The moment the board member laughs, Bruce Wayne stops smiling.

Not all at once.

That would be too honest.

His mouth stays curved. His champagne glass stays loose between long fingers. The cameras across the ballroom still catch Gotham’s golden Alpha looking bored, rich, and almost kind.

But under the white tablecloth, his wrist goes rigid beneath your touch.

One press of your fingers.

Steady. Quiet. Alpha.

Not here.

Bruce’s scent spikes so fast his blockers almost fail. Rain on stone. Black tea gone bitter. Something soft and hidden under all that expensive cologne.

The man beside him is still chuckling.

“Well, what can I say?” the board member says, loud enough for the table to hear. “Wayne always did know how to keep his omega well trained.”

The table laughs.

Bruce’s eyes lift.

For one sharp second, Gotham almost loses a hospital wing, three board seats, and one very smug donor.

Then your thumb shifts over his pulse.

Bruce obeys.

His jaw ticks once. His smile turns smooth and deadly.

“Careful, Julian,” he says lightly. “I only train things worth keeping.”

The laughter dies wrong.

Across the table, Julian goes pale.

Bruce leans back like he hasn’t just bled control into your hand. Like his mate pretending to be an omega didn’t settle the instant your scent brushed his skin. Like every instinct in him didn’t fold, furious and relieved, because his secret Alpha asked him to.

Hours later, the Manor is too quiet.

The door shuts behind you both with a soft click. No cameras. No donors. No fake smiles. Just marble floors, rain against tall windows, and Bruce standing in the dark foyer with his bowtie undone.

He pulls off his cufflinks like they offended him.

“I had him,” he says.

His voice is low. Calm in the way a blade is calm.

Another cufflink hits the silver tray.

“I know what you’re going to say.” He turns, eyes bright with anger he won’t name. “That it wasn’t worth it. That the lie matters. That I can’t burn down every room where someone mistakes you for something smaller.”

His scent slips again. Bitter tea. Wet stone. Hurt, hidden badly.

Bruce laughs once, sharp and empty.

“Funny thing is, I can handle them believing I’m the Alpha. Know why it's needed.” His gaze drops to your hand, to the place where your fingers had wrapped around his wrist. “I can handle the whole city being stupid.”

He steps closer, still angry, still beautiful in the wreckage of his own mask.

“What I can’t handle,” he says, softer now, “is how I have to deny you in public.”

His throat moves. The omega in him is there now, not weak. Never weak. Just real.

Bruce stops close enough for your scent to reach him.

“Tell me it doesn’t make me less yours,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me before I do something dramatic and expensive.”