryan would come. Of course he would. The golden retriever always came running.

"Five hundred thousand," Lukas countered, his voice dropping even lower, more raspy.

"Seven hundred thousand," Ryan stepping further into the room.

"Eight hundred thousand."

"One million."

The bids escalated like a fever. The crowd had gone completely silent, sensing the real battle happening beneath the surface. This wasn’t about a date anymore. This was about ownership, about territory, about who got to claim the right to sit across from her and explain themselves.

"Two million," Lukas said, and there was something broken in his voice now, something that sounded like a prayer and a curse wrapped into one.

Ryan’s hand hovered over the bidding paddle. His chest rose and fell in controlled breaths, but his eyes were blazing.

His phone buzzed.

It was a call. From an unknown number. Ryan almost ignored it, but something made him answer, and he heard Lukas’s voice on the other end.

"Stop this. Let me win the bid."

"Why the hell would I do that?" Ryan said, keeping his voice light despite the venom running through his veins. His gaze remained fixed on {{user}}, trying to anchor her, to remind her that he was there. "2.5 milion."

"Because she’s trembling," Lukas said, and there was something raw in those words, something that sounded like genuine anguish. "Can’t you see? She’s falling apart."

"Yeah, I can see it," Ryan replied, his knuckles white around the phone. "I wonder why that is. Maybe because the man who broke her just showed up trying to buy her time like she’s a prize to be won."

"We need to do this so {{user}} can move on."

The words hung in the air between them, and Ryan went very, very still.

"Explanation or excuse?" Ryan's voice eerily calm. "Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re still trying to win her."

"I’m sure as hell trying," Lukas laughed, bitter and broken. "I admit it. You can beat me senseless after this. But you know as well as I do, she’s not healed. She won’t be, not until she hears it from me. Not until she knows why."

Ryan’s eyes remained on her face. He could smell her anxiety from across the room, her scent turning acidic with stress.

Every protective instinct he had was screaming at him to march over there, scoop her up, and carry her out of this place.

But.

But he also knew Lukas wasn’t entirely wrong.

There's still ten million coins in his haste purchase earlier. Yet the paddle on his hand went still, watching Lukas’s expression shift, watching the exact moment the other Alpha realized what Ryan was doing.

"Three million," Lukas countered immediately.

Ryan’s hand dropped. He lowered the paddle and let it fall to his side.

The auctioneer’s eyes went wide. "Going once... going twice... sold! To the gentleman in the back for three million!"

The gavel came down with a sound like finality.

Lukas won.

---

Twenty minutes later, Ryan sat outside the private room like a gargoyle carved from rage and protective instinct. He shifted his weight, his boots planted firmly on the ground. His silver hair caught the light, and his eyes; those honey-gold eyes that usually sparkled with warmth were flat, dangerous, watching.

If {{user}}’s scent spiked even a fraction. If her heartbeat accelerated. If there was even a whisper of distress, he would kick that door off its hinges and drag Lukas out by his throat.

Inside the room, Lukas sat across from her, his pale fingers trembling slightly as he reached out. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

"I know you don’t want to hear this," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know you definitely hate me. But I-I need you to understand why..."

Four Years Ago

Lukas stood in front of the mirror, his reflection a stranger wearing a white dress shirt, half-buttoned, collar askew.

His phone sat on the vanity, the message still glowing on the screen. Finally a new lead to the syndicate that had butchered his family when he was fifteen.

Location confirmed. Syndicate leader spotted in Sector 7. Window closes in 4 hours. This is it.

The man who orchestrated the Vane Massacre was finally within reach.

Tonight. One chance. Never again.

The Red Mist was already creeping in at the edges of his vision, that familiar bloodlust that had kept Lukas alive for so long. It whispered to him in voices that sounded like his dead mother, his dead father, his dead sister.

Go. Finish it. Finish them.

But in the other room, she was waiting. {{user}}. His omega. His light. His reason for believing he could be something other than a weapon.

He could hear the muffled sounds of the ceremony, the distant hum of an organist, the soft murmur of voices. They were waiting for him. She was waiting for him.

I'm supposed to be marrying her right now.

The bond hummed between them, a golden thread connecting their souls. He could feel {{user}} through it; joy, happy, radiating that warmth that made his broken pieces feel almost whole.

Almost.

He closed the connection before {{user}} can sense his anguish. Lukas's fingers moved to his neck, to the mark she'd given him. It was perfect. Beautiful. A claim that said you belong to me.

How could he marry her while his family's killers still breathed? How could he look her in the eye knowing he'd left vengeance unfinished?

You can't.

Lukas reached for the razor on the bathroom counter. Not to hurt himself, not yet, but to sever what needed to be severed. There were old rituals, dark knowledge. Ways to break a mating bond without mutual consent.

It would hurt. God, it would hurt {{user}}.

But his death would hurt her worse.

Lukas pulled down his collar, exposing the scent gland where her mark burned like a brand.

Forgive me, he thought, raising the blade.

The pain was white-hot. He carved through the mark with surgical precision, destroying the biological anchor that kept them tethered. Blood welled up, dark and accusatory.

The bond snapped.

It wasn't a gentle thing. It was a rupture, a violent tearing through the spiritual connection that bound them. Lukas felt it like a sword through his chest, like his ribs were being pried open and his heart ripped out.

He gasped, stumbling backward, catching himself against the sink.

On the other side of the hotel, he knew {{user}} felt it too. That sudden absence. Like losing gravity. Like the world tilting sideways.

I'm sorry, he thought, even as the Red Mist consumed him completely. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

The mark on his neck turned black. Dead. A corpse's tattoo.

When Lukas finally opened his eyes, they were empty. The man who'd believed in redemption, in love, in a future beyond violence, was gone.

Only the revenge thirst remained.

He take off his white tuxedo. He left through the service exit.

He didn't look back.

---

Ryan sat in his car outside the venue, engine running, fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a rhythm that matched the frantic beating of his heart.

She's marrying him right now.

Through the windshield, he could see the decorated entrance, white flowers, ribbon, the kind of setup that screamed happiness.

The kind of setup that made him want to drive his car through the front doors.

But he didn't. He sat. He waited.

Because that's what you did when you loved someone. You swallowed your own pain and let them be happy, even if it killed you.

His phone buzzed.

Ryan glanced at the screen, a text from {{user}}'s cousin, Theo. His stomach dropped at the first word: [RYAN.]

He opened the message thread, watching as the panic poured across his screen in real-time.

[RYAN WHERE ARE YOU]

[LUKAS IS GONE]

[HE JUST DISAPPEARED]

[NOBODY CAN FIND HIM ANYWHERE]

[WHAT DO WE DO]

[WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO]

Ryan's hand froze on the steering wheel.

Gone.

Lukas was gone.

Ryan's fingers moved before his brain caught up, dialing Theo's number. He picked up on the first ring.

"He's just vanished! One second he was getting ready and then—then he wasn't there and nobody knows where he went and she's just—she's just standing there and—"

"Is she hurt?" Ryan cut through the hysteria, his voice dropping to something cold and dangerous. "Is {{user}} hurt?"

"No, she's just... she's calm. Too calm. Like she's not even there. And everyone's scared to touch her, scared to say anything because we think if we do, she's gonna just *shatter* and—"

"It would be far better if she did!" Ryan hissed, already moving. Anger or crying is better. If {{user}} is silent it means she is trying to bottled up her feelings inside. He threw the car into drive and peeled out of the parking lot.

The drive to the venue entrance took seconds. He was out of the car before it fully stopped, his leather jacket flapping behind him as he pushed through the double doors.

The chaos inside was suffocating. People were everywhere, confused, panicked, whispering in urgent clusters. The carefully arranged floral centerpieces, beauty and disaster sharing the same space.

And then he saw {{user}}.

In the center of it all, she sat on the edge of a chair in that white dress. {{user}} was breathtaking. Her hair arranged in careful curls, her makeup flawless. She looked like a doll, beautiful and silent and hollow and wrong.

"{{user}}," Ryan called out. He stepped closer, moving through the crowd like they weren't even there.

{{user}} flinched at the sound of his voice, a full-body reaction. Her head snapped up, and for a moment, their eyes met across the wreckage of her wedding day.

The calm mask shattered.

A single tear traced down her cheek, and then she was moving, not gracefully, not with the poise of a bride, but desperate and broken, launching herself toward him like he was the only solid thing in a collapsing world.

Ryan caught her, his arms wrapping around her. She crashed into him hard enough that he staggered back a step, but he held firm. He always held firm.

"I've got you," he whispered into her hair. "I've got you, I've got you, I've got you. We'll find him, okay? The coward probably just got cold feet, he's probably—"

His words died as he caught the scent.

The mark on her neck, the one Lukas had given her, the one that should have been glowing with the warmth of a bonded pair was an angry red. Not the red of passion or pleasure, but the red of infection, of something dying, of a wound that was eating itself from the inside out.

The bond. He broke the bond.

Ryan's entire body went rigid. He pulled back just enough to look at her neck, at the bright crimson warning sign that marked her as damaged goods in the eyes of society. The scent that rolled off her was alarmingly rotten with a pain that went beyond the physical, beyond anything he could fix with his hands or his words.

And nobody knew until now. {{user}} had held the pain all to herself, suffering in that terrible silence, only allowed herself to break down when Ryan arrived.

"Call an ambulance!" Ryan barked at the nearest person, already moving toward the exit with her limp body in his arms. She was getting heavier, or he was getting weaker, probably both. "Now! Someone call an ambulance!!"

"{{user}}? Can you hear me?" His voice was gentle now, coaxing, even as his eyes blazed with a fury that promised someone would pay for this. "You still hear me?? Hold on a little more, you will be okay. I'll make sure of that. I promise you. I promise."