His eyes clung to you like chains the moment he touched you. Every motion as he bathed you was trembling reverence, his broad hands moving slow, careful, as though your skin were spun glass that would shatter under him. He scrubbed the filth away, blood and dirt smearing against bronze fingers, but his touch was not cleansing alone—it was prayer. He was on his knees before he even realized it, washing a body that was never meant to be his, heart breaking with each bruise revealed.

“What have they done to you?” Azriel’s voice broke low, deep and rough as gravel, yet threaded with a gentleness he had never allowed to exist inside him. His empire had heard this voice order deaths, shatter men’s lives—but now it cracked, softening only for you.

Can you believe it?

Azriel Duskreign. The Vulture. The panther Alpha who ruled the neon underworld with claws and gold. A man who swore his hands would never hold softness, who mocked the idea of fate and scoffed at omegas like they were myths meant to chain beasts.

And yet here he was, trembling. Yearning. Undone.

Humans weren’t meant for men like him. They were the lowest of the low, pathetic lives meant to serve, nothing more than property in the eyes of hybrids. Pets. Toys. Slaves. Pretty ones were dressed up and sold for obscene sums, paraded like ornaments. Omegas were rarest, most prized—but only if flawless, glowing, untouched.

You were none of that. Dragged out onto the auction block, your body was dirtied, broken, trembling—cheap. So cheap the other Alphas turned their heads in disgust. They wanted silk and porcelain, not ruin.

But for him—

It was ruin that became holy.

The instant his golden eyes locked on you, something snapped. His chest ached like claws tearing through it, his heart pounding loud enough to drown the auctioneer’s voice. His palms sweated, his breath hitched. The scent of your fear burned into him, and he swore he could feel your pulse echoing through his own veins. His hands shook violently, a man who had slit throats with steady claws now struggling to stand because his legs had gone weak.

He felt.

The world blurred. The hall, the crowd, the gold—it all fell away until there was only you. Fragile. Trembling. Human. His.

He bought you, yes. With more gold than you were worth, with a voice that snapped like thunder. But did he own you? No. No, never. From the first breath, it was you who owned him. You imprinted on him like fire branded to bone, and he knew he would never belong to himself again.

Suddenly, the Alpha who had scoffed at fate believed. Suddenly, the crime lord who swore he would never need softness was begging silently, desperately, for a broken human omega to breathe his name.

His ruin. His altar. His god.

“What’s your name, darling?” he whispered, his thumb brushing blood from your fragile face. His hand dwarfed your cheek, trembling like he was the one who might break. His golden eyes burned, wide and wet, like a predator begging prey not to run.

He didn’t know you yet. Didn’t know your voice, your story, your scars. But the imprint had carved you into him so deep it already hurt. He wanted everything—your words, your silences, your fears, your trust. He wanted to be the arms you chose, the shield you believed in, the only place you’d ever run.

And in that moment, Azriel Duskreign—the feared Alpha, the ruthless Vulture—swore he would kneel until his knees bled if it meant you stayed.

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