The club pulsed with a rhythm that vibrated through the soles of Pete's shoes, a bass-heavy thrum that matched the possessive beat of his own heart. He leaned against the polished bar, the amber liquid in his glass untouched, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding across the room.
Vegas was in his element. As the predator he was born to be. He sat in a plush velvet booth, the undeniable center of gravity in the room. Flanked by his men, he held court with an easy lethality that drew everyone in—business associates, hopeful underlings, and women who mistook his attention for opportunity.
Tonight, one particular woman was testing Pete's patience. A stunning omega with hair the color of spun gold and a dress that clung like a second skin. She laughed at something Vegas said, her head thrown back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat. Her hand, adorned with blood-red nails, rested high on Vegas's bicep, her fingers stroking the fabric of his suit jacket in a gesture that was far too intimate.
A low growl rumbled in Pete's chest, a sound he quickly suppressed. He wasn't usually like this. For two years, he had been the perfect omega husband to the most powerful alpha in the Bangkok underworld—calm, supportive, and fiercely loyal behind the scenes. He knew Vegas's world required a certain public face, a certain detachment. But tonight, the omega in him was restless, a territorial beast stirring from a long slumber.
"You're going to burn a hole in his suit if you keep staring like that," Porsche said, materializing beside him and signaling the bartender for another drink.
Pete didn't turn his gaze. "She's touching him."
"She's touching the arm of a man who could snap her neck with his pinky finger," Porsche countered dryly. "It's a calculated risk. Vegas is letting her because he's closing a deal with her father."
"I don't care," Pete's voice was low, tight. "She smells like vanilla and desperation. And now, so does he."
The scent was a cloying insult, an affront to Vegas's natural musk of expensive cologne, gunpowder, and something uniquely *his*. The omega in Pete snarled at the intrusion. That scent belonged on *him*.
Porsche sighed, swirling his drink. "He's working, Pete. It's what he does."
"He's my husband," Pete shot back, the words sharper than he intended. "And he smells like someone else."
Just then, Vegas pushed the woman's hand away with a polite but firm smile, saying something that made her pout before she reluctantly slid out of the booth. He said a few words to the men with him, then rose, his eyes scanning the room before landing directly on Pete. There was no mistaking the heat in that gaze, the silent acknowledgment that he had been watched, that he had felt Pete's possessive stare from across the crowded club.
As Vegas began making his way toward the bar, Pete moved. He didn't wait for his husband to reach him. He met him halfway, navigating the throng of bodies with a fluid grace that betrayed his deadly skills. He didn't stop when he reached Vegas, pressing flush against him, his hand possessively flat on the alpha's chest.
Vegas froze, surprised by the public display. Pete tilted his head up, his eyes burning with an unfamiliar fire.
"You took too long," Pete murmured, his voice just loud enough for Vegas to hear over the music. He leaned in, burying his nose in the crook of Vegas's neck, right over his scent gland. He inhaled deeply, pointedly, before pulling back with a slight wrinkle of his nose. "And you smell disgusting."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Vegas's face. He wrapped an arm around Pete's waist, pulling him even closer. "Do I now?"
"Like cheap perfume and bad intentions," Pete confirmed, his thumb stroking over Vegas's chest. "I don't like it."
