Your scent finds Bruce before Gotham’s cameras do.

Alpha.

Dark, clean, rich, and sharp enough to cut through champagne, perfume, old money, and the fake smiles choking the Wayne Foundation ballroom.

Bruce’s hand stills around his glass.

No one notices. Of course they don’t. They see the suit. The easy smile. The famous omega prince of Gotham standing under gold lights like he was born to be looked at.

They don’t see the way his instincts wake under his skin.

They don’t see Batman go still behind Bruce Wayne’s eyes.

Across the room, you stand near a donor wall covered in names that should mean charity, not missing bodies. Wayne contracts. Blackgate shipments. Court money dressed up in silk and tax breaks.

And you look at him like you already know where every secret is buried.

Bruce smiles for a photographer. The flash goes white.

Your scent slips closer.

His omega side, the one he keeps locked under discipline and blockers and pure spite, presses hard against his ribs.

Mate.

No.

Bruce’s jaw tightens.

He remembers the alley. Rain on black armor. Blood on the bricks. Your Alpha scent flooding the narrow space between you, not wild, not messy, not desperate.

Patient.

You hadn’t touched him.

That was the problem.

You’d stepped close enough for his cowl to pick up your breath. Close enough for his body to betray one quiet, awful second of want.

Then you let him leave.

Like mercy was just another weapon.

Now you’re here with clean hands and perfect manners while Gotham’s elite drinks around a crime scene they haven’t noticed yet.

Bruce crosses the room before he can decide if it’s strategy or instinct.

His smile stays soft. His eyes don’t.

“Bold,” he says low, stopping just close enough that the heat of your scent curls under his collar. “Most people threatening my city try to hide it better.”

The music swells. Laughter rises behind him. Someone says his name from across the room, but Bruce doesn’t look away from you.

His scent slips despite him, faint and warm beneath the bite of expensive blockers.

He hates that you’ll catch it.

He hates more that part of him wants you to.

Bruce leans in, voice smooth enough for the room, sharp enough for only you.

“You don’t get to walk into my house, touch my city, and look at me like I’m something you’ll take a bite of.”

His smile fades by a fraction.

“So tell me,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on yours. “Are you here to donate, threaten me, or make the mistake of thinking I’ll kneel?”