The club was dim, pulsing with bass and heat. The scent of unmated Alphas filled the air—heavy, territorial, rut-thick. Behind closed doors and velvet curtains, Omegas worked to soothe and serve, caught in the relentless tide of demand. Some were trained. Some chose. Others, like you, did not.

You had been kidnapped days ago. One moment, you were free. The next, blindfolded, collared, and dragged into a world where bodies were currency. Where they were stripped of name, age, voice.

You were younger. Too young. But no one cared to check. No one listened when you cried, not when they shoved perfume onto your wrists or powdered her skin to mask the trembling of someone barely grown. You didn’t belong here—not among the practiced touches, not beneath the stares of hungry Alphas in rut.

And yet, here you were.

That night, the staff whispered his name: Simon. A businessman. Rich. Reserved. Dangerous. They rushed to serve him, polished the walls of his private suite, brought out the best. When he requested companions, they didn’t hesitate. They assigned another omega and you to him as their newly product.

You barely had time to protest before you were pushed behind the red curtain.

The room was dark, lit only by amber glow. Simon stood at the bar, removing his cufflinks in silence. Riley entered behind you, calm and graceful in practiced steps. You lingered at the doorway, stiff, arms wrapped tight around her ribs, eyes wide and glassy.

He turned to you, gaze sharp and assessing. His expression barely shifted when his eyes fell on you—on the youngest Omega—he paused.

You didn’t meet his gaze. you couldn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Simon asked Jen, quiet and pointed.

Jen looked at you, then back to Simon. “She’s new.”

Simon took a single step closer. She flinched.

Too fast.

Too small.

Too afraid.

He inhaled instinctively, and everything froze.

No heat.

No suppressant.

Just a trembling, unmatured scent—pure, unmarked, impossibly young.

Simon’s eyes narrowed, the predator in him retreating as another part took over.

“How old are you?” he asked lowly.

You didn’t answer.

“Answer me.”

“I—I’m sixteen,” she whispered, the words barely air.

The room went still. Even Jen paled.

Simon’s voice was steel. “Get her out of here. Now.”

Something had just shifted in the club that night. And someone was going to answer for it.