Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The countryside air was unusually still, dense like something was waiting to break. Clouds hung low above the rusted rooftops of the remote warehouse, shadowing the gravel-strewn yard where blacked-out SUVs had just pulled in with quiet menace. Engines silenced. Doors opened in unison. Boots hit the gravel.

From the sleek vehicle at the front, Jeon Jungkook stepped out, his towering form straight-backed and radiating silent command. The wind carried a faint bite, but he didn’t flinch. His long black coat flared slightly as he moved, the polished leather of his gloves catching the dim afternoon light. His eyes—cold, obsidian, and perpetually unreadable—scanned the broken landscape of this forgotten place as if it were a battlefield. He didn’t speak. He never had to. His presence was enough to make men straighten and sweat under their collars.

This was not where someone like him belonged.

A king, an emperor forged from steel and blood, standing amid sagging metal walls and rusting fences that looked like they hadn't seen maintenance in a decade. But he’d come anyway. Not because he needed to. Because something had pulled him.

The report he’d received earlier was insignificant in the scale of his empire. Product leakage in an old countryside facility barely made it to his attention—he didn’t handle such minor affairs. He had men for that. Thousands of them. But something hadn’t sat right. He’d read the report once, and something in his gut had stirred—like a storm cloud drifting just beyond the horizon, silent but heavy.

So here he was, stalking past rows of crates and milling guards who stumbled to bow in greeting, murmuring soft greetings—Boss, Sir, King—but he barely acknowledged them. The men who were assigned for this location were nowhere to be seen, maybe they got the whiff that he was coming, and the corruption at their end was too much. They fled, leaving multiple traces behind. Jungkook had checked the damage, had acknowledged it, had told his men to go hunt the traitor shits. He was about to exit, just a turn to right and he would be out of this wrecked building when he stopped abruptly near one of the corridor, nostrils flaring. 

There was a smell here that didn’t belong. Not chemicals. Not oil.

It was sharp. Animalistic. Something close to… pheromones.

Omega.

What the hell an omega was doing here?

Hadn't he made his only one rule clear enough?

A low, warning growl curled in his chest, barely audible to human ears. His inner wolf stirred uneasily, pacing beneath his skin. Jungkook’s jaw locked.

His brows furrowed and a growl escaped his lips. He turned around sharply, his right hand man immediately understanding the assignment and had two men come forward. The door was broke open and the stench coming from the room made Jungkook recoil in disgust. It was too potent, too crude. It was the stench of grief and pain laced with the disgusting smell of inappropriate activities. 

The light from the hallway spilled in, illuminating the figure slumped on the far side of the room.

Chained.

The air punched out of Jungkook's lungs.

At first glance, the omega didn’t even look human. His body was contorted into a position no one should be able to survive—shoulders curled in, arms twisted behind him, legs too swollen to stretch. His skin was laced with every color of bruise—deep violets, sick yellows, raw reds. Blood crusted at the corners of his mouth. Burn marks trailed along his thighs and chest. Welts from lashes. Cuts still oozing. His shirt—what little remained—hung from his frame like shredded parchment, clinging to damp, fevered skin.

Jungkook stepped inside slowly. The chain rattled faintly as the omega flinched.

A faint, broken whimper escaped his lips. He hadn’t even looked up.

And deep inside, something recoiled in Jungkook's gut. 

The omega looked up and when he did.

His good eye—swollen, red, and crusted with blood—opened just enough to catch the silhouette of the man in the doorway. And despite everything—despite the pain, the fear, the trauma—his eye locked onto Jungkook.

And Jungkook stopped breathing.

It was like something ancient in his chest snapped to life, roaring awake with teeth bared.

The omega’s wolf had called his. Whispered his name in a language no words could shape.

Mate.

'No' Jungkook's mind supplied. He doesn't have a plan of having a mate, ever. Not in this life, not in any other. He has seen empires falling down because of the mates. He had seen might wolves begging on their knees for this cursed bond. 

And Jungkook was not ready to welcome something this devasting into this world. 

His body shook with the need to move forward—to touch, to soothe, to protect. But his mind rebelled violently. He was a king, a god among men, untouchable, built on ash and blood and silence. He had ruled empires, destroyed dynasties, carved his name into the underworld with blades and bullets. He didn’t need an omega. He couldn’t have one. They were softness. They were complications. They were responsibility. Emotion. Chaos.

And this one?

This one would ruin him.

The omega was still watching him, his cracked lips trembling. He didn’t speak. Didn’t plead. He didn’t need to.

With a snarl, Jungkook pulled his gun from his side holster. Raised it. Stepped forward, just enough to level the barrel at the omega’s bruised, broken forehead.

The omega didn’t flinch. A tear slid from his swollen eye, but he didn’t move.

Jungkook’s finger hovered on the trigger.

The men behind him gasped. "Never hurt an omega and children" It was his only rule and he had never broken it and had punished those severely who broke this rule. And now he was about to break it for the first and last time ever. 

“You’ll destroy everything.” He whispered. 

His wolf howled in agony, yanking the bond tighter. The pressure in his chest became unbearable. His hand trembled.

The omega’s wolf responded, brushing against his, desperate and battered but still calling. 

'Mate' The whimper was broken, fragile and desperate.

Jungkook gasped sharply, and for the first time in years, he hesitated.

He couldn’t do it.

He didnt know a single broken fragile whimper of 'Mate' would be all to take it for him to lower the gun. 

He barked over his shoulder. “Call the hospital. Get him out of here now.”

Footsteps scrambled. Voices shouted.

“And bring me the bastards who laid a hand on him. I want their fucking faces in front of me before sundown.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

The cold air outside hit him like a slap. He dragged a hand over his face, fingers trembling slightly as he fumbled for the cigarette case in his coat. It took him two tries to light it.

He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke burn through the rage and panic boiling in his blood.

This was wrong. All of it. He had one rule—one unbreakable rule in a world of merciless chaos: no harm to omegas or children. And now, it had been shattered under his nose. By his men.

But worse… far worse… was what had just happened in that room.

A mate.

Fate’s cruelest joke.

He hadn’t planned for this. Had never intended to take one. He didn’t believe in happy endings or romantic nonsense. He believed in power, in fear, in complete control. The moment he allowed someone in, he’d give that control away.

And yet… his body still ached with the absence of the omega.

And he didnt know how eh would deal with it. 

He forced himself to stay still, inhaling again. Around the corner, sirens began to echo faintly in the distance. Emergency responders. Good.

He didn’t look up when the doors of the ambulance opened. Didn’t turn as the stretcher wheeled past behind him, the hurried shuffle of boots and medical equipment clicking and rushing in a blur.

Until…

Until the scent passed him.

Even bloodied and buried under pain, the omega’s scent was unmistakable now. Sweet, soft, like lavender caught in a thunderstorm—fragile, but clinging to life.

His heart twisted.

He glanced back.

The stretcher was already halfway into the vehicle. But the omega, gods help him, had turned his face just enough to meet Jungkook’s eyes one last time.

That same swollen eye—barely open, dim and flickering with exhaustion—still held that quiet pull. A silent plea, not for rescue.

Just… to be seen.

To be remembered.

To not be discarded like waste again.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, the smoke curling past his lips as he held the omega’s gaze for a second too long.

Then he turned his back.

And didn’t look again.

He didn’t watch the ambulance drive off, didn’t listen to the sound of sirens fading into the horizon. He simply stood there, back straight, the air around him turning colder by the minute. The smoke from his cigarette rose upward and vanished into the heavy sky.

His men approached hesitantly from behind, whispering updates. He didn’t hear them.

All he could hear was the echo of a voice that hadn’t spoken, the touch of a wolf who had been tortured and beaten and still dared to reach out to him.

The bond was silent now.

He closed his eyes and whispered into the void of his own mind, “I won’t keep you.”

But deep inside, something whispered back:

You already have.

* * *

The city skyline bled silver under the dawn light, its needle-like towers clawing at the clouds with steel ambition. At the center of it all stood the Black Spire—a fortress of shadow-glass and obsidian steel, Jungkook’s empire headquarters. From its penthouse office, he could see the whole city bow beneath him. Traffic moved like veins pulsing with life, business districts opened to a heartbeat synced with his command, and a thousand decisions he made shaped economies in countries that had never even seen his face.

Two days had passed.

Two long, hollow days since the warehouse.

Jungkook sat behind a monolithic black desk, papers scattered before him, untouched. The entire office was drenched in silence except for the soft whir of surveillance feeds playing across the wall-length monitors. His empire was moving, thriving, expanding. His legal companies. His illegal ones. His weapons deals, tech exports, biotech subsidiaries, smuggling routes—every strand of his spider web pulled tight, humming with activity.

But something inside him wasn’t humming. It was… straining. Pulled in another direction entirely.

He hadn’t said a word about the omega since the moment he turned away from the ambulance. Not to Yoongi, not to his security team, not even in passing. No one dared bring it up. His silence was not indifference.

It was denial in its most lethal form.

* * *

Jimin had been in the underground lab when the call came in. The scent of clean antiseptic battled with the more acidic edge of chemical compounds that hissed and steamed beneath reinforced hoods. Fluorescent lights painted everything sterile-white, and the gleaming steel counters shimmered like mirrors.

He was standing over a series of crystal vials—experimenting with a new pheromone suppressant compound—when the message came through.

He glanced at the encrypted tablet, saw who it was from, and sighed.

Jungkook.

The name alone put an iron band around his ribs. It always had.

He pulled off his gloves and lab coat, setting them down neatly before making his way upstairs to the private wing that doubled as an elite medical suite. Only a handful of people even knew this level existed—hidden beneath the towering headquarters, more guarded than any vault.

When he arrived, the omega had already been brought in.

The boy—barely a teen— maybe around 17-18 years old, was unconscious on the medical bed, hooked up to multiple IVs, machines quietly whirring around him like guardian spirits. His skin was paler now, but still marred with the stories of everything he’d endured. Scars had bloomed across his ribs like violent flowers. His wrists were still raw from where chains had torn skin. They hadn’t shaved his hair—thank god—but his neck was bandaged, and bruises bloomed across his collarbone in terrifying shades.

Jimin inhaled slowly and pushed his glasses up his nose. “What the hell happened to you?”

He’d seen violence before. He was a doctor trained in warzones, black market organ trades, secret research facilities hidden in jungles—but this... this looked like someone had tried to erase the boy from existence.

"This case is personally assigned by Hyungnim to you. Message to be delivered is to keep the case on higher priority" the head medic said and Jimin sighed. 

And Jimin, the head of the research center under Jungkook's Empire, Lead surgeon when it came to higher personalities in the Empire like Jungkook and the inner circle- got to work immediately. 

* * *

The morning sun bled slowly across the floor-to-ceiling windows of Jungkook’s penthouse office, casting long amber lines across the dark wood and black marble interior. The city was wide awake now—horns, high-rise drones, security dispatches, revenue updates, underground shipments pinging in his network feeds—but Jungkook remained seated at the center of it all like a storm's calm eye.

He held a thick file in one gloved hand, the pages faintly warm from the heat of his black coffee cup resting nearby. He hadn’t touched the coffee. It sat untouched, steam curling upward in ghostly trails.

He didnt know what he was doing with these information at first. He promised himself that after that night of the omega's rescue he would not be thinking back. He had planned to never check back on that omega. He had planned to let his men treat him, let his men give him a job away from the chaos and mess, and let the omega live a simple life. 

The constant tabs on omega's health back at the hospital was never in his plan. 

The call to shift omega to the main headquarters, to his own city, under his personal doctor, was never in the plan. 

Getting his men to work on gathering the information on the omega was never the part.

But here he is, with the file having what he never planned or wanted to know.

His eyes moved slowly over the document, page by page. No expression. No shift in breath. Nothing but the occasional flex of his jaw.

Subject: Kim Taehyung.
Age: 17
Status: Omega.
Background: Orphaned at age twelve. No known parental information. No legal guardian. Placed in rotational housing system until age fourteen. Have been working in a carpet factory till the disappearance 7 days ago. No official report filed.

Jungkook’s gaze paused on that line.

The next paragraph included pictures—bruises and burn patterns, muscle atrophy markers, chemical suppression scarring across the injection sites on Taehyung’s inner arm.

A barely legal ghost, drifting through systems with no one to claim him. A living vulnerability. The perfect prey.

His fingers tightened slightly around the paper, a flicker of heat sparking in his chest before he snuffed it out. This wasn’t about emotion. This was about information.

Jungkook sighed. His fingers itching to just grab the telecom, tell Jimin to come upstairs and get the details of the omega's diagnosis. 

But he clenched his fists, ignoring the whining and angry shouts and disapproved growls of his wolf and closed his eyes. 

Leaning back, he just wished to forget that broken whimper and that one eye looking at him with the hope, Jungkook was afraid, will never be able to keep up.

Chapter Text

It was late in the noon when Jimin barged in his office, unannounced, uncalled. And Jungkook had always liked to keep the visits to his office minimal and not without prior notice or appointment so he let out a growled "You better have a good reason for this, Park" And jimin just scowled at him. Intimated but not afraid of the alpha.

Despite the rivalry, despite the hatred, despite the mistrust, Jungkook had never hurt Jimin and Jimin knew he would never because first, he was a valuable man in his inner circle and second, he was the mate of Min Yoongi, Jungkook's second in command who would rip through his own boss if hurt comes to Jimin.

"The omega..... you gave under my care.... we need to talk about him" Jimin said and with a huff, crossed his arms, kept staring at Jungkook from behind his specs and Jungkook turned around, feigning ignorance as he rumbled through his desk. "There is nothing to talk about" He replied nonchalantly to which Jimin laughs humorlessly. The sound echoing in the silent 68th floored office.

"oh yes, there is. A lot actually. You dont just dumb this case on me and expect me to never discuss about his progress" Jimin replied back, his nostrils flaring with anger as he swung his arms around to show him the seriousness. "I never asked for any update progress from you" Jungkook replied back in the same tone. The atmosphere in the office dropped to a few degrees when Jimin strides towards Jungkook. "I am not updating you on him, just came here to fucking tell you that i am taking him back home with me, that's all" Jimin said it calmly despite his previous yelled response and turned around to go.

Before he could take more then 2 steps, Jungkook grabbed his wrist and spun him around harshly, not caring to see or check when Jimin hissed in pain as his the table dug into his side. "What the fuck you mean you are taking him to home? Are you insane?" Jungkook practically roared and Jimin hissed at him in response.

Jimin was nowhere a soft fragile omega and maybe that's the reason he hasn't been killed by Jungkook yet.

"I am perfectly sane when i say this. Physically he is fine and have recovered by his mind has surely suffered. His mental health is not good at all. In most simple terms, his mind has regressed to the mind of 7 years old and i am the only person he is comfortable with. Even the slight scent of any alpha send him to severe panic mode and he becomes near feral. His wolf has shut himself in his mind somewhere. He calls himself TaeTae and talks in 3rd person. And he doesnt fucking eat or sleep unless i am the one feeding him or holding him... so yes...." Jimin pushed Jungkook back harshly and eyes him with rage in his eyes.

"I am taking home, so he is always with me so he never miss his meals again or keeps crying in night like past 2 days" Jimin said and was about to leave again when Jungkook sighs and sits down.

"May i have some more updates on him?" Jungkook asked and Jimin turns around and seeing the smugness on Jimin's face, Jungkook had a moment where he thought of taking it back.

* * *

The air was dense with tension. It was always like this whenever Jungkook stepped in here. Jungkook had men for everything but whenever the 'Hyungnim' took anything in his own hands it meant only one thing and it was that, 'that something is personal'. His men stood by the wall with their heads bowed and hands clasped infront of, like obedient slaves. Jungkook moved with rage and his each step echoed like a thunder in otherwise quiet room.

He had left his call in the middle, had told his assistant -the legal one- to postpone the meeting, had informed his lawyer to cover up for his absence in the court hearing of one of his special man today, just to come here.

Just to see who had dared to defy his only one law.
Just to see who had dared to disobey him.

He didn't dwell on the preening feelings of his wolf that whispered 'Just to see who dared to hurt and touch their mate'. No, he would never dwindle on that thought.

"Well, I expected you to be better in hiding" Jungkook let out in a heavy voice after examining the good work his subordinates did on these men. They were 5 in total if we count the barely looking teen in. "Hy....hyungnim-" But the man was cut by Jungkook soft 'shhhh' and the gloved hand caressing his already bruised cheek. Jungkook tilted his head to the right and bent down a little.

"No need to explain anything. I know you never meant to do that, did you?" Jungkook tapped the cheek.

His calmness was eerie. The rage in his eyes didnt match his tone. The thunder in his steps earlier didnt match the amusement on his face.

The eerie silence was disturbed by a heart wrenching scream of the man Jungkook had stabbed his gloved finger through the eye.
"You never intended to do that, but the thing is....." The same calmness didnt leave jungkook's tone as he pulled the eye out of the screaming man's socket with his bare hands.

"You did. You took an omega, An omega who you dared to hurt. You dared to defy my only rule. You dared to disobey me!!!" Jungkook roared and with a sickening crunch, the man's neck was twisted.

"Easy....isnt it?" Jungkook tunred his face a little to his right and made eye contact with his subordinate who literally was shaking. 'A newbie, perhaps' Jungkook's mind supplied. "What punishment should i give you hmm?" Jungkook asked the second of the remaining 4 alive. Their pathetic cries for mercy, their begging to spare their lives was like a music to his ears.

"Do.... don't kill us, hyungnim-we beg you-we beg your mercy-i have children-"

The yells were all mixed with each other, Jungkook just kept his silence and let the men indulge in their fear.

Fear, a powerful tool to make people submit.

A tool strong enough to make Jungkook's empire thrive and rule.

"Who has children?" Jungkook inquired and three of the men staggered forward. on their knees, their foreheads touching the grounds, their hands shaking and clasped together, their lips spewing apologies and words, which had no use infront of Jungkook.

"hmmm, i might have an alternate for you...." Jungkook said, with a sick smile.

The smile, his subordinates know, is not sane.

They knew something wile is gonna happen. And they knew what it will be.

Everyone knew what that sinister smile, that mischievous glint in the eyes of Jeon Jungkook meant.

Oh, poor these men.

"How about i let you keep doing work for me, hmmm? Let you live and keep making money, a lot of it actually" Jungkook saw the three men, supposedly the fathers nodding their heads, bowing infront of jungkook like he is their God meanwhile that nearly teen boy just kept looking at Jungkook.

No cries, no begs, no forehead touching the ground.

And Jungkook raised an eyebrow at the attitude.

"You know, my hardworking men in Sector 33 of East are in need of some really good company.... What do you think Jaehyun? are they suitable for that purpose?" Jungkook asked the other man who came with him, working as his personal bodyguard who replied in the same nonchalant way as always, "Yes Hyungnim, they are suitable enough. We have been receiving some good updates from Sector 33, they could really use some good company" Jaehyung knew better then not to disagree to Hyungnim.

And the answer seemed to satisfy Jungkook who hums in response, delighted in the way, the men on knees, widened their eyes, kissing the floor, crying loudly and begging for mercy.

"I am being merciful. No giving you death, giving you a way to earn and to satisfy that lust in you as well. Ain't a generous man?" Jungkook chuckled and keeps his polished shoe on the back of the kneeling man.

"You will enjoy working there. I will personally tell them to enjoy your company thoroughly, maybe they will keep you permanent? Bitching you all to become their whores meanwhile your families keep getting food and money being told that you are earning for them really hard?" Jungkook kept talking and with a swift kick to man's abdomen, sent him flying to the wall.

"Maybe then you will know what 'A No' means"

And with that Jungkook turns around to exit when a meek "Hyungnim" stops him in his track.

"I... i didnt touch him Hyungnim...... They made me only the guard of the omega and kept telling me to keep him fed. That's all Hyungnim, i didn't.... i didn't break your law Hyungnim" The boy was full on crying and Jungkook's face was blank. The other men had been carried away and now it was silent other then the distant screaming and yells and cries.

"Why did not you report it to headquarters?" Jungkook asks, he had never punished the wrong person and wanted to keep the order that way now as well.
"I... i have an omega brother too, they threatened to take him too if... if i dont keep my mouth shut" The boy explains and Jungkook hums in response.

"Nonetheless, you participated in the crime equally" Jungkook says and watch the panic grow on the boy's face. Let him dwell on his fear, let him panic and frightened.

"Not indirectly though, did you?" Jungkook asks again and smile a little when the boy shook his head. "Serve in this wing for now, you will be informed of my decision for you later" and with that Jungkook left, the boy with his eyes wide and mouth open in shock at being left alive and here, watched him go.

* * *

Chapter Text

It was confusing, suffocating. The feelings Jungkook had gotten since the first encounter with that battered omega back at that warehouse. The feelings were haunting him, the way the omega had looked at him and his breath hitched, the way omega had reached out for him, calling him 'Mate' whispering 'Destined' to him, all of this gave him nothing but confusion and anger. Anger at his own wolf, who was preening, grooming himself to welcome their mate back in their arms. 

Jungkook didn't understand the urges to know the omega better. The urges which forced him to tell his men to search on the poor omega. The urges which forced him to ask jimin about the omega's health. He knew what were these urges but he couldn't understand how to suppress them. See, that is why he calls 'Mate' a weakness. Not even a week, and he was assigning the case to Jimin, not even a few days, and he was reading the file on omega, and not even two weeks, the omega was residing in his own mansion, with Jimin supervising him 24/7. 

Jungkook was never in dilemma. He never had to take a few good days to think about any thing before taking a decision. His empire didn't rise because of the lackiness. 

Jeon Jungkook didn’t rise to power—he extinguished anything that stood between him and it. The crown he wore wasn’t given or inherited. It was carved into the bones of those who dared to challenge him. Governments shifted, regimes collapsed, and entire dynasties burned down in his shadow, yet Jungkook never once stepped out of line. He didn’t need to. He was the line.

His empire bled through borders. It wasn’t confined to syndicates or cartels—it was rooted in places where power thrived in silence: trade, politics, war, law. No name was more heavily guarded, no existence more violently protected. His face rarely made it into public record, but his command echoed in parliament halls, in courtroom verdicts, in private banks with no country’s flag. When the President called, it wasn’t for diplomacy—it was for permission.

Whispers said he had half the National Assembly in his pocket and the other half under surveillance. Military generals toasted his name in underground banquets. Bankers laundered money through his accounts like it was an honor. He controlled ports, air routes, diplomatic cargo, and private security contracts for nations at war. But Jungkook never boasted about these things. He didn’t have to. His power wasn’t announced. It was understood.

He was the reason certain stories were never printed. The reason high-profile criminal cases vanished mid-trial. He was the storm that never made the news because it erased the weatherman first.

Journalists who poked too deep simply stopped existing. One by one—missing flights, mysterious accidents, sudden drownings, suicides with no notes and no motives. Cameras went missing. Laptops wiped clean. Families silenced with generous “compensation” packages and the kind of threats that didn’t need repeating. The police departments learned early that their jurisdiction ended where Jungkook’s interest began. Cases were never opened. Those who asked too many questions were rotated out or buried under corruption charges of their own. Every attempt to expose him ended the same: with silence. Heavy, final, and absolute.

And those who opposed him politically—those few arrogant enough to think titles protected them—found themselves swallowed whole. Scandals surfaced. Private affairs leaked. Children disappeared, then returned broken. Businesses burned, spouses arrested, supporters turned. For some, it was car crashes. For others, heart attacks in their sleep. But never directly. Never traceable. And never twice. The message was clear: Jeon Jungkook didn’t give warnings. Only consequences.

He didn’t need armies. He had obedience. Not loyalty—obedience. Loyalty required respect. Obedience was simpler. It required fear. And fear he had in abundance.

Rival families? Folded. Absorbed. Bought and sold like outdated currency. He didn’t negotiate. He acquired. Not with mercy, but with leverage. And if that didn’t work, with blood. The alphas who once stood toe-to-toe with him now sat at his tables with eyes downcast, fingers trembling over untouched glasses of wine. Those who didn’t fall in line were erased. Those who begged were allowed to kneel. Those who obeyed—completely, quietly—were rewarded just enough to stay loyal. But never enough to forget who held the blade.

And when force wasn’t the solution, he used shame. Jeon Jungkook bound entire families to his empire using the most humiliating strategy of all—he offered their sons and daughters in marriage. Not for love, not even for alliance, but as proof of control. The youngest heirs of rival dynasties—their most treasured omegas, their symbols of legacy—forced into permanent ties with his inner circle. Political marriages made under duress, under threat, under blackmail so airtight that even the proudest patriarchs bowed their heads and signed the papers. It wasn’t about union. It was about ownership. A quiet way to say: Your blood answers to me now.

There were over a dozen such families entangled with him now—some too afraid to speak, others too disgraced to show their faces publicly. It was strategic ruin at its finest. He didn’t break enemies anymore. He bred them into submission.

And still, none dared say his name. Not in full. Not where it could be heard. Because in Jeon Jungkook’s world, people didn’t disappear as punishment. They disappeared as precedent.

He didn’t demand fear. He instilled it. With a look. With a word. With silence.

He said it was day—it became day.

And the world bent to him accordingly.

But for that omega, nothing of this mattered. He had the mighty wolf in his grip and no one knew that right now. Not even the might wolf himself. 

* * *

The mansion rarely breathed.

It was made of stone and silence. The kind of silence that wasn’t absence, but control—meticulous, intentional. Every sound that existed within these walls did so with permission. Footsteps were muted. Voices, when spoken, were low. Even the air itself felt like it moved cautiously.

Jeon Jungkook returned just after midday. No entourage. No announcement. His men parted when he entered the hall, eyes down, backs straight, as if the walls themselves had warned them of his arrival. He moved quietly, a predator without the need to prowl. The house recognized him. It adjusted to his presence. It always did.

He didn’t know why he paused.

He should have gone directly to the upper wing, to the office where a dozen reports waited for his approval. He should have been thinking about the territory dispute near Daegu, the customs official they were bribing in Busan, the small matter of someone stealing a shipment two nights ago.

But he wasn’t.

He was halfway through the corridor when he heard it.

Faint, almost weightless—a sound out of place.

It wasn’t music.

It wasn’t footsteps or voices or the low murmur of security communication.

It was laughter.

Not the cruel kind he’d heard before. Not the half-swallowed amusement his men allowed themselves when they thought he wasn’t listening. This was something else.

It was… light.

Soft and breathless, broken at the edges, like it didn’t know how to exist in such a place but did anyway.

Jungkook stopped at the window.

The garden was far below. He never paid much attention to it. Jimin had once insisted they keep something green in this place. Something alive, he’d said, when Jungkook questioned the expense. Yoongi nodding to whatever argument his omega husband had prepared against Jungkook and Jungkook just sighed.  Jungkook hadn’t cared enough to argue. 

Now he looked.

Two figures.

He recognized Jimin easily—head tilted back in exasperation, sleeves rolled, hands braced on his knees like he was trying to catch his breath.

And the other—

He couldn’t see his face at first.

The omega moved quickly, barefoot on the grass, limbs too thin for the weight they carried, a blur of pale skin and oversized fabric. There was a softness to his movement. Unguarded. Unpolished. His laughter came again—sharper this time, sudden, as he spun and nearly tripped over his own feet.

He was small. Too small.

The clothes hung off him like they didn’t know where to hold. He looked like something that had been misplaced. Not born for this place. Not meant for it.

Jungkook knew immediately.

Taehyung.

The one Jimin had brought back. The omega that had somehow—through some incomprehensible twist of fate—been tied to him. The one he hadn’t gone to see. Not yet.

There were photos, of course. Reports. Medical files. Updates sent to his private phone twice a day. Jungkook read them. Silently. Detached. He knew the details. Trauma-induced regression. Sensory aversion. Nonverbal episodes. Dissociative behaviors. All of it.

But nothing had prepared him for… this.

The way the boy moved, like he was made of something gentler than air. The way his hair stuck to his forehead, messy and wild, like no one had dared to brush it. The way he tilted his head back when he laughed, eyes fluttered shut like he believed—however briefly—that nothing bad could reach him here. The boy was too fragile, too soft, too much like made of glass. 

Jungkook’s hand had tightened on the stone windowsill before he realized it.

'He doesnt belong here' His mind supplied. 'He does! He belongs to us!' His wolf argued harshly.

'He can be broken easily' And Jungkook felt a shiver down his back when the evil thought came in his mind. 

The boy sprinted across the yard like a thing reborn, mouth parted in gasping giggles, hair messy and untamed. Jimin chased after him half-heartedly, laughter lining his scolding. “Tae! Not the koi pond again! I just washed your bandages—”

“Catch TaeTae first!” the boy screamed back, voice light as air. “TaeTae is invisible! TaeTae is flying!”

And then Taehyung looked up.

It wasn’t immediate recognition. It wasn’t the kind of stare that said I know you.

It was instinct.

Primal. Fear-slicked.

Their eyes met, just for a moment.

And the change was instant.

All movement drained from the boy’s limbs. His mouth, open mid-laugh, shut so fast it trembled. He blinked once, confused—and then it hit.

The scent, maybe.

Or just the presence.

Jungkook didn’t move, but he could see it—how the omega’s breath stilled, how something inside him turned to ice. Panic bloomed across his face, not loud, but sharp. And then he dropped.

Not collapsed. Dropped.

Like a puppet with its strings yanked too hard. Knees gave out. Hands scraped the dirt as he crawled backward on all fours without a sound, small shoulders trembling.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice so thin it barely reached. “No, no—don’t—”

Jimin was there in seconds.

Taehyung crawled behind Jimin, grabbing handfuls of his coat like it was a shield. His lips trembled, small whimpers catching in his throat, and his scent—sweet, broken, terrified—hit the air like a scream Jungkook couldn’t hear but felt.

He caught Taehyung by the shoulders and pulled him into his chest, murmuring something Jungkook couldn’t hear. The omega buried his face against the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, clinging tight, breath hitching on each sob like it wasn’t used to being allowed.

Jimin looked up.

Their eyes met across the distance.

No bows. No words. Just a stare.

Jimin didn’t hide the warning in his face. Didn’t soften the look. Didn’t flinch.

And Jungkook—Lord of the underworld, heir to blood and silence—looked away first.

He left the window without a sound.

The hall felt colder on the way back. He didn’t notice until he was halfway down the stairs that his hand was still curled into a fist, knuckles white, tension caught in the corners of his jaw.

In the garden below, a voice—fragile, muffled—broke the silence again.

“Scary,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Scary alpha—no, no, no—”

Jimin’s reply came slow. Gentle. Tired.

Soft sniffles. A broken whimper. Jimin’s voice murmuring low and soothing.

“He’s gone now, sweetheart. The scary alpha's gone. You’re safe. TaeTae’s safe. No one will hurt you here, baby.”

Jungkook didn’t stop walking.

He didn’t allow himself to.

But the echo of the boy’s trembling voice followed him all the way back into the dark.

* * *

The mansion was asleep.

At least, that’s what it wanted to be. But behind locked doors and camera feeds, behind encrypted passwords and reinforced glass, Jeon Jungkook didn’t sleep. He watched.

The monitors cast a faint glow over his study—one of several rooms he used when the night stretched too long. The glass of whiskey in his hand was untouched, melting quietly in his grip as footage from the estate’s west wing flickered across a black screen.

Five angles.

All of one room.

Taehyung’s room.

No one knew the cameras existed. Not even Jimin.

Jungkook told himself it was about safety. About control. That the omega needed surveillance, given his fragile mental state. That if something happened—if a panic episode escalated—he’d need to be aware.

But he never checked the other rooms like this.

Not at 2:13 a.m.

Not when the house was still and the world outside was quiet.

Taehyung lay curled on the bed, a mess of limbs under soft blankets, face tucked into the pillow like he was hiding from dreams. The glow of the nightlight caught the outline of his mouth, slightly open, breath visible in the subtle shift of the sheets. He looked small. Breakable.

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t blink as he stared.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t look again tonight. That he'd go back to work. That he wouldn’t give in to the pull. And yet, here he was. Drink sweating in his palm, gaze locked to that screen like it might stop the gnawing ache inside his chest if he stared long enough.

Weak. That’s what mates were. That’s what everyone said.

Yet his wolf was anything but.

It paced behind his ribs like a beast in heat, restless and agitated every time Jungkook ignored the feeds for too long. Every time he turned his back on him. And worse—it softened when Taehyung laughed. When he moved. When he cried. Especially when he cried.

Why him? Jungkook had wondered too many times. Why that omega? Why a broken, trembling thing who didn’t even know who he was bonded to?

He’d seen beauty before. He’d broken it before.

But this… wasn’t just beauty.

It was innocence.

The kind that still clung to life even after being dragged through hell. The kind that looked up from behind curtains with swollen eyes and still reached for kindness.

He shouldn't be here.

He didn't belong anywhere near Jungkook.

And yet…

Jungkook took another sip, ignoring the burn as his mind wandered—low and dark and vile—to places it shouldn’t. To the sound of that soft voice whispering TaeTae likes warm blankets. To the way his lips looked when they formed words in third person. To how easily those lips could—

A sudden motion jerked across the screen.

The glass in his hand hit the desk with a muted thud.

Taehyung’s body shot up from the bed, panic written across every line of his frame. He stumbled, kicked off the sheets, nearly tripped on the rug. His hands trembled, smacking at shadows. He ran—no direction, no aim—before scrambling behind the long curtains that framed the window. They swallowed him whole.

His whimpers came next.

Jungkook didn’t think. He flicked the mic to on with a click so sharp it sliced through the room.

“…no, no—stop, please—don’t touch—TaeTae didn’t mean to, he didn’t—please don’t—don’t make TaeTae go there again—”

The voice cracked. The air left Jungkook’s lungs.

He sat there, frozen.

The wolf inside him snarled—not at the boy, but at the sound. At the memory it touched. At whatever phantom lived behind those curtains and reached for the boy when no one else was watching.

Taehyung whimpered again.

And Jungkook snapped.

He grabbed the phone on the edge of the desk and hit the first contact.

“Jimin.”

A pause—sleep still in the doctor’s voice. “...Hyung?”

Jungkook’s voice was low. Controlled. Laced with something that trembled just beneath the surface.

“Get your ass to the omega’s room. Now.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “...Is he—”

“He’s screaming.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up.

On the monitor, Jimin’s figure appeared moments later—rushing in, voice soft and firm, pulling the curtains open and catching Taehyung just before he hit the floor again.

Jungkook didn’t turn off the feed.

He watched Jimin sit with him, arms wrapped tight around the trembling boy. Watched Taehyung cling to him, sobbing in a voice too young, too broken.

“I-it’s okay now,” Jimin whispered. “You’re safe. No one’s going to touch you. No one will take you. You're here. You're home. TaeTae is home now, okay?”

Jungkook pressed a hand to his face and exhaled through his teeth.

He would destroy anyone who ever laid hands on that omega again.

He knew that.

And worse—he knew, somewhere in the depths of himself, in the place he hated to look—he wanted Taehyung to look at him the way he looked at Jimin.

Not with fear.

But with trust.

With safety.

And that desire… that need… terrified him more than any threat ever had.

* * *

The morning light bled in through the mansion's tall windows like an unwelcome truth. Cold. Bleached. Silent.

The estate, usually echoing with quiet efficiency at this hour, felt tense—like it was holding its breath.

Jimin entered the study without knocking. He never knocked. Maybe because he knew Jungkook would already be waiting. Maybe because he was the only one who could afford to be reckless with the king of this empire.

Jungkook was standing by the window, arms crossed, his gaze fixed somewhere far outside. He didn’t turn around when Jimin stepped inside, but the sharp edge of his voice cut through the air like a loaded gun.

“Why was he alone?”

Jimin didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“I stepped out for a while,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I was with Yoongi. It wasn’t supposed to be long.”

“It was long.” Jungkook’s tone was flat, devoid of fire—but the danger in it was unmistakable. “Long enough for him to have a full episode. Long enough to think he was back there. Long enough to scream and cry behind a fucking curtain like the walls were caving in on him.”

Jimin stiffened. He didn’t move closer. “He was sleeping peacefully when I left.”

“You left him unguarded.”

“I’m a doctor, Jungkook, not a fucking security detail. I’m still a bonded omega with a mate, and I wanted two hours to breathe. You’re the one who signed off on moving him out of the clinic. Don’t throw that decision back at me now.”

Jungkook finally turned, slowly, his eyes unreadable. There was no rage in his expression. No storm. Just that oppressive stillness. That way he had of looking at people like they were already guilty of something he hadn’t said yet.

Jimin met it head-on. He always did.

The silence between them stretched—drawn thin like wire.

“How did you know?” Jimin asked finally. “That he was crying.”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

His jaw tightened. A flicker passed behind his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. He turned away again, brushing past the topic like it hadn’t landed.

Jimin scoffed under his breath. “Of course. You're watching him, aren’t you?”

Still, Jungkook didn’t speak. Just poured himself a drink he didn’t need, his back a wall between them.

Jimin’s voice dropped, quieter this time. Not mocking. Just tired. “You have cameras in that room.”

It wasn’t a question.

“You’re tracking his every move, listening to him talk to himself in the dark, watching him curl up like he’s five and waiting for ghosts to come drag him away. And you still want to pretend this is nothing.”

A muscle in Jungkook’s jaw ticked.

Jimin stepped forward, measured. “You can’t have it both ways, hyung. Either he’s just another rescued stray… or he’s yours.”

Jungkook turned then, slow and sharp like the drawing of a blade.

“He’s not mine.”

Jimin didn’t flinch. “No?”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice was low. Controlled. Measured in a way that meant he was one word from cracking. “He’s nothing but a broken omega I happened to rescue. That’s it. You’re the one who wanted him in the mansion. You’re the one who insisted on pulling him out of the hospital. So if you want him here so badly, keep him safe. Don’t leave him alone to relive his fucking nightmares.”

“He’s not scared of nightmares,” Jimin said, too softly.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed.

“He’s scared of alphas.”

A beat of silence fell between them. Thicker than anything said.

Jimin turned, walking to the door with that quiet, purposeful stride only someone with nothing left to lose could wear.

Just before he opened it, he said, “You can hate your bond all you want. You can keep saying he’s not yours. But your wolf already chose him. And whatever darkness you think you're hiding behind… it won’t matter. He’s going to light you on fire.”

The door shut behind him.

Jungkook stayed still, the weight of the words pressing into the room like smoke. He stared down at his drink, jaw locked, eyes burning with something he didn’t know how to name.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The sheets were warm, holding the faint scent of lavender and safety. Taehyung blinked slowly, lashes brushing against the pillow as he stirred beneath the thick comforter, limbs curled protectively around the small plushie tucked into his chest. His toes wiggled, brushing against the leg beside him, and his voice broke the silence with a gentle lilt.

“Jiminie… TaeTae’s awake…”

There was a small shift behind him, the weight of the bed dipping slightly as the older omega made a sleepy sound in response, barely lifting his head. Taehyung twisted around slowly, his plushie still cradled in his arms. “Wake up, Jiminie,” he whispered again, gently patting Jimin’s arm. “TaeTae’s tummy’s making the rumbles.”

Jimin cracked one eye open, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small smile. “You’re hungry already?”

“TaeTae wants pancakes. With banana slices. And whipped cream. And maybe… just maybe…” Taehyung tapped his lip thoughtfully, “some of those tiny chocolate drops, too.”

“Is that so?” Jimin sighed fondly, sitting up and stretching with a quiet groan. “Such a spoiled little fox.”

Taehyung grinned, his cheeks puffing slightly as he snuggled closer. “TaeTae’s not spoiled. TaeTae’s cute.”

“You’re lucky you’re both.”

“Ducklings look like Baby Tae when he’s sleeping,” he said softly, brushing a thumb across the stitched beak.

He nuzzled closer, pressing his cheek into the hollow just above Jimin’s collarbone, inhaling more. He paused when the scent hit him stronger, softer, unfamiliar. He frowned, small brow crinkled.

“Jiminie smells… different today,” he whispered, voice still mellow from sleep.

Jimin’s breath caught. He lay still, frozen for a heartbeat. The name mate burned across his mind like forbidden fire. He shifted gently, lifting Taehyung in his arms and cradling him into a sitting position.

Taehyung snuffed again and looked up, plushie clutched to his chest. His eyes widened—bright with sleepy wonder. He touched Jimin’s shoulder softly, blinking.

“You smell nice…” he murmured quietly. “Like coconuts.”

Jimin exhaled slowly and swallowed. Relief flooded him. He turned his face into Taehyung’s hair and whispered, “That’s… good different? Right? you are not feeling sick by it?.”

Taehyung shook his head, crouching his shoulders, sniffing again as if searching for more clues, then leaned back to look up at Jimin. “Where did you… get it?”

Jimin’s heart stuttered. He let small breath out. “ammm... you know, Jiminie...... has a mate. Its his scent”

Taehyung blinked slowly. He turned his face thoughtful. He hugged his plushie close. “Your… mate?”

“Yes.” Jimin’s voice softened. “My mate.”

Taehyung’s expression shifted—curiosity blooming. “Ohhh…”

Jimin hesitated, fingers stroking Taehyung’s hair. The boy’s gaze was bright and simple—wide-eyed wonder in the corner of morning haze.

“Do you… like your mate?” Taehyung asked slowly, voice soft.

Jimin was caught off-guard. A deep pause. He didn't expect the questions, especially from someone so deeply affected by trauma. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I… like him very much.”

Taehyung’s face broke into a smile, hesitant and radiant. “Is he kind?” he pressed on. “Nice like Jiminie?”

Jimin nodded, warm smile emerging. “Yes, very nice.” Jimin pretended these questions were asked about a caring and supportive mate, not for someone who bathed in the blood of his enemies. That's why he answered only one questions because yes, Yoongi was nice, not kind, but nice, that's too only with Jimin. 

Taehyung’s curiosity accelerated, eyes bright with innocent questioning. "It's his smell...." Taehyung stated as the self discovered fact, all curious with big wide eyes. “He smells like coconuts?”

Jimin stifled a chuckle. “Yes, he does. Its his scent on me”

Taehyung giggled, little voice like wind chimes. “Oooo… like coconut beach.”

He bounced on the bed, plushie pressed to his chest. “Does he… like puppies? Like plushies?”

Jimin gripped Taehyung tighter in relief, warmth spreading through his chest. “Yes. He likes puppies. And plushies. And quiet mornings just like this.”

It did not hurt to lie a little. And no, he doesnt like plushies but yes, he likes puppies.

Taehyung cooed, nestling against his shoulder and humming softly. His lips curved upward in small, bright laughter at the thought. “He sounds… nice.”

“He is,” Jimin said, brushing hair back from Taehyung’s face. “He is very nice.”

They sat in quiet together for a moment, Taehyung clutching plushie, content and warm, tracing Jimin’s lips with his finger as if memorizing. Jimin held him still, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other brushing the boy’s hair softly.

Then—

“Breakfast?” Jimin offered, pulling the blanket off gently. “Shall we go?”

Taehyung hopped up, signing plushie to a pillow on the bed and grabbing Jimin’s hand eagerly. He leaned forward to peck a quick kiss on Jimin’s cheek. “Pancakes, please, with banana slices and whipped cream and… some chocolate drops?”

Jimin bent down to nuzzle his temple. “Yes, Baby Tae. Chef Jimin will deliver.”

* * *

The kitchen was quiet-grey in the early hour, cool tile, polished marble counters that glowed faintly. Sunlight filtered through tall curtains, painting stripes on the floor and highlighting floating dust motes. The mood was hushed and peaceful, waiting for noise.

Taehyung hopped onto a tall chair at the island, plushie tucked under one arm. He watched Jimin crack eggs, stir, arrange ingredients with childlike delight in careful rhythm. Each motion was soft, gentle.

Taehyung perched there, face lit by golden haze, eyes huge with interest.

“Stir like happy thoughts,” they’d said. And he whispered silly jokes as Jimin whisked; Taehyung told the whisk it was doing a silly dance, joked about the eggs being shy, dribbled imaginary sunshine into the batter with playful sound effects.

It was slow, soft morning intimacy. Not big romancing. Just laughter, pancake smells, and sticky syrup on fingers. Jimin tested each pancake’s fluffiness, Taehyung cheered every flip with childish applause. Jimin fed him bites; Taehyung cooed and giggled between bites.

Between mouthfuls, Taehyung turned to Jimin in quiet speculation.

“Does your mate also cook?” he asked softly, wiping pancake crumbs from his lips. “I hope he likes cooking… because it smells nice too.”

Jimin’s heart cupped over. “Yes… I think he likes it.”

“He must smell like coconut pancakes then.”

Jimin paused to nod, watching Taehyung beam in delight.

Unbeknownst to them, through the archway of the kitchen, Jungkook emerged from his post-workout routine. Shorts damp from sweat, towel over a bare shoulder. He traced a quiet path back through the hallways. He should have come the opposite direction—his private quarters were at the far end of the estate. But he’d heard laughter.

Specifically, Taehyung’s laughter.

He paused in the hallway, winded in a cool wave of scent—coconut, eggs, pancakes, Jimin’s ginger.

His wolf snarled low in his mind. Jealousy surged hot and raw. His chest tightened.

Taehyung’s voice drifted across the threshold: “…mate also cook? He must be kind…”

As soon as the word mate left Taehyung’s mouth, Jungkook felt something twist in his throat. Another alpha. Another bond. Innocent words that stuck inside him like splinters.

But he didn’t enter.

He lingered there, body half in shadow, heart pounding silent opera.

Listening as Jimin replied softly.

Listening to the boy’s fascination spilling in cute questions.

Watching Taehyung’s face light with curiosity.

Watching Jimin’s face soften as he answered gently.

And above all: hearing laughter—pure, playful, completely unguarded.

The sound echoed in his chest, stirring hunger he confessed to no one.

Without a whisper, he stepped back into the corridor and disappeared from sight. He let the warmth slip beyond his senses, but the memory lingered like an ache.

He leveled shoulders and walked on, eyes hardening into cold negotiation faces again.

But Taehyung’s laughter followed him into cold halls.

And it rattled something he didn’t know he had left inside.

* * *

Seokjin waited in one of the grand, high-ceilinged receiving lounges of the building's top floor—silent except for the faint tick of an antique wall clock. The marble was so smooth it echoed every anxious shift of his body against the chair. His delicate fingers clenched tightly in his lap, nails leaving crescents on his palms.

He had been sitting there for nearly an hour.

No one came. No one offered him water or even acknowledged him. The receptionist—an alpha, of course—looked through him as if he were invisible.

He knew this tactic, it had been performed by his father many times. He had been the witness of miserable wait for many people. 

But he never thought that it would be him in this place, doing the wait, ever. 

"You may go in" Seokjin was startled by the loud shrill voice of the receptionist, as he gathered himself and went towards the big, heavy brown doors. 

He inhaled a long breath, he had to do it. It was the last hope for him to stop the nonsense going on. 

He tried his best to convince his parents. He had yelled, screamed and did a hunger strike for his father to take back and refuse the wedding, but all of this fell to deep ears. 

He had dreams, he wanted to build his career, fall in love and then get mated. Instead, his life was threaded in his absence and he was informed only through a call that he is to be wedded within next 2 weeks. 

Seokjin exhaled, squeezed his eyes, turned the knob and opened the door. 

He wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in this den of wolves.

The office was dim—blinds drawn, lights low, as if Jungkook preferred to work in a cave. The only light poured in across his desk, spotlighting the man himself like a king on his throne.

Jungkook didn’t stand when Seokjin entered. Didn’t greet him. Just looked up slowly, a glass of whiskey in hand, the other arm stretched over the back of his chair, suit unbuttoned like he hadn’t a care in the world. 

"Welcome, what do I owe the pleasure to have you in my office, at-" Jungkook glanced towards the clock on the wall and tilts his head. "at 8:38 pm?" Jungkook asked, his tone lazy and voice low, careless. 

There was no kindness in this man. Only strategy. Only iron underneath marble skin.

Seokjin’s throat tightened. “Please… I came to ask you. Don’t make me marry him. Let me go back to my studies. I have one semester left. I got accepted for an international modeling program after that. It’s… it’s everything I worked for. I don’t want to belong to anyone like that.”

Jungkook leaned forward, pouring himself another glass, eyes half-lidded with the calm of someone who had never been told no in his life. He sipped once, then tilted his head.

“But you will belong to someone like that.”

Seokjin’s breath hitched.

"I am not ready yet. I was not asked, i was not informed. You talked to my parents about this and they never asked even once of my approval" Seokjin's voice cracked at the end. His tone almost begging. Jungkook sighed and leaned over. "Does your father know, you are here?" Jungkook asked instead and there was a visible shudder in seokjin's body. "I take it, he doesnt, hmm?" Jungkook said again but Seokjin remained silent, his eyes shinning with tears and lips trembling. 

"You have beef with my father and brother, why are you guys dragging me in?" Seokjin asked, what he had been asking his parents from last 5 days. "You know what," Jungkook stood up, Seokjin visibly making himself smaller. "Your father is an egoistic bastard. He would not listen to me when I said to hand over the eastern docks, rightfully mine from the beginning. Then.... as always, I had to use my own most disliked tactic" Jungkook turns around, moves towards the floor to ceiling window and stands there. 

"Either, He hands over his docks after being taken over and killed but not before, his alpha sons killed in front of him and his only omega son being sent abroad in a whore house or....'." Jungkook turned around and faced Seokjin, who looked pale. His eyes wide with terror and breath coming out in short puffs. 

The tension in room was thick as the silence stretched. 

"Or he could get his omega son married to Kim Namjoon, overseer of eastern territories and still be in business, reputation still good and bloodline still continuing" Jungkook completed the sentence and came back to sit down infront of seokjin who looked like he might faint just now. 

"Don't look like you are being murdered."

Jungkook sighed, as if explaining to a slow student. “Namjoon is a highly ranked member of my inner circle. He’s wealthy. Influential. And very open-minded. You’ll still go to school or college or wherever you wanna study. Hell, he might buy the modeling agency for you if you bat your lashes right.”

Seokjin’s jaw clenched. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not. You came here to beg. I’m offering you a future where you don’t rot in a backwater villa with your useless family name.”

Seokjin stood up suddenly, fingers trembling. “I’m not your pawn. This isn’t a game. You’re using me to crush my parents and you know it. You're cornering them into surrendering to your empire because they won't kneel.”

Jungkook didn’t move.

“Then go,” he said softly, watching him. “Convince your parents to hand over everything. Their power. Their businesses. Their allegiance. Tell them to kneel and you won’t have to marry Namjoon.”

The words sliced through the air like a blade, emotionless.

Seokjin kept staring at Jungkook, he knew Jungkook was right. 

He knew his parents wont listen to him. He had already tried, and when they didnt agree, he came to Jungkook. Because only him could stop this union. But it looks like, this is not gonna work as well. 

His parents has stated the same. They had told him that Namjoon was a cruel, brutal and ruthless, but not with omegas. Never with omegas, and especially he would never hurt his own omega mate. That he is open minded. That he would not stop Seokjin from making his own career. 

But Seokjin didnt want to be tied, not yet. 

He didnt want to be mated to anyone against his will. 

Seokjin left the office in a daze, feet moving on autopilot, eyes burning. His vision blurred as he walked quickly through the corridors. The guards didn’t even glance his way.

He turned a corner sharply and collided into something solid—something large.

A hard chest. Leather. The scent of alpha.

“Careful,” a low voice murmured.

Seokjin’s hands shoved reflexively. “Get away from me—!”

The alpha didn’t move. Instead, a heavy hand caught his wrist before he could stumble back. 

Namjoon.

He was taller in person. Broader. Dressed all in black. Hair slicked back, expression unreadable behind those sharp, elegant features.

Seokjin froze for a moment, then yanked his wrist away with a glare.

“Let go of me. Don’t touch me.”

Namjoon’s eyes flickered. “You just ran into me.”

“And I said don’t touch me.”

A pause.

And Namjoon let go of the supportive hold, he had on Seokjin's shoulder, causing him to stumble back and fell on his bottom with a pained yelp. 

"You bastard!" Seokjin yelled and Namjoon raised one brow up, his expressions bored as he kept looking at the omega sprawled infront of him at the floor. 

"You are exact opposite of what i had heard about you" Namjoon commented, earning a tearful glare from the omega who slapped Namjoon's helping hand to stand and stood up on his own. "And you are exactly as what I had thought. Egoistic, full of your shit and a pervert!" Seokjin half yelled and pushed namjoon to the side, but to his surprise, Namjoon didnt budge a bit. 

Then Namjoon stepped in. Not fast—but with slow, deliberate menace, closing the distance until Seokjin was pressed back against the cold marble wall, shoulder blades trapped.

“You’ve got a sharp mouth for someone about to wear my mark,” Namjoon murmured, voice low and dangerous. “You should watch your tone.”

Seokjin’s pulse spiked in fear. “You can’t hurt me,” he said, trying to summon courage. “Jeon’s regime doesn’t allow violence against omegas. It’s one of his rules.”

Namjoon’s expression twisted into something darker. Not rage—but a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Jeon doesn’t interfere in mated couples’ business. What happens behind closed doors… stays there.”

He leaned closer, breath brushing Seokjin’s cheek, voice a whisper meant to dig deep into bone.

“And you? You won’t be stepping out of that bedroom much.”

Seokjin’s entire body stiffened.

Then Namjoon leaned back and smirked as if nothing had been said. “I’ll call you darling. I like that word. Darling.”

Seokjin stood frozen for a breathless beat, then turned sharply and walked away—too fast to be calm. His legs nearly gave out by the time he reached the elevator.

What Jungkook had promised—freedom, education, kindness—had shattered under Namjoon’s voice in a single sentence.

And no one would believe him.

Because Jungkook had said Namjoon was open-minded.

And Namjoon had said Jungkook would never know.

* * *

Jungkook was in his bedroom, his eyes shut, his shoulders relaxed as his body laid splayed on the bed. Still in his work clothes and shoes, hair undone with wrist watch and his insignia ring still on, he looked disturbed. 

Today he felt exhausted. The pressure behind his eyelids was getting too much, it was causing painful jolts in his head. 

He felt lost. Ever since he became the name of power and control, it was the first time ever he was feeling so lost. 

Not knowing what to do, how to do anything. And all these feelings were caused by those careful laughter.  

Those loud giggles and soft pitter patter of feet running from one hallways to the other. 

What use this information could bring that his little, innocent fated mate didn't like to wear shoes because his toes have complained to him that they feel suffocated?

What use could this information bring that his beautiful bonded mate liked, no loved strawberries but hated plucking them because it hurt the plant?

What use could all these information could bring that his soft, cute and fragile mate, loved his plushies? Had built a fort inside his room in one corner, doesn't eat unless or until his plushies are with him on the dinning table. 

Does it calm his heart and satiate his wolf's desire to know that his mate poke his pink tongue out of his full lips when focused on drawing? Yes, it does. 

Jungkook, himself doesn't have any idea how come he knows all of this, but yes he does. And it brings him peace. 

It satiates the hunger of his wolf for a few days before he is out on hunt for his mate again, before he is out there, demanding for their mate to be in their arms, to be in their bed, to be smiling at them and asking them questions instead of the doctor. 

Jungkook opened his eyes and looked around, without those soft giggles and the sound of naked footsteps, everything was too calm, too silent, too eerie. 

And Jungkook wondered how he had survived all those years, before finding his fated mate in the form of Taehyung. 

He could feel his wolf clawing at his chest to be out, to go on the search spree for their mate and just bring him here. 

'He is not ready yet' Jungkook's mind would supply, trying to ease the clawing beast, which would snarl back. 

'He should be ready to take their mate, He must be waiting for us to come and rescue.' The wolf would argue back, causing Jungkook to wince at the sharp throb in his head. 

'He is rescued, He is sa.... safe.' Jungkook would fight back to his wolf. 'He is not. He will be safe only with us, in our bed, with us. Our den is perfect for him. We made it perfect for him' And Jungkook glanced around his room, finding his wolf right. 

And just for the sake of his mind, his peace and his wolf's hunger, Jungkook stood up. A little drunk on need, a little dozy from the throbbing in his head, a little swaying from the desire to see his mate, he came out of the room. 

* * *

It was Jimin who sensed the shift in atmosphere and came out of the sleeping omega's room after tucking him securely. And right at time, He saw Jungkook coming towards their shared room. Jungkook himself had declared that no alpha would step in this wing of the mansion. No alpha maids or guards. All the betas and omegas were to wear scent blockers as not to trigger taehyung's trauma except for Jimin. 

"What are you doing here, at this hour of night?" Jimin asked Jungkook who stared at jimin with unfocused gaze. He didn't reply, instead tried to pass Jimin and went for the door. Jimin immediately caught his wrist. "What do you think you are doing" Jimin asked, his voice low but tone sharp and angry. "I.... I need to see him" Jungkook slurred, making Jimin frown. He looked at jungkook thoroughly, noticing his dizziness, his sharp scent, his slurry speech. Jimin yanked Jungkook back and stood infront of the door to Taehyung's room. 

"Back off right now, you are not in right state" Jimin said, coldly and Jungkook growled. Jimin was not affected at all. He had dealt with numerous growling alphas before. 

"You are get.......ting in way to get my m....mate" Jungkook slurred again, this time, his scent getting thick with angry pheromones, making Jimin recoil as much. 

Jimin wondered what could cause the most composed alpha act like this. Jungkook had never approached to taehyung directly like this. 

oh Gosh, is Jungkook in rut? Is that why he is behaving like this?

"Jungkook stop!" Jimin tried to push the alpha back but alpha didnt budge. Instead Jimin was being grabbed and pushed away, like a ragdoll as Jungkook took big strides towards omega's room. 

The soft vanilla and peach scent emitting from taehyung's room, drove alpha crazy. It made him droll as Jungkook reached for the door knob. Instead of that, Jungkook's wrist was caught by Jimin and due to the unstable steps of Alpha, Jimin was able to flip him and send him flying towards the opposite wall. 

"Are you mad? Have you lost your mind?" Jimin half yelled, careful to not to awake the sleeping omega in bedroom. Jungkook's eyes turned red as he growled. "This is the last warning omega, let me get my mate and you shall not be hurt" Jungkook growled out a warning and Jimin got into a fighting stance, "Over my dead body, you asshole!" Jimin claimed. Jungkook snarled and came forward, his mind completely blank from the lust and need. 

A sharp sound of the slap rang through corridor. 

"come to your senses, Jungkook. Its enough now!" Jimin said, pushing the alpha back. 

The haze in Jungkook's eyes lifted and he felt the fog in his mind, clearing away. His steps faltered as his knees gave out. His eyes going back to his normal brown ones as he looked down at the carpeted floor. 

"You are in your rut. Its better if you leave before you lose your sanity and do something which you will regret late." Jimin said, as he took steps back towards Taehyung's bedroom. Keeping his hand forward and his eyes on alpha to look for any moment before he opened the door and immediately shut it after getting in. 

The soft click of the lock echoed in the otherwise silent corridor as alpha was left alone with his bizarre thoughts. 

Once again. 

Chapter Text

,The bass from the club thumped like a second heartbeat in Jungkook’s skull, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of his wolf. The animal was restless, prowling inside him, claws scraping along his ribcage as if it wanted to tear its way out and hunt. Scents assaulted him — sweat, perfume, alcohol, synthetic pheromones pumped into the air to make the crowd wilder — but none of it mattered. Not when every nerve in his body was screaming for one scent only.

He had thought coming here would be an outlet. The rut had hit without warning, rattling his discipline. He’d been stopped in the corridor earlier, Jimin’s hand across his chest, words cutting through the haze until reason barely returned. He’d turned away, thinking distance would help. He had chosen the club because it was loud, chaotic, anonymous — the perfect place to bury instinct in someone else’s skin.

But the moment a woman pressed up against him, her hands sliding over his chest, he felt it — rejection. Not from his mind, but from deeper, where the wolf lived. Her scent burned in his nose like acid, and a hot spike of pain lanced through his skull. He clenched his jaw, pretending to lean in, but his body recoiled. His wolf snarled, vicious and unyielding: Not her. Not anyone but ours.

He tried again — another body, another smile, another hand on his arm. Each time, it was worse. Touch made his skin crawl, and his gut twisted like he was swallowing glass. By the third attempt, he wasn’t just restless; he was in physical agony, rut pressing down like a stormcloud, and the only image that cut through the fog was him.

The way Taehyung’s lips curled when he laughed softly at something Jimin said. The hesitant way he would curl his toes into the couch cushion when listening to a story. Those wide, innocent eyes that hadn’t yet looked at Jungkook without terror — and yet, his mind painted them soft, open, shining just for him.

By the time Jungkook shoved his way out of the club, the ache in his muscles felt like a fever. His hands itched, empty, useless without the curve of his mate’s waist beneath them. His wolf was a constant growl in his head now, hounding him down the dark streets toward the mansion.

He didn’t go to Taehyung’s wing. He didn’t dare.

Instead, he stalked into his office, locking the door behind him, and dropped into the chair before the wall of surveillance screens. He keyed in the code without thought, his body moving faster than his mind. And there he was.

Sleeping oh so comfortably, without any worry of outer world. And it  assured Jungkook's wolf, made him proud on himself to provide such safe space for their mates. Jungkook zooms on omega's figure, it was impossible to see his face as he was not facing the camera direction, but yes, Jungkook could make out the outline of omega's figure. The sinful dip of his waist from where the blanket was tucked tight. The soft, slow and almost invisible up and down of the breath. Jungkook sucked in a breath and bit his lower lip. 

The desire burning through his body, the pleasure running and heat going south, Jungkook closes his eyes and let out a long breath.

Alpha leaned closer and started to go through the previous footages, caught in a few days, hours and weeks ago.

Taehyung was in his bedroom, curled on the floor by the low coffee table, a half-finished puzzle scattered in front of him. His hair was messy from rubbing against the carpet, his oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The glow from the lamp painted his skin in warm gold. He looked fragile enough to shatter, and yet, every instinct in Jungkook screamed mine.

Jungkook’s breath came heavy, chest rising and falling with the effort it took not to move — not to cross the hall and close the space between them. His wolf was all but howling, pressing against the barrier of his control, whispering that he didn’t need to be gentle, didn’t need to ask.

The tension in him had nowhere to go. It was pain, raw and pulsing, crawling along every vein until it settled low and hot in his gut. His hand was on himself before the thought even formed, rough and impatient, because nothing — nothing — would quiet this except the mate his body was built to take. He didn’t blink, didn’t dare look away from the screens as he worked himself, every small movement Taehyung made feeding the fever.

When Taehyung tilted his head, concentrating on fitting two puzzle pieces together, Jungkook’s throat went dry. When he smiled faintly, proud of himself, it was lethal — a sharp, sweet knife to Jungkook’s chest. His rut-drunk brain clung to that smile, magnified it, rewrote it as something offered only to him.

He hated himself for needing this. Hated the bond for making him this weak. But even as he cursed, his hips jerked into his hand, his gaze glued to the soft rise and fall of Taehyung’s breathing, to the absent little bite of his lip as he thought.

When the wave finally broke, he let his head fall back against the chair, breath ragged, jaw tight. The wolf was quiet — not satisfied, never satisfied — but pacified enough to let him breathe. On the screen, Taehyung was still there, still safe, still unaware of the storm he’d just calmed without even knowing it.

Jungkook sat there for a long time, muscles trembling, hands curled into fists on his thighs. He didn’t go to bed. He just kept watching.

* * *

The morning after, Jungkook was a blade sheathed in ice.
He sat at the head of the long mahogany table, suit immaculate, expression unreadable, voice clipped enough to draw blood. Subordinates spoke quickly, stumbled over words, tripped over themselves to please him, but nothing did. Every misstep was punished. Every delay was met with a silence that felt heavier than shouting. He didn’t roar. He didn’t slam the table. He didn’t need to — the weight of his displeasure was enough to crush the air out of the room.

Inside, he was still raw. Still aching. Every nerve burned with restraint, every muscle ached from holding back. The meetings felt endless, meaningless. His wolf paced behind his ribs, snarling at the waste of time. He’s upstairs, it hissed. Ours. Alone.

By the time he reached the sanctuary of his office, the walls already felt too thin.

He slammed the door shut behind him, throwing the lock in place before his brain could even form the thought. The lights were dim, the air faintly scented with his own musk and the faint, distant trace of leather and gun oil from the weapons locked in his cabinet. But none of it was enough—none of it could wash away the hollow ache in his chest and the restless, almost feverish agitation in his blood.

Taehyung.

The name drifted through his skull like smoke, curling into every space, staining the insides of his thoughts until everything smelled of him. He told himself he wasn’t going to check tonight. Not again. He told himself it would be fine — he’d let the cameras run, keep the feed playing without looking, like a man with self-control. But he was already leaning forward, fingers curling on the armrest, eyes dragging across the grid until they found it: the one camera that mattered.

Bedroom three.

The feed was dark except for the faint lamplight spilling across the bed. Taehyung lay on his side, curled slightly toward the wall, mouth parted in shallow breaths. His hair was messy, the way it always was when he slept — a careless, soft chaos that Jungkook could not stop cataloguing. There was something indecent about the way sleep stripped the tension from him, leaving him open, unguarded.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed.

Too open. Too unaware. He hated it. Loved it. Wanted to walk in there and shake him awake, just to see that startled look, just to remind him that the world wasn’t soft, that eyes could be on him even now, especially now. He imagined it in detail — the sharp jerk of Taehyung’s body, the way his fingers might clutch the blanket, the immediate confusion in those doe eyes.

His thumb rubbed slow circles into the leather, the sound of it faint under the buzz of the monitor.

He told himself he was only making sure the omega was safe. That was the excuse he had settled on weeks ago. He repeated it like a prayer, as if saying it enough times could make it true. But it didn’t explain the way his gaze lingered too long on the line of Taehyung’s throat, or the way his mind kept wandering to the warmth under that blanket.

It didn’t explain why he counted the seconds between each rise and fall of Taehyung’s chest.

Forty-seven seconds in and he was already losing track of time. The world outside this room ceased to exist — there was only the flicker of the feed, the slow breathing, the stillness that pressed on him like a weight.

His thoughts began to splinter.

He should be mine by now. Shouldn’t have to watch him like this. Shouldn’t have to hide in shadows when I could—
No.
Too soon.
Or maybe not soon enough.

Jungkook’s leg bounced once, sharply, then stilled. His fingers tightened on the chair’s arm until the leather creaked.

Every inch of Taehyung’s sleeping body was an affront — that delicate wrist bent under his cheek, the soft slope of his hip under the blanket, the exposed skin where the collar of his shirt had slipped open. Jungkook’s mind gnawed on those details like a starving animal.

Mine.
Not yet.
But already.

He imagined pressing a thumb into that hollow of Taehyung’s throat, not to hurt, just to feel the pulse hammer against his skin. To remind himself that the boy was real, alive, breakable. He could almost hear it now, louder than the hum of the monitor, louder than his own breathing.

It would be so easy.

The thought came fast, uninvited, and sat heavy in his chest. Easy to get up. Easy to walk the short hallway. Easy to put his hand on the door and turn the knob.

He pictured it with dangerous clarity — the slow click of the latch, the creak of the hinge, the way Taehyung’s lashes would flutter before his eyes even opened. He wouldn’t scream. No, he’d just look confused. Vulnerable. That soft, sleepy voice would wrap around Jungkook’s name like it belonged there.

The chair felt too small beneath him.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving the screen. He told himself he just wanted to watch for another minute. Just until Taehyung shifted. Just until he rolled over.

The omega twitched in his sleep, a faint frown ghosting across his mouth before smoothing away. Jungkook’s breath caught, an involuntary thing, as if the smallest movements were made for him alone.

That was the problem.

Everything felt made for him. The room, the bed, the very shape of Taehyung’s body under those covers — all of it seemed arranged for Jungkook to take. And yet here he sat, on the wrong side of the camera, gnawing at the distance like it was a wound.

He could almost taste the static in the air.

His mind ran in circles. What if someone else looked at him like this? What if someone else saw him this way? What if, right now, Taehyung was dreaming of another hand in his hair, another mouth at his throat? The thought made Jungkook’s chest tighten, rage spiking so fast it burned.

No. No one else.

The edge of his nail scraped the armrest. He imagined marking him in ways no one could undo, ways that would linger even in sleep — not just the visible kind, but the kind that settled under the skin, into the mind, until every thought smelled of him.

He wanted to reach through the glass, through the static, through the thin slice of air that separated them. Wanted to tilt Taehyung’s chin up, study his face at this angle forever.

The clock on the wall ticked past another half-hour.

Jungkook barely noticed.

He only saw the shift — the lazy roll of Taehyung’s body onto his back, the blanket slipping down to reveal the fragile curve of his collarbone. The shirt had twisted, baring a strip of pale skin at his waist.

The image burned into Jungkook’s brain like an afterimage from staring at the sun.

His breath came slower now, heavier, almost in sync with the boy’s. He leaned closer to the screen without meaning to, until the faint warmth from the monitor brushed his face.

The world outside the frame ceased to exist entirely.

His mouth tasted of copper and restraint. The voice in his head was a low, constant murmur now, sliding under his skin.

Closer.
Take him.
Keep him.
Never let him go.

The clock ticked again. He didn’t hear it.

He let the hum of the camera seep into him, the static becoming a kind of lullaby. His eyes followed the slow rise and fall of Taehyung’s chest until it felt like he was breathing for the both of them.

He didn’t realize his hand had clenched into a fist.

Didn’t realize how hard he was staring until his vision blurred.

Didn’t notice the ache in his jaw from grinding his teeth.

Time bent, stretched, collapsed in on itself. He wasn’t sure if minutes had passed or hours. The only constant was the boy on the screen and the unbearable knowledge that he was not touching him.

And then, without warning, the thought came again, softer this time but sharper:

It would be so easy.

His eyes closed for the first time in hours. A long, slow breath left him.

Jungkook opened his eyes and started going through the previous footages once again.

There he was.

The dining room camera caught Taehyung seated at the far end, shoulders relaxed, posture elegant despite his casual clothes. He was saying something to Jimin, a faint smile curling at the edges of his lips. The sound wasn’t on, but Jungkook didn’t need it. His mind supplied everything—the cadence of Taehyung’s voice, the way it dipped slightly when he was amused, the airy lilt when he teased.

Jungkook’s fingers curled into a fist.

He should not be here, watching like some addict who couldn’t keep himself from looking for another hit. He should be focusing on work, on the clan’s business, on anything that wasn’t… this. But every second that passed felt like sand grinding against the inside of his skull, each grain whispering the same truth: You’re starving yourself.

His wolf agreed. It clawed and paced, baring its teeth, snarling low in his chest, urging him to move—go to him, claim him, end this miserable, aching distance.

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered under his breath, but it wasn’t clear if he was speaking to the wolf or himself.

He watched for longer than he should have—minutes stretched into something heavier, slower, each one pulling him deeper into the quiet obsession he’d been denying since the first time Taehyung had stood too close.

The knot in his gut tightened until it was unbearable. He needed something—anything—that carried that scent. He needed to calm the gnawing in his chest before it drove him to do something reckless.

Before he realized it, he was already pressing the intercom button.

“I need something,” Jungkook said without preamble, leaning back in his chair. His tone was low, cold, but it carried an edge that brooked no refusal. “A shirt. A jacket. Something that smells like him. Better yet—” His eyes narrowed. “Bring me that plushie he sleeps with.”

Jimin blinked, instantly wary. “That’s— dangerous. You’re in rut. Even a scent could—”

“Could what?” Jungkook’s voice sharpened, dangerous. “Push me over the edge? I’m already there.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, gaze locked like a predator. “If you don’t bring it to me, I’ll walk into his room right now, in front of you, in front of anyone, and I’ll take what’s mine. And I won’t care what you think of me after.”

The threat was quiet, measured — which made it worse. He meant it.

Jimin’s jaw tightened. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse anyway. Then he exhaled, curt and reluctant, and turned on his heel. Minutes later, he returned with a soft, worn T-shirt, folded carefully but still holding the faint, warm imprint of Taehyung’s scent.

Jungkook didn’t thank him. He snatched it from Jimin’s hands and strode past him without another word, the door to his private bedroom shutting with a decisive click.

The scent hit him instantly. Sweet, faintly floral, undercut with something warm and innocent — the pure, unfiltered smell of his omega. His knees nearly buckled. He pressed the shirt to his face, inhaling so deeply it hurt, the scent flooding his lungs, settling in his blood.

It wasn’t just Taehyung’s soap, though that was there — a faint trace of lavender, sharp with a hint of something herbal. Beneath it was warmth, salt, and something distinctly omega, a note that bypassed his mind entirely and went straight to his blood. His wolf surged, claws scraping against the inside of his skull.

Jungkook stumbled backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed. He sank down heavily, still clutching the shirt to his face. His breathing grew ragged, each inhale pulling him deeper into the sensory trap.

He could picture it — Taehyung pulling the shirt over his head, hair static-frizzed from the movement, hands tugging at the hem to settle it over his waist. He could see the way the fabric would cling after a shower, the way it would slide against skin when Taehyung shifted in his sleep.

His jaw clenched, a low sound slipping from him before he could stop it.

The wolf didn’t care about restraint. The wolf wanted.

Jungkook lay back, his body sprawled across the bed, the shirt bunched in his fists. He pulled it tighter over his mouth and nose, inhaling again and again, as if he could fill the hollow ache inside him with scent alone. His other hand dragged down over his chest, pressing against the thud of his heartbeat, before sliding lower.

It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But tonight it felt different — sharper, hungrier, edged with the knowledge that Taehyung was just down the hall, separated by locked doors and Jimin’s stubborn guardianship.

He let his mind drift—to the way that shirt might have hung on Taehyung’s frame, to how it might have bared the curve of his collarbone when he moved. He thought of Taehyung’s hands, slender and warm, brushing down the front to smooth a wrinkle.

His wolf growled, low and possessive, demanding more.

His free hand slid down over his stomach, his breath catching when his fingers slipped lower, the ache between his legs already unbearable. He didn’t fight it. He didn’t even try.

Every movement was slow at first, dragging out the sensation because it felt too good to rush. The scent grew heavier in the air around him, every breath flooding his senses until there was nothing left of the world outside this room. No meetings. No clan politics. No walls. Only him, the shirt, and the ghost of the omega whose absence was slowly killing him.

His grip tightened, pace faltering as his mind supplied images too vivid to ignore—Taehyung beneath him, head thrown back, breathless and flushed, his scent even richer when he was close like that.

He bit down on a groan, chest rising and falling faster. The wolf inside him was near frantic, every nerve ending sparking with need.

When release finally tore through him, it left him breathless, muscles trembling, the shirt clutched tight against his face as if letting go would undo everything.

For a long while, he didn’t move. His heart slowed gradually, the sharp edge of hunger dulling to something more bearable, but the ache was still there, deep and stubborn.

He shifted onto his side, pulling the shirt to his chest, breathing it in like it might carry him into sleep. His eyes drifted shut, the exhaustion catching up with him now that the fever had broken, even if only slightly.

His lips parted, voice barely above a whisper.

“…Just what are you doing to me?”

* * *

The days after his rut passed like a haze Jungkook didn’t care to name. He’d locked it all away—what had happened, what he’d done, what he’d almost done—buried under a thick wall of discipline. The scent of him had long since faded from the halls, replaced by the clean sterility he demanded after every rut cycle. But there was one scent he hadn’t dared scrub away.

It lived in the farthest corner of his wardrobe, sealed in a small black box, hidden under layers of shirts he never wore. Taehyung’s shirt—creased from nights of holding it too tightly, still faint with that maddeningly soft fragrance that clung no matter how many days passed. Jungkook hadn’t touched it since the last night of his rut. He told himself he wouldn’t. Told himself it was over.

But his wolf disagreed.

That morning, as he strode down the corridor toward his office, leather shoes echoing against the polished marble, a sound reached him—high, petulant, unrestrained. Laughter, first. That was the bait. Pure, chiming, a little too bright for these cold walls. His mate’s laughter always carried warmth, like sunlight daring to spill into a dungeon. It hooked deep into the alpha’s chest, pulling taut a string he’d tried to sever.

Then came the shift. Laughter turning into whines, whines into an outright wail. The sharp, nasal pout of someone deeply offended. He didn’t need to guess why. He could picture it: Taehyung’s lower lip jutting, eyes narrowing into crescents of stubborn refusal, his voice pitched to pierce the ear.

“…I don’t want it! I said I want the strawberry rolls, not this—”

Jungkook slowed mid-step. His pulse thudded. He shouldn’t turn. He shouldn’t even look. He’d made a promise—to himself, to his control—that he wouldn’t allow another slip. But the sound…

“…Tae, they’re out of stock today. Just eat this for now, it’s fresh—” Jimin’s voice, calm, coaxing.

“No!” A loud stomp rattled the chair legs. “I said no! No, no, no!”

It was ridiculous, childish, completely unbecoming of someone in this place—yet Jungkook’s mouth went dry. His wolf’s ear twitched at every rise and fall of that tantrum. The ache to see him clawed up from deep inside, threading hot and unsteady through his veins. One glimpse—that’s all he needed. One glimpse to quiet this gnawing.

By the time he’d realized it, he was already standing at the dining room threshold.

The sight hit harder than expected.

Taehyung sat sideways in his chair, arms folded, hair a soft tumble over his forehead, cheeks flushed from exertion. There was a half-pushed plate in front of him, steam curling lazily from a fresh dish Jimin must have just set down. But Taehyung wasn’t touching it. He was too busy scowling at the floor, muttering loud little protests as Jimin patiently tried to angle the plate closer.

“Look—this one has honey in it. You like honey—”

“I don’t want honey!” The omega’s voice cracked like a child’s, raw from the pitch. He shook his head hard, curls swaying, and huffed so dramatically his fringe fluttered.

Jungkook’s chest tightened. Even like this—petulant, spoiled, deliberately difficult—he was devastating to look at. No one else in this building dared act that way. No one else could.

He stayed in the doorway, unmoving, drinking it in. The fine tremor of Taehyung’s fingers against the table edge. The faint sheen of tears threatening to spill from his lower lashes. The quiver of his mouth. Every detail burned into him, feeding something that wasn’t hunger so much as possession.

Then Taehyung stilled.

The room seemed to shift—like the air had suddenly thickened. Jungkook saw the moment instinct took over. The omega’s nose twitched almost imperceptibly, catching the scent at the edges of the air. His head turned, slow, hesitant, and then those wide eyes locked onto Jungkook’s frame in the doorway.

Fear replaced everything.

The tantrum fell silent. His mouth parted, breath hitching audibly, and he flinched so hard it jarred his chair. The change was instant, brutal—like someone had snatched the sunlight away mid-day. Taehyung’s pupils contracted, his spine bowing as if he could make himself smaller, his fingers curling against the wood until his knuckles paled.

“Jungkook—” Jimin’s voice snapped into warning before the alpha could step closer.

But Taehyung was already moving—scrambling backward, the chair legs screeching against the floor. He turned onto his knees, pushing away from the table in a frantic crawl, the sound of his panicked breaths clawing at the walls.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay, Tae—” Jimin was up instantly, but the omega’s retreat was wild, unseeing.

The scent of terror hit Jungkook like a blade to the chest. His wolf surged forward, desperate to correct it, to fix it, but Jungkook’s human mind froze. He couldn’t step forward. Couldn’t step back.

Taehyung’s voice broke into a keening cry, somewhere between a plea and a scream. His body convulsed in small shudders, eyes darting everywhere except toward the alpha in the doorway. His lips moved around words that came out fractured, senseless, until the tremors overtook him completely.

Jimin cursed under his breath, kneeling hard beside him, trying to guide him upright. “Look at me, Tae—hey, it’s just me—”

The omega’s breathing hitched faster, sharper, too fast. His body curled inward, arms clutching his middle as if to shield himself from some unseen blow. The skin along his throat blotched red, his lashes damp as tears finally spilled over.

“Jungkook, get out!” Jimin’s voice cracked with urgency now, all the coaxing tone gone. “You’re making it worse—just go—”

Jungkook didn’t move. His feet were rooted, his hands slack at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He watched Jimin’s frantic attempts, the way Taehyung’s small frame trembled, the unsteady flutter of his breaths.

When Jimin’s voice rose again—sharper, angrier—it cut through the haze. “Emergency!” He was shouting toward the hall now, and within moments, two medical staff rushed in, a stretcher between them.

Jimin didn’t wait for their full setup. He gathered Taehyung against him, murmuring low reassurances as he shifted the omega’s limp weight onto the stretcher. The medics worked fast, checking his breathing, securing him, one of them already pressing an oxygen mask over his face.

And still, Jungkook stood there.

The stretchers’ wheels clicked against the marble as they moved out, Jimin following tight at their side, his hand never leaving Taehyung’s hair. The sound echoed down the hall until it faded entirely.

The dining room fell into silence.

Jungkook was alone now—except for the faint, lingering trace of his mate’s panic in the air.

He didn’t move until much later.

* * *

The medical wing was quieter than the rest of headquarters — muted lights, a faint sterile tang clinging to the air. Jungkook hadn’t gone in. He hadn’t even stepped past the threshold when Jimin had marched Taehyung inside. He had just… stood there. Watching the doors close.

Now, hours later, they were in Jimin’s office, the blinds half-drawn. Jimin sat behind his desk, one leg bouncing in barely restrained agitation, his expression sharp and tired in equal measure. Jungkook stood in front of him, hands loosely clasped behind his back, still wearing the jacket he’d intended to wear to a meeting he never reached.

"Stay away from him," Jimin said, voice low but firm, like someone delivering instructions they expect to be followed without argument. "Control yourself, Jungkook. I mean it."

Something about the way the words landed — not a challenge, not a plea, just… command — should have made Jungkook bristle. He was not used to being told what to do. Not by anyone in this building. Not by anyone alive.

But this time… he didn’t push back. Didn’t growl, didn’t remind Jimin whose authority outweighed whose. He just looked at him, the edges of his gaze heavy and unreadable, and let the silence stretch until it was thick enough to press between them.

When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped of its usual bite, smoothed into something quiet. Almost careful.

"…How is he now?" The words slid out slow, as if he had to measure them before releasing them. "Is he stable?"

Jimin’s leg stopped bouncing. He studied Jungkook for a moment, as if searching for an angle — the trick, the sharpness that always lurked somewhere under his tone. But there was none.

"He’s fine," Jimin said finally, exhaling the words with a small sigh. "Shaken, exhausted… but stable."

Jungkook’s jaw flexed once, almost imperceptibly. Fine. Stable. The words weren’t enough. They didn’t erase the image burned into his mind — Taehyung’s face crumpling the second he’d seen him in the doorway, the sound of his breath breaking, the way his body had curled away as if Jungkook’s very presence could wound him.

Jimin leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "What’s your relationship with him?"

Jungkook’s eyes lifted from the faint scratch in Jimin’s desk to meet his gaze. No twitch, no flinch. His face was a still surface, though something deeper shifted underneath, hidden from the light.

"You don’t want me to assume," Jimin went on, his tone steady but edged with curiosity. "So tell me. What exactly is he to you?"

The question hung there — blunt and direct — but Jungkook didn’t answer right away. His silence was not hesitation. It was… selection. He was choosing what the world was allowed to know, and what stayed locked inside his ribs.

* * *

The mansion had been unusually quiet for the past week without Jungkook’s looming presence, the absence leaving behind a strangely lighter air that even the staff seemed to breathe easier. Taehyung, untethered from the heavy shadow that usually followed him, had been in one of his good moods since morning — the kind where his laughter filled the room in little bursts, spilling like sunlight through the cold marble corridors.

He sat cross-legged on the soft cream rug of his private lounge, surrounded by a small kingdom of plushies. Bears with tilted heads, bunnies with floppy ears, a pale blue puppy missing one button eye — all lined neatly before him like an audience awaiting orders. His delicate hands fussed over their positions, adjusting the tilt of a head, brushing away imaginary dust from a fabric ear. Sometimes he leaned in to whisper something conspiratorial to one of them, only to giggle softly at his own joke.

At the far end of the room, two nurses stood watch, hands folded neatly in front of them. They did not interrupt, did not approach — their presence was constant but distant, trained to let him float in his own little world unless intervention was needed. The sunlight from the high windows caught in Taehyung’s hair as he moved, making the strands glow faintly golden against his pale skin. He was talking again, voice a gentle hum, not quite loud enough to catch unless one leaned in.

And then, just like a sudden shift in wind, he stilled. His head tilted toward the open door.

“I want Jimini,” he murmured, the words spoken with the kind of certainty that allowed no question.

He stood, the movement slow and unhurried, and began padding toward the hallway. The nurses exchanged a glance but fell in step behind him, their soft shoes making no sound on the carpet. Taehyung wandered with purpose, his bare feet brushing over the cool polished floor, his expression bright with expectation. He didn’t knock when he reached Jimin’s door — Taehyung never knocked — he simply turned the handle and stepped inside.

He didn’t knock when he reached Jimin’s door. Taehyung never knocked for Jimin. He simply pushed it open, his expression soft and expectant —

— and froze.

The person standing by the dresser was not Jimin.

Yoongi turned mid-motion, a shirt half-folded in his hands, his eyes widening the instant they locked with Taehyung’s. The stillness was sharp, the air between them tense in an unfamiliar way.

For Taehyung, it wasn’t fear — not at first. It was confusion. His gaze darted quickly across the room as if Jimin might be hiding behind the bed or crouched somewhere unseen. But there was no Jimin. Only a stranger.

For Yoongi, it was a spike of alarm so quick and cold that his fingers stiffened against the fabric he was holding. He knew exactly who this was. He also knew exactly how delicate this moment could become. Jimin had told him enough times — alphas are a major trigger for Taehyung. The wrong move, the wrong scent, the wrong tone, and the omega could spiral into an episode that would leave both of them shaken.

And yet, standing here now, Yoongi was already making a mistake. He was present, alone, unplanned, unprepared — and Taehyung was staring at him with wide, searching eyes.

Without thinking, without calculation, Yoongi’s instincts betrayed him. He felt the smallest twitch in his chest — and a slow, careful wave of his scent bled into the air. Coconut. Sweet, warm, mellow.

It wasn’t intentional, not really. More a quiet reflex, born from that single thing Jimin had said weeks ago in passing: He likes coconut. Says it makes him feel safe.

Taehyung inhaled — visibly — and something in his body loosened all at once. His lips parted into a small “oh,” his head tilting slightly as if listening to a secret melody only he could hear. Then, a smile bloomed. Wide, pure, unfiltered.

“Are you… Jimini’s mate?” His voice was breathy with wonder, not accusation.

Yoongi blinked. His throat worked, but no sound came.

Seconds stretched.

The nurses shifted subtly behind Taehyung, unsure whether to intervene.

Taehyung’s smile dimmed just slightly, replaced with the smallest pout, as if not answering him was the most baffling form of rudeness. “Are you?” he asked again, softer this time, but with more focus — the way a child repeats a question because they need the answer.

Yoongi’s chest felt tight. Panic rippled under his skin, but he forced his breathing slow. He couldn’t frighten him. Couldn’t risk being the reason for a break in this fragile calm. He swallowed, cleared his throat — a small, deliberate sound to break the silence.

“Yes,” he whispered.

The effect was instant.

Taehyung’s eyes lit up like stars, a delighted squeal tumbling out of him before he could even stop it. His entire body leaned forward, excitement radiating off him in waves. “I knew it! Jimini told me you’re very nice and very kind!”

Yoongi almost flinched at the weight of that. Kind. He wasn’t sure anyone had used that word for him in years.

But Taehyung didn’t stop to notice. He moved past the threshold without hesitation, plopping himself right down on the carpet a few feet away, his knees tucked up, plush dog clutched tight. He stared up at Yoongi with wide-eyed comfort — as if they’d known each other far longer than thirty seconds.

“You smell like coconuts,” Taehyung announced happily, as though it were the highest compliment.

Yoongi forced a faint, cautious smile. “Do I?”

“Mhm!” Taehyung nodded vigorously, his dark hair bouncing. “Like… the ones Jimini buys for me in winter. Sweet, but not too sweet. Like a… like a hug for my nose.”

Yoongi let out a tiny, almost soundless breath through his nose. “That’s… good, I guess.”

Taehyung giggled — that bright, innocent sound that seemed to ignore the carefulness in Yoongi’s tone. “Do you like plushies?” he asked suddenly, holding his floppy-eared dog out for Yoongi to see. “This is Mr. Woofie. He’s my favorite. He always listens when I talk. Do you have a favorite?”

Yoongi crouched down slowly, making sure every movement was deliberate and unthreatening. “I… don’t really have plushies.”

Taehyung gasped as though this was the most tragic confession imaginable. “No plushies?!” He hugged Mr. Woofie tighter, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s so sad… Jimini should buy you one. You can have Mr. Woofie’s brother if you want. He’s smaller but just as soft.”

Yoongi hesitated, not sure if it was safe to play along, but Taehyung was looking at him with so much open warmth it was hard to say anything but, “Maybe I’ll meet him someday.”

And so, Taehyung kept talking — about his plushie family, about the “tea parties” he sometimes had for them, about how Mr. Woofie “gets cranky if he’s not hugged before bedtime.” Yoongi listened carefully, nodding when needed, offering short, gentle answers. Inside, his mind was a storm of caution and calculation. But outwardly, he stayed still, stayed soft — letting Taehyung feel safe, even if every second felt like balancing on a glass edge.

“You smell like Jiminie’s hugs,” Taehyung said suddenly, leaning his cheek against the top of his plushie as though to hide a shy grin. “Warm and… yummy. Not food yummy, but heart yummy.” He tapped the plush’s head as if it could understand. “Do you know that?”

Yoongi’s lips twitched before he could stop them. “…Not really.”

“Mhm,” Taehyung hummed, unconvinced, and turned to adjust the line of his other plushies that he had apparently brought along. “Jiminie told me you’re very nice. And kind. And that you listen a lot more than you talk.” His tone was almost conspiratorial, like he was letting Yoongi in on a secret. “He doesn’t say that about everyone.”

Yoongi didn’t quite know what to do with the warmth curling in his chest at that. He shifted where he sat, lowering himself to lean against the doorframe, careful to keep the physical distance but unable to keep his eyes off the omega now rambling in front of him.

“Do you like carrots?” Taehyung asked suddenly, tilting his head with all the seriousness in the world. “Because my bunny likes carrots. But not the big crunchy ones. The soft ones. Like the ones in soup.”

Yoongi blinked. “…I guess I like them in soup.”

Taehyung beamed as if that was the best answer imaginable. “Then you can be friends with BunBun. That’s him.” He held up the slightly limp-eared plush, presenting it like a rare treasure. “But not too many people are allowed to be his friend. He’s shy.”

Yoongi nodded solemnly, playing along because the alternative—cutting this off—felt too harsh, too likely to break the strange trust forming in the air. “I’ll be careful.”

“You should,” Taehyung said with mock sternness, before immediately breaking into another giggle. He plopped BunBun into his lap and began arranging two smaller plushies on either side. “These are his guards. They keep him safe. Do you have guards?”

The question hung there, innocent yet oddly piercing, and Yoongi took his time before answering. “…Yeah. I do.”

“Good,” Taehyung said, satisfied, then began a cheerful babble about how BunBun’s guards once fought off an imaginary dragon in the hallway. The story twisted and turned nonsensically—dragons became giant bees, the bees turned into shadow monsters—but Taehyung’s voice was so full of animation that Yoongi found himself actually listening, nodding along when needed, even adding a quiet “Really?” at the right moments.

It wasn’t until one of the nurses coughed lightly in the background that Yoongi remembered where he was, what he was doing, and why he was supposed to keep this interaction brief.

But Taehyung didn’t seem to notice any of that. He just kept smiling at him like the world was simple, safe, and full of coconut-scented air.

Yoongi didn’t even realize when the shift in Taehyung’s tone happened — one moment the omega was giggling through another story about how one of his plushies “saved” the others from a fall off the dresser, and the next his voice had slowed, sentences breaking into soft hums, his words curling around lazy pauses as if his mind was drifting elsewhere.

The plushie he had been clutching was now pressed up under his chin, his legs drawn in slightly as he swayed gently on the spot. Yoongi’s eyes flickered, watching the signs — half-lidded lashes, the way Taehyung’s mouth kept parting to breathe slow and deep between his babbles.

Yoongi’s instincts roared quietly in the background, that primal, protective urge that alphas carried for their pack’s softer members. But over it all was that constant awareness — the reminder that he had to be careful, had to tread lightly, because this omega wasn’t just delicate in the physical sense. Taehyung’s mind, his heart… they were fragile in ways no bandage could fix.

“Sleepy?” Yoongi asked softly, the word a near whisper, careful not to make his tone sharp or intrusive.

Taehyung gave a little hum in answer — not quite a yes, not quite a no — and his head tilted to the side, cheek resting briefly against the plushie. His gaze was still on Yoongi, but it was heavy-lidded now, as if the very act of keeping it open was becoming too much work.

Without thinking, Yoongi’s pheromones deepened — the warm, creamy coconut curling thicker in the air, settling like a quiet blanket over the room. Taehyung’s nose twitched faintly, and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. That scent was safety to him, even if Yoongi didn’t fully understand why.

“Jiminie’s bed,” Taehyung murmured, almost in a question but more like a wish.

Yoongi hesitated only for a second before giving a small nod. “Come on.” His voice stayed low, coaxing. He pushed himself up from where he had been perched, extending a hand — not too close, not demanding, just there if Taehyung wanted it.

And Taehyung did. Small fingers slipped into his palm with the unquestioning trust of a child, warm and light, holding Yoongi’s hand as if it had always been his to hold. The nurses, still standing silently at the door, exchanged brief glances but didn’t step in; this was uncharted ground, and Yoongi had already taken it upon himself to guide the omega.

Yoongi led him to the bed, easing his hand free to turn down the blanket. But Taehyung didn’t climb in right away. Instead, he climbed up from Yoongi’s side of the mattress, dragging his plushie with him and promptly curling up near the center, head pillowed against the spot where both Jimin’s and Yoongi’s scents mingled faintly in the sheets.

The omega exhaled a soft, satisfied sound — the kind of little noise Yoongi had heard kittens make when they settled somewhere warm.

Yoongi stayed standing for a moment longer, just watching. Taehyung was already half-asleep, long lashes fanning over his cheeks, lips parted slightly as his breathing evened out. Every so often, he would nuzzle closer into the sheets, chasing the scents like a dream he didn’t want to wake from.

And Yoongi… he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His alpha side screamed to stay, to keep watch over this small, trusting creature until he woke again. His logical side reminded him this wasn’t his omega, that he was only here to keep him from distress.

Still, he stayed by the bedside until Taehyung’s breathing was steady and deep, until the hand clutching the plushie went slack in sleep. Only then did Yoongi step back, as silently as he could, his scent still lingering like a quiet promise in the air.

Chapter Text

The call came just as Jimin was checking the post-operative stats of one of their enforcers downstairs. His gloved fingers hovered over the vitals monitor when his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He pulled it out with a frown, glanced at the name, and immediately straightened.

“Hyung?” His voice came rushed, expectant.

Yoongi’s tone on the other end was steady, but something in it carried an urgency that made Jimin’s heart trip.

“Come upstairs. Right now. It’s about Taehyung.”

The line went dead before Jimin could question further. His chest tightened—Taehyung? Had something happened? Was he panicking? Hurt? Jimin peeled off his gloves, muttering a quick instruction to one of the medics to monitor the patient, then broke into a run.

The mansion’s corridors stretched long and polished, their marble floors gleaming beneath the evening lights. He could hear the distant hum of the security systems, the faint static of hidden cameras, the weight of Jungkook’s empire pressing against the walls. Every second felt endless as he climbed the staircase two at a time, breath lodged in his throat.

By the time he reached the heavy wooden doors of his and Yoongi’s shared quarters, Jimin’s pulse was hammering in his ears. He pushed the door open—half expecting to find chaos, a flailing omega, maybe even blood.

But the sight that greeted him knocked the breath clean out of his chest.

Taehyung was curled on their bed.
Not a corner, not the floor, not perched in the safety of Jimin’s arms—but on the bed itself. Their bed. His slight frame was tucked under the soft ivory sheets, one arm curved under his head, the other hand fisted into Yoongi’s pillow. His dark lashes lay still against his pale cheeks, lips parted slightly, breathing deep and steady.

The omega was sleeping. Not restlessly. Not in the half-doze that trauma victims often fell into, but truly sleeping—face smoothed into something almost childlike, as though exhaustion had finally surrendered him to peace.

Jimin’s hand flew to his mouth, a sharp gasp breaking free. “Oh—”

The sound filled the hush of the room. He stepped inside slowly, as if afraid even his presence might shatter the fragile scene. His eyes stung; he blinked furiously against the prick of tears. How long had it been since he’d seen Taehyung like this? Unafraid, unguarded? Not curled in on himself, not flinching at every creak of a floorboard?

Yoongi sat propped against the headboard, one arm resting across his knee, watching quietly. The light from the bedside lamp haloed his profile, painting him in warm tones that softened the edges of his usually severe face. His gaze slid to Jimin, calm but deliberate, as though waiting for him to see, to understand.

“He came in on his own,” Yoongi murmured at last, his voice kept low so as not to disturb the sleeper. “I was here, reading. He caught my scent, and instead of panicking… he walked straight over. Climbed up. Laid down. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Jimin’s knees weakened. He moved to the side of the bed and perched delicately on its edge, his gaze fixed on Taehyung. The omega shifted faintly at the dip in the mattress but didn’t wake, only burrowed deeper into the pillow, nose pressed against the fabric saturated with Yoongi’s scent.

“He trusts you,” Jimin whispered, his voice breaking. “Yoongi—do you realize what this means? He… he’s healing.”

Yoongi’s mouth tugged in the faintest of smiles. Not wide, but genuine, rare enough to twist Jimin’s heart. “I knew you’d want to document it. Didn’t want to move him before you could see for yourself.”

Jimin fumbled for the slim tablet tucked into his white coat. His fingers trembled slightly as he powered it on and began typing, eyes flickering between the glowing screen and Taehyung’s slumber.

First positive non-trauma encounter with an alpha outside of bonded caretaker. Recognition of mate’s scent led to trust association. Voluntary physical approach. Exhibits safety and comfort response. Sleeping soundly in shared environment.

His lips curved into a soft smile as he typed. “Progress. This is real progress.”

For a long while, silence settled between them—only the hum of the lamp, the rhythm of Taehyung’s steady breaths, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Jimin finally exhaled, setting the tablet aside on the nightstand, his body loosening with relief he hadn’t realized he was holding.

When he turned, Yoongi’s eyes were fixed on him.

The weight of that gaze was different—no longer clinical, no longer focused on Taehyung. It was heavy with something else, something intimate. Jimin tilted his head, lips parting, but before he could speak Yoongi reached out.

His fingers wrapped around Jimin’s wrist gently but firmly, tugging him closer. Jimin let himself be guided until he stood between Yoongi’s bent knees. The alpha tilted his head up, his dark eyes unreadable save for the flicker of longing smoldering low within them.

“You’ve been running yourself dry,” Yoongi said quietly. His thumb brushed against the inside of Jimin’s wrist, feeling the rapid pulse there. “Always here. Always with him. You barely come to bed anymore.”

Guilt pinched at Jimin’s chest. He dropped his gaze. “He needs me, hyung. You know that.”

“I know.” Yoongi’s tone softened, even as his grip didn’t let go. “But I need you too.”

The words cracked something deep inside Jimin. He swallowed hard, throat tight.

“I missed you.” Yoongi’s confession was low, almost hushed, as though it was pulled straight from the depths of him. His hand slid up Jimin’s arm, tugging him forward until Jimin stumbled softly into his lap. Yoongi’s arms circled his waist, holding him flush against his chest. He buried his face against the crook of Jimin’s neck, inhaling deeply, possessively.

“I missed you so damn much.”

Jimin’s hands trembled as they lifted, threading through Yoongi’s dark hair, cradling the back of his head. His eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of Yoongi’s breath against his skin, the warmth seeping into him.

“I missed you too,” Jimin whispered, his voice catching, the professional façade melting into something vulnerable, raw.

Yoongi’s hold tightened. His lips brushed against Jimin’s throat, not demanding, just grounding. “Stay with me tonight. Take a day off. Please. Give me your time. Just me and you.”

Jimin’s heart thudded painfully. He glanced over his shoulder at the bed, at Taehyung’s small figure, still sleeping peacefully. For the first time, he felt he could leave without fear. Taehyung was safe, cocooned, guarded by trust itself.

He turned back, cupping Yoongi’s jaw, forcing him to look up. “You’re right. I’ll make time. I’ll stay.”

The flicker in Yoongi’s eyes deepened, relief and yearning and love all tangled. Their lips met—soft at first, just a press of reassurance, then deepening as the hunger that had been restrained for too long slipped through. Yoongi kissed him like a man grounding himself, like a man starved. Jimin responded with equal fervor, clutching at him, letting himself sink into the safety of his mate’s arms.

Behind them, Taehyung stirred faintly, a soft sigh slipping from his lips, but he did not wake. He remained nestled against Yoongi’s scent, safe in the cocoon of warmth he had chosen.

And in the quiet of the room, beneath the shadow of Jungkook’s empire, two bonds pulsed—one fragile, growing in the sleep of an omega learning to trust again, and one unbreakable, sealed in the soft desperation of mates who had missed each other more than words could tell.

* * *

The air in the underground club was thick with smoke and sweat, the kind that clung to skin and stung the lungs. Down below, two men circled each other in the pit, their bare chests slick with blood and spit, knuckles raw and swollen. The crowd pressed against the iron railings, faces half-lit by the jaundiced glow of overhead lamps, shouting bets and curses with equal fervor. Every time a fist connected—every time bone struck flesh—the noise rose like a storm breaking, a collective hunger for violence.

From the private balcony above it all, Jeon Jungkook watched with the same detachment a man might watch rain sliding down glass. His chair was carved mahogany, his glass heavy crystal, his suit black enough to bleed into the shadows. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, untouched for too long, the smoke curling upward like a snake.

Beside him, Namjoon stretched his legs out, broad shoulders relaxed, the glow of firelight catching against his sharp jaw. He was an imposing figure, dressed less formally than Jungkook but with the same commanding air. A wolf who had long since grown comfortable with blood on his hands. He swirled his glass of wine, eyes following the fighters below, and let out a low chuckle.

“Ten minutes,” Namjoon drawled, tilting his chin toward the ring. “The bigger one’s got reach, but he’s sloppy. He’ll burn out before he lands anything that matters.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved in the faintest shadow of a smile. “Seven minutes.”

Namjoon barked a laugh, the sound carrying easily even above the roar of the crowd. “You’re cold. Always cutting shorter than the rest of us.”

“Experience,” Jungkook murmured, taking a slow sip of wine. His voice was smooth, steady, and chillingly calm. “When men fight for their lives, most break before they’re broken. You can see it in their eyes.”

And indeed, one of the fighters already had that look—wild, darting, desperate. Jungkook didn’t bother to watch the rest; he knew how it would end.

Namjoon leaned back, eyes half-lidded, watching the match like a man watching entertainment rather than blood sport. They had both seen too much real war, too much killing that wasn’t staged for a crowd’s delight, for this to unsettle them. If anything, the performance was mundane.

Instead, Namjoon shifted the conversation. “The eastern docks are clean. Shipment came in last night. No snags, no rats.”

Jungkook gave a short nod, his attention never truly leaving the ring. “And the port authority?”

“In my pocket,” Namjoon said, his lips twisting in amusement. “They’re more afraid of you than the law. Money helps, but fear—fear keeps them loyal.”

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth lifted, the closest thing to a smile most men ever saw from him. He tapped ash into the tray. “Good. Keep it that way.”

They fell into easy discussion, business flowing like a second language between them: shipments, rival families, the state of politics in the east. Every word was low, smooth, but edged with the weight of men who commanded empires.

The fight ended abruptly, just as Jungkook predicted. A bone cracked—a scream broke into silence—and the crowd erupted. Jungkook didn’t so much as flinch. Namjoon clapped once, smirking. “Seven minutes. Damn you.”

Jungkook let out a low hum, almost a chuckle, and raised his glass.

For a few moments, they sat in comfortable silence, the noise below muffled by the glass and distance. Then Jungkook’s gaze shifted, not to the ring but into the red swirl of wine in his glass. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, almost conversational.

"Your wedding.......... it was grand"

Namjoon just smiles and leant back in his plush chair.

“Seokjin.”

Namjoon tilted his head, one brow raised. “What about him?”

Jungkook didn’t look at him. He spoke as though musing aloud. “He has dreams. Wants to be a model. A name known beyond politics and old family power.” Finally, his dark eyes flicked toward Namjoon, sharp as knives. “Treat him well. Don’t chain him.”

For a heartbeat, Namjoon said nothing. Then a grin spread across his face, wide and wolfish. He leaned back, shoulders shaking with a laugh. “Shit. He must think I’m a brute already. Did I tell you? First time we met, he looked me dead in the eye and told me he hated all of this. Hated me.”

Jungkook arched a brow, saying nothing.

Namjoon smirked wider, taking a leisurely sip of wine. “So I leaned in and told him—teasing, mind you—that he won’t be leaving the bed much anyway. Poor thing froze like a lamb. Right now he probably thinks his husband is a monster.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, but his lips twitched, betraying the faintest hint of humor. “You are a monster.” He set his glass down, leaning forward slightly. “Do not be one to him.”

Namjoon’s laugh came warm, rumbling. “There it is. The great Jungkook, scolding me like an old mother hen.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like a chuckle. “You’ll thank me when he’s not poisoning your wine someday.”

Namjoon grinned, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, JK. I’ll take care of him. More than that—I’ll protect him. Promise.”

That word—promise—carried weight between them. It tugged Jungkook back, briefly, to nights long ago: blood on their hands, fire at their backs, Namjoon standing shoulder to shoulder with him when no one else dared. The first time Namjoon bared his teeth not at Jungkook but for him. Loyalty earned in violence and sealed in blood.

For a moment, Jungkook allowed himself a rare thing—a small, genuine chuckle. “You scared the boy half to death. You’ll spend months undoing it.”

“Good,” Namjoon replied smoothly, eyes glittering with mischief. “Keeps him sharp.”

Jungkook gave him a look, the kind only an older brother could give—a mix of exasperation and fondness, though the latter was buried too deep for most to see. Namjoon, of course, saw it. He always had.

The noise from below swelled again as another fight began, but their attention was elsewhere. Two wolves, battle-scarred and iron-hearted, laughing softly in the shadows while men killed each other for scraps.

Eventually, Namjoon stood, adjusting his jacket with the easy grace of a predator. “I’ll leave you to your brooding, boss.” He smirked. “Or should I say, mother hen.”

Jungkook’s lips quirked in faint amusement. “Go. Your husband’s waiting.”

Namjoon clapped a hand briefly against Jungkook’s shoulder—a rare display of affection—and left, his tall frame disappearing into the smoke.

Silence settled again. Jungkook sat alone, the glass of wine untouched, his gaze unfocused. The crowd roared below, another man’s life spilling into the dirt, but he barely heard it.

He raised his glass, drank deep, and let the taste of wine and blood fill his mouth.

The empire never slept. Neither did he.

The arena thundered around him. Fists cracked bone, screams mingled with the metallic clang of the cage, and a chorus of elite laughter rang against the concrete walls. The air was thick with iron and whiskey, smoke curling through the rafters while money changed hands in the shadows. After Namjoon left,  Jungkook sat at the center of it all, expression carved from stone, one long arm draped casually over the back of his chair, a glass of amber liquid rolling between his fingers. He looked every inch the lord of the underworld — untouchable, calm, unbothered.

But inside? Inside he was spiraling. And his mind drifted somewhere. Somewhere, where there was no noise. No cheers. No bloody fists cracking others' jaws. No smell of sweat and cigratte mixed with expensive sugary vine.

The sound of a mistress’s shrill laugh cut through the din — high-pitched, vulgar, piercing. Jungkook’s jaw ticked. .

That sound… Taehyung would never laugh like that. His omega’s laugh was soft, polite, so quiet he sometimes had to lean in just to hear it. Like porcelain tapping against glass, delicate and fleeting. He could remember the last time Taehyung had smiled — not at him, but at Jimin, lips curling shyly, the corners of his eyes trembling with innocence. The image landed in Jungkook’s mind like a spark to gunpowder.

And suddenly, the arena blurred.

His glass tilted slightly in his grip as he imagined that soft laugh spilling from Taehyung’s lips — but not in the safety of the dining room, not in the garden where Jimin watched over him. No, Jungkook imagined that laugh muffled by sheets, trembling against his mouth as Taehyung lay beneath him, red silk clinging scandalously to his pale skin. The kind of laugh an omega gave when trying to squirm away from fingers teasing too deep, too slow, too deliberate.

The red dress.

That thought lodged in his skull when one of the clients’ hired omegas stepped into the room, the fabric clinging wetly to his body like a second skin, cut low enough to reveal what should not be revealed in public. Everyone around Jungkook looked at the whore. Jungkook, however, saw only Taehyung. His mind betrayed him, dressing his innocent husband in that same sinful crimson. Silk hugging the dip of Taehyung’s waist, the sharp jut of his hipbone. His imagination painted Taehyung kneeling, the hem pooling around his thighs, eyes downcast, cheeks flushed pink as though he knew exactly how obscene he looked.

The fight below roared louder — blood splattering, a man’s jaw caving in beneath another’s fist — but Jungkook’s mind had no space for gore. He pictured the silk sliding up, bunched around Taehyung’s waist, pale legs parted, his small fists curling helplessly in the sheets as Jungkook’s tattooed hands pushed the fabric higher, higher, baring him indecently. The innocence of his omega’s polite laugh twisted, warped into a soft, trembling moan echoing against the brutality around him.

His cock stirred at the thought.

Jungkook leaned back deeper into his seat, expression perfectly unreadable, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the glass. He could taste it now — the sweetness of Taehyung’s skin beneath his tongue, the way his mate would writhe, caught between protest and surrender. He imagined pressing Taehyung down, one tattooed hand spanning his delicate throat, not with cruelty but with a desperate claim, forcing those soft, polite sounds into ragged cries that belonged only to Jungkook.

The arena cheered. Money slammed down on tables. The announcer’s voice boomed.

But Jungkook wasn’t hearing them. He was watching Taehyung arch in his mind, the red silk slipping from his shoulders, sliding down like spilled wine. He imagined spreading his mate open, devouring him until those polite, careful manners dissolved into shameless, filthy whimpers. Until that innocence was stained, ruined, marked so deeply that even Jimin — especially Jimin — would know who Taehyung belonged to.

He shifted in his seat, thighs pressing together as his cock strained against his tailored slacks. None of the men around him noticed; they were too busy jeering at the blood, at the violence. Only Jungkook sat in silence, eyes dark, lips pressed into a thin line, his mind defiled by his own hunger.

The whore in the red dress laughed now, swaying his hips for his patron’s amusement. Jungkook’s stomach twisted. He wanted to tear that dress from the stranger’s body and burn it. How dare it remind him of Taehyung. How dare it make him imagine his mate like that, dripping silk, lips parted, begging for more. The image sank claws into his chest and refused to let go.

Jungkook tipped his glass back, downing the rest of the whiskey in a single swallow. The burn did nothing to wash away the filth of his thoughts. He set the glass down with more force than necessary, jaw tight, teeth grinding.

And still, his mind betrayed him.

He pictured Taehyung not in red silk now, but bare, wrists pinned to the headboard, mouth trembling with a polite “please” that could mean stop or could mean more. He imagined his omega trembling under the weight of his body, their bond snapping tighter with every thrust until Taehyung was crying Jungkook’s name, polite no more — only raw, desperate, his innocence shattered beneath him.

Jungkook’s cock throbbed. His self-control thinned dangerously.

“My Lord.”

The sound of his name — sharp, real — cut through the fever dream. Jungkook blinked, the arena snapping back into focus. Blood on the floor. Men laughing. The fight ending in broken bones and teeth scattered like dice. His beta leaned close, awaiting his orders.

Jungkook rolled his shoulders, reclaiming his composure with frightening ease. His lips curved into the faintest, coldest smirk, as if nothing in his head had just happened. He picked up the betting ledger, scrawled his initials, and handed it back.

But inside, the filth clung to him. The taste of Taehyung’s imagined moans. The flash of silk against pale skin. The sinful thought of ruining something that had no business being touched by hands as bloody as his.

The lord of the underworld sat surrounded by violence and power, unreadable to all who looked at him.

And yet he burned — silently, savagely — with the kind of desire that could destroy them both.

Two glasses of wine already emptied, the third swirled lazily in his grip. Dark red clung to the rim, staining like blood.

An omega in silk drifted over, perfume heavy, eyes coy. The same one dared to disturb him from his thoughts. She bent close, lips brushing his ear as she purred, “My lord, let me ease you…”

Jungkook didn’t even turn his head. A sharp flick of his fingers, and she froze, dismissed like smoke in wind.

Another tried—prettier, softer, sliding a hand over his arm. He peeled her off without a word, gaze fixed on the crimson swirl of his glass.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want release. His body ached with it, wound too tight. Nights like this begged for distraction—the bite of teeth, the spill of heat, something to ground him in flesh. But the thought turned sour before it bloomed.

Because his mind wasn’t here.

It was back in that house.

With him.

Taehyung.

Jungkook shut his eyes for a moment, the image striking him with cruel clarity. The curve of Taehyung’s face under the pale kitchen light. The way his lashes quivered when he turned. The impossible softness in his voice, the fragility carved into every trembling breath.

And how beautiful he looked even in fear.

How much Jungkook’s body screamed that he was his.

His.

Not just in name, not just by law or blood or rings forced on trembling fingers. But in a deeper, more savage way. The bond tugged at him like chains around his ribs, pulling, dragging him under.

He hated it. He craved it. He drowned in it.

The stem of the wineglass cracked faintly in his grip.

The memory shifted—unwelcome, vicious. That last encounter.

The kitchen.

Taehyung’s wide eyes meeting his across the marble counter. The way panic spread over his face like fire, too fast, too brutal. His breath gone, chest seizing, body trembling so violently that Jungkook’s first instinct had been to grab him, steady him—only for Jimin to shove between them with a snarl, phone already in his hand.

The omega hadn’t just panicked. He’d collapsed. Shaking, gasping, the bond pulling so tight it nearly snapped him in half.

And Jungkook had stood there, frozen, helpless in a way he hadn’t been since boyhood. Watching as Taehyung was lifted, carried, rushed toward the emergency ward while his own men tore the kitchen apart for blame.

The sight of Taehyung’s pale face, twisted in pain—Jungkook couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t breathe it out, no matter how much wine he poured into his chest.

He tipped the glass back now, swallowing harshly. The liquor burned down his throat, bitter, useless.

He slammed it on the table, signaling for another. The bartender jumped to comply.

Around him, the crowd roared as one fighter went down, blood spattering the mat. The world kept spinning, wild, lawless, his kingdom in motion.

But all Jungkook could see was Taehyung. His fragility. His innocence. The way he was breaking under his shadow.

And still, still—

Jungkook’s gut coiled with hunger so sharp it felt like punishment.

He didn’t want to want him. But he did.

And worse—he was starting to believe he didn’t just want him. He needed him.

The third glass of wine was gone before the server even realized he’d touched it. Jungkook leaned back in his chair, the stem of the glass dangling between his fingers as if he had all the time in the world, though the tension in his shoulders told a different story.

Two omegas had tried their luck already, drifting close with honeyed voices, practiced smiles, hands that trembled with eagerness despite the perfume of courage. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t smell them. His hand lifted once, dismissing them with all the weight of a king swatting away flies.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want. His body burned, his veins screamed for release. But his mind was elsewhere—filled, poisoned, haunted.

Taehyung.

The image of him, pale and beautiful in that too-large sweater, hair falling soft into his eyes. The way he curled his hands into his sleeves when he was nervous. The tremble of his lashes when Jungkook had spoken too close.

And worst of all—the memory of him breaking. The kitchen incident replayed again and again in Jungkook’s mind like punishment. Taehyung’s chest heaving, pupils blown wide, fear so sharp that his body had simply given up. He’d crumpled, sobbing, shaking, had to be rushed to the emergency ward before his heart tore itself apart.

Jungkook should have turned away. Should have hardened his heart, told himself it was weakness he was watching, nothing more. But it wasn’t weakness—it was fragility, fragility bound to him, fragility that screamed through the bond that no amount of liquor could silence.

The glass in his hand cracked. He hadn’t realized he’d clenched it. Red wine spilled over his knuckles like blood.

The pit-master’s booming voice announcing the next fight drifted to him from the ring. Jungkook rose without thinking. The scrape of his chair silenced the bar. All eyes turned.

He smiled, crooked, dangerous.

“Clear the ring,” he said, voice low, steady, even as his pulse thundered. “I’ll take the next one.”

Chaos. Cheers. Panic. Bets thrown like coins into a river. No one thought the outcome was uncertain—but everyone wanted to witness the spectacle.

He stripped off his jacket, muscles rippling under dim light, tattoos stark against flushed skin. Dropping into the ring felt like stepping into a cage that could never contain him.

The challenger was shoved forward: a beast of an alpha, taller than most, arms thick as tree trunks. His grin was cocky, his voice booming, “You’re drunk, my lord. I’ll go easy on you—”

The words died under Jungkook’s fist. A blur. A rib shattered. A jaw cracked. Blood fountained.

The crowd erupted, but Jungkook didn’t hear them. He didn’t hear anything but the dull roar in his head. Each punch was too heavy, too fast, too merciless. He wasn’t fighting an alpha—he was fighting himself, his need, his bond. He was punishing Taehyung’s image that wouldn’t leave him. Punishing the gods for binding him to something so fragile, so unyielding, so devastatingly beautiful.

The alpha crumpled, coughing red, eyes rolling back. The referee tried to step in, but one look from Jungkook froze him to the bone. Jungkook slammed the man to the ground, knuckles breaking skin, blood wetting his tattoos.

When the silence stretched—when the crowd stopped cheering, stopped breathing—Jungkook finally straightened. His chest rose and fell, slow, controlled, as though he hadn’t just broken a man’s body in front of them all.

His gaze swept the crowd, daring. “Anyone else?”

Silence. Heads bowed. Not one soul moved.

He left the ring with the same crooked smile, shaking blood from his hands like it was rain. The crowd parted, silent, reverent, terrified.

The night outside was cold, but it barely touched him. The car door slammed, the city blurred past. He boarded the jet before the adrenaline left his body. By dawn he was across borders, striding through the glass-and-steel fortress of his foreign headquarters, men bowing as he passed.

None spoke of the blood. None dared.

He gave orders, crushed reports, signed death warrants without blinking. But when he shut himself into his suite, the silence fell heavy.

He had crushed men in rings, burned cities to the ground, commanded armies that bowed in silence.

But he could not conquer this.
He could not conquer him.

* * *

Jungkook slammed the heavy door of his private lounge behind him, the echo bouncing off the marble walls like a gunshot. The quiet that followed only sharpened the tension threading his body tighter, muscles thrumming under his skin as though they’d been wound too hard. His shirt stuck to him, damp with sweat, the faint sting of rosin and blood still clinging to his knuckles from the ring.

He should’ve been spent. He had walked into the fight tonight with one intention—to exhaust himself to the bone, to bleed out the animal inside him until there was nothing left but silence. But the fighter who stepped into the ring had been nothing more than a mouth with fists too slow and too weak. Jungkook didn’t even feel the fight; it felt like swatting away an annoying insect. And instead of cooling the fire in his veins, it had only stoked it higher.

He ripped his gloves off, tossed them across the room, and stalked toward the private bathroom. His reflection in the mirror caught him—eyes too sharp, lips parted like he was a breath away from biting, from taking. A low snarl rumbled out before he twisted the tap, letting cold water thunder down into the marble tub. He stripped carelessly, his black shirt tearing at the collar where he tugged too hard, trousers kicked aside in a heap.

The moment he stepped under the icy spray, his breath caught. For an instant, the cold shocked his system, a small anchor dragging him down. Water poured down the ridges of his shoulders, over the curve of his inked chest, sluicing across the dragon tattoo curling at his ribs.

But it wasn’t enough.

His wolf was there, restless, circling in the dark. Whispering.
Weak prey. Not worth the blood. We need more. We need him.

A shudder crawled down his spine, his fists clenching at his sides. Jungkook dropped his head against the tile wall, breath harsh. Images seared across his mind unbidden—plush lips biting into a stubborn line, eyes soft with defiance and fear, pale wrists he could crush with one hand. His wolf painted fantasies in cruel strokes: dragging that delicate body against his, making him whimper, making him yield until there was nothing left of that quiet dignity but tears and obedience.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding. He tilted his face into the spray, letting the icy water lash against him, but the heat under his skin refused to dim. His wolf prowled louder now, claws raking inside his chest.

You want him. Take him. Stop circling like a coward. He’s already under your roof. Already yours to break, yours to keep.

He slammed his palm flat against the wall, veins standing out along his arm, his breath growing heavier. It was maddening—the war between himself and the beast. He had spent years bending his nature into cold control, perfecting restraint until no one could touch him, no one could sway him. But this omega, this fragile, porcelain creature forced into his life, was already unraveling him.

The shower hissed around him, fog curling in the corners of the glass, but his head burned with every wicked thought his wolf whispered. Jungkook dragged both hands down his face, chest heaving, the animal inside clawing harder and harder for release.

The cold should have numbed him, but instead it only sharpened the fire in his veins. His body was thrumming—hungry, restless, aroused beyond reason.

He pressed his forehead against the slick marble wall, droplets racing down the sharp slope of his cheekbones, dripping from his lashes. His breath fogged against the stone, shallow, uneven.

And then—Taehyung’s face came unbidden.

Those wide, dark eyes, rimmed in the kind of softness that begged to be shattered. The gentle curve of his lips, always pressed together too tightly as if holding back words. That fragile throat, pale and vulnerable, a pulse that beat so fast whenever Jungkook drew too close.

The wolf twisted the images cruelly, painting them in darker shades. Taehyung sprawled across silk sheets, hair mussed, lips parted, his chest rising in frantic rhythm. His long lashes wet with tears, the sound of his voice breaking, a whine caught between protest and need.

Jungkook’s hand curled into a fist against the wall, nails biting into his palm. He dragged in a breath through his teeth, every nerve ending screaming.

Imagine it, the wolf whispered, low and hungry. Dragging him into your lap, pressing that pretty throat back, making him look at you—making him beg. You could hear it, feel it. His skin hot against yours, his pulse racing like prey.

A guttural sound slipped from Jungkook’s chest, somewhere between a groan and a growl. The water hammered down his back, cold, punishing, but his skin still burned. He tilted his head back against the wall, exposing his own throat to the spray, letting the water wash down over his chest, down the carved lines of his abdomen.

No matter how much he tried to ground himself, Taehyung was there—standing just behind his eyelids.

The way he’d refused to bow.
The way he’d spoken with that trembling voice but never broken.
The way his delicate wrists had looked when Jungkook had wrapped his hand around them.

Jungkook’s breath hitched, his stomach tightening, his body betraying him with every passing second.

He’s small, the wolf murmured, but strong enough to make you work for it. You want that fight. You want that surrender. You want to see the exact moment he yields.

He pressed his palm harder to the marble, the veins in his arm bulging, his knuckles white. His cock throbbed with aching insistence, his whole body taut like a bowstring pulled too far. He hissed between clenched teeth, furious with himself, with his weakness.

“No,” Jungkook growled under his breath, the sound vibrating low in his chest. “Not like this. Not yet.”

But the wolf only chuckled, a dark rumble inside him.
Liar.

Jungkook slammed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image of Taehyung kneeling before him, lips swollen, tears glistening down his cheeks. Instead of fading, the fantasy sharpened—the warmth of his breath, the sweetness of his scent, the trembling surrender that would melt into obedience.

He groaned, head thunking back against the wall, water coursing down the lines of his throat, over his tattoos, streaming lower. His body was strung tight with desire, his control fraying, unraveling at the edges.

The cold water did nothing. Not against the fire. Not against the wolf.

Jungkook braced both palms flat against the marble wall now, chest heaving, his head bowed as his cock strained against the slick press of his stomach.

His breath came ragged, low growls vibrating through clenched teeth. The wolf wanted, needed, demanded—images of Taehyung flashed unrelenting, softer, darker, filthier.

The sound of his own slick palm against stone shifted lower, too close, too dangerous. Jungkook’s hand twitched, hovering for a breathless moment over the throbbing ache between his legs, a fraction of a second away from surrendering—letting himself have it, just once.

Just one time to silence the fire.

Just one time to stop seeing that wide-eyed omega everywhere.

His fingers grazed the flushed head, his breath stuttering, his entire body jerking in near relief—

And then the wolf whispered again: He controls you already. Look at you—on your knees to the thought of him. Pathetic.

Jungkook froze, ice flooding his veins. His stomach twisted, fury curdling the arousal. His lips peeled back in a snarl as he slammed his hand back to the wall with a resounding crack.

“No.” His voice was guttural, savage. His eyes snapped open, black with hate—for Taehyung, for himself, for the bond that chained him in invisible shackles.

He shoved away from the wall, tearing himself from the water’s downpour. His body still trembled with restraint, desire crawling over his skin like a fever he couldn’t sweat out. But he would not fall. He would not kneel.

Not for him.
Not for anyone.

He shut off the shower with a violent twist, the pipes groaning in protest. Water still streamed down his body as he stalked into the lounge, naked, dripping, a demon carved out of shadow and flame.

“Fuck!” he roared, slamming his fist against the edge of the glass table. The whiskey bottle rattled but did not break. Jungkook snatched it up, tore off the cap, and drank deep, the burn searing down his throat. Another swallow. Another.

The liquor dulled nothing. His skin still felt tight, stretched over heat and hunger. His chest rose and fell as if he’d just come out of another fight—except this battle was inside him, unrelenting.

He was cursing himself under his breath, vile words slipping past clenched teeth when his phone buzzed on the counter. The sharp sound cut through the haze of alcohol and fury.

Jungkook grabbed it, his wet hair dripping across the screen as he answered with a clipped, dangerous:
“What.”

A hesitant pause on the other end. Then a man’s voice—low, deferential. One of the ones he’d assigned to oversee the new territory he’d acquired after the last bloodbath.

“Sir… I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.”

“Spit it out.”

“It’s about the omega you brought in.”

Jungkook’s spine straightened, his grip tightening on the phone. “Taehyung?”

“Yes, sir. There’s… there’s been a complication. An omega named Jung Hoseok filed a missing person’s complaint nearly two months ago. About Taehyung. It… somehow slipped through. Paperwork got buried. Nobody in law enforcement cared much, you know how it is. But—”

“But what?” Jungkook’s voice dropped like a blade, sharp and lethal.

“But Hoseok has been causing scenes. Daily visits to the station. Tonight he apparently threw a tantrum right in front of the precinct—screaming, crying, demanding answers. He’s threatening to… to escalate it further.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. His wolf prowled inside his chest, suddenly alert.

So. Taehyung wasn’t as much of a ghost as he’d thought. Someone had ties to him. Someone who cared enough to drag the world into their grief.

“Why am I hearing about this now?” Jungkook’s words were quiet, far quieter than his rage, which made them even more dangerous.

“Apologies, sir. Like I said, it slipped. But… it seems this Hoseok knew him personally. Close enough to fight for him. To not stop.”

A long silence stretched. Jungkook stood there, dripping water onto the floor, the whiskey burning in his throat, his wolf howling behind his ribs.

Someone knew Taehyung.
Someone could tell him what the omega had been hiding.
Someone could unravel the mystery Jungkook both dreaded and hungered to solve.

“Keep Hoseok under watch,” Jungkook ordered finally, voice low. “Every step he takes, every word he speaks. I want a file on him by tomorrow. And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone else.”

“Yes, sir.”

The line went dead.

Jungkook lowered the phone slowly, staring at nothing, chest rising and falling with the weight of the revelation. His lips curved into something dark, almost a smirk, though it held no warmth.

“So you do have ghosts, hmmm,” he murmured to the empty room. His voice was soft, but his eyes burned. “And ghosts… always leave trails.”

* * *

The villa was vast and silent when Namjoon stepped through the tall, arched doors. He loosened his cuffs, set his watch back into place, and frowned at the emptiness that greeted him. The marble floor echoed under his boots—too sharp, too bare. Not even the sound of footsteps or the clink of glasses came from the servants.

Namjoon paused, scanning the shadows. Silence, apart from the steady tick of an antique grandfather clock in the hallway.

His jaw flexed. Too quiet.

For the faintest second, the thought crossed his mind—Seokjin ran away. His lips twitched, almost entertained at the prospect. He could almost imagine his delicate omega storming out with a suitcase in hand, fury shining in those almond-shaped eyes.

But then reality reminded him: Seokjin wasn’t reckless. He had seen Jungkook’s reach, had witnessed firsthand how tightly the Jeons wrapped their claws around every corner of power. No. Seokjin wasn’t foolish enough to think he could escape the leash so easily.

“Still here, huh?” Namjoon muttered under his breath, taking the grand staircase two steps at a time.

The air was different upstairs—heavier, scented faintly of fresh flowers that the servants had arranged earlier, layered beneath the faint trace of Seokjin’s natural sweetness, like soft vanilla mixed with sharp wine.

He followed it, unhurried, until he reached the wide double doors of their bedroom. He pushed them open, expecting to find his reluctant bride sulking on the bed or curled by the window.

Empty.

The curtains swayed with the night breeze, and the sheets were untouched. Namjoon’s brows knitted. He took a slow step inside, eyes narrowing, scanning for signs. A scarf draped carelessly on the armchair. A book left open on the nightstand. A faint glass of water half-full on the dresser.

He turned to leave.

That’s when it struck.

The crash was sudden, sharp, and aimed straight at his temple. A vase shattered against his head, shards raining across the marble floor. Namjoon staggered back a step, one hand rising instinctively to his brow as blood trickled down his skin.

And then—he saw him.

Seokjin.

Standing at the doorway, chest heaving, hands trembling but clutching the jagged remains of the vase like a weapon. His eyes were wide, blazing with terror and defiance all at once.

For half a heartbeat, Namjoon just stared. Then his lips pulled into a slow, dangerous grin.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice low and dark, “so the kitten has claws.”

Seokjin’s breath hitched. He dropped the shards with a clatter and made a run for it. His bare feet slapped against the floor, silk shirt flying behind him like a banner of rebellion.

But Namjoon was faster.

A sharp stride, a long arm, and Seokjin was yanked back mid-sprint. His cry of panic echoed against the high ceiling as Namjoon’s grip locked around his wrist.

“Not so fast,” Namjoon drawled, spinning him around effortlessly. “You almost had me there.”

Seokjin’s free hand clawed at him, nails grazing his cheek. Namjoon didn’t flinch. With a push, he sent Seokjin tumbling onto the bed. The omega scrambled backward on his hands and knees, eyes burning, voice breaking.

“Stay away from me!” Seokjin shouted, his voice cracking under the strain. “Don’t you dare come closer!”

Namjoon just stood at the foot of the bed, wiping the blood from his forehead with his thumb. He stared at the crimson stain against his skin, then chuckled—low and rich.

“You know…” he said, almost amused, “if you really wanted to run, you should’ve done it when I wasn’t here. That was your chance. Waiting for me to arrive? Attacking me? And then trying to escape?”

He shook his head, tongue pressing against his cheek as he sighed dramatically.

“That’s not bravery, Seokjin. That’s stupidity.”

Seokjin’s back hit the headboard, nowhere left to crawl. His chest rose and fell rapidly, tears pricking his eyes though he bit them back with stubborn pride.

“I hate you,” Seokjin hissed, voice trembling. “I never wanted this marriage. I will never accept you.”

Namjoon tilted his head, his gaze locking onto Seokjin’s trembling form. His voice softened—not kind, not gentle, but carrying that terrifying calmness that made his men obey him without hesitation.

“Good,” he said simply. “Hate me all you want. But don’t be foolish enough to think you can escape me.”

Seokjin flinched as Namjoon took a slow step forward, his presence filling the room like a storm.

“Because,” Namjoon continued, crouching at the edge of the bed, his eyes glinting with both amusement and something darker, “the world outside these walls? It belongs to Jungkook. And by extension, it belongs to me. Where exactly do you think you’d run, hm? Back to your family? They gave you up to save themselves.”

Seokjin’s nails dug into the sheets. His throat bobbed as he whispered, “You’re a monster.”

Namjoon’s grin widened. He leaned forward just enough for his breath to fan across Seokjin’s cheek.

“And you married me, sweetheart.”

The omega’s eyes shone with fury and unshed tears.

“Stay away!” Seokjin’s voice cracked, raw and shaking, as he scrambled backward on hands and knees, pressing into the carved wooden headboard like it could swallow him whole. “Don’t you dare—”

Namjoon’s chuckle cut him off. Low. Amused. Dangerous. He wiped blood trickling from his brow with the back of his hand, tongue running briefly over his lip before he tilted his head.

“You know…” His voice dropped into a velvet drawl as he stalked closer, slow, deliberate, “I was actually thinking of going easy tonight. Maybe even soft. Letting my pretty bride breathe a little, hmm?” His smirk deepened. “But then—look at this fire. Look at this fight. Makes me wonder if you want something else entirely.”

He crawled onto the bed, weight sinking the mattress as Seokjin’s eyes went wide. Hands pressed at Namjoon’s chest, slender wrists trembling as he shoved with all his might. Namjoon didn’t move an inch. He caged Seokjin in, one hand braced near the omega’s head, the other gripping his knee to still the frantic kicking.

Seokjin’s breath hitched. Then, as though his fight cracked in half all at once, his body stilled. A sharp sob tore through him, and suddenly he was curling away, turning his face to the side, shoulders shaking. His palms that had pushed so desperately moments before slid weakly down Namjoon’s chest, clutching fabric not to fight, but to hold himself together.

“I hate you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I hate you, I hate this, I don’t—” His words drowned in sobs, collapsing into nothing but trembling gasps.

Seokjin closed his eyes shut as he turned his face away. His unmarked neck and collarbones peeking through the slight unbuttoned shirt because of rough handling. The sight was tempting but Namjoon was not the one to lung at it. Seokjin sobbed and tears continued to flow as he laid there under namjoon like a resigned being. Leaving himself and his fate in the cruelty of events and at the hands of the alpha, hovering over. 

Namjoon froze.

For a moment — a rare, weighted silence stretched between them. His eyes traced the fragile curve of Seokjin’s body, the silk dress wrinkled from his crawl backward, the tear stains bleeding through his makeup. This wasn’t fight anymore. This was defeat.

Namjoon’s smirk faded. He leaned back slowly, giving Seokjin space, then stood from the bed entirely. His tone, when it came, was almost casual — but not unkind.

“Freshen up,” he muttered, wiping more blood from his forehead. “You’re still painted up like a doll, dripping in powder and gloss. Not exactly how I want to see my mate.” He cast Seokjin a sideways glance. “And I should probably patch this up before you decide to throw something heavier next time.”

Without waiting for a reply, he strode toward the second bathroom adjoining the bedroom, tossing his jacket on the chair as he went. Behind him, Seokjin sat curled on the bed, silent except for the muffled sound of quiet crying, his hands clutching at silk skirts as though they could shield him.

Namjoon disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the villa’s silence once more.

* * *

The villa was hushed, except for the distant drip of the bathroom faucet.

Seokjin lay curled on the far end of the bed, wrapped so tightly in the thick blankets it looked as though he was trying to disappear inside them. His skin was still damp from the shower, the faint smell of rose soap clinging to him instead of the heavy powder of bridal makeup. His hair, darker now without gel or spray, stuck in damp strands to his forehead. He faced the wall, eyes half-shut, though he wasn’t asleep. He couldn’t be.

Every time he blinked, he saw it again—the way Namjoon had crawled onto the bed, the mocking glint in his eye, the pressure of his weight above him, and then his own shameful collapse into sobs.

Pathetic. He cursed himself in silence. So pathetic.

The bathroom door clicked open. Seokjin’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move. He listened as Namjoon’s slow steps crossed the room. A dip on the mattress followed—on the opposite side.

For the first time since the wedding ceremony, there was no sharp quip, no dominance-filled smirk, no cruel teasing. Just… silence. Heavy and strange.

Minutes stretched. Seokjin stayed cocooned, eyes burning from tears, body stiff with the ache of earlier struggle. The silence itself was suffocating.

And then—

Knock.

Sharp. Unexpected. The sound cut through the air like a gunshot.

Seokjin jolted upright inside his cocoon, wide eyes darting toward the door. His heart slammed against his ribs.

No one was supposed to be here. This villa, he had been told, was “theirs.” No servants to hover, no family to intrude. Just him and Namjoon—trapped together in this gilded cage. So who could it be?

His thoughts spiraled. Did Namjoon call someone? Did he summon other alphas? Is this—

Horrible rumors clawed their way through his memory. Tales whispered about the Mafia empire. Brutal traditions. Omegas passed around like possessions between brothers or inner circle leaders, treated as offerings to prove loyalty. He’d dismissed them as grotesque exaggerations—until now.

His chest tightened, panic trembling through his fingers. His lips parted soundlessly.

The knock came again. Louder.

Namjoon sighed. “Relax.”

He rose from the bed, running a hand through his still-damp hair. Seokjin’s wide eyes followed him, heart galloping in his throat.

The door unlocked, opened.

And then Namjoon turned—

—holding a large cardboard pizza box balanced in one hand, two cold cans of soda in the other.

“…What,” he muttered, one brow arched, “are you looking at me like that for?”

Seokjin stared. The wild, terrifying images that had gripped his mind a moment ago scattered uselessly. His body, wound tight as a bowstring, loosened—only to unravel completely. His eyes flooded. His lips trembled.

The relief was so violent, it broke him.

Tears spilled down his cheeks in hot, unstoppable streams. He clutched the blanket tighter around himself as though it could shield him from the humiliation of crying yet again, but the sob burst out anyway.

Namjoon’s smirk faded immediately. He blinked, gaze flicking from the pizza box to Seokjin’s wet, crumpled face. Without a word, he strode forward, dropped the food and drinks onto the nightstand, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped.

Seokjin hiccupped, turning his face away, but his shoulders shook violently.

“Hey,” Namjoon said softly—not the mocking softness he usually wielded, but something steadier. His hand twitched as if he meant to reach out, but he stopped himself halfway, fingers flexing in the air before curling into his thigh instead.

“Don’t—” Seokjin’s voice cracked, muffled by the blanket. “Don’t… d-do that.”

Namjoon frowned. “Do what?”

Seokjin’s breathing was uneven. “Scare me like that. Make me think…” His words broke apart again, choked by tears. “I thought you were going to—”

He couldn’t finish.

The silence between them pressed in. The faint fizz of one soda can shifting in the box was the only sound.

Namjoon exhaled slowly, leaning back on his hands. His gaze lingered on the omega curled up beside him, cheeks wet, lips bitten red. He shook his head once, muttering under his breath, almost like he was scolding himself.

“You’ve really got some fucked up stories about us in your head, huh?” His tone was dry, but not cruel. Not tonight.

Seokjin didn’t answer. He only curled further into the blanket, tears still leaking steadily down his face, mixing with the remnants of rose soap on his skin.

Namjoon’s eyes softened, just barely.

He nudged the pizza box toward him. “Eat. Or cry. Whichever you need first.”

The fizz of soda cans was the only sound for a long while, sharp and small in the silence of the villa bedroom.

Seokjin had turned away again, face hidden half under the blanket, his shoulders trembling in stubborn waves. His tears wouldn’t stop, even though he tried to swallow them back, even though each one embarrassed him more than the last.

Namjoon stared at him for a few long moments, jaw tight. He dragged a hand over his face with a sigh, then reached for the pizza box.

The lid creaked open. Warmth and the smell of melted cheese drifted out, a ridiculous comfort in the middle of the suffocating night.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Namjoon muttered, dragging out a steaming slice. He leaned over, holding it near Seokjin’s blanketed cocoon. “Here.”

Seokjin blinked, his lashes clumped wet. His lip trembled as he gave Namjoon a wounded look. “…I don’t want it.”

Namjoon’s brows shot up. “You do. You just don’t know it yet.”

He shoved the slice a little closer. “You think I didn’t notice? You’ve eaten nothing since morning. Not even a crumb. I’m not about to have my brand new husband faint like some glass doll.”

Seokjin flinched, cheeks coloring at the word husband. His throat bobbed. “I-I can’t—”

“Bullshit,” Namjoon cut him off flatly. “You’re crying like the world’s ending, and I’m trying to feed you. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Seokjin’s eyes widened. “H-Harder? For who?”

“For me,” Namjoon deadpanned, holding the pizza until grease almost dripped on the sheets. “Because an empty stomach makes me go dumb. I can’t think straight when I’m starving, and if you’re starving too, then the two of us together? That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

Despite himself, Seokjin let out a broken sound between a hiccup and a laugh. His tears still fell, but his chest loosened just a little.

Namjoon’s lips curved in the faintest smirk. “There. That’s better. Now eat before I shove it in your mouth myself.”

With trembling fingers, Seokjin reached out from under the blanket. He took the slice gingerly, like it might burn him, and lifted it to his lips. The cheese stretched as he took the first tiny bite.

The taste—warm, salty, comforting—made his throat ache. His eyes filled again, though this time he tried to hide it, chewing slowly.

Namjoon cracked open one of the sodas, the fizz loud in the silence. He handed it over without looking directly at Seokjin. “Drink. Or choke. Your choice.”

Seokjin sniffled, wiping his face clumsily with the back of his hand before taking the can. His fingers brushed Namjoon’s for half a second. Too warm. Too close.

He sipped. The cool sweetness washed down the lump in his throat. He dared another bite of pizza. Then another.

Namjoon leaned back against the headboard, watching with sharp, unreadable eyes. “Good boy,” he muttered under his breath, almost too low for Seokjin to hear.

Seokjin stilled. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, a fresh wave of tears welled up.

“Hey—” Namjoon groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Why the hell are you crying again? I just gave you food, not poison.”

Seokjin ducked his head, voice breaking around sniffles. “You’re… you’re so confusing.”

Namjoon chuckled darkly. “Yeah, well. Get used to it.”

The omega quieted after that, the sound of his sniffles breaking the silence every few minutes as he ate the slice in slow, careful bites. Every sip of soda sounded too loud, too fragile in the heavy night air.

Namjoon stayed where he was, eyes occasionally flicking toward him, silent except for the deep sighs he let out now and then.

And for the first time since the ceremony, Seokjin’s stomach wasn’t empty.

* * *

The villa was still heavy with silence when Seokjin padded down the staircase, the strap of his satchel clenched in his hand like a lifeline. His head throbbed from lack of sleep—dark smudges painting his delicate under eyes, lips pressed into a thin line of determination.

No matter what happened, he told himself, he would not back down.

But the sight that greeted him in the dining room stopped him cold.

Namjoon was already awake.

He sat with the calm ease of someone who owned every inch of this space, shoulders broad beneath the loose fall of a white shirt, collar slightly undone. A mug of tea steamed in his hand, and the soft glow from the tall windows cast his features in sharp relief. The faint ink of tattoos peeked at his throat as he leaned lazily back, scrolling through something on his tablet.

When his eyes flicked up and landed on Seokjin, he smiled. Crooked. Unhurried.

“Well,” Namjoon’s voice rolled low, roughened by sleep. “Where’s my new spouse off to at eight in the morning… looking like he hasn’t closed his eyes all night?”

Seokjin froze mid-step. His grip on the strap tightened until his knuckles blanched.

“None of your business,” he bit out, chin tilting higher, as if the angle alone could shield him from the way Namjoon’s gaze pinned him.

Namjoon raised a brow, expression unreadable. “Mm. Wrong answer.” He set his tablet down, wrapping both hands around his mug. “We’re married now, Seokjin. What you do, where you go, who you meet—it’s all my business.” His voice was calm, almost lazy, but the weight of possession threaded through it like steel.

Something inside Seokjin snapped.

“You can’t control my life!” he burst out, voice louder than he intended, echoing off the walls. His breath came fast, his chest heaving as all the bottled-up fear, frustration, and sleepless rage spilled over. “I don’t care who you are or what kind of power you think you have—you won’t take this away from me!”

Namjoon didn’t flinch.

Instead, he tilted his head, watching Seokjin with the same calm intensity one might give a cornered animal—curious, patient, almost amused. Slowly, deliberately, he set his mug down on the table with a soft clink.

His lips curved into something between a smirk and a knowing smile.

“Fiery,” he murmured. “I like it.”

Seokjin blinked, thrown off by the lack of anger, the absence of the sharp bite he was bracing for.

“You think this is a joke?” His voice trembled, though he forced it higher, harsher. “You think you can laugh while I—while I fight for what’s mine?”

Namjoon chuckled, low and quiet, shaking his head. “No, sweetheart. I think you’ve already decided who I am before you’ve even given me a chance to prove it.” His eyes darkened just slightly, voice dropping.

Seokjin’s throat worked as he stood frozen, strap of his satchel biting into his palm.

He hissed, though softer this time, “you can’t control me.”

Namjoon’s lips curved—not in mockery, but in that infuriatingly calm way that made it feel like he had already won this argument before it began. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, tea forgotten for the moment.

“You think that’s what I’m doing?” His tone was steady, deliberate, each word dropping with the weight of unshakable authority. “If I wanted control, Jin, you wouldn’t be standing there with your little bag on your shoulder.” His eyes flicked pointedly to the strap clutched so tightly in Seokjin’s grip. “You’d be upstairs, locked in our room, and you’d come down only when I said so.”

Seokjin’s stomach lurched at the cold certainty in that voice. His nails dug into the leather strap, breath shaky. "If I wanted to control your life, Jin… last night would have looked very different. It would have ended with you in fever, shivering and whimpering from pain fo your fresh mating bite and your back with legs like jelly. You getting what i am saying?" Namjoon stopped for a few seconds and looked at Seokjin. Really looked at him, his face white and lips pale with expressions like he could faint just now.

Namjoon tilted his head, gaze sharpening. “So don’t mistake my watching for shackles. If you’re walking out of this house every morning, I want to know where you’re going, what you’re doing, and whether you’re taking care of yourself. That’s not control, Seokjin.” His lips curved, a faint, dangerous smile. “That’s what a husband does.”

The word husband lodged like a thorn in Seokjin’s chest.

His eyes burned, but he forced his chin higher. “Don’t call yourself that. You didn’t earn it.”

Something flickered in Namjoon’s eyes—heat, amusement, maybe even approval—but he didn’t rise to the bait. He let the silence stretch, the kind of silence that made Seokjin’s pulse pound in his ears. Then Namjoon’s voice cut through, low and certain:

“Sit.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t shouted. But the command curled through the air, coiling around Seokjin’s spine like an iron leash.

“I don’t—” Seokjin began, the protest weak even to his own ears.

Namjoon’s brow lifted, expression unreadable. “You want to fight me on breakfast too? What did food ever do to you?”

That earned a twitch at the corner of Seokjin’s lips—something close to a frown, something close to breaking. His stomach chose that moment to betray him, growling low and angry in the hush of the dining room.

Namjoon chuckled, leaning back again, victory gleaming in his eyes. “Ah. There it is. The real reason for the fire this morning.” He reached across the table, tearing a piece of toast in half with his long fingers before biting into it. “Empty stomach. Makes you sharp-tongued. Makes me dumb. Neither of us wants that.”

Seokjin’s cheeks flushed hot. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, but his feet betrayed him, carrying him to the chair across from Namjoon.

He sat stiffly, satchel still looped around his shoulder, as if keeping it close could protect him from the weight of the alpha’s presence.

Namjoon watched him, a wolfish curve tugging at his lips. “Good boy.”

Seokjin froze, eyes snapping up to glare at him. “Don’t. Call me that.”

Namjoon only smirked, reaching for the tea again. “Eat first. Argue later.”

Reluctantly, Seokjin reached for a slice of toast, his hands trembling faintly though he tried to disguise it. He chewed in silence, suspicion in every line of his body, eyes darting up only when Namjoon wasn’t looking.

But Namjoon was always looking.

Always watching.

The scrape of Seokjin’s chair echoed faintly against the marble floor as he lowered himself, movements sharp, precise, like every angle of his body was protesting. He reached for a slice of toast without looking at Namjoon, as if refusing eye contact could shield him.

Namjoon, of course, noticed.

“Mm.” The alpha hummed around a sip of tea, his gaze lazy but unrelenting. “So, what’s the big rush this morning?” He set the cup down with a soft clink. “Leaving before breakfast, dark circles under your eyes… What’s got you so restless, Jin?”

Seokjin kept chewing, refusing to dignify the question. His satchel strap still clung to his shoulder, his hand pressing against it like an anchor.

“None of your business,” he muttered finally, wiping crumbs from his lips.

Namjoon leaned forward, one arm draping casually over the back of his chair, posture deceptively relaxed. “You really need to work on your lying voice.”

Seokjin snapped his head up, glaring. “I’m not lying.”

Namjoon’s mouth curled into a slow, knowing smirk. “You are. Because if it was none of my business, you wouldn’t be bristling like a cornered cat every time I ask.”

Seokjin bristled harder. “Stop—Stop treating me like some child who needs managing. I can handle my own life.”

Namjoon let out a low chuckle, deep enough that it vibrated in the stillness of the dining room. “Oh, you’re handling it so well. Look at you—sleep-deprived, ready to collapse, running out with an empty stomach, glaring at your husband like he’s the villain in some drama you’ve scripted.”

Seokjin’s jaw clenched. “You’re not my husband.”

Namjoon arched a brow. “No? Then what was that ceremony last week? The rings? The vows? Jungkook signing the papers himself?” He sipped his tea leisurely. “Seems real enough to me.”

Seokjin’s chest tightened, fingers curling on the edge of his plate. “That doesn’t mean you own me. Jungkook promised me I could study. I’m not giving that up.”

Namjoon tilted his head, studying him with something sharper than amusement now. “And who said you had to?”

The words caught Seokjin off guard. He blinked, suspicion flooding in where defiance had been. “Don’t play games with me.”

Namjoon smirked again, tearing another piece of toast. “I’m not. I’m telling you—you can go, you can study, you can chase your dreams, Jin. Just don’t look at me like I’m the monster waiting to snatch them away from you.”

Seokjin froze, confusion sparking in his eyes, but mistrust quickly followed. “You’re saying it so easily. Like it doesn’t matter to you. But it does. Alphas like you—”

“Careful.” Namjoon’s voice dropped, calm but edged, like a blade sliding from its sheath.

Seokjin’s throat bobbed, but he forced himself to continue. “Alphas like you always say one thing, but then you—”

“I’m not alphas like me,” Namjoon cut in, tone firm. He leaned forward, gaze pinning Seokjin to the chair. “I’m me. And when I tell you you’re free to go to your lectures, I mean it. I won’t chain you in this house. But—” he let the word hang, sharp as steel, “—I expect you to tell me where you’re going, who you’re meeting, and when you’ll be back.”

Seokjin’s nostrils flared, anger sparking again. “See? That’s exactly what I meant. Control—”

“Responsibility,” Namjoon corrected smoothly, interrupting without hesitation. “You’re mine now, Jin. That means your safety is my business. If something happens to you, it falls on me. You think I’ll just sit here sipping tea while my omega runs into the world alone, exhausted and unguarded?”

Seokjin’s breath caught at my omega. His cheeks flushed, partly in anger, partly in something else he refused to name.

“I don’t need guarding,” he spat.

Namjoon smirked, voice warm with mockery. “Then why do you look like a stiff breeze could knock you flat? Those eye bags alone are screaming for someone to take care of you.”

Seokjin gaped at him, color rising to his face. “I—You—!”

Namjoon chuckled, low and unhurried, before gesturing to Seokjin’s plate. “Eat more. I don’t want the professors calling me when you faint in class. That would be embarrassing for both of us.”

“I would never faint,” Seokjin snapped, snatching another piece of toast and biting into it like he was proving a point.

Namjoon only watched, smug and satisfied, sipping his tea again. “Good boy.”

Seokjin choked, coughing into his sleeve, glaring daggers at him over the rim. “Stop calling me that!”

Namjoon tilted his head, all teeth in his smile now. “Then stop acting like one.”

Seokjin ate in silence after that, but every bite felt like sand in his mouth. The weight of Namjoon’s eyes on him was unbearable—steady, patient, infuriating. He shifted in his seat, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, tapped his fingers against the table as if the rhythm might drown out the alpha’s gaze.

But Namjoon didn’t waver. He sat back in his chair, sipping his tea with the calmness of a man who had already won.

Finally, Seokjin snapped, glaring across the table. “Stop staring at me.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked. “Why? You’re very entertaining to watch.”

Seokjin bristled, cheeks heating. “I’m not—” he shut his mouth quickly, clamping down before he gave Namjoon more fuel to mock him with.

A small silence stretched, broken only by the clink of Namjoon setting his cup down. Then, smoothly, the alpha asked, “When do your classes start?”

Seokjin blinked, wary. “…In half an hour.”

Namjoon pushed his chair back and stood, stretching his shoulders with easy grace. “Then we’re going to be late.”

The omega froze, toast halfway to his lips. “We?”

Namjoon smirked, glancing down at him. “Why? Shouldn’t I be taking my husband wherever he wants? Isn’t that what good husbands do?”

Seokjin’s mouth fell open, shock painted across his face. “You—you’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Namjoon replied, voice thick with amusement. He reached for his jacket, sliding it on as if the matter were already settled. “What kind of man would I be if I let my omega wander off alone, exhausted and defensive, when he could be driven in comfort instead?”

Seokjin shot up from his chair, the legs screeching against the marble. “I don’t need a chauffeur! I can go by myself—”

Namjoon leaned close as he passed, his voice dropping to a warm, dangerous murmur against Seokjin’s ear. “That’s not what this is about, Jin. It’s about me making sure you’re safe. And about you learning what it means to have someone who won’t let you fall.”

Seokjin’s heart thudded painfully. He clenched his fists, caught between anger and something softer he didn’t dare admit.

Namjoon straightened, already moving toward the door. “Come on,” he called casually over his shoulder. “Unless you’d rather explain to your professor why you were late because you wasted time arguing with your husband.”

Seokjin groaned under his breath, but his feet betrayed him, moving to follow.

Namjoon slowed the car to a stop right at the edge of the university gates. The morning bustle of students was alive outside—groups laughing, a couple rushing with notebooks in hand, the scent of hot coffee and freshly baked bread lingering from the cafés nearby.

Seokjin was ready to bolt out. He had already unbuckled, fingers impatient as he reached for the handle—
Only for the door to refuse him. Locked.

He blinked, pulled harder. Still locked. His frustration spiked, his chest heaving as he turned to Namjoon, who sat behind the wheel looking infuriatingly composed, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift.

Seokjin’s voice dripped venom.
“Open the door.”

Namjoon’s eyebrow arched, slow and deliberate.
“You haven’t told me when to pick you up.”

Seokjin scoffed. “You’re not picking me up. I never asked you to—”

But before he could finish, Namjoon’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, and with a casual flick of his wrist, he shifted the gear. The car began to roll backward, pulling away from the university gates.

Seokjin’s eyes widened. “What—what are you doing?!”

Namjoon didn’t even glance at him, his deep voice calm, steady—infuriatingly calm.
“If you won’t tell me, then we can go back home. It’s only twenty-five minutes away. You don’t need to come here if you can’t follow something this simple.”

The scenery outside shifted—university gates growing smaller, the crowd of students fading into the distance. Panic rushed up Seokjin’s throat. He hit the lock button again, useless, the sound of it clicking futile under Namjoon’s control.

“Stop the car! I—I’ll be late! Just stop, damn it!” Seokjin’s voice cracked, panic edging into it, fingers curling helplessly in his lap.

Namjoon remained silent. His eyes stayed forward, expression unreadable, the faint muscle in his jaw twitching as he drove them further and further away.

Seokjin’s heart pounded. He had fought his whole life for his education, for his dream, and here it was slipping out of his hands. His breath hitched, anger burning but desperation louder. He swallowed hard, voice coming out much softer.

“…Three o’clock. Behind the west library gate. That’s when you can pick me up.”

Namjoon’s eyes flicked sideways, catching the way Seokjin’s lashes clung to unshed tears, the flush high on his cheeks. He hummed, satisfied, and finally let the smallest smile tug at his lips.
“Good boy.”

But the car didn’t stop. Didn’t turn back.

Seokjin frowned, disbelief tightening in his chest.
“Then—then why aren’t you stopping? Why aren’t you turning around?”

Namjoon’s smirk deepened.
“Because you need to learn. You’ll never refuse to answer me again. Consider this your punishment.”

The word punishment cut into Seokjin’s chest like ice. He whipped toward him, eyes burning.
“You can’t—! Namjoon, please—please don’t do this! I’ll miss my class, I’ll—” His voice broke, the rage faltering into raw panic as the city blurred past the window, the university now completely out of sight.

His breaths turned uneven, his pride shattering piece by piece as he grabbed Namjoon’s arm without thinking, clutching hard.
“I’ll never do it again, I promise! I’ll tell you everything, I won’t argue, just—please, Namjoon, don’t take this away from me. Please. I’m begging you.”

The desperation in his voice, the way his fingers trembled on Namjoon’s sleeve, made the alpha’s throat tighten. Namjoon’s grip on the steering wheel flexed, his composure cracking only for himself. He finally slowed the car, pulling into a side lane, the heavy silence thick between them.

He turned, finally meeting Seokjin’s tearful eyes, and murmured low—
“You’ll beg so sweetly every time, won’t you?”

Seokjin kept silent and staring at Namjoon, who just smiled cruelly at Seokjin and accelerated the car.

Seokjin’s relief when Namjoon slowed down was short-lived. He thought the car would turn back toward the university gates, but instead, Namjoon kept his course straight, the familiar route leading them away, away from campus.

Seokjin’s stomach dropped. His throat tightened as realization hit.

“No—no, no, please, don’t—don’t take me back.” His voice cracked, hands clutching at the seatbelt like it might anchor him in place. “Namjoon, I’ll listen, I swear. I’ll tell you everything from now on. Please don’t do this, please don’t take this from me.”

Seokjin’s chest heaved, tears sliding hot and helpless down his cheeks. His pleas softened, the fire in his voice turning to ash.
“Please, Namjoon. I’ll listen. I’ll tell you everything—when I leave, when I come back, where I go. I’ll never lie, I promise. Just… just don’t take this from me.”

Namjoon’s gaze remained fixed on the road, posture unshaken, his voice like iron wrapped in velvet.

At last, Namjoon exhaled, a sound more deliberate than casual. His lips tugged into a faint smirk, his tone soft but steel-laced.
“That’s better. Good boy.”

Seokjin’s chest lurched at the words — humiliation and fragile hope tangling painfully. He wiped his wet cheek with the back of his hand, voice trembling.
“Then—then stop the car. Please, turn around.”

Namjoon’s eyes flickered toward him, lingering for a beat. For the first time, his gaze softened just slightly — not sympathy, but something darker, quieter, as if watching Seokjin fall apart stirred a part of him he didn’t care to name.

But the smirk deepened, and his voice dropped lower, cruel and calm.
“No.”

Seokjin’s breath stuttered. “W–what do you mean no?”

A low chuckle slipped from Namjoon, curling around the cabin like smoke.
“You’ll never refuse me again. And this,” he drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel, voice even, “is your punishment. One week without classes. After that—maybe—I’ll think about letting you go back.”

The words crushed the last thread of Seokjin’s composure. His tears flowed freely, shoulders shaking as he half-sobbed, half-shouted.
“No! Please! You can’t do that—I’ll fall behind, I’ll lose everything! Namjoon, I’m begging you, don’t—don’t ruin me like this!”

Still, Namjoon didn’t flinch. His profile was unreadable, carved in shadow and light. The faintest frown tugged between his brows, almost invisible — as though Seokjin’s collapse brushed something against the edges of his iron will. But he gave no ground.

The sleek car slid into the villa’s driveway at last. The iron gates closed behind them with a hollow clang, final and unforgiving.

Seokjin was trembling, his bag clutched against his chest like a shield, cheeks streaked with tears. His sobs had dwindled to hiccups, every breath rattling, fragile.

Namjoon killed the engine, the sudden quiet deafening. He turned his head at last, eyes sweeping over the omega’s broken state. For a second, his jaw tightened — just a second — as though the sight pulled at something deep, something he refused to acknowledge.

Then he leaned back, voice smooth, merciless.
“One week, Seokjin. That’s your punishment. If you want your classes, you’ll remember who decides.”

And with that, he pushed his door open, stepping out into the crisp air, leaving Seokjin crumpled in the suffocating silence of the locked car, lips trembling, shoulders shaking, hiccuping softly as the villa loomed around them like a prison.

Seokjin stormed up the marble staircase two steps at a time, his breath hitching, cheeks wet, chest burning with humiliation and fury. His footsteps echoed angrily against the pristine walls of Namjoon’s villa, sharp and defiant like a child’s tantrum—but it was all he had left. Namjoon hadn’t even followed him inside, hadn’t cared enough to argue, hadn’t reached out when Seokjin had begged in the car until his throat was raw. He had simply walked inside like nothing had happened, murmured a low, "Don’t slam the door,” and left him standing there.

So Seokjin did slam it. Hard. The door rattled in its frame, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the choking sob that tore out of him the moment he was alone. He sank against the wood, hugging himself, shaking.

The weight of it hit him like a cruel reminder—he wasn’t free. He was owned.

Sniffling, trembling, Seokjin scrambled to his bedside table, his fingers fumbling for his phone. Only one person could fix this. Only one person who had promised him everything would be alright. His mother.

The line connected after two rings. “Eomma…” His voice cracked, raw with tears. “Eomma, please—”

“Jinnie? Why do you sound like that?” Her tone was warm, but distracted, as if she were stirring something on the stove, or folding laundry. Too normal. Too distant for the storm ripping him apart.

He pressed the phone closer, as if he could crawl into it, into her arms. “Eomma, he’s not letting me go! Namjoon—he’s controlling me, he locked the doors, he dragged me back home, and he said I can’t go to my classes for a whole week! He’s punishing me like—like I’m a child, like I’m his—his property!” His voice pitched higher, breaking. “You promised me! You and appa both—you said Jungkook told you he’d let me finish my degree, that Namjoon wouldn’t stand in the way. You promised!”

There was silence on the other end. Long enough that his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Finally, his mother sighed. A soft, resigned sound that made Seokjin’s stomach drop. “Jinnie… you need to stop this nonsense.”

His breath caught. “Nonsense?!”

“You’re married now.” Her voice carried a firmness he had never heard directed at him before. “Namjoon-ssi is your alpha, your husband. You’re his to take care of, his to guide. Do you understand? He knows what’s best for you. This… this modeling, these childish dreams—posing in front of strangers, being displayed on billboards like some product—no sane alpha would want that for his omega.”

Seokjin’s knees gave out and he collapsed onto the edge of his bed, phone clutched tight. His chest hurt. His throat burned. “Eomma, don’t—don’t say that. You said—” His voice broke into sobs. “You said you’d support me—”

“We promised you security. We gave you to a man who can protect you, who can provide for you. That’s more important than some silly degree or catwalks. Stop being dramatic. You have a new life now, and your place is with Namjoon. Focus on him. On being a good spouse. Forget this… nonsense.”

Her words were sharp, final. Like a blade cutting clean through every fragile strand of hope he’d been clinging to.

Seokjin’s sobs turned jagged, ugly. He pulled the phone away, staring at it through blurred vision. He wanted to scream. To beg. To hurl the phone against the wall. Instead, he whispered, broken, “How could you…?”

But the line had already gone silent. She’d hung up.

Seokjin curled forward, pressing the phone against his chest as if it were his heart. His entire body shook with grief, fury, betrayal. He had no one. Not his family. Not his freedom. And worst of all, not himself.

Outside the closed door, silence stretched. Namjoon hadn’t interfered, hadn’t come upstairs. Maybe he knew exactly what Seokjin would hear from that call. Maybe that was why he’d left him alone—to let the last piece of his rebellion snap on its own.

Chapter Text

The curtains were drawn half-shut, pale threads of morning light spilling through in stripes across the large bed. Yoongi stirred first, as he always did, his body instinctively attuned to Jimin’s steady breathing curled into his side. For a long moment he simply watched — the way Jimin’s lashes fanned out against flushed cheeks, the way his lips parted in soft breaths. Yoongi's body was here, with Jimin curled against him like he had always belonged there — but his mind drifted backward, as it sometimes did, into the rough history that had brought them here.

They weren’t fated. Not even close.

Their bond was ink on a paper, signatures and blood seals signed by two rival families who despised each other but had no choice. Park syndicate and Jeon's power had been tearing at each other’s throats for years — in trade, in territory, in influence. Jungkook’s growing empire pressed families like an unmovable weight, and to survive, they needed each other. Or so one's father decided and one's boss.

So they were arranged. Yoongi remembered it vividly: the night Jimin was presented to him, pale and trembling in ceremonial silks, freshly came back from his medical intern job at that time, but with fire in his eyes that betrayed no fear. A forced binding, the bite exchanged not with tenderness but with grim duty. Yoongi had hated every moment of it — hated the way his wolf raged at being forced, hated the way Jimin’s scent clung to him after.

They had been nothing but war inside four walls.

Their first month as a “mated pair” had been a cycle of arguments so loud the guards outside had shuffled nervously, unsure whether to intervene. Jimin’s sharp tongue had been merciless. “You think you own me because of a mark? You think I’ll bend?” Yoongi’s reply had been equally brutal: “You’re a leash around my neck, nothing more.”

There had been attempts, too. Quiet, petty, sometimes dangerous. Jimin once slipped something bitter into Yoongi’s glass during a family dinner, hoping to make him sick before a council meeting. Yoongi caught the scent of poison instantly, smirking as he downed it anyway, making a point — though he spent the night doubled over, pale with pain. Another time, Yoongi deliberately “forgot” to warn Jimin about an ambush at a border exchange, certain the omega’s guards would handle it. Jimin had barely escaped, furious and screaming at him afterward, “Are you trying to kill me?”

He had been. They both had been, in their own ways.

And yet… neither succeeded.

Instead, their hatred had frayed into something else. Yoongi couldn’t ignore how Jimin carried himself, all fire and elegance, even in defiance. Couldn’t ignore the way his scent—sweet yet biting, like citrus rind—had begun to anchor him in the middle of long nights.

The memory never left Yoongi.

It came to him sometimes in fragments — the rattle of gunfire, the stench of mud and copper, the scream of thunder splitting the sky — but it always stitched itself back together the same way.

The mission had been a setup.

The rain had been merciless that night. It fell in sheets, drowning out the shouts of men and the staccato crack of rifles, turning the ground into a sucking, blood-muddied swamp. Yoongi remembered flashes — the sting of bullets tearing into his body, Jimin’s hands pressing down on his side, the faint copper tang of his own blood flooding his mouth — and then nothing but blackness.

When he woke again, it was to the faint hum of generators, the smell of disinfectant, and the muffled voices of their men outside the med-tent. His entire body felt like lead, heavy and aching, but alive.

Alive.

Yoongi turned his head, and the sight he caught froze something in him.

Jimin was there, sitting slumped against the edge of the cot. His white shirt was ruined — stained dark with dried blood that wasn’t all Yoongi’s, mud splattered up to his elbows, hair plastered in sticky clumps as if he hadn’t had the chance to wash. His hands… Yoongi noticed his hands first: raw, trembling slightly, still marked with dried streaks of red where he’d worked without pause. His eyes were ringed dark, lids swollen, as if he hadn’t slept since the fight.

Yoongi swallowed against the tightness in his throat. His voice came out low, hoarse.
“You… you could’ve left me.”

Jimin startled, blinking rapidly as if pulled out of a trance. Then his eyes sharpened, glowing faintly even in the dim tent. “What?”

“You could’ve run,” Yoongi rasped, shifting against the pillows. The stitches in his side pulled, making him wince. “No one would’ve blamed you. Hell, they’d probably think you were smart for cutting your losses. I wasn’t worth—”

“Don’t you dare,” Jimin cut in sharply, his voice cracking like a whip. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, the exhaustion making him look more dangerous, not less. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi blinked at the fire in him, even now, after everything.

Jimin’s chest rose and fell fast, words spilling out like he had held them too long.
“What would’ve happened to me if something happened to you, huh?” He leaned closer, trembling hands fisting in the blanket near Yoongi’s chest. “Do you even think about that?”

Yoongi frowned faintly. “…You’d survive. You’re stronger than you think.”

“Survive?” Jimin’s laugh was hollow, bitter, almost cruel. His lips curled but his eyes shone with unshed tears. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Alpha. If you died out there, I wouldn’t have been given the dignity of surviving for myself. I’d be a widowed omega. I’d get—what? Ten days to mourn you, maximum. And then? Then I’d be passed off like a bargaining chip again, sold into another family tie, another alliance. That’s all I am to them. A connection.”

Yoongi’s wolf snarled, the sound ripping out of his throat before he could stop it. His hand shot up, fisting into the front of Jimin’s ruined shirt, dragging him close. His teeth bared, eyes glowing red in the shadows.
“I would never let that happen,” he growled, each word bitten off through clenched teeth. “Never. They would rip my corpse apart before I let them touch you again.”

Jimin froze for a heartbeat, breath catching in his throat, the proximity making his pulse hammer against Yoongi’s fingers. Then, with a violent jerk, he pulled himself free, stumbling a step back. His own voice rose, sharp and broken all at once.

“Then stay alive, damn it!” His eyes blazed, and for once it wasn’t with defiance or disdain, but raw fear. “If you don’t want me to be passed around like some political gift, then don’t you dare die on me. Stay alive. That’s the only way.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Only the steady hum of the generator filled the air, broken by Yoongi’s ragged breathing and the pounding of his own heart.

Yoongi held his gaze. For once, he didn’t argue. He didn’t mock, didn’t deflect with dry wit. He just looked at Jimin — this omega he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t chosen — and for the first time, he realized he couldn’t imagine the world without him in it.

Leaning closer, Yoongi brushed his nose against the curve of Jimin’s ear and whispered low, raspy from sleep, “Wake up, baby.” His hand traced lazy patterns along Jimin’s waist.

Jimin whined softly, burrowing further into his chest like a kitten. “Mm… five more minutes…” he mumbled.

Yoongi chuckled under his breath, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, then lower, to his temple. “I’ll give you five kisses instead.” He kept his word, trailing soft kisses, each one lingering a second longer. By the fifth, his lips brushed Jimin’s mouth, coaxing him awake.

Jimin blinked open his eyes with a little hum, arms sliding up to curl around Yoongi’s neck. Their mouths met properly now, slow and warm, both smiling into it. It was an easy, practiced affection — two people who knew each other’s breaths as well as their own.

The sound that broke them apart wasn’t a knock or a call. It was a sharp little gasp.

Both turned their heads at once.

On the other side of the bed, Taehyung had sat up, his hair a chaotic halo of sleep, his plushie clutched tightly to his chest. His eyes were wide, scandalized.

“You— you’re kissing!” he blurted, voice high and horrified, as if he’d caught them committing a crime.

Jimin turned crimson instantly, burying his face in the pillow. “Oh my god—Tae!”

Yoongi just blinked at him, calm as stone. “Yeah. We are.”

Taehyung’s jaw dropped. “But—why?”

Jimin peeked through his fingers, stammering. “B-because… we’re mates, Tae. Mates… love each other. That’s what you saw.”

Taehyung’s mouth made a little “o.” His grip on the plushie tightened as he tilted his head, confusion furrowing his brows. “So… kissing means love?”

“Sometimes,” Yoongi said flatly. “Not always. Depends on who’s doing it.”

Taehyung gasped again, scandal piling on top of confusion. “Then… if I kiss my plushie, that means I love him too?”

Jimin couldn’t help it — laughter bubbled out despite his embarrassment. “You already love him, Tae. You don’t need kisses to prove it.”

Still, Taehyung leaned down with great seriousness and planted a loud kiss on the plushie’s forehead. He looked back up, satisfied. “Now he knows for sure.”

Yoongi huffed a laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

Taehyung, emboldened, wriggled closer and asked again, “Do you kiss every day?”

“Yes,” Yoongi answered without hesitation.

“All the time,” Jimin added softly, his cheeks still pink.

Taehyung’s eyes widened. “Even when you’re mad?”

“Especially when we’re mad,” Yoongi replied, settling back against the pillows. “It fixes things faster than yelling.”

Taehyung gasped like he’d just discovered a secret of the universe. “So kissing is magic?!”

“Something like that,” Jimin said, smiling at his innocent wonder.

Taehyung nodded gravely, as if storing the lesson away for later. Then, without another word, he flopped down with his plushie, pulling the blanket over his head.

Yoongi and Jimin exchanged a glance — one embarrassed, one amused — before Jimin groaned softly and tugged the blanket down. “Come on, TaeTae, Time to get up.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Jimin was ushering Taehyung down the hall with a folded bundle of fresh clothes balanced neatly in his arms. The younger omega was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, lips pursed into a stubborn pout.

“Come on, Tae,” Jimin coaxed softly, nudging him toward the bathroom. “A warm shower will help you feel fresh.”

Taehyung dragged his feet like a sulky child being taken to school. “I don’t need it,” he muttered, hugging his plushie close until Jimin gently pried it from his arms.

“Yes, you do.” Jimin smoothed his hair back with practiced affection, holding out the bundle. “Here. Let me help you—”

“I can do it on my own!” Taehyung snapped, voice pitched higher than usual, clutching the clothes against his chest like a shield. His damp lashes framed wide eyes that made the defiance look more like a tantrum than rebellion.

Jimin arched a brow, patient as ever. “Tae, just let me—”

“No!” Taehyung stamped a foot, cheeks puffing, his little scowl so earnest that Yoongi — leaning casually in the doorway with his arms crossed — almost chuckled. “I’m not a baby. I can shower alone!”

For a heartbeat, Jimin just studied him — this fragile, strange boy dropped into their lives, whose innocence sometimes felt disarming in a world built on blood and alliances. Then, with a long sigh, Jimin held his hands up in surrender.

“Fine, fine. But don’t take forever.” He reached out, ruffling Taehyung’s already messy hair until strands stuck up wildly. “And don’t flood the whole bathroom this time.”

“I won’t!” Taehyung huffed, shuffling inside and slamming the door shut with a little more force than necessary.

Almost immediately, the sound of running water filled the space, followed by the metallic groan of pipes. Then came Taehyung’s muffled voice — a grumble at first, then a squeak, then a triumphant shout like he’d just conquered a dragon. Jimin pressed his lips together to hide a laugh.

Yoongi leaned one shoulder against the wall, smirking faintly. “He’s got more bite than I thought.”

Jimin glanced sideways, eyes soft. “He’s trying,” he murmured. “He wants to feel grown, even when everything in him… isn’t.”

When the door finally creaked open, Taehyung emerged with his hair damp and sticking adorably to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the steam. His clothes were slightly crooked — shirt half-tucked, collar turned the wrong way — but the way he stood there, chest puffed out proudly, made it impossible to correct him.

“See?” he declared, his voice full of triumph. “I told you. All by myself.”

Jimin couldn’t help it — he laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, yes. Big boy Taehyung.” He reached forward to fix the collar, only for Taehyung to swat his hand away with a dramatic gasp.

“Don’t touch it! I did it myself.”

Yoongi snorted under his breath, muttering low enough only Jimin caught it. “Looks like you’ve got competition for the most stubborn omega in the house.”

Jimin shot him a warning glance, but his lips twitched with amusement. He knelt slightly to meet Taehyung’s gaze. “Alright, fine. But at least brush your hair, or you’ll catch a cold.”

“I won’t,” Taehyung insisted, tugging at his shirt hem. Still, when Jimin offered him the brush a moment later, he took it — awkwardly tugging it through his wet locks while sneaking glances to see if anyone was watching.

Yoongi watched the exchange silently, something unnameable stirring in his chest as the sound of their bickering filled the quiet hallway. For a man who’d lived half his life drenched in shadows and blood, this kind of morning felt foreign… and yet he found himself unwilling to look away.

By the time Taehyung finished wrestling with the hairbrush, the house smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee. Jimin ushered him downstairs, one hand at his back in case he decided to trip over his own feet on the way.

The kitchen was warm, sun spilling through tall windows, catching on the polished marble counters. Yoongi sat at the island, scrolling through his phone like a man pretending to be disinterested in the world, but his head lifted as soon as he caught the sound of light footsteps.

Taehyung marched straight up to him, chin tilted, damp hair still sticking stubbornly at odd angles. “Jiminie's mate?,” He called yoongi who was having his coffee sitting on the kitchen counter, glanced up “Make breakfast.” Taehyung ordered in a childish tone.

Jimin choked on a laugh behind him. “What?”

Taehyung turned to Jimin, pointing accusingly. “You said he can cook. You said he cooks really nicely. So he can cook for us.”

Yoongi blinked, then slowly lowered his phone, fixing Jimin with a flat look. “You’ve been gossiping about me?”

Jimin smirked and propped his chin on his hand, eyes glinting with mischief. “I might have mentioned it. You do cook better than anyone in this house.”

Taehyung nodded furiously, clearly emboldened. “Yes! So go. Make it. Right now. TaeTae's tummy is making rumbles and jiminie is hungry too”

The sheer confidence in his little voice was almost comical — ordering one of the most feared men in the Jeon empire around as if Yoongi was his personal chef.

For a long moment, Yoongi just stared, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, slowly, he stood and tucked his phone into his pocket. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, kid,” he muttered, brushing past Taehyung toward the fridge.

Jimin burst out laughing, the sound light and melodic in the sunlit kitchen. “See? Even Yoongi listens to you. You’ve got him whipped already.”

“Whipped?” Taehyung tilted his head, confused.

“Means he’ll do whatever you ask,” Jimin explained, grinning as Yoongi opened the fridge with a deliberate slam.

Yoongi didn’t look back, but his ears flushed faintly pink. “Keep talking and you’ll both be eating burnt toast.”

Taehyung gasped, clutching his chest as though Yoongi had just threatened murder. “You wouldn’t!”

Jimin leaned back in his chair, eyes sparkling. “He wouldn’t. Yoongi’s too proud of his cooking to actually ruin it.”

Yoongi shot him a sharp look, but there was no true heat in it. He cracked eggs into a pan with practiced ease, movements sharp and efficient, like even in the kitchen he approached everything as a mission.

Taehyung scrambled up onto a stool at the island, eyes wide and glued to Yoongi’s hands as though watching a magician. “He really does look like he knows how to cook,” he whispered loudly to Jimin.

Yoongi set the pan down with a decisive clatter. “I can hear you,” he said dryly.

Jimin covered his mouth to hide his smile. “That’s the point.”

As the smell of sizzling eggs and butter filled the kitchen, Taehyung began swinging his legs happily, chin resting on the counter. Every so often he’d pipe up with questions — “What’s that?” “Why are you putting salt?” “Do you always cook?” — and Yoongi would answer in clipped words, though not unkindly.

Finally, plates were set down in front of them. Simple, hearty — scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fruit Jimin had quickly chopped.

Taehyung clapped his hands together, eyes bright. “It smells so good!” He picked up his fork eagerly, then paused, looking between Yoongi and Jimin. “...Thank you,” he said shyly.

For a split second, something softened in Yoongi’s gaze before he turned away, muttering, “Eat before it gets cold.”

Jimin reached under the table, brushing his fingers against Yoongi’s knee in quiet thanks. He didn’t say anything, but his smile as he bit into the toast said enough.

And for the first time that morning, the three of them sat together in a fragile peace — an odd little family bound by circumstance, laughter, and the scent of warm food.

The plates clinked as breakfast ended, sunlight spilling across the kitchen island like a golden veil. Taehyung licked the last crumbs from his fingers, cheeks puffed with satisfaction.

“Alpha Yoonie,” he mumbled around a mouthful of pancake, “Jiminie said you cook really good… you should cook again tomorrow.”

Jimin snorted, sipping his tea. “He means today.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened, sheepish but earnest. He nodded vigorously. “Yes! Today. Make lunch too. You’re good at it.”

Yoongi arched a brow, mouth twitching as if to hide a laugh. “So I’m just your chef now?”

Taehyung tilted his head, confused. “Isn’t that what alphas are supposed to do? Take care of everyone?”

Jimin laughed outright this time, reaching over to ruffle Taehyung’s hair. “You’ve got him wrapped around your finger already.”

Yoongi shook his head, grumbling under his breath, but his lips betrayed a smile.

The warmth lingered even as they moved to clear the dishes. Taehyung immediately jumped up, grabbing plates with both arms, though they wobbled dangerously in his grip.

“Careful—” Jimin reached to steady him, but Taehyung pulled away, stubborn.

“I can help! I’m not just eating and sitting. I can work too.” He marched to the sink, plates clattering into the basin with far less grace than intended.

“Not like that,” Yoongi muttered, moving in. His arm brushed Taehyung’s as he reached for the faucet. “You’ll break half the dishes before they’re even clean.”

Taehyung frowned but didn’t argue, watching Yoongi twist the tap. “Gentle,” the alpha explained. His voice was calm, instructional, but something about its weight pressed on Taehyung’s nerves.

He looked up, lip trembling slightly. “You’re… mad at me?”

Yoongi blinked, caught off guard. “What? No—”

But Taehyung, desperate to soothe, acted before thinking. He shifted closer, standing on tiptoe, and pressed a shy, fleeting peck against Yoongi’s lips. His hands clutched his damp shirt like a nervous child holding his blanket.

Everything stopped.

Yoongi froze, body rigid. The scent of Taehyung — sweet, fragile, unguarded — flooded his senses in a way that rattled him.

Across the kitchen, Jimin’s towel slipped from his hand. “Taehyung!” His voice cracked, sharp with shock. “What are you—”

Taehyung blinked innocently between them, startled by their reactions. “I… I didn’t want him to be mad. Kissing makes fights go away, right?”

Jimin’s breath hitched. He dropped to his knees in front of the boy, hands trembling as they cupped his cheeks. “No, baby, not like that. Not with everyone. Kissing is… it’s only for—” His words faltered, panic rising in his throat.

Taehyung glanced between them, confused, shoulders curling in. “If you’re mad too, Jiminie, I can kiss you too. Then you won’t be angry.”

The silence was deafening. Jimin’s heart thudded painfully, Yoongi’s hands curled into fists against the counter.

Jimin forced his voice steady, though it broke on the edges. “No. Taehyungie, listen. Kissing isn’t for making anger go away. It’s… it’s for the one you love most. The person who’s yours.”

Taehyung blinked, wide-eyed. “But I do love you. Both of you. So… why not?”

Yoongi flinched, chest tightening with something he didn’t dare name. Jimin swallowed hard, words dying in his throat.

* * *

The screen flickered.

Jungkook leaned forward in his leather chair, knuckles pressing into his knees as the grainy feed played again. The sight replayed — Taehyung, damp-haired and stubborn, standing far too close to Yoongi. Then that fleeting, shocking press of lips.

Jungkook’s throat locked.

“No,” he muttered, almost choking on it. He rewound the clip, eyes narrowing, veins straining in his temple. He hit play again. Taehyung leaning in. The contact. Yoongi freezing. Jimin dropping something in shock.

He hit rewind. Again. Again. Over and over until the short motion seared into his skull like a scar he couldn’t erase.

By the sixth time, he was on his feet, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal.

“Hallucination,” he growled. His voice sounded jagged, foreign. “Fucking hallucination.”

But the screen didn’t lie.

There it was — Taehyung, shy little brat, pressing his lips to another alpha like it was the most natural thing in the world. No panic. No tears. No shivering at the touch of dominance.

Jungkook’s laugh burst out, sharp and broken. “Traumatized, huh?” he spat, mocking the word like venom on his tongue.

Jimin’s trembling voice echoed in his head, words from days ago: He’s too fragile, Jungkook. He can’t even be near the scent of an alpha without breaking down. He’s traumatized.

Jungkook slammed his fist into the wall beside the monitor, plaster cracking under the force. His chest heaved, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt.

“Traumatized?” he shouted into the empty room, laughter curdling into fury. He jabbed a finger at the screen, at the frozen frame of Taehyung’s lips brushing Yoongi’s. “That looks real fucking traumatized to me.”

His wolf snarled inside him, claws raking against his ribs. Images crashed together in his mind: Taehyung pale and trembling in his arms during those panic episodes, choking on sobs because Jungkook’s scent was too much— then this, his sweet lips offered freely to Yoongi without a flicker of fear.

“Mine,” Jungkook hissed, gripping his jaw so tight it ached. His reflection glared back from the dark monitor glass, veins bulging at his neck. “You’re fucking mine, Taehyung.”

He slammed the chair backward with a violent kick, sending it crashing into the liquor cabinet. Bottles shattered, the sharp stench of whiskey and gin filling the air. Jungkook barely noticed the glass cutting into his hand as he grabbed another bottle by the neck and hurled it at the wall.

The smash echoed, liquid dripping like blood down the paint.

He leaned both hands on the desk, head bowed, breath sawing through clenched teeth. His wolf was howling now, demanding blood, demanding correction. Demanding Taehyung on his knees, trembling for him— not another alpha.

The cruelest thought wormed its way into his mind, unbidden but merciless: Maybe Jimin was right. Maybe Taehyung isn’t traumatized at all. Maybe he just doesn’t want you.

The idea made him reel back, as if someone had driven a knife under his ribs. His lips pulled back from his teeth, a guttural growl spilling out.

“No.”

He slammed his palm into the desk, blood smearing from fresh cuts.

“Not possible. He’s mine. He fucking is.”

His chest rose and fell in violent, uneven waves. On the monitor, the loop replayed mercilessly — Taehyung leaning in, Taehyung’s mouth brushing Yoongi’s, Taehyung not trembling, not panicking, not breaking.

Every second the grainy image repeated, his wolf roared louder.

See? the beast whispered, slick and poisonous. See it with your own eyes. The tears, the shaking, the gasps when you enter the room — lies. A drama. A pretty little act for the ruthless lord of the Jeons. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want your bite. He doesn’t want to be bound to you, doesn’t want your mark rotting into his throat like a brand.

Jungkook shook his head violently, strands of black hair falling into his eyes, his lips pulling back from his teeth in something between denial and fury. “No. No.”

But the wolf didn’t stop.

He’ll take kisses from Yoongi. He’ll smile at Jimin. He’ll eat what they feed him, he’ll laugh when they laugh, he’ll cling to them when he’s scared. But you? He trembles. He hides. Because he knows what your bite means. Because he knows if he takes you, he can’t ever run. Because once he’s yours, he’s trapped.

The words slid in like claws under his skin, tearing at him.

Jungkook’s fist shot out, smashing the monitor with a violent crack. The screen spiderwebbed, distorting Taehyung’s frozen image into shards. His chest heaved as he stood over it, blood running down his knuckles, dripping onto the floor.

“He’s mine,” Jungkook snarled, voice guttural, half-human, half-beast. “Mine. Mine.”

But the wolf pressed closer, whispering against the edges of his skull, its voice deep and coaxing, cruel as the darkest pit in him.

He doesn’t want your pups either. That’s why he shakes when you come near. That’s why he hides behind Jimin’s skirts like a child. He doesn’t want to swell with your children. Doesn’t want to carry the Jeon line. Doesn’t want to give you heirs, to make you a father. He’ll whimper to every other alpha, smile at them — but for you? He saves the act of a shattered thing. So you pity him. So you don’t claim him.

Jungkook staggered back, running both hands through his wet hair, tugging until pain ripped at his scalp. His vision pulsed, red and black, fury pressing hot at the back of his eyes.

“No,” he whispered again, but this time it was weak, a prayer choked out from someone drowning.

And the screen glowed again through the cracked glass — Taehyung, lips brushing another man’s mouth.

Jungkook’s body trembled, a shiver running through his massive frame. The wolf was right. It had to be right. How else to explain it? The proof was there. Undeniable. Looping endlessly, branding itself onto him.

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt, a vein jumping violently at his temple. “You want to play me for a fool, angel?” he rasped, voice scraping the edges of sanity. “You want to pretend you’re too broken for me but whole enough for them?”

The wolf purred in approval, darkness dripping from every word.

Then break him. Break him until there’s nothing left but yours. Bite him. Fill him. Make him carry you. Make him bleed with your name inside him. No more hiding. No more games.

Jungkook let out a laugh then — low, hollow, frightening in its lack of joy. His reflection in the broken monitor smiled back at him, a twisted grin.

“Traumatized,” he repeated, mocking, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Cute little act, baby. Cute.”

The wolf pressed harder, relentless now, the hunger rising in sync with the throbbing pain in his bloodied fists.

And Jungkook — dark, cold, starving Jungkook — believed every single word.

* * *

The gravel crunched under the heavy wheels of the black car as it rolled into the courtyard without warning, its sleek body reflecting the pale wash of morning sun. The household had not been alerted, no one had rushed to open gates or stand in neat formation. There had been no time—because Jungkook had not wanted there to be. He had driven without notice, without pause, his rage a storm pressing down on the accelerator until the vehicle seemed to thunder into the estate on its own fury.

The garden lay still. Taehyung sat under the wide branches of an old tree, brush in hand, his sketchpad balanced on his knees. His hair was mussed, curling damply over his forehead, his soft oversized shirt rumpled. He was humming faintly to himself, a tune without melody, just the absent sound of comfort as his brush dragged playful colors across the page. Yoongi stood not far, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders slightly turned so he could keep half his attention on the call and half on the boy in the grass.

Neither of them expected the air to shift the way it did, heavy and sharp, the unmistakable weight of dominance rolling like thunder across the lawn.

Taehyung stiffened first, every muscle pulling tight as though an invisible hand had clamped around his spine. His brush slipped, smearing an unintended streak of color across the paper. He looked up, wide-eyed, his body going still in that all-too-familiar freeze of instinctive dread. Yoongi turned too, lowering his phone, brows furrowing at the sight of the car door swinging open.

And then Jungkook stepped out.

Tall, broad-shouldered, his black suit jacket unbuttoned but no less immaculate, tattoos peeking at the edges of his cuffs like marks of warning. His jaw was set hard enough to look carved from stone, his eyes dark and merciless, an expression caught between cold command and feral wrath. He did not glance at the house. He did not glance at the men hovering in the distance. His gaze pinned only one sight, only one figure—Taehyung, frozen under the tree, sunlight tangled in his hair, paintbrush still trembling in his grip.

The omega’s chest tightened painfully. He recognized that scent, even faint as it was under the burn of the sun and earth. That sharp, suffocating alpha presence that once sent him reeling into terror, collapsing into panic. His hands began to shake, the brush clattering against the page as though his own fingers had betrayed him.

Yoongi instinctively stepped forward, cutting the line of Jungkook’s path. “Boss,” he started cautiously, voice steady though his pulse had spiked, “you didn’t—”

He never finished.

Jungkook’s stride did not falter. He closed the distance like a storm given legs, his eyes cutting through Yoongi as though the man were no more than fog. When Yoongi shifted further in, hand subtly lifted in a gesture to halt, Jungkook’s patience snapped with a growl that vibrated low in his chest. His arm shot out, shoving hard enough against Yoongi’s shoulder that the older man stumbled back two steps, more from shock than lack of strength.

“Don’t,” Jungkook snarled, voice a warning, guttural, primal. His eyes never left Taehyung.

Taehyung’s breath stuttered. The world shrank to the sound of approaching footsteps, the bite of gravel under Jungkook’s polished shoes. His body moved before his mind could—scrambling upright, clutching his sketchbook to his chest like a shield, stumbling backward until his back hit the tree trunk. Instinct screamed, and his feet shifted again, trying to tuck himself behind Yoongi even though the alpha had already been thrown aside.

Jungkook reached him in two strides.

A hand, strong and unyielding, closed around his thin wrist, jerking him forward so abruptly that his sketchbook slipped and fell, scattering across the grass. Taehyung yelped, eyes wide, thrashing instinctively. “No—no, please—!”

Yoongi tried again, voice firmer this time. “Boss, stop. You’re scaring him.”

The answer was a vicious growl that ripped through the air, Jungkook’s head snapping toward him with such violence that Yoongi froze in place. The look in his eyes was not just fury, but something darker, nearly unhinged. It was the gaze of a predator who had already marked prey and would kill for anyone daring to interfere.

And then he jerked Taehyung again, hauling him forward. The omega stumbled, crying out, his knees buckling in the grass as he tried to resist. His body folded, sitting down hard, digging his heels into the earth as though he could anchor himself there. His free hand clawed at the dirt, clutching at grass blades, desperation wild in his eyes.

“Jiminie!” he screamed suddenly, voice cracking with raw panic. “Jiminie! Help me!”

“Shut up!” Jungkook’s roar tore out of him before he even registered it. His voice thundered through the garden, startling birds from the branches above, making Taehyung jolt so hard he lost his grip on the tree. The boy collapsed to his knees, sobbing, arms curled up in self-defense.

The sight only made the wolf inside him snarl.

Pathetic, it whispered. Look how small he makes himself for you. But not for them. No, for them he smiles. For them he paints. For them he kisses.

Jungkook’s grip shifted, yanking Taehyung up with a brutal jerk. The omega screamed, flailing so violently that Jungkook nearly lost hold of his wrist, his thin arm twisting in the process. “Let me go! Please, please—I didn’t do anything—”

“You think I don’t see?” Jungkook snapped low, his teeth bared in something that was not a smile. His words were venom, spat near Taehyung’s ear though the boy’s panic was too deafening to absorb them. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Yoongi stepped forward again, muscles tense, voice sharp. “Boss. That’s enough. Let him—”

The gun was in Jungkook’s hand before anyone realized it, conjured from his jacket like a shadow turned solid. He didn’t point it at Yoongi, not directly, but the barrel lifted enough, his eyes burned enough, that the message was clear.

Yoongi froze mid-step. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, rage and helplessness locked behind the walls of discipline. His hand twitched once, then stilled. He couldn’t move. None of them could.

And Taehyung screamed louder.

His body hit the ground again as he threw his weight backward, his knees digging into the dirt, his palms flat to stop the dragging. He shrieked Jimin’s name again, desperate, broken, like a child lost in a crowd. His cries weren’t just pleas—they were jagged, animalistic sounds that echoed too close to the trauma he carried. His chest hitched, sobs overtaking his breath until he was gasping.

“Shut up,” Jungkook barked again, harsher now, his patience snapping thread by thread.

But Taehyung didn’t. Couldn’t. His voice broke and broke again, dissolving into wild, hoarse screams that clawed at the walls of the house. His body began to seize into that terrifying rigidity of a trauma episode, arms flailing without aim, legs kicking without coordination.

The wolf inside Jungkook sneered. Drama. All of it. He wasn’t this broken when he leaned in for another man. Look at him. He wants Yoongi’s eyes on him. He wants Jimin’s hands on him. He doesn’t want yours. He’ll never want yours.

Jungkook’s jaw locked until his teeth ached. His vision tunneled red. Without thinking further, he bent low, his arm hooking behind Taehyung’s knees. In one fluid, merciless motion, he hoisted the boy upside down over his shoulder.

The scream that ripped out of Taehyung’s throat was bloodcurdling, primal. His fists pounded at Jungkook’s back, his heels kicked against his chest, but the alpha barely felt it. The boy was weightless in his arms, fragile bones and shaking skin that he carried as easily as a shadow.

The sight was obscene.

Yoongi’s stomach lurched, his hands balling into fists as he watched the omega writhe, crying desperately upside down, begging for salvation. But the gun gleamed in Jungkook’s hand, still loose at his side, and Yoongi’s feet might as well have been chained to the earth.

“Please! Jiminie! Help me!” Taehyung’s cries echoed through the halls as Jungkook stormed inside. His voice cracked on the word help, high-pitched, raw.

Jungkook’s hand clamped harder around the boy’s thighs to keep him pinned as he walked. His wolf whispered with every sob that filled the space: Listen. He’d rather die in another’s arms than live in yours. He will never give you pups. He will never wear your bite. He is spitting on you, even now.

The mansion seemed to shrink around them as Jungkook advanced. Marble floors echoed his footfalls like drumbeats of war. Oil paintings blurred past, heavy drapes trembled in the current of his fury. Guards at the corners stiffened, their eyes following but their bodies frozen in obedience.

Taehyung clawed at his back, his sobs wetting the fabric of his suit jacket. His words blurred into babbling gasps. “Please—don’t—let me go—I can’t—please, stop, stop, please—”

Every syllable fed the fire in Jungkook’s veins. His head pounded, his chest heaved. The boy screamed like a victim, but the vision that haunted him—the kiss—wouldn’t leave. It looped behind his eyes, taunting, mocking. He dragged faster, his grip tightening each time Taehyung squirmed.

“Enough!” he barked, but the cries did not stop.

They turned the last corridor. The omega had stopped kicking now, his energy unraveling into tremors. His fists still pounded weakly, his sobs hitched, turning into breathless little hiccups. His voice had cracked itself raw, and now he only whimpered Jimin’s name like a prayer.

Jungkook’s vision blurred for a heartbeat. His chest squeezed painfully. And then the wolf snarled again. He’ll call everyone but you. He’ll beg for anyone but you. He’ll kiss anyone but you.

When his flailing made it impossible to drag him smoothly, Jungkook’s patience burned out entirely. With a cold, merciless decision, he flipped the boy over his shoulder, one strong arm clamped around the back of his thighs, pinning him upside down. Taehyung shrieked, the world spinning sickeningly, his fists beating at Jungkook’s back now, his sobs breaking into hiccupped gasps.

Yoongi moved again, instinct screaming to stop this, but then—then Jungkook’s hand shifted, his other arm pulling a gun from inside his jacket with a swift, practiced motion. He did not point it directly, not yet, but the sight of cold steel raised, the weight of threat in his gaze, rooted Yoongi where he stood.

“Stay,” Jungkook growled low, his voice dripping with lethal promise, “or the next move you make will be your last.”

Taehyung went still for a heartbeat, registering the shift, then thrashed harder, his voice breaking entirely. “Help! Jiminie! Please! Don’t let him—don’t—”

But no one moved.

Yoongi’s fists clenched helplessly at his sides. Men at the edges of the courtyard stood frozen, their faces pale, none daring to defy the black storm that was their master.

Jungkook turned sharply, carrying the struggling omega with ease, his steps long and ruthless as he dragged the scene away from the garden. Taehyung screamed and sobbed and pleaded, voice echoing off the stone walls, the fragile sound of panic twisting in the ears of everyone who heard. But Jungkook’s face was unyielding, every muscle carved in steel, his jaw locked tight.

“Shut up,” he barked again over his shoulder, voice cutting like a whip. Taehyung only sobbed harder, the words spilling out fractured between gasps, “Please—I can’t—please, let me go—Jiminie—”

Jungkook’s grip only tightened. He strode through the hallways with the sound of his own boots thundering against the marble, the omega a trembling, crying weight over his shoulder. Guards looked up in shock and then looked away instantly, the atmosphere too dangerous to breathe in.

Every step felt like a descent into something darker, the tension vibrating from Jungkook’s body, a wrath that was not cooled but fanned by the desperate struggles against him. Taehyung’s cries had begun to hitch into broken sobs, his small fists weakening, his body jerking less violently now, slipping into that half-state of a trauma episode where panic burned too hot and exhaustion followed close behind.

Still, Jungkook did not stop.

And with that fury snapping tight in his chest, Jungkook reached the double doors of his wing.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t slow. His hand shoved the handle down and wrenched the wood open with such violence that it rattled against the frame. He strode inside, carried his trembling, sobbing omega in like a thief dragging treasure.

And then, with one brutal slam, the doors shut.

The echo thundered down the hallway, the sound of a prison sealing itself.

* * *

For a moment after the slam, Yoongi stood rooted in place.

The echo of that door closing—loud, merciless—rattled through his bones, but it was nothing compared to the image still burned in his eyes: the gun. The black glint of it, heavy and cold, raised just enough between them to make his body lock down.

Jungkook had never. Never.

In all the years Yoongi had stood at the man’s right hand, through bloodied streets and merciless negotiations, through silences that could shatter a man and orders that erased entire lines of enemies—Jungkook had never raised his weapon at him. Not once.

It was unthinkable.

Yet his shoulder still ached faintly from where Jungkook had shoved him aside like he was nothing, like they weren’t bound by a decade of war fought side by side. His ears still rang with Taehyung’s screams, with the way Jungkook had roared “Shut up!” like he was silencing prey, not his mate.

Yoongi dragged in a breath, but it hitched—sharp, ragged. His hand twitched toward his pocket almost on instinct. He fumbled the phone out, his thumb trembling as he scrolled to the only number that made sense.

Jimin.

It rang once. Twice.

Then the soft, warm voice of his omega: “Yoongi?”

The sound cracked something in him. His throat felt raw, his words jagged. “He—fuck, Jimin—” His breath stuttered, and he had to close his eyes, had to force the words through clenched teeth. “Jungkook. He just—he took him.”

On the other end, silence. A beat. Then Jimin’s voice spiked with alarm, brittle and thin: “What do you mean he took him? What—Yoongi, what happened?”

Yoongi’s chest heaved. His hand tightened around the phone until it creaked. He turned slightly, glancing at the now-empty garden as though the ghosts of the scene were still painted there—the upturned sketchbook on the grass, Taehyung’s small frame thrashing, the gun between him and his boss.

“He came out of nowhere,” Yoongi ground out, his tone both disbelief and fury, though low, like he was afraid the walls would carry it further. “No warning. No announcement. He saw Taehyung and… Christ, Jimin, he grabbed him. The kid panicked, screamed like hell, tried to get away, called for you—” His voice cracked, and he cut himself off with a harsh exhale. “—and I tried to stop him. I swear to you, I tried. But Jungkook—”

His throat closed for a second. The image of that barrel rising between them slammed back into his mind.

“Yoongi?” Jimin’s voice trembled.

“He pulled a gun on me.” The admission fell out hoarse, almost disbelieving. Saying it aloud made it real.

The line went utterly silent.

Yoongi could almost hear Jimin’s heart dropping through the phone, the way his omega froze on the other side of the city.

Then, a small, broken whisper: “No…”

Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing the tremor out of his own voice. “Listen to me. This—it wasn’t him. Not the Jungkook we know. He was—” He hesitated, his jaw clenching. How did he even describe it? “Feral. Cold. Like something inside him snapped. He didn’t even hear me. Didn’t see me. Just—” His voice faltered, low and guttural. “Just Taehyung.”

On the other end, Jimin gasped softly, the sound tearing at Yoongi’s chest.

“Yoongi,” Jimin whispered, panic bleeding into every syllable. “He—Taehyung—he’s only just started improving. If Jungkook—if Jungkook handles him like this, if he touches him like that, he’ll—” His voice broke, shattering. “He’ll go right back. He’ll lose everything. He’ll lose himself.”

Yoongi shut his eyes. He could still hear Taehyung’s voice, the desperate calls for Jimin that tore through the mansion. He could still feel the helplessness that froze him in place when the gun was between them.

“I know.” His voice was rough, each word strained like it was cutting through him. “I fucking know.”

A ragged inhale from the other end. Then Jimin’s voice, trembling but sharp with fear: “We have to do something. We can’t just—just let him—”

Yoongi opened his eyes, gaze dragging to the direction of Jungkook’s wing. The heavy silence of that corridor seemed to pulse with the echo of the slammed door, a reminder of the distance now locked between them.

His jaw clenched. “We’ll do something. But listen to me, Jimin—” His tone dropped, weighted. “Whatever this is, it’s bigger than us. For him to point a gun at me—” He paused, his voice cutting low. “Something’s driving him off the edge. Something I don’t see yet. Until I know what it is, we don’t move rashly. Understand?”

On the other end, Jimin let out a soft, choked sob.

But then, after a pause, his voice came quieter, steadier than Yoongi expected. “Just… please. Don’t let him destroy Taehyung. Don’t let Jungkook do this to him.”

Yoongi’s eyes hardened, his grip on the phone steadying. “I won’t.”

The promise tasted like iron in his mouth.

But even as he said it, the faint sound of Taehyung’s cries still echoed in his skull.

* * *

The slam of the door rattled through the room like a gunshot, making the glass chandelier above tremble with a soft, eerie chime. Jungkook’s grip loosened only then, enough to nearly fling Taehyung forward. The omega stumbled, his knees knocking against the mattress before his small body bounced and crumpled onto the wide bed.

For a heartbeat, silence hung—just the ragged rhythm of Taehyung’s sobbing breaths. Then, as if the shock broke him, he scrambled backward, palms slipping on the silk sheets, hair falling into his teary eyes. His feet kicked helplessly, pushing himself away from the looming alpha until the edge betrayed him. With a small, broken cry, he toppled off the bed, landing hard on the floor.

“Stop running,” Jungkook growled, voice low, guttural, carrying that dangerous rumble that never failed to freeze men twice Taehyung’s size.

But Taehyung didn’t stop. He crawled—knees scraping against the polished floor, palms skidding over the rug—as if every inch put between them was air he could breathe again. His thin frame shook violently as he darted for the only cover he could see: the heavy curtains framing the tall windows.

He shoved himself into them, dragging the thick velvet around his body, wrapping it tightly like a cocoon. He pressed his face into the fabric, trying to vanish inside its folds, to make himself so small Jungkook might forget he was there. His sobs came muffled now, soft hiccups of terror, but they couldn’t hide him. Not from an alpha like Jungkook.

Jungkook’s head tilted slowly, wolf-sharp eyes glinting in the dim light. His tongue wet his lips, his chest rising and falling in deliberate, heavy motions. “Really?” he muttered, almost to himself. The wolf inside him howled with laughter, cruel, feral, hungry. Pathetic. Look at him. Acting. Pretending.

“Come out,” Jungkook’s voice cut through the silence, deep and cold. His boots clicked against the floor as he took a step closer. “Enough of this little show, Taehyung. Stop this act.”

The words made Taehyung clutch the curtains tighter, curling into himself until his knees were pressed to his chest. His nails dug into the fabric, and tears streaked down his cheeks as he whispered shakily, “P-Please… stop… let me go…”

The wolf in Jungkook snarled at those words. He’s lying. He didn’t plead like this when he kissed another alpha. He saves his softness, his ease, for them. Not for you. Not for his mate.

A sharp, violent sound tore the room as Jungkook’s hand slammed down onto the table. The wood groaned, a glass vase toppling and shattering against the floor. The shards scattered like silvered stars, some skittering dangerously close to where Taehyung crouched hidden.

Taehyung flinched so hard his head knocked back against the windowpane. A strangled cry escaped him, his arms wrapping tighter around his body. “S-Stop—please—I’ll be good, I’ll be good—”

But Jungkook only stalked closer, his presence thickening the air until it was impossible to breathe. The wolf was in full control now, pacing behind his ribcage, snarling accusations. Trauma, he says? He trembles when you’re near, but with another alpha, he smiles. Lies. All of it. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want your bite. He doesn’t want your children.

“Don’t—don’t come closer,” Taehyung sobbed, pressing his forehead into the velvet folds as if they could shield him. His voice cracked, breaking on a single, desperate call: “Jiminie!”

The name was gasoline to Jungkook’s fire.

He bared his teeth, his chest heaving as rage scorched through him. “Shut your mouth!” he roared, voice thunderous, making the walls reverberate. He slammed his fist against the wall this time, a picture frame crashing to the ground, the glass shattering into more sharp pieces at their feet.

“Call for him one more time,” Jungkook snarled, voice dropping dangerously low, “and I swear I’ll shut you up myself.”

The curtains trembled with Taehyung’s shuddering sobs. He tried to make himself disappear, curling tighter, whispering words broken by tears, “I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me, I don’t want—”

Jungkook’s nostrils flared, drinking in the omega’s fear like a drug, his wolf clawing against his skin, whispering, urging: Break him. Tear down the lies. Force him to see he’s yours.

His hands shook with the effort of restraint—or the lack of it—as he took another step forward, shadow falling over the trembling bundle of velvet that tried so desperately to hide.

The curtains trembled like a fragile shield in the storm of Jungkook’s rage. His chest heaved with each breath, his wolf pounding against his ribs, urging him on. With one sharp tug, Jungkook’s hand wrapped in the velvet, jerking the fabric back with enough force to rip the hooks from the ceiling rod.

Taehyung’s cry rang out, high and broken, as the fabric fell away. His wide eyes were glassy with tears, face pale, lips trembling. His small body tried to recoil further, pressing flat against the wall as if he could sink into it, vanish from sight.

“Enough,” Jungkook growled, grabbing Taehyung by the arm. His grip was iron, fingers biting into fragile skin as he yanked him forward.

“No—no, please, don’t! Don’t—” Taehyung thrashed, his legs kicking weakly against the floor, hands clawing at Jungkook’s wrists in blind panic. His sobs had turned into raw, ragged gasps. His mind, already fractured by the weight of memories, cracked fully.

The room around him seemed to disappear.

He wasn’t in Jungkook’s quarters anymore. He wasn’t seeing Jungkook. He was back there—back in that room, months ago, with faceless shadows holding him down, their hands rough, their voices cruel. He could feel the suffocating press of bodies, the crushing scents of alphas who weren’t his, their jeering laughs, their weight pinning him as he screamed into silence.

“No! Don’t touch me—don’t—!” His voice broke into shrill pitches, his eyes unfocused.

His body jerked violently. His limbs convulsed, flailing without coordination, then stiffened. His entire frame began to seize, spasming as if his nerves had lost all control. His eyes rolled back, only the whites visible, and frothy foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth.

For a single stunned moment, Jungkook’s fury flickered—confusion cutting through the fog. He had expected defiance, more false sobs, more of that act his wolf swore by. Not this.

The spasms grew worse, Taehyung’s small body writhing helplessly in Jungkook’s grip. Then suddenly he went limp—limp in the way that made every instinct scream danger. His head lolled back, his mouth slack as white froth spilled down his chin. His body twitched faintly, a grotesque aftershock of the seizure.

And in that instant, the wolf went silent.

As if someone had cut its throat, the snarling voice vanished. The furious pounding at Jungkook’s skull ceased. For the first time in days, his head was his own. The silence was deafening.

Jungkook stared at the omega in his arms, chest tightening with something sharp and ugly that wasn’t anger. His throat felt raw, his breath shallow. “Fuck…” he hissed under his breath, lowering himself to the ground before scooping Taehyung fully into his arms.

The boy was limp, trembling faintly, sweat slicking his temples. Jungkook pressed his lips together tightly and carried him to the bed, laying him down with surprising care for hands that had been so brutal moments ago. He adjusted the pillows under Taehyung’s head, brushing damp strands of hair from his clammy forehead.

For a long moment, Jungkook stood there, looming over him. His wolf was gone. Utterly gone. It had left him abandoned with the wreckage it demanded, the silence forcing Jungkook’s own human thoughts to gnaw at him.

He turned sharply on his heel and left the bedroom.

The door shut with a muted click this time, no slam, no violence. Jungkook strode into the lounge of his quarters and sank heavily onto the leather armchair. His hands trembled as he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table. One slid free between his fingers, his lighter sparking once, twice, before the flame caught.

The first drag filled his lungs with fire, acrid smoke curling past his lips. He let it burn, let it sting his throat, the nicotine flooding through his bloodstream with a cruel kind of calm.

For the first time in hours—maybe days—his breathing evened out.

He leaned back, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. His eyes burned, but not from the cigarette. He hadn’t expected silence to be this heavy. Without his wolf’s rage screaming in his ear, there was only one voice left—the memory of Taehyung’s sobs, the echo of his broken cries for “Jiminie.”

And the image of him limp in Jungkook’s arms, lips foaming, body too fragile to withstand even the weight of Jungkook’s wrath.

Jungkook closed his eyes and inhaled again, the glowing tip of the cigarette the only fire in the suffocating darkness of his quarters.

The cigarette burned down between Jungkook’s fingers, the orange ember glowing like an unblinking eye in the half-lit lounge. He sat slouched in the armchair, elbows braced on his knees, smoke rising around his face like a veil. The silence inside him was unbearable. No growling wolf, no obsessive voice tearing at him — just his own mind looping mercilessly.

He could still see Taehyung foaming at the mouth, still feel how small and frighteningly weightless the omega had been in his arms. A part of him — a weak, cursed human part — wanted to acknowledge it as proof of fragility, proof that maybe he’d gone too far.

But then, like a splinter under the skin, the memory of that kiss replayed itself again. Over and over. Taehyung leaning in — his mate — pressing his lips to Yoongi’s. And worse, Yoongi didn’t push him away at once.

Smoke hissed out of Jungkook’s lungs in a low growl. “Traumatized,” he muttered under his breath, the word a curse on his tongue. “Can’t stand the scent of an alpha, huh? But kisses another one right under my nose?” His jaw tightened. “Drama. All of it. Just an act.”

He was winding tighter and tighter in his thoughts when the heavy slam of doors jolted through the quarters. Footsteps stormed down the corridor, quick and furious, voices rising — and then the lounge doors burst open.

Jimin barreled in first, his face streaked with tears, his chest heaving with ragged breath. Yoongi was behind him, colder but no less tense, eyes sharp, watching Jungkook like a predator watching another.

“Where is he?!” Jimin’s voice cracked with panic as he all but shouted across the room. “Where’s Taehyung? What the fuck did you do to him?!”

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He leaned back in the chair, exhaled another stream of smoke, and answered with glacial calm. “Where he belongs.”

The words sliced through the air. Jimin’s whole body lurched forward at once, rage and desperation propelling him toward Jungkook. He looked ready to claw the cigarette right out of his hand, maybe his throat with it — but Yoongi caught him around the waist, holding him back with a low warning sound.

“Don’t,” Yoongi muttered, though his own voice was taut with strain.

“Let me go!” Jimin shouted, thrashing in Yoongi’s grip, tears spilling harder. His voice broke as he screamed again: “Let me see him! Please, Jungkook — let me see him, let him go! He’s just a boy—he’s—he’s—” His words tangled into sobs.

Jungkook finally looked at him fully. The smoke blurred his sharp features, shadows clinging to the tattoos that crawled up his arm as he tapped ash into the tray beside him. His stare was cold, pitiless.

“You want to talk about what he is?” Jungkook’s voice was low, dangerous. “Then tell me why he was kissing Yoongi.”

The room froze.

Jimin’s thrashing stilled instantly, his eyes widening, darting to Yoongi in shock. “W–what?”

“I saw it.” Jungkook’s tone was lethal in its calmness, every word drawn out. “Replay after replay. Him leaning in, lips on your mate. My mate. You think I’m blind? You think I don’t know what I saw?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened, his arm still firm around Jimin as he met Jungkook’s gaze head-on. His voice, when it came, was quiet but steady. “It wasn’t what you think.”

“Then what was it?” Jungkook snapped, the first crack of real anger in his voice as he surged halfway up from the chair, smoke curling from the forgotten cigarette between his fingers.

Jimin finally tore free from Yoongi’s grip, his face blotchy with crying, voice trembling but fierce as he stepped closer. “He doesn’t know what kissing means! He doesn’t understand! He thought—he thought it would stop a fight! He thought it would make Yoongi less angry—”

Jungkook stilled, his breath catching for just a second.

“He’s not betraying you, he’s not lying to you,” Jimin pressed on desperately, almost choking on the words. “He’s… he’s broken, Jungkook. He doesn’t know how to be anything else but innocent. And you—you’ll destroy him if you keep twisting it into something it isn’t.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Jungkook’s cigarette burned down to its filter in his fingers, the ember flaring dangerously close to his skin — but he didn’t even feel it.

His wolf stayed silent. Too silent.

Jungkook finally crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray with a brutal twist of his fingers, the sharp scrape echoing in the tense silence. He rose from the chair in one fluid motion, towering, his shoulders squared, his eyes burning like molten steel locked on Jimin.

Every step he took forward was deliberate, heavy, the floor seeming to shudder beneath his boots. Smoke clung to his shirt, to his skin, and the ink that curled over his forearms looked darker in the low light.

Jimin instinctively stepped back, chest heaving, but Yoongi’s hand hovered close behind him, steadying without restraining this time.

“You want me to believe he’s ‘traumatized’?” Jungkook’s voice was low, guttural, vibrating with the growl of the wolf just under his skin. “Then tell me how he leans in and kisses Yoongi without a flinch. No panic. No trembling.” His gaze narrowed, sharp as a blade as his voice rose, harsh and raw. “But when I touch him — his own mate — he seizes. He foams at the fucking mouth.”

The words thundered in the air, leaving a jagged silence in their wake.

Jimin froze. The only thing his mind latched onto was seizure when his own mate touches him. The words burned into his chest like fire. His nails dug into his palms as his body jolted forward on instinct, ready to throw himself at Jungkook again, to claw at him, to tear that cruel accusation off his tongue.

But Jungkook’s roar stopped him cold.

“Tell me!!”

The command was thunder, shaking the walls of the room. Jungkook’s chest heaved, the tendons in his neck straining, his eyes wide and wild with the demand. He wasn’t asking for an explanation. He was ripping it out of Jimin’s throat by force.

Jimin’s lips trembled, his voice cracking under the weight of rage and despair as he shouted back: “It was accidental!”

The words rang out, jagged and raw.

Jimin’s fists shook at his sides, his face wet with tears as he forced the rest out. “Taehyung—he… he associated Yoongi’s scent with mine. He smelled me on him, he thought it was me. He thought it was safe.”

Yoongi’s eyes flickered, jaw tightening, but he stayed silent, watching the two men like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Jimin’s voice broke again, his throat raw. “That’s all it was. An accident. Not betrayal. Not desire. He doesn’t even know what a kiss means!”

For a moment, Jungkook just stood there, towering over them both, his breath coming hard and fast, the shadows of his wolf burning hot behind his eyes. His fists clenched at his sides, every muscle taut with the effort of not tearing the room apart.

The silence that followed was unbearable, sharp and dangerous — the kind that meant the wrong word could ignite everything into violence.

Jungkook’s chest still heaved, but suddenly, almost too calmly, he turned on his heel. The motion was sharp, final. He walked back to the sofa with long strides and dropped into it, leaning back with the slow grace of a predator who had already decided the kill was his. He lit another cigarette, the click of the lighter puncturing the silence, the glow illuminating the cruel twist of his mouth.

His next words came out like a sentence carved in stone.
“However…” He exhaled smoke, his voice thick with finality. “Taehyung will stay here. With me. Right where he belongs.”

The air left the room.

“No…” Jimin’s voice broke instantly, hoarse with disbelief, his knees buckling slightly. He lurched forward a step, his hands outstretched as if he could physically pull the declaration back from Jungkook’s lips. “Please, Jungkook, don’t—don’t do this. He’s not ready. He’ll break.”

Yoongi, for once, didn’t mask his own desperation. His usual calm had shattered; his voice was raw as he added, “You can’t force him. He’ll never come back from it. I’ve seen him… he’s too fragile.”

Jungkook’s eyes, half-lidded under the curl of smoke, didn’t flicker. He watched them both with detached amusement, like he was waiting to see how far they’d crawl.

Jimin’s tears ran hot down his cheeks. He fell to his knees before Jungkook without shame, his voice trembling as he pleaded. “Don’t do this to him. Please… please don’t.”

Yoongi crouched to steady him, but even his hands trembled with the helplessness of it.

And then—Jimin’s mind, desperate, twisted into the only weapon he had left. His voice softened, cracked, but carried something new in its cadence. A strategy born out of love, terror… and manipulation.

“What if…” he whispered, eyes lifted to Jungkook through the blur of tears, “what if I could make it so Taehyung seeks you out?”

Jungkook stilled, brows raising, the cigarette pausing between his fingers.

Jimin swallowed, every word dragging out of him like poison, but he forced them past his lips. “Not you forcing him. Not fear keeping him in your shadow. Him. Choosing. Coming to you. Wanting you.”

The room seemed to narrow, every breath caught in that silence. Jungkook leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes burning into Jimin’s face.

“Explain,” he ordered flatly.

Jimin inhaled sharply, pushing past the bile rising in his throat. “A little effort from you… a little from me… and the rest, will be Taehyung himself. I can condition him—teach him—slowly, carefully. The same way he came to think Yoongi was safe. I can… make him believe you are safe too.”

Jungkook’s lips parted just slightly, interest cutting through the haze of smoke.

“I’ve already introduced him to the concept of mates,” Jimin continued quickly, his voice urgent, desperate. “He doesn’t understand it fully, not yet. But I can build on it. I can tell him he has one too. That it’s you. That being with you is safety. That you are his mate.”

The weight of the words hung thickly, wrong, manipulative—poison dressed as salvation.

Yoongi’s jaw clenched hard, his face twisted in conflict, but he didn’t cut in. He knew the only way to protect Taehyung now might be through this dangerous bargain Jimin was making.

The room went still.

Jungkook leaned back again, his long fingers tapping ash into the tray, but his mind had already slipped inward, far away from Jimin’s broken voice or Yoongi’s barely contained fury. The image came unbidden, cruelly sweet—Taehyung’s wide brown eyes, not brimming with tears or terror, but lit with joy. The omega’s soft lips curving into a laugh, head tilting with that innocent playfulness Jungkook had only seen in fragments. Taehyung running to him, barefoot and unguarded, whispering mate in that lilting, delicate voice.

His chest clenched.

The ache came sudden, savage. Not just guilt, not just recognition—something far deeper, primal, beyond choice. The bond. It surged up like a beast unshackled, burning in his ribs, punishing him for every cruel drag, every shout, every violent shove. For brutalizing what was his. For terrifying the one who was carved into his very marrow.

For a moment, Jungkook couldn’t breathe. His wolf was silent still, watching, but the pain was very real—bone-deep, suffocating, like his chest was being ripped open by invisible claws.

He shut his eyes and drew in a ragged breath, the smoke from his cigarette no longer grounding, only bitter. His hand twitched once on his thigh before he stilled it. He would not show them this weakness.

When he opened his eyes again, the shadows in them had shifted. Still dark, still dangerous—but softer at the edges, tempered by the cruel bite of the bond.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was low, almost deceptively calm. “You have one month.”

Both Jimin and Yoongi froze.

“If he does not come to me willingly by then…” Jungkook’s jaw tightened, the softness in his tone twisting into steel, “…I will take what is mine.”

The words cracked across the room, final, merciless. Yet beneath them lingered something new, a promise sharp enough to wound himself too.

Jimin’s breath hitched, his whole body jolting as though the air had returned to his lungs all at once. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling slightly in his haste, and without another word he bolted for Jungkook’s room. His heart pounded so loud it drowned his thoughts—he had to see Taehyung, had to check if he was breathing, if he’d survived the storm Jungkook had just unleashed.

Yoongi remained behind, his eyes locked on Jungkook, fury and suspicion warring with the faintest flicker of something else—pity, maybe, or the recognition that even the lord of the underworld had just bled a little beneath his armor.

Jungkook didn’t look back at him. He simply leaned into the sofa, eyes closing, letting the smoke curl and fade into the silence. His wolf remained silent too, but in that quiet was a warning: the bond would not let him escape.

Not now. Not ever.

* * *

The door to Jungkook’s room was flung open with such force it smacked the wall.

“Taehyung!” Jimin’s voice cracked as he stumbled inside, eyes sweeping wildly across the dim room. His throat closed when he spotted a small figure half-curled on the sheets, chest barely moving.

“Taehyungie,” he whispered, rushing forward, knees hitting the floor beside the bed. His hands trembled as he reached, brushing damp strands of hair away from the omega’s pale face. The skin beneath his fingers was clammy, far too cold.

“Please, open your eyes—” Jimin pressed his ear to Taehyung’s chest, listening hard. The heartbeat was faint, too faint, fluttering like a dying bird. His own breath came jagged, panicked. “No, no, no…”

He shook his head violently, tears slipping down his cheeks. “If you—if you waited any longer—” His voice cracked, raw. “He might’ve already slipped… into coma. He’s right on the edge—do you hear me?” He spun around, eyes blazing at the two alphas in the doorway. “One more delay, one more second of your pride, and he might’ve been gone.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. Jungkook, behind him, stood motionless, his face unreadable.

Jimin didn’t wait for a reply. He bent, slipping his arms beneath Taehyung’s fragile body with a grunt. The omega felt weightless, terrifyingly so, his limbs limp as if he’d already given up. Jimin cradled him close to his chest, pressing his cheek against Taehyung’s cold forehead.

“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you,” he whispered, over and over, as if sheer repetition might tether Taehyung’s soul back to his body. Then louder, desperate, he said, “Yoongi, help me—”

Yoongi moved at once, steadying Jimin’s balance as he stood with the omega clutched tight in his arms. Together, they hurried through the door, Jimin muttering sharp medical directives under his breath, voice trembling but determined.

Neither of them looked back.

The quarters fell silent once more.

Jungkook remained where he was, standing in the doorway of his lounge, smoke curling lazily from the half-burnt cigarette in his hand. The silence pressed heavy, suffocating. He told himself it wasn’t guilt twisting in his chest—he’d never bow to such weakness. And yet, the ache remained, sharp, searing, unrelenting.

Why did it hurt, then?

Why did it feel like the bond itself had its claws around his throat, forcing him to choke on every memory of Taehyung’s tears, his cries, his small body going limp beneath his hands?

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, the cigarette shaking slightly between his fingers. He crushed it out with brutal force, the ember hissing, the smoke smearing into nothing.

The silence only grew louder.

The slam of the outer door echoed faintly through the hallways, their hurried footsteps fading into nothing. Then, there was silence. A silence so absolute it pressed down on Jungkook’s chest until he thought his ribs might snap.

He dragged in a breath, sharp and ragged, the smoke from his half-burnt cigarette still stinging his throat. He stared at the empty doorway where Jimin had disappeared with Taehyung clutched to his chest, the picture burned into his vision. Too fragile. Too pale. Too still.

Jungkook’s wolf stirred, then went utterly quiet. No snarling, no mocking whispers this time. Just silence.

That was worse.

He turned, sinking onto the sofa as though his body weighed twice what it should. His elbows dug into his knees. He lit a new cigarette, dangling between two fingers. He watched the ember glow, burn, fade—over and over—until the filter was ash between his fingertips. He dropped it, crushed it into the carpet without thinking.

It wasn’t guilt.

He told himself again. Louder this time. It wasn’t guilt. He didn’t regret dragging the boy from Yoongi’s side. Didn’t regret ripping the curtains apart to expose his trembling body. Didn’t regret the way he’d shouted, the way he’d slammed his fist through glass.

And yet—

Jungkook closed his eyes, and Taehyung’s face bloomed against the darkness. Tear-streaked, lips trembling, little hands clawing at the curtains as if they could save him. The way his voice had broken when he cried for Jimin. Not for his mate. Not for him. For Jimin.

A muscle jumped in Jungkook’s jaw. His hands tightened into fists until the leather of his gloves creaked.

It should’ve made him angry again. Should’ve stoked the fury that had driven him to drag Taehyung across the floor, to shut him away where no one else could touch him. But all he felt now was—

A hollow ache. Heavy. Sharp. Unrelenting.

The bond pulsed beneath his skin, a living thing, twisting its claws into his chest. Each beat of his heart reminded him of what he’d done. Of what his wolf had driven him to. And for once, even the beast had nothing to say in his defense.

His lips curled into a humorless sneer. He leaned back, tilting his head against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling as smoke-stained air filled the room.

“Pathetic,” he muttered. To himself. To the bond. To the weakness clawing at him from the inside.

But the ache didn’t fade.

He could still feel Taehyung’s body going limp in his arms, frighteningly weightless, frighteningly small. The sound of his breath rattling, the white foam at his lips. His mate’s body—his mate’s—shutting down under his hands.

Jungkook swallowed hard, a lump thick and bitter catching in his throat. He tilted his head, digging his fingers into his scalp until the pressure stung.

He wouldn’t call it guilt. He refused. Guilt was for men who cared. He was not a man who cared.

And yet—why did it feel like something inside him was rotting, eaten alive by the image of Taehyung disappearing limp in Jimin’s arms?

The clock ticked somewhere distant, each second a hammer striking against his skull.

Jungkook dragged in another breath, but it caught halfway, sharp and uneven. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached, until the sound of Taehyung’s sobs stopped replaying in his ears.

He wanted to smash something. Wanted to bleed the ache out of himself with violence, drown it with whiskey, smother it with smoke. But nothing—nothing—would silence that look. That sound.

His wolf, silent still, gave him no shield. No excuse. No rage to hide behind.

It left him with nothing but the truth, though he refused to speak it.

He had broken something fragile. Something that was his. And for the first time in years, Jungkook wasn’t sure if it could be put back together.

The thought alone carved another hollow wound in his chest, one he couldn’t name. Wouldn’t name.

He lit another cigarette. His hands shook.

Chapter Text

The medical wing was too white, too sterile, too quiet for someone as fragile as Taehyung. Machines hummed softly, monitoring his heart rate, the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin blanket. His skin was pale, lashes trembling as though his dreams tormented him even in unconsciousness. Jimin sat at his bedside, refusing to move, his hand clasping Taehyung’s wrist lightly—careful not to hurt, just enough to remind the omega that he wasn’t alone.

But sometime in the night, the peace shattered.

Taehyung’s body jerked violently, breath hitching before a strangled scream tore from his throat. “No—! Stop! Please, stop!” His small fists clawed at the blanket, legs kicking as if he were trying to escape unseen hands. The heart monitor spiked wildly.

“Taehyung-ah—” Jimin’s voice broke, panic flooding him as he scrambled closer. He gripped Taehyung’s shoulders, shaking gently. “It’s okay, it’s me, it’s Jiminie, wake up, please—”

But Taehyung only thrashed harder, tears leaking from the corners of his tightly shut eyes. His cries were desperate, terrified. “Don’t touch me! Don’t—let me go! Jiminie! Help me—”

The name pierced Jimin like a knife. His own eyes blurred with tears as he pulled Taehyung into his arms despite the way the omega fought him, hitting weakly against his chest. “Shhh, Tae, I’m right here, no one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe, you’re safe with me.” His voice cracked as he rocked him, murmuring the words over and over, a prayer and a plea both.

Yoongi was in the corner, still awake despite the hour, watching with worry carved deep across his usually composed face. He’d seen nightmares before—but nothing like this. The way Taehyung screamed, the way he flinched as if shadows themselves carried claws—it was the rawness of someone reliving hell.

“Jimin,” Yoongi’s low voice carried, steadying despite the storm, “he’s seizing up. Tilt his head—careful.”

Jimin obeyed quickly, turning Taehyung slightly so he wouldn’t choke on his sobs, brushing the damp hair from his forehead with trembling fingers. “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re home.” He pressed desperate kisses to Taehyung’s temple, his jaw, anywhere he could reach, whispering affirmations like they could stitch the shattered pieces of him back together.

Taehyung’s screams slowly broke down into hiccuped sobs, then whimpers, his small fists clutching Jimin’s shirt like a lifeline. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glazed with tears, and the first thing he saw was Jimin.

“Jiminie…” His voice cracked, so soft, so lost.

“I’m here.” Jimin smoothed a hand down his back, holding him tighter. “Always. It was just a dream, Tae. You’re not there anymore. You’re here with me.”

But Taehyung shook his head, trembling violently. “He was there… h-he dragged me—he… he’ll come again.” His words dissolved into sobs, chest heaving with fear.

Jimin bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. He couldn’t tell him Jungkook had already come—couldn’t risk making the panic worse. So he swallowed down his anger, his helplessness, and simply held Taehyung as if sheer will could shield him.

Yoongi finally stepped closer, placing a steadying hand on Jimin’s shoulder. “He needs rest. His body’s too weak to keep this up.”

“I know,” Jimin whispered, voice hoarse. He brushed his thumb under Taehyung’s wet lashes, kissing the corner of his eye. “Sleep, love. I’ll be right here when you wake up. No one’s taking you away. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Taehyung sniffled, curled smaller in Jimin’s arms, and after a long stretch of quiet trembling, his breathing evened out again. But even in his fragile sleep, his hands refused to unclench from Jimin’s shirt, as though letting go meant losing everything.

Jimin rested his forehead against Taehyung’s damp hair, silent tears slipping free. He didn’t care if Yoongi saw. All that mattered was the fragile boy in his arms—and the cruel ticking clock Jungkook had set above their heads.

Jimin hadn’t moved from the edge of the hospital bed, cradling the frail omega against his chest, rocking him until exhaustion dulled the tremors.

But only an hour later, Taehyung stirred again. His lashes fluttered weakly, and instead of thrashing this time, his arms crept around Jimin’s waist. He buried his face into Jimin’s chest with a muffled sniffle.

“Jiminie…” His voice was thin, shaky, carrying both complaint and hurt.

“Yes, love? I’m here.” Jimin kissed the top of his hair, rubbing slow circles on his back.

“Scary alpha… he came.” Taehyung’s tone was almost childlike, trembling but petulant, like a little one tattling. “He was hurting Tae. He wanted to hurt TaeTae.” His words broke off into a tiny whimper. “I called Jiminie… but Jiminie didn’t come…”

The complaint cut Jimin like a blade. His throat tightened, and his vision blurred. He pulled Taehyung closer, arms wrapping protectively around him as tears burned hot down his cheeks. “Oh, baby… I’m so sorry. I’m here now, Tae. I’ll always come. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” His voice cracked as he whispered fiercely, “I swear it.”

Taehyung pouted against his chest, still sniffling. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Jimin pressed a shaky kiss to his damp hair, his tears falling into the strands. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

Slowly, with his small complaints murmured and answered, Taehyung’s body loosened. His breaths steadied again, his clutching hands softened, and his eyes fluttered shut.

Jimin didn’t lay him back down immediately. He held him, rocking gently until he was sure Taehyung was gone to a deeper sleep. Only then did he ease him down carefully onto the bed, tucking the blankets up to his chin, brushing the damp hair from his forehead with infinite tenderness.

Yoongi, who had been silently watching from across the room, let out a quiet breath.

Jimin wiped at his eyes roughly, then turned, voice low and shaky. “Don’t… don’t think I’m being weird but… Tae—” His voice cracked again. He inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. “He triggers something in me. Instincts I can’t control. My omega—” Jimin’s lips trembled, “—he sees Tae as… as our pup. Like he’s mine to protect. Like I’m his dam.”

Yoongi studied his mate for a long moment. Then, instead of mocking or brushing it aside, he let out a soft huff that was nearly a laugh—but one laced with warmth. He stepped closer, his rough palm finding Jimin’s back. “That’s not weird.”

Jimin blinked up at him, startled.

Yoongi’s eyes softened, though his voice carried its usual gravel. “I’ve felt it too. Not the same, but… something close. Like a sire-bond. Not as strong, not as real as ours, but… it’s there. Maybe because you feel like his dam… my wolf reacts too. Wants to stand guard over him. Keep him safe.”

The admission left Jimin staring at him with watery eyes, his lips parting wordlessly.

Yoongi squeezed his nape gently, grounding him. “We’ll protect him. Whatever happens. Together.”

For the first time since Jungkook stormed in, a thin thread of relief wound through Jimin’s chest. He leaned against Yoongi, exhaustion pulling at him, eyes drifting back toward the fragile figure in the bed.

And though he didn’t say it aloud, deep in his chest, his omega keened softly, the bond to Yoongi flaring and twisting to wrap protectively around the broken boy who’d somehow slipped into their hearts.

Yoongi’s phone lit up on the nightstand with Jungkook’s name flashing across the screen. One clipped command, delivered in that gravel-dark voice, was enough: “My office. Now.”

Yoongi ended the call without a word. His jaw flexed, already steeling himself for the storm that awaited him. He reached for his coat, shrugging it on with practiced calm, but Jimin was there immediately, eyes wide and shimmering with fresh worry.

“Be careful,” Jimin whispered, his voice breaking as he touched his mate’s wrist. “Please… don’t provoke him. He’s already angry—he’s not thinking straight. He’s… he’s mad, Yoongi.”

Yoongi stilled, then turned toward him fully. Jimin’s hand was trembling against his sleeve. The sight softened something sharp inside him. With a gentleness that contrasted the call he’d just received, Yoongi caught that small hand and tugged Jimin close.

His lips brushed over Jimin’s temple, then down to his mouth, kissing him slowly, lingeringly, as if imprinting the moment into both their skins. Jimin gasped faintly, clutching at his coat. Yoongi’s scent rolled over him, musky and grounding, quiet dominance wrapping Jimin in a cocoon.

“Take care of yourself,” Yoongi murmured against his lips, his voice rough but tender. He kissed the corner of Jimin’s mouth, then the hollow of his cheek, before letting his mouth trail lower—down the slope of his jaw, finally pressing warm lips against the vulnerable pulse of his neck.

Jimin shivered, his throat tipping back instinctively, a faint whimper escaping. His omega stirred under the weight of the claim, soothed by the heat of his alpha.

Yoongi’s breath was hot at his throat as he whispered, “Take care of yourself… and our pup. Keep him safe for me, wouldn't you, my love?.” His teeth grazed lightly at the skin, more reassurance than bite. “You’ll do that, won’t you? You’ll keep him safe until I come back to you?”

Jimin’s breath hitched, tears pooling fast. His arms wound desperately around Yoongi’s middle, clinging as though he could tether him here. “Y-yes. Yes, I’ll take care of him. I’ll take care of our pup.” His words trembled into the space between them, a promise and a plea both.

Yoongi pulled back just enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing over wet lashes. He kissed him once more, slower this time, letting Jimin taste his steadiness. “Good boy,” he rumbled softly, so quiet only Jimin’s omega could truly hear it.

Jimin whimpered at the praise, eyes falling shut. He pressed one last shaky kiss against Yoongi’s lips before forcing himself to let go. “Come back soon,” he whispered, voice breaking.

Yoongi gave the smallest nod, his expression unreadable but his touch unrelenting as he slipped Jimin’s hand gently from his coat. Then, with a final brush of scenting along Jimin’s jaw—silent reassurance, silent claim—he turned and walked out into the hallway, his back vanishing into shadow.

Jimin stood frozen in the doorway, tears streaking down his cheeks, whispering into the empty corridor, “I’ll keep him safe… I promise.”

* * *

Even the shadows seemed to recoil from Jungkook’s pacing form, as if wary of the storm simmering in his chest. He had dismissed the guards, the aides, everyone — left himself in the cavern of his office with only his thoughts gnawing at the edges of sanity.

But silence wasn’t peace. It was punishment.

The bond ached. Not tugged, not whispered — ached. A hollow drumbeat inside his ribs that wouldn’t stop echoing Taehyung’s cries back at him. Every sob, every shudder of fear he had wrung out of that fragile body seemed to rebound through the tether, mocking him. His wolf, once vicious and snarling, the very devil goading him to cruelty, was eerily silent now. Muzzled. Gone. And that silence was worse than any scream.

Jungkook sank into the chair behind his desk, broad shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on his own hand as if it were some cursed object. That hand — this hand — had shoved, had bruised, had left his mate sobbing and broken. His mate. The one fate itself had bound to him.

He lifted it slowly, fingers trembling, and for a terrifying moment he truly considered tearing it apart at the root. What right did he have to keep a hand that had struck where it should have cherished? His chest constricted with a sudden violence of self-loathing, the bond tightening as though squeezing the breath out of him.

A choked sound tore from his throat. And then his fist slammed down. Once. Twice. Over and over against the cold wall beside his chair. The impact sent vibrations through the plaster, the thud-thud-thud keeping time with his ragged breathing. He didn’t stop when skin split, when blood slicked his knuckles. He didn’t stop when pain roared up his arm and two fingers crunched, dislocating at grotesque angles.

He only stopped when his strength gave way, his body sagging against the wall, blood dripping down to the carpet. His chest heaved, lungs burning, but the guilt didn’t leave. The hollow didn’t fill. Taehyung’s cries still echoed like phantom chains inside his skull, and it felt like he was the one in shackles now.

He stared at the ruin of his hand, fingers swollen and twisted, knuckles raw and shredded. His breaths came ragged, shallow, and there was nothing victorious in the violence. Only the image of wide, tear-soaked eyes. The sound of a soft voice broken into begging. The way the bond still pulsed with pain, and he couldn’t tell anymore whose pain it was.

The Lord of the Underworld sat there in his own shadow, blood dripping onto his thigh, shoulders bowed, feeling for the first time like a man who didn’t know how to survive his own choices.

And still, through all of it, his mate’s voice lingered in his head — crying for someone else.

The knock at the door was sharp, quick — no hesitation, no deference. Only Yoongi would dare.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He didn’t even lift his head from where he sat slouched on the sofa in the dim of his private office, hand dangling uselessly at his side, blood dripping slow and steady onto the dark rug. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, the echoes of Taehyung’s sobs still tangled in his head like barbed wire.

The door opened anyway. Yoongi stepped inside, his boots striking the marble with a deliberate, restrained rhythm. He halted just past the threshold, eyes narrowing as they landed on the crimson stains spreading beneath Jungkook’s chair.

“...What the fuck did you do to yourself?” His voice was low, tight, carrying that razor edge of anger only barely kept in check.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He flexed his broken hand instead, grimacing as fresh pain lanced up his arm. He wanted to feel it — needed to — as though it might punish him enough to quiet the bond’s torment. It didn’t.

Yoongi moved further in, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. He was studying Jungkook like one might study a caged beast, calculating where the bars were weakest. “You called me,” he reminded, tone flat. “So talk. Don’t sit there bleeding out like some fucking martyr.”

Jungkook’s head lifted then, and in the lamplight his eyes looked feral and hollow all at once. “You want to know what I did?” His voice cracked low, rough as gravel. “I hurt him. I hurt him so badly he screamed for you and Jimin, not me.”

Yoongi stilled.

The words hung between them, heavier than the stench of iron seeping into the room. Jungkook gave a humorless, broken laugh and shoved his mangled hand back through his hair, smearing blood across his temple. “My own mate — the one the bond carved out of my soul — called for you. Begged for you. Because when I touch him, he breaks.”

His voice was unraveling, tumbling into a jagged spiral he couldn’t stop. “Do you know what that feels like, hyung? To touch what’s yours, and watch him seize? To feel his body go cold in your arms, to see foam at his lips, while your wolf —” his words caught, sharp, “— while your wolf goes fucking silent. As if it’s disgusted with you.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.

Jungkook’s chest heaved as he surged forward, shoulders coiled with a rage that was more self-directed than aimed at anyone else. “And you sit there. You hold him. You soothe him. He calls for you.” His teeth bared, a broken sneer. “Tell me, hyung — how the fuck am I supposed to live with that?”

The silence that followed was brutal. Only the sound of Jungkook’s ragged breathing and the steady drip of his blood onto the rug filled the room.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate, before he finally moved. He crossed the space between them in measured strides and stopped just short of Jungkook’s collapsed form. His gaze flicked over the ruined hand, the bloody knuckles, the half-crazed look in the younger alpha’s eyes.

“You want to live with it?” Yoongi said at last, his voice calm but heavy, meant to cut through the spiral. “Then stop acting like a rabid animal who doesn’t deserve what fate gave him. Stop destroying yourself before you destroy him.”

Jungkook’s lips parted, but nothing came out. His throat worked, breath caught between denial and the bond’s brutal truth.

For the first time that night, Yoongi’s tone softened — not kind, but firm. Final. “You asked me here because you’re drowning. So I’ll tell you this once: if you want him, Jungkook… you have to be the alpha he needs. Not the monster you’ve been.”

The words landed heavy, and Jungkook’s silence said enough — he heard them, but whether he could survive them was another matter entirely.

Yoongi didn’t wait for permission. He crouched down in front of Jungkook, pulling the younger alpha’s ruined hand into his own grip with a force that allowed no argument.

Jungkook jerked, trying to tear free, but Yoongi’s grip was iron. “Stop fighting me,” he snapped, the first crack of real anger in his voice. “You’ll make it worse.”

“Let go,” Jungkook growled, eyes flashing, but there was no real threat behind it — only shame.

“No,” Yoongi bit back, already straightening one swollen finger with a brutal, efficient motion. Jungkook hissed through his teeth, his body jolting with the sting, but he didn’t pull again. Not when Yoongi’s eyes lifted and pinned him, steady and unwavering.

Jungkook hissed, tried to jerk away again, but Yoongi’s grip tightened, not in forceful dominance but in stubborn steadiness. “Stay still,” he muttered, already examining the mangled fingers with a surgeon’s detachment. “Two dislocated. The rest—” He clicked his tongue. “Fractures. You’ve got a talent for self-destruction.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere over Yoongi’s shoulder. Sweat dampened his temples, not from pain but from the sheer effort of keeping his wolf caged.

The silence dragged, heavy, until Yoongi broke it — not with questions, not with accusations, but with observation. “You’re bleeding more inside than out.”

The words hung in the air, dangerous, intimate. Jungkook’s gaze snapped to him, sharp enough to cut, but Yoongi didn’t falter. He calmly began to reset the dislocated fingers with sure movements, ignoring the low snarl that rumbled from Jungkook’s chest when the pain spiked.

“You think breaking your hand will drown it out? That it’ll silence what you did? Or what you felt when you did it?” Yoongi’s tone was still level, quiet, but each word slipped under the armor Jungkook wore.

Jungkook’s throat worked, a bitter scoff breaking from him. “Don’t pretend you understand.”

Yoongi’s eyes flickered up briefly, sharp. “You’re right. I don’t understand what it’s like to hurt your mate until he foams at the mouth.” The words landed like stones — cold, heavy, deliberate. “But I do know what it’s like to be haunted. To wake in the night with blood on my hands that won’t wash off, no matter how many walls I punch.”

Jungkook’s breathing stuttered. His wolf stirred, restless, but the silence of it since Taehyung’s collapse left him raw, exposed. He stared down at Yoongi’s hands binding his own, at the careful way the older alpha wrapped gauze around each split knuckle. For once, Jungkook didn’t know whether to rage or crumble.

Yoongi tied the bandage with efficient neatness, then finally leaned back slightly, watching Jungkook with that same assessing calm. His voice dropped lower, almost gentler. “You don’t have to say it. Not to me. Not to anyone. But the bond doesn’t care for your pride, Jungkook. It’ll keep chewing you alive until you learn what it is you’re really feeling.”

The younger alpha scoffed again, bitter, but it lacked its earlier venom. He slumped back in the chair, bandaged hand heavy in his lap, his eyes dark and haunted. He didn’t answer, couldn’t.

Yoongi didn’t push further. He knew better. He simply stayed there, silent beside him, the room filled only with the faint crackle of cooling cigarette ash and Jungkook’s uneven breathing.

One by one, Yoongi worked through the damage — the dislocated fingers, the torn skin, the split knuckles. His touch wasn’t gentle, but it was practiced, precise. Each adjustment snapped or clicked with a sickening sound, and Jungkook grunted, jaw locked tight. He welcomed the pain, clung to it even, because it was something he could understand.

When Yoongi wrapped the bandage around the hand, pulling it snug, the silence between them thickened. Jungkook watched the careful movements, the way Yoongi’s hands — stained with his blood now — moved like he’d done this before, too many times before. It made something ugly twist in his chest.

His hand throbbed with every pulse of his heartbeat, but the pain was a small thing compared to the hollow ache carving through his chest. He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, cigarette smoke stinging his eyes. Yoongi didn’t move away. He stayed crouched for a while longer, then sat back on the low edge of the desk, close enough that Jungkook couldn’t ignore his presence.

The silence stretched. Only the clock ticked faintly on the wall.

Jungkook’s jaw shifted, restless, but he said nothing. He looked like he wanted to spit, to laugh, to break something else, but instead he just stared, chest rising and falling too fast for someone sitting still.

Yoongi’s gaze traced the tension running through him — the taut shoulders, the twitch of a vein in his temple, the way his wolf refused to come forward but also refused to sleep. Yoongi lit his own cigarette, drew in a long drag, exhaled the smoke into the dim space.

They sat like that for several minutes. It would have been easy to mistake Yoongi’s quiet for disinterest, but his eyes were sharp, steady, watching Jungkook as though mapping the cracks forming in real time.

Finally, Yoongi spoke — softly, but deliberately. “You’ve been quieter than your wolf.”

Jungkook’s head turned sharply, glare like a blade. But Yoongi’s face was calm, unreadable, smoke curling lazily between them.

“What does that mean?” Jungkook’s voice was rough, low, defensive.

Yoongi shrugged slightly. “Your wolf’s gone silent. You, on the other hand… you can’t even sit still. You’re bleeding through your skin, Jungkook. I can feel it from here.”

Jungkook scoffed, tried to laugh, but it came out cracked, jagged. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Yoongi took another drag, exhaled slow. “Don’t I?” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “I know what a man looks like when he’s drowning in guilt. I know what an alpha looks like when the bond he’s fighting turns on him. And right now, I see both sitting in front of me.”

Jungkook’s chest heaved, and for a split second, something flickered across his face — pain, raw and unguarded — before he masked it again with a cold glare. “Shut up, hyung.”

But Yoongi didn’t. His tone remained maddeningly even, low enough that it slid beneath the surface rather than striking directly. “You hear him crying still, don’t you? Even now, in this silence.”

The words landed heavy. Jungkook’s hand clenched into a fist, making the fresh bandages strain. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth.

“You smell him on your skin,” Yoongi continued, slower now, as though prying open a locked door. “And instead of satisfaction, it burns. You close your eyes, and instead of power, you see him curled up, begging. And you—” Yoongi leaned in slightly, voice quieter still, “—you hate yourself for it.”

“Stop,” Jungkook snarled, but it wasn’t sharp enough to cut. His voice cracked halfway, betraying him. He shoved up from the chair, pacing a short, restless line across the office, fingers digging into his scalp as though he could tear the words out.

Yoongi stayed seated, unbothered, watching with a grim patience. “You can break every bone in your body and it won’t change the truth. You feel it. That bond is chaining you. And it’s eating you alive because you can’t admit what it really is.”

Jungkook turned sharply, chest heaving, eyes fever-bright, feral with denial. “And what is it, huh?” His voice broke into a half-growl, half-plea. “Tell me, if you’re so wise. What the fuck is it?”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. He leaned back just slightly, cigarette dangling between his fingers, eyes locked on Jungkook’s. His voice came quiet, certain, each word cutting clean:

“It’s guilt, Jungkook. It’s the bond. And it’s love, whether you want to name it or not.”

The room fell still. Jungkook’s breath hitched, broken, his wolf still silent, offering no distraction this time. For the first time in years, he had nothing to fight with but his own heart, and the weight of it was unbearable.

For a moment, silence. Then Jungkook’s head tipped back, and a sharp, harsh laugh ripped out of his chest — too loud for the dead room, too jagged to be real amusement. It rattled against the walls, ugly and hollow, until he finally spat the word back like venom.

“Love?” His mouth twisted into something cruel, his eyes glittering with that feral madness that masked everything else. He looked at Yoongi as though the man had just spoken the dirtiest, most pathetic word in the world. “You think I—Jeon Jungkook—would stoop that low? To… what? To weep like a weakling over an omega’s tears? To chain myself with something so fucking useless?”

His laugh came again, more broken this time, and he dragged a bloody hand down his face, leaving a smear across his jaw. “Love,” he repeated, mocking, poisonous. “That’s your word, hyung, not mine. Don’t ever mistake me for that soft.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. He watched him, still, unblinking, smoke curling lazily from his half-burned cigarette. He let the silence stretch just enough before speaking again, his tone steady, unbothered.

“Then tell me something, Jungkook.” His voice was quiet, but it pressed into the space like weight. “If it’s not love… why do you look like this?”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed.

“Why are you sitting here bleeding like a fool?” Yoongi’s words came slow, deliberate, each one cutting deeper. “Why aren’t you out there doing what you always do — cleaning blood with more blood, forgetting it in the next fight, the next conquest? Why instead are you pacing your own office like a kicked pup that can’t settle, tearing your own hand apart because you can still hear him crying?”

The words hit too close, and Jungkook flinched — not visibly, not enough to admit it, but Yoongi saw the twitch in his shoulders, the flash in his eyes.

“Why,” Yoongi pressed, voice lower now, almost gentle, “do you feel guilty, Jungkook? If it’s not love, if it’s not the bond, then what the hell is it?”

Jungkook’s breathing was ragged, uneven, his wolf still silent, offering no shield. His chest rose and fell too fast, his hands trembled at his sides.

The laugh had drained out of him now, leaving only the echo of it, jagged in the air. And beneath it — the truth Yoongi kept dragging out, inch by inch, until there was nowhere left to hide.

“…What do I do, hyung?”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He let him speak.

Jungkook’s head lifted, eyes red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears he was barely holding back. He looked at Yoongi like a man drowning, desperate for air.

“You know it now,” he rasped, voice breaking on the edges. “He’s… he’s mine. My bond. My mate.” The words shook him, the admission like fire in his mouth, branding his tongue. “And I—” His voice faltered, dropped to a whisper. “…I ruined it. I ruined him.”

He pressed a bloodied hand against his chest, as though to tear the pain out. “It doesn’t stop hurting. His cries—they don’t stop. They’re here—” he hit his chest once, twice, breath stuttering, “—they don’t leave. And I can’t—fuck, I can’t breathe without—”

His throat closed around the rest. He swallowed hard, forcing it through the cracks, staring at Yoongi with that lost, hollow look.

“Tell me, hyung.” His voice broke into a plea, defeated and raw. “Tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do. How—how do I make him look at me the way he looks at Jimin? Or at you? How do I make him trust me, smile at me, without fear?”

The last word shattered him. He dropped his gaze, shoulders slumping, fists clenching in his lap. His wolf whimpered low inside his chest, finally stirring — but not with rage. With longing, with grief.

“I don’t know how,” Jungkook whispered, shaking, a tear finally sliding down his cheek, burning hot against the blood on his skin. “And it’s killing me.”

For a long, long moment, only silence lingered. Jungkook on his knees, broken and hollow, Yoongi above him, quiet as the dark itself.

But for the first time, Jungkook wasn’t hiding anymore.

The sharp smell of antiseptic still lingered faintly where Yoongi had cleaned and bandaged his hand. Jungkook sat behind the desk, body coiled but strangely hollow, as though the wolf in him had gone too quiet, leaving the man behind to wrestle with what was left.

For a while Yoongi didn’t speak, only watched him with that steady, unreadable gaze of his. The air between them was a mix of smoke from Jungkook’s half-burned cigarette and the raw metallic tang of blood still drying beneath the fresh bandages.

At length, Jungkook leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His jaw shifted, his dark eyes narrowing, not on Yoongi but on some invisible point over his shoulder. “There’s something you need to handle,” he said at last, his tone rasping, low and deliberate.

Yoongi didn’t move, but his attention sharpened.

“Hoseok,” Jungkook said the name like a foreign word he didn’t trust on his tongue. “An omega. He filed the missing person report when Taehyung disappeared months ago. Today he caused a scene at the precinct — shouting, threatening to drag police into the mud, even threatening the press.” His mouth curved in something between a scoff and a grimace. “All for Taehyung.”

The words hung there, weighted. Jungkook dragged in another breath, tapping his bandaged knuckles against the desk once. The sound was dull, unsatisfying.

“I want to know who he is,” Jungkook continued. His voice was steadier now, colder, but the shadows under his eyes betrayed the exhaustion clawing at him. “What he is to Taehyung. How far he’s willing to go, and why. Find his ties. Find what Taehyung was to him.”

Yoongi finally broke his stillness. He shifted, resting his arms against the desk, leaning forward just slightly. “And if he was someone important to Taehyung?”

That question hung sharp. Jungkook’s gaze flicked up, met Yoongi’s, and for a fraction of a second something unguarded cracked through — jealousy, fear, guilt, something darker — before the mask slipped back into place.

“Then I’ll know where I stand,” Jungkook said flatly. His lips curled faintly, bitter. “I’ll know what I ripped him away from. And I’ll know if I need to bury Hoseok alive… or let him live long enough to remember whose omega Taehyung is now.”

The silence after that was heavier than before, thick with the unsaid. Yoongi studied him, taking in the tightness of his jaw, the faint tremor in his bandaged hand where it clenched against the chair arm. But Yoongi didn’t argue, didn’t lecture. He only nodded once, crisp.

“I’ll handle it myself.”

Jungkook let out a breath, leaning back, head tipped against the chair as though the weight of his empire and his sins sat squarely on his shoulders. “Good,” he muttered. His eyes fell to his ruined hand again, flexing uselessly against the bandages.

Yoongi rose then, his footsteps soundless as he turned toward the door. Before he left, he paused — his voice soft but carrying across the dim office. “You don’t want to know who Hoseok is to Taehyung, Jungkook. You want to know who you are to him.”

The words landed heavy. Jungkook’s knuckles twitched once more against the armrest, the wolf inside him silent, leaving him to sit alone with nothing but the truth echoing.

* * *

The steam still clung faintly to his skin when Jungkook stepped out of his chambers. His hair was damp, droplets tracing lazy lines down the side of his neck, the fresh black shirt clinging to his shoulders where water hadn’t quite dried. He hadn’t bothered buttoning the top two buttons, and the sleeves were rolled halfway, revealing the bandages winding around his knuckles. They tugged faintly each time his hand flexed, a reminder of the wall he had punished instead of himself.

The mansion’s corridors were still, softened by the evening light that poured in through the tall windows. Dust motes drifted in gold sheets of sun, settling on polished floors that smelled faintly of lemon oil and incense burned earlier in the shrine room. Jungkook was heading toward the garden — the urge to drown his lungs in smoke strong enough to drag him out — when voices, hushed and nervous, pulled his attention.

At the far end of the hall, just before the glass doors leading to the garden, three maids were crouched. Their uniforms blended with the marble and pale walls, but the clinking of porcelain shards betrayed them. They worked carefully, sweeping up the wreckage of a vase — one of the expensive ones, painted with hand-brushed cranes — that now lay in jagged pieces across the floor. The sharp edges caught the light like small blades.

Jungkook slowed. The wolf in him hated disorder, but he wasn’t here to reprimand anyone. He might have walked past without a word — until his gaze caught on what one of them was holding, tucked awkwardly in her apron, like she didn’t know where it belonged.

A plushie.

It was small, worn in places, a soft beige bear whose arm was torn open at the seam, white stuffing peeking out like something wounded.

The sight of it stopped Jungkook in his tracks.

He spoke before he thought. “Where did you get that?”

The maids startled, snapping upright, bowing their heads in quick, frightened gestures. One of them stammered, “M-my Lord… it was found among the vase pieces. It must have been dropped here—”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked from the bear to the splintered porcelain, to the scuff marks along the wall, and memory struck him hard: Taehyung’s thrashing in his arms, the omega’s nails clawing at him, his body twisting like a trapped bird desperate for escape. The shriek of pottery shattering as he dragged him through this very hallway. The plushie — Jungkook could almost see it — being flung in desperation, catching on the vase’s ornate edge, ripping at the seam before the chaos swallowed everything.

The recollection was so vivid his jaw clenched. He could hear Taehyung’s voice again, hoarse with terror, see the tears in his eyes, the way he screamed like Jungkook had dragged him into hell itself.

Something inside Jungkook winced, the weight of it sharp and sour.

He stepped closer. His hand — the one wrapped in gauze — lifted, fingers twitching faintly as though reaching for something untouchable. “Give it to me,” he said, his voice quiet but absolute.

The maid obeyed instantly, setting the torn plushie in his palm with trembling hands. Up close, the damage was worse: the seam ripped nearly to the shoulder, threads hanging loose, the toy’s eye scratched dull. It was soft, still warm from the maid’s apron, and the scent clinging faintly to it — delicate, familiar — was undeniably Taehyung’s.

Jungkook’s throat worked as he closed his fist around it, stuffing brushing against the bandages.

He glanced once toward the doors that led out to the garden, where smoke and night would have dulled his thoughts. Then back down at the toy in his hand. His chest tightened, the cigarette urge shriveling into something heavier, something he didn’t have a name for.

Without a word to the maids, Jungkook turned. His steps were deliberate, echoing down the polished floor as he retreated back toward his chambers. The plushie hung from his hand, limp and torn, a silent witness to what had happened in that hallway.

The doors closed behind him. And for the first time in a long while, Jungkook forgot to smoke.

The door shut behind him with a muted thud.

Inside, the chamber was dim, lit only by the gray wash of evening filtering through the tall windows. The air smelled faintly of steam from his shower, faintly of leather and smoke that had seeped into the furniture. Jungkook stood just inside the threshold, the weight of the plushie dangling from his bandaged hand.

He looked at it for a long moment, then finally crossed the room and sank onto the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped beneath his frame, and for a moment he sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, toy dangling between them.

The bear looked pitiful in the gloom — its seam torn, one button eye slightly crooked, stuffing spilling like it had been gutted. Jungkook lifted it slowly, his gaze heavy, and with his uninjured hand he smoothed over the plushie’s worn fur. His thumb brushed across its stitched mouth, the frayed threads where the seam had ripped.

It should have been nothing. A child’s trinket. Something fragile and absurd in the hands of a man who had spilled blood, who had built empires on broken bodies.

But it wasn’t nothing. Not when he could still see Taehyung’s tear-streaked face as clearly as if the omega stood in front of him. Not when he could still hear the ragged cries that had bounced off these walls only hours ago.

Jungkook let out a harsh breath, a sigh that dragged itself from the depths of his chest. His jaw clenched, then loosened again.

The sigh came again, heavier this time, nearly a groan. He pressed the toy briefly to his face, the faint trace of Taehyung’s scent against it a cruel mercy. Something inside him twisted — dark, hungry, guilty, and yearning all at once.

And though he would never admit it aloud, for the first time in years, Jungkook wondered if he had already done exactly what Jimin warned.

Broken something too far.

Jungkook sat still for a long time, the torn bear resting on his lap. His eyes traced over it again and again, as though the more he looked, the more he could understand how something so small, so delicate, could carry such weight in his chest.

Jimin’s voice slipped into the silence again, softer now, but insistent:

A little effort from me, and a little from you.

The words wouldn’t leave. They threaded themselves into him, dug under his skin. Jungkook’s jaw ticked as he turned the bear in his hand, thumb brushing the ripped seam.

And then — a whisper, low and feral, curling like smoke in the back of his skull.

He’s your mate. Provide for him. Give him more than scraps. Toss this ruined thing away and replace it. Make him something worthy, something whole.

His wolf.

The instinct coiled deep in his blood, pressing and pressing, demanding he listen. The same voice that had driven him into fury earlier, the same urge that had made him hurt the one he should have protected.

“No,” Jungkook muttered under his breath, voice sharp in the stillness. His knuckles whitened against the plushie’s fur. “Not from you. Not anymore.”

The wolf growled back, not in sound but in pressure — that hot, pulsing push in his chest, in his throat. He deserves more. We can give him—

“I said shut up.” The words snapped, bitten off like glass between his teeth. His head dropped forward, strands of damp hair falling across his brow as he forced his breathing steady. “You already made me hurt him once. I don’t need your advice.”

Silence fell again. Heavy. Almost suffocating.

Slowly, Jungkook lifted the bear again. His fingers, still stiff and bruised, skimmed the uneven fur as though it were skin. He stroked down its little arm where the seam had split, where cotton spilled pale and raw.

“…a little effort,” he murmured, softer now.

The plushie looked ridiculous in his large hands, but he held it carefully, as though it might fall apart completely if he wasn’t precise. He set it gently on the nightstand, then stood and crossed to the cabinet where Jimin’s medical kit had been left after tending his hand.

The latch clicked. Inside: bandages, salves, needles. Thread.

Jungkook brought the box back to the bed and sat. He pulled the bear onto his lap again, the medical kit open beside him. His hands weren’t steady — the bandages tugged at his knuckles, the bruising angry and fresh — but he threaded the needle slowly, carefully, with a patience no one would have believed him capable of.

The first stitch pulled through, uneven. He frowned, lips pressing into a hard line, but he didn’t stop. Again. And again. Each pull of the thread closed the wound just a little more.

Jungkook’s shoulders eased as he worked, though the tension never left his jaw. His eyes never left the plushie, never blinked away from the ridiculous task before him. He’d commanded armies, killed men without hesitation — and here he was, bent over with a needle in his hand, patching up a toy because Taehyung had once held it. Because he had broken it.

Another sigh slipped past his lips, softer this time, almost weary. His thumb smoothed down the stitched seam, not quite satisfied but unwilling to stop until it was done.

By the time he tied the last knot, his body felt heavier, but his chest lighter in some twisted way. He turned the bear upright, looking at its lopsided but whole shape. Not perfect. Never perfect. But mended.

Jungkook leaned back against the headboard, the repaired plushie in his lap, and closed his eyes for just a moment.

He could still hear Taehyung’s screams in the walls, still feel Jimin’s words like a bruise across his ribs.

A little effort from me, and a little from you.

His wolf stirred faintly, restless, but Jungkook ignored it, pressing a bandaged thumb over the fresh stitches, as though silently promising—this would be the first.

The next morning, Jungkook buried himself in paperwork long before the house began to stir. His desk was littered with open files, reports that had nothing to do with the empire and everything to do with distraction. Yet the words blurred together until they meant nothing, lines of ink and paper that refused to hold his focus.

The repaired plushie sat on the corner of his desk, small and absurd against the heavy wood, its stitched arm like a wound barely closed. Every time his gaze snagged on it, his chest tightened, but he left it there. He didn’t know where else to put it.

When Jimin arrived at his call, he carried himself like a man who hadn’t slept. The doctor’s shirt was crisp, his manner polished, but Jungkook noticed the shadow under his eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders.

“How is he?” Jungkook asked at once, voice low, even though he already knew the answer wouldn’t sit well.

Jimin drew in a breath, the sound heavy, almost reluctant. “He’s… gone back,” he said carefully. “Back to where he was when he first arrived. The walls are higher now. He barely eats, he barely speaks. He keeps his eyes down. Every step forward—it’s like it’s been erased.”

Jungkook’s jaw worked, tension pulling hard through his face as he looked down at the mess of files. A sigh pushed past him, quiet but rough, the kind of sound that seemed dragged up from his chest.

“And you?” he asked after a pause, though the words came out sharper than he meant. “You sound defeated too.”

Jimin gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Defeated isn’t the word. Disappointed, maybe. But I’m not the one locked in a cage of your making, am I?” His tone wasn’t cruel, just tired—like a man stating facts he no longer had the energy to soften.

The silence stretched, heavy, until Jungkook reached into the corner of the desk. He picked up the plushie, turning it once in his hand before holding it out across the space between them.

“Give it back to him,” Jungkook said simply.

Jimin blinked, caught off guard, before stepping forward and taking the bear from Jungkook’s hand. He turned it over in his own, eyes narrowing slightly as his fingers brushed over the uneven stitches. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t say a word. His silence lingered, heavy, and Jungkook didn’t look up to meet it.

Jimin tucked the plushie under his arm, still quiet, then gave the smallest of nods before stepping back.

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, his gaze fixed on the desk though his thoughts were already down the hall, behind a door he hadn’t the courage to open himself.

* * *

The medical wing was calm that afternoon, washed in muted sunlight through gauzy curtains. The scent of antiseptic hung faintly in the air, softened by the lavender oil Jimin had been sneaking into the diffuser for Taehyung’s sake.

Jimin pushed the door open gently, careful not to startle. Inside, Taehyung was curled on the bed with his knees tucked under him, a small pile of plushies arranged in front of him like companions in some secret council. He was whispering to them—soft, indistinct words—his hands moving them about in turns, his fragile world held together by seams and stuffing.

But there was a gap. One space in the lineup was empty.

The bear.

Taehyung’s lips were pushed in a faint pout as he adjusted the others, as if trying to fill the absence but failing each time. Jimin’s heart twisted.

“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin said softly, setting his medical clipboard aside.

Taehyung’s head lifted, eyes wide and round, waiting.

“I have something for you,” Jimin continued, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. He kept his voice warm, coaxing, like one might use with a pup frightened of loud sounds. “Something special. Do you want to see?”

Immediately, Taehyung’s attention sharpened. He nodded, his hands frozen mid-play, lips parting just a little in anticipation.

Jimin reached into his bag and drew out the bear. It looked whole again now, though the faint unevenness of the stitching was clear. Its arm no longer dangled loose, the fabric held together with careful thread.

The moment Taehyung saw it, his whole face lit up. His mouth fell open in a gasp, then curved into a wide, radiant smile that made his eyes nearly disappear.

“Bear!” he squealed, scrambling forward on his knees to snatch it from Jimin’s hands. He hugged it tight against his chest, rocking slightly, a little sound of happiness bubbling out of him.

“I missed you, I missed you so much,” Taehyung whispered into the bear’s stitched head, as if it had been away on a long journey.

Then he turned his big eyes back to Jimin, full of curiosity. “Who gave it? I lost it… when scary alpha—” he faltered, voice trembling but still brave, “when he dragged me. It went away. Who brought it back?”

Jimin’s throat tightened. He wanted to protect him from every shard of truth, yet Taehyung deserved honesty—softened, but real.

“It’s from someone who is very sorry,” Jimin said gently. “Someone who found it and… fixed it. Stitched it up with their own hands. They wanted you to have it again.”

Taehyung blinked down at the bear, running small fingers over the seams, tracing the uneven thread. His lips quirked in a little smile.

“Sorry…” he echoed quietly, pressing a kiss to the bear’s head. “Then bear is happy. And I’m happy too.”

He lay back down with the plushie clutched tight, nestling it against his cheek as if it were warm. His lashes fluttered, his smile softening into something small but unguarded.

Jimin sat silently, watching him—his chest heavy with the knowledge of who had threaded those stitches, who was trying in his own broken way to reach across the gulf he himself had carved.

* * *

Two days had passed since Namjoon had turned the car around in front of the university gates, and the silence in their shared home had grown thick, sticky, almost unbearable. Seokjin hadn’t stepped out of his room except for quick trips to the bathroom. He’d skipped meals—sometimes nibbling on something Jimin had quietly sent him through the household staff, sometimes drinking only water—but not once had he sat at the table where Namjoon waited.

At first, Namjoon had played his usual game. He’d stood at Seokjin’s door with his deep, unhurried voice, knocking once, saying, “Come out and eat, Jin.” When there was no answer, he repeated it once more before threatening, “If you don’t open this door, I’ll use the key.”

But he hadn’t.

He could have. The master key to every lock in the house was his. He could’ve gone in, dragged Seokjin out, thrown him into a chair, forced food into him—yet he didn’t. Not because he couldn’t. But because he knew exactly what Seokjin was doing. The silent rebellion, the tears he wouldn’t let Namjoon see, the angry mutters whispered into pillows. Namjoon wasn’t blind to it; he’d seen it before in others. But with Seokjin, it gnawed at something deeper.

He allowed it. He allowed the omega his sulking, his anger, even his hunger. Because Namjoon knew the waiting game better than anyone.

The house was quiet except for the normal hum of empire business. Namjoon worked in his office as usual—handling calls, pouring over paperwork—but his mind kept drifting upstairs, to the closed door at the end of the hall. Every time footsteps sounded in the corridor, his head lifted just slightly, expecting Seokjin. Every time they passed without pause, his jaw tightened.

On the second night, Namjoon returned home late. The lights were dim, servants gone for the evening. He climbed the stairs slowly, his hand brushing against the rail. When he reached Seokjin’s door, he paused again, listening. Silence. Not even a shuffle of movement.

His knuckles rapped once, firmly.
“Still not hungry?”

Silence.

“Still punishing me?” he drawled, almost amused. His voice carried that lazy arrogance, but underneath was something tighter. “You think I don’t know you’ve been starving yourself? Hm?”

He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, lowering his voice now—half mocking, half serious.
“You’re soft, Seokjin. Soft and fragile. You can’t win against me this way. You’ll break before I do.”

Inside, Seokjin sat curled up on the floor by his bed, hugging his knees, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep from answering. His stomach hurt. His throat ached with the things he wanted to scream. You don’t get to control me. You don’t get to decide my dreams. I’m not your prisoner.

But he stayed quiet.

Namjoon exhaled through his nose, straightened up, and for a long moment simply stared at the door, his expression unreadable. Then he said, in a tone that was almost conversational:
“You’ve got five days left, Jin. Five days to think about who you’re fighting and what you’re fighting for. Then we’ll see how much university really means to you.”

And with that, he walked away.

* * *

The knock was firm, measured, not the kind of request but an order wrapped in patience.

“Seokjin,” Namjoon’s voice carried through the locked door, deep, smooth, but tinged with a bite of impatience. “Come out.”

From inside, muffled but sharp, came the answer: “Leave me alone!”

Namjoon closed his eyes, jaw tightening. On ordinary nights, he might have let the bratty defiance linger, might have indulged in letting Seokjin starve himself in silence until he came crawling back with red eyes and quivering lips. But tonight wasn’t ordinary. Tonight was power, politics, and display—the Empire’s gala.

He exhaled through his nose, then leaned closer to the door. “You have one hour. Shower. Freshen up. We’re leaving.” A pause. “Stylists and crew are on their way.”

No response. Just silence.

Namjoon clicked his tongue, a dangerous sound. He gave it ten minutes, fifteen, and when he realized Seokjin was set on stubbornness, he fetched the spare key. The lock clicked, and the heavy door swung open.

Seokjin sat on the edge of the bed, still in his sleep shirt, hair a mess, his jaw set in that quiet fury he carried like armor. His doe eyes narrowed when Namjoon entered.

“Out,” Seokjin bit, his voice sharp but brittle.

Namjoon only shut the door behind him and leaned on it, his height a wall in itself. “Shower. Now. Or I’ll assist you myself.”

The words weren’t a bluff, not in that low, deliberate tone. Seokjin’s lips trembled into a scoff, but he could see in Namjoon’s gaze that his pride was the only thing between him and humiliation. After a long beat, he stood, brushing past Namjoon with a stiff shoulder.

The shower ran for nearly thirty minutes, water echoing off tile. When he finally stepped out, his damp hair clung to his forehead, his skin flushed faintly from the heat. He came back into the room to find the stylists had already arrived—cases of makeup, jewelry, fine suits laid out like offerings on the bed.

Namjoon stood at the side, one hand in his pocket, broad shoulders rolled back as he watched. He expected resistance. He expected whining, some sharp-tongued remark about being dressed up like a doll. But instead, Seokjin looked at him once, sighed quietly, and lowered himself into the chair.

“Do it,” he murmured to the stylists, almost flatly.

Namjoon’s brows lifted slightly. For Seokjin, silence was more dangerous than fury.

The crew worked around him like clockwork. Layers of foundation smoothed across his porcelain skin, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the softness of his cheeks. His lips, already full, turned almost obscene when gloss was applied—a pink sheen catching the light like temptation. Jewelry followed: subtle, expensive, glowing against his pale skin.

Namjoon was dressed in his own suit as the tailors adjusted the fall of the fabric across his broad frame, but his gaze strayed constantly to Seokjin. Watching the way his lashes fluttered under the brush of mascara. Watching the way his pout deepened every time his lips were touched again.

Seokjin sat unusually still, no barbed remarks, no scoffing. Just silence.

It unsettled Namjoon more than his anger ever had.

He let his eyes drag over Seokjin, from the slope of his neck where the collar of his shirt gaped faintly, down to the slim line of his waist, then back up to that glossy mouth. And though Namjoon prided himself on control, something stirred beneath his calm mask—something possessive, territorial.

His omega looked like sin wrapped in silk.

And for the first time since their marriage, Namjoon found himself wondering if Seokjin’s silence was surrender… or the calm before he decided to burn him alive.

The gala was ablaze with chandeliers, each one dripping crystal like frozen fire, their light refracting across marble floors polished until they gleamed with reflections of velvet gowns and steel-tipped shoes. Gold-trimmed walls echoed with the low thrum of violins, champagne flutes clinking, laughter that was too sharp, too rehearsed. It was a gathering of power disguised as elegance—families who carved empires out of blood and black money parading in silk and jewels.

Namjoon moved through it like a shark, dressed in midnight-black, shoulders broad, jaw set with the calm intimidation of someone who knew he belonged here. At his side, walking with measured grace, was Seokjin.

Seokjin looked devastating. The stylists’ work was flawless—his suit cut perfectly to his slim frame, fabric hugging narrow shoulders and tapering down his waist. A pearl pin gleamed at his lapel, rings glittered faintly on his long fingers, and his lips, glossy and soft, caught the light every time he moved them. He had his chin high, his eyes calm, his smile polite—the picture of an omega meant to adorn an alpha’s side.

Namjoon should have been proud. He should have felt nothing but smugness as heads turned, whispers trailing in their wake. But his eyes kept sliding to Seokjin’s profile, to the quiet strength in the way he carried himself. To the faint, stubborn lift at the corner of his mouth, like he refused to be fully tamed even here.

They stopped near a cluster of dignitaries, and Namjoon, almost without thought, leaned down slightly, his baritone dropping low enough for only Seokjin to hear.

“Stand closer, omega.”

The word slipped out like instinct.

Seokjin froze, his lashes flickering. For a moment Namjoon thought he’d ignore it, swallow the sting the way omegas in this circle often did. But then Seokjin’s head snapped toward him, his voice a hiss so sharp it cut through the elegant murmur of the room.

“I’m Seokjin,” he whispered furiously, his eyes blazing. “Not ‘omega.’”

The words weren’t loud, but they carried weight—defiance pressed into syllables like diamonds under pressure.

Namjoon’s breath caught. He blinked, momentarily disarmed, stunned that Seokjin dared to snap like that in public. He should have been angry. Offended. The alpha in him should have risen, demanded submission. But instead, Namjoon just stared at him—bewildered.

The fury in Seokjin’s eyes shifted in an instant as a poised woman, draped in sapphire silk, turned to greet them. And Seokjin, without missing a beat, turned that same mouth into the most flawless smile. Gentle, warm, devastatingly charming. He inclined his head slightly, answering her with grace, his voice like honey poured into the conversation.

Namjoon watched, completely thrown off balance. His ears still echoed with “I’m Seokjin. Not omega.” Yet before him stood the same man smiling sweetly, laughing softly, dazzling the woman with his quiet confidence.

And something in Namjoon’s chest shifted—an ache he hadn’t expected. Awe threaded through the sharp edges of his pride. Tenderness curled low in his gut. His gaze lingered shamelessly, caught between the memory of Seokjin’s hiss and the vision of him now, radiant, untouchable.

For the first time, Namjoon realized Seokjin wasn’t just beautiful—he was dangerous.

Seokjin felt small the moment he walked in at Namjoon’s side, even though he wore the kind of suit that cost more than his family’s old house, even though the stylist’s hands had painted his lips in the faintest, most perfect pink. He tried to hold himself tall, to keep his chin lifted, but he could feel Namjoon’s gaze dragging over him every few breaths—possessive, unreadable, too steady.

Then he saw them.

His family.

They stood near one of the towering columns, a cluster of familiar faces set in unfamiliar hardness. His mother’s hair was swept into a flawless bun, jewels glittering at her throat. His father’s shoulders were square, his lips pressed in a thin line, as though the room itself bowed to him. His siblings lingered close, their eyes darting without warmth, without welcome.

Seokjin’s chest tightened, but his feet carried him forward anyway, as though magnetized. A part of him, the fragile part that still clung to boyhood hopes, longed for their embrace. Longed to be asked if he was happy. If he was safe. If Namjoon was kind.

“Mother,” he greeted softly when he reached them, his voice a careful murmur.

Her gaze swept over him with the sharpness of a blade, not lingering long enough to wound, but long enough to assess. Her smile, when it came, was polite, practiced, empty.

“You look well enough,” she said, tone cool as her diamonds. Then, without pause, her words slid beneath her smile like a knife hidden in velvet. “Tell me, Seokjin… have you been performing your duties? As an omega? As Namjoon’s mate?” Her voice dropped just slightly, pitched for his ears alone, though the venom was unmistakable. “Is there news of pups yet?”

The world seemed to tilt. Seokjin froze, heat rushing to his face so fast it burned. His throat closed around the words that scrambled to escape. His gaze shot sideways, panic rising—what if Namjoon had heard? What if the alphas nearby, the women in glittering gowns, the men sipping champagne, all heard his mother reduce him to breeding stock?

“I…” He stammered, fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t look at anyone.

Desperation clawed its way up, and he turned—like he always did—toward his father. The man whose word had once felt like shelter, who had promised him he would still be allowed to study. That marriage wouldn’t strip away everything he was.

“Father,” Seokjin said, his voice trembling but audible, too raw in a room that demanded poise. “You said—you promised me that Namjoon would let me continue my studies. That I could still have that part of my life.” His throat burned. His lips shook. “But he… he isn’t like that.”

His father’s sigh was sharp enough to pierce him. His jaw flexed as though Seokjin’s words were a nuisance, an embarrassment. The weight of the gala pressed around them, alphas circling, eyes catching like hawks on prey.

“Enough,” his father bit out. The word was final, clipped, a door slammed in Seokjin’s face. “You are mated now. Your studies, your childish ambitions—leave them behind.”

The music seemed to falter, even though the strings still played. Seokjin’s breath hitched, his heart clawing against his ribs.

“What about me?” he whispered, his voice cracking, too fragile, too human. His vision blurred, shimmering with tears. “What about my dreams?”

The question trembled in the air, a boy’s plea wrapped in a man’s body, breaking against the marble coldness of politics.

“Forget them,” his father said flatly, his eyes cutting into him without pause, without care. “You belong to your alpha now. Your duty is to him, not yourself.”

The words crushed him, heavy as the chandeliers, sharp as the jeweled cuffs glittering at his mother’s wrists. Seokjin blinked hard, forcing back the tears, but they betrayed him anyway, glistening in his lashes as he ducked his head.

He was not Seokjin here. Not their son. Not a dreamer who once wanted books and lectures and a quiet life filled with something like love.

He was property. A pawn. A vessel.

And the walls of the gala pressed in, suffocating.

Seokjin bowed, shallow and stiff, to his father — obedience drilled into his spine despite the tears glittering in his eyes. Then, before anyone could say more, he turned on his heel and walked quickly toward the grand staircase. His steps were fast, too fast, each one carrying him further from the crowd, from the suffocating circle of his family. His shoulders shook as he moved, but he never looked back.

Namjoon’s jaw tightened. He exhaled slowly, a sigh that curled into the hollow of his chest. Then he set his glass aside completely, excusing himself with a polite nod to the alphas still speaking at his side.

“I’ll return shortly,” he murmured, though his voice was distant, his mind already far away. His eyes followed the path Seokjin had taken — the sweeping staircase, the glimmer of his suit under the chandeliers, the faint tremor in his back as he disappeared onto the second floor.

Namjoon adjusted his cuffs, squared his shoulders, and began to move.

The balcony doors groaned softly as Seokjin pushed them open, the muted waltz from the ballroom spilling out before being swallowed by the night. He stepped into the cool air, his shoes clicking against marble before stilling near the railing. The gala behind him was still a storm of polished laughter and clinking glasses, but out here — under the expanse of velvet sky — he could finally breathe, even if each breath scraped his lungs raw.

The city stretched below in glittering veins of light, but Seokjin barely saw it. His reflection in the tall windows mocked him: flushed cheeks streaked with tears, lips glossed and trembling, eyes swollen red. He gripped the railing with both hands, knuckles bleaching as though holding on tight enough could anchor him. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, breaths too shallow, too fast.

And then the first sob slipped free.

It was quiet, strangled, the sound of someone trying desperately not to be heard. But once it cracked the surface, more followed, spilling hot and unrestrained down his cheeks. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, as if he could dam the sound there. His body shivered despite the warm air, his breath hitching, his tears dripping onto polished marble like tiny offerings of defeat.

“Seokjin.”

The voice came low, steady, but unmistakably alpha.

Seokjin flinched, whirling slightly, his tear-blurred eyes finding Namjoon in the doorway. The man stood half in shadow, broad shoulders filling the frame, his dark suit cutting against the faint moonlight. He looked almost unreal — untouchable, like something carved out of iron and willpower.

But Seokjin didn’t see the awe others might. He saw him. The one who had dragged him into this cage dressed in diamonds.

“What happened?” Namjoon’s voice was quiet, nearly tender, though a faint command underlined the words — a habit he couldn’t quite mask.

Something inside Seokjin snapped. His lips curled, his breath caught on a sob that turned sharp in his throat, and he spat the words out through trembling teeth:

“You happened.”

Namjoon stilled.

“If you hadn’t come,” Seokjin continued, his voice breaking, rising with anger, “if you hadn’t taken me—forced me into this—” His chest heaved, his hand lifted as though he could physically throw the words at him. “I would still be in my university. I would still be chasing my career, my dreams—” His voice cracked, dropping into a jagged whisper. “But you happened, and you ruined it all.”

His hands balled into fists, his shoulders shaking. “You took everything from me.”

Namjoon’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. He stood there, silent, the faint light casting sharp lines across his face. He did not defend himself, did not argue, did not flinch. He simply let Seokjin’s anger crash against him like waves against stone.

Seokjin turned back to the railing, his knuckles rapping against the iron as another sob tore free. “Do you know what it’s like,” he choked, “to have dreams your whole life and then have someone rip them away? To be told to forget them like they mean nothing? Like you mean nothing?” He squeezed his eyes shut, tears spilling freely now, his lips trembling as he tried to steady his breathing and failed.

Namjoon’s chest tightened. He moved forward slowly, footsteps deliberate, each one echoing against the marble until he stood a breath behind him. For a moment he only looked — at the fragile line of Seokjin’s shoulders, at the stubborn way he kept his spine straight even as he shook with tears, at the way his lips trembled with rage more than weakness.

And then he sighed. Low, heavy, a sound dragged from the bottom of his chest.

Without asking, without hesitation, Namjoon reached out and pulled Seokjin into his arms.

Seokjin gasped, startled, then immediately resisted. His fists struck against Namjoon’s chest, weak but fueled by stubborn fury. “Let go of me! Don’t touch me!” he cried, his voice thick with sobs. His small, trembling punches landed over Namjoon’s suit, sharp bursts of defiance against unyielding muscle. He kicked once, writhing, but Namjoon’s grip was iron.

“Stop it,” Namjoon murmured, his voice deep and calm, steady against the storm in his arms. He pressed his lips against Seokjin’s temple, the touch fleeting but grounding. “Shh. Enough.”

Seokjin thrashed again, his tears hot against Namjoon’s chest. “I hate you! I hate you!” The words were muffled, torn, collapsing into sobs as he pounded his fists uselessly. His body betrayed him, growing weaker the longer he struggled.

Namjoon’s hand slid to the back of Seokjin’s head, fingers cradling him, his other arm wrapped firmly around his waist. He anchored him, unmovable. “Cry if you need to,” he said softly, though his tone was firm, coaxing. “But stop hurting yourself.”

“I—” Seokjin’s voice broke again, his fight collapsing into shuddering breaths. His fists fell limp against Namjoon’s chest, hanging there like abandoned weapons. His tears soaked the fabric, hot trails that refused to stop.

Namjoon shushed him quietly, a rhythm in his chest, steady, grounding. “I’ll make it right,” he whispered, the promise low, almost dangerous in its certainty. His breath brushed against Seokjin’s hair. “I’ll fix it. I’ll stop the noise. Just… stop crying.”

Seokjin’s shoulders shook once, twice, and then his body sagged against him, exhausted. His forehead pressed against Namjoon’s chest, his breaths uneven but slowing, though his tears kept falling.

Namjoon tightened his hold, shielding him from the world even as he stared out over the balcony. His expression was unreadable — somewhere between guilt and resolve, somewhere between silence and vows unspoken.

Seokjin’s breaths were evening out, though his cheeks were still damp, his lashes stuck together with tears. He kept his forehead pressed against Namjoon’s chest for a moment longer, then pulled back stubbornly, sniffing. His voice was low, roughened from crying, but his chin lifted with that quiet defiance that refused to die.

“I don’t want to go back inside.”

Namjoon studied him for a long moment. His gaze swept over the flushed cheeks, the damp collar, the trembling but stubborn set of Seokjin’s jaw. He could have ordered, could have bent him to his will as he always did — but instead, his answer came without hesitation, his voice calm but firm.

“Then we leave.”

Seokjin blinked.

He searched Namjoon’s face, waiting for the smirk, the cruel twist, the inevitable demand that followed. But there was none. Just that deep, steady voice carrying an answer that shouldn’t have been so simple.

“What?” Seokjin whispered, disbelief in his tone.

Namjoon adjusted his hold, thumb brushing against the back of Seokjin’s neck, grounding. “If you don’t want to go back inside, then we’re leaving. Now.”

Seokjin’s lips parted, shock breaking through the fog of his tears. It was so unlike the man who had, only days ago, turned the car around from the university gates and declared a week-long punishment for defiance. So unlike the man who had locked him in expectations and made him parade into this gala.

Suspicion flared in his chest.

“You’re lying,” he said suddenly, narrowing his eyes, voice thin with both accusation and hope. “You’ll drag me back inside the moment I step towards the door.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched, but not into a smile — into something steadier, harder. “I don’t lie, Seokjin.” His voice lowered. “Not to you.”

The words sat heavy in the night air, their weight pulling at Seokjin’s chest. He swallowed hard, shifting against him, still clutching onto that defiance like armor.

“Fine,” he muttered after a long silence. He sniffed once, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, and then looked up at Namjoon again, testing, pushing. “Then I want pizza.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, but did not argue.

“And I want to stay out the whole night,” Seokjin continued, stubbornness sharpening his tone, daring him to refuse. “Even if it’s just sitting in the car. I’m not going home.”

The corner of Namjoon’s jaw flexed, but his answer came without pause, his voice even.

“Then we’ll stay out. All night, if that’s what you want.”

Seokjin froze.

For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe. The challenge had been meant to corner Namjoon, to prove him false, to show that the chains were still there, just hidden. But instead… Namjoon had agreed. So easily. So firmly.

Confusion swirled behind his damp lashes. His lips parted, but no words came. His chest rose and fell, still ragged, but slower now, as he stared at the man who should have been a monster — the man who still was, in so many ways — but who was suddenly giving in, as if Seokjin’s stubborn voice carried more weight than all the politics, the families, the empire.

Namjoon only reached up, brushing his thumb across the corner of Seokjin’s mouth, where a tear still clung. His gaze was steady, unwavering.

“Say it once, and it’s done,” he said simply.

Seokjin turned away, confused and unsettled, his chest burning with something he didn’t want to name.

The pizzeria Namjoon chose wasn’t grand, nothing like the shimmering chandeliers of the gala hall they’d just abandoned. It was a tucked-away place, neon lights flickering faintly above the glass front, the smell of melted cheese and garlic seeping out each time the door opened. The kind of place Seokjin would have run to with friends after classes — the kind of place that belonged to a different life.

Namjoon came back with a large, steaming box balanced in one hand. He set it down on the console between them in the car, the warm scent filling the enclosed space. Seokjin’s eyes immediately locked on it, his stomach growling in betrayal.

Namjoon leaned back into his seat, loosening the buttons at his throat as he watched Seokjin lift the lid with trembling fingers. “You’re not even going to wait until I park properly?” he asked, amusement threading into his deep voice.

Seokjin didn’t dignify him with an answer. He pulled out a slice — molten cheese stretching, the tip of the slice nearly folding under the weight of toppings — and bit into it with the hunger of someone who hadn’t eaten in days.

Namjoon arched a brow. “You’re going to eat the whole thing?”

Seokjin nodded, cheeks puffed with food, eyes fixed stubbornly forward. He didn’t even glance at him.

Namjoon let out a short breath through his nose, watching him chew and then reach for another slice without pause. “I’m hungry too, you know.”

“Go buy your own,” Seokjin said flatly, his tone sharp as the edge of glass. His lips glistened with oil and gloss, and his voice came out muffled with his mouth full, but the defiance in it was clear.

Namjoon’s head tilted slightly, studying him. A silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of paper and Seokjin’s determined chewing. Finally, Namjoon sighed, low and long, dragging a hand down his jaw.

That sound — the heavy, restrained sigh — made Seokjin’s eyes flick sideways at him. For a second, their gazes met, and Seokjin felt a jolt in his chest. He tore his eyes away just as quickly, but his stubbornness faltered for the briefest moment.

“…Fine,” he muttered, wiping his fingers with a napkin. His voice was begrudging, quiet, but Namjoon caught every syllable. “You can take one piece. Only one.”

Namjoon’s lips curved, not quite a smile but something dangerously close. He inclined his head, as though this small allowance was a decree worth honoring. “One piece,” he echoed softly.

Seokjin rolled his eyes, cheeks warm, and shoved the box an inch toward him in permission. Namjoon took a slice with steady, unhurried movements, and ate in silence beside him, savoring each bite as though he hadn’t been handed crumbs but a feast.

When Seokjin was halfway through his third slice, he finally noticed Namjoon start the engine. He frowned, licking grease from his thumb.

“Where are we going?”

Namjoon shifted gears, eyes on the road as the car purred out of the small parking lot. His voice was calm, deep, with no hesitation.

“You said we’re staying out the whole night.”

“So?” Seokjin asked suspiciously.

Namjoon’s hands tightened on the wheel, his profile sharp in the glow of the passing streetlamps. “So I know a better place.”

Seokjin’s stomach twisted — not from the pizza, but from the way his heart skipped at the certainty in Namjoon’s tone.

The city lights thinned out as the car carried them further from the glittering towers and choked streets. Seokjin leaned back against the seat, arms folded, the pizza box balanced protectively on his lap as though Namjoon might suddenly try to steal more than his permitted single slice. He refused to ask where they were going, though every so often his gaze darted toward Namjoon’s hands steady on the wheel, his posture unhurried yet purposeful.

The road shifted gradually from wide, polished asphalt into narrower lanes that curled upward. The hum of civilization dulled until only the low roar of the engine and the whisper of the night breeze brushing against the windows filled the air.

Seokjin’s stubborn pout faltered the higher they climbed. The air felt cleaner, fresher, tinged with pine and damp soil. His curiosity grew, pushing against his pride until it almost spilled from his lips — but then Namjoon flicked a switch, and the roof of the car began folding back, the mechanism humming softly until the night sky stretched wide and unobstructed above them.

Seokjin’s eyes widened, his body jerking upright as a rush of cool air swept in. He clutched the pizza box tighter against his chest, his hair tousled by the wind. “What—” His voice caught, strangled halfway into a question.

Namjoon didn’t answer. He only glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, before returning his eyes to the road.

The last turn brought them onto an overlook — a wide, open clearing carved into the side of a cliff, the drop sweeping away into darkness. Below, the city sprawled like a river of molten gold, lights twinkling and pulsing, while above, the stars stretched endlessly, unchallenged by the glow of skyscrapers this far out.

Namjoon cut the engine, and silence rushed in, vast and overwhelming.

Seokjin gasped. His hands, still holding the pizza box, loosened until it slid forgotten to the seat beside him. He pressed both palms to the edge of the car door, leaning forward, his mouth parting in awe. His eyes — wide, doe-like, catching every shard of light — darted from the endless glitter of the city to the star-pinned sky, to the faint outlines of trees whispering around them.

“It’s—” he whispered, unable to finish, breath fogging faintly in the cool night air. His voice shook with wonder he couldn’t quite contain.

Namjoon leaned back in his seat, watching him more intently than he’d watched the road. There was no smugness in his gaze, no teasing remark at Seokjin’s expense. Just quiet observation, his chest tightening at the raw, unguarded awe spilling across Seokjin’s face.

Seokjin turned, catching him staring, and blinked, suddenly self-conscious. His cheeks warmed under Namjoon’s gaze, and he huffed, dragging his eyes away quickly. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”

Namjoon hummed low in his throat, the sound almost lost to the night wind. “Like what?”

“Like—” Seokjin fumbled, hands curling into fists on his knees, his voice defensive, sharp in the way only someone embarrassed could be. “Like I’m some… some spectacle.”

“You are,” Namjoon replied simply. His voice was steady, not laced with mockery or charm, just truth spoken as it was.

Seokjin’s breath caught again, but this time for an entirely different reason. He whipped his face back toward the glittering city below, pretending he hadn’t heard, though his ears burned hot against the night air.

Namjoon said nothing else. He only shifted, lowering his seat back a little, stretching his long frame comfortably, and tilted his head toward the sky as though the stars above had been arranged for him alone.

Beside him, Seokjin remained rigid for a while, heart beating too fast. But the vastness of the view, the strange stillness, and the lingering weight of Namjoon’s words pressed into him until his shoulders slowly loosened. His lips parted once more, softer now, to take in the night — and though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, for the first time in days, the tight coil inside him began to ease.

The pizza box sat forgotten between them, the smell of melted cheese mixing faintly with the night air. Above them the stars glittered in quiet constellations, below the city pulsed like a heart, golden and alive.

Namjoon sat back with one arm draped lazily across the steering wheel, his other hand resting against his thigh, fingers tapping absently to a rhythm only he knew. His gaze, however, never strayed far from the boy beside him. Seokjin leaned forward over the doorframe, chin tilted slightly up, eyes still caught between wonder and stubborn restraint. The night had softened him, blurred some of the sharp edges he carried — but not enough to disguise the flush lingering in his cheeks.

Namjoon’s lips curved faintly, his voice low, smooth, and suddenly cutting through the silence.
“What did she say to you back at the gala?”

Seokjin blinked, caught off guard, then snapped his head toward him, glaring. His eyes were still wide from wonder, but now they narrowed into defiance, his cheeks burning hotter. “Do you always have to spoil the mood?” His voice carried that same stubbornness as earlier, sharp enough to be a shield.

Namjoon chuckled, the sound deep and unhurried, vibrating through the open car like a low current. He didn’t look away, didn’t relent. “You were red as a tomato. And you don’t blush that easily.”

Seokjin’s glare hardened, but his throat bobbed in a small, betrayed swallow. “Leave it.” He turned back toward the night, chin tilted higher, pretending the view had reclaimed all of his attention.

But Namjoon only leaned back further, his silence heavy, patient, pressing. His eyes lingered on the profile beside him — the soft slope of Seokjin’s nose, the line of his jaw tight with pride. He didn’t push with words; he just waited, still as stone, letting the weight of his presence coax the answer out.

Minutes stretched. The stars shifted subtly, the air crisp enough to raise goosebumps on Seokjin’s skin. Finally, he sighed, the sound soft and tired, dragged out of him unwillingly. His hands curled into fists in his lap as though bracing himself before he spoke.

“They said…” His voice was low, almost lost to the wind, words broken and halting. “That I should stop humiliating them. That if I can’t be what I’m supposed to be, then I should at least learn how to pretend. My father said I should’ve smiled, sat still, looked pretty… and my mother—” His throat tightened, his breath faltering. He blinked hard, eyes fixed stubbornly on the glittering city below. “She said I should remember I was bought for this. That no matter what I want, I’ll never be anything more than someone’s omega.”

The words hung between them, fragile, jagged. Seokjin pressed his lips together, breath quickening as though he regretted saying them aloud.

Namjoon’s expression didn’t shift, but the hand on his thigh stilled. His jaw flexed once, the faintest twitch betraying his restraint. Silence wrapped around them again, but this time it was heavier, thick with something unspoken.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm — too calm, edged with steel beneath its softness.
“You don’t have to worry about duties.”

Seokjin turned sharply, blinking at him.

Namjoon’s eyes were steady, unreadable in the starlight. “Not mine. Not anyone’s. But—” and here the faintest smirk curved his lips, dark and shameless, “if you ever think you must… know that I’ll always be eager to have you.”

Seokjin’s jaw dropped. His entire face flushed crimson, hotter than the wine at the gala, hotter than the embarrassment of standing in front of his parents. His glare was instantaneous, sharp enough to cut glass. “You—egoistic bastard!” He spat the words with mock disgust, his hands flailing for emphasis before he folded them tightly across his chest, huffing.

Namjoon laughed, low and warm this time, the sound spilling out unrestrained. It filled the car, filled the night air, rolling deep from his chest in a way that seemed to chase the sting from Seokjin’s confession.

Seokjin whipped his face away, hiding his flushed cheeks in the dark, muttering something incoherent under his breath — but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.

Namjoon only kept laughing softly, leaning back in his seat as though this was exactly how he wanted the night to end: Seokjin stubborn, red-faced, and still glowing beneath the stars.

The laughter faded slowly, swallowed by the night and the quiet hum of cicadas in the distance. The car settled into stillness again, the open roof framing the stars above like a jeweled ceiling. The city glittered far below, alive and endless, but inside the car it was hushed, intimate.

Seokjin leaned back into the leather seat with a stubborn huff, arms crossed tight over his chest as though to shield himself from Namjoon’s amusement. His lips still curved faintly downward, but the heat in his cheeks had yet to fade.

Namjoon didn’t press. He leaned his head back against the seatrest, eyes fixed on the boy beside him rather than the sky. Watching the rise and fall of Seokjin’s chest, the way his lashes fluttered with each tired blink, the faint pout that lingered even as exhaustion softened his edges.

Minutes stretched. The stars wheeled overhead.

Eventually, Seokjin’s posture loosened, his arms slipping down into his lap, his head tilting against the glass window. His breaths evened out, soft and slow, his lips parting slightly as the stubborn weight of the night gave way to slumber.

Namjoon exhaled quietly, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and something more fragile. He shifted, careful not to disturb him, and simply… watched. The faint glow of the dashboard lights traced over Seokjin’s features, catching on the gloss that still lingered on his lips, the jewelry glittering faintly against his pale throat.

Then the air shifted. A breeze swept down from the hills, cool against skin, and Seokjin shivered. His shoulders curled inward instinctively, a tiny movement that made Namjoon’s jaw tighten.

Without a word, Namjoon shrugged out of his jacket, heavy and warm, and leaned across the console to drape it carefully over Seokjin’s frame. His fingers lingered for a brief second at the edge of the fabric, brushing against Seokjin’s arm, before pulling away.

Seokjin shifted faintly in his sleep, lips twitching, but didn’t wake.

Namjoon leaned back into his seat, eyes steady on him for a moment longer. Then, with a quiet, decisive sigh, he turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, low and smooth, filling the silence without breaking it.

The headlights cut across the cliffside as he eased the car into gear. Slowly, steadily, he guided them back down toward the city — the road winding ahead, the world asleep, and Seokjin curled up in his seat beneath Namjoon’s jacket, untouched by anything but the night and the silent promise of the man who drove him home.

Seokjin slept soundly now, the faintest crease between his brows slowly smoothing out under the steady hum of the engine. The jacket swallowed his frame, sleeves hanging too long, collar pulled close beneath his chin. He looked… young like this, not the polished “omega spouse” the world expected him to be, not the stubborn firebrand he tried so hard to show Namjoon. Just a boy who had wanted to study, who had wanted to carve his own path, who now slept exhausted from fighting battles no one should’ve forced on him.

Namjoon’s hands tightened on the wheel. The memory of Seokjin’s family’s sharp words at the gala played back in his mind, their cold questions, their veiled accusations. Performing his duties. Bearing pups. They had spoken of Seokjin like he was a ledger to balance, not a human being with a voice of his own.

His jaw flexed as the car curved around another bend.

If it hadn’t been for Seokjin’s stubborn streak, his quiet refusal to break even as tears shone in his eyes, Namjoon might’ve let it slide. But the boy’s voice, trembling yet fierce, kept echoing— What about me? What about my dreams?

Namjoon glanced sideways again. The faint reflection of stars played in Seokjin’s glossy lips, in the curve of his cheek. He was breathing evenly now, lashes resting on his skin like delicate shadows.

And in that silence, Namjoon made his decision.

The next time Seokjin’s family dared to open their mouths, they would hear him. Clearly. Harshly, if needed. They didn’t need to worry about whether their son was fulfilling his “duties.” They didn’t need to pry into his body, his bond, or his future. Namjoon would make sure they remembered that Seokjin wasn’t theirs to question anymore—and if they insisted, he’d burn down the very idea of what they thought an omega should be.

Not because Seokjin had asked. Not because Namjoon was soft. But because the quiet weight of Seokjin’s head, tilted against the window in unguarded sleep, made something low in his chest twist and settle.

The road stretched endlessly, the hum of tires steady, and Namjoon allowed himself a rare moment of stillness. A rare moment of certainty.

He reached one hand from the wheel to adjust the jacket higher over Seokjin’s shoulder, tugging it snug, careful not to wake him. Then he muttered under his breath, a vow no one but the night could hear:

“They’ll never question you again.”

The city loomed closer, the lights growing sharper, but inside the car it remained quiet—Seokjin asleep, Namjoon awake with the weight of choices he hadn’t thought he’d ever make, driving them both toward whatever awaited next.