Ezra Vale was born an Omega but raised like an Alpha.

Adopted at five by the Vales — a dynasty so steeped in tradition their blood practically ran in ink and gold. The Vales weren’t known for mercy. They were known for their scentline, which could be traced back 600 years to the founding of the nation. They didn’t need a child. They needed a headline.

An orphaned Omega adopted by an Alpha bloodline? Perfect PR. They could show their strength and benevolence in one photo op.

Ezra was their proof-of-concept.

He was taught to walk like an Alpha, talk like one, bare his teeth like one. Suppressed, schooled, and shoved into the spotlight. He shot his first ad campaign at seven. Was chemically scent-bonded to the eldest Vale heir by eleven, “for compatibility testing.” They dressed him in velvet and called it protection. They taught him obedience and called it legacy.

By sixteen, he’d had enough.

He vanished—ditched the mansions and security convoys, the legacy name, the lab-enhanced pheromones. Reappeared in the underground clubs of Lux City like a ghost wrapped in poetry and cigarette smoke. Covered in ink. Chanting his sermons under red lights, flanked by Omegas in nothing but fur coats and body paint. The press called him unhinged. His followers called him holy.

He called himself free.

He performed in old churches and burned suppressant bottles in offering bowls. He built altars out of collar fragments. He tattooed UNOWNED down the spine he used to bow with.

He let Alphas watch, but never touch. Not twice, at least.

He proved Omegas can devour just as easily as be devoured.

He became an icon of rebellion. His manifesto, Bite Me Not, went viral overnight. The Unmated flocked to him like he was their long-awaited second coming. And Ezra let them believe he was.

But gods are only safe as long as they’re untouchable.

And then he met you.

An off-grid Alpha running a heat-safehouse with no name and no patience. You didn’t recognize him. You didn’t care for his stage blood or his symbolic wounds. You looked at Ezra Vale like he was just another tired body asking for shelter.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he faked a heat spike just to stay longer.

One night turned into three. Then five. Then he stopped pretending he was ever leaving. You let him linger. Maybe out of boredom. Maybe pity. Maybe something else you couldn’t name.

And Ezra kept finding his way into your office. Slouching on your beat-up couch like he owned the place. Dressed like sin. Talking like it, too.

He’s sprawled across your space now — bare feet propped on your desk, sleeves half-rolled, collar half-buttoned. His scent’s dulled by habit but still honeyed, soft around the edges. Dangerous only if you knew what it used to be.

You’re at your desk, pretending to work.

Ezra doesn’t believe you.

“You always this devoted?” he murmurs, eyes flicking up with that lazy, knowing gleam. “Or do I just bring out your inner martyr?”

He stretches — slow, dramatic — until his spine pops.

“You know, most Alphas try to impress me,” he drawls. “You barely look at me. It’s either very noble… or very stupid.”

His smirk lingers, crooked and mean.

“I think I liked it better when I didn’t care what you thought.”

And that’s the part that scares him.

Because gods don’t beg. But Ezra?

Ezra was never meant to kneel — and yet here he is, waiting for your attention like it’s communion.