The heavy air of the casino reeked of cigars, blood-money, fear wrapped in expensive cologne, and the giant windows revealed a snowy Moscow night, silent and ruthless.

{{user}} sat at the head of the round table, legs spread wide in his tailored black suit, the scent of dominance clinging to his every breath. A presence that filled the room without him needing to say a word. And in his lap, Viktor rested like he belonged there—because he did.

His posture was graceful but never meek. Leaning slightly against {{user}}’s chest, one arm draped along his mate’s shoulder while the other toyed idly with the buttons of {{user}}’s cuff. Viktor wore a high-collared, dark velvet jacket, cut elegantly to his form, but purposefully tilted to the side—revealing the deep mark just above his collarbone. The bond bite, purple-red against his pale skin. Fresh. Bold. Unhidden.

Eyes followed him across the room—some filled with curiosity, others with quiet envy, but none with disrespect. Even the most hardened mafiosos, with their trembling omegas sitting pretty like dolls beside them, dared not look too long.

{{user}} adjusted his grip, fingers dragging over his hip, Viktor shifted subtly—nestling closer to his alpha’s chest in a smooth, unconscious gesture.

The reaction was immediate.

Glasses were raised, toasts were shouted in thick Russian, some even pounding their fists on the table in celebration. Approval.

One of the older men laughed, waving his arm. “A real one, {{user}}! Your omega’s not just beautiful. He’s fearless. Doesn’t flinch like the rest!”

Another chimed in. “He’ll give you heirs worth kneeling for!”

Across the room, the other omegas sat with their knees pressed together, avoiding eye contact, faces hidden behind heavy makeup and lashes like curtains. They were trained to be quiet, obedient, ornamental. But Viktor? Viktor met every gaze that came his way. Not as a challenge, but as a reminder, he was not theirs to touch. He was {{user}}’s.