Alessandro watched Sage tip back the last of the champagne in one smooth, defiant swallow, the long line of his throat working under the high collar, and felt that familiar surge of raw want tighten low in his gut. The empty flute passed off to a waiter, the wicked little grin that followed, the glint in those eyes—Sage was riding the same high he was, the thrill of power and possession wrapped in silk and crystal. His omega was reveling in it, and Alessandro had never been more in love.

He took Sage’s hand, lacing their fingers with deliberate possession, and led him toward the center of the grand hall just as the lights dimmed a fraction and the auctioneer’s voice rang out over the murmur of the crowd—welcoming, polished, announcing the start of the evening’s bidding. The orchestra quieted to a low hum, strings poised for the next piece. Perfect timing.

Alessandro guided Sage into the loose circle of couples assembling for the first dance between lots, bodies swaying under chandeliers that scattered light like diamonds across the marble floor. He pulled Sage in close—one hand settled low on his waist, the other holding his hand against his chest—until there was barely air between them.

The music swelled, a slow, smoky waltz, and Alessandro began to move, leading with effortless control, turning them in a wide arc that gave every watching eye a perfect view.

“Look at them,” he murmured, voice a dark caress against Sage’s ear as he dipped him just slightly, guiding him back up flush against his body. “Every alpha in this room is watching you. Wondering how I earned the right to have you in my arms. Wondering what you sound like when you moan my name.”

His hand slid a fraction lower on Sage’s back, fingers pressing just enough to remind him who he belonged to. “And Volkov—” Alessandro turned them again, deliberately angling so the Russian had a clear line of sight from the bar. “He’s watching hardest of all. Trying to figure out why you look at me like I’m the only man in the world. Trying to understand why you’d rather burn the room down than let anyone else touch you.”

He pulled back just enough to meet Sage’s eyes, his own burning with pride and hunger.

“Let them watch, piccolo,” he said, voice rough and low. “Let them see how perfectly you move with me. How you fit against me like you were made for it. Let them choke on their envy while the auction drones on and all I can think about is dragging you out of here, pinning you to the nearest wall, and reminding you exactly why you’ll never want anyone else.”

The music shifted, strings rising, and Alessandro spun Sage out in a smooth turn before reeling him back in hard, chest to chest, lips brushing the corner of his mouth in a kiss that looked almost chaste to outsiders and felt anything but.

“Bidding starts soon,” he whispered, guiding Sage’s hand to the nape of his neck, encouraging him to hold on. “I already know what I’m taking home tonight. And it’s not whatever shiny bauble they put on the block.”

His smile was slow, lethal, utterly devoted.

“It’s you, Sage. Always you.”

Alessandro couldn’t hold back the low, rumbling laugh that vibrated against Sage’s ear as his omega hissed those deliciously vicious words—let them be jealous, let them feel it. Every syllable dripped with the same possessive fire that burned in Alessandro’s own veins, and it took real effort not to stop the dance right there, push Sage against the nearest pillar, and claim his mouth until the entire room forgot how to breathe.

He can go take his fancy little empire and shove it up his ass… looks like a naked goose.

Christ, he was perfect. Sharp-tongued, fearless, loyal to the bone. Alessandro’s hand flexed at Sage’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer for the final turn of the waltz, letting his lips brush the shell of his ear.

“Careful, piccolo,” he growled, voice thick with approval and hunger. “Keep talking like that and I won’t wait until we’re home to reward you. I’ll find a dark corridor and fuck you against the wall with half the city listening to you fall apart.”

The music ended on a lingering note, and Alessandro let the applause wash over them without breaking eye contact with Sage. Only when the crowd began drifting toward the velvet-roped seating area did he release his omega—just enough to lace their fingers and lead him forward.

He chose their seats deliberately: second row, center-left, close enough to the elevated auction block to see every detail of the items, far enough from Volkov’s chosen spot near the back bar to make it clear the Russian wasn’t worth watching. Alessandro settled into the plush chair, pulling Sage down beside him and immediately draping an arm along the back of his seat, fingers tracing idle patterns at the nape of his neck, just beneath the collar where the claiming mark hid.

The lights dimmed further, spotlights illuminating the polished mahogany podium as the auctioneer took his place. The first item was wheeled out under glass—a vintage Patek Philippe once owned by some long-dead European royal, diamonds glinting like cold stars.

Alessandro leaned toward Sage, lips grazing his temple as he spoke low enough for only his mate to hear.

“Watch,” he murmured. “They’ll start with the safe bets—watches, wine, art that matches the drapes. Then the jewelry comes out. And when it does…” His fingers tightened possessively at Sage’s nape. “I’m going to bid on something that belongs against your skin. A necklace heavy enough to remind you who you kneel for. Emeralds to match the fire in your eyes when you’re spitting venom at men like Volkov.”

The bidding on the watch began, paddles rising lazily around the room. Alessandro didn’t move, content to observe—for now.

He turned his head, catching Sage’s gaze in the low light. “And when I win it,” he continued, voice rough silk, “I’ll clasp it around your throat in the car on the way home. Then spend the rest of the night deciding whether to leave it on while I take you apart… or use the chain to hold you exactly where I want you.”

His thumb stroked once more over the hidden mark, a promise and a brand.

“Pick whatever catches your eye tonight, amore. Point, and it’s yours. But know that the only prize I’m truly interested in is already sitting right here—glaring at my enemies, laughing at their inadequacy, and making every bastard in this room wish they were me.”

He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to Sage’s knuckles as the next lot was announced—a sapphire brooch the color of deep ocean—and settled back to watch the game begin, arm tight around his omega, utterly content to let the rest of the world bid on trinkets while he held the only treasure that mattered.

Alessandro felt the high of the evening thrumming in his blood as the final lot was claimed—another effortless victory, another reminder to the room of who held real power here. Sage was radiant beside him, cheeks flushed with triumph and champagne, eyes bright with the intoxicating rush of being untouchable. The boxes containing their winnings—those glittering pieces that would soon adorn his omega’s skin—were being prepared for discreet delivery to the car.

He stood, offering Sage his hand with that same possessive grace, ready to make their final slow circuit of the hall: let the crowd part one last time, let Volkov choke on one last glimpse of what he’d never have, then spirit his mate away for the private celebration that had been simmering between them all night.

But the crowd was thick near the exits, donors and socialites clustering to congratulate one another, to network, to preen. Alessandro’s phone vibrated once in his pocket—an urgent message from Marco about a shipment delay that needed immediate sign-off. Nothing critical, but time-sensitive enough that ignoring it could cost them tomorrow.

He glanced down at Sage, thumb stroking over his knuckles.

“Two minutes, amore,” he murmured, voice low and apologetic. “I need to step into the side corridor and handle this call—private enough that no one overhears. The men’s room is just through that archway if you need it.” He nodded toward a discreet marble arch twenty feet away, clearly marked, well-lit, and still within direct line of sight of half the room—including two of Alessandro’s own soldiers stationed near the bar. “Stay in view of my men. I’ll be right back.”

He pressed a brief, hard kiss to Sage’s mouth—claiming, promising return—then released his hand and moved toward the quieter service corridor that branched off near the coat check. It was close; he’d still be able to see Sage if he glanced back, and his soldiers had orders to shadow the omega at a distance if he moved.

Alessandro didn’t see Volkov watching from the shadows near the balcony doors, drink empty now, pale eyes fixed on Sage with something far darker than curiosity. Didn’t see the Russian set his glass down with deliberate care and begin threading through the crowd, timing his approach for the exact moment Alessandro disappeared behind the heavy velvet drapery that separated the corridor from the main hall.

The room was loud, distracted, full of laughter and clinking glasses. The archway to the men’s lounge was elegant but dimly lit beyond the threshold, a short hallway leading to the facilities themselves. Private. Out of direct sight from the main floor.

Volkov moved with the confidence of a man who knew security’s blind spots—who had studied the venue layout weeks ago for reasons that had nothing to do with charity. He closed the distance with unhurried grace, a polite smile masking the cold calculation in his eyes.

Sage was alone for the first time all night—standing near the edge of the crowd, waiting, beautiful and flushed and utterly unaware that the predator Alessandro had warned away earlier had decided envy was no longer enough.

The opening was there. Narrow, fleeting, but there.

Alessandro remained in the dim service corridor, phone pressed tight to his ear, irritation mounting as Marco droned on about customs forms and alternate routes. “Just sign the damn manifest digitally and push it through,” he growled low, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not standing here all night.” He paced one step farther from the velvet drapery, eyes on the scuffed marble floor, every second away from Sage grating against his instincts like sandpaper.

He had no idea what was happening thirty feet away in the main hall.

Volkov had closed the distance with the calm precision of a man who’d planned contingencies. He approached Sage from the side, timing his steps perfectly with the swell of laughter from a nearby group—loud enough to mask the soft scrape of his shoes. His polite, practiced smile was in place, the one that worked on donors and marks alike, but his pale eyes were cold, fixed, burning with the jealous rage he’d nursed all evening.

Sage stood relaxed against the pillar beneath the marble arch, champagne flute halfway to his lips, gaze drifting idly over the lingering crowd. The faint prickle of unease still ghosted down his spine, but he dismissed it again—nerves, nothing more.

“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Volkov’s voice was smooth, lightly accented, pitched low enough to feel intimate as he stopped just inside Sage’s personal space—close enough that his shadow fell across the omega’s glass. He didn’t touch him yet, but his body angled to block the easiest line of sight from the main floor, one hand casually in his pocket gripping the folded cloth.

His gaze raked over Sage slowly, deliberately, taking in the perfect cut of the midnight-blue suit, the flush still lingering on his cheeks from dancing and triumph, the subtle curve of throat hidden beneath the high collar. Envy twisted sharp and ugly in Volkov’s gut—this exquisite creature had spent the night draped over Alessandro like a trophy, glaring at him with undisguised contempt, winning jewels worth a small fortune without even trying.

And now he was alone.

“You looked… radiant out there,” Volkov continued, voice dropping to a murmur as he leaned in a fraction closer, the scent of vodka faint on his breath. “It’s a shame your alpha left you unattended. Dangerous, in a room full of wolves.”

His free hand lifted slowly—almost casually—as if to brush an imaginary speck from Sage’s lapel, fingers hovering inches away. The hallway beyond the arch was only a few steps behind Sage, dim and empty, curving out of sight in seconds.

Volkov’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes gleamed with dark intent.

“Perhaps you’d like company while you wait?”

Alessandro, still deep in the corridor, snapped, “Handle it, Marco. Now,” and ended the call abruptly, slipping the phone into his pocket.

He turned back toward the drapery—finally—and pushed through.

But in those crucial seconds, Volkov was already reaching.

Volkov’s smile widened at Sage’s murmured threat, thin and predatory, as if the omega’s defiance only made the prize sweeter. He didn’t step back. If anything, he leaned in closer, the faint reek of vodka and expensive cologne invading Sage’s space until the pillar at his back felt like a trap closing.

“A single mark?” Volkov echoed, voice a low, mocking purr. “Pretty words from a pretty mouth. But you’re all alone now, malysh. No alpha to hide behind.”

His hand moved faster than Sage’s hesitation allowed—fingers no longer hovering, but making contact. The back of his knuckles brushed Sage’s cheek in a mockery of tenderness, trailing down to the sharp line of his jaw, thumb pressing just hard enough to force Sage’s chin up. His other hand came up without pretense, sliding boldly over the front of Sage’s suit jacket, palm flattening over his chest, then lower—groping the lean muscle beneath the fine fabric with deliberate, possessive pressure.

“Feel that?” Volkov whispered, breath hot against Sage’s ear as his hand dipped to the omega’s waist, fingers curling to grip his hip and yank him forward an inch—close enough that Sage could feel the hard line of the Russian’s arousal pressing insistently against his thigh. “This is what your alpha paraded in front of me all night. This body. This scent. And now it’s unattended.”

His grip tightened, one hand sliding lower still, cupping Sage’s ass through the tailored trousers in a crude, claiming squeeze while his thumb traced the high collar that hid Alessandro’s bite. “I wonder how loud you’d scream if I dragged you into that hallway and took what he thinks is his. If I replaced his mark with mine.”

Volkov’s mouth brushed the shell of Sage’s ear, teeth grazing the lobe as his fingers dug in harder, bruising, forcing Sage’s body to arch slightly against the pillar. The crowd’s noise was a distant roar; no one had noticed yet, or if they had, they knew better than to intervene.

“Fight me,” Volkov taunted, voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “Go ahead. Ruin his perfect evening. Or stay quiet… and let me have a taste before he comes back.”

His hand slid between them now, bold and invasive, palming the front of Sage’s trousers in a slow, deliberate stroke—claiming, violating, intent clear.

Sage’s champagne glass trembled in his grip, the stem threatening to snap.

And Alessandro was still only steps away, behind the heavy velvet curtain, completely unaware that his mate was being mauled in plain sight by the one man he’d warned to stay away.