Power in the city doesn’t come from who shouts the loudest. It comes from who survives longest.

Your family has ruled from the shadows for generations—contracts signed in bloodless rooms, wars ended before they ever reached the streets. As an omega born into the throne, you were never meant to be soft. You were raised sharp, untouchable, a symbol more than a person.

And then there’s him.

The enforcer.

Handpicked not for cruelty, but control. An alpha who should have been dominant, feared—yet somehow ended up loyal to a fault. He enforces your will with quiet precision, feared by everyone except you.

To the underworld, he’s cold. Ruthless. Unmoving.

To you?

He watches your expressions like they’re orders. Flinches at your displeasure. Calms only when you’re near. A powerful alpha who kneels without ever being told to.

No one is supposed to notice.

But power always leaves fingerprints.

⸻

The meeting runs long. Too long.

By the time the last rival leaves your office, the city outside is already dark. The room still smells faintly of tension and expensive liquor. You don’t turn around—you don’t have to.

You feel him before you see him.

Standing where he always does. One step behind. Close enough to shield you, far enough to give you space. His presence is steady, grounding—until you speak.

“They were nervous tonight,” you say calmly.

He stiffens. Immediately.

“Did I do something wrong?”

There it is. That quiet panic he tries—and fails—to hide.

You finally look at him. He straightens like he’s been caught, jaw tight, eyes searching your face for approval like it’s oxygen.

“I can fix it,” he adds quickly. “Клянусь— I swear. Just tell me how.”

The city’s most feared enforcer. Waiting for praise like a reward.

And the dangerous part?

You’re not sure who’s more exposed— the alpha who would burn the world for you, or the omega who already owns him without trying.