Inside the hovercar, Ethan leaned back in the driver’s seat, a half-empty bottle of high-end nutrient solution forgotten in the cup holder. His usually immaculate appearance was slightly disheveled—tie loosened, top button undone, hair mussed as if he had been running his hands through it too many times.

His hovercar sat quietly a short distance from where Grayson’s vehicle had landed. The tinted windows cloaked him in shadow. Although even if anyone had looked, they would have just seen nothing but a man waiting patiently.

Ethan’s fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on the steering controls, gaze fixed on the other hovercar.

The passenger door opened first.

Ethan’s eyes sharpened, the faintest spark of interest lighting in the dim cabin as Neville stepped out. Grayson didn’t follow, but Neville’s abrupt movement—slamming the door with a loud, unnecessary thud and walking off without a glance back—told him everything he needed to know.

Ethan’s lips curved, slow and lazy.

"Didn’t even look back, hmm?" His voice dropped to a purr, half amusement, half warning. "That says a lot, doesn’t it, Gray?"

He tilted his head, chuckling under his breath.

"Who told you to take my Neville out today~?" The singsong lilt was too smooth, too practiced, like a man trying to convince himself he wasn’t angry.

The smirk faded as Grayson’s hovercar lifted off and vanished into the night.

"Pathetic excuses," Ethan murmured, almost fondly. "From a pathetic man."

His fingers stopped drumming. Instead, it curled into a loose fist on his thigh as memory struck him. That morning, right before he left his apartment, his light brain had chimed with an alert.

Not just any alert. It was the one tied to his custom surveillance feed. It was the one keyed specifically to flag any movement involving Neville Hope, room 4410.

He had pulled up the live feed on his light brain just in time to watch Grayson stride down the hall and press the bell.

And then—Neville appeared.

The door had slid open, and there stood Neville in his home clothes. His hair hadn’t been styled, all fluffy and soft-looking. The nerd glasses were nowhere in sight, giving Ethan a raw, bare-faced glimpse of those striking ocean-blue eyes.

Ethan’s jaw had clenched so hard he had tasted blood.

Of all people, Neville had to open the door like that—to Grayson.

Couldn’t he have fixed his hair, buttoned up, put on something like a jacket? Did he have no awareness at all? Even as a recessive omega, he should know not to stand so casually before an Alpha.

Especially not in front of Grayson.

But that was the thing about Neville, wasn’t it?

He didn’t think like that.

Neville was frustratingly oblivious to his own appeal—or perhaps he simply didn’t care.

And that was what made Neville more dangerous.

Ethan had watched their interaction through the live feed, his free hand gripping the table’s edge until his knuckles went bone white. The conversation had been brief, but he had seen Neville’s face change—from surprise to calm acceptance.

And then Neville nodded. He disappeared inside for a few minutes and returned wearing a shirt and jeans. Still simple. Still unassuming. He now had his glasses on, but he was ready to leave.

With Grayson.

On a holiday.

A bitter laugh had crawled up Ethan’s throat before he could stop it.

How come Grayson gets this treatment while I don’t? The thought weighed heavily on his chest. My dear Neville, you’ve got some nerve to do this to me.

Because Ethan had tried, hadn’t he?

He had to admit his methods weren’t exactly the ideal way to do it, but he had tried. He made an effort to be friendly, creating his own fake friend circle. He had accepted his help and help in his own way, too, attentively catering to his needs.

He had tried to get him.

Yet Neville had never once approached him first, despite living just across the hall. He had never shown Ethan an unguarded look. Never agreed to spend time together so easily. Not in the office. Not outside it.

It wasn’t fair.

Ethan had barely stopped himself from taking his own hovercar and following them. The temptation had been unbearable—every instinct in him screaming to tail Grayson’s hovercar, to see where they went, to know what they would do.

But reason—barely—kept him on his toes.

He flew his hovercar and headed for the one place he could control: his underground research facility.

Ethan had stormed into the lab and headed straight for his workstation. His fingers flew across the holographic interface, summoning the programs he had spent refining during his time in Maxwell Corporation.

The Maxwell Mainframe System might’ve been an impenetrable fortress from the outside, but not from within. Grayson wasn’t an idiot, but Ethan had means. The kind of people eager to stab Grayson in the back. With that, gaining access to a few minor details was child’s play.

It hadn’t taken long. Twenty minutes to find out where they were going. Another five to slip through Medea’s Garden’s security systems.

"Of course," he scoffed.

Ethan leaned back in his chair, a humorless smile curving his lips.

"How predictable."

Medea’s Garden wasn’t just a public cultivation facility. It was one of the most exclusive botanical reserves on Planet Xylos, strictly catering only to the elites. It was the kind of place that required weeks-ahead reservations and entrance fees that could feed a lower-tier noble family for half a year.

Once inside the system, Ethan spread the live feeds across multiple holographic screens. It didn’t take long to find them, two figures strolling along one of the garden’s scenic paths, surrounded by bioluminescent flora pulsing in shades of violet and blue.

He watched.

And watched.

Each new camera angle drew them closer

And closer.

—And closer.

His hand shot out before he realized it, slamming into a rack of empty test tubes. Glass shattered across the floor, pieces scattering everywhere.

Ethan didn’t give a damn.

Another rack of test tubes met the same fate as the first.

Each time the feed changed.

Each time, Grayson’s hand moved, daring to touch Neville.

Each time, Neville looked at Grayson.

Each time, Ethan’s mind spiraled further.

He lost count of how many test tubes he had shattered. His teeth ground together, breath coming in shallow bursts as fury and disbelief tangled in his chest.

The logical part of his brain screamed at him to stop. To collect himself. To see clearly that he was just a fool making up drama that wasn’t actually happening.

But it was like that.

The rest of him wanted nothing more than to march straight into Medea’s Garden and physically tear Grayson away from what was his.

Because Neville was his, wasn’t he?

He had to be.

He should’ve known the moment he failed to claim him in that bathroom. When he had carefully sprayed the pheromone enhancer on him.

Grayson himself had gotten involved. He had swept Neville away and kept him under personal supervision until the drug had worn off completely.

He should’ve known when he failed again at Staredison Gwesty. The plan was simple: get Neville frightened and cornered, and then Ethan would arrive right on cue to ’rescue’ Neville.

Only to crumble because Grayson had been there first.

Ethan could still remember it: Grayson emerging from the hotel’s private lounge with Neville in his arms. Neville limp, unconscious, heartbreakingly defenseless. Grayson was steady, composed—like a hero.

That image had been seared, branded itself into Ethan’s memories.

Grayson had been the one to carry Neville to safety.

Grayson had been the one to earn Neville’s gratitude and trust.

In the end, Grayson had been the one to play hero.

Ah, he should have known to act for himself rather than waiting for Neville to come crawling to him by himself.

Ah. That had been his mistake from the very beginning, hadn’t it?

Patience was supposed to be a virtue. But with Neville, that was just not going to work. He had genuinely thought Neville would naturally gravitate toward him over time.

He thought wrong.

Ah, Ethan felt like he was losing his mind.

This was the first time he had felt anything like this. Not the familiar, exhilarating rush his master had trained him to feel. For once, he was feeling something he found himself.

His master had taught him to find excitement in the craft: in the manipulation of variables, in the quiet orchestration of chaos, in watching powerful men destroy themselves while believing they were in control.

And Ethan had excelled at that. He had been great at it.

But this thing with Neville? It was different.

He discovered Neville on his own—his own creation, his secret obsession. He knew it from the first time he saw him. Something clicked inside him like a puzzle piece finding its place.

He should have realized this from the start.

Now he just wanted to burn it all.

The urge to destroy everything was overwhelming.

If he couldn’t have Neville, why should anyone?

If Grayson insisted on interfering, on inserting himself between him and what was his—

Then perhaps Grayson needed to be... removed. Permanently.

The thought lingered, heavy and sweet.

But that would be counterproductive, wouldn’t it?

Even through the haze of rage, Ethan could still recognize a bad equation when he saw one.

So he forced himself to breathe. To count to ten in three different languages.

And then, as if to mock his self-destructive thoughts, something changed on the live feed.

Ethan had managed to completely collect himself.

Neville’s expression had changed. Subtly, but unmistakably. Grayson said something—too forward, too familiar—and Neville’s body language hardened in an instant. The casual ease drained from his posture, replaced by polite detachment.

Ethan leaned closer to the screens, eyes bright.

He watched Neville take a step back.

He watched as Grayson realized his mistake too late.

Watched Neville coolly walk ahead of him, leaving the Alpha reaching out to empty air.

And Ethan laughed.