Chapter Text
Erwin
“The guests will start arriving at six,” says Zeke, as they stand at the rooftop terrace overlooking the gardens of the Jäger holiday villa, “try to look a little bit more delighted by then.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Erwin reiterates, taking a drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke languidly. He turns to Zeke, his direct colleague, the Executive Vice President of their BioTech division. “Then at least there will finally be a small chance of a decent Omega showing some interest in you, Jäger.”
The bearded man releases an ugly laugh. “Fuck you, Smith.” He answers, flipping the blond man off as he turns on his heels and walks away, into the house.
Erwin instantly relaxes.
Zeke might be a good businessman, a good consultant, considering major decisions, a strategist Erwin can rely on, someone he grew up with. But in private? Zeke’s obnoxious. And if he could, Erwin would not spend a single minute of his life outside the office with him. But, alas—here he is. Counting down the hours until the first event of the summer season. Because he has no other choice.
He might not be Eldia’s most eligible Alpha bachelor—that spot is currently occupied by Prince Victor Helos—but Erwin’s very close to him in ranking. A state and fact other Alphas would be willing to fight for, while Erwin is simply very… displeased by it. That, and the pressure of his parents to finally find a mate and procreate—if he wants to inherit their empire.
That last condition hangs over him like a blade.
He flicks the cigarette butt over the railing and watches it disappear into the manicured green below. A little rebellion. But it doesn’t give him any relief. Just instant regret because some poor soul is going to have to pick it up, and littering is just obnoxious in general.
Erwin sighs.
Inheritance, in his parents’ vocabulary, has never meant money alone, or real estate, or diamonds. It means control. Voting rights. Authority. The ability to steer Smith-Jäger Pharmaceuticals without his parents watching his every move. Without their final say. And all of it is locked behind that single requirement: find a mate, preferably an Omega with the right name and the right bloodline, and have a child.
Until then, Erwin remains exactly where they want him: High enough to carry responsibility—low enough to be leashed.
At 41, Erwin calls himself Chief Operations Officer, a Co-executive. He’s the man who signs off on logistics, expansion strategies, personnel decisions—but never alone. Every decisive vote still requires a second signature. Often Zeke’s, and always his parents’.
It irritates him more than he’d like to admit. To have control, but… not really. Not fully.
The summer season makes it worse. Erwin’s facing weeks of carefully curated misery: villas, balls, charity galas, organised by well-meaning parents that might as well just call those events by what they really are—marriage marts. Lavish gatherings concocted with only one true goal—to secure a suitable and advantageous connection for their adult children.
Those social gatherings are filled with Omega sons and daughters of powerful men and women being paraded like goods to the Alphas of wealthy and high-ranking families. All sweet smiles, rehearsed grace, their interest so obvious and persistent it makes Erwin’s teeth ache. It all feels less like the present and more like the eighteenth century—as if he should be wearing a powdered wig, silk stockings, waiting for the orchestra to strike up a proper Regency dance so he can bow and offer his hand on cue with a chaperone watching from the shadows.
It’s ridiculous in a world filled with dating apps. And so very, very annoying.
Erwin knows what all of the Omegas see when they look at him. An Alpha worth securing. A future CEO. A legacy. Just another tool to success and a means to make their family proud.
It’s preposterous.
Erwin straightens his jacket and turns back toward the villa as staff begin lighting the terrace lanterns below. In a few hours, the house and its outside places will be full.
He exhales slowly, already bracing himself.
And then—somewhere below, far from the terrace and its politics—the first sharp crack of an axe splitting wood echoes through the afternoon air.
Erwin pauses. Turns back around.
The sound comes again.
He exhales through his nose, eyes scanning the vast gardens, his gaze drifting toward the woods at the very edge of the vast estate. And as he stands there, watching, he pictures the evening ahead again, with grim clarity: forced polite smiles, empty conversations with overeager Omegas trying to impress him, agreeing with everything he says, liking whatever their parents made sure they researched about him beforehand.
Sit. Smile. Endure.
Erwin needs a fucking break.
He tugs his jacket open, then takes it off entirely, draping it over the railing of the balcony. Crossing the ballroom, he slips past the hurried last-minute preparations in progress and through a backdoor, taking the staff staircase, the quickest way down and out into the garden. Without walking into Zeke or the man’s bigoted parents—or his own for the matter.
The night air is cooler down here. He hears the axe strike again as he makes his way through the paths on the far edge where no lights shine. An area shut off from all the guests that will soon not only be filling the ballroom, but parts of the garden as well.
His fingers itch, the anger about it all bubbling somewhere deep below. An emotion he needs to get rid of before putting on the societal Alpha mask. The face for which he is known.
Right now, the axe is all he can think about.
Work. Real, manual labour. Something that requires no approval, no audience, no inheritance clause. Just muscle and motion. No words, no thinking, and no one to bother him—because no one will be looking for him in the gardens’ small stretch of woods. No one expects him there.
Erwin walks further towards the tall trees.
Ten minutes, he tells himself. Enough to burn off the edge. Enough to quiet the irritation before it will turn into a storm.
Erwin follows the sound, walks further into the little stretch of dense woods where he and Zeke used to play together as children, hunting imaginary creatures—and beating the crap out of each other. No ill feelings back then; just another way to let go of all the bottled-up anger, a side effect of an upbringing like theirs.
Finally, after following the narrow path, he reaches his destination. The small clearing next to the mid-sized cabin where the gardening staff stores all gear and machinery for maintaining the little forest. And right in the middle of the clearing, stands the chopping block.
Erwin stops.
There’s a man working there. He’s short and shirtless, with his back turned to him. His shoulders are broad and solid, his boots planted wide in the dirt. His trousers sit low on his hips.
The axe rises.
It’s heavy. That much is obvious. The handle is thick, the head wide and scarred from use. The man lifts it without hesitation, the thick muscles in his arms and back tightening beneath his skin. As the axe comes down, his knees bend with the motion—controlled, practiced, taking the impact.
Crack.
The log splits cleanly in two.
No struggle. No second strike needed.
The man sets the axe head against the block, bends to pick up another piece of wood. His thighs and arms tense as he straightens again.
Erwin’s eyes track the movement without permission.
Sweat’s running down the man’s spine, catching at the ridges of muscle along his back. His shoulders roll once before the next swing. The axe lifts again.
Swing, bend—crack. Another log splits. Thicker this time.
And one thing’s for sure: This isn’t brute force—this is skill. This man knows exactly what he’s doing. He straightens, wipes his face with a cloth sticking out of the pocket of his heavy-duty trousers. Another log goes onto the block. One of the thicker ones stacked off to the side.
The axe comes down once.
Crack.
It splits anyway.
Erwin’s fingers curl slowly at his side.
Something isn’t adding up.
The man moves like an Alpha. Carries himself like one, too—the weight, the control, the certainty in every motion. That kind of strength.
Except that can’t be right.
For one, he’s way too short to be an Alpha and there is absolutely no scent coming from him, not even a faint one. For two, the Jägers don’t hire Alphas for this kind of work. Never have. Manual labour is far beneath them—beneath Alpha dignity, according to their particular brand of tradition. Alphas are meant to lead, not split logs behind the villa. Betas, on the other hand, are acceptable. Useful. Invisible enough. So that’s what this man has to be.
And yet—
Something inside Erwin shifts. He shakes his head.
He hasn’t come down here to watch. He takes a step forward—a twig snaps under his shoe. The axe comes down just a second later.
Crack.
Another log split.
The man pulls the axe free and lets it hang at his side, grip still firm. He straightens, breath steady. And only then does he turn, letting Erwin see his face for the first time.
The man’s skin is unblemished. Sharp cheekbones give his cleanly shaven face a hard structure. His eyebrows are thin and dark, almost black, the same colour as his hair. It falls in short, slightly uneven layers, the sides shaved into a clean undercut, the top hair shorter at the back and longer at the front. His lips are thin, set in a neutral line that doesn’t invite conversation.
Erwin’s gaze drops lower before he can stop it.
The man’s chest is broad. Brutally muscled. And the absolute opposite of clean-shaven. Thick, coarse dark hair trails across it, the same kind that dusts his forearms. His pectorals are huge and heavy beneath it.
Below that lies not a six- but an eight-pack. Deeply carved, each segment sharply defined. A narrow trail of dark hair disappears beneath the waistband of his work trousers.
Every muscle on him is dense and solid. There’s real mass to him. Even though he would probably only reach Erwin’s shoulder in height, the sheer solidity of him surpasses Erwin’s own build. Surpasses even Mike’s—and Mike’s nickname is Beast for a reason.
This man looks like the most primal version of an Alpha.
There’s no mistaking that.
And yet—
The man’s eyes meet his and suddenly, Erwin becomes acutely aware of himself all at once.
Art by my collab partner IceQue3n
Before Erwin can say anything, the man’s gaze wanders down his body almost languidly, not looking, not glancing, but assessing him openly, taking in all the details of him—the polished leather shoes clearly not meant for wandering into the woods, the elegant beige slacks that are a stark contrast to the man’s dark heavy duty trousers, the thin, white dress shirt made of fabric that doesn’t belong near a cabin like this.
“You lost or something?” the man finally asks, tilting his head, gaze flicking back up to meet Erwin’s stare. His voice is low. Deep. Clear. There’s no effort to make it polite. If anything, there’s a faint edge of disdain.
Erwin’s pulse ticks loud in his ears for he realises two things at once. This man knows exactly what Erwin is; an elite Alpha, a guest of the Jägers. No hired help would dress like this, stand like this, wander this far off the paths without purpose. And yet he does not care. And that’s… new.
“This isn’t part of the tour,” the man adds, flatly.
Erwin exhales slowly. Something shifts inside of his chest—irritation, yes, but threaded through it is something else. Interest. And a sharp, unexpected amusement.
He should be offended, would be, if this wasn’t such a sharp contrast to the forced politeness waiting for him upstairs.
“I heard the axe,” Erwin replies, calmly. “Thought I might help.”
The man’s mouth twitches—and he actually snorts. Without his lips stretching into even the shadow of a real smile.
“Help,” he deadpans, eyes boring into Erwin’s. “You’d only hurt yourself.” A beat. “Princess.”
The word lands exactly where it’s meant to. Erwin’s jaw tightens. Heat flares in his stomach, sharp and fast—anger, yes, but not the kind that makes him leave. The kind that makes him actually step closer. Because Erwin feels challenged.
“Give me the axe,” he says calmly.
The man doesn’t move. Or at least, his limbs don’t. But there is movement on his face, his thin eyebrows arching, lips finally curving into a shadow of a disbelieved, mocking smirk.
“I don’t want to be blamed for a severed limb,” he states, his voice still very dry. Very… irritating.
“I know how to use an axe,” Erwin insists, still keeping his calm, his composure, as an Alpha like him should.
Another snort. “I highly doubt that,” the man objects, letting his gaze roam over Erwin from top to bottom once again.
The Alpha takes a deep breath, and exhales through his nose. “Give me the axe,” he repeats. “Or do you want to be fired?”
For the first time, something truly shifts in the man’s expression. Not mockery this time. Not fear either. Not an apology. Something else.
“Of course,” he answers dryly. “That’s what you go for.” He steps back and extends the axe, handle first, grip loose but deliberate. “Be my fucking guest then, I guess.”
Erwin takes it. The weight is familiar the moment it settles into his hands. He sets his feet, adjusts his grip, and brings it down.
Crack.
The log splits—but not cleanly. One half clings stubbornly to the other, fibres holding. Erwin exhales sharply, resets his stance, and brings the axe down a second time.
Crack.
This time, it gives way completely.
There’s a brief, sharp satisfaction in that. A certain kind of confirmation. He knows this motion. Has known it for years. Pixies taught him, when Erwin was a teenager and bored out of his mind. Quietly. In secret. Because it wasn’t proper for an Alpha heir to be caught doing this, helping the staff. Not when fencing and riding were available instead to take the edge off, do something physical. Woodcutting had been different though. An effective way to shut his brain off without an audience. Without his parents watching his posture and correcting his grip.
The black-haired man is wrong.
Erwin doesn’t hesitate as he lifts the axe again.
Crack.
The next log resists more. The first strike bites deep but doesn’t split it fully. He tightens his grip, shoulders flexing, and drives the blade down once more.
Crack.
Another log splits.
And Erwin doesn’t stop.
Another log. Another swing. Some go down cleanly. Some demand two strikes. He adjusts, compensates, works through it.
His shoulders loosen, his breath deepening, Erwin’s anger bleeding out with every strike. Sweat gathers at his temples, then along his spine. At some point, he shrugs out of his dress shirt without thinking, tosses it aside, and keeps going.
Behind him, the man leans back against the cabin wall, arms crossing over his chest.
“Wow,” he comments, watching. There’s no enthusiasm in his voice, no recognition or acknowledgement. It’s the same mocking dryness from before. “You’ve really got some unresolved issues, man.” Erwin ignores him. Brings the axe down again. “Don’t stop on my account, though,” the man adds. “As long as I’m getting paid, I don’t really fucking care if you’re doing my work for me.”
The wood keeps splitting. Erwin’s muscles burn, but it’s the good kind. The grounding kind. He feels the difference, too—the slight extra effort, the resistance in the larger pieces that the other man had cut through in a single motion. It only makes him work harder.
When he finally pauses, definitely longer than just after ten minutes, his chest heaving, the man pushes off the wall and steps forward.
“That’s enough,” he announces calmly. “Or you’ll be late for your fancy-pantsy ball.”
He takes the axe back without ceremony.
Erwin moves away, coming to a halt a few feet away from the chopping block, not yet in the mood to leave completely, as he’s still trying to calm his breath down, little droplets of sweat still slithering down his spine. He watches the man turn back to the block, reset his stance, lift the axe, and resume the rhythm of his work. As if Erwin had never been there at all.
The Alpha folds his arms loosely across his chest, eyes tracking the movement without trying to hide it. The work looks easier in the other man’s hands.
“What are you chopping all this wood for anyway?” Erwin asks at last, voice steadier than he feels.
The axe comes down again.
“For the fire bowls,” the man replies without looking at him. Crack.
Nothing else follows.
Erwin huffs out a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh. The man rolls his eyes, resets another log, and continues with his work. Erwin stares, clears his throat, not entirely sure why he’s still here.
“So,” he says, tone deliberately casual. “How did I do?”
The axe pauses mid-air. The man lowers it slowly and turns his head just enough to look at him over his shoulder. One eyebrow lifts, thin and dark.
“You got a praise kink or something?”
Once again, the man’s voice is as flat as it can be. There’s no smirk, no teasing warmth. Just bluntness. Rudeness.
Erwin lets out another quiet huff through his nose. “No,” he answers. “Just asking.”
The man holds his gaze for another second, as if weighing that, then turns back to the block. “You didn’t kill yourself,” he tells him at last. “Congratulations.”
Another swing.
Crack.
Erwin shakes his head, unable to stop that little chuckle escaping his mouth. He wipes his hands against his trousers, ruining them and not giving the slightest care about it, glances toward the villa lights filtering through the trees. Music will start soon. Voices are already drifting faintly through the air.
“I should go,” he says, picking up his shirt from the ground.
The man grunts noncommittally, already reaching for another log.
Erwin turns toward the path.
“Hey,” the man’s deep voice makes him stop, turn his head back. “Try not to fall into the fires once they’re lit.”
Erwin lets out a short breath that might be a laugh and continues toward the villa, dirt on his hands, sweat cooling on his skin—and for the first time that evening, he doesn’t dread what’s waiting for him upstairs anymore.
Levi
He tries hard to act normal, aware of the blond Alpha still nearby. He continues chopping wood as if nothing’s happened, nonchalantly as always. Unaffected. Unbothered by this unordinary encounter—when Levi is everything but.
The man’s scent still lingers. That scent Levi’s been trying to ignore all this while and failed to do so, and which is still driving him crazy, even if there’s only fragments of it left.
Salty ocean water. Stone. Cedarwood. Leather.
Levi brings the axe down—and misses.
“Fuck!” he roars.
He never fails at chopping wood. But now, he did. And it’s all because of this fucking Alpha.
Levi wipes the sweat off his forehead, kicking the still very much intact log off the block. He hates how much this man’s presence, the man’s arrogance, his deep voice—that fucking scent—have riled him up. And not in the normal way. The usual way. That kind of way which Levi has learned to shrug off, to ignore. To just move on with whatever he’s been doing, instantly forgetting about those bourgeois fuckers.
No.
This blond bastard just had to crawl right under Levi’s skin.
And Levi wishes he could stop thinking about it, but he can’t. His mind keeps replaying to him what just happened. It’s on a fucking loop.
The threat, a typical Alpha move. Pull rank, dangle consequences, show Levi that he’s nothing but a cockroach to him. And yet—the fact that the blond princess actually knew how to swing an axe like that. Damn. Levi’s almost pissed off about it.
He had expected hesitation. Sloppiness. A strained shoulder after two hits. Instead, the log had split cleanly. Again. And again. Despite the Alpha needing more than one strike here and there. But it was good work, solid. And the fact that blondie hadn’t made a show out of it? Just worked like this? Almost like a maniac? Splitting log after log, truly getting into it?
Levi’s stuck on the moment the Alpha took his shirt off. Unceremoniously. Discarding it right onto the earth. A shirt that probably cost more than Levi’s monthly salary.
He wishes he wouldn’t think about it, about the way the man revealed his naked upper body like that—a body that has seared itself into Levi’s mind now. Broad shoulders, a strong back, elegantly defined muscles, untarnished, sun-kissed skin, beads of sweat sliding down on it.
Levi tells himself he doesn’t care. But he absolutely does. He noticed, he remembers, he can’t stop thinking about it. And this… scent. When the Alpha had been sweating, working, heated—it had shifted. Had become stronger, clearer, even more ethereal. And Levi hates that.
He hates elite Alphas.
The entitlement. The money. The assumption of control. The mating politics.
He’s worked for enough Alpha families to know how they operate. Smiles in public. Calculations in private. Omegas paraded like trophies, or animals. One of them once introduced him at dinner as “our exotic little anomaly.” There had been laughter, glances, hushed whispers, jokes. Levi finished with his work. And left before sunrise.
And this one fits the type. Tailored. Educated. Powerful. The kind who inherits empires without having to work truly hard a day of his life. The kind who thinks the world rearranges itself around him.
Which is exactly why Levi decides that he hates him. That he despises him. That he’s going to do everything in his power to never see this man again, and to never think about him again.
He forces himself to finish the job properly. No more missed strikes and, most importantly, no more distractions. He resets his stance, splits the last logs with clean, efficient swings and stacks them neatly. Then Levi gets the pushcarts and transfers said logs into the numerous, wide, shiny fire bowls placed strategically across the garden. Until they are all filled.
One by one he lights them, the flames catching quickly, embers glowing hot and steady. The evening air smells of smoke now, and for a moment that almost helps. Almost.
He glances up.
The party is in full swing. Lanterns are lit everywhere, the abundant glass doors opened, more and more figures moving inside the ballroom, venturing out into the open balcony terrace, too.
And there he is—the blond Alpha.
Leaning casually against the balustrade, a drink in hand, talking to Zeke Jäger—the son of Levi’s employers—and some other broad-shouldered Alpha with striking blond hair and a shaggy beard. All tailored jackets and perfectly styled hair and that specific kind of posture that says the world has always made space for them.
Zeke laughs at something, head thrown back, loud and grating even from down here. Levi feels his jaw tighten automatically. He knows that laugh, or rather that kind of laugh. He spent years hearing it echo through the estates, always a spoiled son of rich Alphas. The kind who signs papers for fun and calls it work. The kind who looks at staff like they’re props in a play he’s mildly bored of.
And next to him—is he. And Levi’s pretty sure who that despicable Alpha actually is. He’s not stupid. He can put two and two together.
As if sensing the weight of his gaze, the blond Alpha looks down. Their eyes meet across the distance. Just for a second. Then, the blond bastard smiles. Just a little bit, his lips turning upwards lightly. And it’s not mocking. Just… amused. He lifts his glass slightly toward Levi in something that could almost pass for a toast.
Levi feels heat flash up his spine.
Arrogant prick.
He turns sharply, crouches by one of the bowls, adjusts the wood with unnecessary force that doesn’t need adjusting. The flames flare higher. He doesn’t look up again.
“Fire’s set,” he tells his supervisor when the older Beta approaches to inspect the line of bowls. “Anything else?”
Eld scans the garden, nods. “That’s it. You can call it a night.”
Levi doesn’t wait for further pleasantries. He walks straight toward the staff entrance without another glance at the terrace.
His quarters are small. Clean, always clean, and functional. Exactly the way he likes them. Levi showers first. Scrubs harder than necessary, as if he could wash away that… irritation. The day’s sweat. The smoke. The faint, stubborn trace of sea water and stone that his brain insists is still there even when it isn’t.
By the time he’s dressed again—black shirt, loose joggers—he’s calmer.
Almost.
He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the wall for a long moment. Then he reaches for his phone. And types in a name.
Erwin Smith.
He saw the clothes. The posture. The cut of the jacket. The way Zeke positioned himself near him on that terrace. The way the other Alpha listened, talked to Jäger. He’s worked enough estates to recognise power when it walks into the woods pretending to be bored.
Search.
The result loads immediately.
Heir to Smith-Jäger Pharmaceuticals.
Philanthropist. Investor.
Eligible Alpha.
There are too many photos.
Press conferences. Charity galas. Business summits. The same blond hair, always perfectly styled. The same calm blue eyes. Expensive suits. Controlled smiles. Always composed. Always polished. Always that elite Alpha people tend to worship.
Levi stares at one image for a second too long. Erwin standing at some podium, sleeves rolled just slightly, expression sharp and confident.
Of course.
Of course it’s him.
The son of an empire.
He should have recognised him, but then again Levi isn’t an avid consumer of news or social media and he doesn’t care who is who, as long as he gets paid.
And then, out of nowhere, comes the worst thought of all—the image of Smith shirtless in the clearing flashes through Levi’s mind without permission. Broad shoulders. Sweat sliding down his spine. The way his muscles had tightened on the second strike when the log resisted. The way he hadn’t flinched.
Something shifts low in Levi’s belly.
He slams the browser shut harder than necessary and throws the phone across the room. It hits the wall and lands on the floor with a dull thud.
“Idiot,” he mutters to himself. He’s not entirely sure whom he’s referring to.
Silence settles over him. Broken up by the dull thudding of music being played in the ballroom, muffled and distant voices of guests on the terrace and the gardens filtering in through the cracked window.
Levi exhales slowly, then reaches for the drawer of his nightstand. Pulls it open and retrieves the all-white pill bottle—his suppressants. He shudders when his eyes scan the label. Smith-Jäger Pharmaceuticals. The irony makes his mouth twist.
But it’s the biggest supplier in this country, as well as overseas, and free of charge since he’s working for the Jägers. Also, their suppressants are the only ones that actually work for him.
He shakes one pill out and swallows it dry, barely wincing at the chalky aftertaste.
Suppressants are a necessary evil. They completely block an Omega’s scent, mute his pheromones that signal mood, stress—and attraction. They regulate cycles. As in: they stop them. No heat—no problem. Not for Levi, and thus not for his employer.
Levi has worked enough estates to know the rules.
Alphas accept Omegas in very specific settings—balls, charity events, formal dinners. Places where everything is controlled. Where the Omega has the right name, the right upbringing, the right purpose: to marry well and produce heirs. Preferably new Alphas to continue the line, since Betas cannot give birth to Alphas or Omegas.
That kind of Omega is desirable.
But not on staff. Not in visible positions. Not carrying logs across lawns or working the gardens. An Omega’s biology is tolerated when it serves legacy.
Not when it serves labour.
An Omega scent lingering where it doesn’t “belong” is considered disruptive. Distracting. Inconvenient.
Especially here.
Levi is one of the very few Omegas on staff above ground. The laundry maids in the basement are Omegas too, most of them older, quiet, tucked safely out of sight where they rarely cross paths with employers. They fold sheets, wash silk, disappear before dinner service begins.
Levi does not disappear.
He carries logs. Repairs fencing. Hauls equipment across open lawns while guests sip champagne on balconies above him. He works in proximity. That means he has to be careful. Suppressants keep things clean. Neutral. Acceptable. They keep Alphas from turning their heads when they shouldn’t. Keep comments to a minimum. Keep assumptions contained. Most people think he’s a Beta. That way Levi can stay in control.
He closes the bottle and sets it back into the drawer.
If that Alpha is staying for days, Levi will not risk a slip. Not a stray scent. Not a biological tell. Not a single involuntary reaction that could be interpreted as an invitation that would be laughed at, shattered, that could put Levi into danger’s spotlight.
He turns onto his side, facing the wall, jaw tight.
He hates elite Alphas.
He hates Erwin Smith.
And that hatred burns so much, it doesn’t let Levi sleep.
He tries. Really tries. Lies on his back, then on his side, then face down, pillow over his head. The music from the ballroom fades gradually, the bass dulling into nothing, the last drunken laughter thinning out into night air. But the room stays warm because the day’s been warm and why should servant quarters have AC, right?
Levi’s hot and restless. Riled up in the wrongest of ways. And after hours of staring at the ceiling, he finally sits up, runs a hand through his hair, and exhales sharply, frustrated.
Fucking fine.
He pulls on his boots without bothering with a jacket and slips out into the corridor, down the back staircase, through the closest side entrance. The estate is quiet now. Lanterns still burn along the paths, but most of the fire bowls are reduced to low embers, glowing faintly red in the dark that will soon be broken up by the rising sun.
Levi moves automatically from one to the next, crouching, nudging half-burnt logs into place with a metal rod, checking they’re safe to die out properly even if he’s not on duty. It’s in his blood. A routine he cannot shake off. At least the air outside is cooler than in his room.
He’s halfway along the lower garden path when he notices movement ahead. A silhouette.
Tall. Broad. Not walking in a straight line.
Him.
Levi stops before the man can spot him.
Erwin’s sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened, hanging open at the collar. He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder like it’s an afterthought. His posture is different now. Softer. Less measured. Less graceful. The careful, curated Alpha heir from earlier replaced by someone who looks like he’s survived something mildly irritating.
And he’s alone again. Of course he’s alone.
Levi watches him for a second longer than necessary. Great. The polished empire prince escaping his own party.
The blond shifts direction slightly—and almost misjudges a stone edge lining the path. His foot catches and he stumbles half a step before regaining balance.
Levi doesn’t think. “Careful, princess,” he blurts out into the dark, voice flat and cutting. “Wouldn’t want you faceplanting into the hot embers.”
The Alpha freezes. Then turns towards him. Even in the dim lantern light, Levi sees it—the flicker of recognition. Immediate and sharp.
“Oh,” the blond says, as if mildly surprised. “It’s you.” His voice is lower now and slightly rougher than before.
“Disappointed?” Levi counters flatly.
Erwin huffs something that might be a laugh. He adjusts the jacket on his shoulder. “Relieved, actually. At least someone here who says what’s on his mind, instead of babbling out rehearsed lines of praise.”
Levi rolls his eyes. “You mean someone who insults you.”
“That too.” Erwin chuckles deeply.
He steps closer, and this time Levi doesn’t need to focus to catch it—the man’s Alpha scent. It’s stronger now. The alcohol on his breath not ruining it; if anything, it makes it warmer. More dangerous. He’s not controlling it, it just… It’s flooding out, just like that. And Levi has a hard time pretending that he doesn’t notice.
“I needed air,” the Alpha adds, glancing vaguely back toward the villa. “Apparently smiling for more than six consecutive hours is physically exhausting.”
“Tragic,” Levi mutters, unable to finally bite his tongue. “Must be hard, dancing, drinking, eating classy foods and being admired. So exhausting, really.”
“You’d be surprised.” Erwin smirks.
Levi snorts softly and moves to the next bowl, crouching again, deliberately turning his back. He refuses to give him full attention.
Behind him, gravel crunches. “You’re still working?” Erwin asks.
“When am I not working?” he mutters. Erwin doesn’t need to know he’s off the clock.
A pause. Then, closer this time, Erwin says, “You’re very committed to fire safety.”
Levi stands and turns sharply. “And you’re very committed to wandering into places you don’t belong.”
Blue eyes hold his. “And where do I belong?” Erwin asks.
“On the terrace,” Levi replies immediately. “With the rest of the decorative Alphas.”
A slow blink. “Decorative,” Erwin repeats. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me that.”
“You’re welcome.” Levi tries to sound as flatly as possible. He doesn’t know whether he succeeds.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The garden is quiet except for the faint crackle of dying wood and distant night insects. Levi can feel the heat from the nearest bowl on his skin. Can feel the Alpha standing too closely. He shifts sideways. He needs to get away before he says something he might regret and which might cost him his job.
“You’re in my way.”
Erwin steps aside immediately, not protesting at all, but complying. That annoys Levi more than if he’d argued. And he has no idea why. He only knows he needs to walk away now. But of course, Erwin is still talking.
“Are you always this hostile,” he comments lightly, “or am I getting special treatment?”
Levi stops, and looks at Erwin over his shoulder, not turning back around fully. “You’re not special,” he says gruffly.
Erwin smirks. “No one’s ever said that to me either.”
“Glad to provide completely new experiences for you, your highness,” Levi blurts out again, scoffing at himself on the inside. Just fucking leave, he tells himself. You need this job…!
Erwin’s chuckling again. “You’re rather delightful,” he comments—and something about this makes Levi’s skin crawl and his blood start to simmer.
Levi turns fully this time. “Don’t,” he warns.
Erwin’s smile lingers. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m entertainment.”
The smile fades a fraction. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Levi cuts in. “This is what you people do. You get bored. You poke at something different. Something inconvenient. See if it reacts.”
Silence stretches. Erwin’s jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t know me.”
Levi steps closer. Not intimidated. Not backing down. Not listening to his own voice of reason.
“I know enough. You’ll go upstairs, shake hands, secure your perfect little Omega with the right pedigree, produce your heir, inherit your empire.” His eyes flick down Erwin’s chest once, then back up. “And I’ll go back to splitting wood.” A beat. “You don’t look at people like me unless you’re experimenting or shopping for staff.”
That lands. And somehow, that excites Levi, makes him forget even more about the boundaries he’s set himself, makes him go on—makes him be the one who’s poking now.
“You walked into the woods because you were bored. You picked up an axe because you were irritated. You think that makes you rugged?” Levi snorts. “You had to threaten my job to get your hands on it.” Another hit. “And even then, you needed two strikes where I needed one.” Silence. “You’re not special,” he repeats again. “You’re just unused to being outclassed.”
A direct strike to Alpha pride after jabbing at the inheritance clause that too many sleazy magazines have written about and which Levi has practically just read. Erwin goes very still. Anger flickers. Real this time.
For a second, Levi almost expects the man’s scent to spike. A flare of dominance that would nearly suffocate him. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, Erwin studies him with a certain horrifying focus.
Silence settles over them. Definitely not the comfortable kind.
“You’re right,” the blond says at last. Levi blinks. What? “I did need two strikes.” Erwin’s admission is calm, and not defensive at all. “And you didn’t.” A beat of silence in which Levi just stares at him. “I’ll remember that.” The way he says it makes something tighten low in Levi’s stomach. He doesn’t like it at all. “But you’re wrong about something else,” Erwin adds just as calmly and just as focused. Levi doesn’t move. “I don’t experiment.” Those blue eyes drag over him once slowly. “When I want something—I commit to it.”
Then Erwin shifts the jacket back properly over his shoulder and steps away, gravel crunching beneath polished shoes.
“Good night,” he says.
It’s not polite.
Levi doesn’t answer. He stands there long after the footsteps fade. Annoyed. Irritated. And far more unsettled than he would like to admit. Because that didn’t feel like defeat.
It felt like… a threat.