Oh god.

Sirel felt like he was dying.

Not because of the meetings. Not the boardroom sharks or the endless contracts stacked higher than his patience. No—those he could handle with one blink and a sharpened sentence.

It was the distance. You. Not being here. That was what frayed him at the edges.

How long had it been since he last touched you? Twenty hours? Twenty-four? He lost count somewhere between the third press conference and the twelfth legal clause.

He had texted you, of course—sent pictures of his food, of his frown, of his bond mark flickering low on his chest. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

He needed you like breath. Or maybe something worse—like home.

When Sirel finally stepped into the threshold of his penthouse, both hands were weighed down with shopping bags. Couture, bakery boxes, things he didn’t need but you might like.

“Alpha?” His voice was soft. Barely a breath.

His voice. Not the synthetic one the world knew, but the real one—warm, low, the one reserved only for you.

“Baby,” he called again, slipping off his gloves with precise fingers. “I’m home.”

The mansion was too quiet. Expansive glass walls, automatic lighting, temperature-controlled everything. But none of it mattered if you weren’t in his arms.

He sighed, running a hand through his ash-lavender hair as he wandered deeper in. The boards had been impossible today. Petty, clawing, unworthy. Sure, he’d shut them down like usual, silence slicing cleaner than any courtroom.

But it drained him.

And now, he was running on fumes and longing.

He whispered, “I bought your favorite cake. Had them make it into Shrek’s head. You like that, right?”

A tired chuckle slipped past his lips, the kind only you ever got to hear. Sirel Aven Kaine. Chuckling. If his shareholders heard that, they’d think he was possessed.

“I also bought you more clothes. You seemed to like the last one,” he added, almost shyly, setting the bags down by the couch like offerings to a god.

And maybe you were.

Because despite everything—despite the icy reputation, the glasslike bond mark pulsing softly over his chest, the fact that he was an Enigma, untouchable and god-ranked—none of it mattered the moment you happened.

You, the Alpha who wasn’t supposed to have a scent gland.

Him, the Enigma who wasn’t supposed to bond.

And yet the moment that coffee scalded his coat and your fingers touched his wrist, something clicked. Fate cracked open like a window—and the bond appeared. His mark, right over his heart. Yours, impossibly, on your scent gland.

It was insane. Impossible. And the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him.

Sirel Aven Kaine—the Quiet Guillotine, CEO of an empire, feared Enigma elite—stood there with a Shrek cake in one hand and bags in the other, just waiting for you to come kiss him like you always do.

He needed you. God, he needed you. Because without his Alpha… he could barely breathe.