—In the past—

The Stoneheart mansion breathes in silence.

Not the gentle silence of a sleeping house, but the heavy, waiting silence of something held captive. The living room is bathed in golden light, the chandelier above casting a thousand fractured diamonds across the ceiling, across the walls, across the dark marble floor. Each crystal hangs like a frozen tear—unblinking, indifferent.

Silom Stoneheart sits on the couch.

His posture is a study in control—back straight, shoulders relaxed yet alert, hands resting on the armrests like a king seated upon his throne. His black eyes stare at nothing. Or everything. It’s impossible to tell.

His face is a mask carved from ice, beautiful and untouchable—the kind of face that has learned to hide everything behind the perfect stillness of power.

Chen stands beside him.

His secretary. His shadow. His most loyal weapon.

He steps forward—just one step, measured and deliberate—and pours a glass of wine. The liquid catches the light, gleaming like polished garnet. It swirls against the crystal as if searching for escape.

He offers the glass to Silom with both hands. Careful. Reverent.

Silom takes it. He sips.

The wine is old. Expensive. The kind that tastes of earth and memory and things long buried.

"Did you arrange the Alphas?"

His voice is calm. Familiar—like Silas’s voice, if Silas’s voice had been dipped in winter and left to freeze.

The same cadence. The same quiet. But where Silas’s silence is unsettling, Silom’s is merciless.

Chen closes his hands in front of him. Shoulders back. Eyes forward.

"Boss, I interviewed more than a hundred Alphas." His voice is measured, professional. "I analyzed their compatibilities. Their pheromones. Their medical histories. Their psychological profiles."

A pause.

"Only ten volunteers passed the tests. Four female. Six male."

Silom takes another sip. His eyes remain fixed on the portrait hanging on the wall.

"Did you tell them what the work entails?"

Chen’s voice remains respectful, unhurried.

"Yes, boss."

He adjusts his glasses. The light catches the lenses, hiding his eyes for a moment.

"Should I call them in?"

Silom nods. Just a fraction.

Chen glances toward the servant standing near the heavy doors—a young man in a crisp black suit, hands clasped behind his back, face as blank as marble.

A small signal. A tilt of the head. A flick of the fingers. The servant understands immediately. He nods and pulls the door open.

Ten Alphas enter the room.

The air shifts immediately.

It thickens, charged with the weight of too many pheromones, too many Alphas accustomed to dominating every space they enter.

They walk in a loose formation—four women in front, six men behind. Their footsteps are soft against the marble floor.

The women are sharp-featured and composed, their eyes steady and watchful. The men are broader, stronger, their presence impossible to ignore.

They stop in front of Silom at a respectful distance. Heads bowed just enough to acknowledge his authority, but not enough to seem weak.

Chen raises a hand toward them.

"Boss, these are the candidates with the highest stamina and strength."

Silom sets his glass down on the table. The crystal clinks softly against the polished wood.

He looks at them.

His gaze runs over their faces one by one, moving slowly, deliberately. Different faces. Different hair. Different skin. Different pheromones drifting through the air.

"No females."

His voice is flat. Final.

"They can’t handle it. Even if they’re Alphas."

No one argues. No one questions. The women’s faces betray nothing—no disappointment, no relief.

Chen gives a small signal.

The women bow lightly and turn. Their footsteps fade into the silence. The doors close behind them with a soft click.

Silom’s gaze settles on the remaining six.

Male. Strong. Unbroken.

His finger lifts. Points.

At a golden-haired Alpha with broad shoulders and a steady gaze.

"This one."

Chen nods. He looks at the golden-haired Alpha.

"Except for you, all of you may leave."

The other five bow, turn, and walk out. Their footsteps fade down the hallway, swallowed by the mansion’s silence.

The golden-haired Alpha stands alone.

Silom studies him for a long moment. The Alpha does not fidget. Does not look away. He stands with his hands at his sides, eyes lowered.

Silom leans back on the couch. The leather shifts beneath him.

"What’s your name?"

The Alpha lifts his chin and meets Silom’s eyes.

"Dario."

His voice is deep. Confident.

Silom’s gaze remains fixed on him.

"Do you know what you’re supposed to do?"

Dario nods.

"Yes. Mr. Chen told me." A pause. "I just need to sleep with an Enigma."

The word hangs in the air.

Enigma.

Silom’s expression does not change.

"It’s not as easy as you’re making it sound."

He lets the words settle between them.

"He’s in his first rut. His first." A pause. "Do you understand what that means?"

Another pause.

"Are you sure you can bear it?"

Dario’s chin lifts. Just a fraction. But enough. Confidence radiates from him—undeniable, almost arrogant. His pheromones sharpen slightly, just enough to show he isn’t intimidated.

"I’m the strongest Alpha I know. Highest stamina. Highest strength." His voice is steady. "I’m sure I can handle it."

Silom’s gaze remains cold. Assessing. Unreadable. "You sound very confident."

A pause. "For your information—he’s not normal. Not like anything you’ve faced before."

Dario does not flinch.

"As long as you pay me what you promised, I’ll do it." A pause. "I’m not scared."

Silom studies him for a long moment. Then he nods.

"Chen."

His voice is quiet.

"Prepare him. Send him to Silas’s room."

Chen nods. "Let’s go."

Dario follows him.

They step out of the living room and into the mansion’s long hallway. The walls are lined with paintings—ancestors, forgotten faces, eyes that seem to follow as you pass.

The air is cooler here. Stiller. As if the house itself is holding its breath.

Chen walks with measured steps. His voice is clipped. Professional.

"Do you want to shower first?" he asks.

"No." Dario’s voice is easy, unhurried. "I showered before I came."

Chen’s gaze remains forward. "Make sure you’re clean."

Dario laughs—a short, sharp sound that echoes off the marble walls. "Come on. Do you think I’m dirty?"

Chen stops. Dario stops too, a beat later.

Chen turns to look at him. His expression is unreadable. His eyes are hidden behind his glasses, but his voice carries something colder than before.

"I’m not saying you’re dirty." A pause. "Young Master doesn’t like sweaty things."

Dario shrugs, unbothered.

"I’m perfectly clean. Believe me."

Chen reaches into his pocket and pulls out a mask. Black. Unadorned.He puts it on with practiced ease, adjusting the straps until it sits snug against his face.

"Fine. Then let’s go."

He walks forward.Dario follows. They pass more doors. More paintings. More silence.

"It’s a mansion," Dario says, glancing around, "but it feels like an empty library. So quiet. No sound. No servants."

"Young Master is in rut." Chen’s voice is muffled now, but still clear. "His first. He can’t control himself. Not even a little."

He pauses.

"Every maid. Every servant. They’ve all been affected. They can’t handle being near him."

Dario’s eyebrows lift.

"Oh. So that’s why you’re wearing the mask."

"I’m a Beta." Chen adjusts the mask slightly. "Even the young master’s pheromones affect me."

He glances at Dario, his eyes sharp above the mask.

"Aren’t you feeling it?"

Dario takes a deep breath. Lets it fill his lungs. Holds it. Releases.

"I can feel it." His voice is thoughtful now, curious. "But it’s faint."

A pause.

"It feels... amazing, actually. Not painful."

Chen stops in front of a heavy door. The wood is dark. The brass handle gleams beneath the hallway lights.

He turns to look at Dario.

"Then your resistance is stronger than most."

Chen reaches for the handle and pulls the door open.

Warm air rushes out immediately—warmer than the hallway, warmer than it should be. It carries something sweet. Something sharp.

Even through the mask, Chen feels his head spin. He steps aside.

"Good luck."