The tension lingered long after Dante sat at the head of the table.
Moments ago, the boardroom had been alive with voices, arguments, and pride. Now, it was silent. Executives buried themselves in folders, pens scratching nervously. No one dared look Alistair in the eye.
He didn't care.
But his body betrayed him. His pulse still raced, pounding against his ribs. Dante's scent—woodsmoke and old money—clung to the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. It was dangerous. Potent. Unmistakably Alpha.
Alistair forced himself to finish the meeting, his words automatic. His family's proposal passed with ease. A landslide victory.
Yet it felt hollow.
Because Dante hadn't fought. He had simply… watched.
And that silence was more dangerous than any argument.
When the meeting adjourned, Alistair was the last to rise. He gathered his folders with careful precision, forcing his hands to remain steady.
But then—he felt it. A presence behind him.
"A clever boy."
Dante's voice rumbled so close it seemed to vibrate through the air. "You knew the numbers were on your side. And you knew your father couldn't risk a public failure. A shame you had to be so… theatrical."
Alistair turned slowly, meeting that piercing gaze head-on. "And a shame you had to be so affected, Dante. For a man who owns everything, you seem to have very little control."
Dante's lips twitched, not quite a smile. He leaned against the table, broad shoulders dominating the space, diamond cufflinks glittering like cold stars.
"Control?" His voice dropped into a purr, low and dangerous. "That's a luxury. I prefer to let things run their course. It's always… more entertaining."
He stepped closer.
The air thickened instantly. Pheromones—sharp, undeniable, Alpha.
Alistair's body betrayed him with a shiver, but he clenched his fists, locking his expression in place. He had spent years burying his truth. His Omega nature. The secret that would destroy him if revealed.
Suppressants. Masks. Lies.
But somehow, Dante had seen through it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Alistair said flatly, eyes unyielding.
Dante's answer was a wolf's smile—cruel, patient, inevitable.
"Oh, I think you do. And I think we'll be seeing much more of each other."
He paused, gaze narrowing.
"Dinner. Tonight. Private. Just the three of us."
Alistair's heart skipped. He didn't need to ask who the third person was. His father.
"You'll be there," Dante added smoothly. "You won't have a choice."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned, walked out, and left the room colder than ice.
Alistair stood frozen.
The weight of the invitation pressed against his chest like a stone. His father would agree. He always did.
Which meant Alistair was trapped.
The storm wasn't on the horizon anymore.
It was here.
And it had just knocked on his door.