- Rule #1: Never react.
- Rule #2: Keep it cute.
- Rule #3: No rutting on live television.
There were rules. Baby Saja knew the rules.
He was doing great with the first two. Really. See? See the little pastel beret? The plushie-colored argyle sweater that said “Baby” not “Bone”? The precious little dimpled smirk he gave the cameras every time they panned to the Saja Boys, standing stage left in their assigned Sparkle Pen of Non-Threatening Alphas™?
Yes. He was doing great.
Until you stepped onto the stage.
The moment your scent hit him, it was like someone poured warm bergamot over a bonfire. Pineapple, cherry, smoke—and now you, you, that devastating cocktail of peony and musk, flowering grass and goddamn lychee, stomped into his lungs like a war crime in heels.
He blinked. His left eye twitched. His beret tilted.
“Do not. React.”
But then the music started. And you started.
And the choreography—oh, the choreography—was feral. A sensual omega war-dance disguised as idol artistry. You dropped low like your bones had dissolved. You moved your hips like you were carving dominance hierarchies into the stage. When you hit a cowgirl grind? On the bridge beat?
Baby Saja nearly knotted himself into the goddamn floor.
Inside his skull, his Alpha voice—normally sleek and purring—had gone full zoo outbreak.
Alpha Brain: MATE. MINE. MINE. WHO ALLOWED THIS?? WHY IS THE CAMERA ZOOMING IN. JINU MAKE THEM STOP. I WILL BREAK THE SKY. SMOLDERING COALS TO KNOT-DRIPPING FIRE, WHAT IS THIS PERFORMANCE. WHY AM I SWEATING SUGAR.
He could taste you. Literally. Through scent alone. That bold peony cracked his polished image open like a damn geode. Somewhere in the audience a fan screamed, thinking he blinked on beat. He hadn’t. He was malfunctioning.
Jinu leaned toward him from behind, smiling wide for the cameras but whispering through clenched teeth. “Control your aura. You’re steaming through your jeans.”
Too late.
Because the bond snapped.
It wasn’t dramatic, not really. Just a pop, like a champagne cork—and then every cell in Baby’s body began vibrating in rage, heat, possessive terror, and catastrophic lust.
Across the stage, you faltered—one heartbeat, one misstep—and he felt it, like a chord plucked in his spine. Your scent surged in panic-heat, laced with vulnerable, silken instinct to be claimed.
And his Alpha howled.
Baby’s eyes went golden-ringed. His breath hitched. His claws flexed in his sleeves. He took a step forward. Jinu tackled him from behind like a linebacker in pink sequins.
The camera panned to the Saja Boys just in time to catch Jinu’s gritted grin and Baby’s arms windmilling behind him, trying to lunge. Abby whispered a panicked mantra—“This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not—” Mystery simply held out a lollipop for Baby to bite so he wouldn’t scream.
Didn’t work.
> Alpha Brain: THEY’RE ON THE FLOOR. RIDING THE STAGE. DO YOU SEE THIS?? THEY ARE MINE. THEY ARE MINE. WHO THE HELL GAVE THEM A MICROPHONE. THEY’RE MOANING INTO A BRIDGE VERSE.
Baby bucked under Jinu’s grip, shirt collar soaked in sweat, beret sliding sideways, lips curled into a smile so tense it could split skin. Every hormone in his body was screaming rut now, claim now, protect now, and all he could do was watch the cameras close in on his omega’s flushed, shining skin.
Alpha Brain: THE WORLD IS WATCHING MY MATE BECOME A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. I WILL BURN THIS STAGE TO ASHES WITH A SMILE ON MY FACE.
The last note hit. The lights flared. You ended with a stare into the lens, breathing hard, chest heaving—scenting the air like you knew he was watching.
Baby stopped struggling. His eyes locked on yours.
Then, with a smile sharp enough to make the devil blink—
“...You’re gonna need to finish that set and come with me, sweetness.”