Kaylen sat in the quiet of the penthouse, the city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows casting a soft glow across the sleek interior. The folder resting on his lap felt heavier than it should have been—page after page detailing the life of Darrien Valmoor, or at least the life The Cove had been able to uncover, despite Tarya Valmoor's relentless efforts to present her son as a paragon of perfection.
He flipped through the meticulously compiled report, each page revealing truths that had been hidden beneath layers of curated image and social manipulation. And yet, even as he read, a dull ache settled in his chest. Guilt.
Kaylen couldn't pretend he and Darrien had been close in the way real friends or lovers might be. Their relationship had always hovered on the edges—strategic, convenient, more transactional than emotional. But it had spanned years. Years of shared spaces, quiet conversations, and an occasional gesture of intimacy.
Now Darrien was gone.
Dead.
The word still didn't feel real, even as he whispered it in his mind.
According to The Cove's investigation, Darrien had always been tougher than he looked. Resourceful. Clever. Resilient in ways that surprised even the sharpest of eyes. For him to die in a messy, brutal fight? At Rex's hands, of all people? It just didn't add up.
Yes, Rex had attacked him—there was no denying that. The police had found Darrien's skin tissue beneath Rex's fingernails, and Rex's arms were marked with the defensive scratches of someone who'd fought back hard. But even that... even that didn't tell the full story.
The inconsistencies were subtle—details that would slip past most people unless they were looking from outside the narrative. And Kaylen was no stranger to reading between the lines. There were signs that someone else had been there, that something more had happened.
And if he dared to connect the disparate dots—the ones scattered across reports, timelines, and behavior patterns—it didn't just seem possible. It seemed likely.
Darrien had faked his death.
Not out of cowardice. No, Kaylen knew better. If Darrien had chosen to vanish, it was because staying would have cost him something greater—his soul, his freedom, maybe even his sanity.
He could've used The Cove to dig deeper, to find where Darrien had gone, to pull him back into the web of politics and power plays they had both grown up trapped in. But what would be the point? If Darrien had finally escaped the gilded cage, did he really have the right to drag him back into it?
No.
All Kaylen could do now was let it be.
He leaned back into the sofa, the report slipping shut on his lap. Somewhere out there, Darrien might be living a new life, under a new name, free of his mother's shadow and the duty he'd once been bred to serve. Kaylen found himself hoping that was true. That maybe, for once, Darrien had chosen himself.
Asahin had changed him.
Being with Asahin had cracked open parts of him that Kaylen had long buried—empathy, perspective, the ability to see beyond revenge and duty. Slowly, painfully, he was learning that life wasn't just about survival or manipulation. There was meaning in softness, in choosing to let go.
And if fate ever crossed his path with Darrien's again, Kaylen knew what he'd do.
He'd apologize—for the coldness, the indifference, the things he never said and never asked. And then, he'd wish him happiness.
Because in the end, maybe that was the most important thing either of them could have.
Freedom.
Peace.
And a chance to start over.
Kaylen left the penthouse with a lightness in his step, a rare softness in his chest. In his hands, he carried a small strawberry cake—freshly made, sweet and delicate, just like Asahin liked. Lately, Asahin had been craving strawberries, and Kaylen found himself indulging that craving without hesitation, returning home with some strawberry-flavored delight every chance he got.
It had become a quiet ritual, a tender promise wrapped in sugar.
He hadn't seen Asahin since morning, and the ache of that absence had only grown stronger throughout the day. Every part of him yearned to return home—to kiss him, to hold him close. To lose himself in the warmth they had been discovering together.
Kaylen pulled up in front of the house just as the sun dipped behind the trees, casting long shadows across the cobblestone path. He stepped out of the car,holding the cake and making his way to the front door when—
Pain.
Sharp. Sudden. Crushing.
Like a blade slid between his ribs, twisting deep.
He staggered, breath hitching, hand flying to his chest as his eyes snapped toward the house.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
His instincts screamed in his bones. Every cell in his body lit up with panic. Asahin.
"Asahin," he breathed. Then louder. "Asahin!"
The cake fell, forgotten, splattering on the stones as Kaylen bolted toward the door. He didn't bother locking the car, didn't bother being careful. He shoved the door open so hard it slammed against the wall.
"Asahin!" he shouted again, voice breaking through the silence of the house. "Asahin!"
He raced from room to room, heart thundering, fists clenched. No answer. No footsteps. Nothing but the echo of his own desperation.
He yanked his phone from his pocket with shaking fingers.
"Assemble in front of the house. Now!"
Within minutes, over twenty guards—alphas, every one of them—stood at attention in front of the iron gate. Kaylen didn't waste a second.
"Where is Asahin Valmoor?" he demanded, voice razor-sharp.
"Sir," one of the guards responded, "he went out for a walk. About twenty minutes ago. Down the road, that way." He pointed left. "We've been monitoring him the whole time—"
"Then tell me where he is now!" Kaylen snapped, barely keeping the tremble out of his voice.
"Two of our men followed him at close range. Even if he left the perimeter, he's still under protection," another guard added.
"Contact them."
The guard pressed a finger to his earpiece, trying to establish a connection. Static. Silence. He tried again. And again.
No answer.
Kaylen's breathing became shallow. His vision tunneled, fury and dread tightening around his throat like a noose.
"Useless," he hissed, his voice dropping low and lethal. A pulse of raw alpha pheromones exploded from him in the next heartbeat, crashing over the guards like a tidal wave.
Without resistance, they buckled. Alphas—trained, hardened men—collapsed to their knees, choking on the weight of Kaylen's presence.
"Get up!" he roared. "Search this area inch by inch! Now!"
The guards scrambled to obey, scattering in every direction.
Kaylen didn't wait. He sprinted down the path the guard had pointed to, each footfall slamming into the ground like a war drum. His heart pounded so violently he could hear it in his ears, drowning out everything else.
He's going to be alright. He's going to be alright.
This couldn't be happening. Asahin always went for walks—this wasn't unusual. Kaylen had made sure he was protected. Every route, every guard, every risk had been calculated. Controlled.
He did everything right. He—
Kaylen froze.
His stomach dropped.
Just ahead, two bodies in black suits lay sprawled across the path, blood soaking into the dirt beneath them. The metallic scent of it hit him like a fist.
Guards rushed past him to examine the scene. One knelt and checked the bodies.
"They're dead. No pulse—but still warm. The attack happened just moments ago," the guard said, his voice grim.
Kaylen's world tilted.
No. No. No.
"Fan out," he ordered, teeth clenched. "Call for backup. Whoever took Asahin might still be here."
And then he ran. Faster than before. As if speed could turn back time. As if sheer willpower could rewind the moment and stop this from ever happening.
He would find Asahin. He had to. Because the alternative wasn't something too unbearable to consider.