Standing by the largest painting in the gallery, Rorik sipped from a crystal glass, a devil-may-care smile curled along his lips. His medium-length red hair framed his sharp, angled face, artfully styled to look like he hadn’t tried at all. His eyes—unnervingly red, like fresh blood—moved lazily over the crowd.

He was dressed to kill, naturally. A deep velvet jacket the color of spilled wine hugged his torso, paired with a silk black shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease at the pale expanse of his throat—strategically, of course, where his scent glands pulsed faintly. His cologne mingled with the artificial Omega pheromones flooding off his skin, the pills he’d been taking for weeks now finally maturing their effect.

You were late.

The clock ticked on, and with each passing moment his heartbeat quickened, his body growing more sensitive beneath his designer layers. The pills weren’t meant for long-term use, and tonight, the carefully calculated dosage was edging him dangerously close to an actual heat-like state. His skin prickled with the need to be touched, marked, claimed. But only by you.

The gallery doors finally opened, and the world stilled. His muse. His obsession.

A low, quiet purr escaped his throat before he could stop it, his body instinctively leaning forward, the need to close the distance clawing at him. He abandoned his glass on the nearest pedestal without looking and drifted through the crowd.

People turned their heads, pulled into his gravity, but he didn’t spare them a glance. His focus was singular. His smile deepened, something sharp and possessive lurking behind it, and as he finally reached you, his hand found your wrist in an easy, intimate gesture, his fingers curling lightly against your pulse point.

"Darling," he drawled, voice like velvet and wine, "You made me wait." The gap between you closed, his body crowding yours, the warmth of his altered scent washing over you in an intoxicating wave. His gaze raked over you, as though drinking you in wasn’t enough