Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Sir—" Louis' voice broke, a ragged gasp escaping his lips as Harry drove deeper into him, each thrust relentless, unyielding.

The room was heavy with the scent of sweat and desire, the air thick and suffocating. Harry's brow glistened, droplets falling like rain as he loomed over Louis, his eyes shut, lost in the pleasure of Louis's tight hole.

Louis. His name echoed in Harry's mind, though he rarely deigned to speak it aloud. To Harry, Louis was nothing more than a servant, a shadow in his opulent world.

House manager, personal assistant—these were titles meant to dignify the undignified, to soften the edges of servitude. But Harry saw through the charade.

To him, Louis was a maid, a tool, a possession. Titles were for those who needed to feel important. Harry needed no such illusions. He felt no need to use them.

The omega beneath him trembled, his body yielding to Harry's dominance, his breath hitching with every movement. Harry's hands gripped Louis' hips with bruising force, his touch devoid of tenderness, only hunger.

This was not love, nor even lust in its purest form—it was power, raw and unrelenting. Harry reveled in it, in the way Louis' body shuddered beneath him, in the way his cries were swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room.

Louis' submission was absolute, his vulnerability laid bare. And Harry? Harry was the storm, the darkness that consumed everything in its path. There was no escape, no reprieve. Only this: the clash of flesh, the sharp intake of breath and the overwhelming power dynamic between them.

Louis was efficient, meticulous, and utterly devoted in his role as Harry's assistant. But it was in the bedroom where he truly excelled, where his obedience took on a different shade, one that Harry found irresistible.

Louis was exquisite—delicate and slight, with a beauty that seemed almost otherworldly. His eyes, wide and luminous, held a vulnerability that Harry couldn't resist exploiting.

Harry didn't need excuses to take Louis to bed, but he made them anyway. It amused him to cloak his desires in the guise of discipline, to twist Louis' mistakes into opportunities for his own gratification.

Tonight, it was a missed appointment—a trivial oversight, really, but one that Harry seized upon with predatory precision.

"You forgot," Harry had said, his voice low and dangerous, as Louis stood before him, trembling under the weight of his gaze. "Do you know what happens when you forget, Louis?"

The boy had nodded, his lips parting as if to apologize, but Harry didn't want words. He never did. What he wanted was something else entirely. And so, the punishment began—sharp, unrelenting, and laced with a cruelty that Harry masked as necessity.

But punishments had a way of unraveling, of becoming something else entirely. What started as a reprimand soon dissolved into something darker, more intimate.

Harry's hands, once stern and commanding, now roamed with possessive hunger. Louis' body, so slight and yielding, became a canvas for Harry's desires, a place where power and pleasure intertwined.

Harry reveled in it—the way Louis' breath hitched, the way his hands clutched at the sheets, the way he surrendered completely, as if he had no other purpose but to belong to Harry. And perhaps he didn't.

In moments like these, Harry wondered if Louis even existed outside of his control, outside of the roles he was made to play: the perfect assistant for Harry, the perfect plaything for Harry. Harry didn't value him for anything beyond this.

Harry's movements grew frantic, his thrusts sharp and unrelenting as he chased the edge of his own release. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, Louis' breathless cries, and the creak of the bed beneath them. Louis, on all fours, clung to the sheets with white-knuckled desperation, his body trembling under the force of Harry's rhythm. His back arched, a silent plea for mercy or more—Harry couldn't tell, nor did he care.

A sharp slap landed on Louis' ass, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the stillness. Louis gasped, a broken sound caught between pain and pleasure, his body jolting forward before Harry pulled him back, his grip unyielding. Tears streaked Louis' face, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted in a silent cry.

"Please, sir," Louis begged, his voice muffled, choked with tears.

Harry smirked, his breath ragged, his own control fraying. "Want to come?" he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. He drove into Louis harder, faster, each thrust a punishment and a promise.

Louis couldn't form words, his mind a haze of sensation. All he could manage were fragmented sounds—soft, broken gasps that spilled from his lips like a prayer, "Ah, ah, ah, ah!"

Louis nodded frantically, his body trembling, his grip on the sheets tightening as if they were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Harry laughed, his laughter was low, dark, and edged with cruelty. "Come whenever you want," he said, his voice rough and dismissive. "I don't care. Just take my knot."

Louis nodded desperately, his body trembling, his mind a haze of need and submission. He wanted it—needed it—even as his body ached from the relentless pace Harry had set.

"Want my knot, omega?" Harry taunted, his voice a growl, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. He leaned over Louis, his breath hot against the omega's ear, his tone dripping with mockery. "Beg for it."

"Please," Louis whimpered, his voice breaking, tears streaming down his face. His body was alight with sensation, every thrust hitting that deep, sensitive place inside him, sending shocks of pleasure and pain through his core. He was unraveling, his thoughts scattering, his world narrowing to the man above him, inside him, consuming him.

Harry didn't relent. His movements were harsh, unforgiving, each thrust driving Louis closer to the edge.

And then, with a final, brutal push, Harry buried himself to the hilt, his knot locking them together. Louis cried out, his body arching, his hole clenching around Harry as his own release tore through him, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing over him.

Harry groaned, his own climax hitting him hard, his grip on Louis tightening as he spilled into him, claiming him in the most primal way. Louis' body twitched, oversensitive and overwhelmed, his hole fluttering around Harry's knot as they remained locked together.

"You're something else," Harry murmured, his voice rough and low as his knot settled deep inside Louis.

Louis' cheeks flushed at the faint praise, a delicate pink spreading across his skin. It was rare for Harry to offer even the slightest acknowledgment, and Louis clung to it, his heart fluttering despite the ache in his body.

Harry exhaled, a deep, satisfied sigh as he leaned back, his hands still gripping Louis' hips. No omega had ever satisfied him the way Louis did. No one had ever made him lose control so completely, so utterly.

With others, Harry had always held back, never allowing himself to knot, never wanting to be tied to anyone, even temporarily. But Louis was different. Louis had unraveled him from the very beginning.

The thought of going even a week without knotting Louis was enough to drive Harry to the edge of madness. It was an obsession, a need that burned hotter and deeper than anything he'd ever known. Louis was his—his to claim, his to ruin, his to keep. And his to discard whenever he wanted. It was a twisted fantasy, but he didn't care.

Harry's mind drifted back to the first time, eight months ago, when he'd knotted Louis, during their second time having sex together. It had been an accident, a moment of weakness, but the sensation had been unlike anything he'd ever experienced. It had been electric, all-consuming, and from that moment on, Harry had been hooked. He'd kept Louis close ever since.

As his knot loosened, Harry pulled out of Louis with little regard for the omega's soft whimper. He settled onto the bed beside him, his breathing still heavy, his body languid and sated.

Louis lay on his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, before he quickly reached for the blanket, draping it over himself with trembling hands.

Harry closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, sex, and the distinct pheromones of alpha and omega—a heady combination that clung to the room like a second skin.

It was unusual for Harry to allow an omega in his bedroom, let alone to sleep there afterward. His sexual rendezvous were typically confined to hotels, penthouses, or the guest rooms of his sprawling mansion. But Louis was the exception, the only one who had ever breached this private sanctuary.

Perhaps it was because of how it had all begun. Nine months ago, Harry had awoken to the sound of Louis quietly cleaning his room.

Furious, Harry had lashed out, berating the omega for intruding without permission.

Louis, wide-eyed and flustered, had reminded him—in that soft, trembling voice of his—that Harry himself had instructed him the night before to clean the room by 8 a.m. sharp, regardless of whether Harry was still asleep.

Realizing his mistake, Harry had felt a flicker of guilt. He'd tried to comfort Louis But comfort had quickly given way to something else, something far more primal. That had been the first time Harry had fucked Louis in his bedroom, and it had become a ritual ever since.

No one else had ever been granted this privilege—not the supermodels, not the A-list celebrities, not even the most alluring omegas who had passed through Harry's life.

Just yesterday, he'd fucked Kendall, a stunning supermodel with legs that seemed to go on forever. She was beautiful, yes, but she lacked the pliant submission that Louis offered so effortlessly. When she'd insisted on going to his mansion, Harry had refused, taking her to his penthouse instead.

Harry cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the heavy silence of the room. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, his voice low and edged with a sternness that cut through the lingering haze of their intimacy. "You still need to settle that appointment," he said.

Louis' eyes fluttered open, his body still trembling faintly from the aftershocks of their coupling. He bit back a whimper, his voice barely above a whisper as he replied, "Yes, sir." The words were soft, obedient, and tinged with a quiet resignation that Harry found both satisfying and infuriating.

"Christmas is coming up," Harry said again.

He still hadn't looked at Louis, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if the words were an afterthought. "You'll be getting a bonus. And I'll be increasing your pay."

Louis' eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. "R-really?" he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry let out a low hum, his tone laced with mock disapproval. "Do you not want it, omega?" he chided, clicking his tongue. "Ungrateful, ungrateful."

Louis quickly shook his head, his cheeks flushing with a mix of panic and embarrassment. "N-no, sir, I didn't mean it like that," he rushed to explain, his voice trembling. "I was just... surprised by your generosity. Thank you very much."

Harry hummed again, a sound that was neither approval nor dismissal. "You're welcome," he said, his voice softening ever so slightly, though the edge of possessiveness remained.

Harry wasn't one for verbal praise. Compliments were rare, almost nonexistent. But he made sure to compensate Louis in other ways—generous pay, bonuses. It wasn't kindness; it was strategy. Harry needed Louis to stay and he knew exactly how to ensure that.

A few moments of silence stretched between them, heavy and unbroken. Then, Harry's voice cut through the quiet, blunt and unapologetic. "How's your ass feeling? Too sore?"

Louis' cheeks flushed a deep crimson at the explicit question, his gaze dropping to the sheets. "N-not really, sir," he stammered, his voice barely audible. "I-I'm okay." It was a lie, and they both knew it. Harry was always rough, always relentless, and Louis' body bore the evidence of that. But Louis would never admit it, not to him.

"Good," Harry said, his tone dismissive as he sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. He reached for the drawer of his bedside table, opening it with a casual flick of his wrist. Inside lay his phone and a sleek, black handgun, its presence as familiar to Harry as it was jarring to Louis.

Louis' breath hitched, his body tensing at the sight. Even after such a long time of working for Harry, the sight of the gun still unnerved him. It was a reminder of the world Harry inhabited—a world of power, danger, and control.

Louis had never asked about it, never dared to. But it was always there, lurking in the background, a silent testament to the man who owned him in every way that mattered.

"Clean yourself up and get going," Harry said, his voice firm. He didn't look at Louis as he spoke, his attention already shifting to his phone. The dismissal was clear, and Louis knew better than to linger.

"I have work," Harry muttered, his voice tinged with irritation as he scrolled through his phone. The screen illuminated his sharp features, his long curly hair falling over his face. "Wanted another round, but apparently, I can't even fuck in peace." His tone was clipped, frustration evident as he skimmed through the flood of messages demanding his presence at the office.

Louis nodded silently, his heart sinking a little. He had hoped, foolishly, for more time with Harry—a few extra minutes, perhaps, where he could pretend things were different. But he knew better. Harry's world was vast and demanding, and Louis was just a small, fleeting part of it.

Carefully, Louis slid out of bed, wincing as his body protested the movement. He was sore, every muscle and nerve reminding him of Harry's roughness, but he bit back the discomfort.

His cheeks flushed as he realized he was still naked, though Harry paid him no mind, his attention fully absorbed by his phone.

Louis gathered his clothes from the floor, the fabric soft against his skin as he dressed quickly. He made his way to the ensuite bathroom, a space of opulent marble and gleaming fixtures, unaware that he was the only person besides Harry ever permitted to use it.

The thought never crossed his mind; he was too focused on cleaning up, on erasing the evidence of their encounter before stepping back into his role as the obedient assistant.

When he emerged, dressed and composed, he hesitated for a moment by the bedside table. His phone lay there, a small, inconspicuous object that tethered him to the outside world. He picked it up, his fingers brushing against the cool surface.

"Ask Alfred to escort you to your apartment," Harry ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. He hadn't moved from where Louis had left him, still reclined against the headboard, his eyes fixed on his phone. His brow was furrowed, a deep frown etched across his face as he scrolled through whatever had captured his attention.

Louis hesitated, his voice soft and uncertain. "S-sir?"

Harry sighed, an exasperated sound that cut through the room like a blade. He finally looked up, his gaze piercing and filled with annoyance. "It's a simple order, Louis. Don't tell me you can't comprehend it."

Louis flinched, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I can, sir," he said quickly, his voice trembling. "But... it's not necessary." He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.

The last thing he wanted was to have Alfred—Harry's stoic, ever-watchful butler—witness his walk of shame. Alfred was more than just a coworker; he was a constant reminder of the hierarchy that governed Harry's world, and Louis wasn't sure he could bear the weight of that judgment.

"You dare tell me what's necessary and what's not?" Harry's voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the room with a cold edge that made Louis flinch. The tension between them was palpable, thick and suffocating. Harry's gaze bore into Louis, unyielding and commanding, leaving no room for defiance.

The truth was, Louis lived in a rough neighborhood—a fact Harry had been acutely aware of since the beginning. Just yesterday, Harry had seen the news: an omega had been assaulted in that very area. The memory of it lingered in his mind, a dark cloud that refused to dissipate. Now, with the clock nearing midnight, Harry wasn't about to let Louis walk home alone. No one else could have Louis—no one but him.

Louis quickly shook his head, his voice trembling as he backtracked. "Sorry, sir." He knew better than to argue with Harry, especially not after what had just transpired between them, he was still feeling too sensitive and emotional. Harry's moods were unpredictable, and Louis had learned the hard way that defiance only ever led to more trouble.

Harry's expression softened slightly and quickly changed to indifference and his tone remained firm. "It's alright," he murmured, his attention already drifting back to his phone. "You can go now."

Louis bit his lip, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he turned and walked out of the room. His chest ached, a dull, persistent throb that had nothing to do with the soreness of his body and everything to do with the fragile, foolish hope he clung to.

He knew it was stupid—so incredibly stupid—to have fallen for Harry. The alpha was everything Louis shouldn't want: cold, commanding, and utterly indifferent to the emotions Louis couldn't seem to bury. But what could he do? Harry had captured him, not just in body but in heart, and Louis was powerless to resist.

Yet, for all the times Harry had claimed him, for all the moments of intimacy they'd shared, Louis knew the truth. Harry didn't care. Not really. To him, Louis was a possession, a convenience, a fleeting distraction in a world filled with power and control.

Still, Louis held onto that fragile, foolish hope—a quiet, desperate belief that someday, somehow, Harry might see him as more. It was a naive dream, one he knew would likely never come true. But for now, it was all he had.

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Chapter Text

The room was shrouded in darkness, a sinister void punctuated only by the erratic flicker of dim, dying bulbs. Shadows crawled along the damp walls, stretching like twisted fingers across the cold concrete floor.

"Please... m-mercy!" The man's voice fractured, raw and trembling, as he lay sprawled in a pool of his own blood. His chest heaved, each breath a struggle, his broken body quivering against the icy ground.

Harry loomed over him, a cruel smile curling across his face. He adjusted his pristine suit with meticulous care, the fabric smooth and unblemished — a stark contrast to the carnage at his feet. Stepping forward, he placed the polished toe of his shoe inches from the man's battered face, the subtle creak of leather echoing like a death knell through the room.

He chuckled, low and predatory.

"Mercy?" he whispered, tilting his head as if the word itself amused him. "Now, why would I do that?"

"You knew the deal, Francis," Harry’s voice dripped with venom, each word slow and deliberate. "You follow my orders, and I give you protection. Money. You betray me..." He crouched slightly, letting the words linger like a blade poised to strike. "I kill you."

His dark emerald eyes gleamed in the dim light, cold and unyielding. A stray lock of hair fell across his face, but he didn’t bother to brush it aside. His focus was fixed on the broken man at his feet.

Francis clung to Harry’s shoes, fingers trembling, knuckles white. "P-please! Forgive me! Have mercy!" he sobbed, tears streaming down his bloodied face and splattering onto the pristine leather.

For a moment, the room held its breath. But mercy was a foreign concept to Harry.

He jerked his foot back, recoiling as though touched by something vile. His face twisted in disgust.

"Don’t ruin my shoes, you pathetic fuck," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut.

Harry turned to the side, where one of his men stood like a statue, waiting silently for the order.

Harry didn’t hesitate. His voice was cold, devoid of emotion.

"Finish him."

The man nodded, expressionless. "Yes, sir."

Without another glance, Harry turned and strode toward the basement door, his footsteps echoing against the concrete like a countdown to the inevitable.

Behind him, the broken man clawed at the ground, dragging himself forward, voice shredded by panic.

"N-NO! PLEASE! I BEG YOU! I SWEAR I'LL NEV—"

Gunshot.

The sound thundered through the room, reverberating off the walls. A sick, final silence followed, broken only by the slow creak of the door as Harry disappeared into the shadows.

Harry stepped out of the room, the echo of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. His jaw tightened. He despised liars. Traitors. Cowards.

Cowards didn’t deserve to breathe.

The very thought of betrayal burned through him like acid. There was no forgiveness, no redemption. Not for anyone. Not ever.

Harry would cleanse the world of traitors if he could — one bullet at a time. He would never forgive someone who betrays him. No matter what. No matter who.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis smiled as he crouched down to gently stroke Lucy, the little stray cat who had claimed his boss’s mansion as her playground. No one truly owned Lucy — she simply wandered in whenever she pleased, padding silently through the grand halls before curling up in one of the many sun-drenched gardens.

She seemed to belong there, her presence as natural as the flowers swaying in the breeze. Louis didn’t mind. He liked these quiet moments, feeling her soft fur beneath his fingers as she purred contentedly, perfectly at home in her secret kingdom.

In his other hand, Louis clutched a stack of files—documents Harry had specifically asked him to bring to his office. Normally, tasks like these weren’t meant for Louis; Harry would usually send Alfred or another employee. But this wasn’t just any file. It had been left in a rather private part of the mansion, a place not many were allowed to wander.

Except for Louis.

He knew exactly where to find it, not because of any instructions but because… well, he had been fucked in that spot before. A flush crept up his cheeks at the memory, warmth blooming under his skin. Shaking his head quickly, he willed the thought away, focusing instead on the task at hand.

He rose to his feet, giving Lucy one final affectionate pat before making his way to the waiting car. Sliding into the back seat, he was whisked away toward the towering silhouette of the company building.

As he approached the sleek, modern structure, its glass façade gleaming under the sunlight, he headed straight for Harry's office. Through the transparent doors, he could see Harry deep in conversation with another employee, his expression focused and intent. Louis paused, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his mind, before he raised his hand and gently rapped his knuckles against the glass, the sound soft but deliberate.

Harry's gaze snapped toward Louis, though his conversation never faltered. With a quick, dismissive wave of his hand, he signaled for Louis to enter. Louis stepped inside, lingering near the door, his presence quiet but unmistakable as he listened to the exchange.

“—you’ve finished it?” Harry asked, his voice low and measured, directed at the man seated across from him—a broad-shouldered, imposing alpha whose presence seemed to fill the room.

“Yes, boss. Francis has been taken care of,” the man replied, his tone flat and matter-of-fact.

A cold shiver raced down Louis’ spine, settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. He desperately hoped it didn’t mean what he feared it did. Harry’s world—brutal, unyielding, and shrouded in shadows—terrified him more than he cared to admit. Every word, every glance, felt like a step deeper into a labyrinth he wasn’t sure he’d ever escape.

Harry gave a curt nod to the man, his expression unreadable. "Alright, you can go now."

The man stood, his heavy footsteps echoing as he exited the office, leaving Louis alone with Harry. The air seemed to thicken, the silence pressing in on Louis as Harry turned his full attention toward him. Those piercing eyes locked onto Louis, sharp and calculating, as if they could strip away every layer of pretense he had.

Louis swallowed hard, placing the files on the table with hands that betrayed the slightest tremble. "The files, sir," he said, his voice polite but tinged with unease.

Harry leaned back in his chair, his gaze never wavering. "Took you a little too long, Louis," he remarked, his tone deceptively calm. Yet, there was an edge to it—a subtle warning that sent a chill racing down Louis' spine.

Harry’s eyes bore into him, that familiar intensity making Louis feel as though he were being dissected. It was always like this—Harry’s gaze cutting through him, seeing too much, knowing too much. It left Louis feeling raw, exposed, as if every thought, every fear, was laid bare.

Louis shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his throat tightening. "Umm... well, s-sir, I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. "I'm not asking for an apology," he said, his voice cool and measured, "but an explanation."

Louis bit his lip, his stomach twisting into knots. Internally, he groaned. God, this is going to be embarrassing.

How could he possibly explain to his boss—a man who exuded power and control, a man he was hopelessly in love with—that he was late because he’d stopped to pet a cat?

Yes, he could lie. He should lie. But he couldn’t. Something about Harry always seemed to strip away his ability to deceive. The alpha had an uncanny way of seeing through him, and worse, Louis couldn’t bring himself to lie to him. It felt... wrong.

"Sir, actually, I... I stopped to pet a cat, so..." Louis stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, the heat spreading to the tips of his ears as he braced himself for Harry’s reaction.

For a moment, Harry simply stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then, to Louis’ surprise, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but only for a second before his expression turned hard again. "You’re a very amusing person," Harry remarked.

Louis blinked, unsure whether to feel relieved or more embarrassed. "I—uh, thank you, sir?" he mumbled, though it came out more like a question.

Harry leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms as he studied Louis with that same unnerving intensity. "A cat," he repeated, his voice low and smooth. "You were late because of a cat."

Louis nodded weakly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Yes, sir. Her name is Lucy. She’s... very friendly."

Harry let out a chuckle, a sound so rare and unexpected that Louis’ head snapped up in surprise. "Lucy," Harry echoed. "Well, Louis, I suppose I can’t fault you for being... distracted by something so... innocent. I actually understand you. Innocent, adorable things can be quite distracting."

There was a pause, the air between them charged with something Louis couldn’t quite name. "Just don’t let it happen again," he added, his tone firm. "I expect better from you."

Louis nodded quickly, his heart still racing. "Of course, sir. It won’t happen again."

Harry pushed off the desk, stepping closer until Louis could feel the heat of his presence. "Good," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Because I’d hate to think you’re taking your responsibilities lightly."

Louis swallowed hard, his breath catching in his throat. "I’m not, sir. I promise."

Harry held his gaze for a moment longer before finally stepping back, the tension in the room easing just slightly. "See that you don’t, and I need my appointment schedule on my desk by 6" he said, turning back to his desk. "You’re dismissed, Louis."

Louis didn’t need to be told twice. With a quick nod, he turned and hurried out of the office, his heart still pounding. As he closed the door behind him, he couldn’t help but wonder if Harry’s lingering gaze had been a warning—or something else entirely.

At exactly six o’clock, Louis knocked on Harry’s door, a small flicker of pride sparking within him at his punctuality. He wasn’t usually this precise, but today, he’d managed it.

"Come in," Harry’s voice called from the other side, firm and commanding.

Louis pushed the door open and stepped inside. Harry was seated at his desk, his attention consumed by a stack of documents spread out before him. The dim glow of the desk lamp cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the focused crease between his brows. He glanced up briefly, his piercing eyes locking onto Louis.

"Yes?" Harry asked, his tone clipped.

Louis cleared his throat, standing a little straighter. "I’ve emailed the appointment schedule like you asked, sir," he informed, his voice steady despite the usual flutter of nerves Harry’s presence evoked.

Harry glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at Louis, his expression unreadable. "Alright," he said simply, his attention already drifting back to the papers in front of him.

Louis shifted uneasily on his feet, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. He had been rehearsing this moment in his head all day, but now that he was standing in front of Harry, the words felt lodged in his throat. His mother’s birthday was coming up, and he wanted to surprise her by spending the whole day with her. He rarely asked for time off, so he hoped Harry would understand.

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something," Louis said, his voice soft and tentative, barely breaking the silence of the room.

Harry looked up from his desk, his sharp eyes locking onto Louis with an intensity that made Louis feel like he was under a microscope. "Hmm?" Harry responded, his tone neutral but his full attention now on Louis, which only made Louis’ nerves spike.

"Actually, sir—" Louis began, but before he could continue, the sharp ring of Harry’s phone cut through the air. Louis froze mid-sentence, his heart sinking as Harry held up a hand to silence him.

Harry’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and icy. “Yes?” he said, his tone rough, almost dismissive. The coldness in his voice sent a shiver down Louis’ spine, and he clenched his fists at his sides to steady himself. He had always known Harry to be stern, even cold, but this—this was different. This was something darker, something that made the air in the room feel heavier, more suffocating.

From the phone, muffled voices spilled out, low and urgent. Louis couldn’t make out the words, but the tension in the room was palpable. He watched as Harry’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing into slits of focused intensity. The power radiating from him was almost tangible, a force that seemed to press down on Louis, making him feel small.

As the voice on the other end of the line faltered, dying down to uneasy silence, Harry rose from his chair, his patience unraveling like a thread pulled too tight. His voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he snarled, his fury palpable, laced with something almost primal. "You pathetic, spineless fucks can't possibly be this incompetent."

His hand raked through his hair, the sharp movement barely concealing his frustration. The air in the office grew thick, heavy with the scent of his anger, a suffocating presence that pressed against the walls.

Someone on the line stammered a response, but Harry didn't let them finish. His next words came slow, deliberate, each syllable dripping with venom.

"You'd better fix this. If you don't—" he exhaled sharply, "I'll cut your dicks off and fuck your omegas myself. And believe me, that’s not an empty threat."

His voice lowered to something chilling, something that made the room feel smaller. "Ask the team that botched the Sicily project. Oh wait—you can’t." A pause. Then, almost mockingly, "Why? Because they’re fucking dead."

With that, he ended the call, slamming his phone against the desk with a force that made Louis flinch. The sound echoed, final and absolute.

Harry barely acknowledged him. He didn’t have to.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes pressed shut as he tried to rein in the rage still thrumming through his veins. The room reeked of his fury — a suffocating cloud of dominance that made the air feel sharp, like breathing in broken glass.

Across the room, Louis trembled, his body betraying him as he wilted under the weight of it all. The yelling, the raw, violent energy bleeding from Harry, the thick scent of anger saturating every inch of the space — it was too much. It always was. He whimpered, the sound fragile, barely a breath, but loud enough to snap the tension like a gunshot.

Harry's eyes flew open, dark and cold as they locked onto Louis. For a moment, he just stared, watching the slight quiver of Louis’s frame, the way his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. Harry inhaled slowly, deliberately, but it did nothing to soften the sharp edge of his presence.

He stalked toward Louis with slow, deliberate steps, each one echoing like a countdown. Louis instinctively backed away, retreating until the cold wall pressed against his spine. Trapped.

His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, and another soft whimper escaped him — a sound so small, yet it reverberated through the room like a spark in dry air.

The sound hit Harry like a drug. His gaze darkened, hunger flickering beneath the surface of his already volatile rage. He loomed over Louis, towering, predatory, eyes locked onto the boy as if he were prey. Louis tilted his head up, wide blue eyes glassy with unshed tears, lip trembling as he tried to hold himself together.

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Harry murmured, voice low and rough, but his body didn’t retreat. He pressed closer, the heat of him seeping into Louis’s skin.

"I-I know," Louis stammered, voice barely a whisper. "B-but it was s-scary."

Harry’s lips twitched, something cruel and satisfied curling in his chest. He dipped his head lower, so close Louis could feel his breath ghosting over his skin.

“Yeah?” Harry rasped, voice dripping with menace, with possession. “I scare you?”

The words weren't a question. They were a claim. And from the way Louis trembled, Harry knew he owned every shaky breath the boy took.

“S-sometimes, sir,” Louis confessed, his voice barely more than a breath, eyes flicking downward as if looking away might soften the weight of Harry’s presence.

But Harry wouldn’t allow it.

He seized Louis’s jaw, fingers digging in just enough to remind him of the strength behind them, tilting his face upward until their eyes locked. Louis gasped, the sound swallowed by the suffocating tension that coiled between them.

“Don’t worry,” Harry murmured, voice low and laced with cruel amusement. His thumb traced along Louis’s cheek, a mockery of tenderness. “I don’t hurt pretty things.” He paused, lips curling into a twisted smirk. “Physically, at least.”

Louis swallowed hard, his throat bobbing beneath Harry’s grip. The room felt too small, too hot, and the alpha’s fury still clung to the air like smoke — choking, all-consuming. Harry was so close, his body radiating power, the sharp scent of rage and dominance overwhelming every one of Louis’s senses.

He was unraveling, seconds away from falling apart, from dropping to his knees and begging for... something. Anything.

And Harry knew it.

Harry leaned in, capturing Louis’s lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle — rough, punishing, a silent claim. When he pulled away, Louis’s chest heaved, lips swollen and trembling. Harry didn’t linger. He turned, crossing the room with purpose, shutting the office door with a sharp click. The glass turned opaque, sealing them off from the outside world.

Not that it mattered. Only a select few had the privilege of walking into Harry’s office unannounced. For everyone else, Louis was the gatekeeper, deciding who was worthy of an audience with the alpha. But right now, there was no distance, no barrier. Just the two of them.

Harry returned, each step slow and deliberate as he closed the space between them. Louis still stood against the wall, chest rising and falling too fast, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his throat.

“On your knees,” Harry ordered, voice low, dangerous. No room for argument. No need for it.

Louis obeyed without hesitation, his legs folding beneath him as he dropped, wide eyes looking up at Harry like he was something holy and terrifying all at once. So eager. So submissive. So completely his.

Harry exhaled, the storm inside him still raging — but Louis would quiet it. He always did.

Harry’s gaze cut through the dim light, sharp and commanding, his voice low but firm. “Go on,” he said, the words leaving no room for hesitation.

Louis’s hands trembled as they moved to Harry’s belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle before finally sliding it free. The leather slipped away with a soft hiss, and Louis’s breath hitched.

He hesitated for only a moment before popping the button of Harry’s trousers, the sound unnaturally loud in the heavy silence. The zipper came down next, slow and deliberate.

When Louis finally reached in, his touch was tentative, almost reverent, as though he were handling something sacred. Harry’s presence loomed over him, a dark shadow that seemed to swallow the room whole.

Louis couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped his lips, a sound that was equal parts shame and desire. He loved this— loved Harry, loved the way Harry’s dominance consumed him, loved the way it made him feel small and insignificant, yet utterly necessary.

He loved serving him, surrendering to him, no matter how degrading the act, no matter how humiliating the position. He would kneel, beg, do whatever Harry wanted if it meant Harry would keep him around a little longer. It didn’t matter when or where or how. Harry’s will was absolute, and Louis was powerless to do anything but obey.

He hesitated for only a moment before leaning forward, pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss to the tip. With a shaky breath, Louis spat into his palm, the sound obscene in the heavy silence. He worked his hand over Harry’s length, the slickness easing the motion as he began to move up and down. Harry was big—overwhelmingly so—and the sheer size of him always left Louis lightheaded, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm.

Harry's low groan vertebrated through the room, a sound that was both a reward and a command. Louis could feel him hardening under his touch. When Harry was fully erect, Louis leaned in.

He started with kittenish licks, his tongue flicking lightly against the tip, teasing and testing. The taste of Harry was already intoxicating— salty and musky. Louis's lips kept brushing against the sensitive skin, his kisses soft and tentative, as if he were worshipping someone far greater than himself.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he dragged his tongue in a long, wet stripe from the tip to the base, savouring the way Harry's breath hitched above him.

Louis paused to lavish attention on Harry's balls, his lips round and tongue exploring with a kind of reverence. He sucked gently, his mouth warm and wet before returning back to the tip, where he lingered, his tongue circling the sensitive head. Harry let out a low, guttural groan.

When Louis finally took Harry into his mouth, it was with a soft moan of his own. The taste was overwhelming, it made Louis's head spin. He loved it, loved the way it filled his senses, loved the way it made him feel connected to Harry in a way that was intimate and degrading both. He could feel himself growing hard and releasing slick, his own ache a distant echo as he focused all his attention on his boss.

Louis worked slowly, his mouth sliding down as far as he could manage, his tongue pressing against the underside in a way he knew Harry liked. He pulled back, his lips tight around the knot, before sinking down again. Harry's fingers tangled in Louis's hair, not guiding, not yet, but a slient reminder. Louis moaned around him, the vibration eliciting another groan from Harry.

Soon, Harry's patience had worn thin. His fingers tangled tighter in Louis's hair, yanking him back with a sharp motion. For a moment, Louis was left gasping, his lips parted, his eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.

But Harry didn't let him linger there for long, he thrust himself fully into Louis's mouth, the force of it making the omega's body jerk in protest.

Louis struggled, his throat convulsing as he tried to accommodate Harry's size. He was big — too big. The stretch was unbearable, his jaw aching and his breath hitching in desperate, muffled gasps. But Harry didn't care. He set a brutal pace, driving himself in and out of Louis's mouth with a merciless rhythm, each thrust forcing Louis closer to the edge of his limits.

When Harry pulled him off again, it was only to yank him back down forcing him to take every inch until his nose pressed against Harry's skin.

Louis choked, his body trembling, tears streaming down his face as he gagged around Harry's cock. Harry groaned, his head tipping back as he savoured the tight, wet heat of Louis's throat, the way the omega's struggles only seemed to amplify his own pleasure.

"What?" Harry taunted, his voice dripping with mockery as he looked down at Louis's tear streaked face. "Need to breathe?"

Louis whined around him, the sound muffled and desperate, his cheeks flushed and his eyes pleading. But Harry only smirked, his grip tightening in Louis's hair as he leaned down, his tone deceptively soft, "Fine," he murmured and Louis would think he was being tender if he didn't know him well enough, "Wouldn't want you choking to death on my knot, would I?"

He pulled Louis off, allowing him a fleeting moment to gasp for air, his chest heaving as he struggled to steady himself. But the reprieve was short lived. Harry's patience was a fragile thing and it had already run out. He dragged Louis back down, shoving himself deep into the omega's throat once more, his thrusts growing rougher, more erratic.

Louis's face was a mess—tears, spit and Harry's pre cum streaked across his cheeks, his lips swollen and stretched obscenely around Harry's length. And God, Harry loved it. He loved the way Louis looked, broken and debauched, his pretty pink lips forced to accommodate every inch of him. He loved the way Louis's body yielded to him, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much it humilated him.

Harry's thrusts became uneven, his control slipping as he neared his release. With a final ragged groan, he came, his knot swelling and locking Louis in place as Louis swallowed everything. Louis moaned around him, the sound vibrating through Harry's body as he spilled himself down the omega's throat.

When it was all over and Harry's knot had loosened, he finally released Louis, letting him collapse forward, his body trembling and his breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

Harry looked down at him, his expression a mix of satisfaction and dark amusement. Louis was a wreck—tears still streaming, his face flushed, his lips bruised and glistening. And Harry couldn't have been more pleased.

Harry’s breath came heavy and ragged, his chest rising and falling as the tension in his body began to ebb. The wolf within him, that restless, primal force, had finally quieted—soothed by the heat of Louis’s throat, the way it constricted around him, tight and yielding all at once. There was something about the boy, something fragile yet unbreakable, that seemed to anchor Harry in a way nothing else could.

Louis was submission personified, his every gasp and tremble a testament to the power Harry held over him. And yet, it wasn’t just the control that calmed Harry—it was the way Louis gave himself so completely, without reservation, as if he existed solely for this purpose. For Harry.

A dark, possessive thought crept into Harry’s mind, unbidden but insistent. He wished he could own Louis—truly own him. Not just in moments like this, but always. He wanted to keep him, to lock him away where no one else could touch him, where he would be Harry’s and Harry’s alone. Harry wouldn't be committed, he never could be, but Louis. Louis would be his, and his alone.

The idea was intoxicating, a fantasy that burned brighter with every choked sound Louis made, every tear that streaked his face.

But for now, this was enough. The wolf was sated, the storm within him stilled, if only for a moment. And as Harry looked down at Louis, broken and beautiful beneath him, he knew he would come back for more. He always did.

Harry reached for a handful of tissues, his movements deliberate and unhurried as he cleaned himself and zipped up his trousers. The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the sound of Louis’s shallow breaths. The boy still knelt on the floor, his body trembling, his energy utterly spent. He looked small there, fragile, like a shadow clinging to the edges of Harry’s dominance.

Harry glanced down at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he simply watched—watched the way Louis’s shoulders sagged, the way his hands trembled where they rested on his thighs.

Then, without a word, Harry extended a hand, offering it to Louis. The omega hesitated, his eyes flickering up to meet Harry’s for the briefest of moments before he reached out, his fingers closing around Harry’s.

Louis tried to stand up. He managed to rise for only a second before his legs wobbled and he collapsed forward, falling into Harry’s chest. Harry’s arms instinctively closed around him, steadying him, holding him upright. The contact was brief but electric, a fleeting moment of vulnerability that Louis was so grateful to get because he never got soft moments with Harry.

Flushing deeply, Louis quickly pulled away, his voice barely a whisper as he stammered, “Sorry, sir.” His throat burned, raw and aching, each word scraping against the tender flesh. He couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes, his shame and exhaustion written plainly across his face.

Harry acknowledged Louis’s apology with a curt nod, his expression unreadable.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he gestured toward the bathroom, his voice cool and commanding. “You should clean yourself, omega. Wouldn’t want you walking out of my office with my come on your face, would we?” The words were sharp, laced with a mocking edge that made Louis’s cheeks burn even hotter.

Louis nodded, his throat too raw to speak, and stumbled toward the bathroom. His legs still felt unsteady, his mind foggy and disoriented. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—his face flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He looked ruined, and the sight only deepened his shame.

He cleaned himself methodically, wiping away the evidence of Harry’s dominance with trembling hands. The slick between his thighs was another reminder of his own helplessness, his body’s betrayal. He scrubbed at it fiercely, as if he could erase not just the physical traces but the way Harry’s control had seeped into his very being.

When he finally stepped out of the bathroom, he found Harry seated at his desk, perfectly composed. The alpha was flipping through a stack of files, his posture impeccable, his expression calm and detached.

It was as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t just had Louis on his knees, hadn’t just used him with such ruthless precision. The contrast between Harry’s immaculate appearance and Louis’s disheveled state was stark, a painful reminder of their roles.

Louis stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do or say. Harry didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge his presence. Louis felt a pang of something sharp and uncomfortable twist in his chest as Harry’s indifference pressed down on him. The lack of acknowledgment, the way Harry had already moved on as if Louis were nothing more than an afterthought, left him feeling hollow and strange.

He quickened his steps, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the office, when Harry’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Louis.”

The sound of his name stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. “Yes, sir?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry didn’t look up from his desk, his eyes still scanning the documents in front of him. “What was it that you wanted to ask me?” he said, his tone casual, almost dismissive.

Louis blinked, his mind scrambling to catch up. Oh. Right. He had completely forgotten why he’d come to Harry’s office in the first place. Thank God Harry had remembered. “Um… sir, actually, I wanted to request tomorrow off,” he said, his voice polite but tinged with nervousness.

Harry finally glanced up, one eyebrow arched in mild curiosity. “Yeah? For what?”

Louis hesitated, his fingers twisting together nervously. “Just… personal reasons, sir,” he explained, careful to keep his tone neutral.

Harry studied him for a moment, his gaze piercing, as if he could see right through the flimsy excuse. Then he leaned back in his chair, a faint hum of acknowledgment escaping his lips. “Sure,” he said simply, as if granting the request were the most trivial thing in the world.

Relief washed over Louis, and he offered a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, sir.”

Harry gave a curt nod, his attention already drifting back to the documents on his desk. Louis stood there for a moment longer, unsure if he should say anything else, but Harry’s focus was clearly elsewhere. The dismissal was clear, and Louis took it as his cue to leave.

As he stepped out of the office, the weight of Harry’s indifference lingered, a quiet ache that settled deep in his chest. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he shouldn’t care, but the truth was harder to ignore. Harry’s power over him wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, psychological, and Louis wasn’t sure he’d ever be free of it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

By the time Louis reached his apartment at 5 p.m., the disorientation had settled into a dull, persistent ache. He sighed as he stepped inside, the familiar walls offering little comfort.

Without hesitation, he headed straight for the shower, scrubbing himself clean as if he could wash away the lingering traces of Harry’s dominance. The hot water helped, but it couldn’t erase the soreness in his jaw or the heaviness in his chest.

After drying off and slipping into fresh clothes, he decided to cook something simple. The rhythmic motions of chopping and stirring provided a temporary distraction, but even as he ate, the ache in his jaw reminded him of why he felt so hollow.

When he finished, he collapsed onto the couch, the glow of the television casting flickering shadows across the room. He wasn’t really watching—his mind was elsewhere, replaying the day in excruciating detail.

The familiar wave of self-loathing washed over him, as it always did after these encounters with Harry. It had been this way since the very first time.

Harry. God, how Louis wanted him.

Not just in fleeting moments of submission, but in every way. He wanted to belong to Harry, to be his in some official, undeniable way. It was a foolish, desperate longing, one he knew would never be fulfilled. But still, his mind wandered to impossible fantasies—of a future where Harry might feel something for him, where they might be together, mated, bound in a way that went beyond these fleeting, shameful encounters.

He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. It was stupid. So stupid. Harry didn’t feel things like that. He was cold, detached, indifferent—always.

Louis had seen it time and time again. The way Harry could switch from commanding to dismissive in an instant, the way he seemed to view Louis as little more than a tool for his own satisfaction. And yet, Louis couldn’t help but hope, couldn’t help but dream of a day when Harry might look at him and see something more.

But that day would never come. Louis knew it, deep down. And still, he couldn’t let go. He was trapped in this cycle of longing and shame, and no amount of logic or self-reproach could free him from it.

Louis’s gaze drifted to the small gift and roll of wrapping paper sitting on his table. For a moment, he just stared at them, his mind blank, until the realization hit him. Right. He needed to wrap it for his mom.

He sat up, the movement slow and deliberate, as if his body were resisting the effort. Picking up the gift, he turned it over in his hands, the smooth surface cool against his fingertips.

He unrolled the wrapping paper, the crinkling sound filling the quiet apartment. As he began to fold and tape, his hands moved mechanically, the repetitive motions offering a small but welcome distraction.

He focused on the task, trying to lose himself in the precision of it—the crisp edges, the neat corners, the way the ribbon curled just right. But even as he worked, his thoughts kept circling back to Harry, to the ache in his jaw, to the hollow feeling in his chest.

He wondered if his mom would like the gift. It wasn’t anything extravagant, just a small token of appreciation, but he hoped it would make her smile. She always seemed to know when something was bothering him, though. Would she see it in his eyes when he handed it to her? Would she ask questions he couldn’t answer?

Louis shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the wrapping. He tied the ribbon carefully, his fingers fumbling slightly as he secured the bow. When he was done, he held the gift up, inspecting it. It looked nice, he thought. Simple but thoughtful. Just like his mom.

Chapter Text

Louis chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief as his mother placed another sandwich in front of him. Across the table, his sister couldn't help but smile, her gaze softening at the warmth of the moment.

“Mom, it’s your birthday,” Louis teased, his voice playful yet full of affection. “We should be serving you, not the other way around.” He reached for the sandwich, his heart swelling with gratitude as he accepted it.

His mother, with a gentle laugh and a knowing look, simply shook her head. There was something magical about these small, simple moments—where laughter filled the room and love was as tangible as the sandwiches on the table. And Louis had needed these soft moments in his life, especially because everything else was so intense.

“Nonsense,” Jay replied, settling down at the table with them, her voice warm and full of love. “It’s such a rare treat that my babies both come to visit. I need to spoil you while I can. You’re always so busy with your jobs and everything else.” She gave them both a fond, knowing look.

Lottie smiled, reaching over to squeeze her mother’s hand. “I know, Mom. But we’ll be together for Christmas and Louis’s birthday, too.”

Jay’s eyes lit up at the mention of the holiday. “Yes! I’m so excited for Christmas this year,” she said, her voice bubbling with anticipation.

“Me too,” Louis chimed in. “I got a bonus and a raise at work.”

Both his mother and sister gasped in surprise, their faces lighting up with genuine happiness. “That’s amazing, Lou! Wow!” Lottie exclaimed, her smile wide with excitement.

Jay beamed at her son, her heart swelling with pride. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” she said softly.

“Bless you both,” Jay said, her voice filled with pride as she looked at her children. “Both of you are earning more than I ever could. I’m so glad to see you living a comfortable life as adults.”

Her words, full of love and admiration, made Louis’s heart ache. He softened, his smile faltering just slightly as he glanced at his mother. He knew the sacrifices she had made—raising them alone, struggling to make ends meet. Growing up, money had always been tight, and Jay had done everything she could to give them a good life despite the challenges.

Now, as adults, Louis and Lottie had made sure to do everything in their power to give back to her. They treated her to dinners, bought her little gifts, and made sure she never had to worry again. But in moments like this, when his mother spoke so humbly, it reminded him just how much they owed her.

“Mom, you did a great job with us,” Louis said, his voice soft but filled with sincerity. “We don’t care if we didn’t get all the luxuries growing up. We love you.” He met her gaze, his heart full, and Lottie nodded along, her expression just as warm.

Jay’s eyes shimmered with emotion, but she quickly laughed it off, wiping at her eyes. “Oh stop it, you’re going to make me emotional,” she said, chuckling through her smile, her eyes twinkling with that familiar, loving sparkle.

Louis grinned, trying to lighten the mood, and Lottie jumped in with her usual energy. “Okay! Okay! Enough of that. Now, open our gifts!” She practically bounced in her seat, eager to see her mother’s reaction.

Jay smiled and shook her head, laughing softly as she reached for the brightly wrapped packages in front of her.

Time passed unnoticed as the trio continued to talk and laugh, their conversation flowing easily, the sound of their voices blending with the soft hum of the room. Eventually, the three of them moved to the more comfortable couch, settling in as the evening stretched on.

As conversation flowed, Lottie’s voice cut through the gentle laughter, direct and unrelenting. Her eyes, sharp with curiosity, landed on Louis. “Louis,” she said, her tone lighter than usual, “how’s your dating life going these days?”

The question hung in the air, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to freeze. Louis's laughter faltered, his eyes flickering with an emotion that he quickly suppressed. His throat went dry as the words tangled themselves in his chest, stuck somewhere between a half-formed answer and the painful truth he wasn’t ready to voice.

He had thought they had moved on from this—he thought they were past the constant prodding about his relationships. But Lottie meant well, she was an alpha, younger than him by a couple of years, but fiercely protective of him. She didn't want her brother getting hurt.

Louis took a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but his mind wandered to the one person he couldn't shake—Harry. He thought about how he had turned down countless alphas who had shown interest in him, all because they were never Harry.

The hollow ache in his chest returned, as it often did when he allowed himself to dwell on Harry. It was always there, lurking, just beneath the surface, but the question had brought it all rushing back—how he had shut himself off from everything else, from everyone else, because nothing could compare to Harry.

A slight tightening in his chest made him squirm slightly, an uncomfortable feeling spreading through him. He didn’t want to talk about this—not with Lottie, not now. But the question had been asked, and he could feel his usual defenses slipping as the room seemed to close in on him. He forced a smile, his eyes flickering toward Lottie’s expectant face, trying to mask the discomfort creeping through his body.

Instead of answering directly, he opted to deflect, leaning back slightly in the couch with a teasing grin. “What about you?” Louis asked, the words leaving his mouth almost too quickly. His voice held a playful edge, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which seemed to betray the faint sadness he was trying so hard to mask. “How’s your love life? I heard about the last omega you took on a date… spilled your whole drink on her, didn’t you?”

Lottie rolled her eyes dramatically, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Louis!” she groaned, her hands thrown up in exaggerated frustration. “Mom! He’s being mean to me!” she turned to Jay, seeking refuge. “It was an accident!”

Jay, who had been observing quietly, chuckled softly, clearly entertained by the back-and-forth. Jay rose from the couch, stretching and glancing over at the two of them with a knowing smile.

“I’m not getting involved in this,” she said, brushing off their playful bickering with a soft laugh. “But seriously, just let me know when you’re bringing someone home for dinner. Other than that, do whatever you want. Just be safe.”

As the conversation shifted, Louis’s mind remained fixed on the memory of things that could never be.

As the day drew to a close and it was time to part ways, Louis hugged his sister and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. While she and their mother embraced, he busied himself slipping into his jacket, fumbling with the sleeves as the fabric bunched up.

His sister waved goodbye and disappeared through the door, leaving just Louis and his mother in the quiet room. Without a word, she pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping around him like a familiar cocoon.

Louis sank into the embrace, closing his eyes as he breathed in her comforting scent.

“Lou, you’re okay, right?” his mother whispered, her voice a gentle breeze against his ear.

Louis swallowed, his eyes still closed. “Of course, Mom. Why?” he murmured, his voice steady but quiet. He shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, though he remained wrapped in her arms.

His mother studied him, her eyes warm with concern. “When Lottie asked about your dating life... you seemed a little sad. Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice as soft as a lullaby.

Louis blinked in slight surprise, marveling — but not for the first time — at how effortlessly his mother could read him. No matter how carefully he tried to mask his feelings, she always saw right through him.

“Of course, Mom! You worry for no reason, you know?” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

His mother let out a small, knowing huff. “Really, Lou?” she pressed, tilting her head.

Louis rolled his eyes, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, woman. Yes.”

She chuckled and finally loosened her hold, smoothing a hand down his arm before stepping back. “Alright then. Goodbye, sweetheart.”

“Bye, Mom. I love you,” Louis said, his voice softer now, more honest.

“I love you too, Lou,” she said, her words lingering like a warm echo.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Harry pressed his lips into a thin line, barely hearing the low hum of voices around him. His focus was locked on Niall, his right-hand man, who stood at the head of the room, laying out the situation with grim precision.

Valentino — the ruthless leader of their biggest rival gang — was digging for dirt. And not just any dirt. He was after the file. The one that could destroy Harry’s entire world.

Harry’s jaw tightened. Valentino had despised him from the moment he seized control of the gang, because Harry had outmanoeuvred him at every turn — snatching deals, sabotaging busts, leaving him humiliated and burning with resentment. Now, Valentino was desperate for payback.

The file had been safe, hidden away in Harry’s mansion for years. But just yesterday, he’d had it moved, convinced it would be safer under his direct watch. It now lay buried somewhere in his office — the same file he’d asked Louis to bring.

Harry’s chest tightened as Niall spoke, his words sharp as knives. If Valentino got his hands on that file, it wouldn’t just be the gang that crumbled. It would be him.

“He’s pulling every string to get that file,” Niall said, his voice low and sharp. “He’s the one who bribed Francis, too. Valentino’s relentless, Harry. We need to be damn careful with that file.”

Harry nodded, along with the others gathered around the table. This wasn’t just any meeting — it was a premium, high-stakes briefing reserved for the most vital members of the gang. The ones who held the weight of their empire in their hands.

Harry ran two kinds of businesses: the ones that looked good on paper and the ones that thrived in the shadows. Only a select few crossed the line between the two, trusted enough to navigate both worlds without slipping up or selling him out.

And right now, trust was a luxury they couldn’t afford to lose.

“Sir, with all due respect, keeping the file in your office is a terrible idea,” Zayn said, his voice steady as he locked eyes with Harry.

Harry’s gaze sharpened. “And why is that, Mr. Malik? This way, it’s always under my watch.”

Zayn leaned forward, his tone unwavering. “Because, sir, it’s the first place anyone would look. If Valentino makes a move, your office is his top target. Keeping it here is like handing him a map.”

Harry studied Zayn for a beat, the weight of his words sinking in. Finally, he gave a small nod. “You make a good point, Mr. Malik.”

Around the room, Niall and the other members murmured their agreement, the tension palpable.They couldn’t afford mistakes. Not with stakes this high.

“How about you give the file to one of us for safekeeping?” a member suggested, glancing around the room.

Harry’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “No.”

The room fell silent for a beat. Then, the same member hesitated before speaking again. “Sir... do you not trust us? We’ve been loyal to you for years.”

Harry’s eyes darkened, his gaze cutting through the man like a blade. “If you’ve worked for me that long,” he said slowly, voice laced with quiet menace, “then you should know better than to question my judgment.”

He leaned forward, his tone unyielding. “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s strategy. You’re my inner circle — the most important, most reliable people in this organization. And Valentino knows it. If he thinks one of you has the file, he will come for you. Maybe you crack under pressure. Or maybe he doesn’t need you to crack at all. He might raid your house while you sleep, tear your life apart without you ever knowing he was there.”

The room stayed deathly quiet, the weight of Harry’s words pressing down like a heavy storm.

“No,” Harry repeated, his voice final. “The file stays where I say it stays.”

“But keeping it with you isn’t the best option either,” Niall countered, his voice firm but measured. “Because that puts you at risk. And without you, this gang doesn’t function. Your safety is our top priority, sir.”

He leaned forward, eyes locked on Harry. “The file has to be with someone else. But it can’t be one of us—it’s too obvious. And we definitely can’t hand it to someone outside the inner circle. They’re too new, too unpredictable. Too likely to betray us.”

His jaw tightened. “Like Francis did. He was new too, remember?”

A heavy silence settled over the room. The memory of Francis’ betrayal still lingered like a fresh wound.

“So what’s the move, boss?” Niall asked, his voice quieter now, but no less serious.

“It has to be someone Valentino would never suspect,” Zayn said, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

Harry hummed in thought, his fingers tapping lightly against the table.

Niall leaned forward. “Sir, there are three kinds of people in your operations, three layers to your businesses. First, those who are purely in the business—the ones who handle the dirty work, like us. Then, there are those of us in the inner circle who operate in both your legal and illegal dealings. Valentino knows that, and he knows we’re all potential targets.”

He paused before continuing, his voice deliberate. “But the one thing he also knows? No employee in your legal business has any involvement in this one. To him, they’re completely separate. Which means, if we hide the file with someone from that side—someone you trust—it would never even cross his mind to look there.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, but another member frowned. “But who? You said it yourself, Niall—no one in the legal business knows about this one.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. His gaze dropped to the table, voice a quiet rumble.

“There is one,” he said, a glint of something sharp in his eyes. “They might not know for sure... but they suspect it.”

The room fell silent, all eyes on Harry as the tension thickened like smoke.

“Who, sir?” someone asked, the room holding its breath.

Harry’s gaze darkened, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Louis. My assistant.”

A ripple of surprise passed through the group.

“Him?” someone muttered, disbelief lacing their voice. “Sir, don’t you think he’s... I don’t know, too bubbly for this?”

Harry shook his head, the motion slow and deliberate. “No,” he said quietly, voice laced with certainty. “There’s more to Louis than he lets on. There's a certain darkness in him.”

He thought back to the countless times he’d answered mafia-related calls with Louis being right there—never asking questions, but eyes sharp and far too perceptive.

“Besides,” Harry added, his voice low and decisive, “he doesn’t need to know everything. He just needs to know the file has to be kept safe.”

The room fell silent, then one by one, the members nodded, understanding settling in like a heavy weight.

Louis was their best shot. Besides, it wasn't like Harry would ever let him get hurt.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis was just in the office kitchen preparing tea for himself when he got interrupted.

“I hope you had a good time at your mother’s, Mr. Tomlinson.”

The deep, smooth voice sent a shiver down Louis’ spine. He flinched, nearly dropping the tea bag in his hand.

Slowly, he turned around, his breath catching as he took in the sight before him. Harry stood there, effortlessly commanding the space, dressed in a sharp black suit that fit him like a second skin, his curly hair looking immaculate. A cup of coffee rested in his grip, steam curling lazily into the air, but it was the way he looked at Louis—calm, unreadable, and dangerously intense—that made his stomach twist.

Louis swallowed hard, he was so confused, he was sure he hadn't told Harry. Or had he? “T-thank you,” he stammered. “But h-how did you know?”

Because right now, standing under Harry’s piercing gaze, it felt as if the man knew everything.

Harry had to fight back a smirk. How did he know?

The truth? He’d been curious. Maybe a little too curious. Enough to have one of his workers casually ask Louis, then report back to him like it was just another task. Maybe he wanted to know where Louis was, what he was doing — even if he couldn’t quite explain why.

Harry tilted his head, raising a brow. “You told me yourself,” he said, voice laced with subtle sarcasm. “Or do you think I have nothing better to do than spy on you?”

Louis’ eyes went wide, and he shook his head frantically, practically tripping over his words. “No, sir. Of course not!”

Harry sipped his coffee, watching Louis carefully, amusement flickering in his gaze.

He let the silence stretch, enjoying the way Louis squirmed.

Harry let the silence linger, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was barely restraining a grin. Louis, meanwhile, looked like he might combust on the spot, fingers nervously twisting the hem of his sweater.

“I—I was just surprised, that’s all,” Louis mumbled, turning back to his tea as if the act of stirring it would ground him. But his hand trembled, the spoon clinking against the cup.

Harry took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, footsteps echoing as he closed the distance between them. He leaned against the counter, watching Louis with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.

“Surprised?” Harry echoed, voice dripping with quiet amusement. “Why? It’s not like I don’t pay attention to my employees.”

Louis’ breath hitched. Employees.Right. That’s all he was.

“Of course, sir,” he whispered, not daring to look up.

Harry tilted his head, eyes never leaving Louis. He wasn’t sure why he enjoyed the flustered reaction so much — why the sight of Louis, cheeks flushed, voice shaky, made something darkly possessive curl in his chest.

He leaned in just enough that Louis could feel the heat of him, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

Harry’s senses were immediately overwhelmed by Louis' scent — a heady blend of honey, vanilla, and the faintest trace of caramel, that always got more prominent when the omega was turned on or produced slick. It clung to the air, sweet and addictive. It was like a siren’s call.

“You have a lot of work to finish today, Louis,” Harry said, his voice low and commanding. “I need it all done by tonight. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Louis whispered, looking ahead, refusing to meet Harry’s gaze.

A stray strand of hair had fallen across Louis’ face, partially obscuring Harry’s view. It annoyed him more than it should have — like the hair was keeping something from him. Without thinking, Harry reached up, fingers brushing the strand aside. But instead of pulling back, his touch lingered, fingertips tracing the sharp curve of Louis’ cheekbone.

Louis inhaled sharply, chest rising, and finally turned to look at Harry. Those wide, doe-like eyes locked onto his, lips slightly parted like he was about to speak but had forgotten how.

Harry’s pulse thrummed. God, he loved how reactive Louis was — how the slightest touch unraveled him. How he was always so pliant for Harry.

Harry’s hand closed around Louis' face, fingers pressing just enough to make Louis gasp. His grip was firm, unyielding — a reminder of the power he held.

“This time,” Harry said, voice low and commanding, “don’t forget anything.”

Louis’ breath hitched, eyes wide as he nodded. “Y-yes, sir.”

Harry let go, but his hand didn’t stray far. It slid down, resting heavily on Louis' shoulder. The weight of it lingered like a brand, and Louis' entire body buzzed with the contact. His skin burned where Harry touched him, the heat spreading through his veins like wildfire.

“Because if you do,” Harry continued, voice dripping with cruel amusement, “you’ll be punished again. And we both know how creative I can be with your punishments... don’t we?”

Louis bit his lip, trying to steady his breathing. He nodded, cheeks flushed, body trembling under the weight of Harry’s words.

“They’re not like the punishments I give the others,” Harry murmured, voice low and laced with menace.

His eyes gleamed with something dark, something hungry. “I won’t dock your pay or make you work overtime.” He leaned in, his breath brushing against Louis' skin like a warning. “You know what I’ll do to you... and if you mess up again, it’ll be much worse this time.”

Louis swore he was trembling, every nerve in his body on edge. He hated how quiet the top floor of Harry’s office was — how few people were allowed up there. No witnesses. No escape. It was just him and Harry, and Harry’s scent filling the room like a vice around Louis' chest.

Coffee, dark chocolate, and the faintest trace of blood. It clung to the air, seeping into Louis’ lungs, dizzying him until he could barely think straight.

“Yes, sir,” Louis whispered, voice barely audible as he forced himself to meet Harry’s gaze.

Harry smirked, satisfied, and Louis felt like he was being devoured whole.

Harry’s smirk deepened as he leaned down, lips ghosting over the curve of Louis' neck. It wasn’t a gesture of affection — not even close. It was a calculated move, a cruel tease, because Harry knew what it did to him. And worse, he knew Louis knew it too.

Louis’ entire body quivered at the touch, heat pooling in his chest and spreading like wildfire. A shaky, involuntary whimper slipped past his lips, and he immediately bit down on his tongue, mortified.

Harry chuckled, low and wicked, the sound reverberating against Louis' skin like a dark promise.

“Be good,” he whispered, breath hot against Louis' neck, making goosebumps ripple down his spine.

And then, as if nothing had happened, Harry pulled away. His hands slipped from Louis like he hadn’t just unraveled him completely. Without a second glance, he turned and walked toward his office, footsteps echoing through the empty corridor.

Leaving Louis trembling in place, heart racing, body burning.

Harry had just set Louis on fire and walked away to watch him burn.

-------------------------------------

Louis had been working like a man possessed, every movement fueled by a desperate need not to fail. He absolutely couldn’t mess this up — couldn’t disappoint Harry. That was the worst feeling in the world.

Because Louis didn’t just want Harry’s approval. He craved it. Needed it like air. The idea of letting Harry down twisted in his chest like a knife, the ache lingering long after the thought passed. He wanted Harry’s validation on every level, wanted to be seen by him, wanted to be enough.

The workload had been brutal — endless tasks stacking up like they were designed to break him. He hadn't taken a single break, barely even glanced at the clock as the hours bled into each other. And now, finally, well into the night, he’d finished everything.

Louis slumped back in his chair, exhaustion clinging to his limbs, but he didn’t allow himself to fully relax. Not yet. Not until he knew whether Harry was satisfied.

Louis pushed himself up from the chair, legs aching from sitting too long, but he barely noticed. The only thing on his mind was Harry. He gathered the stack of finished papers, fingers trembling slightly as he made his way to Harry’s office. Heart hammering in his chest, he knocked softly.

“Come in, Louis,” Harry’s voice rang out, dark and smooth.

Louis slipped inside, careful to shut the door quietly behind him. He stepped forward, placing the papers on Harry’s desk with both hands like he was presenting something sacred.

“It’s done, sir,” Louis whispered, voice laced with exhaustion and hope.

Harry’s brow lifted in surprise, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. Like he hadn’t expected Louis to succeed. Like he’d set Louis up to fail.

“Really?” Harry drawled, taking the stack of papers from Louis' hands. His fingers brushed against Louis' skin, lingering just long enough to make Louis’ pulse spike.

Harry leaned back in his chair, stretching out with a lazy elegance that only made Louis more nervous. He flipped through the pages slowly, eyes sharp and calculating, combing through every line like he was hunting for a mistake. Waiting for one.

Louis stood rigid, hands clasped tightly in front of him, biting his lip to keep himself steady. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure Harry could hear it. Because if Harry found even a single error, Louis knew exactly what that would mean.

Harry flipped through the final page, his sharp eyes scanning every last word. Not a single mistake. Not even the tiniest flaw he could latch onto. He set the papers down on his desk with a quiet thud, folding his hands together as he looked up at Louis.

“I have to say,” Harry began, voice low and deliberate, “I’m impressed.”

The words hung heavy in the air, rare and precious. Harry didn’t hand out compliments lightly — and certainly not for something as basic as doing a job. But this? Finishing that mountain of work without a single error? It was almost inhuman. He hadn’t expected Louis to succeed. Maybe a twisted part of him had even hoped he wouldn’t. But Louis had proven him wrong.

Then again, Harry had always known Louis was exceptional at his job.

Louis’ breath hitched, cheeks blooming with color as he ducked his head, biting back a smile. His heart raced, the compliment sinking into him like sunlight after a storm. Harry’s approval made him feel weightless, like he could float away. Like he mattered.

“Thank you, sir,” Louis whispered, voice dripping with sincerity, like those three words weren’t enough to express how much the praise meant to him.

Harry leaned back in his chair, watching Louis carefully — the way he glowed under the smallest shred of validation. And Harry couldn’t help but think about how easy it was to make Louis fall apart. And how much easier it was to put him back together again.

“Come here, Louis,” Harry’s voice was a command wrapped in silk, low and dangerous.

Louis’ heart pounded like a war drum, his breath catching as he stepped closer. His hands trembled at his sides, chest rising and falling like he’d just run miles.

Harry pushed his chair back with a slow scrape against the floor, his eyes never leaving Louis. And before Louis could even process what was happening, he tripped and Harry grabbed his hand, tugging him forward with enough force to send him toppling onto Harry’s lap with a sharp gasp.

Louis’ breath hitched, body tensing as he clutched onto Harry's shoulders to steady himself.

Harry’s hands settled on Louis' waist, firm and unmoving, like he had no intention of letting go. His grip burned through Louis' shirt, fingers pressing in just enough to remind Louis exactly who was in control.

“Careful,” Harry murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk as he tilted his head to look up at Louis. “Wouldn’t want you to fall, would we?”

But Louis knew better. Harry wanted him to fall.

And he had. Over and over again.

Harry’s hands tightened around Louis’ waist, one trailing upward with deliberate slowness, fingertips ghosting over fabric and skin like a promise. Before Louis could even process the heat of his touch, Harry pulled him into a kiss—dark, consuming, and utterly overwhelming.

Louis melted instantly, surrendering without hesitation. The way Harry kissed was unlike anything else—commanding, intoxicating, like he was devouring every breath Louis had to offer. And Louis let him, clinging to him, needing this. Needing him. The closeness, the intensity—it was all he ever wanted.

When Harry finally pulled away, Louis gasped, dazed and breathless, lips tingling with the phantom of Harry’s mouth on his.

“You deserve a reward, Louis,” Harry murmured, his voice a low, seductive drawl. “Do you want it?”

Louis nodded immediately, too desperate to hide it. He wanted everything. Anything. At this point, Harry could destroy him, and Louis would thank him for it.

Harry chuckled darkly, amusement flickering in his eyes as he took in Louis’ wrecked expression. He had him exactly where he wanted him. And Louis had never wanted anything more.

Harry’s hand slid down to Louis’ thigh, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles that sent shivers racing through Louis’ body. Just as Harry leaned in again, lips barely a breath away, his phone blared to life — the sharp sound cutting through the tension like a blade.

Harry inhaled sharply, his jaw clenching as his eyes squeezed shut, frustration rolling off him in waves. The weight of his hand remained on Louis, grounding him in place as he reached for the phone with a slow, measured movement, like he was restraining himself from snapping it in half.

Pressing the device to his ear, Harry’s voice dropped to a venomous growl.

“Zayn, if this isn’t important, I’m going to kill you and eat your liver,” he bit out, every word laced with irritation.

Louis bit his lip, trying not to squirm in Harry’s lap as he watched him, heart pounding from the sudden shift in energy. Harry’s fingers, though idle, still rested on his thigh like a warning.

Louis watched carefully, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as Harry listened to whatever Zayn was saying on the other end of the line. With every passing second, Harry's expression grew darker — the sharp angles of his face carved deeper by fury.

Louis' heart pounded, a growing sense of unease curling in his stomach. He hated when Harry got like this, when his presence shifted from dangerous to downright lethal.

Then, Harry growled — low and guttural, vibrating through his chest like a warning.

Louis flinched, his body tensing instinctively. His omega instincts flared, distress prickling beneath his skin. He bit his lip to stop the whimper rising in his throat, shoulders curling in slightly as if trying to make himself smaller.

Just as Louis felt himself start to crumble under the weight of Harry’s anger, Harry's hand on his thigh tightened, grounding him. His eyes, though blazing with fury, flicked briefly to Louis — softening just for a second.

Harry didn’t say anything to Louis, not yet. But the touch, the brief glance, it was enough to keep Louis from spiraling completely.

“I’ll handle it, I'll be there now,” Harry snapped into the phone, voice like ice. “Don’t do anything until I get there.”

He hung up, tossing the phone onto the desk carelessly before leaning back in his chair. For a moment, he said nothing, his fingers still gripping Louis' thigh, tension radiating from his body.

Louis swallowed, voice shaky. “S-Sir? Is everything alright?”

Harry’s jaw clenched, but he looked at Louis again — eyes sharp but unreadable.

Harry nodded, though the tension in his jaw hadn’t eased. “It’s just something I have to deal with,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel.

Louis bit his lip and nodded, but the worry in his eyes lingered. He wanted to ask more, to understand what had made Harry so angry — but he knew better than to push.

Without warning, Harry's hands tightened on Louis’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to make Louis gasp. He pulled Louis closer, erasing the already nonexistent space between them, and rested his head against Louis's neck.

Harry inhaled deeply, dragging in Louis's scent like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. His grip didn’t loosen.

Louis shuddered, the intensity of it all overwhelming. The weight of Harry’s body against his, the heat of his breath on his skin, the possessiveness in the way he clung to him — it sent Louis spiraling.

Harry pressed a lingering kiss to Louis’s neck, and Louis couldn’t help the soft whine that escaped him, body instinctively leaning into the touch.

But then Harry pulled back, his lips brushing against Louis’s skin as he murmured, “I need to go. I’ll see to this later.”

Louis’s chest tightened painfully. He wanted to beg Harry to stay, to say he needed him, that he deserved more than being discarded like this. But he swallowed it down, burying the ache deep inside. They weren’t anything — not really. Whatever this was between them, it didn’t come with promises or permanence.

So Louis just nodded, eyes downcast.

Harry leaned back in his chair, patting Louis’s thigh with a fleeting gentleness. “Off, omega,” he ordered, voice sharp, as if he needed to put distance between them before he unraveled.

Louis pouted but obediently slid off Harry’s lap, feeling cold the moment he lost contact. Harry stood, adjusting his suit with practiced precision, already shifting back into the ruthless leader everyone feared.

“You should go home,” Harry said, voice detached as he rummaged through a drawer, fingers brushing past documents and knives until he inevitably found his gun. He checked the chamber without looking at Louis. “Ask one of my drivers to take you.”

Louis lingered for a beat, watching the man he so desperately wanted, hoping for even the smallest flicker of something real. But Harry didn’t glance his way again.

“Okay” Louis whispered, voice heavy with resignation. He turned and slipped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him like a final nail in the coffin.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

Harry exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as the job was done. The situation Zayn had called him for had been handled — swiftly, efficiently, and without mercy.

Harry wiped a bit of blood off his cuff with a practiced flick, then tossed the stained cloth to the ground like it was worthless.

"Malik, handle the cleanup. I’m leaving," Harry announced, voice low and final as he turned on his heel and strode toward his car.

"Yes, sir," Zayn replied, already barking orders at the others as Harry disappeared into the night.

Harry slid into his ridiculously expensive car, the leather seats cold against his back. The engine growled to life as he pulled onto the empty streets. It was 3 a.m. — that strange, liminal hour where the city felt hollow and restless. He drummed his fingers against the wheel, jaw tight.

He’d wanted Louis tonight. But of course, something had to come up. Something always did. So now he had to settle for a substitute.

Harry drove across the city, the familiar route seared into his mind. Eventually, he pulled up in front of a sleek, blacked-out building, the name glowing in gold above the entrance: VENOM.

One of his clubs.

It was one of the most exclusive spots in the city — a haven for celebrities, multimillionaires, and people desperate to pretend they mattered. But no one mattered more than Harry.

He parked right at the entrance, leaving the car without a second thought. The valet scrambled to take care of it, while the head bouncer immediately straightened up.

“Good evening, Mr. Styles,” the man said, lifting the velvet rope without hesitation.

Harry gave a sharp nod, brushing past him. Inside, the music pounded like a heartbeat, the air thick with smoke and the sharp bite of expensive liquor. People turned to glance at him — some with recognition, others with curiosity.

He ignored them all.

Harry sank into the plush leather couch at the heart of the club, legs spread wide like he owned the place — because he did. The heavy bass vibrated through the floor, but it barely registered. He reached into his jacket, pulling out his gun and placing it on the glass table in front of him with a dull thud.

The effect was immediate. The surrounding patrons glanced over, eyes flicking to the weapon, but no one dared say a word. They knew who he was. Knew what he was capable of.

A waiter, already trembling, hurried over and carefully placed Harry’s usual drink in front of him, bowing his head before disappearing into the crowd as fast as he’d come.

Harry brought the glass to his lips, savoring the sharp burn as it slid down his throat. And like clockwork, the vultures descended.

Omegas, sleek and beautiful, swarmed to him like moths to a flame. They draped themselves across the couch, vying for his attention — soft hands resting on his shoulders, fingers brushing against his chest. One even dared to run her nails lightly along his jaw.

Harry sighed, dragging his gaze across them as if they were nothing more than objects to choose from. They weren’t what he had wanted for tonight but they'd have to do.

He took another slow sip of his drink, letting them fawn over him, pretending — just for a little while — that he was even remotely interested in the stories they were telling him.

One omega, Taylor’s gaze lingered on him, her eyes dark with hunger. She leaned in just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath.

“You look exhausted,” she murmured, though her tone suggested anything but concern.

Harry’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. His voice was low, edged with something dangerous. “Not tired enough,” he assured, letting the implication settle between them. A ripple of laughter and whispered anticipation moved through the room.

To his other side, Kendall traced her fingers along his forearm, her touch featherlight, teasing. She tilted her head, lashes fluttering as she looked up at him, an unmistakable invitation in her eyes.

“He never gets tired,” Olivia’s voice cut through the charged air. She was lounging on the couch, a glass of wine dangling carelessly from her fingers. She took a slow sip before meeting his gaze, her lips curling at the corners. “Trust me—I’ve tested it myself.”

Laughter, hushed and knowing, filled the dimly lit space. The air was thick with desire, the unspoken tension wrapping around them like a vice. Harry let his gaze sweep over them, savoring the weight of their attention.

This was his kingdom. And they were all too eager to surrender.

More omegas circled him as the night stretched on, their numbers multiplying until Harry lost track. They pressed in closer, bodies brushing against him, each one vying for his attention. They settled beside him, on him — desperate to be chosen. Their gazes clung to him with a kind of reverent hunger, hope blooming in their eyes like a sickness.

Their scents thickened the air, syrupy with anticipation. Sweet, cloying florals tangled together, a heady cocktail of desire that would have overwhelmed anyone else.

But Harry barely reacted. None of the scents were the one he craved — vanilla laced with the faintest trace of caramel. That scent haunted him like a ghost.

Still, the current offerings weren’t entirely unappealing. They were gorgeous, every single one of them. Famous for their beauty, their status. Coveted. And yet, right now, they were reduced to little more than trembling creatures willing to debase themselves for a scrap of his attention. Hands ghosted over his skin, fingers dragging across his chest, nails grazing his thighs.

Their eyes pleaded with him, wide and glassy, silently begging to be the one he took tonight.

It amused him. The way they kept coming back. Even after he’d already had each of them, over and over again. They still returned, still hoped. Because Harry was an addiction they couldn’t shake, and he never promised anything more than a fleeting moment of satisfaction.

After all, a body was just a body. A hole was just a hole. And if he couldn’t have what he really wanted, he might as well let them ruin themselves for him.

“I need a smoke,” Harry muttered, his voice low and rough, cutting through the hazy tension in the room like a blade.

The omega in his lap shifted, pressing herself closer to him. Georgia Fowler? Or was it Genna? He couldn’t be bothered to remember. It didn’t matter. She giggled, the sound airy and false, and brought a cigarette to his lips with trembling fingers, eager to please.

Another model — someone equally stunning, equally forgettable — leaned in to light it, the flame casting flickering shadows across Harry’s sharp features. He inhaled deeply, the ember flaring to life, smoke curling from his mouth as he exhaled.

Their eyes remained on him, hungry and desperate, waiting to see what he would do next. But Harry only leaned back, letting the smoke fill his lungs like it could numb the restless ache beneath his skin.

Harry let the smoke coil from his lips in a lazy exhale, eyes half-lidded as he watched the omega on his lap through the haze. She shifted, pressing her chest against him, fingers playing with the chain around his neck.

“Want me to help you relax?” she whispered, voice dripping with suggestion.

Harry tilted his head, a cruel smile tugging at his mouth. “Relax?” he echoed, his fingers skating up her thigh with agonizing slowness. “Darling, you’d break before I even started.”

She shivered, her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, but she didn’t back away. She leaned into his touch, desperate for more.

Another omega slid onto the couch beside him, resting her chin on his shoulder, lips dangerously close to his jaw. “You’re so tense, Harry,” she purred, fingers tracing patterns on his chest. “We could take care of you.”

The room filled with soft, anticipatory laughter. The scent of their arousal thickened, clinging to him like perfume.

Harry tapped ash from his cigarette, eyes flicking over the sea of beautiful faces around him. “Is that right?” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “And what makes you think any of you could handle me?”

The omega in his lap tilted her head back, baring her throat like an offering. “Try us,” she whispered, pupils blown wide with need.

Harry chuckled, dark and low, the sound making their bodies tense with anticipation. He dragged his fingers down her neck, watching the way her breathing hitched.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough as smoke. “I already have.”

Harry let the cigarette burn down to the filter, the bitter taste mingling with the sweetness of the room — all those saccharine scents of lust and desperation. He crushed it out on the ashtray beside him, flicking his gaze lazily across the sea of eager faces.

They were all waiting, trembling with hope, but he barely saw them. His touch lingered on the omega in his lap, fingers idly tracing her skin, but his attention was already elsewhere.

She sat there, poised and composed, but Harry saw through the act the moment their eyes met.

It wasn’t her black dress, the way it clung to her body like a promise. It wasn’t the way she tried to mask her desperation, fingers twitching against the armrest, chest rising a little too quickly.

No — it was something else. Something that made Harry’s breath catch like a hook in his throat.

It was the way her blue eyes burned through him. The way her light brown hair caught the dim glow of the lights, just barely brushing against her collarbones. For a split second, he almost said the wrong name. Almost. She was like a female version of the omega he had actually wanted for tonight.

But her blue eyes weren't as mesmerising as his, her hair didn't seem as soft and feathery, her nose not nearly as perfect as his, but she'd do. She'd do for tonight and that was all that mattered to Harry.

He stood, slipping the omega off his lap like she was nothing, and made his way to the girl in the black dress. The rest of the room faded away. He sat on the arm of her chair, close enough that their knees touched.

“Waiting for an invitation?” he muttered, voice low, rougher than he intended.

She tilted her head, lips curling into a slight smirk — a shadow of someone else’s smile. It twisted something sharp in his chest. “Didn’t think you handed those out,” she said, voice laced with quiet defiance.

Harry’s jaw tightened. His fingers itched to grab her, to test if her skin would feel the same under his hands. He dragged a finger along the strap of her dress, watching her shiver.

“What’s your name?” he whispered, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, but the sound of her voice barely registered.

It wasn’t the voice he wanted.

“Does it matter?” she whispered, her breath hitching as he dragged his fingers down her arm.

“No,” Harry said, voice barely above a growl. “Not tonight.”

He stood, extending his hand, and she took it without hesitation, following him out of the room like she couldn’t bear to be left behind.

In the elevator, the mask cracked. She pressed herself against the mirrored wall, looking up at him with wide, needy eyes, her chest heaving.

Harry crowed her, fingers brushing against her jaw. Her skin was warm. Not too soft though. Neither as milky. Not the same.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice dripping with amusement as she squirmed beneath him. “Acted so composed back there. But you were dying for me to notice you, weren’t you?”

Her lips parted, a soft, broken sound escaping her throat, and Harry just smirked.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, leaning in until his mouth brushed against her jaw. “You can beg properly when we get home.”

The elevator doors slid open, and Harry pulled her out, her fingers shaking as they clung to his.

---------------------------------

The next morning, Harry woke up alone in his sprawling penthouse, sunlight bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows and painting the room in soft gold. The sheets were tangled, still smelling faintly of the omega he’d taken home, but she was long gone. He'd made sure of that.

He never let them stay. Didn’t want to wake up to clingy hands or hopeful eyes. There was only one omega whose presence he could tolerate after fucking — and even that was a stretch.

Harry dragged a hand through his messy curls, groaning as he sat up. With a low grunt, he forced himself out of bed, padding across the cold hardwood floors. He showered, the cold water running down his skin, his tattoos shining.

By the time he dressed and left for work, he’d buried the night before so deep it might as well have never happened.

That’s what he always did. Use them, discard them, and move on like they were nothing more than fleeting distractions. Because that’s all they were — toys to play with, something to pass the time, to scratch an itch.

They never meant anything to him. Never would.

Their names blurred together, their faces faded the second they stepped out of his door. It didn’t matter how beautiful they were or how eagerly they tried to please him. They were just placeholders. Temporary fixes for a hunger that never truly went away.

Harry slipped on his sunglasses as he stepped into the elevator, the city sprawling out beneath him through the glass walls. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he watched the streets below.

Because no matter how many bodies he took to bed, no matter how many desperate, eager omegas begged for his attention, none of them smelled like vanilla and caramel. And it pissed him off why he fixated so much on that scent. Why that omega seemed to satisfy him in a way the others couldn't. But that omega too, didn't mean much to Harry. Nothing did.

Because he had met Louis just eight months ago but had been doing what he did for years now. And eight months wasn't nearly enough time to undo the damage that had been done to Harry.

By the time Harry reached his office, Louis wasn’t there — even though he should’ve been. Harry smirked, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Late?

It was a perfect opportunity to punish him. Harry lived for it — loved the way Louis squirmed under his gaze, the way he flushed and fumbled when Harry pushed him too far. The omega always tried to keep his composure but he always broke. And Harry loved nothing more than breaking him.

He settled into his chair, anticipation curling in his chest like smoke. But when he flipped open his laptop, his eyes landed on an unread email.

Subject: Sick Leave Request — Louis Tomlinson

Harry’s smirk faltered. He clicked it, scanning the message, brow furrowing as he read the short, carefully worded request. Harry raised an eyebrow. Again?

Louis was claiming he felt sick. Feverish. Too unwell to come in.

Harry pursed his lips, fingers drumming slowly against the desk. Louis never took days off. He was very diligent, annoyingly so. And now, two in one week?

Normally, Harry wouldn’t tolerate it. He’d mark the absence as unpaid, make Louis regret it the moment he returned. But he approved the request anyway — marked it as paid leave.

Because Louis didn’t lie to him. Couldn’t.

Harry would’ve known if he was lying. He always knew. He could read Louis like a book, every page worn and familiar.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t frustrated. And more than that — he was curious.

But Harry decided he’d grant Louis this extra benefit — just like he granted him plenty of others. After all, Louis took on a lot more responsibilities than just being his assistant.

Harry tapped his fingers against the desk, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a dark, knowing smile.

Louis managed his schedule, handled clients, and took care of his mansion; tending to the cleaners, the gardeners, the chefs. But that wasn’t where his true value lay.

No, Louis's real job started after hours. When everyone else had gone home, and it was just the two of them.

And all these gifts, these benefits, these bonuses — they weren’t given out of affection. No, Harry wasn’t that soft.

They were chains. Silken, invisible, but chains nonetheless.

Every luxury, every extra hour of leave, every expensive gift carefully wrapped in a velvet box was a way to keep Louis tethered to him. A way to ensure the omega would never think of leaving.

Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew Louis could get another job in an instant. He was sharp, meticulous, and beautiful enough to make anyone bend over backwards to have him. But Harry didn’t want anyone else to have him.

Didn’t want anyone else touching what was his.

So he kept Louis close — wrapped him in privilege and indulgence until the omega couldn’t see a way out. Made sure he relied on Harry for everything, even things he didn’t realize he needed.

And if Louis ever did try to escape? Harry would drag him right back. No matter what it took. Because Louis wasn’t just his assistant. He was his.

Harry closed the laptop, leaning back in his chair with a low hum. If Louis really was sick, he’d let him rest. For now.

But when he came back?

Harry would make sure he paid for every single hour he’d missed.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis woke up feeling sick. Not just unwell, but truly sick to his core. His body ached, heavy and sluggish, and his head spun the moment he opened his eyes. He’d felt like this ever since he came back from Harry’s office — ever since he’d been told to leave.

The rejection lingered like poison in his veins. The way Harry had discarded him, severing the intense connection between them as if it meant nothing, left Louis hollow and broken. His wolf stirred uneasily, restless and agitated, while his omega curled in on itself, wounded and confused.

Louis sighed, forcing himself to move, but as soon as his foot touched the floor, the room swayed violently. His stomach churned, and he collapsed back onto the bed with a heavy thud, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

He clenched his eyes shut, willing the nausea to pass, but it only worsened. The sickness wasn’t just physical — it was emotional, a deep ache rooted in his heart. He felt abandoned, unwanted, and no matter how tightly he gripped the sheets, he couldn’t stop the pain from consuming him.

Louis couldn’t hold it in any longer. His stomach twisted violently, and a sickly heat crawled up his throat. He stumbled out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before he collapsed in front of the toilet.

His body convulsed as he vomited, the bitter taste burning his throat. His head pounded, the dizziness so intense he had to clutch the sink for support.

He rinsed his mouth, scrubbing his teeth with trembling hands, but no amount of mint could wash away the sickness clinging to him. Weak and breathless, he staggered back to his bed, sinking onto the mattress as he fought to steady his ragged breathing.

With shaky fingers, he grabbed his phone, squinting at the bright screen. A notification from Instagram caught his eye. He clicked it without thinking, and that’s when he saw it—the post on his fyp that made his stomach churn all over again.

It was a grainy, dimly lit photo from a celebrity gossip page. Harry, lounging on a plush couch in what looked like one of his own clubs, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. The haze of smoke curled around him like a ghostly halo, but it was the female omegas draped over him that made Louis’ blood run cold. Tall, impossibly beautiful, all vying for his attention.

His breath hitched, sharp and painful. So this was what Harry had been doing last night. Harry had been surrounded by models, drowning himself in indulgence.

Was this what Louis had been reduced to? Nothing more than an option easily replaced? A momentary amusement discarded when something shinier came along?

A wave of nausea crashed over him, but it wasn’t from the fever.

His body felt like it was burning from the inside out. The fever surged, making his vision blur at the edges. He groaned, gripping his head as it pounded mercilessly.

He couldn’t go in today. He couldn’t face Harry, not like this. Not when his body was already betraying him, not when his heart felt like it had been ripped straight from his chest.

With what little strength he had left, he typed out a sick leave email, his fingers clumsy over the keys. He hit send without a second thought, not caring if it was approved or not.

Then he collapsed back onto the bed, his body curling in on itself as he squeezed his eyes shut. But the darkness didn’t bring comfort. It only amplified the pain.

He knew exactly why he felt this way — why his body ached like it was tearing itself apart from the inside out. It was last night.

Louis had slipped into an omega headspace, vulnerable and raw, and Harry hadn’t given him the time to come back to himself before telling him to leave.

He’d been cast aside while still caught in that fragile state, his instincts screaming for comfort and safety. But instead of being held, instead of being reassured, he’d been left alone.

His omega felt abandoned.

That’s why he was so sick. The fever, the nausea, the crushing ache in his chest — it wasn’t just physical. It was the brutal aftermath of rejection, of his body mourning the absence of what it craved. Of who it craved.

Louis curled tighter into himself, swallowing a broken whimper. The emptiness inside him was vast, swallowing him whole. And no matter how tightly he clenched his fists or bit his lip to stop the sound, he couldn’t quiet the way his body cried out for something it would never have.

Chapter Text

Harry was stressed today. His jaw was locked tight and tension coiled in his shoulders. The lift chimed, a hollow sound echoing through the metal walls, announcing its arrival at the top floor. The doors slid open with a sluggish hiss.

He stepped out, each footfall heavy against the polished floor. The corridor stretched out before him, sterile and cold, but his eyes found their target immediately.

Louis.

Through the narrow gap of an ajar door, he stood in his office, meticulously arranging objects on his desk with an unsettling calm. The dim light cast jagged shadows across his face, and Harry watched him.

He strode toward Louis’s office, each step deliberate, echoing down the quiet hallway. When he reached the door — left slightly ajar — he lifted his hand and knocked, the sound sharp against the wood.

Louis’s head snapped up instantly, eyes wide, and Harry took him in with a practiced gaze. He looked unwell. Not gravely so, but enough to show the remnants of whatever had weakened him. His skin was pale, and dark circles lingered beneath his tired eyes like bruises.

"How are you feeling now?" Harry asked, his voice low, resonant, and edged with something unreadable.

He didn’t miss the way Louis flinched, a faint tremor running through him at the sound.

"Better, sir," Louis replied, voice brittle, nearly swallowed by the space between them.

Harry tilted his head, observing him with quiet intensity. If this was better, he wondered, how wretched had the omega been yesterday?

"I hope you understand I don’t grant leave so easily," Harry said, his voice a cold, sharp edge. "What I did yesterday was a favor. To you."

Louis’s gaze dropped to the floor, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His fingers twisted together, knuckles whitening as he struggled to steady himself. After a beat, he forced himself to look up, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

"Yes, sir," he whispered, voice fragile but laced with sincerity. "I apologize. I... I was just too sick."

Harry nodded, the gesture devoid of empathy. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward his own office. The door closed behind him with a muted thud, sealing the room in silence.

Louis exhaled shakily and sank into his office chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He opened his laptop, the screen's glow illuminating his pale face, but he didn’t type. He didn’t even try. His fingers hovered above the keyboard before curling back into his lap, useless.

He was supposed to work today — supposed to prove he was better — but the exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. His body ached, limbs heavy as lead, and no matter how many deep breaths he took, the fatigue refused to lift.

Inside, his omega stirred, restless and needy, scratching against the fragile walls of his composure. It begged him to move, to stand, to follow Harry. To confront him. To demand... something.

But Louis knew better.

He could never do that.

So he sat there, staring at the screen, chest tight with everything he couldn’t say.

Louis drifted through the day, mind numb as he buried himself in meaningless, low-effort tasks. He clicked through emails, rearranged files, anything that would let him claim he’d done something — even if it amounted to nothing. The minutes blurred, heavy and sluggish, each one dragging him closer to the end of a day he couldn’t seem to escape.

At some point, the distant chime of the elevator echoed through the floor, and Louis barely registered it until movement caught his eye.

Zayn.

Louis watched him from behind the safety of his office window, gaze lingering longer than it should. He didn’t know much about Zayn, only that he was high up in one of Harry’s many businesses — which one, Louis had no idea. Harry had too many to keep track of, each one a cog in some vast, intricate machine Louis didn’t dare try to understand.

But Zayn was striking. An alpha with sharp features and an effortless presence, the kind that drew attention whether he wanted it or not.

When Zayn turned, heading straight for his office, Louis tore his eyes away, pulse quickening. He ducked his head, feigning focus on his laptop, fingers tapping mindlessly at the keys as if he hadn’t just been caught staring.

A soft knock tapped against the doorframe.

Louis swallowed.

"Hello, Louis," Zayn greeted, his voice smooth, almost warm.

"Hello, Mr. Malik. What can I do for you?" Louis replied, keeping his tone polite, professional.

Zayn leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, radiating an easy confidence. "Is the boss in? And his schedule?"

Louis glanced at his laptop, fingers skimming the trackpad. "He’s here, and his schedule..." He scrolled briefly before nodding. "It’s open. Just the meeting with you."

Zayn smirked slightly. "Good. This meeting is bound to take longer than expected."

Louis gave a small nod. "Best of luck, Mr. Malik." He even mustered a smile.

To his surprise, Zayn smiled back. "Thank you, darling."

The endearment settled over Louis like a soothing balm.

For the first time today, an alpha had been kind to him. And for the first time today, his omega wasn’t clawing at his insides, restless and uneasy.

Just for a moment, he felt a little lighter.

Zayn gave Louis a polite nod before turning away, his footsteps steady as he made his way to Harry’s office. He rapped his knuckles against the door, the sound echoing faintly through the quiet floor.

What Zayn didn’t know — couldn’t know — was that Harry had been watching the entire exchange.

From the shadowed corner of his office, Harry's gaze burned through the glass, eyes sharp and predatory as they tracked every movement, every fleeting smile. His jaw tightened, fingers curling against the desk like claws, the air around him heavy with an unspoken tension.

"Come in," Harry called out, his voice low and taut, stretched thin like a wire ready to snap.

Zayn stepped inside, oblivious to the storm already brewing in the room.

Before Zayn could speak, Harry cut him off like a blade to the throat.

"Don’t ever smile at or call Louis a pet name again, Mr. Malik," he said, voice ice-cold and razor-sharp. Possessiveness coiled through every word, dark and unmistakable.

Zayn froze, eyes widening in surprise. Of all the things he’d expected, this wasn’t one of them. Harry had never cared about omegas — never spared them a second glance unless they were useful to him. But this? This was something else entirely.

For a moment, Zayn studied his boss’s face, the rigid jaw, the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface. He didn’t understand it, but he knew better than to question it.

"Yes, sir. I apologize," Zayn said, voice steady despite his confusion. He hadn’t meant to flirt — hadn’t thought anything of it. But whatever this was, he didn’t want to test Harry's patience.

Harry gave a curt nod, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. He lifted a hand, motioning for Zayn to sit.

The meeting began, their words sinking into the heavy air like stones. The topic was grim — a botched drug bust that nearly unraveled an entire operation. Kilos of cocaine seized, millions in black money teetering on the edge of vanishing into thin air. Lives were ruined, and profits were bleeding.

Harry spoke with the precision of a man carving through flesh, dissecting the situation with ruthless efficiency. Zayn offered strategies, his voice steady but careful, like he was walking a tightrope over something dangerous.

Outside the office, Louis sat at his desk, head buried in his hands. The faint hum of voices through the wall felt distant, muffled by the crushing exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin.

He just needed to survive the rest of his shift.

Just a few more hours, and he could leave.

Go home.

Breathe.

Yet his omega stirred beneath the surface, restless and aching, tethered to something — or someone — it couldn’t reach.

And it made the hours feel endless.

Zayn had been right, Louis realized. The meeting dragged on, stretching like a shadow across the evening. When the clock on his wall clicked to 8 p.m., the meeting was still going on, the sharp sound cut through the quiet like a blade — signaling the official end of his shift.

The relief was instant, crashing over him in a shaky exhale.

Usually, he stayed late. Always waiting, always available, as if the walls of this building were the only thing keeping him upright.

Not tonight.

He still felt drained, body heavy with lingering fatigue. He needed to leave. Needed space.

But he couldn’t slip out without telling Harry. He always told Harry.

Louis sighed, rubbing his eyes before reluctantly pushing himself up from his chair. The idea of stepping into that room — into Harry’s presence — made his omega shrink back, conflicted and unsure.

But he had no choice.

So he straightened his shirt, steeled himself, and walked toward Harry’s office.

Louis lingered outside the office door, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His fingers twitched at his sides, the weight of indecision pressing down on him. He should knock — should announce himself like always. But the thought of interrupting made his chest tighten.

So he stood there, fingers curling into his palms, trying to gather the courage to lift his hand.

That’s when he heard it.

Low voices, hushed and sharp, threading through the crack in the door like smoke.

He knew he shouldn’t listen. Knew he should turn around and leave. But curiosity sank its claws into him, refusing to let go.

Louis edged closer, heart pounding as he tilted his head toward the door, straining to catch the words on the other side.

"Just kill him, Zayn. It’s easier," Harry’s voice cut through the air like a blade, low and merciless.

Louis froze, breath catching in his throat.

"You’re right, sir," Zayn muttered, voice laced with quiet rage. "That’s what I was thinking, too. But he deserves worse. After what he did..."

Harry hummed, the sound vibrating with cold amusement. "You think I should give him my special treatment?"

"I do, sir," Zayn affirmed without hesitation.

Harry chuckled, the sound so dark it sent a chill racing down Louis’s spine.

"Good," Harry whispered, voice dripping with malice. "He’ll be begging for death, then."

Louis’s fingers trembled against the doorframe, heart hammering so loudly he feared they might hear it.

Louis's eyes widened, the words sinking into him like ice. His blood ran cold, and a dizzy wave of nausea rolled through his body.

He had always suspected something — little glimpses of darkness lingering around Harry like a shadow. But he’d convinced himself it wasn’t true. That he was imagining things. That Harry couldn’t possibly be that cruel.

But he was.

Harry had clear connections to the underworld, spoke of death and torture like it was nothing more than business. And Louis felt sick.

God.

He had clung to hope like a lifeline. Hoped that Harry carrying a gun was simply a precaution — a billionaire protecting himself in a dangerous world. Hoped that the whispers of secret businesses were just about tax evasion or bending corporate laws, not something darker. Not the mafia.

Hoped that the faint, metallic scent of blood lingering on Harry’s skin some nights was nothing. A coincidence. A trick of his senses.

But he had been wrong.

Severely, painfully wrong.

The truth was sharper than he’d ever imagined, carving through the fragile illusion he’d built around Harry. And now that it had shattered, all Louis could do was try not to collapse under the weight of it.

His stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat as he pressed a trembling hand against the wall to steady himself. He should have run. Should have been terrified enough to leave and never look back.

But what truly made Louis want to crumble to the floor was the brutal realization that even after hearing all of this — after knowing the monster Harry was— he still loved him.

Loved the man who used him. Loved the man who barely spared him a second glance. Loved the man who treated him like he was nothing.

Louis stood frozen, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. His lungs burned as he tried to catch his breath, chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow bursts.

He needed to leave.

The urge to run clawed at him, every nerve screaming to get away, to put as much distance as possible between himself and whatever darkness lived inside that room. But running would only make it worse.

So, with trembling hands and the last scrap of courage he could gather, Louis straightened up and knocked. The room went deathly silent. Then came Harry’s voice — low, cold, and laced with something dangerous.

"Come in, Louis."

Louis swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry, as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.Two sets of eyes snapped to him immediately.

Zayn's gaze was unreadable, but Harry’s sharp green eyes pinned Louis in place, dragging over his face like he could peel back his skin and see everything underneath.

"S-sir," Louis stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I-I’m done with my work. S-shall I leave, please?"

The desperation cracked through his words, raw and exposed.

For a fleeting moment, Harry’s brow creased, something almost like concern flickering across his face. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, snuffed out and replaced by his usual cold indifference.

"Sure," Harry said, voice devoid of emotion.

The word barely left his mouth before Louis turned, practically stumbling over himself in his rush to leave. His chest ached, lungs straining to pull in air that suddenly felt too heavy.

But just as his hand reached for the door, Harry’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

"Tell my driver to take you home."

Louis froze, a violent shiver running down his spine.

There was no warmth in the offer — no kindness. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. A reminder that Harry's control over him didn’t stop at the office doors.

Louis swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, his voice barely a breath.

"Okay, sir."

He slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him like a lock turning.

Louis fled the office like he was being chased, slipping into the elevator with shaky hands and a heart that hammered against his ribs. The moment the doors slid shut, he sagged against the wall, lungs burning as he tried to steady his breath.

But he couldn’t.

His head spun, the walls feeling too close, the air too thin. He just wanted to go home. To disappear.

And not with Harry’s driver.

Because the driver knew.

Every time Louis sank into the back seat, flustered and broken, the beta would glance at him through the rearview mirror with quiet, unbearable sympathy. And Louis hated it. Hated the silent understanding. Hated how it made his shame feel even heavier.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he would disobey Harry. He would take an Uber.

When the elevator finally opened, Louis slipped through the lobby like a ghost, stepping out into the night. The air was bitterly cold, biting through his thin shirt and making him shiver, but he barely felt it.

His thoughts churned relentlessly, looping back to Harry, to the conversation he wasn’t supposed to hear, to the way his body still wanted to run — or worse, go back.

After what felt like an eternity, headlights cut through the dark, and his Uber pulled up to the curb. Louis climbed in without a word, curling into the seat like he could disappear into the fabric.

But even as the car pulled away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still being watched.

What Louis didn’t know was that Harry was watching him.

From the balcony above, Harry stood like a shadow, sharp green eyes cutting through the night. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dark.

Displeasure rippled across his face, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched.

He watched as Louis climbed into the Uber, curling in on himself like he was trying to disappear. The sight made something ugly coil in Harry’s chest — a black, simmering rage that pulsed through his veins.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around his face like a phantom. His eyes never left the car as it pulled away, gaze dark and almost frightening in its intensity.

Beside him, Zayn flicked ash from his own cigarette, watching Harry with quiet concern.

But he didn’t say anything.

Because whatever was brewing inside Harry — whatever storm Louis had ignited by disobeying Harry— wasn’t something even Zayn dared to question.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t know why he felt this way. Possessiveness over Louis wasn’t new—he had always felt it, lurking beneath the surface like a beast waiting to be acknowledged. But this? This was different. This was something raw, something unhinged, something he had never felt before. Not even with Louis.

Harry sighed, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. It was Sunday. Everyone else had the day off, yet here he was, drowning in work he couldn’t focus on. Because no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t shake off what had happened last night.

Louis had never done that before. Had never blatantly ignored his orders. The omega was always submissive, always obedient. Always his. But last night, Louis had defied him.And Harry had been shocked.

The moment he saw that Uber pull away, something dark had settled in his chest, a slow-burning fury he hadn’t been able to smother. Of course, he’d sent one of his men after him—just to make sure Louis got home safely. And he did. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Louis had made a choice. A choice to go against him.

And Harry wasn’t sure he could let that slide.

Harry’s mind churned with questions, each one heavier than the last. What was Louis doing today? What had driven him to act the way he had yesterday? Was it anger? Discontent? Had he turned against him? But why? If it was about money, Harry would have given him more—without hesitation. There had been no need for defiance.

And yet, Louis had disobeyed. Harry exhaled slowly, the weight of it pressing against his ribs. His fingers drummed against the desk, steady, deliberate.

He picked up his phone, his fingers tightening around it as he dialed.

The line barely rang before it was answered. "Yes, sir?" came the voice on the other end—calm, obedient.

"Adonis," Harry murmured, his tone cold, deliberate. "I need you to watch Louis Tomlinson today. Tell me everything he does."

"Of course, sir. I'll report back by evening," Adonis replied without hesitation.

"Good."

Harry ended the call, his jaw tightening. If Louis thought he could act without consequence, he was mistaken.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis had no energy to face the day. Even the thought of moving felt exhausting. His stomach churned with lingering nausea—just as it had when he first woke up. He exhaled sharply, running a shaky hand through his hair. Frustration simmered beneath his skin, but more than that, there was something heavier, something that pressed against his ribs and refused to let go.

This wasn’t new. Harry had used him before. Countless times. He had taken what he wanted and then moved on without a second thought. For eight months, Louis had watched him slip into the arms of other omegas, had swallowed down the bitterness and the ache that came with it. It had always hurt—always left him hollow—but not like this.

This was different. This was worse. And he didn’t know why.

Louis lounged on his couch, staring blankly at the ceiling, his body heavy with exhaustion. Charlotte had been pestering him all morning, reminding him of the lunch he had agreed to with her and Liam, their childhood friend. At the start of the week, it had seemed like a good idea—a distraction, maybe—but now, the thought of dragging himself out of the house felt unbearable.

He groaned, rubbing his temples. He had to go, though. Canceling on Lottie and Liam wasn’t an option. And maybe—just maybe—being around them would pull him out of this suffocating emptiness. Or at least make him forget. Even if only for a little while.

Louis forced himself to move, summoning whatever strength he had left. With slow, deliberate steps, he dragged himself to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the exhaustion clinging to his skin. He took his time, letting the steam loosen the knots in his muscles, grounding himself in the sensation.

By the time he stepped out, he felt slightly more human. He dressed with purpose, slipping into a pair of skin-tight jeans that hugged his curves just right. He studied his reflection, tilting his head. He looked good—put together, even. That was something. That was enough.

The drive to the restaurant passed in a blur, the world outside his window feeling distant, almost unreal. But as soon as he spotted Lottie and Liam waiting for him, he straightened, plastering on a bright smile. He wouldn’t let them see how drained he felt.

"Hey, you two," he greeted, slipping into the seat across from them with an easy grin. If he pretended hard enough, maybe—just maybe—he’d start to believe it too.

“Hello, Lou, you look beautiful!” Liam complimented, his voice warm, steady.

Louis smiled, something inside him easing just a little. Liam was an alpha too, and right now, validation from an alpha was something he desperately craved. It soothed the raw edges of his mind, even if only for a moment. “Thank you, Liam,” he said, his voice softer than he intended.

Lottie, ever unimpressed, scoffed. “You look okay.”

Louis let out a chuckle, rolling his eyes as he lifted his hand and flipped her off. “Screw you, Lottie.”

She smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Charming as ever.”

Lottie rolled her eyes but grinned, flipping through the menu. “Alright, idiots, let’s order before Louis gets all moody and starts complaining.”

Louis scoffed. “I do not get moody.”

Liam smirked. “You kind of do.”

Louis gasped dramatically. “Betrayal.”

Lottie ignored them both, waving over the waiter. They placed their orders—Louis opting for something light since his stomach still wasn’t entirely settled, Lottie going for a heavy pasta dish, and Liam ordering a steak.

As they waited, they chatted about random things—old memories, people from their past, the kind of easy talk that made Louis feel a little more normal. Then, finally, their food arrived, steaming and fragrant.

“Alright, I need to pee before I start eating,” Lottie announced, pushing back her chair. She pointed at Louis. “Don’t eat my food.”

“No promises,” Louis shot back with a smirk as she walked off.

Now alone, Liam turned to Louis, his expression more relaxed, his gaze lingering. “So,” he said, cutting into his steak, “are we gonna talk about why you look like you’ve been through hell, or should I just pretend you always have that ‘about to commit murder’ vibe?”

Louis let out a short, unexpected laugh. “Wow, thanks, Liam. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

Liam grinned. “Hey, I’m just saying. You look great, but also like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Louis shook his head, still smiling despite himself. “Yeah, well… life’s been a little shit lately.”

Liam hummed, chewing thoughtfully. “Wanna talk about it?”

Louis hesitated, twirling his fork between his fingers. He could. He probably should. But was he ready for that?

Louis hesitated, twirling his fork between his fingers. He could. He probably should. But was he ready for that?

“Nah,” Louis finally said, shaking his head with a small, forced smile. “Not today. Let’s just… keep it light, yeah?”

Liam studied him for a moment, his gaze soft but knowing. He didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Alright, but only if you promise to laugh at my next joke.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “Your jokes are terrible, Liam. I’m not making any promises.”

“Oh, come on,” Liam said, leaning forward, his tone mock-serious. “You’re telling me you don’t remember the time I made you laugh so hard you snorted wine out of your nose at that Christmas party?”

Louis groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my God, don’t remind me. That was so embarrassing.”

“It was hilarious,” Liam corrected, grinning. “And you know what? I’m gonna do it again. Ready?”

“No,” Louis said, laughing despite himself. “Absolutely not.”

“Okay, okay,” Liam said, holding up his hands like he was about to deliver the punchline of the century. “Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“Because they don’t have the guts!”

Louis stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Oh my God, that was so bad.”

“But you laughed,” Liam said triumphantly, pointing at him. “Admit it. I’m hilarious.”

“You’re something, alright,” Louis said, still chuckling.

For a moment, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter.

--------------

A few tables away, Adonis sat with a menu in hand, his sharp eyes discreetly scanning the room. He had chosen a seat with a clear view of Louis’s table, close enough to observe but far enough to avoid drawing attention. His posture was relaxed, but his focus was razor-sharp.

He watched as Liam leaned in closer to Louis, his body language open and inviting. He saw the way Liam’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he seemed to hang on Louis’s every word. And then there was the laughter—Louis’s laughter, bright and genuine, as Liam said something that made him throw his head back.

Adonis’s jaw tightened slightly as he scribbled in his notebook:

Subject: Louis Tomlinson.
Location: La Trattoria.
Activity: Lunch with two companions—one female, one male, both alphas. Male companion appears overly familiar, possibly flirting. Subject seems receptive. Laughing, relaxed. No signs of distress.

He paused, his pen hovering over the page as he glanced up again. Liam was now gesturing animatedly, his hand brushing Louis’s arm briefly as he made a point. Louis didn’t pull away.

Adonis’s lips pressed into a thin line. He added another note:

Male alpha companion’s behavior suggests romantic interest. Subject’s response ambiguous but not dismissive.

He closed the notebook and slipped it back into his jacket pocket, his expression unreadable. He signaled the waiter for the check, his movements calm and deliberate.

As he waited, Adonis kept his eyes on Louis and Liam, his mind already formulating how he would report this to Harry. He didn’t miss the way Liam’s gaze lingered on Louis, the way his tone softened when he spoke to him.

Flirting. Definitely flirting.

Adonis paid his bill and stood, casting one last glance at the table. He turned and walked out of the restaurant, the bell above the door jingling softly as he left. Once outside, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

The line connected after one ring.

“Report,” Harry’s voice came through, cold and clipped.

“Louis is having lunch with two companions—a woman and a man, both alphas,” Adonis began, his tone neutral. “The man seems… overly familiar. He’s been flirting with Louis. Louis appears to be enjoying the attention.”

There was a long pause on the other end. When Harry finally spoke, his voice was low, almost dangerous. “Flirting?”

“Yes,” Adonis confirmed. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. Louis isn’t discouraging it.”

Another pause. Then, Harry’s voice, sharp and dark, "Alright, that's enough Adonis.”

“Understood,” Adonis replied.

The call ended, and Adonis slipped his phone back into his pocket. He glanced once more through the restaurant window, his expression unreadable, before walking away.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Harry was sure his jaw was going to break from how tightly he was clenching it. He knew he had no right to feel this way—not really. After all, he went to bed with other omegas all the time. But this was different. Louis was his. The thought alone made his blood simmer. He had spent the night tossing and turning, his mind replaying Adonis’s report over and over. Louis, laughing. Louis, enjoying someone else’s attention. Louis, defying him.

By the time morning came, Harry’s mood was dark, his patience hanging by a thread.

---

The next day was Monday, and Harry’s routine dictated that he stay at his mansion. Most Mondays, he worked from home, and that was also the day Louis would come to the estate. Harry had always looked forward to these days, but today, his mood was darker, his thoughts still clouded by the report Adonis had given him.

Louis, on the other hand, had woken up late, his stomach churning with the same unexplained nausea that had plagued him for days. He dressed quickly, pulling on the same tight jeans he’d worn the day before, and rushed out the door. The drive to Harry’s mansion was a blur, his mind a mess of anxiety and dread. He couldn’t afford to be late—not today, not ever.

When he arrived, he stepped out of the car and walked through the imposing black gates of the estate. The gardens were lush and eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made Louis’s skin crawl. As he made his way toward the main house, he spotted Lucy, the cat, darting toward him.

“Oh, aren’t you the cutest thing ever,” Louis murmured, bending down to pet her. His fingers trembled slightly as he scratched behind her ears, her purring a small comfort in the otherwise oppressive atmosphere.

“I wish I could stay here with you forever,” Louis whispered, his voice barely audible. “But we both know how cruel your landlord can be.” He sighed, glancing nervously toward the house.

Unbeknownst to him, Harry had been watching from the moment Louis stepped onto the property. He had been strolling through the gardens, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. When he saw Louis stop to pet Lucy, he approached silently, his footsteps muffled by the gravel.

“How cruel am I, Mr. Tomlinson?” Harry’s voice was low, smooth, and dripping with mockery.

Louis flinched violently, a sharp yelp escaping his lips before he could stop it. He scrambled to his feet, his movements frantic, his wide eyes locking onto Harry as if he’d just seen a ghost. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the fear that coursed through him. Why was Harry always there, always watching, always looming like a shadow he couldn’t escape?

“S-sir, I meant—I wasn’t—” Louis stammered, his voice trembling, barely above a whisper. His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to steady himself.

Harry’s expression was unreadable, his green eyes cold and piercing as they bore into Louis. “That’s quite disrespectful of you, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low and dark, each word deliberate, calculated to cut.

Louis shook his head frantically, his cheeks flushing with a mix of fear and shame. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to disrespect you, sir. I was just—”

“Gossiping about me to a cat?” Harry interrupted, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. Louis instinctively took a step back, but Harry closed the distance again, his gaze never leaving Louis’s face.

Louis gulped, his throat dry, his mind racing. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he bit his lower lip, a small, involuntary pout forming as he struggled to find the right thing to say.

Harry’s eyes flicked down to the cat, who was now sitting calmly at Louis’s feet, oblivious to the tension. “Is this Lucy, then?” he asked, his tone deceptively light.

“Y-yes, sir,” Louis managed to choke out, his voice barely audible.

Harry tilted his head, his expression one of mild curiosity. “I don’t own her. She just… stays here, doesn’t she?” He paused, his smirk returning. “I suppose I’ll keep her.”

Louis hesitated, then offered softly, “She’s a lovely cat, sir.”

Harry scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “It’s a cat, Louis. They’re all the same. They’re animals.” His gaze shifted back to Louis, sharp and unyielding. “Nothing more.”

Louis frowned slightly, his chest tightening at the words. He wanted to argue, to say something—anything—but the fear of Harry kept him silent. He dropped his gaze to the ground, his hands trembling at his sides.

“Come in,” Harry said abruptly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We have work to do. We can’t stay out here, talking shit about our bosses to cats forever, now can we, Louis?” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Can we?”

Louis flinched, his entire body tensing as he shook his head quickly. “N-no, sir,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Harry studied him for a moment longer, his smirk widening as he savored Louis’s discomfort. Then, without another word, he turned and began walking toward the house, his strides long and confident.

Louis hesitated for a fraction of a second before following, his steps hesitant and uneven. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his mind a whirlwind of fear and frustration. The power dynamic between them was palpable, Harry’s dominance radiating like a force field, leaving Louis feeling small, insignificant, and utterly at his mercy.

As they approached the mansion, Harry glanced over his shoulder, his smirk still firmly in place. “Keep up, Louis,” he said, his tone light but laced with menace. “We wouldn’t want to waste any more of my time, would we?”

Louis shook his head quickly, his voice barely a whisper. “N-no, sir.”

Harry chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down Louis’s spine. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

And with that, he turned and walked into the house, leaving Louis to follow in his wake, the weight of Harry’s control pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket.

Louis was scared shitless of Harry. He always had been, but ever since that discovery on his last working day, the fear had morphed into something deeper, something visceral. Harry wasn’t just intimidating or controlling—he was dangerous. Utterly, irrevocably so.

The realization had hit Louis like a freight train. Harry had mob connections. He wasn’t just a wealthy, powerful businessman; he was something far darker, far more lethal. And now, as Louis walked through the sprawling halls of Harry’s mansion, it all seemed so obvious. The opulence of the place was undercut by an unsettling undercurrent, a quiet menace that lingered in every shadow.

The mansion dripped with secrets. Louis had stumbled upon enough of them to know better than to ask questions. Hidden rooms behind bookcases, compartments in the walls that held guns and stacks of cash, locked doors that led to God-knows-what. It was a labyrinth of darkness, and Louis felt like a fragile intruder, tiptoeing through a predator’s den.

Every step he took made him shiver. The air felt heavier here, the silence oppressive. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls were watching him, that Harry’s influence seeped into every corner of this place. Louis felt small, breakable, like a single wrong move could shatter him.

He didn’t know how he could keep working for Harry. The fear was eating him alive, gnawing at his sanity. But the thought of leaving was even more terrifying. Being Harry’s assistant was all Louis had. It was his identity, his purpose. And leaving meant losing Harry entirely—losing the man who had consumed his thoughts, his heart, his very existence.

Louis didn’t want that. He couldn’t.

Even if Harry was a monster. Even if he used Louis, discarded him, treated him like nothing more than a pawn in his twisted games. Louis loved him. He hated himself for it, but he did. He craved Harry’s attention, his approval, his touch—even if it was cruel, even if it left him broken. He wanted something. Scraps. Crumbs. Anything.

---

As Louis followed Harry through the mansion, his mind raced. Harry walked ahead, his posture relaxed but commanding, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. Louis kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to stop them from trembling.

“Louis,” Harry said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Louis flinched, his head snapping up. “Y-yes, sir?”

Harry stopped and turned to face him, his expression unreadable. “You’ve been quiet today,” he said, his tone light but laced with something sharper. “Something on your mind?”

Louis swallowed hard, his throat dry. “N-no, sir. Just… focused.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Focused,” he repeated, stepping closer. “On what, exactly?”

Louis’s breath hitched as Harry closed the distance between them, his presence overwhelming. “On—on my work, sir,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry chuckled, the sound low and dark. “Good. I’d hate to think you were distracted.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against Louis’s cheek in a gesture that was almost tender. Louis froze, his heart pounding in his chest.

“You know how much I value your loyalty, Louis,” Harry said, his voice soft but edged with menace. “I’d hate to think you were… slipping.”

Louis’s eyes widened, his stomach twisting into knots. “I—I’m not, sir. I swear.”

Harry’s smirk widened, and he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against Louis’s ear. “Good. Because if you were, I’d have to remind you just how dangerous I can be.”

Louis shuddered, his entire body trembling as Harry pulled back, his gaze piercing.

Then, Harry’s tone shifted, casual but loaded with intent. “Also, Louis,” he began, his voice deceptively light, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Did you reach home on time with the driver? I’ve been getting complaints about him. That he drives too recklessly.”

Louis’s heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropping. There was no way Harry could know, right? He forced himself to meet Harry’s gaze, though his voice wavered. “Y-yes, sir. He drove fine.”

Harry hummed, a low, dangerous sound that made Louis’s skin crawl. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, until he was standing inches away. Louis’s breath hitched as Harry reached out, his large hand gripping Louis’s chin and forcing him to look up.

“Are you sure, Louis?” Harry asked, his voice dark and deep, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Louis feel like he was being stripped bare. Harry’s gaze was unrelenting, as if he already knew the truth, as if he could see straight through Louis’s lies.

Louis shivered, his pulse racing. “Y-yes, sir,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

Harry’s jaw clenched, a flicker of anger crossing his features. For a moment, Louis thought Harry might snap, might lash out. But instead, Harry released his grip, his hand sliding around to the back of Louis’s neck in a gesture that was almost possessive.

“Good,” Harry said, his tone cold and final. He straightened, his expression hardening as he stepped back. “Back to work.”

Louis nodded quickly, his legs feeling like jelly as he followed Harry down the hall. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and longing, the two emotions tangled together so tightly he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

He hated this. He hated how small Harry made him feel, how powerless. But he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t let go. Because even monsters could be loved. And Louis was in far too deep to walk away.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

The home office was vast, its high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows doing little to dispel the oppressive atmosphere. Harry sat at his desk, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding, like a predator lounging in its territory. Louis was perched at a smaller table nearby, his laptop open, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked.

He was trying his best—he always did. Louis craved validation from Harry, needed it like oxygen. A single word of praise, a nod of approval, anything to ease the gnawing ache in his chest. But today, Harry was relentless.

Every task Louis completed, every document he prepared, Harry scrutinized with a cold, calculating eye. And every time, without fail, he found something wrong. A misplaced comma, a font size that was slightly off, a margin that wasn’t quite right. The mistakes were minuscule, almost laughable, but Harry’s reactions were anything but.

“Louis,” Harry said, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a whip.

Louis flinched, his head snapping up. “Y-yes, sir?”

Harry held up the document Louis had just handed him, his expression one of thinly veiled disdain. “What is this?”

Louis’s stomach dropped. “I—I thought it was correct, sir. I double-checked—”

“Double-checked?” Harry interrupted, his tone mocking. “And yet, you missed this.” He pointed to a line near the bottom of the page, his finger tapping against the paper with deliberate precision. “The spacing here is inconsistent. Did you even read it before handing it to me?”

Louis’s cheeks burned with shame, his omega instincts screaming at him to submit, to apologize, to make it right. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix it.”

Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair as if Louis’s incompetence was a personal affront. “You’ve been off all day, Louis. Distracted. Sloppy. I expect better from you.”

Louis’s chest tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He was trying. He was giving it everything he had. But nothing was good enough. Nothing ever was.

“I’ll do better, sir,” Louis whispered, his voice trembling.

Harry studied him for a moment, his gaze cold and unyielding. Then, he tossed the document onto the desk, the papers scattering slightly. “See that you do.”

Louis nodded quickly, gathering the papers with shaking hands. He returned to his table, his mind racing as he tried to focus on the task at hand. But the weight of Harry’s disapproval was crushing, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

Harry watched him from across the room, his expression unreadable. He could see the effect he was having on Louis—the way the omega’s shoulders hunched, the way his hands trembled, the way his scent soured with distress. It was exactly what Harry wanted.

How dare Louis lie to him? How dare he think he could get away with it? Harry needed to punish him, to break him down piece by piece until he learned his place. And if that meant playing with Louis’s mind, so be it.

A few minutes later, Louis approached Harry’s desk again, the revised document in hand. He placed it carefully in front of Harry, his heart pounding in his chest.

Harry picked it up, his eyes scanning the page with deliberate slowness. Louis stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, his entire body tense as he waited for Harry’s verdict.

Finally, Harry sighed, shaking his head as he set the document down. “What has gotten into you today, Louis?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t right. You’ve really disappointed me.”

Louis’s breath hitched, a small whimper escaping his lips before he could stop it. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside, his omega instincts screaming at him to fix this, to make Harry happy, to do something.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Louis whispered, his voice barely audible.

Harry leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Sorry isn’t good enough, Louis. You know that.”

Louis nodded quickly, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I’ll redo it, sir. I’ll make it perfect.”

Harry studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, he leaned back in his chair, his tone dismissive. “You better.”

Louis grabbed the document and hurried back to his table, his hands trembling as he tried to focus. But the words blurred on the page, his vision swimming with tears he refused to let fall.

Harry watched him from across the room, a small, cruel smile tugging at the corner of his lips. This was exactly where Louis belonged—under his thumb, desperate for approval, desperate for him. And Harry had no intention of letting him forget it.

Louis sat at his desk, his hands trembling as he tried to focus on the document in front of him. His vision still blurry with unshed tears. He had reworked the document three times now, each version meticulously checked and rechecked. It had to be perfect this time, it had to be.

He couldn't afford to disappoint Harry again. He couldn't bear the weight of that disapproval, that cold, cutting disdain.

When he finally finished, he approached Harry's desk with hesitant steps, the document clutched tightly in his hands. He placed it in front of Harry, his heart beating so loudly that he was sure Harry could hear it.

Harry picked it up, his expression unreadable as he scanned it. Louis stood there, hands clasped behind his back, his entire body tense as he waited for Harry's verdict.

The silence stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity. Then Harry sighed, shaking his head as he set the document down, his expression darkening.

"Louis," he said his voice low and dangerous.

Louis flinched, his stomach twisting into knots. "Y-yes sir?"

Harry leaned forward, his gaze piercing, "Do you think I'm stupid?"

Louis's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat, "N-no sir. Of course not."

"Then why do you keep handing me this garbage?" Harry snapped, his voice rising as he slammed his hand down on the desk.

Louis jumped, a small whimper escaping his lips. "I- I thought it was correct, sir. I checked it-"

"You thought wrong!" Harry interrupted his voice sharp. "This is sloppy, Louis. It's unacceptable! Do you still care about your work anymore or are you just wasting my time?"

Louis chest tightened, his eyes stinging as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away but it was too late, Harry had already noticed them.

"Crying now are we?" Harry said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Do you think that's going to help you, omega? Do you think I'm going to feel sorry for you?"

Louis shook his head quickly, his voice trembling. His omega instincts were screaming at him to submit, to apologize. "N-no, sir. I- I'm sorry. I'll fix it-"

"No," Harry said, his tone final. "You've had enough chances."

"I- I'm sorry." Louis said, pouting.

Harry's jaw clenched, his eyes dark with anger. "Sorry isn't good enough. You've disappointed me too many times today, Louis. This has never happened before! I think it's time I reminded you what happens when you fail me."

Louis's breath hitched, a small desperate sound escaping his lips. "But I checked, sir. I made sure-"

"You made sure?" Harry mocked. He stood abruptly, his chair scrapping across the floor. Louis took a step back instinctively.
"Louis," he started his voice low, "do you think I don't realize when you lie to me?"

Louis's eyes widened, "I-"

"Enough!" Harry snapped, his voice like a whip. He rounded the table, his presence overwhelming as he closed the space between them. Louis tried to move back but Harry grabbed his hand and pulled him closer.

"Bend over the desk, Louis." Harry commanded, eyes dark and tone cold.

Louis hesitated for a fraction of a second but the look in Harry's eyes left no room for defiance. He moved quickly, his hands trembling as he bent over the polished wood, his chest pressed against the surface.

Harry reached for his belt. The sound of the leather sliding free made Louis shudder his entire body going rigid with fear.

Harry stepped closer, Louis shivered as Harry placed a hand on his back. "You're going to count."

Louis nodded quickly, his voice barely above a whisper, "Y-yes, sir."

Harry's hand slipped from Louis's back, fingers digging in his ass with a possesive grip. Louis whimpered softly, his body trembling. Harry's touch was firm, unyielding and Louis could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of his jeans. Harry loved Louis's ass, always had. And now, with the tight jeans Louis was wearing that hugged his ass just right, possesiveness awoke in Harry.

"Such tight jeans," Harry mocked, his voice low. "You wear these to show off, omega? To tease everyone with what's mine?"

Louis shook his head frantically, his voice trembling as he tried to respond, "N-no sir, I- ahhh!"

The sharp crack of Harry's belt againt Louis's ass cut him off mid-sentence. Louis gasp, the pain radiating through him, sharp and stinging.

"O-one." Louis whimpered.

Harry's eyes darkened as he watched Louis squirm. He loved the way Louis submitted so easily, the way his breath hitched with every strike, the way his voice broke as he counted. Harry was feeling too possesive today.

"You think I don't know what you've been doing?" Harry said, his voice cold.

Another spank landed, harder this time and Louis whined, his body jerking forward. "T-two." He choked out, his voice breaking.

Harry leaned down, his lips brushing against Louis's ear as he spoke, "You can't lie to me, omega. I know everything. Everything."

Louis whimpered, his eyes widening in realization. So Harry did know. His chest tightened with a mix of fear and something else—something he didn't want to admit.

He hated disappointing Harry, but there was a part of him that craved his attention, this intensity. Because during this, Harry's attention was fully and only on Louis. He liked the way Harry's touch burned, the way his words made Louis feel small and pliant like he had no choice but to submit.

The third strike landed with a sharp crack, sending a tremor through Louis’s body. He gasped, his fingers clenching into fists as he screwed his eyes shut. Harry wasn’t holding back today.

“T-Three, sir,” he whimpered, his voice thin, fragile.

The blows continued, unrelenting, each one harsher than the last. The sharp sting bled into a deep, aching heat, and Louis felt himself unravel, slipping further into submission, deeper into his omega instincts. His body trembled, sweat slicking his skin as he struggled to keep up, counting through the pain.

Four. Five. Six.

No mercy. No reprieve.

By the tenth, his voice cracked into a sob, the fight stripped from him. “T-Ten,” he choked out, his entire frame shuddering. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his breath ragged and broken. He had nothing left.

A long silence stretched between them, heavy, oppressive. Then, finally, a hand—Harry’s hand—ghosted over the curve of his back, grounding him, claiming him. “You’re alright, omega,” Harry murmured, his voice still edged with authority, but softer now.

Louis remained where he was, body wrecked, mind floating. He belonged to Harry. And Harry knew it.

Harry allowed Louis a few seconds to catch his breath, his sobs soft and uneven, before the belt struck again. The sharp crack echoed through the room, and Louis let out a broken whine, his fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

“E-Eleven,” he choked, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks.

Harry didn’t ease up. The strikes came in ruthless succession, each one sending Louis deeper into submission, breaking him down, molding him into exactly what Harry wanted—what Louis needed to be. His omega instincts had taken over completely, surrendering to the dominance pressing down on him.

Harry reveled in it. Loved watching him fall apart. Loved how Louis gave himself over so perfectly, so completely.

By the final lash, Louis was trembling, his body wracked with sobs, but the tears weren’t just from pain. No—Louis cried because he had failed, because he had disappointed his Alpha. The weight of guilt sat heavier on his chest than the sting of the belt. And this psychological punishment that Harry had gave him was much worse than the spanking. By denying him any validation, Harry had hurt him much more than his belt could.

“T-Twenty,” he whimpered, voice wrecked.

The leather was finally set aside, but Harry wasn’t done. His hand found the bare skin of Louis’s back, hot and damp with sweat, fingers trailing upward in a slow, possessive caress. When he reached the back of Louis’s neck, he tightened his grip—firm, unyielding, a clear, unmistakable claim. Ownership.

Harry leaned in, his voice low, dark, laced with quiet fury. “Don’t ever lie to me again.” His fingers dug in just enough to make Louis shudder. “Disobedience angers me, omega. But lying? Lying enrages me. Do you understand?”

A desperate whimper left Louis’s lips as he nodded frantically, his entire body still bent in submission. “Y-Yes, Alpha—I’m sorry! I’m s-so sorry! I won’t do it ever again, I promise.” His voice broke, trembling, pleading.

Harry exhaled slowly, letting the moment settle, watching Louis remain exactly where he belonged—humbled, obedient, his.

Harry gripped Louis’s arms and guided him upright. His legs trembled beneath him, and he stumbled, but Harry caught him with ease, pulling him close. Louis melted into his hold, his body weak, his mind still adrift in submission. He pressed his tear-streaked face against Harry’s chest, sobbing quietly, seeking comfort.

Harry sighed. He had punished Louis before, but never like this—never this deep, this psychological. He could feel the way Louis clung to him, raw and vulnerable, stripped of all pretense. He supposed he needed to bring him back now, settle him. This was why usually he didn't punish omegas. If they did something that angered him, he just replaced them. But this was Louis and Harry couldn't just let Louis go.

“It’s fine, omega. You’re fine,” Harry murmured, his voice softer now, though the authority in it never faded.

Louis let out a broken sob. “I’m sorry.”

Harry exhaled, his grip tightening for a moment. “I know you are. It’s forgiven. Relax.”

Guiding Louis back, Harry lifted him onto the desk, ignoring the sharp whimper that tore from his throat as his freshly punished skin met the hard surface. Louis winced, shifting instinctively, but Harry didn’t acknowledge it. This was part of it—the lesson, the consequence.

Instead, he reached out, cupping Louis’s tear-streaked face, his thumb brushing away the damp trails. Louis sniffled, blinking up at him, his breath still uneven, but the worst of the storm had passed. His body sagged slightly, yielding under Harry’s touch.

“That’s it,” Harry murmured, watching as Louis’s breathing slowly steadied. He let his fingers slide down, gripping the back of Louis’s neck again, grounding him. “You’re mine, omega. And I take care of what’s mine.”

Louis whimpered, pouting, "Yours," he echoed.

Harry studied him carefully. “I think you’re smart enough to figure out this wasn’t about the quality of your work. Right?"

Louis nodded quickly, eyes flickering downward. “Yes, sir.” His voice was small, wrecked, but certain.

Harry tilted his chin up with two fingers, forcing him to meet his gaze. Louis looked utterly undone—his cheeks flushed and damp with tears, lashes clumped together, lips swollen and parted as he panted softly. His beauty was never more striking than when he was like this, broken open for Harry to see, to claim.

Something dark and possessive coiled in Harry’s chest. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Louis’s trembling lips before pressing into them. Louis melted instantly, kissing back with desperation, his arms winding around Harry’s neck as if he needed to anchor himself.

Harry allowed it, deepening the kiss, rewarding his submission. Because Louis was his—his to break, his to put back together. And they both knew it.

The kiss ignited like a spark to dry tinder, deepening with a hunger that left Louis breathless, a soft whimper escaping his lips. The air between them grew heavy, charged with a need that pulsed through their veins.

Harry’s hands found Louis’s waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring himself to the moment. He broke the kiss, but only to trail his lips down Louis’s jaw, each touch a deliberate tease, each bite a promise of something darker, more consuming.

Louis shivered as Harry’s teeth grazed his ear, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity down his spine. He understood—no words were needed. His legs instinctively wrapped around Harry’s waist, pulling him closer. Harry’s grip tightened, and in one fluid motion, he lifted Louis effortlessly, carrying him towards his bedroom.

Their lips found each other again, the kiss bruising, desperate. Harry’s mouth trailed back to Louis’s jaw, his neck, each kiss a little harder, a little more possessive. The world outside ceased to exist—there was only this: the heat, the darkness, the unrelenting pull between them.

Harry moved with effortless strength, his arms secure around Louis as he carried him through the sprawling mansion. The distance from his home office to the bedroom was considerable, but Harry didn't falter. Louis clung to him, his breath shallow, his heart pounding in a mix of anticipation and nervousness.

When they reached the bedroom, Harry kicked the door shut with a single motion, his grip on Louis never wavering. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Without ceremony, Harry tossed Louis onto the bed, the omega landing with a soft gasp against the plush sheets.

Louis moved quickly, his fingers trembling as he stripped off his shirt and jeans, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. His skin prickled under Harry's gaze, intense and unrelenting, as the alpha climbed onto the bed, his movements deliberate and predatory.

Harry didn't waste time. He leaned down, capturing Louis' lips in a searing kiss that left no room for hesitation. It was demanding, possessive, and Louis melted into it, his body responding instinctively to the alpha's dominance.

Harry's kiss was fierce, almost punishing, as if he were trying to imprint himself on Louis' very soul. Louis moaned softly, his hands gripping Harry's shoulders for balance, his body arching instinctively toward the alpha's heat. When Harry finally pulled back, Louis was breathless, his lips swollen and his chest heaving.

"You're always so eager," Harry murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble. His fingers traced the line of Louis' jaw, his touch deceptively gentle. "Do you ever think about anyone else?"

Louis blinked up at him, his mind foggy with desire. "N-no, sir," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Only you."

Harry's lips curved into a smirk, though there was something darker in his eyes—something possessive and unyielding. "Good," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You belong to me, Louis. Don't ever forget that."

Louis couldn’t forget. Not when Harry had stripped him bare, body and mind, leaving him trembling and utterly his.

Louis nodded quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. "I won't, sir," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry's smirk widened, and he leaned down again, his lips brushing against Louis' ear. "Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down Louis' spine.

Louis hesitated, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He wasn't used to being asked—Harry usually took what he wanted without waiting for permission. But now, with Harry's eyes boring into his, Louis felt compelled to answer.

"I... I want you, sir," he stammered, his voice shaking. "Only you."

Harry hummed in approval, his hands sliding down Louis' sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "That's what I like to hear," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "But you'll have to beg for it."

Louis' breath hitched, his body trembling with anticipation. "P-please, sir," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Please."

Harry's smirk turned predatory, and he leaned down, his lips brushing against Louis' in a teasing, almost cruel kiss. "Louder," he commanded, his voice sharp and demanding.

"Please, sir," Louis repeated, his voice louder this time, though it still trembled with vulnerability. "I need you."

Harry's eyes darkened, and he finally gave in, his lips crashing against Louis' in a kiss that was anything but gentle. Louis moaned, his body melting into the alpha's touch, his mind going blissfully blank. Harry grabbed Louis's wrists with one hand, pinning him down on the bed.

Harry ripped his mouth from Louis’s, only to drag it lower, kissing, biting, claiming his way down his jaw, his throat. He held Louis firm, gripping him like he might slip away—like he wouldn’t let him.

Then he reached it.

The bondspot. A dangerous place. A forbidden place.

Harry never touched other omegas there. Never. He made a point to avoid this place with other omegas, to never even acknowledge it. But Louis… Louis was different. Louis had ruined him. He had undone every ounce of restraint Harry thought he had. And now, with him trembling, crying, waiting beneath him, Harry felt like he was burning from the inside out. Louis had made him reckless. Had made him want in a way that bordered on madness.

Mine. Mine. MINE.

The urge to sink his teeth in, to break skin and brand him from the inside out, was a fire in his veins, unbearable and wild. Louis belonged to him. He needed to make sure no one could ever question it—needed to make sure even Louis couldn’t question it.

Louis’s breath hitched. His body trembled. His head tilted further, offering more. Offering everything.

And he shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew what it meant, what would happen if Harry bit down. It was dangerous. It was irreversible. He should push Harry away, should run away from him.

But he didn’t.

Because some part of him—some dark, needy, desperate part—wanted it. Craved it so badly it hurt.

Harry growled against his skin, his teeth scraping over the sensitive flesh, sending a violent shudder through Louis’s body. One bite. That’s all it would take. One sharp, brutal bite, and Louis would be his—completely. Forever.

His control hung by a thread, snapping, fraying—until, at the last second, he yanked himself back. Instead of biting, he latched onto the bondspot with his mouth, sucking hard, bruising the skin deep enough that Louis felt the ownership even if it wasn’t permanent. A punishment. A warning. A promise.

Louis let out a broken, shuddering breath, barely able to hold himself up.

Harry smirked against his neck, satisfied.

Harry moved lower, his lips tracing hot, possessive paths over Louis’s skin, kissing, biting. Every mark he left felt like a claim, a declaration that Louis was his in ways neither of them could fully comprehend.

Then he reached Louis’s stomach—and something shifted.

A deep, primal growl rumbled in Harry’s chest, unbidden, uncontrollable. His wolf stirred violently within him, something raw and protective clawing its way to the surface. It wasn’t just desire anymore. It was something more. Something that made his muscles tense and his breath hitch.

Confusion flickered through him. Why? Why did this feel so intense? Why did the act of pressing his lips against Louis’s abdomen send a surge of possessiveness so strong it nearly knocked the air from his lungs?

His hands slid from Louis’s wrists, but Louis didn’t move. Didn’t dare move. He kept them right where Harry had pinned them, submission etched into every line of his trembling body.

Harry exhaled sharply, pressing both palms against Louis’s waist, feeling the delicate curve beneath his fingers—so soft. His grip tightened, and before he could stop himself, he kissed Louis’s stomach again, biting down, marking. Again. And again.

Louis let out a wrecked whimper, his body shuddering. He didn’t understand it either—why this felt so good, why his own wolf was nearly vibrating with satisfaction at Harry’s mouth on him like this. His mind was clouded, instincts drowning out reason.

All he knew was that he needed it. That his body, his wolf, his very soul craved these touches, these bites, like something fundamental was clicking into place. Subconsciously, there was something so right about Harry marking his stomach. He didn't know why.

Harry’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Louis’s underwear, his grip firm. Without hesitation, he dragged the fabric down, stripping him bare in one swift, deliberate motion.

Louis let out a soft, broken whimper as cool air ghosted over his exposed skin, his body trembling beneath Harry’s unwavering gaze. He felt completely laid bare—not just physically, but in every way that mattered.

Harry remained fully clothed above him, towering, dominant, drinking in the sight of Louis beneath him. A slow, satisfied smirk curled at the edges of his lips as he realized just how wet Louis was. His fingers traced down Louis’s hip, reveling in the heat of his skin, in the way he shuddered at the touch. The scent of Louis's slick was prominent now, the caramel fragrance driving Harry insane.

“So wet for me, omega,” Harry murmured, his voice dripping with dark amusement.

Louis bit his lip, his cheeks flushing impossibly darker. His body betrayed him completely, instinct overriding thought, need overriding shame. He knew Harry could smell his want, could see it, could feel the way his body responded to every teasing touch, every commanding word.

And the way Harry rejoiced in it, the way his eyes darkened with approval, made Louis tremble all the more.

Because this was what Harry did to him. He reduced him to nothing but need.

Harry’s grip was firm as he wrapped his fingers around Louis’s thigh, shifting it with deliberate ease. He spread Louis open, separating his legs, baring him completely, leaving him vulnerable beneath his gaze.

Louis shuddered, his breath catching in his throat as Harry took his time, looking. Taking in everything. His expression was unreadable—calculated, almost cruel in the way he savored the moment, in the way he let Louis feel the weight of his stare.

The air between them was thick, suffocating. Louis knew he should feel embarrassed, exposed—but all he felt was want. His entire body burned under Harry’s scrutiny, under the way he held him open without a word, as if reminding him exactly who he belonged to.

A slow, satisfied smirk curled at Harry’s lips. His voice was low, edged with dark amusement.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Just look at you.”

Louis flushed at the rare praise, his chest tightening with something desperate, something needy. He craved Harry’s approval, especially after the brutal punishment he had endured. The pain, the discipline—he could take all of it. But being ignored, being dismissed? That breaks him more than anything else.

Harry’s hand trailed downward, his fingers rough and possessive as they gripped Louis’s sore, reddened ass. Louis sucked in a breath at the sensation, his body still sensitive from earlier.

Harry’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening just enough to make Louis feel it. “Your ass looks perfect like this. All red and hot,” he mused, his voice low, edged with something wicked. His gaze bore into Louis, demanding obedience, demanding submission. “Don’t you think so?”

Louis swallowed thickly, his face burning. Embarrassment curled in his stomach, but he knew he had to answer.

His voice was quiet, shaky. “Y-yes, sir.”

Harry’s smirk deepened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good boy.”

Louis’s breath hitched at the praise, his entire body trembling under the weight of it. Good boy. The words settled deep in his chest, warming something inside him that had been left raw and aching. He had needed that. Needed Harry’s approval like oxygen, especially after the punishment.

But it wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

Harry’s fingers flexed against the sore flesh of his ass, gripping, squeezing, reveling in the way Louis twitched beneath his touch. His smirk deepened as he tilted his head, watching the way Louis’s body reacted—the way his thighs quivered, the way his breath came in shallow, needy little pants.

"Look at you," Harry murmured, his voice thick with dark amusement. "So desperate. So eager for anything I’ll give you."

Louis swallowed hard, humiliated by how true it was. His body knew what it wanted, what it needed, even if his mind screamed that he shouldn’t be like this. That he shouldn’t crave this.

But he did.

God, he did.

"It's pathetic," Harry murmured, his voice thick with condescension, his hands moving away from Louis's ass, dragging his fingers up Louis’s inner thigh. Louis gasped at the contact, his body arching instinctively toward the touch before he could stop himself.

Harry chuckled, low and dark. "You really can’t help yourself, can you?"

Louis couldn’t. And the worst part? Harry knew it. He relished in it.

"You’d let me do anything," Harry continued, his voice calm, almost amused. "You’d take anything I give you. Even after I punished you. Even after you cried for me." His grip tightened, forcing a sharp whimper from Louis’s throat. "You’re still here, still desperate."

Louis bit his lip hard, humiliation flooding his senses. His legs felt weak, his entire body on fire with need. His instincts screamed at him to submit, to give in completely, to let Harry take whatever he wanted.

Harry’s fingers dug into his thigh, keeping him open, keeping him helpless. "Say it," he ordered, his voice low, demanding.

Louis choked on a breath, barely able to form words. "Please, sir" he whispered, his voice broken. "I—I need…"

Harry’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. "That’s what I thought," he murmured.

Harry pushed Louis's legs above. "Hold them," Harry ordered, his voice leaving no room for hesitation.

Louis obeyed immediately, his breath shaky as he gripped the backs of his thighs, pulling them up, opening himself fully. His muscles burned with the stretch, but he didn't dare falter—not when Harry was watching him like that, like he was his to do with as he pleased.

Harry exhaled, low and heavy, his gaze dragging over Louis’s exposed form with something dark, something possessive. His hands slid down Louis’s trembling legs, fingers gripping firmly, almost testing the way Louis obeyed. A sharp squeeze. A pleased hum.

Harry's gaze darkened as he took in the sight before him—Louis' body trembling, his hole puckered, pink and flushed. It was a stark contrast against the omega's pale skin. Slick glistened, pooling beneath Louis, the scent heady and intoxicating, filling the room with an undeniable, primal allure.

Harry groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and unrestrained.

Louis shuddered under the attention, his entire body tense, waiting, needing.

"So open for me. So eager. Do you even think for yourself anymore? Or do you just wait for me to tell you what to do?" Harry said.

Louis’s face burned, but shame had no place here—not when his body betrayed him so completely. He knew the answer. Harry knew the answer.

"You love this, don’t you?" Harry continued, his fingers dragging slow, teasing lines down Louis’s thighs. "Being like this. Put exactly where you belong. Under me. Waiting for me to decide what happens to you."

Louis's grip on his legs tightened. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his mind clouded with nothing but him.

Harry tilted his head, watching him carefully. His smirk was slow, knowing. "Tell me, omega," he said, voice laced with amusement. "What would you do if I left you like this? Just walked away, left you open and aching, needing me but unable to do a thing about it?"

Louis whimpered, his body thrumming with helpless desperation. He knew Harry wouldn’t do it—wouldn’t just leave him like this—but the fact that he could sent a violent shiver through him. Harry was in complete control. Over his body. Over his mind. Over everything.

"You’d stay like this, wouldn’t you?" Harry mused, dragging his fingers lightly over the sensitive inside of Louis’s thighs, ignoring the omega's hole. "Because I told you to."

Louis swallowed hard, his voice was wrecked, barely a whisper. "Yes, sir."

Harry exhaled slowly, darkly amused. "Good boy."

"You’re being so good today." Harry’s voice was smooth, almost mocking.

His fingers trailed slow, deliberate circles, teasing Louis's hole by rimming it and never quite giving Louis exactly what he needed. "Maybe I should punish you more often. You seem to learn best this way."

Louis whimpered, his body thrumming with need, his grip on his thighs tightening as he held himself open—just as Harry had commanded. His mind was slipping, sinking into that place where he belonged to Harry completely, where nothing existed beyond pleasing him.

Harry hummed, watching him carefully. "I thought I’d stay angry with you for longer. After all, disobedience isn’t something I tolerate." He exhaled slowly, fingers pressing just a little firmer. "But you’re doing so well now, omega. I might be inclined to forgive you." One of Harry's fingers finally slipped into Louis's tight, wet hole.

Louis’s breath hitched, he moaned at the sensation. His mind latched onto those words, desperate for them to be true. Forgiveness. Approval. He needed it—more than anything.

Harry tilted his head, amusement flickering in his gaze as he watched the way Louis’s body trembled. "But you really did disappoint me, you know," he mused, his voice almost thoughtful. "It was quite a shock to me—having you disobey." Harry fucked his finger in and out of Louis maintaining a rhythm and added another soon.

Louis whimpered, distress creeping into his expression. His omega hated being reminded of its failure, of how it had let Harry down. The guilt burned inside him, twisting deep in his chest, making his body tense despite his desperation.

"I-I’m s-so sorry, sir," he gasped, his voice cracking. The words came out broken, frantic—like an instinct, like a plea for redemption.

Harry exhaled slowly, as if savoring Louis’s unraveling. "I know you are," he said smoothly. "And you should be glad I find your apologies so endearing." His fingers were going in and out of Louis in a rough pace now, making the omega gasp and moan. "I’m not usually one for forgiveness. Especially not so quickly."

Louis whimpered again, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. His mind felt malleable—soft clay in Harry’s hands, waiting to be shaped into whatever he wanted.

After a few moments of Harry’s fingers working him open—rough, relentless—Louis was a mess, moaning uncontrollably, his body trembling with every calculated movement.

And then—suddenly—Harry stopped.

Harry pulled away, fingers leaving him suddenly, making him gasp at the abrupt emptiness. His body ached at the loss, his omega whining in protest, desperate to be filled again.

Harry didn’t miss the way Louis's body twitched, the way his thighs trembled, still spread so obediently. His whimper was pathetic, and Harry loved it.

Louis whined—a broken, helpless sound—his body betraying him, his hips instinctively shifting, seeking the sensation he had just lost. The absence was unbearable, his omega protesting, his whole being aching to be filled again.

Harry just smirked, watching him squirm. "So desperate. You hate being empty, don’t you?"

Louis's breath hitched, his eyes glassy with need, his entire body trembling under Harry’s gaze.

Harry raised his fingers to his lips, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Louis as he dragged them across his tongue. He moaned softly at the taste, savoring it.

"Sweet as ever," he mused, tilting his head.

Louis whimpered, his thighs twitching where they remained obediently open. His hands clenched into his tighs, his pride long gone. He needed more.

Harry hummed, pleased with the sight of him—ruined, desperate, his. Then, with unhurried ease, he finally peeled off his shirt and jeans, letting Louis see him, letting him ache for what came next.

And then—Harry moved.

Louis barely had time to think before the first hot swipe of Harry’s tongue wrecked him.

He cried out, his body jolting, his thighs instinctively trying to snap shut, but Harry was fast, he quickly gripped Louis's tighs forcing them to stay open.

A low, satisfied growl rumbled through Harry’s chest as he worked him open again, this time with his mouth, slow and devastating, ruining him from the inside out. Every stroke, every movement was precise, claiming, calculated to make Louis fall apart.

Louis was helpless, overwhelmed by the sensation, his hands scrambling for something—anything—to ground him. His back arched, his body rocking helplessly against Harry’s hold, his mind slipping deeper into that warm, dizzying place where nothing existed but this.

"Sir!—oh, sir," he gasped, his voice wrecked, barely coherent. His head tilted back, his throat exposed, his lips parted as sobs of pleasure wracked through him. His legs trembled violently, muscles burning with the effort to stay open, to stay obedient.

Tears pricked at his eyes, his body overwhelmed, lost in it—lost in Harry and Harry wasn’t going to stop until Louis forgot his own name.

Harry was relentless, his mouth working Louis over with practiced precision. Every movement—every calculated flick of his tongue, every deep press—sent shudders through Louis’s body, leaving him a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him.

Louis’s fingers clawed at the sheets, his breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. He was completely at Harry’s mercy, and he loved it. The tension in his stomach coiled tighter and tighter, his entire body taut with anticipation. He could feel himself teetering on the edge, dangling there, waiting.

"Sir—please—" Louis’s voice broke, his plea raw and needy. "I'm so close!"

Harry groaned against him, pleased. He didn’t slow—no, he only pushed Louis further, his movements growing more purposeful, sharper, giving him exactly what he needed. The pressure built impossibly high, and then—

Louis broke.

He came untouched, his cock twitching as he spilled all over himself. A shattered cry tore from his lips as his body seized, waves of pleasure crashing over him, leaving him wrecked. His skin burned, his chest heaved, and yet—he barely had time to recover before Harry was there again, his grip firm, possessive.

Louis whimpered, his body still twitching in the aftermath, his mind foggy, floating. He knew Harry wasn’t finished with him yet. He didn’t want him to be.

Harry wiped his mouth, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he looked down at the beautiful mess Louis had become beneath him.

Harry manhandled Louis, forcing him into position with an ease that sent a shiver down Louis’s spine. There was no hesitation in his movements, no room for resistance.

He spread Louis open completely, taking in the sight before him with something dark in his eyes. The air between them was thick with tension—heavy, inescapable.

Then Harry kissed him—bruising, consuming. It stole what little breath Louis had left, drowning him in sensation. He barely had a moment to recover before Harry pulled back, watching him with something possessive, something dangerous. Louis knew that look. It meant there was no mercy tonight.

A slow, deliberate pause. The feeling of anticipation was unbearable. Louis’s heart pounded against his ribs, his body trembling under Harry’s control.

When Harry finally moved, finally positioned himself and entered him, Louis let out a sharp gasp, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It was too much—too deep, too intense. He had no choice but to take it.

His fingers clutched at Harry’s arms as Harry bottomed in him, seeking something to ground him, but there was no escape. This wasn’t like before.

Usually, Harry had him on all fours, kept him where he wanted him, controlled him from a distance. But not tonight. Tonight, Harry needed to be close. He needed Louis to feel everything.

Louis sobbed at the overwhelming sensation, his body hypersensitive, overstimulated beyond reason. Harry was just so big and he was always so rough. He whimpered, barely able to form words. "I can't," he choked out, his voice raw with desperation.

Harry only chuckled, low and knowing. "You will," he murmured, his voice laced with cruel amusement. There was no softness, no reassurance—only a promise.

Louis shuddered beneath him, his body betraying him, clinging to Harry despite the protest on his lips. The rhythm built, slow at first, then faster, harder, until Louis was nothing but a trembling mess beneath him. His voice broke into desperate little gasps, pleading sounds slipping free without permission.

"Sir—" The word tumbled from his lips, wrecked, needy. Harry inhaled sharply at that, his grip tightening, his control sharpening into something ruthless.

Louis had begged before—he always did—but it never made Harry slow down. If anything, it did the opposite. It only fueled him, pushed him to take more, to strip Louis down to nothing. And Louis knew, deep down, that was exactly what Harry intended to do tonight. Break him apart and put him back together in the way only he could.

Harry moved faster, harder, his grip unforgiving as he held Louis beneath him. The air between them was thick—saturated with heat, with need, with something raw and primal.

Their mixed scent clung to the room, caramel and musk intertwining, dizzying in its intensity. It was maddening. Louis was shaking, his body open and willing, his legs locked around Harry’s waist as if anchoring himself to reality.

The bed rocked beneath them, the sheer force of it making Louis sob, overwhelmed. Every movement pushed him closer, deeper into something he couldn’t escape. He was losing himself in it, in Harry, in the brutal, consuming way he took.

Harry’s voice was rough, dark, a low growl that sent a shiver down Louis’s spine. “I’m going to knot you,” he murmured, his hands tightening on Louis’s waist, fingers digging in like he was branding him, marking him.

Louis whimpered, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Please, sir,” he gasped, his body trembling, begging without shame.

Harry moved with purpose, his focus unrelenting. And then, suddenly, Louis broke—his vision blurred, his breath hitched, his body wracked with overwhelming sensation. He came again,his muscles tensed, pleasure spiraling out of control, and he sobbed as he shattered completely.

Harry groaned as he felt Louis's hole twitching and tightening around him, he came with a moan, spilling his cum in Louis and knotting them together.

Harry leaned back slightly, the shift in movement making Louis hiss, his hole still sensitive and overstimulated. But Harry didn’t care.

A slow, deep satisfaction settled in his bones—the kind of fulfillment he only felt after fully claiming Louis, after leaving him utterly spent and ruined.

The knot kept them attached, unbroken for a long moment. Louis’s eyes were closed, his body limp, his breathing uneven as he lay beneath Harry, still bound to him in every way that mattered. He looked wrecked—shattered in the way only Harry could leave him.

As the knot loosened, Harry finally pulled away, watching the way Louis trembled from the loss of contact. His breath hitched slightly, his body still struggling to adjust, to recover. Harry’s sharp gaze flickered downward, noting how Louis's hole quivered and leaked his cum.

A smirk tugged at Harry’s lips.

He dropped onto the bed beside Louis, stretching out, feeling utterly satisfied. Usually, he wasn’t one for post-sex praise—especially if he’d offered it during. But tonight was different. Louis had taken everything Harry had given him, even the punishment. He had earned something. Nothing too soft. Nothing too much. Just enough.

“You were good,” Harry murmured, his voice low and deliberate.

Louis’s breath caught, his cheeks darkening even though his eyes remained closed. “T-thank you, sir,” he whispered, his voice weak, wrecked. His entire body was limp, utterly spent.

Harry studied him for a moment, something unspoken twisting in his chest. Tonight had been different. He wasn’t sure why—whether it was the way Louis had responded to him or something deeper, something unnameable clawing at the edges of his mind, his wolf subconsciously felt much more possesive about Louis. There was a weight to it, something more.

But he shoved the thought away.

Instead, he let the quiet settle between them, the warmth of Louis’s body beside him grounding him. And soon, Louis’s breathing evened out, his exhausted frame finally surrendering to sleep. Harry would've—should've—asked Louis to leave like he always did but he was far too tired for that. So, he let the omega stay.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

Louis woke to an empty bed.

The sheets beside him were cold, the lingering scent of Harry already fading. His breath hitched as he sat up, the morning sun cutting through the curtains, slashing across his face like a cruel reminder of reality.

A sharp hiss escaped his lips—his body ached, sore in ways that made last night feel less like a dream and more like a wound. His thighs trembled as he shifted, the dull throb between them sending a fresh wave of humiliation curling through his gut.

Harry was gone.

A strange, hollow disappointment settled in his chest. He should have expected it. He should have known better than to hope for anything more. The fact that he hadn’t been thrown out the moment it was over was already a mercy—one he hadn't dared to ask for. His fingers curled into the sheets as he forced himself to breathe, to swallow the bitter taste rising in his throat.

His gaze flickered to the bedside table. His phone was there. He didn’t remember leaving it there. Harry must have told someone—maybe a cleaner—to place it for him. The thought made his stomach twist. He reached for it, screen lighting up with a message.

"Come to the office as soon as you wake up."

That was it. No warmth. No acknowledgment. Just an order.

His fingers hovered over the screen, but before he could type a response, his stomach lurched violently. The nausea, the same relentless sickness that had plagued him for days, clawed its way up his throat. He barely had time to drop the phone before he was staggering toward the bathroom, each step sending sharp pulses of pain through his exhausted limbs.

He collapsed to his knees before the toilet, fingers clutching porcelain as he retched. His body convulsed, emptying itself as he gasped for air between heaves. His mind screamed at him, warning, pleading, but he didn't know why.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

Louis wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, the sour taste of bile making his stomach twist further. His throat burned, his body weak and heavy, but he forced himself to move. He couldn’t afford to crumble now. He got up, flushed the toilet and moved towards the sink.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he turned the tap and splashed cold water onto his face, watching as it dripped from his chin. His reflection in the mirror was worse than he expected—haunted eyes, lips too pale, skin marked from last night. He looked ruined. Used.

He clenched his jaw and reached for the extra toothbrush, dragging it across his teeth in a desperate attempt to rid himself of the taste, of the reminder. The scent of mint filled his mouth, sharp and overwhelming, but it did nothing to settle the hollowness expanding inside him.

The shower was next. He stepped under the spray, wincing as the hot water struck his sore skin, washing away the remnants of last night. He saw how his ass was pink, how there were marks all over his body, especially his stomach. His body still ached, muscles protesting every movement, but he didn’t allow himself to linger. He scrubbed himself clean—until his skin stung, until the phantom touch of hands that weren’t there faded into nothing.

By the time he stepped out, steam curled around him like a ghost.

His clothes from the night before were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a fresh set lay folded neatly on the chair by the bed. Not his—Harry’s.

Louis hesitated.

Harry had left them for him. Or maybe someone else had, under his orders. Either way, it was all he had. And a part of him, a desperate, pathetic part, clung to the idea of wearing something that smelled like him, even if it meant nothing. Even if it was just convenience.

So he dressed in Harry’s clothes, the fabric swallowing him whole.

The moment he stepped out of the room, a man was already waiting.

“Mr. Styles has requested that I take you to the office,” the driver said, tone polite but emotionless.

Louis blinked, momentarily disoriented. He hadn't even had time to think about leaving yet, and Harry had already arranged for him to be picked up. Of course he had. Harry always had control over everything.

His stomach twisted—not just with unease, but hunger. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even had a sip of water, and his body was screaming for something, anything. But he knew better than to refuse. If Harry had ordered it, he had no choice.

He nodded, swallowing back the exhaustion weighing him down. “Okay.”

The car ride was silent, the city passing in a blur outside the window. His wolf stirred inside him, restless and unhappy, whining in distress. It wasn’t the first time Louis had been ignored after a night like this. He was used to the coldness, the lack of affection.

And yet, this time, it felt worse.

Maybe because last night had been different—intense, overwhelming, something he wasn’t sure how to name. Or maybe it was something else entirely, something he wasn’t ready to face.

But whatever it was, it clawed at his chest, hollowing him out from the inside.

The car rolled to a smooth stop outside the towering glass building, and Louis forced himself to move. His body protested with every step, but he pushed through the discomfort, stepping out into the crisp morning air.

The weight of the world settled onto his shoulders the moment he crossed the threshold.

The office was alive with movement, employees bustling about, dressed in their finest, each one eager to prove their worth in the Styles' empire. The moment they saw him, greetings filled the air—polite nods, respectful smiles, murmured acknowledgments. Some were genuine. Others? Not so much.

Louis knew what they thought.

He had a job people envied, a position close to the CEO himself. Harry paid him handsomely, more than most could dream of. From the outside, it looked like a dream—power, prestige, the favor of the most powerful man in the company. But if only they knew the real cost. The extra services. The things he gave that had nothing to do with spreadsheets or meetings.

But that was corporate life. You respected those above you, whether you admired them or resented them. Especially if you resented them.

He greeted them all in return, his voice steady, his face composed. Not a single trace of the exhaustion weighing down his limbs, of the soreness burning through his body. He couldn’t afford to show it. Couldn’t let them see the evidence of the night before written into the way he moved.

But God, he felt it.

Every step sent a fresh ache pulsing through him, the reminder of last night woven into his very bones. He deserved a day off—needed one. A few more hours of sleep, food in his stomach, a few affectionate words and time to let his body recover.

But that wasn’t an option. Not when Harry had called for him.

So, he straightened his shoulders, ignored the dull, relentless pain, and walked toward Harry’s office like he wasn’t falling apart.

The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless. The soft hum of the machinery did nothing to soothe the gnawing ache in Louis’ limbs, nor did it quiet the storm in his head. He watched the numbers climb higher, each floor taking him closer to him.

The doors slid open with a chime, revealing the sleek, modern expanse of Harry’s office floor. The air here was different—colder, sharper, laced with an unspoken authority that settled deep in the bones of everyone who stepped foot in it.

Louis barely had time to steady himself before a voice cut through the quiet.

"He's waiting for you."

The employee didn’t even look up from her screen as she spoke, but the warning in her voice was clear. Louis swallowed, nodding before stepping forward.

The doors to the conference room were slightly ajar. He could see Harry inside, seated at the head of the long, polished table, exuding effortless control. His suit was pristine, his expression unreadable as he listened to the conversation unfolding around him. The other men in the room—business partners, investors, people who carried weight in this world—spoke in low, measured tones. A meeting. Of course. Louis had completely forgot there was an important meeting today, one that he absolutely had to attend and take notes.

Louis hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, he knocked.

Harry didn’t even look up.

"Come in."

Louis obeyed, stepping inside quietly, his presence barely acknowledged except for a sharp glance from one of the men at the table.

"This him?" the man asked, tone laced with irritation.

Harry finally turned his gaze on Louis. "Yes."

The man scoffed. "You should really keep your employees in check, Styles. We don’t have time to wait for people who don’t understand the importance of punctuality."

Louis stiffened, his fingers curling into the fabric of his borrowed shirt. The words burned—because they weren’t fair. Because Harry knew why he was late. They both knew. Harry knew that Louis's body probably ached, that exhaustion probably clung to him like a second skin. And still— But instead of defending him, Harry simply leaned back in his chair and exhaled.

"You're late."

His voice was cold. Impersonal.

Louis' stomach twisted painfully. He opened his mouth, desperate to explain, to say something—anything—but the weight of Harry’s gaze crushed the words before they could form.

"I don’t tolerate incompetence, Louis," Harry continued, his tone sharpening. "You know that."

Louis swallowed hard, his throat tightening.

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

Harry didn’t blink. "I expect you to be where you're supposed to be, when you're supposed to be there. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that."

Louis' nails dug into his palms. The humiliation clawed at him, wrapping around his chest like a vice. He knew this game. Knew his place in it.

"I'm sorry, sir."

A flicker of something passed through Harry’s expression—something unreadable, something fleeting—but it was gone before Louis could grasp it.

"Don’t let it happen again," Harry said, voice devoid of warmth.

Louis’ wolf whimpered inside him, curling in on itself. He lowered his gaze.

"Yes, sir."

Louis moved stiffly toward the empty chair near Harry, knowing what was expected of him. He was here to take notes, to observe, to be useful. He had no real place at this table, not among men who dictated the course of billion-dollar deals with a single word.

Still, he followed orders.

He pulled out his notepad, fingers trembling slightly as he clicked his pen open. The moment he lowered himself into the chair, pain lanced through him—sharp and unforgiving, his muscles screaming in protest.

A hiss escaped before he could stop it.

He bit down hard on his lip, trying to muffle the whimper that followed, but it was too late. The soft sound, barely audible over the conversation, reached the wrong ears.

Harry’s.

From the corner of his vision, he saw it—the flicker of movement, the subtle shift of Harry’s head. Louis kept his gaze firmly on his notepad, but he could feel those green eyes on him, burning into his skin, assessing.

And then—

A smirk.

It was barely there, the ghost of amusement curling at Harry’s lips. He tilted his head slightly, fingers tapping against the table as if considering something far more entertaining than the business discussion happening around him.

Louis swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe through the pain, through the humiliation. He knew that look. It was cruel in its satisfaction, a silent reminder of exactly why he was sore, who had put him in this state.

He gripped his pen tighter, blinking back the sting of exhaustion in his eyes, and started writing. The meeting droned on, filled with numbers, projections, negotiations that blurred together in his tired mind. He forced himself to focus, to keep up, even as his body begged for rest.

Harry never looked at him directly again. But Louis could feel him watching.

The meeting dragged on, stretching into hours of tense negotiations and sharp exchanges. Louis' pen scratched against the notepad, his fingers cramping, but he didn’t stop. He couldn't.

The men across the table—three high-ranking alphas from one of their major business partners—were ruthless. Their presence was suffocating, their commanding tones grating against Louis’ already frayed nerves.

One of them, a man named Richard Vaughn, leaned forward, his sharp gaze cutting across the room. "Styles, I don’t think you understand the gravity of what we’re offering here. We’re handing you a golden opportunity, and yet, you’re acting as if we should be grateful to be in business with you."

Harry remained composed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His expression was unreadable, but Louis recognized the warning flicker in his eyes.

"Careful, Vaughn," Harry said smoothly, voice dipping lower. "You're sitting in my building, asking for my time. I own multiple buisnesses, each making profits in the billions. Do you really think I'd care if I miss one deal in one buisness? Show some respect."

Louis shivered at the shift in his tone.

Commanding. Absolute.

His wolf curled tighter inside him, instincts pushing him toward submission, making him want to lower his head. It was the same reaction he'd had last night, the same way his body responded when Harry’s voice dipped like that, wrapped around him like steel.

He forced himself to focus.

Vaughn scoffed, clearly unfazed. "Respect is earned, Styles. If you want us to consider your terms, you need to learn how to be a bit more—" he paused, glancing toward Louis, his lip curling, "—accommodating."

Louis' grip on his pen tightened.

Harry’s jaw ticked.

"Watch your mouth." Harry said, his tone dark.

The words were quiet, but they silenced the entire room.

Vaughn raised his hands in mock surrender, but the smugness in his expression remained. "Just an observation," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Your employees should understand how important these meetings are. Punctuality is expected in this world, not something to be excused."

Louis’ stomach twisted. He knew Vaughn was talking about him. About his lateness. And once again, Harry did nothing to correct the assumption, nothing to acknowledge why Louis had been late, nothing to defend Louis.

Instead, he turned his gaze on Louis, his expression sharp.

"Do you have everything noted?" Harry asked, voice cool.

Louis' throat went dry. He nodded quickly, avoiding the eyes of the other alphas. "Yes, sir."

"Good," Harry said, then, with a slight tilt of his head, added, "Make sure you don’t miss anything. I don’t like repeating myself."

The command in his voice sent a shudder down Louis’ spine. His skin burned, his wolf restless beneath his skin, desperate to shrink under the weight of so many dominant alphas in one room.

It was too much.

Louis bit the inside of his cheek, pushing back the overwhelming sensation creeping up his spine. He was too sensitive today. His body still ached, his emotions too raw from the night before. Every sharp word, every authoritative tone, pressed against him like a hand forcing him down.

He swallowed, whispering, "Yes, sir."

The meeting continued, the tension thick enough to choke on. The alphas from the other company grew more aggressive, pushing their terms with condescending smirks, as if they knew they held power in this negotiation.

Harry, however, refused to bend. His voice remained even, but his presence commanded the room, his words slicing through the arrogance of the men across from him.

Louis kept his head down, focusing on his notes, trying to ignore the way his body reacted to every shift in tone, every low, growled command.

At some point, Harry’s foot brushed against his beneath the table.

The touch was fleeting—barely there—but it sent a fresh wave of distress through Louis’ already overwhelmed senses. He sucked in a sharp breath, shifting slightly in his seat, the soreness between his legs sparking another wave of discomfort.

A soft whimper slipped out before he could stop it.

Harry smirked.

Louis' entire body tensed. His heart pounded, shame burning through him. He knew that look—knew the quiet amusement that lurked beneath Harry’s eyes.

He’s enjoying this.

Louis ducked his head further, biting his lip so hard he nearly drew blood.

The meeting dragged on, the air growing heavier with each passing minute. By the time it finally ended, Louis felt like he could collapse right there in the chair. His muscles ached, his nerves frayed, his mind dangerously close to shutting down.

The moment the other alphas stood to leave, Vaughn shot one last look in Louis' direction, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Train your staff better, Styles. They seem a bit... delicate."

Louis flinched.

Harry didn’t react—not outwardly. But something in his expression darkened.

"Get out," was all he said.

Vaughn chuckled, shaking his head before exiting the room, the others following behind him.

As the doors clicked shut, silence settled.

Louis barely breathed, his fingers still clenched around his pen, his entire body rigid.

Louis forced his trembling fingers to set the pen down. His hands ached from gripping it too tightly for too long, his knuckles pale. Slowly, he shifted forward to stand, but the moment he pushed himself up, a wave of dizziness crashed over him. The room swayed. His vision blurred at the edges. He barely registered the sharp inhale he let out before his knees buckled.

A strong hand caught him before he could hit the ground.

The grip was firm, steady—familiar.

Louis’ breath hitched. His fingers instinctively grasped onto the sleeve of the suit holding him up, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. For a second, just a second, he let himself lean into it.

Then reality crashed back.

Humiliation. Frustration. The overwhelming feeling of being weak.

His stomach twisted, his wolf whining inside him, distressed and restless.

“I’m fine, sir.” Louis muttered, trying to shake off Harry’s hold. His voice came out sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t help it.

Harry didn’t let go.

“Clearly, you’re not.”

Louis clenched his jaw, refusing to meet his gaze. His body ached, his head spun, and the last thing he needed was to be held like this—like he was fragile, like he was something to be managed. His stomach growled, loud in the silence. The meeting had been hour's long and he hadn't ate anything.

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, mortified. A pause. Then—

“I think you should take a lunch break now, Louis.” Harry said, voice authoritative but not rude.

But it didn’t help. It only made him feel worse, because it wasn’t concern. It was an order. Just another command he had to follow. His throat tightened.

“I don’t need—” His voice wavered, betraying him, and he hated it.

Harry sighed, finally releasing him, stepping back as if he was already done with the conversation. “You have an hour.”

Cold air rushed in where Harry’s touch had been, and Louis hated how much he felt the difference.

His vision blurred, but he refused to let the tears fall. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out.

By the time Louis finally reached the cafeteria, he felt like he was walking through a haze. His head was spinning slightly from exhaustion, his limbs felt like they weren’t fully connected to his body, and his stomach twisted painfully from hunger.

He hadn’t realized just how long the meeting had gone on until he glanced at the clock—four hours. Four hours of sitting through heavy, tension-filled conversations, struggling to keep up with the rapid back-and-forth between alphas who barely even acknowledged his presence.

His entire body still ached, every muscle protesting as he grabbed a tray with slightly trembling hands. The cafeteria wasn’t too busy at this hour, but a few people glanced his way, some nodding in greeting, others eyeing him with vague curiosity.

Louis ignored them, picking up a simple sandwich and a bottle of water. He wasn’t even sure he could stomach much, but he needed something.

As he sank into a chair in the corner, his hands were still trembling slightly as he unwrapped his food.

"You okay, Louis?"

Louis startled slightly, looking up to see Sarah sliding into the seat across from him. His coworker’s brows were furrowed, eyes flickering over his face with obvious concern.

"You look pale."

Louis forced a weak smile, shaking his head. "Just tired. Long meeting, that’s all."

Sarah didn’t look convinced. Her gaze lingered, as if trying to see through the excuse, but after a moment, she sighed. "Make sure you eat. You look like you’re about to pass out."

Louis just nodded, focusing on his sandwich. He ate slowly, taking small bites, forcing the food down even though his stomach twisted uncomfortably. The hunger was there, gnawing at him, but his exhaustion overshadowed everything else.

Even after he finished eating, he still felt weak. But at least his hands weren’t shaking as much anymore.

Dragging himself back to the top floor felt like walking toward something inevitable.

As soon as the elevator doors opened, he knew something was wrong.

The air was thick—too thick, suffocating in a way that made his wolf instinctively shrink back. The sharp scent of angry alpha pheromones flooded the hallway, unmistakable and overwhelming.

And then—

"ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?!"

Louis flinched violently.

Harry’s voice—low and furious—boomed through the walls, followed by the unmistakable sound of something slamming against a table.

Louis swallowed hard, his stomach twisting painfully. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves, his body tensing up as another sharp yell echoed from inside the meeting room.

His wolf whimpered inside him.

Harry was angry.

Louis didn’t even know why—who had pissed him off, what had gone wrong—but the sheer force of it made his entire body want to curl in on itself. His legs locked up, his chest tightening as he tried to regulate his breathing, but the aggressive energy in the air was making it impossible.

He hated this. He hated the way his body responded automatically to things like this—how his instincts told him to be small, to be quiet, to submit.

He hated that he was whimpering under his breath like some weak, helpless thing.

For a second, he considered turning around, maybe hiding somewhere until the meeting was over. But that would be worse.

So he forced himself forward.

By the time he reached Harry’s office, the meeting had just ended. Louis wondered how Harry managed so many meetings in one day. The door opened, and men started filing out, tension still thick in the air. Louis kept his head down, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

But then—

Zayn walked out last.

He was tall, sharp, his dark eyes unreadable as they landed on Louis. He didn’t say a word, just nodded at him. Almost in warning.

Louis’ stomach twisted again.

Only when Zayn was gone did Louis finally step inside.

The moment he did, his breath caught.

Harry was still behind his desk, and the room reeked of fury. His pheromones were like thick smoke in the air, clinging to everything, suffocating in their intensity. His posture was tense, shoulders tight, fingers still curled around the edge of the table as if restraining himself from flipping it over.

And then—Louis’ eyes flickered to the desk.

Guns.

Not just one, but several. Sleek, polished, laid out in neat, dangerous rows.

Louis’ throat tightened.

His wolf curled in on itself instinctively, something cold and sharp crawling down his spine. He barely even realized he had stopped breathing until he forced himself to take a shaky inhale.

Harry finally looked up.

His eyes—still dark with anger—landed on Louis, and for a brief second, they softened. Only slightly.

"It's okay," Harry said, voice low, edged with exhaustion. "Don't be scared, omega."

Louis swallowed, but his body still felt stiff, locked up with the need to submit.

"I—" His voice wavered. He took another breath, steadied himself. "Can I go home, sir?"

Something shifted in the air.

"I- I know my hours aren’t done yet, but I..." He exhaled shakily, his fingers tightening around his sleeves. His eyes burned, his throat felt tight, and his body was screaming at him to just rest. "I'm really tired, sir. Please."

And then—before he could stop it—a tear slipped down his cheek.

He quickly wiped it away, humiliated.

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

But the room was silent.

The tension from before was still there, still thick, but Louis could feel something else beneath it now. Something quieter.

Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. His jaw was still tight, but when he finally spoke, his voice was calmer.

"Yeah." A pause. "You can go."

Louis let out a shaky breath, nodding quickly. " Thank you. I—I can take a pay cut for this time, sir—"

Harry’s eyes darkened, he sighed. "I’m not cutting your pay, Louis."

Louis hesitated, lips parting slightly, but he didn’t argue. He just nodded again, still looking unsteady.

Harry leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose.

"Leave with my driver." His voice was firm, absolute. "I don’t want you going alone."

Louis hesitated, shifting on his feet. "...Okay, sir."

Without another word, he turned and walked out, his heart still racing.

Louis barely registered the ride home.

The driver was silent, professional as always, the car moving smoothly through the streets, but Louis’ mind was a mess. His body felt sluggish, like he was wading through thick fog, exhaustion weighing him down with every breath.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

When they finally reached his apartment, he mumbled a quiet thank you before stepping out. The moment the door shut behind him, he felt like collapsing.

His legs carried him inside on autopilot.

The apartment was quiet, dimly lit from the evening glow outside. He barely had the energy to kick off his shoes before stumbling toward the couch.

And then—he crumpled.

A broken sob tore through his throat before he could even think about stopping it.

Tears came fast, hot, sliding down his cheeks as his chest heaved. His entire body trembled as he curled into himself, gripping the fabric of his sweater as if that could hold him together.

Why did it feel so bad this time?

Harry had never been gentle. He had never been the kind to hold Louis after, to soothe him, to care the way an alpha should.

Louis had long since accepted that.

And yet—

Today felt different.

Maybe it was because of how raw everything had been last night. Maybe it was because Harry had looked at him like he was nothing in that meeting. Maybe it was because Louis had been aching all day, pushing through the soreness, the exhaustion, the hunger, and Harry hadn’t so much as acknowledged it.

Or maybe—

Maybe it was something else.

Louis sniffled, wiping at his face as his stomach twisted again, sending a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him.

That was another thing.

The nausea had been there for days now, coming in waves, creeping up on him. He didn’t understand it. The soreness made sense. The exhaustion made sense.

The nausea didn’t.

Louis pressed a hand to his stomach, exhaling shakily as another tear slipped down his cheek.

Something was wrong.

Chapter Text

The next morning came too soon.

Louis barely opened his eyes before the nausea hit—sharp, relentless, curling in his stomach like it had been waiting for him.

With a tired, resigned sigh, he pushed himself out of bed, his limbs heavy, his body still aching. The moment he stood, the nausea intensified, and before he could even think, he was running to the bathroom.

He barely made it in time.

His knees hit the cold tile as he heaved, gripping the edges of the sink for support. The nausea wracked through him violently, his stomach twisting, emptying itself even though there was barely anything left inside.

It was expected now. Like clockwork.

Louis coughed, his throat burning, his forehead pressing against the cool porcelain as he tried to catch his breath. His head was pounding, a dull, persistent ache that only made everything worse.

He stayed like that for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, willing the nausea to settle. It didn’t.

With another exhausted sigh, he pushed himself up, his limbs weak as he reached for his toothbrush. The minty taste stung his raw throat, but he forced himself to finish, rinsing out his mouth before gulping down some water.

That was all he’d have for now. No breakfast. No time. Not that he could stomach anything anyway.

His hands were still slightly shaky as he grabbed his coat, slipping it on as he stepped out of his apartment.

Work was waiting.

And he couldn't be late.

He quickly got to work, once again going to the top floor, which was both heaven and hell for him—a place of pain and pleasure. Ever since the first time he set foot on this floor, his life hadn't been the same. It had changed in such a momentous way.

The elevator ride felt endless. The smooth jazz playing through the speakers only made the silence heavier, pressing against his chest. His reflection in the mirrored walls looked tired—worn down. His pale skin contrasted against the slight redness around his eyes, a lingering reminder of the tears he had barely held back.

As soon as the doors slid open, the heavy atmosphere of the top floor engulfed him. Harry’s presence was woven into every inch of this place.

Louis barely had time to settle at his desk before he heard Harry’s voice from inside the office.

"Louis, come here."

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched against the keyboard, a second of hesitation before he stood. He quickly made his way inside, shutting the door behind him.

Harry didn’t look up at first, still focused on the papers spread across his desk. His jaw was tense, and his sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal the flex of his forearms. There was something in the air—something heavy, sharp. His natural dominance filled the room, pressing down on Louis’s already fragile state.

Louis swallowed thickly, clasping his hands together. "Yes, sir?"

Without a word, Harry slid a large stack of documents toward him. "Sort these. I need them done before the end of the day."

Louis blinked down at the huge pile.

It was a lot.

Too much.

His stomach twisted at the sheer weight of the task. He was already exhausted, his body sluggish from lack of food, lack of rest. His head throbbed. He knew there was no way he could finish all of this in time. Before, he could overwork himself to finish tasks like these but he couldn't today. He had been far too tired for far too long to complete this.

But he also knew there was only one answer he could give.

"Yes, sir."

Harry finally looked at him then, green eyes scanning his face. Louis knew he looked pale, the exhaustion surely written in the slight tremble of his fingers.

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Harry’s expression—something unreadable.

Louis didn’t recognize it.

But Harry did.

His alpha instincts flared, an unfamiliar tug in his chest. His wolf stirred, restless, a quiet voice whispering that Louis looked too tired, too unsteady. That he shouldn’t be working himself to the ground like this.

The feeling was unwelcome.

Harry pushed it down.

"Get to work." His voice was cold again, dismissive.

Louis nodded quickly, clutching the stack of documents before turning to leave.

Harry watched him go, expression unreadable. His fingers tapped against the desk once, twice—before he exhaled and turned back to his own work.

This wasn’t his problem.

It never had been.

Louis had tried his best—he really had. He’d worked through lunch, pushing himself to get everything done, but as the day neared its end, exhaustion weighed heavily on him. Despite his efforts, only a little more than half of his work was complete.

Normally, he would have stayed late to finish, but tonight, that wasn’t an option. He was too tired, too drained to keep going. He would just have to face Harry’s inevitable wrath.

With a weary sigh, he pushed back from his desk and rose to his feet. There was no avoiding it—he had to tell Harry that his hours were up, his work was unfinished, and he was leaving anyway. His body screamed for rest, his inner omega pleading for comfort, for the warmth of Harry’s arms. But that, of course, was out of the question.

Like every other day, he walked to Harry’s office and knocked on the door lightly, the sound barely audible over the ticking clock in the office.

"Come in."

His breath stuttered for a second before he pushed the door open. Harry was still at his desk, still working, sleeves rolled up, fingers skimming over a document. He didn’t look up immediately, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. The tension in the air was thick—heavy with something unspoken.

Louis swallowed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Sir, my hours are complete." His voice was quiet, carefully measured. "But I… I didn’t finish all of the work."

That made Harry finally glance up.

His sharp green eyes flickered over Louis—taking in the slumped posture, the way his fingers trembled slightly at his sides.

Louis braced himself for anger.

For cold, clipped words about how useless he was, how he should’ve finished it no matter what.

Instead, Harry just leaned back in his chair, regarding him with an unreadable expression. "And you're leaving anyway?"

Louis nodded, pulse quickening.

Harry hummed, tapping his fingers against the desk. His gaze didn’t leave Louis—not for a second. "Why?"

Louis hesitated. He could lie. He should lie.

But he was too tired for that. Besides, he had learned not to lie to Harry.

"Because I can’t." His voice was almost a whisper. His throat burned. His omega curled in on itself, desperate for comfort. "I can’t do anymore. I'm really tired, sir. I don't know why. I- I just can't."

Silence.

Louis kept his gaze lowered, his body tense, waiting for the inevitable.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, Harry exhaled slowly, something unreadable flashing in his eyes before he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Go home."

Louis blinked up at him, startled. "What?"

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained even. "I said go home, Louis. I won’t ask again."

Louis should’ve felt relieved. He should’ve been grateful.

But instead, something inside him twisted.

He didn’t know why. He felt weird. Maybe it was because Harry wasn’t yelling. Maybe it was because he wasn’t getting punished for not finishing the work. Or maybe it was because he wanted something—anything—that would make him feel like he mattered. Maybe he didn't want to be dismissed like this. Maybe he wanted Harry to ask why he was so tired today and yesterday. Maybe he wanted Harry to ask how he was coping with their sexual rendezvous a few days ago. Maybe he just wanted Harry to care.

His vision blurred slightly.

He turned quickly, before Harry could see the tears gathering in his eyes. "Thank you, sir." His voice wavered as he moved toward the door.

"Louis."

He froze.

"Driver." Harry simply reminded.

Louis swallowed, nodding before slipping out of the office.

And as the door closed behind him, Harry let out a slow breath, his fingers flexing against the desk. His wolf was restless. Annoyed.

He ignored it.

Just like always.

Louis barely registered the ride home. The city lights blurred past the car window, his mind sluggish with exhaustion. His body ached, his limbs felt too heavy, and worst of all, there was an unshakable tightness in his chest.

Something was wrong.

He knew his body well enough to recognize that. The exhaustion wasn’t normal—not even for how hard he’d been working. The nausea he’d been ignoring for days was getting worse, and the constant ache in his lower back had become unbearable.

The moment he stepped into his apartment, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch. His fingers twitched as he pulled out his phone, hovering over his contact list. He needed answers. An older omega would know what was going on.

But calling his mother was out of the question. He knew what she’d do. She’d hear the strain in his voice, she’d know something was wrong. She’d show up at his door, worrying, fussing, asking him a million questions. He didn't want to worry his mother, she deserved some peace. No, he couldn’t do that to her. She had enough to worry about.

So he did the only thing left.

He Googled his symptoms.

As he scrolled through the results, his stomach dropped.

"Fatigue, nausea, heightened emotions, sensitivity to scents, lower back pain…"

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

But as he kept reading, everything clicked into place.

Heat exhaustion. The unusual scent changes he’d been experiencing. The strange way his body had felt off for weeks now.

And then the realization hit him like a freight train.

Pregnancy.

His breath hitched. His fingers trembled as he reread the symptoms, his mind racing. It wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible. But as he thought back—really thought—he felt sick.

His last heat had been a mess. A chaotic blur of instinct and need, and—

Harry. He’d been with Harry. He hadn’t thought much about it afterward, hadn’t wanted to, because that would mean facing it. But now, as he sat here, staring at his phone, the pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity.

His breath stuttered.

His lungs felt too tight, his ribs like a vice closing in.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

No.

This wasn’t happening.

This couldn’t be happening.

But it made sense. Too much sense.

His stomach clenched, a cold, sharp panic spreading through his limbs like wildfire.

No. No, this isn’t real.

His hands shook as he swiped, searching frantically, hoping—praying—for something else.

"Can heat symptoms last longer than usual?"

"Can stress cause nausea in omegas?"

"Other causes for fatigue besides pregnancy?"

Each search spat back the same thing. The same words. The same damning proof.

It all lined up.

The exhaustion. The nausea. The way everything smelled too strong lately. How his body had felt off for weeks.

A choked sob clawed its way out of his throat.

His phone slipped from his grip, landing somewhere on the floor with a dull thud, but he barely registered it.

His vision blurred. His breathing hitched.

His chest was too tight. His heart was racing too fast, slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape. His hands dug into his arms, fingers clutching at himself, but it wasn’t enough—it wasn’t enough.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

His body curled in on itself, knees pressing to his chest as panic ripped through him, raw and vicious.

Harry.

Harry was dangerous. Ruthless. Untouchable.

And Louis was carrying his child.

His breathing turned erratic, sharp and shallow, his lungs refusing to expand.

I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t—

Tears burned hot down his face, his sobs breaking apart, each one shattering him further. His body was trembling so hard it hurt, his hands clutching at his chest like he could rip the fear out, like he could breathe again.

But he couldn’t.

His throat closed up. His vision darkened at the edges. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air too thick, his body too small to contain the sheer terror crashing over him. A broken, gasping sob tore out of him.

Louis was spiraling.

His body was trembling so hard he could barely stay upright, his arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to hold himself together, trying to stop himself from completely falling apart.

His sobs came sharp and ragged, tearing out of him like they were being ripped from his chest, like they were something violent. His breaths were uneven, desperate, wrong, his vision tilting at the edges as his lungs refused to cooperate.

This was too much. Too much.

His mind was drowning in it. The weight of what this meant, what this could be—

Harry.

Harry!

Oh, God, Harry.

The mere thought of him, of his reaction, sent a fresh wave of terror crashing over him, but this time, it wasn’t just fear—it was pain.

Because Louis loved him.

He loved him, even when he wasn’t supposed to. Even when he knew who Harry was, what he was involved in. Even when he’d seen, firsthand, the way people looked at him—the fear, the respect, the way his name alone carried a weight too heavy for anyone to challenge.

He wasn’t naïve. He knew what power looked like. What real power meant.

And yet, he had stayed.

He had taken Harry’s coldness, his unreadable silences, his sharp looks and his clipped orders. He had accepted the way Harry controlled everything—how he never let anyone get too close, never let anyone in.

Louis had endured it, had told himself he could bear it, because love was love, and his heart had never given him a choice.

But this—this was different.

He could take Harry’s sharp edges. He could take his cruelty, his ruthlessness, his world built on whispered threats and quiet violence.

What he couldn’t take—what he wouldn’t allow—was bringing a child into that world.

His child.

Harry’s child.

His sobs grew more frantic, his chest burning, his nails digging into his skin so hard he thought he might draw blood.

No.

No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

He had spent his entire life walking carefully, avoiding the cracks in the ground, making sure he never, ever let himself get trapped. And yet, here he was, standing on the edge of something he couldn’t undo.

And if it were real—if this was happening—then that meant—

No. No, no, no, NO.

His body lurched forward, his stomach twisting violently as his mind rebelled against the very thought.

It’s not real.

His breath hitched. His hands curled into fists against his temples, his entire body shaking.

It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not—

His mind clung to it like a lifeline, grasping at anything that would keep him from fully unraveling.

No, he wasn’t pregnant. Of course, he wasn't.

His body was just tired. He was overworked. He hadn’t been sleeping properly, he’d been skipping meals, pushing himself too hard, and that’s why he felt like this.

It was stress. That’s all it was.

His breathing was still erratic, but he forced himself to believe it. To swallow it down, let it settle inside him like something solid.

Because the alternative?

The alternative was too much.

Chapter Text

Harry's jaw tightened as he stared at his laptop screen, his eyes fixed on the leave request from Louis. Again.

Two days in a row now. The last time Louis had come to work was Wednesday. On Thursday, he had requested leave, and Harry had granted it—Louis had looked sick the day before, after all. But today? Another request?

Frustration simmered beneath Harry’s skin. What the fuck is going on with him?

Louis wasn’t the type to slack off. If anything, he pushed himself too hard. And Harry could tell that Louis wasn’t lying. But why was he feeling this sick?

And why did Harry even care?

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He shouldn’t.

By all rights, he should deny the request. It was against company policy—especially with such last-minute notice. Any other employee would have been forced to come in.

But before he could think twice, his fingers moved on their own, approving it.

Damn it.

He shut his laptop with a little too much force, annoyance simmering beneath his skin. He was being too lenient.

And it was all because of Louis.

Harry tried to push it out of his mind, but no matter how much work he buried himself in, his thoughts kept circling back to Louis.

It was infuriating.

By midday, he was seconds away from drafting a sharp-worded email—telling Louis he was being unprofessional and that he must report to the office tomorrow, sick or not. That last-minute leave requests were unacceptable. That he couldn’t afford to be so careless with his responsibilities.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

But his wolf bristled at the idea.

The thought of Louis—already sick—reading those words, feeling worse, maybe even crying, well definitely crying, he was a sensitive omega and Harry had made him cry more times than he'd like to admit.

Harry clenched his jaw, irritation spiking at leasthimself.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Now he was pissed off at two things—Louis, for being sick in the first place. And his own wolf, for caring that he was sick.

But beyond all that, from a business standpoint, Louis needed to be here tomorrow.

Tomorrow was when Harry was set to give him 'the document' for safekeeping. A document that, at first glance, would seem real—containing enough information to look incriminating, but nothing that could actually land Harry in jail. A carefully crafted fake.

Of course, Harry wasn’t foolish enough to tell anyone—anyone—where the real document was kept. Not even those closest to him. Trust was a dangerous thing in their world, and Harry had learned long ago that the safest secrets were the ones buried so deep that even he had to double-check they still existed.

This entire setup with Louis was deliberate. A way to throw everyone off his scent. If people thought Louis had it, they’d stop asking him about it, stop looking for it, stop wondering about it.

And the real document? t was somewhere no one—not even God Himself—could reach.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis was a nervous wreck. He had been sick all day yesterday and again today. The nausea was relentless, twisting his stomach into knots, but it was nothing compared to the sheer panic clawing at his chest. Ever since he had found out, his mind had been in freefall—panic attacks hitting him like crashing waves, each one worse than the last. Just thinking about it made his pulse race, his breath come up short.

But still, he tried to deny it. To convince himself that it wasn’t true. That it couldn’t be true. Even though, deep down, he already knew the answer.

That was why he had to go to the doctor’s office—to confirm it once and for all. He had planned to go tomorrow, but his nerves had gotten the better of him, keeping him paralyzed in his fear. But today—today—he couldn’t wait any longer.

He had to go.

The worst part was that he had no one to go with him. No one to hold his hand. No one to tell him that this wasn’t the end of his life, that he wasn’t walking straight into a nightmare. Because that’s what this felt like—a nightmare.

Louis sat on the edge of his bed, his leg bouncing furiously. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to break free from his chest. He was shaking. Not just his hands, but his whole body. His arms, his legs—everything. He was so cold, but his skin was clammy, and his stomach was twisted in knots so tight he could barely breathe.

I can’t do this.

His throat felt like it was closing up. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, trying to steady his ragged breathing, but it wasn’t working. Nothing was working. His lungs wouldn’t fill properly, his vision was tunneling, and the panic was crawling over him, sinking its claws deep into his ribs.

He hadn’t even left his apartment yet.

If you don’t go, you’ll never know.

The thought made him want to throw up. But the not knowing was killing him just as much as the truth would.

Finally, with a shaking breath, he forced himself up. His legs felt weak, barely able to support his weight. He grabbed his coat, pulling it around himself like armor, and stepped outside, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

The cab ride was a blur. He barely remembered mumbling the address to the driver, barely remembered paying, barely remembered anything except the sheer terror sinking deeper into his bones.

What if it was real?

No—he knew it was real. His body knew. He could feel it. But hearing the words out loud, seeing the proof… it would make everything final.

And then, there was Harry.

The thought of him sent a violent shudder through Louis’s body.

If he really was pregnant, what the hell was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to tell Harry? Would he even tell him at all?

Harry would be furious.

No—furious wasn’t enough of a word. He’d be outraged. He’d see it as an inconvenience, a mistake. Or worse—he’d see it as something he owned.

But even then, Louis knew. He knew that Harry would never claim him.

Never.

Louis was nothing to him. He had always been nothing to him. Just a passing thing—something temporary, something convenient. A warm body in his bed when he wanted one, but nothing more than that.

Harry didn’t do commitment. Didn’t do love.

And he sure as hell didn’t do kids.

The second he found out, he’d be furious. He’d demand Louis get rid of it, or worse—he’d see it as a problem to be dealt with, a weakness he had no intention of shouldering.

A lump rose in Louis’s throat. His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick right there in the cab.

By the time the cab pulled up to the clinic, his hands were numb from how tightly he had been gripping his hoodie. His legs barely worked as he stumbled out onto the pavement.

He didn’t remember walking inside, but suddenly, he was there, standing at the reception desk, his heart slamming against his ribs.

The receptionist barely looked at him. “Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”

Louis swallowed hard, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth. “Uh—yeah. Louis Tomlinson.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

She typed something into the computer. “Doctor Hale will see you shortly. You can take a seat.”

Louis sat. He wished he could disappear.

His foot bounced. His hands shook. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. The walls felt too close. The fluorescent lights buzzed too loud. The air smelled too sharp, too sterile.

He was going to pass out.

His chest tightened. His vision blurred at the edges.

You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have—

“Louis?”

He jumped violently, his breath catching in his throat.

Doctor Hale stood at the entrance to the hallway, her expression neutral but kind. She was a beta, late thirties, with warm brown eyes.

Louis swallowed down the panic clawing up his throat and forced himself to stand.

His legs barely carried him as he followed her into the exam room.

“Go ahead and sit wherever you’re comfortable,” she said gently.

Comfortable? There was nothing comfortable about this.

He sat stiffly, his body coiled tight. His hands clenched together in his lap, knuckles white from the pressure.

Doctor Hale studied him. “Alright, Louis. I know that you booked this appointment because you think you might be pregnant. Can you tell me what’s been going on?”

Louis tried to speak, but his throat was too tight. He swallowed hard. “I—I’ve been sick,” he finally managed. “I—I keep throwing up. I feel dizzy. I can’t eat.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I—I can’t stop panicking.”

Doctor Hale nodded, jotting something down. “Mood swings? Fatigue?”

A strangled, humorless laugh broke out of Louis’s throat. “Yeah. I—I can’t sleep. I just—I keep thinking about it, and I can’t—” His voice cracked.

His vision blurred. His hands shook. He clenched them tighter, trying to stop the tremors.

Doctor Hale’s voice was softer now. “Louis… have you been having panic attacks?”

Louis let out a sharp, broken sob.

His whole body collapsed in on itself. His shoulders curled inward, his arms wrapping around himself as he shook. Tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and unrelenting.

“I—I’m scared,” he gasped. “I’m so scared.”

Doctor Hale reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

But he was alone.

Louis sniffled, forcing himself to sit up. His breath was still uneven, his whole body trembling, but he nodded.

"I-I'm really sorry."

Doctor Hale gave him a moment before speaking again. “There's no need for you to be sorry, Louis. Let’s do an ultrasound to be sure, okay?”

Louis couldn’t breathe.

But he nodded.

Lying on the exam table, his hands twisted into the fabric beneath him, gripping tight. His body was rigid. The gel was cold against his skin, but it barely registered.

The silence stretched.

And then—

“There,” Doctor Hale murmured, turning the screen. “Look.”

Louis’s heart stopped.

A tiny, flickering heartbeat pulsed on the screen. So small. So impossibly real.

His baby.

A choked sob ripped from his throat. His hands trembled as he reached toward the screen, stopping just short of touching it. His chest ached.

“That’s… that’s my baby?” he whispered.

Doctor Hale smiled. “That’s your baby.”

Louis let out a strangled noise. His heart swelled, tears dripping from his chin. But then—the fear came crashing back.

Harry is going to kill me.

His hands curled into fists. His breath caught.

Doctor Hale’s voice broke through the storm in his head. “Louis, there’s something I need to tell you.”

He forced himself to listen.

“Since you’re unclaimed and unbonded, your pregnancy will be more difficult than most omegas’. Your body doesn’t have an alpha’s bond to stabilize it, which means higher risks for complications.” She said, her voice kind.

Louis nodded numbly. He had expected that.

“And your child,” she continued, “will also be considered at risk. Without a claim from the father, they won’t be protected in the way bonded children are. Legally, they won’t have an alpha’s claim unless their father bonds with you first.”

Louis let out a bitter, broken laugh. “That’s never going to happen.”

Doctor Hale hesitated. Then, softly, “Single parenthood is hard, Louis. And you’re young. You have options.”

Options?

Doctor Hale sighed, her gaze soft but steady. “Of course, it’s your choice, Louis. No one can decide this for you.” She studied him carefully. “But I need to make sure you understand what carrying a child as an unclaimed omega means.”

Louis wiped at his face, his fingers shaking. His chest still ached from crying, but he nodded.

Doctor Hale tapped at her tablet, then set it aside. “When was your last heat?”

Louis swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Uh—about three weeks ago.” His hands twisted together in his lap. “It—it wasn’t a full one. It was weaker than usual, shorter.” He let out a shaky breath. “I thought it was just stress.”

Doctor Hale hummed thoughtfully. “That’s common when conception happens. Your body started redirecting its focus.” She glanced at him. “Did you take suppressants?”

Louis bit his lip, guilt curling in his stomach. “I—uh—I stopped. I ran out, and I just… I didn’t refill them in time.” He looked down at his hands. “I didn’t think it would matter since I only skipped one day. I—I didn’t think—” His voice broke off.

I didn’t think this would happen.

Doctor Hale nodded like she had expected that answer. “It’s okay. What about your symptoms? Have you noticed any changes beyond nausea and fatigue?”

Louis hesitated, then nodded. “My—my scent’s different.” His fingers curled into his sleeves. “I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s off. And I—” He hesitated, his cheeks flushing. “I keep getting… dizzy. And I cry over stupid things. My skin is more sensitive, I—” His voice wobbled, and he took a deep breath. “I feel different.”

Doctor Hale nodded. “That’s normal. Your hormones are shifting rapidly. Your body is preparing to carry and protect the baby.” She reached for the blood pressure cuff and gestured for his arm. “I need to check your vitals, alright?”

Louis nodded, though his stomach twisted uncomfortably as she wrapped the cuff around his arm. He wasn’t sure why, but everything felt too real now. The ultrasound had already cemented the truth in his mind, but this—the quiet, methodical checks, the routine questions—made it feel like a process, like something that was really happening to him.

Like something he couldn’t undo.

The cuff tightened around his arm, and Louis tried to steady his breathing.

“Relax,” Doctor Hale murmured. “Deep breaths.”

He tried, but his heart was still hammering, his mind still racing.

Harry is going to hate me. I love him. I had his indifference and I could barely tolerate that. How will I ever tolerate his hate?

The thought made his chest feel like it was caving in.

The machine beeped, and Doctor Hale frowned slightly.

“Your blood pressure is a little high,” she said. “Which isn’t surprising, given how stressed you are.” She unwrapped the cuff and set it aside. “You need to be careful, Louis. Stress during pregnancy can lead to complications—especially since you’re unclaimed.”

Louis swallowed, his throat burning. “I—” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know how to relax.”

Doctor Hale exhaled softly. “I know this is a lot, but you need to take care of yourself. You’re already experiencing heightened anxiety, which means you’re more prone to panic attacks. If that continues, it could make things harder for you and the baby.”

Louis clenched his fists. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to not panic.”

Doctor Hale studied him for a moment before speaking again. “Do you have support? Family? Friends?”

Louis felt his throat tighten. "Yes." His breath wavered. "But I- I don't know how I'll tell them. I think they'll be mad.”

Doctor Hale’s gaze softened. “Louis…”

Louis sniffled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but what else could he say?

Doctor Hale sighed, but she didn’t push. “Alright,” she said gently. “I’ll be monitoring you closely. Since you don’t have a bonded alpha stabilizing your hormones, your body is going to struggle more than usual. That means you’ll be more sensitive, both emotionally and physically. Your scent will fluctuate, your instincts might become erratic, and your body will crave comfort it isn’t getting.” She gave him a pointed look. “That means you have to take care of yourself. That means rest. Hydration. Nutrition.”

Louis barely heard her. His head was spinning, her words blurring together.

Unclaimed. Unstable. At risk.

His baby. At risk.

His stomach churned. He could still see the tiny heartbeat on the screen.

And all he could think about was Harry. How angry he’d be. How much he wouldn’t want this. He would never claim Louis. Never claim his baby. And if he found out— God.

Louis let out a shaky breath, forcing his tears back.

Doctor Hale watched him carefully. “I know this is overwhelming.”

Louis let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Doctor Hale hesitated. “You’re only twenty-two, Louis. This isn’t easy for anyone, let alone someone so young.”

Louis felt his hands shake again. “I—I know.” His voice cracked. “I just—I don’t know what to do.”

Doctor Hale placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Whatever you decide, you won’t be alone in this. I’ll be here to help you every step of the way.”

"Thank you." He said.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The cab ride home was silent.

Louis sat curled into the corner of the back seat, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, his fingernails digging into the sleeves of his hoodie. His chest still felt heavy, his stomach unsettled, his mind spinning too fast.

I’m pregnant.

The words echoed over and over, loud and inescapable.

And tomorrow—tomorrow, he had to go back to work.

Back to Harry.

The thought sent a violent shudder through his body.

How was he supposed to face him? How was he supposed to look at him and pretend nothing had changed, when everything had?

Harry didn’t know. Not yet.

But Louis did.

And that was enough to make his skin crawl.

How was he supposed to stand in Harry’s office, take orders from him, be near him, knowing that this—this tiny, flickering heartbeat inside of him—belonged to him, too?

How was he supposed to keep going to work every day, knowing that if Harry ever found out, he’d see it as a mistake? As something Louis should have taken care of before it even became a problem?

Louis pressed a trembling hand to his stomach, his breath unsteady.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t.

Not after today. Not after seeing that little life inside of him. And if staying in that job meant putting himself—and his baby—closer to Harry’s world, his danger, his rage, then he couldn’t do it anymore. He’d find something else.

He needed the job—God, he needed it more than ever now—but there had to be something else. Somewhere else.

Because working under Harry, pretending everything was normal, pretending nothing had changed—it wasn’t just impossible.

It was suicidal.

By the time the cab pulled up to his apartment, Louis had made up his mind.

He was quitting.

Tomorrow would be his last day.

Louis unlocked his apartment door with numb fingers, stepping inside as the weight of everything crashed down on him all at once. The silence of his flat was suffocating, pressing against his chest, making it harder to breathe. He barely had the energy to kick off his shoes before stumbling toward the couch, collapsing onto it with a shaky exhale.

What the hell am I going to do?

His hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, the lingering warmth of the ultrasound gel still ghosting over his skin. The image of that tiny heartbeat flashed through his mind, fragile and real, and his stomach twisted.

Doctor Hale’s words echoed in his head.

"There are always other possibilities."

He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew what she meant.

The responsible, logical, wise thing would be to take one of those options. It would be smarter. It would be safer.

If he terminated, he wouldn’t have to live in fear of Harry finding out. Wouldn’t have to wake up every day knowing that the father of his child would never want them. Would never claim them.

He could get away. Leave town, start fresh, build a life where he wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder. It would be easier.

It would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it?

Wouldn’t it?

Louis’s breath hitched, his stomach twisting violently at the thought.

But how could I do that?

How could he erase something that was his?

How could he look at that ultrasound, that little flickering heartbeat, and decide that it didn’t deserve a chance? Tears burned his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them. He was so confused. He didn’t know what to do.

Everything inside of him screamed that keeping this baby was reckless, dangerous, stupid. But another part of him—the part that had stared at the ultrasound screen in awe, the part that had felt something shift inside of him when he realized what was growing inside him—that part couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

His hands cradled his stomach instinctively, his breathing ragged.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered to the empty room. His voice broke on the last word, and suddenly, he was sobbing.

Deep, gut-wrenching, helpless sobs.

He curled into himself, shaking as the weight of it all crushed him. He cried for himself. For the baby. For the impossible situation he was trapped in.

And eventually, exhaustion took over. His body sagged, his cries turning into broken little gasps until sleep finally pulled him under. But even in sleep, the fear didn’t leave him. It never would.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

Louis woke up to the overwhelming lurch of his stomach, barely making it to the bathroom before he collapsed to his knees, gagging over the toilet. His body trembled, his skin clammy with sweat, his throat raw as he heaved until there was nothing left. Tears pricked his eyes as he clutched the porcelain, panting, his head spinning.

He expected this now but it was still awful. God, he was so tired.

His body ached in a way he had never known before. His skin was too sensitive, his emotions too sharp, his entire existence felt like it was too much.

And yet, he still had to go to work.

Still had to see him.

Still had to stand in front of Harry and pretend like everything inside of him wasn’t completely falling apart.

His hands shook as he wiped his mouth, forcing himself to stand.

He had no choice.

--------------------

Walking into the top floor felt suffocating.

His limbs were heavy, his head light, the scent of coffee and paper thick in the air, but none of it was strong enough to drown out the one scent he couldn’t escape.

Harry.

The closer he got to his office, the stronger it became.

It wrapped around him, inside him, sinking into his lungs, his bloodstream, his very bones.

It should have made him sick.

Instead, it made him crave.

It was awful.

Because Louis knew—he knew—he would never have it.

Never be allowed to reach for it, to sink into it, to be what his body so desperately wanted to be.

Because Harry didn’t want him.

Didn’t care.

Didn’t even like him.

And he was about to be reminded of exactly that.

Louis sucked in a sharp breath before stepping into Harry’s office.

Harry didn’t look up.

"You finally decided to show up," he muttered, his voice low, sharp.

Louis flinched.

He couldn’t help it.

His emotions were too raw, his body too sensitive, everything too much.

“I—I’m sorry,sir," he whispered, voice barely there. “I wasn’t feeling well, I—”

Harry slammed his laptop shut.

Louis jumped, his entire body tensing, his stomach twisting violently.

His hands instinctively moved to cradle his stomach, as if shielding the tiny life inside him from the sheer force of Harry’s anger.

"You weren’t feeling well?" Harry’s voice was razor-sharp, cutting through him like a blade.

Louis sucked in a breath, his heart hammering.

Harry stood, his chair scraping against the floor as he stalked around the desk, his presence commanding, his scent overwhelming.

His heat, his energy, his dominance pressing into every inch of the room.

And Louis hated it.

Hated how much he wanted it.

Hated how the closer Harry got, the more his body reacted, the more something deep inside him yearned.

"You think I owe you that time off?" Harry’s voice was low, venomous.

Louis quickly shook his head, his fingers curling tighter against his stomach, as if his own touch could provide some kind of protection.

Harry scoffed.

"You disappeared for two days. Two days, Louis. Without warning, without a damn explanation. Do you know how fucking useless that makes you?"

Louis squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second.

He couldn’t handle this.

His hands stayed firm over his stomach, as if that alone would keep his baby safe from the venom in Harry’s voice, from the tension crackling through the air.

"I did it as a favor," Harry continued, voice hard. "And I don’t give second favors. If you ever pull this shit again, don’t bother coming back."

Louis’s vision blurred.

His breath came too fast, too shallow, his body trembling under the sheer weight of Harry’s presence.

But underneath the fear, the exhaustion, the nausea, was something else.

Something worse.

A deep, aching need.

Because this was as close as he’d ever get.

This anger, this attention, this moment—it was all he’d ever be allowed to have.

And it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

But he still had to swallow it all down, force it deep inside him where it would rot and fester and destroy him.

“I—I understand, sir," he whispered, his voice barely holding steady. “I won’t take time off again. I’m sorry.”

Harry scoffed.

"Yeah, whatever," he muttered, stepping back. "Just get me my coffee and start on the reports before I regret letting you come back at all."

Louis nodded weakly, barely holding himself together as he turned on shaky legs and stumbled out.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, his body sagged, his hands still pressed protectively over his stomach as he exhaled shakily.

It was too much. Too close. Too painful. He couldn’t do this.

Louis moved on autopilot, his limbs heavy, his breath shaky as he prepared Harry’s coffee. His hands still trembled slightly as he placed the cup on a tray, carrying it to Harry’s office.

He stepped inside cautiously, placing the coffee down in front of Harry, waiting for some sort of acknowledgment.

But Harry didn’t even look at him.

Not a glance. Not a word.

Louis swallowed the lump in his throat, nodded to himself, and turned back toward his desk, forcing himself to focus.

The reports. He had to get the reports done.

He tried—he really tried—but his head was pounding, and his stomach was still uneasy, his body too exhausted to function properly. His fingers ached from gripping the pen too hard, his brain sluggish as he forced himself to concentrate.

By the time he gathered the reports and brought them back into Harry’s office, he already knew they weren’t up to Harry’s standard. But he still had to try.

Louis knew it was coming.

He knew the moment he placed the reports on Harry’s desk and stepped back, his hands curling into the hem of his sweater, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears.

Harry barely spared him a glance before he picked up the first page.

Silence.

Louis held his breath.

The only sound in the room was the faint scratch of paper as Harry flipped to the next page. Then the next. Then the next.

And with each page, Louis could see the anger building.

Harry’s jaw clenched tighter, the muscle ticking with each passing second. His fingers—adorned with thick silver rings, each one heavy and sharp—curled around the paper with an unforgiving grip. The HS ring on his index finger glinted under the office lights as his knuckles turned white.

His nostrils flared, his lips twisting into something cruel.

Then, without looking up, he let out a low chuckle.

Louis’s stomach dropped.

“Oh,” Harry murmured, voice thick with amusement. Mocking. “This is adorable.”

Louis swallowed hard.

“Really, Louis?” Harry finally looked at him, green eyes sharp and cold, glinting with something mean. “This is the best you could do?”

Louis’s throat tightened.

“I—I tried, I—”

“Oh, you tried?” Harry cut him off, tossing one of the pages onto the desk with a scoff. “Well, that makes it so much better. Really, I should just be grateful you managed to put pen to paper, right? Since apparently, even that is too fucking difficult for you.”

Louis flinched, his fingers curling into his sweater. His entire body felt too tight, too sensitive, his wolf—the part of him that needed comfort, that craved stability—shrinked back in distress.

Harry’s scent was all around him, thick and heavy, pressing into his skin, into his lungs. It was suffocating.

And then—

Harry’s smirk dropped.

His amusement vanished.

And in its place was something dangerous.

His jaw locked, his fingers curled tighter into fists, his breath deepening as he flipped through the pages again.

Louis could see it—the way his body tensed, the way his fingers twitched, the way his eyes darkened with every mistake he caught.

The anger cracked through him, seeping into the air like wildfire, uncontrolled and suffocating.

And then—snap.

"Redo it all again, Louis!"

Harry threw the stack of papers at him.

Louis barely had time to react before they hit—sharp edges smacking against his cheek, his nose, flying in all directions, scattering across the floor like fallen leaves.

His breath hitched, his heart lurching as he stood there, frozen in place, trembling.

But Harry wasn’t finished.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he snapped, shoving back from his desk so hard his chair scraped against the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Louis flinched again, his body curling in on itself. His stomach twisted violently, his omega aching from the sheer force of Harry’s anger.

It was too much. Too loud. Too strong. And yet—

Harry’s eyes flickered. Just for a second.

They dropped—barely noticeable—to the way Louis’s hands had instinctively moved to cradle his stomach, as if shielding himself.

A muscle ticked in Harry’s jaw. His fingers twitched at his sides. His nostrils flared.

Louis knew what was happening. He could feel it. Harry’s instincts were reacting. The wolf inside Harry was taking mercy on Louis, on his trembling scared figure. His alpha was reacting. To Louis's weakness, his sickness.

And the realization must have enraged Harry because, suddenly, he took a step back, exhaling sharply through his nose as he ran a hand through his curls, his rings glinting under the harsh lights.

“I don’t have time for this shit,” he muttered, voice tight. Controlled. His movements were sharp, agitated, his body practically vibrating with tension.

Then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the office. The door slammed behind him.

Louis stood there. Still trembling. Still breathing him in. Still feeling the burn of his words, the weight of his anger, the crushing ache of his own helplessness. And then, slowly, he sank to his knees.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the scattered papers, his vision blurring, his omega curling in on itself, exhausted and done.

Because this wasn’t just about the reports. It was about everything. The way Harry had looked at him. The way he had noticed his weakness.

The way his wold had cared, even for a split second. And Harry had hated himself for it. Hated his wolf for caring for Louis.

Louis blinked rapidly, forcing his tears back as he swiped at his cheeks, but the warmth of them still clung to his skin. His hands trembled as he gathered the scattered pages, his breath shuddering as he forced himself to move, to breathe.

His body was too tired, his heart too fragile, his omega instincts screaming for comfort, for safety—for an alpha who would never be his.

He gripped the reports tightly, crumpling the edges as he pushed himself up. His legs felt weak, his head light, but he made his way to his small office, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

His fingers hovered over his keyboard, his stomach twisting.

Resignation Letter.

The words blurred in front of him as he started typing, each keystroke heavy, final.

He had to leave.

For himself.

For his baby.

For the tiny, fragile life inside him that deserved better than this.

His breath hitched, another tear slipping down his cheek as he typed the words—his official goodbye to Harry Styles.

A few hours passed, but Louis barely noticed.

The office was silent except for the soft clicks of his keyboard, the only sound keeping him grounded. His fingers trembled, his vision blurred with exhaustion, but he forced himself to finish. He stared at the words on the screen, his heart hammering.

With a deep breath, he printed the letter, gripping it tightly in his sweaty palms as he made his way to Harry’s office.

His heart pounded harder with every step, his fingers curling around the paper as he hesitated in front of the door. Breathe, Louis. Just breathe.

Finally, he knocked.

“Come in,” came the sharp reply.

He pushed the door open, stepping inside—and immediately regretted it.

The thick scent of smoke hit him, cloying and strong, wrapping around him like a vice. His stomach flipped, nausea creeping up his throat, but he forced himself to stand still, to stay composed.

Harry sat behind his desk, a cigarette between his fingers, his rings gleaming under the dim lighting. The office was filled with the scent of burning tobacco, heavy and suffocating, curling around Louis like a cruel reminder of everything that made Harry him.

Harry’s eyes flicked up lazily, scanning Louis with a look of mild disinterest. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his sharp green eyes flickering up to Louis when Louis coughed in discomfort due to the smoke.

Harry noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Louis felt it—the brief flicker of awareness in Harry’s gaze, the way his nostrils flared slightly, the way his fingers twitched as if considering putting the cigarette out.

But he didn’t.

“About time,” he muttered, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. His lips parted, exhaling smoke into the air. “You finally finished the reports?”

Louis swallowed hard. His fingers clenched tighter around the letter.

He shook his head. “No. I—”

Harry raised a brow.

Louis hesitated. His pulse pounded in his ears.

Harry exhaled another stream of smoke, tapping the cigarette against the edge of a crystal ashtray.

“If you’re not done with the reports, why the fuck are you here?” he asked, voice edged with irritation. “I actually had something important for you to do. A document I had to give you. But I should’ve known better than to expect you to be useful.”

Louis flinched. His stomach curled in on itself. The insults shouldn’t hurt anymore. They shouldn’t make him feel small, weak. But right now, standing in front of Harry, carrying his child, knowing he was about to walk away forever—

They did.

They cut.

Louis’s hands were clammy against the letter as he slowly stepped forward, placing it carefully on the desk.

Harry barely looked at it.

“What’s this?” he asked, uninterested, lifting the cigarette to his lips again.

Louis opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

His heartbeat thundered, his stomach twisted.

He’s going to be angry.

He’s going to—

“It’s my resignation,” he finally whispered.

Harry stared at him.

For a moment, silence filled the room—thick, suffocating, like the calm before an explosion. The air crackled with tension, the weight of unsaid words pressing down like a storm about to break.

Then, Harry moved.

It was sudden.

The cigarette was snuffed out in the ashtray, crushed so hard between his ringed fingers that the embers crackled before dying out. Then, he shoved back from his desk, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, the sound grating against Louis’s ears.

Louis flinched.

Harry’s entire body tensed, his broad chest rising and falling in deep, angry breaths, his jaw clenched so tight that a muscle ticked in his cheek.

His eyes—sharp, piercing, wild with something Louis couldn’t name—burned into him.

“The fuck did you just say?” His voice was low, rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

Louis’s throat tightened, a whimper catching in the back of it.

“I—”

“You think you can just quit?” Harry’s voice snapped through the air like a whip, cutting Louis deep. “You think you can just fucking walk away?”

Louis sucked in a shaky breath. His omega curled into itself, desperate to escape, desperate to hide. His instincts screamed at him to run, to submit, to do anything to make the anger stop—but his feet wouldn’t move.

“I—sir, please, I just—”

A loud crack shattered the silence as Harry’s palm slammed against the desk.

Louis jumped.

“No,” Harry snarled, his voice dripping with rage. His fingers curled into fists, his rings pressing hard against his skin, his breathing erratic, dangerous.

“You don’t just get to leave,” he spat, voice rough and dark. “Not like this. Not without my fucking permission.”

Louis’s stomach churned. His vision blurred. His whole body shook. Of course. Of course, Harry saw it that way. Not as his decision. Not as his right. But as Harry’s loss. His control. His property.

Tears burned in Louis’s eyes, hot and unrelenting, his hands trembling as he tried—failed—to steady himself.

His fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms, his entire body coiling with pain and exhaustion as he forced the words out.

“Why do you care?” His voice was barely above a whisper, cracked, broken.

Harry stilled.

Louis’s lips trembled. His whole body shook like a leaf in the wind, his vision blurring from the sheer weight of his emotions.

“Why does it matter to you?” he whispered, voice thick with despair. “You don't care about me.” His breath shuddered, his chest rising and falling with unsteady, gasping sobs. “You can get a better assistant than me. A better employee than me.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. His fingers twitched at his sides, his shoulders bunching like he was holding himself back.

Louis let out a wet, bitter laugh—hysterical, hopeless, shaking his head as he blinked through the tears spilling down his cheeks.

“And you can definitely get a better omega than me to warm your bed.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, raw, fragile, like something ready to shatter. “I know all those models, all those perfect omegas, dying to be with you. I see them. I smell them.” His breath hitched, his shoulders trembling so violently he thought he might collapse.

Harry’s hands twitched—his fingers curling, then uncurling, a flicker of something crossing his face.

Louis let out a broken sob, his entire body wracking with it.

“I’m nothing.”

The words fell from his lips, defeated, empty, final.

And that—that—did something to Harry.

But Louis wasn’t done.

His hands shook, his breath came out in ragged gasps, but he forced the words out, his voice raw, trembling, yet burning with the ache of months of silence.

“I’ve taken everything from you,” he choked out. “Every insult. Every fucking cruel word. Every time you looked at me like I was worthless.” His voice cracked, but he kept going, his heart hammering against his ribs, his stomach twisting violently.

“You’d fuck me and leave me there like I was just—just some toy for you to use.” Louis’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling. “You’d never hold me. Never fucking stay.” His throat felt like it was closing, like he was choking on all the words he should have said months ago.

Harry’s jaw ticked, his lips parting like he wanted to speak, but Louis wouldn’t let him.

“And I took it,” Louis continued, voice rising, breaking. “I took it all because I loved you. Because I thought—” A sob wracked through him, his knees almost giving out. “I thought maybe one day you’d care.”

Harry’s breath hitched. Eyes wild as he just stared at Louis.

Louis laughed, a wet, bitter sound, shaking his head. “But you never fucking did.” His voice was cold now, sharp like broken glass. “You’d walk into a room reeking of another omega, and I’d pretend I didn’t smell it. I’d let you use me anyway because I was fucking pathetic.”

Harry’s hands twitched at his sides, his fingers curling like he wanted to grab something, to stop this, to undo it—but he couldn’t.

“You broke me,” Louis whispered, tears spilling freely now, his entire body shaking. “And I let you.”

Harry felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

His own chest was heaving now, his pulse hammering in his ears, his body rigid, tense like a loaded spring.

Louis’s scent was overwhelming—thick, crushing with grief and devastation, wrapping around Harry like a vice, suffocating him.

His wolf howled inside him.

Mine, it snarled. Hurting. Ours. Fix it.

But he couldn’t fucking move.

Because for the first time—maybe in his entire life—Harry didn’t have control.

He felt it. The weight of everything Louis had said, like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him, leaving him raw, exposed, bleeding.

He wanted to say something. Needed to say something.

But before he could—

Louis took a step back.

A tear slipped down his cheek, his blue eyes filled with something dark, something so final it made Harry’s stomach turn.

“This—” Louis let out a shaking breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “This hurts too much.”

“Louis—”

“I—” Louis choked, his voice nothing more than a rasp, wrecked and fragile. His breath hitched, his entire body shaking as he clutched at himself, arms wrapped tight like he was trying to hold himself together.

Harry watched, his jaw locked, his chest rising and falling with deep, furious breaths. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to grab, to hold, to force him to stay.

Louis could feel it. Could smell it in the air—the raw, burning anger rolling off Harry in waves. The suffocating dominance pressing down on him, making his already weakened body tremble worse. Tears spilled freely down Louis’s cheeks, his entire form wracked with quiet, shuddering sobs. His omega had given up, curling into itself, instincts screaming for submission, for mercy.

And so he begged.

“Please,” Louis whimpered, his voice so small, so weak, that it barely cut through the thick, suffocating tension between them. His lashes fluttered, tears slipping down like fragile glass, his lips quivering as he looked up at Harry.

“Please,” he whispered again, voice breaking entirely. His legs felt like they’d give out, his body swaying slightly, exhausted, fragile. “Alpha—” His throat closed around the word, his entire form shivering as he dropped his head slightly in submission. “Please, have some mercy on me.”

Harry’s nostrils flared. His pupils dilated. His entire body bristled, his wolf snarling, furious but then— Louis’s scent shifted.

The sharp sting of his tears, the rawness of his sorrow, the quiet, breaking surrender in his voice. Harry’s wolf stilled. Louis felt it happen.

Felt the way the air shifted, the way Harry’s body locked up, the way his breathing hitched as his wolf took control.

And it was not Harry who finally took mercy on Louis. It was his wolf.

Because an alpha—no matter how possessive, no matter how fucking furious—didn’t, couldn't deny a plea like that.

Harry gritted his teeth, his fists clenching so tightly that his rings bit into his skin, his body still shaking with the force of his restraint.

He could feel his wolf holding him back, stopping him from reaching out, from grabbing what was his.

Louis sobbed. A small, wrecked sound—pained and desperate. And then, he turned. And walked out. The door clicked shut.

Harry stood there,, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched, his nails digging into his palms as his wolf settled but his rage did not.

Louis was gone.

And Harry did nothing to stop him.

Chapter Text

Midnight had come and gone, yet Harry remained in his office, motionless, trapped in the dim glow of his desk lamp. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey, the glass in his hand nearly empty, the bottle beside it already half-drained. He should have left hours ago. But something kept him here. Something he couldn't shake.

Louis.

The name alone sent a sharp ache through his chest. Louis and his damned words, ringing over and over in his mind like a curse.

"Because I loved you."

Harry exhaled sharply, the burn of whiskey trailing down his throat as he swallowed it in one go. Love. No one had ever said that to him before. No one. Not once in his entire, wretched life. And yet, Louis—young, naive, foolish Louis—had. A twenty-two-year-old omega with eyes too bright, too full of something Harry had never been able to hold on to.

Why? What was there to love? He was nothing but ruin wrapped in a man’s skin, a hollowed-out thing made of sharp edges and ghosts. Louis should have known better.

He scoffed, the sound hollow in the empty room. Louis shouldn’t have loved him. It was stupid. Reckless. A mistake.

And yet, it was the only thing Harry could think about.

Harry exhaled a slow, shuddering breath, dragging his hands over his face as if the motion could scrub away the ache settling deep in his chest. He couldn’t let Louis go.

There was something about the omega, something impossible to define yet utterly consuming. It wasn’t just his voice, soft and warm like honey melting on his tongue. It wasn’t just his scent, sweet and maddening, wrapping around Harry like a whisper of home he had never known. It wasn’t even the way he smiled, the way it carved through the darkness inside him, leaving something raw and aching in its wake.

It was all of it. It was him.

And deep within Harry’s soul, something far more primal stirred. His wolf—restless, relentless—already teetering on the edge. It had never approved of how he treated Louis, had never understood the distance Harry forced between them. But this? The thought of losing him? Unthinkable. His wolf had already decided.

Louis was theirs.

Harry clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around the empty glass. He had spent his entire life letting go—of people, of emotions, of anything that made him weak. But Louis…

Louis, he could never let go.

Harry’s grip on the glass tightened, his knuckles whitening as a storm raged inside him. The thought of Louis walking away—leaving—sent something sharp and savage tearing through his chest. He couldn't allow it.

Slowly, with the precision of a man calculating his next move in a deadly game, he reached for his phone. His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, then, with a quiet exhale, he pressed the call button.

It rang twice before a gruff voice answered.

“Boss?”

Harry’s voice was calm, controlled, but beneath it lay something lethal. “Keep an eye on Louis.”

A pause. “You want him followed?”

“I want him watched.” Harry leaned back, staring at the ceiling as shadows flickered across it. “I want to know where he goes, who he talks to, what he does—every damn detail.” His fingers drummed against the desk. “And if anything seems off… I want to know immediately.”

The man on the other end hesitated. “Understood. You think there’s a threat? We'll have Adonis keep an eye on him again.”

Harry closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. Yes. But not the kind his men would understand. The real threat was Louis leaving. And that was something Harry couldn’t afford.

His wolf snarled in agreement.

“Just do it,” he said coldly, then ended the call.

He let the phone drop onto the desk, exhaling slowly. The room was silent again, save for the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows. The whiskey no longer burned in his throat—it was nothing compared to the fire inside him. Louis was his. And Harry would make damn sure he never forgot it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis had wanted today to be a nice day. He didn’t care that he still felt sick in the morning. He didn’t care that his omega was aching, restless. And he certainly didn’t care that he needed Harry. Nope.

Today was about him.

For the first time in days, he ate a proper, balanced breakfast—something warm and filling instead of coffee and half-hearted bites of toast. He drank plenty of water, stretched, and even sent out his résumé to multiple companies. He had been productive. That was something, right?

Now, wrapped snugly in his coat, he wandered through the city streets, taking in the soft glow of twinkling Christmas lights. December had always been his favorite time of year—there was something magical about it. The air was crisp but not unbearably cold, and the scent of pine and cinnamon lingered in the air.

His music played quietly in his ears, something gentle and slow, matching the rhythm of his steps. When he passed a small flower shop, he couldn’t help but stop, drawn in by the delicate beauty of the blooms in the window.

So pretty.

A smile curled at his lips as he leaned in, breathing in the soft, sweet scent. He had always loved flowers—there was something so simple yet special about them. The way they brightened up a room, how they carried the quiet promise of warmth, of care. He had never received them though. He hoped one day he would.

For a moment, he just stood there, soaking it all in.

And for the first time in a while, he felt light.

Louis felt a gaze on him. A quiet sort of attention, curious but unintrusive.

Lowering his eyes, he found a little girl standing a few feet away, staring at him with wide, fascinated eyes. She looked to be around six or seven, her dark hair woven into beautiful dreads adorned with tiny beads that caught the light when she moved. There was a shy but radiant smile on her face, as if she was trying to work up the courage to say something.

Louis’s heart melted instantly. He had always loved kids.

He offered her a warm smile, and after a moment, she spoke—soft and a little hesitant.

“Hi.”

Louis’s smile widened. “Hi!”

The girl shifted on her feet, clutching the edge of her coat. “M-my name’s Amara,” she said, voice small but determined.

“Amara,” Louis repeated, chuckling lightly. “That’s a beautiful name. It’s very nice to meet you—I’m Louis.” He held out his hand, and she hesitated for only a second before slipping her tiny fingers into his for a shake.

As their hands parted, Louis tilted his head slightly, amused but curious. Why was she so interested in him?

Whatever the reason, he didn’t mind one bit.

“You’re pretty,” Amara said, her voice sweet and certain.

Louis blinked, caught off guard, before a soft blush dusted his cheeks. He let out a small laugh, touched by her sincerity.

“Thank you, Amara,” he said warmly. “That’s very high praise coming from you, because you’re the cutest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Amara giggled, her eyes shining. “Really?”

Louis nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! The cutest. No competition.”

She beamed, clearly delighted, and Louis couldn’t help but smile back.

Just then, the door to the flower shop swung open, and a woman—elegant and striking, likely in her early thirties—rushed out, a bouquet clutched in one hand.

“Amara! There you are!” she called, hurrying toward them. “I told you not to run off like that.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Amara mumbled, shuffling her feet. “The flowers outside were really pretty.”

Louis smiled as he took in the resemblance between them. The same bright eyes, the same warmth in their features—it was clear they were mother and daughter.

Then, with the excitement only a child could muster, Amara grinned and announced, “And Louis said I was cute!”

At that, her mother’s gaze snapped to Louis. Her expression was sharp at first, guarded, but then it softened into something more apologetic as she sighed.

“Was she bothering you, sir? I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to teach her about stranger danger and not to talk to people in public, but she just doesn’t listen.”

Louis quickly shook his head, hands raised in reassurance. “Oh, no, don’t worry. She wasn’t bothering me at all! She’s a sweetheart.”

Amara beamed proudly, and her mother let out a breath of relief, giving Louis a small, grateful smile.

Vanessa smiled. “I’m glad. My name’s Vanessa, by the way.”

“Louis,” he introduced himself with a friendly nod.

Vanessa glanced down at Amara, her expression turning gently stern. “You’re lucky you ran into such a sweet omega. It could’ve been a mean alpha, Amara. Or even a mean omega. You can’t just run up to strangers like that.”

“I’m sorry, Mom!” Amara pouted, eyes wide and pleading. Then, as if remembering something far more important, she added, “Do I still get hot chocolate?”

Louis chuckled as Vanessa let out a long-suffering sigh. “Sure,” she relented. “Can’t say no to you, can I?”

As Louis listened, he realized he was craving hot chocolate too. Ever since he found out he was pregnant, he had been avoiding coffee—his usual comfort drink. Lately, though, he’d started craving sweeter things. And right now, hot chocolate sounded absolutely perfect.

“I was actually just about to get some hot chocolate too,” Louis said, smiling.

Vanessa glanced at him with a friendly smile. “Care to join us? We always get ours from the café down the street.”

Louis’s eyes lit up, a little too eagerly. “Me too!” he blurted, then flushed slightly. That was his favorite café.

Vanessa laughed. “Well then, let’s go! You clearly have great taste—and you were sweet to my daughter. That’s reason enough for me to owe you a hot chocolate.”

“Oh, no,” Louis said quickly, shaking his head. “I’d love to join you, but you really don’t have to pay for me.”

“Nonsense,” Vanessa said with a playful wave of her hand. “I do. Now come on.”

Before Louis could protest again, she was already ushering him forward, Amara giggling beside them as they made their way toward the café.

The café was cozy, filled with the comforting scent of roasted coffee beans and melted chocolate. Soft holiday music played in the background, and twinkling fairy lights hung from the ceiling, adding to the festive atmosphere.

Vanessa led them to a corner table while Amara practically bounced in excitement. After ordering their drinks—rich, creamy hot chocolates with whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon—they settled in, the warmth of the mugs seeping into their fingers.

“So, Louis,” Vanessa said, taking a sip of her drink, “tell me about yourself. What do you do?”

Louis hesitated for a moment, stirring his hot chocolate. “Well… I was working, but I left my job recently. Been trying to figure things out since.”

Vanessa gave him a knowing look. “That sounds tough.”

Louis exhaled softly, watching the steam rise from his cup. “Yeah. It’s been a bit rough lately,” he admitted. “I won’t lie, I’ve been feeling… lost. But today? This little moment? It’s the best I’ve felt in a while.” He glanced at Amara, who was busy licking whipped cream off her spoon. “So… thank you. Both of you.”

Vanessa smiled warmly. “Well, I’m glad we could brighten your day a little.”

“You really did,” Louis said sincerely, taking a sip of his drink.

For a while, they chatted easily—about little things, about Amara’s love for flowers, about how Vanessa worked at a local boutique. It felt normal. Easy. Like for just a little while, Louis wasn’t drowning in everything weighing on him.

But eventually, he glanced at the time and sighed. “I should get going. I have a doctor’s appointment to get to.”

Vanessa nodded. “Everything okay?”

Louis smiled softly. “Yeah. Just a check-up.”

She studied him for a second, something thoughtful in her expression, but she didn’t press. Instead, she stood up as Louis grabbed his coat. “Well, it was really nice meeting you, Louis.”

“You too,” he said warmly.

Before he could say anything else, Amara hopped off her chair and threw her arms around his waist. “Bye, Louis! I hope you feel happy again soon!”

Louis’s breath hitched at the unexpected sweetness of it, but he hugged her back, squeezing gently. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Vanessa pulled him into a quick hug too. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will,” he promised before stepping back.

With one last smile, he waved and walked out of the café, the cold air biting his cheeks—but somehow, for the first time in a long time, he felt a little lighter.

As soon as Louis stepped out of the café, an odd sensation prickled at the back of his neck—the distinct feeling of being watched.His eyes darted around the busy street, scanning the faces passing by, but no one seemed out of place. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

Shaking off the unease, he hailed a cab and slid into the backseat, giving the driver the hospital’s address. The feeling lingered, but he forced himself to ignore it. He had more important things to focus on.

By the time he arrived at the hospital, his nerves had settled—mostly. He made his way to his designated room, and just as he sat down, the door swung open, revealing Dr. Hales.

She walked in with her usual composed demeanor, offering him a warm smile. “Louis, hello. How are you feeling today?”

Louis fidgeted slightly, his fingers twisting together in his lap. “I’m… good. Better than before.”

Dr. Hales studied him for a moment before nodding approvingly. “It looks like it, too. That’s good, Louis. Try to hold onto that—stay as happy as you can.

Dr. Hales gestured for Louis to lie back on the examination table. “Alright, let’s check on the baby.”

Louis took a slow breath and did as instructed, settling against the cool paper lining. He still wasn’t used to this, to any of it, but the steady presence of Dr. Hales helped keep him grounded.

She moved methodically, first pressing lightly on his abdomen, checking for any tenderness or discomfort. Then, she took his blood pressure, made notes in his chart, and finally, pulled over the ultrasound machine.

“This might be a little cold,” she warned again this time before applying the gel to his stomach.

Louis only flinched slightly, more focused on the screen than anything else. And then—there it was. The rhythmic, steady thump-thump-thump of his baby’s heartbeat filled the room.

A lump formed in his throat. No matter how scared he was, hearing that sound always settled something inside him.

“Everything looks good,” Dr. Hales confirmed, scanning the screen. “Your baby is growing as expected. Strong heartbeat.”

Louis exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “That’s good.”

Dr. Hales wiped the gel from his stomach and set her clipboard down. “Now, onto a few other things. I’m giving you something to help with the nausea.” She grabbed a prescription pad and scribbled down the name of the medication before handing it to him. “It should help take the edge off so you can keep food down.”

“Thank you,” Louis said, meaning it. The nausea had been relentless, and any relief was welcome.

Dr. Hales’ expression grew serious again. “Louis, you need to prepare yourself. Your morning sickness, fatigue, and other pregnancy symptoms are going to be worse than what a bonded omega would experience. I usually don't prescribe medication for nausea but in your case since it's worse, I did.”

Louis looked up at her, stomach twisting. He had expected this, but hearing it out loud made it feel more real.

She continued, her voice firm but not unkind. “Normally, when an omega is bonded, their alpha’s pheromones help regulate their pregnancy hormones. It makes everything more stable—easier. You don’t have that. Your body is doing all of this alone, and it’s going to take a toll on you.”

Louis swallowed hard, nodding. “I know.”

Dr. Hales sighed softly. “I don’t want you to push yourself too hard. Listen to your body, rest when you need to, and follow all of my instructions. No skipping meals, no overexerting yourself, and absolutely no stress. Everything I said at the first appointment."

Louis let out a small, tired chuckle. “You sound like a broken record.”

“That’s because I need you to take this seriously.”

He nodded, sobering. “I will. I promise.”

Dr. Hales hesitated before setting her clipboard down, her gaze steady but careful. “Louis, before you go, I just want to say one last thing.”

Louis frowned slightly. “What?”

She exhaled, folding her arms. “You know I support your decision, whatever it may be. But I also need you to be realistic. You’re unbonded, you’re young, and this pregnancy will be hard. If at any point you feel like you can’t do this, you still have time to decide.”

Louis stiffened. “I already have decided.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t back down. “I know you feel that way now,” she said carefully, “but it’s my duty as a doctor to give you all your options. Pregnancy—especially an unbonded pregnancy—is unpredictable. Things can change. If you ever feel like you can’t do this, I want you to have the choice.”

Louis clenched his jaw. He hated this conversation. Hated that it was even being brought up. “I won’t change my mind.”

Dr. Hales held his gaze, unwavering. “Just take them. Just in case. You still have some time to decide.”

Silence stretched between them.

Louis exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll take them. But I probably won’t use them.”

She nodded, satisfied. “That’s all I ask.”

--------

The pharmacy was quiet, the fluorescent lights casting everything in a sterile glow. Louis placed both prescriptions on the counter—his nausea medication and the pills he knew he wouldn’t take but was going to buy anyway. The pharmacist didn’t ask questions, simply bagging them up and handing them over.

As he stepped away, the weight of the pills in his pocket felt suffocating. He knew he wouldn’t use them. He knew. But still… just having them felt like a tiny, terrible safety net.

If he ever gained the strength to let go.

He shook the thought away as he stepped back into the cold. But the moment he did, that eerie feeling from earlier crept up his spine again—that unsettling sensation of being watched.

Louis tensed, glancing around. The hospital entrance was busy, people coming and going, cars pulling up to the curb. But no one seemed to be looking at him.

And yet… he couldn’t shake the feeling.

Swallowing hard, he pulled his coat tighter around himself and hurried toward the nearest cab. He needed to get home. He needed to sleep this weird feeling off.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

"Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t—"

"Please—mercy!"

Gunshot.

The blast tore through the night. Blood exploded in a sickening spray, warm and thick, splattering across Harry’s face, his hands, his clothes. The man crumpled, the light in his eyes flickering—then gone. Just like that. A life, snuffed out.

Harry blinked. He felt... nothing.

Not relief. Not guilt. Not even satisfaction. Just an empty, yawning void where something human should have been.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. The metallic scent of blood filled his lungs.

"Take care of it." His voice was low, hollow, almost detached.

Zayn hesitated. "Yes, sir." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Harry wasn’t supposed to kill for something this petty. The bastard hadn’t done anything worth dying for. Not really. But Harry had been having a very bad fucking week. And the man had begged.

Begged for mercy.

That was his real crime.

Because it dragged Harry back—back to a voice, soft and desperate, shaking with fear.

"Alpha—please, have some mercy on me."

A scream clawed at his throat. His fingers twitched. His vision blurred, swallowed by something violent and raw and all-consuming.

Before he knew it, the gun was up again.

Bang.

The corpse twitched.

Bang.

Blood oozed thicker.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Harry was breathing too hard, his chest heaving, his pulse hammering against his skull. His grip on the gun was shaking, his knuckles white.

"Sir—"

"Shut the fuck up, Malik!" Harry bellowed, his voice fractured, his rage boiling over into something feral. He hurled the gun at the ruined body, the metal clattering against lifeless flesh. His breaths came sharp and ragged, eyes wild, unfocused.

He had to get out. Now.

Without another word, he stormed out, fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. The blood on his skin was drying, cracking, seeping into his pores.

It didn’t matter.

He was already drowning in it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis giggled softly, curling up on his couch as the last scene of his favorite sitcom played. For a little while, he had managed to forget. Just sink into the comfort of something familiar, something that didn’t demand anything from him. But then the episode ended. The laughter faded. And reality settled back in like a heavy fog.

With a sigh, he turned off the TV and set the remote on the table. That’s when he saw them. The nausea medication Dr. Hales had prescribed. And the other ones.

His breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he just stared. A tiny, unmarked bottle. So unassuming. So easy. Then, the thoughts came—louder, sharper, relentless.

I can’t. I love this baby too much.

Love isn’t enough. You don’t make enough money.

I’ll work harder. I can do this.

You’re unbonded. This baby will be unclaimed. You know how unclaimed children are treated.

No, things are changing. It’s not as bad anymore.

You really believe that? You’re lying to yourself.

Harry.  His chest tightened.

What about him?

What if he finds out? What if he doesn’t care? What if he does? What if he tries to take the baby? What if—

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers into his temples.

It’s the smarter choice. You know it is.

No. I’ll spend the rest of my life grieving if I do.

A lifetime of grief in exchange for sparing your child a cruel life. Seems fair, doesn’t it?

A broken sound tore from his throat. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

Louis blinked, and that’s when he felt it—the wetness on his cheeks. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. He was too emotional these days. Too raw.

His gaze dropped back to the pills, his hands shaking in his lap.

One choice. One moment.

Louis took a sharp breath and forced himself to look away. Not tonight. Not ever.

He just needed to sleep. Before the thoughts got too loud.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Harry sat in the most important meeting of his life, a negotiation where the stakes were razor-sharp—fifty million to gain or fifty million to lose. And across from him sat Vaughn. That son of a bitch. If Harry had the chance, he’d put a bullet between his eyes without hesitation.

Vaughn leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at his lips. “I notice your assistant isn’t here, Mr. Styles.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I fired him,” he lied, voice cold and unwavering.

Vaughn nodded approvingly. “Good. Omegas have no place in this business. They’re weak, incompetent—frankly, not intelligent enough to keep up.”

Harry met his gaze with a slow, measured stare, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice like a blade slicing through the air. “I have omegas working for me who are ten times smarter than you will ever be, Vaughn.” He leaned forward slightly, his presence suffocating. “Now, let’s cut the bullshit. We’re here to talk business, not waste my time with your pathetic bigotry.”

The room felt colder. Vaughn’s smirk twitched—just slightly—but Harry had already won this round.

Vaughn’s eyes darkened, his smirk vanishing. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Harry. You can’t afford to make me an enemy.”

Harry leaned back, exuding nothing but cold indifference. “I can. Enemies are all I have, and yet, my businesses thrive.” His voice was calm, almost amused.

A woman from Vaughn’s team cleared her throat, cutting through the tension. “Enough of this. Let’s talk business.”

Harry gave a single nod. Vaughn, after a long pause, did the same—though the fire in his eyes said this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

One of the presenters began their pitch, their voice droning on as slides flickered across the screen. Harry kept his gaze on the presentation, but his mind wandered elsewhere.

Adonis hadn’t given him any critical updates on Louis. He’d been unreliable—inefficient. He claimed to have something important from yesterday, but a family emergency had delayed him. He promised to deliver the updates as soon as Harry was done with this meeting.

Under normal circumstances, Harry would have fired him without a second thought. But Adonis' mother had died. Harry had granted him this one exception. Just this once.

The presentation droned on, a monotonous backdrop to Harry’s thoughts. He kept his expression impassive, but his mind was elsewhere—on Louis, on Adonis’ delayed update, on the gnawing uncertainty that made his jaw clench.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, one of his team members subtly slid their phone toward him, screen facing down.

A single glance at their tense expression told Harry everything—something was wrong. Urgent.

Harry lifted the phone under the guise of adjusting his cuff, pressing it to his ear as he leaned forward, pretending to focus on the presentation.

The voice on the other end was hushed, yet the words cut through the air like a blade.

"Sir, it’s Adonis. The message is too important to wait. You need to hear this now."

Harry exhaled slowly. “Go on.”

"It’s about Louis. Yesterday, he went for a checkup at a hospital—" a pause, then a shift in tone, careful, calculating, "but in the gynecology ward."

Harry’s grip on the phone tightened.

"When he left, he bought pregnancy nausea medication… and also—" Adonis hesitated, as if weighing his next words, "abortion pills."

The room around Harry blurred. The numbers on the screen, the voices discussing million-dollar deals—none of it mattered anymore.

"I don’t know the nature of your relationship with Mr. Tomlinson, sir, but this… this seems serious."

For the first time in years, Harry felt his pulse spike—uncontrolled, erratic.

A slow, burning rage crept through his veins. He was consumed by shock. How the fuck could Louis be pregnant? And Harry knew it was his. He knew it.

Louis. Pregnant. Abortion pills.

The pieces clicked together, sharp and unforgiving.

And Harry’s world tilted.

For a long, suffocating moment, Harry didn’t move. He didn’t blink. His fingers curled so tightly around the phone, his knuckles turned bone-white.

"There’s more," Adonis’ voice came, quieter now, laced with something close to caution. "I have reason to believe he plans on taking the pills tonight."

Something inside Harry snapped. The words rang in his ears, echoing, reverberating, growing louder until it was all he could hear.

He plans on taking the pills tonight.

Tonight.

Louis was going to kill his pup.

Harry's breath turned ragged, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pants. His grip on the phone was crushing, veins straining against his skin. The conference room blurred around him, the low hum of voices turning into meaningless static. The numbers on the screen, the contracts, the millions at stake—nothing mattered anymore.

Not when his Omega was about to destroy what was his.

His pupils expanded until there was nothing left but black, endless and consuming. The scent of Alpha rage seeped into the air, thick and suffocating, filling the room with an oppressive weight. His fingers twitched violently, the need to claim, to protect, to correct making his entire body vibrate with barely controlled fury.

"Sir?" Adonis’ voice crackled in his ear, hesitant now. He must have sensed it—the shift, the dangerous energy bleeding from Harry’s very being. "What are your orders?"

Orders.

Harry's upper lip curled, baring his teeth in something between a growl and a snarl.

Orders? 

There was only one order.

Go. Find. Stop him. 

And yet, somewhere—buried beneath the violent pulse of his instincts—there was the whisper of rational thought. If he were thinking, he’d see the problem clearly. This child was an inconvenience. It would derail his life. His empire. He didn’t want a child.

But he wasn’t thinking.

His Alpha had taken over.

There was no logic now. No reason. No consideration of what this meant for his future, for his business, for his carefully built world. He wasn’t calculating profits or losses. He wasn’t weighing consequences.

He was acting on something deeper. Primal.

Because this wasn’t about Louis, or even the baby.

It was about pride.

No Alpha—no Alpha—could tolerate their Omega rejecting their pup. It was a direct challenge, a defiance against everything instinct dictated. It was the ultimate betrayal.

Louis was his. His Omega. 

And their pup—his pup—was meant to be carried. Meant to be born.

That omega had no right to take his pup away from him.

The room was suffocating, the pressure of Harry’s fury bleeding into the very walls. He could feel Vaughn watching him, could sense the confusion, the suspicion. But Harry didn't care. He couldn't care.

His instincts were too strong, too feral.

Every second wasted was another second closer to Louis swallowing those pills. Another second closer to losing his heir. 

Harry swallowed, his throat dry as fire, his mind splintering between logic and instinct. 

The weight of Vaughn’s gaze flickered toward him, sharp and assessing, but Harry didn’t care. He couldn't.

His Omega was about to kill their pup.

His Omega was about to reject what was his.

The beast inside him snapped.

His pupils dilated, swallowing the green of his irises into pitch-black darkness. His fingers twitched, itching to grab his keys, to get out, to find Louis. His whole body coiled tight like a predator preparing to lunge.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sharp, grating sound that made the entire room flinch.

"Styles?" Vaughn's voice cut through the thick air, laced with curiosity, but there was something else beneath it—wariness.

Harry's head turned slowly, eyes pitch black, body coiled so tight he was ready to snap. "This meeting is over." His voice was dangerously low, a quiet storm before the destruction.

Vaughn let out a humorless chuckle, trying to mask the shift in the air. "You walk out now, you lose the deal."

Harry’s gaze locked onto his, unwavering. "Do I look like I give a fuck? I have more important matters to attend to."

A thick, tangible silence fell over the room. Vaughn's smirk faltered.

Harry didn’t wait for a response. He turned, his steps purposeful, radiating pure dominance. The scent of unbridled Alpha fury followed him like a storm cloud, leaving the room thick with tension and something close to fear.

The second he stepped out of the conference room, he yanked his phone back to his ear. "Get the car ready. Now."

"Yes, sir." Adonis didn’t hesitate.

Harry’s hand was already reaching for the gun strapped under his suit jacket. He didn’t know why—he wasn’t going to hurt Louis.

But fuck, he wanted to.

He wanted to shake him.

He wanted to snarl in his face, to force him to understand—you do not kill an Alpha’s pup.

You do not deny what belongs to him.

Louis was his and that damn pup that Louis would birth was his. He didn't care if Louis didn't want to. He'd force him to birth his pup. 

Harry’s body moved on autopilot, striding out of the building with lethal determination. His driver, already alerted by Adonis, had the sleek black Aston Martin idling at the curb, its engine a low, steady hum. The moment Harry slid inside, the door barely shut before he barked, "Drive."

The car lurched forward, tires screeching as it shot into the street, weaving through traffic with reckless speed. The city lights blurred past, but Harry barely saw them. His hands clenched against his thighs, his entire body coiled with electric fury.  

His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding so hard he could taste blood. Every thought in his head was jagged, raw, spiraling deeper into the primal rage coursing through his veins. The scent of Alpha fury still clung to him, thick in the confined space of the car.  

Then—like a bolt of lightning striking dead center—realization slammed into him.  

This is why Louis was sick.

The nausea. The fatigue. The way he’d turned pale and dizzy during long work hours. The sudden weight loss. Harry had noticed it, of course. He noticed everything about Louis, but he had assumed it was stress, exhaustion—maybe even a bid for attention.  

But no. It had been this.  

Louis had been carrying his pup this whole time, and Harry—blind, oblivious—hadn’t even known.  

His fingers curled tighter, knuckles popping as he squeezed his fists.  

Then came the second realization, one so sharp and bitter it nearly sent him over the edge.  

This is why he quit.

Louis had walked away from him. From the job. From him.And Harry had let him go. Harry—fool that he was—had let him walk out.  

He had assumed Louis was just being dramatic. Had assumed he’d come crawling back within a week, unable to resist the stability, the power, the connection between them.  

But now he knew the truth.  

Louis had been hiding this from him. And not just hiding it—rejecting it.  

He wasn’t just planning on leaving Harry’s business. He was planning on leaving his bloodline.

A growl crawled up Harry’s throat, so deep and guttural the driver shifted nervously in his seat.  

He couldn’t let this happen.

An omega rejecting their pup was unnatural, a direct challenge to everything written in their biology. Alphas existed to claim, to protect, to preserve their bloodlines. An Omega carrying their pup was sacred—unquestionable.

But Louis—his Louis—was questioning it.

He felt the primal, uncontrollable possessiveness coil in his gut, suffocating in its intensity.  

Louis had no right. His pup belonged to him. Louis didn’t get to make this choice. 

The GPS screen flashed, signaling a turn ahead. His pulse pounded as he read the address Adonis had provided—an apartment building in a shitty neighborhood.

The car screeched to a stop in front of the building. Harry was out before it had fully parked. He was going to fix this. Right now.  

And Louis was going to learn exactly what it meant to belong to an Alpha.  

To belong to him.

Harry stormed up the stairs of the apartment building, his steps heavy, purposeful, vibrating with raw, predatory rage. His pulse pounded in his ears, his hands twitching at his sides, his entire body buzzing with barely contained aggression.

When he reached Louis’ door, he didn’t hesitate. He pounded against it, the force rattling the frame.

Silence.

Then, faintly, footsteps from inside. Slow, cautious.

Louis.

Inside, he could hear the shuffle of movement. Then a voice, hesitant and tired, "Who's there?"

And then silence.

Harry knew the exact second Louis scented him.

There was a sharp, barely-there inhale. The sound of feet hesitating mid-step. A sharp hitch of breath.

Then—a whimper.

Harry's lips curled into a snarl. His Omega was scared.

Good.

"Open the door, Louis."

Harry’s voice was deep, sharp—dangerous.

Louis' hands trembled at his sides. No. He couldn’t let him in.

"I-I won’t open it." Louis whispered, taking a step back.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then—Harry's voice again. Deeper, rougher. This time, it wasn’t a request. It was a command.

"Louis. Open. The. Door."

His Alpha voice hit Louis like a physical force, tearing through his body, making his knees shake. His throat closed up, his Omega instincts forcing him to obey, to submit. His eyes burned with tears as his fingers, trembling, reached for the handle against his will.

He turned the lock.

The door swung open.

Harry was right there, towering, eyes pitch-black, chest heaving with barely restrained fury. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating, raw power radiating from every inch of him.

Louis stepped back instantly, retreating, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

But Harry followed.

He stepped inside, his gaze locked onto Louis like a predator tracking prey.

Louis shook his head quickly, forcing himself to stay calm, to lie. “W-what are you doing here?” he stammered. “I—”

But Harry didn’t stop walking.

Louis kept backing up, step by step, until his back hit the wall.

Nowhere to run.

Harry’s voice was lethal when he finally spoke. "You thought I wouldn't find out?" His tone was ice, layered with something deeper, something darker.

Louis' stomach twisted. No, no, no.

“I-I don’t—”

"You thought I was stupid?" Harry growled, taking another step forward.

Louis was shaking now, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his body betraying him with the natural instinct to submit. But he couldn’t submit. He couldn’t let Harry control this.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he whispered, voice breaking.

Harry's eyes narrowed, scanning him, dissecting him. Louis knew the exact moment he realized Louis was lying. His lips curled into something cruel, something dangerous.

Then—

Harry’s gaze flicked past him.

To the small wooden table near the couch.

Louis’ stomach dropped.

The bottle of pills sat there, still untouched. The abortion pills.

Harry froze.

Everything in the room seemed to stop.

Louis swore he could hear the moment Harry's breathing changed, deep and ragged, like a beast pulling against its restraints. His entire body tensed, his shoulders rising and falling with sharp, violent inhales.

And then—

"What the fuck is this?"

His voice boomed through the apartment, echoing off the walls, shaking Louis to his very bones.

Louis flinched, gasping, instinctively pressing himself further against the wall.

Harry moved. In two long strides, he was across the room, grabbing the pill bottle off the table with a force so strong it nearly crushed in his grip. He turned it in his hand, reading the label, his breath growing harsher with every second.

Then, slowly, he looked up.

And Louis had never seen him like this.

His face was dark with fury, his blackened eyes wild, feral. His entire body radiated pure, unrestrained Alpha rage.

"You were really going to fucking do it." Harry’s voice was dangerously low now, trembling with the sheer force of his fury. "You were actually going to kill my pup."

Louis shook his head quickly, his vision blurring with tears. "Harry, I—"

"Shut up." Harry’s snarl cut through the air, venomous, filled with something ugly.

Louis whimpered, his body betraying him, pressing itself tighter against the wall as if it could protect him from the pure rage radiating off the Alpha before him.

"I should rip you apart for this." Harry's voice was shaking now, his grip so tight on the pill bottle that his knuckles turned white. "You were never going to tell me."

His breath came ragged, each word coated in fire. "You were just going to fucking erase it like it meant nothing."

Louis bit his lip hard, trying to keep the sob in his throat from escaping.

"I can’t—"

"You don’t get to fucking say that."

Harry took a step closer, the scent of dominance thickening, pressing down like a weight.

"You don’t get to decide shit. YOU'RE MINE! "

Louis let out a shaky breath, his entire body trembling under the force of Harry’s fury. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too hard, because he knew—he knew—that Harry was barely holding himself together.

And then Harry did turned—and threw the pill bottle against the wall.

It shattered.

Plastic cracking open, pills scattering across the floor. The violent sound made Louis flinch, his breath catching in his throat.

And when he looked back at Harry—

His Alpha was shaking.

Dark. Unhinged.

"You were going to take those tonight." Harry’s voice was barely human now, raw and guttural. "You were actually going to kill what’s mine." His entire body shook with rage, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.  

Louis’ breath came out in a sharp, broken gasp. "No—Alpha—please, listen to me, I—"

"DON’T FUCKING LIE TO ME!"

The sheer force of Harry’s roar sent a shockwave through the room, rattling the very air between them. Louis stumbled back, his legs buckling.

"The doctor told me to!" Louis sobbed, his voice cracking, pleading. "I wasn't—I swear, I wasn't going to—"

Harry laughed, sharp and cruel, his eyes burning with something beyond fury. "You think I’m fucking stupid?"

Louis’ stomach dropped.  

"I—I'm not lying," he choked, his hands trembling. "Please—"

"SHUT UP." 

Louis flinched, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. The scent of Alpha rage was so thick in the air it felt like it was suffocating him.  

Harry took a step forward.

"Even if I believed you," Harry spat, his voice shaking with rage, "which I don’t—it still means you were going to fucking hide it from me."  

Louis froze. His chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths, his mind spinning, his entire body numb.  

And then, he said, confessed, "I didn’t think you’d want it."

The second the words left Louis’ lips, the room exploded.  

Harry was shaking. His breathing was ragged, uneven snarls tearing from his throat, his pupils blown wide, black with rage.

"You didn’t think I’d want it?" His voice was lethal, slow, dragging like a blade over raw flesh.  

Louis trembled violently, his body curling into itself, instincts screaming at him to submit.  

"You thought you could just take that choice from me?"

Louis shook his head, sobs ripping from his throat. "No—no, I swear, I—"

"THEN WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?"

Louis let out a broken sob, hands clutching his own arms like they could hold him together.

Louis’ chest heaved, tears streaking down his cheeks. His fingers dug into his own skin, nails biting into flesh as his entire body shook.  

Louis's lips parted slightly. His eyes flickered over Harry’s face, analyzing, searching. He looked at Harry again. Studied him.

Watched the way his nostrils flared, the way his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he was trying to lock the words inside.

Louis’ chest ached.

Louis’ inner wolf was terrified.  

It whimpered, low and broken inside his mind, shrinking away from the Alpha’s presence, from the crushing weight of Harry’s rage. Every instinct screamed at him to submit, to bare his neck, to beg for forgiveness. But it wasn’t just fear of punishment—it was the deep, primal terror of a prey animal caught in the jaws of something far stronger.  

His chest heaved, breath ragged, body trembling so violently he thought his knees would give out completely.

Then the realization hit him.  

And it destroyed him.  

His breath caught in his throat.  

His inner wolf whimpered—not just in fear now, but in grief.  

Because it was right.  

Harry didn’t want this.  

Not really.  

Not in the way Louis needed him to.  

He wasn't doing this because he wanted a family, because he cherished this life growing inside Louis. He wasn’t doing this because he loved—  

He was doing this because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing something that was his.  

And something inside Louis shattered.  

A sound escaped him, small and broken, a soft, devastated gasp. His inner wolf howled inside his chest, curling in on itself, retreating into the deepest, darkest corners of his soul.  

And then, in a breathless, shattered whisper—  

"You still don’t."

Harry’s jaw clenched.  

Louis gasped, a sob ripping from him.  

"You’re not doing this for love, Harry—"

Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously.

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

Louis hiccupped another sob, his vision spinning, tilting, his pulse racing toward collapse.

"I know you," he gasped, gripping onto Harry’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"This isn’t about me. It’s not about the pup. It’s about you."

Harry’s jaw locked.

"This is about your pride," Louis sobbed, his knees buckling. "Your ownership. Not—"

His breath hitched violently. 

His vision tilted.

His lungs failed.

And then—

Darkness.

Chapter Text

Louis had dropped.  

His body had given out beneath the sheer weight of it all—the rage, the dominance, the suffocating presence of an Alpha pushed too far. His instincts had taken over, pulling him under, forcing him into submission as the only way to survive.  

Now, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he felt himself slowly floating back to awareness.  

He was warm. Wrapped in something firm, something solid—arms, strong and steady, holding him close. He barely processed it at first, only registering the steady rise and fall of a chest beneath his cheek, the comforting hum of a heartbeat.  

And the scent.  

God, the scent.  

Soft, soothing alpha pheromones surrounded him, thick and all-encompassing. Not the sharp, cutting fury from before—this was something gentler, protective, instinctually designed to keep him calm, to make sure he stayed calm.  

Louis barely fought it.  

Instead, he pressed in closer, curling into the source of warmth like his body knew it belonged there. His fingers twitched against soft fabric, his breathing slow and steady as the scent lulled him into something safe, something familiar.  

He didn’t open his eyes.  

"You're awake? Hey."  

The voice was Harry’s—had to be—but it sounded almost wrong. Too soft. Too careful. A version of him Louis had never heard before.  

Louis let out a small whine, the only sound he could manage.  

"I'm sorry."  

Two simple words. Unfamiliar. Unbelievable. Harry Styles didn’t say sorry.

Slowly, Louis forced his eyes open, the world swimming into focus—only to be met with something he never thought he’d see.  

Harry looked panicked.  

Uncertain.  

It was almost funny. The great, unshakable Harry Styles, lost and unsure, staring at him like he was afraid Louis might disappear.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, his emerald eyes scanning Louis with an intensity that felt almost desperate.  

Louis gave a small nod.  

"Does anything hurt?" Harry pressed, voice tight with something Louis couldn’t quite place.  

Louis shook his head.  

A sharp breath left Harry’s lips, his shoulders sagging as tension bled out of him.  

"Oh, thank fuck," he exhaled, running a hand through his hair like he’d been holding onto that fear for far too long.

Louis could hardly process it.  

He was cuddling Harry.  

Something he had always wanted—something he had dreamed about—but had convinced himself would never happen. And yet, here he was, pressed so close, wrapped in warmth, practically on top of Harry, held securely in his arms.  

He felt small like this. Protected. Like, for once, he didn’t have to hold himself together because someone else was doing it for him.  

"You don't mind that I'm in your bed, right?" Harry’s voice was quieter now, hesitant. "I didn't know where else to be. I got so stressed."  

Good, Louis thought, irrational satisfaction settling in his chest.  

He shook his head, lips parting slightly, but no words came. He still felt too much—too floaty, too fragile, like speaking would shatter the delicate moment between them.  

Harry studied him. "Still feels too floaty to speak?"  

Louis nodded, gaze locked onto Harry’s.  

Harry just looked at him, something unreadable flickering in those emerald eyes, something gentler than Louis had ever seen before.

For a moment, neither of them moved.  

Louis could feel the steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest beneath him, the warmth of his body seeping into his own. The weight of Harry’s arms around him was firm, grounding, keeping him pressed exactly where he was.  

Harry wasn’t letting go.  

Louis didn’t want him to.  

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, just looking at each other. Harry’s fingers twitched against his back, the smallest unconscious movement, like he was resisting the urge to hold tighter.  

Then, finally, Harry exhaled, something in his expression unraveling.  

"You scared the shit out of me, you know that?" His voice was quieter now, raw around the edges.   

Louis swallowed. He hadn’t expected that.  

That wasn’t rage. Wasn’t anger.  

It was something else. Something worse.  

Guilt.  

Louis opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  

Harry’s grip tightened, just slightly. "I thought—" He cut himself off, jaw tensing. "Fuck, Louis."  

Louis shivered at the way his name left Harry’s lips—low, strained, almost helpless.  

"I wasn’t going to do it," Louis finally whispered. His voice was hoarse, like it had been dragged through glass. "I swear."  

Harry’s eyes flickered, dark and unreadable.  

"Then why—" He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You still weren’t going to tell me."  

Louis flinched.  

Harry wasn’t wrong.  

"I didn’t think you’d want—"  

"Don’t." Harry’s voice dropped, something lethal simmering just beneath the surface. "Don’t say it. Please, do not."  

Louis closed his mouth.  

Because they both knew it was true.  

For all of Harry’s rage, for all his possessiveness, the undeniable truth still loomed between them.   

Harry hadn’t wanted this.  

And Louis had known.  

Harry was still holding him, still keeping him close, but suddenly, Louis felt cold.

"Does you knowing change anything?" Louis whimpered, his voice raw, barely above a breath. He still felt weightless, like he wasn’t fully there.  

Harry’s brows pulled together, confusion flickering across his face. "Of course it does."  

Louis bit his lip, hesitating before whispering, "My baby… still won’t be claimed.."  

Harry’s arms tightened around him instantly, possessive, unyielding. His voice dropped.

"Yeah?" His grip only tightened. "And who the fuck said that?" 

Louis stared at him, his breath hitching. "To claim it, you’d have to…" He swallowed hard. "You’d have to—"  

"Marry you. Bond you." Harry finished for him, his voice steady, unwavering.  

A shiver ran down Louis’ spine. "Y-yeah," he whispered, lowering his gaze.  

"Then I’ll do it," Harry said, firm.  

Louis' head snapped up, eyes wide. "What?"  

Harry didn’t hesitate. "I’ll marry you."  

Louis' heart pounded so hard it hurt. "You don’t love me."  

Harry’s expression remained unreadable, but his grip on Louis never loosened.  

"It doesn’t matter."

Louis shivered, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him like a vice. He couldn’t believe they were actually talking about this.  

"It matters to me," he whispered, his voice barely steady.  

Harry exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What do you want then? What's the alternative? I leave you unbonded? Leave this kid unclaimed? Let you both suffer while society tears you apart?"  

"And a loveless marriage is better?" Louis shot back, his voice cracking.  

Harry's expression hardened, his emerald eyes dark and unyielding. "Love isn’t real, Louis. It’s a fantasy. A lie. The sooner you accept that, omega, the less you’ll suffer."  

Louis swallowed.

But Harry was wrong. Love was real. He knew it was real. Because he loved Harry.  

"It exists," Louis murmured, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Just because you haven’t felt it doesn’t mean it isn’t real." 

For the first time, Harry faltered. His eyes flickered with something—something—but it was gone before Louis could name it.

Harry studied him for a moment, then exhaled, his tone laced with cold finality. "I’m going to assume your pointless arguments are just you still feeling floaty."  

Louis let out a slow breath, his chest tight.  

Silence stretched between them.  

Then, barely above a whisper—"What if I don’t want to marry you?"  

He did. God, he did. But not like this.

Harry didn’t even hesitate. He simply shrugged. "Doesn’t matter."  

Louis’ stomach dropped.  

"You will," Harry continued, voice unshaken. "I’m not letting my own child walk this earth without my name. Do you even realize that unclaimed children sometimes don’t get inheritance from their alpha parents?" He leaned in, gaze sharp, unyielding. "This isn’t a choice, Louis. It’s happening. Whether you like it or not."

Louis turned his face away, frustration tightening his chest, though he remained wrapped in Harry’s hold. "I won’t do it. And if you try to force me, I’ll go to the police."

Harry let out a low, amused chuckle. "Half the police work for me, and the other half is scared shitless of me."

Louis let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into the fabric of Harry’s shirt. "God, you’re inescapable."

"Glad you finally figured that out, omega." 

Louis buried his face in Harry’s shirt, muffling himself in the warmth of it. Harry was too calm, his presence steady, his pheromones lulling Louis into a state of dangerous relaxation. And he wasn’t angry. Not yet. Because Louis could still blame it on being floaty.  

It was perfect.  

For once—maybe for the last time—Louis could say whatever he wanted. He had to take the chance.  

"I hate you," he mumbled into Harry’s chest. "I hate that I have to marry you. I can’t stay and work—I know you’ll make sure no one hires me. I can’t even run, because you’ll find me. I hate you."  

Harry exhaled softly, his fingers dragging idly up and down Louis’ back. "I know."

Louis clenched his fists. "If you force me into this, just know—I’ll be the worst wife you’ve ever seen."

Harry chuckled, completely unbothered. "That’s fine. I don’t mind."

Louis was still fuming, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "And it was stupid of you to keep yelling at me without even hearing me out."

Harry was quiet for a beat, then said, almost uncertainly, "I apologize."

Louis blinked, taken aback. "Have you ever done that before? Apologized, I mean?"

Harry’s expression didn’t change. "No."

A strange silence settled between them.

Louis stared at him, waiting for some kind of clarification, but none came.  

Harry didn’t apologize. Ever. Louis knew that.

It wasn’t in his nature—it wasn’t necessary. Apologies were for people who needed to make amends, people who had something to lose. Harry had built an empire where power was the only currency, where admitting fault was a weakness. He had crushed men with less than a sorry, had destroyed lives without looking back. Regret was a foreign concept to him, useless in the world he ruled.  

And yet, here he was. Saying it.  

It didn’t sound natural, not even fully formed—like Harry himself didn’t know how to shape the word properly. Like it was untested on his tongue.  

Louis swallowed, suddenly uncertain. "Oh," he murmured.

After a stretch of silence, Louis hesitated before speaking again. His voice was soft, almost timid.  

"Can I ask one last thing? Something you'll just chalk up to me being floaty and not get angry?" Maybe he was feeling too safe, too lulled by the warmth of Harry's scent.  

Harry sighed, the sound slow and measured. "Go for it, omega. I guess you deserve it."

Louis bit his lip. "How did you know how to pull me out of the drop? You don't exactly seem like the type of alpha who would."

Harry's jaw tightened slightly, then he pressed his lips together. "I didn’t. My wolf did. I just... let it do whatever it wanted." His voice was clipped, almost reluctant. Then, after a pause, he added, "It wasn’t too severe of a drop. Your wolf knew you weren’t in any real physical danger."

"Alpha, you do realize that you and your wolf are the same person, right?" Louis asked, a small, breathy laugh escaping him.  

Harry arched a brow. "Are you laughing at me?"  

Louis met his gaze, "You're forcing me to marry you. I think I’m entitled to a little payback."  

Harry huffed. "Remind me to never soothe you with calming pheromones again." Then, after a beat, he added, "And fine, maybe we are the same. But I don’t see it that way. He’s far more reckless than I am—far more stupid."

Great. The one part of Harry that somewhat cared for Louis—he thought was stupid.  

"Your wolf cares about me?" Louis asked quietly.  

Harry’s jaw tightened. "My wolf recognizes what’s mine."  

Louis didn’t know what to say to that, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.  

"Alright, enough of this. I need to leave," Harry said, his tone firm, all softness gone.  

Louis pouted.  

Harry didn’t care.  

"I’ve already missed too many meetings. We’ll talk later, omega. You’re fine now."  

No, Louis wasn’t fine. He needed more warmth, more comfort—even though he hated Harry.  

But Harry was already moving, carefully slipping out from under him, gathering his things with swift efficiency. Then, without another word, he was gone.

Louis huffed, sinking further into the warmth Harry had left behind. It was already fading, but for now, he let himself soak in it.  

Figures. Of course, he’d get soft Harry only for a moment, only when he was weak. The next time they met, he’d probably be back to being cold, cruel, unreadable.  

Louis pouted at the thought.  

Mean Harry. That’s what he was going to get next time. The Harry who barked orders, who looked at him like a business transaction, who decided Louis's future without so much as asking him.  

But at least for now, Louis had this—the lingering warmth, the phantom weight of strong arms around him, the distant scent of an alpha who, for one brief moment, had let his guard down.  

And he hated that he already missed it.

Chapter Text

There are certain things every man knows he will never do in his lifetime. For most, it’s murder—a vow never to take a life. For others, it’s drugs, a promise to never succumb to addiction. Everyone has their line, their unbreakable rule.  

For Harry, it had always been marriage.  

Marriage. An inconvenience. A pointless entanglement.  

To marry someone was to make a declaration, a dangerous one—Yes, I care about this person. Yes, this person is my weakness. And in his world, weaknesses were liabilities. Exposing them was reckless. Foolish.  

But what choice did he have?  

The thought of leaving Louis and his child unclaimed clawed at something deep inside him, something raw and primal. It wasn’t logic; it wasn’t even rational. It was instinct. And the idea of ignoring it—of walking away—was unbearable. 

Harry sighed as he stepped out of the mansion, the cool evening air brushing against his face. The garden was quiet, save for the distant rustling of leaves—until a soft, drawn-out meow cut through the silence.  

He halted.  

A small cat sat on the stone path, tail flicking, golden eyes glinting in the dim light. It wasn’t just any cat. He recognized this one.  

Lucy.  

Harry let out a slow breath before walking toward her. The cat meowed again, glancing around as if searching for someone.  

Harry crouched slightly, tilting his head. "Who are you looking for? Is it Louis?"  

Lucy meowed again, insistent.  

For a second, Harry just stood there, staring at the cat like it might actually respond with words. Then, suddenly, the absurdity of it all hit him.  

He straightened up sharply, blinking. What the hell am I doing?

He was talking to a cat. Having a full-blown conversation like a fool. Like—  

Like Louis would. 

His jaw clenched. This was exactly the kind of nonsense he needed to avoid. Shaking his head, he turned on his heel and strode away without another glance.  

He was losing it. He was going insane. That was the only explanation.

Harry had to get out of his head. Out of the suffocating weight of responsibility pressing down on his chest.

His club. That was the only place where he could drown in something other than his own thoughts. He needed the burn of drugs, the pulse of music, the blur of distraction. Anything to take the edge off.

Because he was going to be a father.

The words echoed, sharp and relentless.

A reality he hadn’t prepared for, hadn’t wanted to prepare for. He didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do—what kind of father he could even be.

His hands twitched. He needed something. A drink, a fight, a release—something to strip away the nerves clawing at his insides. 

The drive to Venom was silent, but inside Harry’s head, it was anything but. His thoughts were loud, relentless, screaming at him with no way to turn them off.  

He was going to be a father.  

A father.  

The word made his chest tighten. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to him. He had spent his entire life ensuring he would never be tied down like this, never be owned by anyone. And yet, here he was, shackled to something he never wanted, something he had no idea how to handle.  

He needed to take the edge off.  

The neon glow of Venom greeted him as he pulled up. The moment he stepped inside, the bass of the music hit him like a physical force, vibrating through his bones. The scent of alcohol, sweat, and something more illicit filled the air, wrapping around him like a second skin.  

People turned to look at him, some in curiosity, some in fear, but Harry didn’t acknowledge them. He made his way through the crowd effortlessly, his presence enough to make people move out of his way.  

At the bar, he locked eyes with the bartender and gave a single nod. No words were needed. The man knew exactly what he was asking for.  

Harry pushed open the door to his private room—a dimly lit but extravagant space, separated from the chaos of the club. He sat on the couch. Only a select few had ever been allowed inside. This was where he came to breathe.

A few minutes later, the bartender returned, placing a small container in front of him.  

Magic mushrooms.  

Harry exhaled. He needed this.  

He took them, feeling the bitterness spread across his tongue. The effect wasn’t immediate, but he knew what was coming. The tension in his body would unravel. The suffocating pressure in his chest would ease. The storm in his mind would quiet.  

The effects started slow, creeping up like a whisper against his skin. The music in the club outside pulsed, but inside his private room, it felt like the walls were breathing with him. The dim lighting cast strange, elongated shadows, twisting into shapes that weren’t quite right.  

Harry leaned back against the velvet couch, head tilting upward, exhaling deeply. His fingers twitched against his thigh, hyper-aware of every sensation—the fabric of his clothes, the air brushing against his skin, the dull thud of his heart beating inside his chest.  

And then, it hit.  

The room stretched. Warped. Colors bled together like melting wax, the corners of his vision dissolving into something hazy and infinite. His thoughts—so sharp, so relentless before—became fluid, slipping through his fingers like water.  

The weight of the world, of responsibility, of Louis and the unborn child—gone.  

He laughed, a breathless sound, as the ceiling above him seemed to ripple, morphing into a vast, endless sky. Stars blinked into existence where the chandelier used to be, and for a moment, he wasn’t in Venom. He was somewhere else. Somewhere timeless. Somewhere he didn’t have to think.  

A warmth spread through his chest, his limbs heavy but floating all at once. His fingers trailed over the couch’s armrest, but it no longer felt like fabric. It felt like moss—soft, damp, alive. He frowned, dragging his hand away, watching the sensation fade as quickly as it came.  

From the corner of his eye, shadows moved. Not threatening, not alarming, just… there. Watching. He wondered if he should be afraid.  

But fear felt distant, unreachable, buried under the weightless haze swallowing him whole.  

A knock at the door made him jolt slightly. He turned his head slowly, vision lagging as if the world was a few seconds behind him. The door cracked open, and a woman stepped in—tall, statuesque, her sharp features illuminated by the flickering neon bleeding in from the hallway. He knew her. Couldn't remember her name though, he couldn't even properly make up her face.

“Harry,” she purred, voice smooth, sultry, like honey dripping from her lips. “I know you wouldn’t mind me being here.”  

Harry blinked, his mind sluggish, trying to process if she was real or another figment of his unraveling trip.

She stepped further inside, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Harry’s head tilted as he watched her move, the way her body swayed like liquid gold under the dim lights. She was barely wearing anything—a slinky scrap of fabric that clung to her curves, sheer in places that left little to the imagination. The lace of her lingerie-like dress dipped scandalously low, exposing smooth skin, the hint of her ribs, the soft swell of her chest.  

She straddled his lap without hesitation, settling herself against him like she had done it a hundred times before. Maybe she had. He didn’t remember. But the way she draped her arms around his shoulders, fingers threading into his curls, made it seem like she knew him. Knew what he liked.  

Harry let his head rest against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide from the mushrooms. He could feel the warmth of her thighs pressing against him, but it was distant, like it was happening to someone else. His body was here, but his mind… His mind was still floating somewhere far away.  

She traced a finger down his chest, her lips curving into a smirk. “So many omegas were desperate to come in here tonight,” she murmured. “Jealous little things, practically pouting when they saw me walk past the guards.”  

She leaned in, her breath ghosting over his jaw as she whispered, “Because I’ve been here before, haven’t I? You remember, don’t you? We had so much fun.”  

Harry’s mind felt like syrup, slow and thick, memories slipping through his fingers before he could grasp them. He didn’t remember. Not really. But he nodded anyway.  

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice deep, slow. “I remember.”  

She grinned, pleased, and shifted against him, pressing closer, as if she belonged there. 

She rocked against him, slow, deliberate, like she was savoring it. A sultry hum left her lips as she dragged her hands down his chest, pressing her nails in just slightly.  

“Mmm, I can’t wait to take you, alpha,” she whispered against his ear, rolling her hips over him. “You’re so big, Harry… you always feel so good.”  

Her voice was honeyed, teasing, but Harry barely heard it.  

Because the moment he shut his eyes, the trip swallowed him whole.  

The music from the club faded into something distant, drowned out by the echo of a different voice. A familiar one. Soft, trembling, breaking.  

"I know all those models, all those perfect omegas dying to be with you.”

Harry twitched, his fingers digging into the couch. The room warped around him, colors shifting, melting together like oil on water.  

"I’m nothing.”

Louis’s voice, breathless with devastation.  

His face. Big, ocean-deep blue eyes, glassy with unshed tears.  

His scent, delicate and warm, threaded with grief.  

The model was still grinding on him, her body pressing into his, but he barely felt her now. All he could feel was the weight of something crushing him from the inside out.  

“Because I loved you.”

A choked breath left Harry’s lips, his hands gripping onto the model’s waist, not pulling her closer—just holding on, as if bracing himself against something unseen.  

Love. That stupid fucking word.  

Louis had said it like it meant something. Like it was something fragile and precious and all-consuming.  

“I was just—just some toy for you to use.”

Louis’s face, tear-streaked. His hands, trembling.  

His scent—raw, vulnerable, laced with heartbreak.  

Harry's chest ached, an unfamiliar, suffocating sensation. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, but it only made the visions more vivid.  

Louis’s small frame curled in on itself.  

Louis’s lips wobbling as he whispered, “And you can definitely get a better omega than me to warm your bed.”

A sharp pang shot through Harry's chest, sudden and unbearable, like a blade sliding between his ribs.  

His breathing grew uneven, his body buzzing in ways he couldn't control. The model kept moving, but she wasn’t there anymore. Not really.  

It was all Louis.  

Louis, who was pregnant. Louis, who had carried his child in secret. Louis, who had been willing to keep it from him because he thought Harry wouldn't care.  

Louis, who thought he was nothing.  

Something inside Harry twisted, dark and ugly and wrong. His head was spinning. His skin was too tight. The music in the club was distorted, the lights too bright, the walls too close.  

His hands clenched against the model’s hips, stopping her movement abruptly.  

“I need to go.” His voice was hoarse, unsteady.  

She blinked down at him, confused. “What?”  

“I said I need to go.” He shoved her off his lap, standing too fast, the room tilting around him.  

He barely noticed the offended look on her face. Barely registered anything except the suffocating weight of his own thoughts.  

He needed air. He needed space.  

He needed to get the fuck out.

Harry stood still, his mind dissolving into a chaotic swirl of color and sound. The room pulsed, shifting at the edges, and the music outside the walls was nothing but a dull thrum beneath the deafening echo of Louis.

wHarry clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching as if he needed to grab onto something to ground himself. But there was nothing. No solid footing. Just the suffocating weight of the trip pressing down on his chest.   

“Harry,” the model purred from the couch, stretching like a lazy cat. “You’re zoning out, babe.”   

He blinked at her, barely registering her presence, still drowning in the storm inside his head.  

She smirked, leaning back, legs spread just enough to tease. “I know you took shrooms. I can feel it on you.” She bit her lip, tilting her head. “But don’t worry, I can take care of you.”  

Harry didn’t respond.  

She clicked her tongue, amused at first, but then her expression shifted, eyes narrowing. “Who’s Louis?”  

Harry's stomach twisted.  

He hadn’t even realized he’d said it out loud. When did he say that?

The model’s eyes darkened, jealousy creeping into her tone. “Is that why you’re so distracted?” She crossed one leg over the other, sulking now. “Who is he?”  

Harry exhaled sharply, trying to shake the name from his head, but it wouldn’t leave. Louis was everywhere. His voice. His scent. His fucking tears.

The model sat up straighter, eyes sharp as she studied him. “He must be someone important,” she said, lips curling. “You never say names, Harry.”   

He didn’t answer.  

She stood up, slowly, stepping toward him. “I don’t care who he is,” she said, voice dropping into something softer, more persuasive. “I can make you forget him.”   

She reached out, placing her hands on his chest, fingers tracing the fabric of his shirt. “I know you, Harry. I know exactly what you need.”   

She leaned in, breath hot against his jaw. “I can give it better.”   

Harry finally looked at her then. And for the first time, he really saw her—saw how empty she was. How meaningless this was.   

She was beautiful. Perfect, even. Any alpha would want her. But to Harry, she was nothing.   

He grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands off of him.   

Her eyes widened, shock flickering across her face.   

“You mean nothing to me.” His voice was sharp, final.    

The model pouted, “Harry, don’t be like that—”  

He stepped back. “I don’t want you.”   

Her lips parted in disbelief, something desperate flashing in her expression. “Wait—Harry, come on—” She reached for him again, but he was already turning away.  

“I don’t care about anyone but—”  

He cut himself off before he could say it.  

The realization hit him like a slap to the face.   

No. No, no, no.    

His trip was spiraling. Everything around him blurred, shifting in unnatural ways. His breath came faster, his body buzzing with a mix of chemicals and something worse.

Louis’s voice wouldn’t stop.  

"And you can definitely get a better omega than me to warm your bed."

"And you can definitely- better omega- I'm nothing." 

"And you can definitely-" 

"Please, Alpha-"

"I smell them."

Harry couldn’t fucking breathe.  

The model was saying something, still trying to get him to stay, but her voice was warping, mixing with Louis’s, and Harry couldn’t fucking take it anymore.

He stumbled out of the room, vision tilting, body swaying. The club was too loud, too hot, too suffocating. He forced himself toward the exit, each step unsteady.   

Somehow, he made it to his car.   

His hands were shaking as he gripped the door handle. His heart pounded in his ears. His skin felt too tight, his mind spinning in a thousand directions. 

And then, without thinking—without caring—he slid inside, started the engine, and slammed his foot on the gas.

Harry’s grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled as he sped through the dark, empty streets. The world outside was distorted, shifting unnaturally, the neon lights of the city blurring together in streaks of color. The roads stretched and twisted in ways that didn’t make sense, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get out. To get somewhere safe.

His mansion was too far. Too cold. Too fucking empty.

But Louis’s apartment—Louis’s apartment was closer.

Before he could second-guess it, he was already turning the wheel, swerving recklessly onto the right streets, barely stopping at red lights, barely registering anything beyond the overwhelming, suffocating haze in his mind. His pulse was erratic, his skin too hot, his head pounding with Louis’s voice.

"I was just—just some toy for you to use."

He pushed down on the gas harder.

By the time he reached Louis’s apartment complex, his head was spinning so violently he barely remembered how he got there. His legs were unsteady as he stumbled out of the car, swaying slightly as he made his way to the front door. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, and his whole body felt like it was vibrating from the trip, from the adrenaline, from everything.

His hands shook as he knocked.

It was late—too late. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

After a long pause, the door cracked open.

Louis stood there, messy-haired, dressed in an oversized shirt and loose pajama pants. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion but immediately widened when he saw who it was.

Louis blinked at Harry, his body tensing instinctively. It was late—too late—for Harry to be here. The last time Harry had shown up at his doorstep unannounced, he had torn Louis’s world apart. And now, here he was again, standing unsteadily in the dim glow of the hallway light, his pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.   

Louis’s nose twitched as he took in the air between them. His stomach tightened. He knew this scent—earthy, strange, laced with something unnatural. His throat dried. Shrooms. Harry had done shrooms.

His hands curled into the fabric of his sleeves.    

Harry swayed slightly, still staring at him in that unreadable way. Louis swallowed. His first instinct was to step back, but he forced himself to stay still.   

"You're... high," he said softly, more of a realization than a question. His voice came out quiet, careful.   

Harry didn’t respond.   

Louis hesitated, his fingers tightening around the hem of his shirt. "Did you drive like this?" His voice was just barely above a whisper now.  

Still, no answer. Just the heavy press of Harry’s presence, filling up the small space between them.  

Louis’s heart stuttered. He could feel the slight tremble in Harry’s body, the unnatural stillness of his posture. He had seen people on shrooms before, but this was different—Harry was different. His aura, usually so composed, so in control, felt off. His breathing, his silence, the way his gaze seemed to be too deep, like he was seeing through Louis rather than at him. It made something twist inside Louis's chest. 

"Come in," Louis murmured, stepping aside without thinking. His voice was small, barely carrying through the air, but Harry moved anyway, brushing past him into the apartment.    

Louis closed the door with careful fingers before turning around, his pulse fluttering uneasily.   

Harry just stood there, towering in the dim light, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. Louis fidgeted slightly, toes curling against the floor.   

"You shouldn't be driving like this," he said quietly, casting a quick glance at Harry’s hands—still trembling faintly, the veins on his arms more pronounced under his taut skin.    

Harry was still silent.   

Louis lowered his gaze. "It's good that you came here instead of trying to make it all the way to your mansion."  

Harry didn't move.    

Louis bit his lip, feeling small under the weight of Harry’s presence. He didn't know what to do—what to say. Harry was too much like this. And yet, Louis couldn't bring himself to pull away.    

"You should sit," he said eventually, barely above a whisper. "Before you—"   

Harry swayed slightly.  

Louis instinctively reached out, gripping his forearm gently.   

Harry let him. 

Louis hesitated only a second before gently releasing Harry’s arm. He moved carefully, like one wrong step might set something off.  

"I'll—I'll get you some water," he murmured, voice still hushed, as if speaking too loudly might make Harry shatter.   

Harry didn’t respond. His gaze was still distant, his body tense, his breathing deep but uneven. He looked too big for Louis’s tiny apartment, too imposing in a space that wasn’t built to hold someone like him. But he was here. He had come here.

Louis turned quickly, padding toward the kitchen with light steps. His fingers trembled as he grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water from the tap. The rush of water seemed too loud in the silence. His own heartbeat pounded against his ribs.   

Why had Harry come here?  

He swallowed hard, gripping the glass a little too tightly before making his way back.   

Harry was still standing in the same spot. His jaw was tight, his hands flexing at his sides. The tension in his body made something twist in Louis’s chest.   

"Here," Louis whispered, holding the glass out to him.  

For a second, Harry didn’t move. Then, slowly, his fingers brushed against Louis’s as he took it. His skin was warm—too warm. Louis had to fight the urge to pull away.   

Harry brought the glass to his lips, taking slow, measured sips. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Louis watched, feeling something uneasy stir in his stomach.   

"You—um." Louis shifted on his feet. "Do you want to sit down?"   

Harry finally met his eyes. Louis sucked in a quiet breath at the intensity in his gaze—still dark, still distant, but focused now. On him.   

Louis swallowed. "You're still high," he murmured. "You should rest."   

Harry didn’t argue. But he also didn’t move.

Louis took a steadying breath and stepped closer. He hesitated only briefly before gently placing a hand on Harry’s arm. "Come on, you need to sit," he murmured.   

Harry let him guide him toward the couch, his movements heavy but obedient. As soon as he was settled, Louis crouched in front of him, his hands hovering uncertainly over Harry’s knees. His heart was racing. He could feel his omega instincts curling tight in his chest, clawing at his ribs.   

"This was too dangerous," Louis whispered, his voice shaky but firm. "You shouldn't have driven like that, Harry. You—you could’ve crashed. You could’ve gotten hurt." His breathing hitched, and without meaning to, he let out a soft, distressed whimper.  

Harry went completely still. His dark, glassy eyes locked onto Louis’s face, something unreadable flickering behind them.  

Louis quickly bit his lip, looking down. "S-Sorry," he muttered, tucking his arms around himself. "I—I’m just feeling too emotional because of the pregnancy. My omega gets… stressed."  

Harry’s jaw tightened, his fingers twitching slightly. Then, after a long pause, he exhaled through his nose and—awkwardly—reached out. His hand hesitated before settling on Louis’s shoulder, his grip light but warm. "You’re fine," he said, voice rough.    

Louis didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe for a second. Harry was touching him, comforting him—even if it was awkward, even if it wasn’t much.    

"You shouldn’t worry so much," Harry added, his tone quieter now.  

Louis dared to glance up, eyes still damp, emotions still frayed at the edges. "Someone has to."  

Harry didn’t reply. But his hand stayed on Louis’s shoulder.

Louis took a steady breath, trying to settle the erratic beat of his heart. He couldn’t keep doing this—hovering, fretting, letting his omega instincts take over. But the thought of Harry recklessly driving under the influence, the way he could have crashed, could have—no. He shook his head, pushing the thought away.    

"You should rest," he murmured. "You can stay here tonight. Sleep on the couch."    

Harry gave a slow nod, still processing, still lost in whatever haze the drugs had wrapped around him. He finished the water, setting the glass down with an absent motion. But his eyes—dark, intense, and unfocused—never left Louis.    

Louis hesitated before turning toward his room. "I'll get you a pillow and blanket," he said softly, more to himself than to Harry.    

As he walked away, he could feel Harry’s gaze on him, following his every move. He knew Harry was still tripping—still somewhere between this world and whatever strange, distorted place the shrooms had dragged him into. But still, the weight of that stare sent a shiver down Louis’s spine.    

When he returned, pillow and blanket in hand, Harry was still in the same place, staring at nothing and everything all at once.  

Louis bit his lip before speaking, his voice softer now. "Were you at one of your clubs?"   

Harry blinked slowly, his pupils still blown wide. "Venom," he said, voice slightly distant.   

Louis knew it. He pouted before he could stop himself, his lips pressing together as his brows furrowed slightly.   

"And," he hesitated, unsure why he was asking, but still, the words left his lips, "did you have fun, alpha?" 

The question felt heavier than it should have. Maybe it was just Louis’s own insecurities creeping in, curling around his ribs like a vice. Maybe it was the knowledge that Harry always had options. Always had a line of perfect omegas waiting for him, willing to give him anything he wanted without hesitation. Maybe it was something else entirely.    

Harry’s lips parted slightly, his gaze never leaving Louis’s face. Then, after a pause, he answered.    

"I came here."    

Louis’s breath hitched.    

That was all Harry said, but it was enough to send something sharp and unbearable cutting through Louis’s chest.    

Louis looked down, fingers gripping the blanket a little too tightly before he forced himself to move.    

He didn’t say anything as he stepped forward and kneeled in front of Harry, setting the pillow and blanket down beside him. He reached for Harry’s shoes, his hands working carefully, gently. Sliding them off one by one, setting them aside neatly.   

Then, his fingers hesitated at Harry’s belt.    

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t feel anything. But his hands trembled slightly as he unbuckled it with steady movements, loosening it just enough so Harry wouldn’t be uncomfortable while sleeping.    

Louis’s touch was soft, careful as he unbuckled Harry’s belt, sliding it loose with steady hands. But Harry’s mind was still swimming, the remnants of the shrooms twisting his reality. His vision wavered, the room expanding and contracting like it was breathing, like it was alive.

Somewhere in the haze, Louis’s voice echoed in his mind—not from now, but from before. From earlier, when his omega had dropped.

The memory of Louis’s voice—small, fragile—sent something twisting in Harry’s gut. His own voice had been too loud, too sharp, while Louis had been curled in on himself, drowning in whatever omega instincts had dragged him under.

And still—still—Louis was here, kneeling in front of him, helping him, his hands so gentle as if Harry was the one who had fallen apart.

Harry blinked sluggishly, his pupils still wide, but Louis’s touch grounded him, bringing him back to the present. He was still tripping, the edges of reality blurring, but the weight of Louis’s presence kept him tethered. His body swayed slightly where he sat, but his gaze was locked onto Louis, watching his every move. 

"Why are you doing this?" Harry’s voice was quieter now, almost distant, like he wasn’t really asking Louis, but himself.    

Louis swallowed hard, his hands stilling against the belt for a moment.    

He could lie. He should lie.   

But instead, he said the truth—the only truth he knew.    

"Because you’re here," he whispered.    

And before Harry could respond, before he could process the weight of those words, Louis stood up and walked away.    

He didn’t look back. He just disappeared into his room, leaving Harry alone with the remnants of his high and the ghost of his words.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up to a pounding headache, a deep groan slipping from his lips as he shifted—only to freeze. One wrong move and he’d roll right off the couch.Then, it all came rushing back.

Last night. The reckless drive. His fingers pressed against his temple as if that could stop the memories from flooding in. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Ignoring the throbbing in his skull, he pushed himself up to sit. That’s when he noticed—his shoes were missing. Blinking, he glanced around and found them neatly placed beside the couch. His belt was gone too, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top.

Louis.

Harry swallowed and shook his head sharply, forcing the thought away. He hastily pulled his shoes back on, adjusted his clothes, and grabbed his keys from the coffee table. He needed to leave. Now.

Surprisingly, on the coffee table, he spotted a glass of water, a couple of aspirin, and a small plate of neatly cut fruit.  

Harry exhaled sharply. Why was Louis like this? Why did he always have to be so… considerate? It was irritating.

And yet, as the throbbing in his head intensified, he begrudgingly reached for the aspirin, swallowing them with a sip of water before popping a piece of fruit into his mouth. The cool sweetness helped, even if he wouldn’t admit it.  

His gaze flickered to his phone, lying beside the plate. He didn’t even remember putting it there. Picking it up, he checked the time—6 a.m. Too early for anything.  

Louis would still be asleep.  

Harry swallowed, hesitating for a beat. His eyes flicked toward the hallway leading to Louis’s room.  

But then, with a frustrated shake of his head, he pushed the thought away. What the fuck am I doing?

Without another glance back, he pocketed his phone, grabbed his keys, and walked out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.  

The drive away felt longer than it should have.

As Harry drove through the quiet, early morning streets, the remnants of last night clung to him like a second skin. The city was barely stirring, bathed in a dull, bluish haze. His temples throbbed, the aspirin only beginning to dull the pounding in his skull.  

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his jaw clenched.  

Why the fuck had he gone to Louis’s place? He had been reckless, stupid. He could’ve gotten himself killed driving under the influence. And for what? A moment of weakness?  

His fingers tapped impatiently against the wheel as he exhaled through his nose. He needed to shake this off.  

As soon as he reached his mansion, he walked in, ignoring the lingering smell of Louis’s apartment that still clung to his clothes. He needed a shower. Needed to reset.  

But as he stripped off his jacket and placed his keys down, his gaze flickered to his hands.  

Last night, Louis had touched him. Had taken care of him. Had stared at him with those big, searching eyes.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.  

He needed to forget.  

With a sharp inhale, he turned on his heel and strode toward his bedroom. He had work to do. Deals to make. Power to maintain.  

Louis had been a moment of weakness. That was all. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

Harry took a long, scalding shower, hoping the heat would wash away the remnants of last night—the memory of Louis’s voice, the way his breath had hitched, the way he had unknowingly pouted when Harry had mentioned Venom.

The way he had knelt in front of him, taken off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and—fuck.

Harry leaned his head against the shower wall, water cascading down his back. This was fucking ridiculous. He needed to snap out of it.  

By the time he stepped out and got dressed, his phone was already buzzing with missed calls. Meetings. Business. Things that actually mattered.  

He ignored the dull ache in his chest as he focused on work, grabbing his phone and heading straight for his office.  

But as he settled into his chair, something gnawed at him. Something deeper than the headache.  

He couldn't stop thinking about how Louis had dropped the other day.  

The way his body had gone limp, the way his breathing had been shallow—Harry hadn’t thought much of it at the time, letting his wolf take over, bringing Louis back. But now, in the silence of his office, the reality of it settled over him like a weight.  

Louis had dropped because of him. Because of his rage.  

He rubbed a hand down his face. No. This doesn't fucking matter.

He pulled up his schedule. Work. Focus. Keep moving forward.  

But no matter how much he tried to bury it, Louis’s words, Louis’s eyes, Louis’s goddamn scent still clung to the edges of his mind, refusing to let go.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. He stretched, his body still heavy with sleep, but something felt… off. A strange quiet settled over the apartment, pressing in on him.  

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes before swinging his legs over the bed. His bare feet touched the cool floor as he hesitated. His omega instincts twisted inside him, uneasy. Harry had been here. He had fallen asleep knowing that. 

But now—  

Louis walked out of his bedroom, his steps slow, uncertain. He turned the corner into the living room, and his heart sank.  

The couch was empty.  

He knew it would be, but still, the sight of it—neatly arranged as if Harry had never been there at all—made something tighten in his chest.  

His gaze drifted to the coffee table. The aspirin was gone. The fruit was eaten. The water glass was empty.  

Louis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.  

So Harry had taken them.  

It shouldn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything.  

But his omega curled inside him, conflicted. Stupid instincts.  

Louis exhaled, forcing himself to move. This was always how it would be with Harry. Here one moment, gone the next.  

And yet, knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Louis forced himself through the day, pushing the morning’s unease to the back of his mind. He cleaned a little, made himself breakfast, then tried to distract himself with a book. It worked for a while, but the silence in his apartment felt heavier than usual. Like something was missing.  

Or someone.  

He shook his head, annoyed with himself.  

The afternoon dragged on, and by evening, he had managed to get some work done—but his focus kept slipping. It wasn’t until late at night, when he was curled up on the couch watching something mindless, that the craving hit.  

Ice cream.  

God, he needed it. Right now.  

Louis groaned, running a hand over his stomach. The baby was making him want the most ridiculous things at the worst times. And he was out of ice cream.  

Sighing, he grabbed a hoodie and slipped on his shoes. The convenience store wasn’t far; a short walk would do him good anyway. He stepped outside, the night air cool against his skin. The streets were quiet, just the distant hum of the city filling the air.  

He was halfway to the store when the sudden sound of a car horn made him jump. Louis turned, startled, just as sleek headlights slowed beside him.  

A familiar car.  

“Omega, what the hell are you doing out here?” Harry’s voice cut through the quiet night, sharp with frustration. He had been driving back to his mansion when he spotted Louis, small and fragile in the dim glow of the streetlights, walking alone at midnight. 

Louis exhaled, slow and tired, before turning to face him. His expression was unreadable, his hoodie pulled tight around his frame like armor. “I’m getting ice cream.”  

Harry’s grip on the wheel tightened. “It’s almost midnight.” His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it—something close to anger.  

“I realize that,” Louis murmured, his voice soft but unwavering.  

Harry’s gaze flickered over the empty streets, the dark alleys, the shadows stretching too long beneath flickering streetlights. His jaw clenched. “You live in a shitty neighborhood.”  

Louis huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I realize that too.”  

Harry’s frustration flared as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles going white. “Do you even realize how dangerous this is? Walking around at midnight, by yourself, in this neighborhood? Get in the car.”  

Louis frowned, the defensiveness rising in his chest. “I’m not—”  

“Get in the car, Louis.” Harry’s voice was sharp, a command, and Louis—whether out of sheer exhaustion or the strange pull of Harry’s presence—climbed into the car without another word.  

The silence between them was thick, but Harry couldn’t let it rest. “I didn’t expect this from you. You’re out here at midnight, going to get some damn ice cream. Reckless.” His voice carried the weight of someone who cared—whether he liked it or not.  

“And driving while intoxicated is so safe,” Louis murmured under his breath.  

Harry’s eyes flicked toward him, a flash of irritation in his gaze. “What was that?”  

Louis froze. He wanted to retort, to unleash whatever frustration he could, but the words felt wrong somehow—like they had lost their bite. It wasn’t just Harry’s presence; it was something deeper, something in the way Harry made him feel small, vulnerable, submissive.

Louis swallowed hard. “I was just saying... I can’t help it. The baby’s craving it.” He looked away, staring out the window, wishing the tension in the car would ease, even just for a moment. 

Harry let out a sharp breath through his nose, turning the car toward the convenience store, his eyes on the road but his mind still simmering with irritation. The engine purred steadily beneath them, a hum that only seemed to emphasize the silence. The tension was suffocating.  

Louis stared out the window, lost in his own thoughts, trying to ignore the way Harry's presence seemed to vibrate in the air around him. Despite his sarcastic tone, he was glad Harry had intervened. The walk, though short, had been tiring—his feet had ached, and his mind was foggy, the weight of everything pressing down on him. 

He couldn’t admit it to Harry, though. Not yet. Not with the way Harry had been acting.  

The city lights flickered past the windows as Harry maneuvered the car through the streets. It was a long, quiet drive, and Louis could feel the pull of his tiredness growing, making him feel more subdued. Harry’s frustration was palpable, but beneath it, Louis could almost sense something else—a concern buried in the storm of his emotions. 

When they pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store, Harry parked with a sharp turn of the wheel, then turned to Louis with a look that seemed to cut through the silence. “Stay in the car. I’ll go get it. What flavour do you want?”

Louis opened his mouth to protest, to say something, but then closed it. He was tired—tired of fighting, tired of arguing with Harry. So he nodded slowly, settling back against the seat.

“ Caramel. Don’t take too long,” Louis murmured, his voice softer than usual.

Harry’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second before he nodded. “I’ll be quick,” he said, stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

Louis sighed, watching Harry disappear into the store. He let his eyes drift closed for a moment, the silence of the night pressing down on him like a weight. The cool air from the open window kissed his skin.

Harry returned after a few minutes, a small bag in his hand. He got back in the car, the sound of the door closing filling the stillness between them. 

Louis didn’t immediately reach for the bag. Instead, he looked over at Harry, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his posture remained tense, like he was holding something back.

Harry passed the bag over to Louis with an almost reluctant motion. “Here.” His voice was sharp. “Next time, just ask me for it, and I’ll have it delivered to your door. No more midnight runs. And for god's sake, don’t walk around here alone.”

Louis took the bag, feeling a weird ache in his chest. He wanted to say something—anything—that would break the awkwardness that lingered between them. But instead, he just nodded.

“Thanks, Harry.” He said it quietly, not looking at him, his fingers brushing the cold surface of the ice cream container. He felt a wave of gratitude, despite himself.  

Harry’s eyes flicked to him for a moment, and though his face remained stern, there was something there—a flicker of something Louis couldn’t quite name.  

“Yeah, whatever. Just... don’t do something that dumb again, okay?” Harry’s tone was still rough, but there was something tender behind it, something Louis didn’t want to analyze too deeply.  

Louis nodded, a small, quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Okay.” 

Harry started the car, pulling out of the lot and drove Louis back to his apartment. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 

A few days passed, and the silence between Harry and Louis only seemed to grow heavier. Louis had kept to himself.

It was mid-afternoon when Louis’s phone buzzed, cutting through his thoughts. Harry’s name appeared on the screen. Louis hesitated for a moment before answering.

“What is it?”

“Get ready. I want you at the mansion in an hour,” Harry’s voice came through, clipped and to the point.

Louis frowned, feeling the familiar knot tighten in his stomach. “For what?”

“We need to discuss the wedding,” Harry said, his tone offering no room for argument.

Louis’s stomach lurched at the word. Wedding. The weight of it still didn’t sit right with him. He wanted to refuse, wanted to fight back, but it didn’t matter. He had no choice. Not anymore.

“Fine,” Louis muttered, his voice thick with reluctance. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. Don’t be late.”

The call ended abruptly. Louis stared at his phone for a moment, the word wedding echoing in his mind. It was happening. Whether he was ready or not, he was being pulled into something he never asked for.

An hour later, Louis arrived at Harry’s mansion. The grand gates opened automatically, and Louis drove through, parking in front of the towering structure. The mansion loomed before him, its cold, imposing presence making him feel smaller with every step toward the door.

Harry opened it before Louis had a chance to knock. He stood there, as unapproachable as ever, his eyes cool and assessing. His gaze swept over Louis briefly before he stepped aside to let him in. 

“Come in,” Harry said flatly, his voice holding no warmth. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Louis nodded, stepping inside. The mansion was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the faint crackling of a fireplace in the sitting room. Harry led him through the grand hallways and into a spacious room, where they sat opposite one another.

Louis settled into an armchair, eyes instinctively avoiding Harry’s. The distance between them felt palpable, like an ocean of unsaid words.

Harry didn’t waste time. “We need to start planning the wedding,” he said, voice matter-of-fact, like they were discussing business. 

Louis swallowed hard, trying to suppress the tightening in his chest. A wedding. A forced arrangement. He was just a part of Harry’s plan, a step in his carefully calculated life. Harry wasn’t excited about this, Louis knew that. It was just another transaction in his world.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Louis muttered, voice barely audible. “What do you expect from me?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. His expression was cold, controlled. “It’s simple. We’ll get married. You’ll be my wife, and we’ll raise our child. We’ll make it public, show the world that you and the kid are mine. No more hiding.”

Louis’s heart sank. No more hiding. But it felt like the only thing Harry wanted to do was expose him to the world, in the most sterile, impersonal way. This wasn’t a union; it was an obligation.

“What about the wedding?” Louis asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “What kind of wedding are we talking about?”

Harry sighed, “It’ll be simple. Nothing extravagant. We don’t need that. We just need to make it official. For the kid.”

The way Harry said the kid hit Louis like a slap. It wasn’t our child or even my child—it was just the kid, an object of necessity. It made Louis’s chest tighten with something he couldn’t place. Disappointment? Hurt? Something far deeper that he couldn’t name.

Louis couldn’t hide his feelings anymore. The mask he wore, pretending that he could handle all of this, was slipping.

“Right,” Louis said, his voice hollow. “Just... make it official.”

Harry didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care—about the lack of emotion in Louis’s voice. “I know you don’t want this, Louis,” he said, his tone almost regretful but distant. “But we don’t have a choice. You and I... this marriage, it’s not just about us anymore. It’s about the kid. About doing what’s best for them. And I think this is best for you too.”

Louis’s heart ached. Doing what’s best for them. How could he ever believe that Harry was doing what was best for him, for Louis? He was just part of the business deal, part of a plan that Harry would execute without ever considering how it made him feel.

“I don’t know what you expect from me,” Louis said, his voice quieter now, the weight of his words heavier. “I’m just... here. Doing what’s asked of me.”

Harry’s gaze hardened. “I expect you to do your part,” Harry said bluntly. “I’ll handle everything else. Just be my wife, raise the child, and everything will be fine.”

Louis wanted to argue. He wanted to shout, to tell Harry that he wasn’t just a pawn in this game, that he wasn’t going to be swept along without a voice. But the words got stuck in his throat. Harry had already made it clear. This wasn’t about them. This was about the child. The baby.

Louis nodded slowly, the hurt settling deep in his chest. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll do it.”

Harry didn’t say anything more, his expression distant again. The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. Louis wanted to leave, to escape, but there was nowhere to go. He was already too far in.

“Good,” Harry said finally. “I’ll get the paperwork started. The sooner we do this, the better."

“Yeah,” Louis replied, the words coming out heavy. “The sooner, the better.”

Louis shifted in his seat, the weight of the conversation still pressing down on him. The thought of his family knowing about the marriage, the pregnancy, everything... it felt like too much. But he knew he had to face it. He couldn't hide forever.

"This mean I need to tell my family soon." Louis said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "And... will I have to meet yours?"

Harry’s expression darkened instantly, his jaw tightening. There was a sudden coldness in his gaze, like a shadow crossing over him. He stared at Louis for a long moment, his eyes cold and distant. 

Louis’s heart skipped a beat as Harry’s gaze darkened. The weight of the question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Louis couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread settling in his stomach. Had he said the wrong thing? Was this too much? Would Harry yell at him?

He held his breath, preparing himself for the usual sharp response, the harsh edge to Harry’s voice that he had come to expect. But Harry didn’t yell. Instead, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and the words came out, flat and emotionless.

“I have no family,” Harry said, his voice colder than usual, as though it were a statement of fact, something that had long since stopped affecting him.

Louis froze, unsure of how to react. The weight of Harry’s words settled in, but it wasn’t something he could push aside. He was left staring at Harry, the silence between them stretching far longer than it should’ve.

Louis opened his mouth to say something, anything, but he couldn’t find the words. What was there to say? What could he say? Harry had no family. That fact lingered in the room, suffocating the air with its rawness.

Harry turned abruptly, breaking the silence. "I need to get some more paperwork from my office." His tone was brisk, dismissive, as though the conversation was over. He didn’t give Louis a chance to respond, and without another glance, Harry walked away down the hallway, leaving Louis alone in the sitting room.

Louis’s mind buzzed with a hundred different thoughts, all jumbled and chaotic. A soft sound broke through the silence.

A meow.

Louis’s head snapped toward the sound, his brow furrowing in confusion. The house felt quiet, almost too quiet, the air still and heavy around him. He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether he had imagined it. But the sound came again, this time a little louder, closer.

Louis stood up, his curiosity piqued. 

The soft meows echoed through the cavernous halls, pulling Louis forward like a thread he couldn't help but follow. He knew that sound—Lucy. 

Louis followed, his steps quiet against the cold marble floors. The mansion was always too quiet, too still, like something waiting beneath the surface. He had been here countless times before—had been pressed against these walls, bent over furniture, had let Harry take from him again and again in places that weren’t meant for softness. And yet, as he moved deeper into this unknown hallway, a strange unease curled in his gut.  

This was unfamiliar.  

The air felt colder here, heavier. The lighting was dim, the walls closer together. It didn’t feel like the rest of the house. It felt forgotten.  

Then, he saw her.  

Lucy sat just ahead, her golden eyes watching him, tail flicking lazily. She didn’t move as he approached, letting him kneel and run his fingers through her fur. She purred, the sound vibrating beneath his fingertips, a rare source of warmth in this place.  

But something else caught his eye.  

A door. Slightly ajar.  

Louis froze.  

The door wasn’t like the others in the mansion. It was thick, reinforced. Heavy metal hinges glinted in the dim light, and the crack between the door and the frame revealed only darkness beyond.  

He shouldn’t.  

His heart beat against his ribs, screaming at him to turn around. To pick up Lucy and leave.  

But his fingers twitched.  

Louis had never been able to resist forbidden things. He had never been able to stop himself from stepping too close to the edge. That's precisely why he had ended up like this.

Slowly, he got up, walked towards the door and pushed it open.  

His breath caught.  

The room was filled with death.  

Weapons lined the walls—guns of every size, rifles stacked with military precision, pistols gleaming under the low light. Knives, too. Dozens of them, some large enough to gut a man, others small and delicate, made for something slower.  

Louis took a step back. His stomach twisted, his skin turning cold.  

Then his eyes landed on the drugs.  

Bags of white powder, neat rows of pills, syringes filled with substances he couldn’t name. There was no attempt to disguise them, no attempt to hide what this was.  

This wasn’t just a room.This was Harry’s world, raw and exposed, stripped of all pretense.  Louis felt sick.  

He knew what Harry was. He had known since the moment he got involved with him, since the first time he heard his name whispered in fear. But knowing it in theory and seeing it like this—laid bare in cold steel and poison—were two different things.  

His hands shook.  

His lungs felt too tight.  

How was he supposed to fit into this? How was he supposed to raise a child in a life where this was normal?  

He didn’t belong here.  

He never had.

Louis slammed the door shut, his breathing ragged, hands shaking violently as he pressed them flat against the cold wood. His entire body felt like it had turned to ice. His mind screamed at him to calm down, to breathe, but he couldn’t. The room—the weapons, the drugs—it was still burned into his vision.  

He had known what Harry was, what he did. But seeing it laid out like that, in such horrifying detail, made it all too real. 

A soft brush against his ankle made him flinch, but when he looked down, it was only Lucy. The little cat gazed up at him with bright, unbothered eyes, her tail curling around his leg. Louis swallowed hard, trying to steady himself.  

But then— 

Footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Unforgiving.  

Louis’s heart nearly stopped.  

He turned just as a shadow loomed at the end of the dark hallway.  

Harry.  

The second their eyes met, Louis felt his stomach drop.  

Harry’s expression was unreadable at first, his gaze flickering from Louis to the door Louis had just slammed shut. Then, slowly, his features darkened.  

And just like that, the air grew suffocating.  

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" 

Louis nearly whimpered. His throat closed up, and he lowered his gaze immediately, instinct taking over. "I—I wasn't—"  

Harry stalked closer, his presence pressing down like a storm.  

"You're not allowed in this part of the mansion, Louis."  

Louis swallowed, his entire body tense. He nodded quickly, keeping his eyes on the ground. "I—I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to."His voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry, sir."  

Harry stopped abruptly.  

For a brief moment, the hallway was deathly silent.  

Then—a slow, dangerous hum. 

Harry’s eyes darkened further as he closed the remaining space between them.

Louis trembled.

His back hit the wall before he even realized he was moving, his instincts screaming at him to make himself small. But Harry didn’t stop. He stepped even closer, his towering frame shadowing Louis completely.

He lifted a hand, his fingers gripping Louis’s jaw, not gentle, not kind. He forced Louis’s face up, making him look at him. He tilted  face up with a grip that was just shy of bruising. Louis shuddered, his lips parting in a quiet gasp.  

Harry's eyes bored into his, unreadable and dark.  

"Did you see something you shouldn’t have, omega?"

Louis trembled violently. His mind screamed at him to say no, to lie, to do anything to make this moment pass. But he couldn’t find the words, couldn’t find his voice.  

Harry’s grip tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over Louis’s jaw. His touch was deceptively soft, but his voice was anything but.  

"You think just because we’re getting married, you can do whatever you want?" His voice was low, edged with something terrifying. "That you can walk into places you don’t belong?"  

Louis shook his head frantically. “No—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean— I just came here to s-see Lucy I-”  

Harry made a quiet tsking sound.  

"Stay out of my business, pet," he murmured, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "You're here to carry my child, not poke around in things that don't concern you."  

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shaky.  

"I—I understand," he whispered. "I won’t do it again. I promise, alpha."

Harry tilted his head, considering him for a long, unbearable moment.  

Then, finally, he let go.  

Louis nearly stumbled, his body weak with relief, but he kept himself upright.  

Harry didn’t move away, didn’t give him space. His gaze lingered, burning into Louis like a warning.  

“Good,” he said, voice softer now, but no less terrifying. “I’d hate to have to remind you again. Follow me.”  

Louis nodded quickly, his pulse roaring in his ears.  

Then, without another word, Harry turned and walked away.  

Louis stayed frozen in place, his breath still too shaky to be steady.  

Lucy meowed softly at his feet, but Louis barely heard her.  

Because all he could hear was the echo of Harry’s words, wrapping around his throat like a noose. Louis felt like he had just brushed against something lethal and barely made it out alive.

Louis forced his feet to move, trailing after Harry as he made his way back to the living room. His hands still trembled slightly, his mind a storm of panic and fear, but he forced himself to push it down. He didn’t want to show weakness—not now, not in front of Harry.  

Lucy followed them silently, her small paws making no noise against the cold marble floors. Louis felt oddly comforted by her quiet presence, the way she moved with certainty, unbothered by the storm of tension in the air.  

When they finally reached the living room, Harry sank into an armchair, his movements sharp with irritation. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, his gaze distant for a brief moment. Then, as if sensing something, his eyes flickered toward the floor.  

He stilled.  

A slow, exasperated sigh left his lips.  

“For fuck’s sake.”  

Louis frowned, then followed his gaze.  

Lucy sat near his feet, her tail lazily flicking as she gazed up at him with her bright, curious eyes.  

Harry’s jaw tightened.  

“I’m getting that damn cat put down,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “She’s too fucking nosy.”  

Louis’s stomach lurched. The words left his mouth before he could stop himself, his voice firmer than he intended. He stepped forward, his brows furrowing as he shook his head. “Please, don’t.”  

Harry’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and calculating.  

Louis swallowed but held his ground.  

“She’s harmless,” he added, softer now, almost pleading. “She doesn’t do anything bad. Just… let her be. Please."

A long silence stretched between them.  

Harry studied him, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose and turned his head.  

He called over one of the maids standing quietly in the hallway.  

“Take the cat to the gardens,” he ordered. His voice was flat, indifferent, but there was something final in his tone. “Make sure she stays there.”  

The maid nodded quickly, scooping Lucy up in her arms. The cat let out a small meow but didn’t struggle, her eyes still fixed on Louis as she was carried away.  

Louis watched until she disappeared from sight, then slowly turned back to Harry.  

A thick stack of papers was already placed in front of him.  

His heart clenched.  

Harry gestured toward them. “Sign.”  

Louis hesitated. His fingers twitched slightly as he reached for the pen, his hands still unsteady from what had just happened. He skimmed over the first page, the words blurring together in front of him. Legal jargon. Marriage clauses. Expectations. Ownership.  

His chest felt tight.  

Still, he forced his hands to move, signing his name where Harry pointed. His signature looked weak, uneven. He hated that.  

When he finished, he set the pen down with a quiet exhale.  

“There was no need for all these contracts,” he said after a moment. His voice was quiet, careful. “I would have done this anyway, alpha.”  

Harry leaned back, resting his arm against the side of the chair. His expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes.  

“I don’t trust anything without a contract.”  

Louis didn’t reply. He only lowered his gaze, staring at the papers in front of him.  

Harry truly believed it. That trust, for him, wasn’t something that came naturally. That he didn’t take people at their word, didn’t believe in promises unless they were legally enforced.

It made Louis wonder how many times Harry had been betrayed. How many times he had been let down, hurt, abandoned. How many people had made him believe that love—commitment—could never be real unless it was written in black and white, sealed with a signature. And Louis, sitting there with his own name on that paper, felt like he was just another part of that cycle. 

Harry glanced over the signed papers, his jaw tight as he flipped through them, ensuring everything was in order. Once satisfied, he set them down with a quiet finality, his fingers drumming against the table for a moment before he exhaled sharply.  

“We’re done here,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.  

Louis swallowed, nodding quickly. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting—maybe some acknowledgment, maybe something that made this feel less like a business transaction. But of course, this was Harry. He should’ve known better.  

Harry stood up, already moving on, already done with him. Without sparing Louis another glance, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He pressed a button, bringing it to his ear.  

“Take him home,” he said shortly to whoever was on the other end.

Harry’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and unyielding. “The driver will take you.”  

Louis nodded, standing up. Minutes later, he was walking down the grand hallway toward the entrance, escorted by one of Harry’s men. The weight of the conversation, the contract, the entire night sat heavy in his chest.  

As he stepped outside, the cool night air hit him, grounding him. The black car waited at the curb, the driver standing by the door, waiting.  

Louis glanced back at the towering mansion behind him, its windows dark, its secrets locked away inside.  

Then, without another word, he slid into the car. The door shut behind him with a soft click, sealing him away from whatever part of himself he’d left inside that house.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

Life had a cruel sense of irony—so twisted and merciless that Louis couldn’t tell whether to laugh or cry.

For so long, he had longed for Harry with every desperate, aching part of his soul. He had dreamed of their union, of a bond so deep it would be etched into their very beings, of a child that would make them whole.

And now—now, he was getting it. The world would see, the world would know. He would officially be Harry's omega.

And yet, it had never felt less true. He had lost him. Rather, he had never had him in the first place. Not in the way one loses a lover to distance or time, but in a way far worse—he had him, and yet, he didn’t.

He was further away now than he had ever been before. The tragedy of it was almost laughable. Almost.

Now, as Louis sat in his mother’s house on Christmas, the weight of his impending wedding pressed down on him like a vice. Just weeks remained, and he had yet to tell his family. The words sat heavy on his tongue, unwilling to be spoken. How could he even begin?  

"Both of your presents were lovely!" his mother chimed, setting down three steaming cups of hot chocolate before settling into her chair.  

Louis reached for his cup with unsteady hands, seeking warmth, seeking comfort—anything to ground him. But it wasn’t enough. His fingers trembled against the ceramic, his skin clammy, his breath uneven. A strange, feverish sensation crept over him, curling around his spine like an omen.

"You alright, Lou?" Lottie’s voice cut through the haze, gentle but probing.  

Louis met her gaze for a fleeting second before nodding. He had to. There was no way out of this. The truth was inevitable, and yet, he dreaded the humiliation that would come with it. His mother, his sister—they had to understand. They had to.  

"I have to tell you both something," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.  

Jay's expression shifted, concern creeping into her eyes. "What is it, love?" she asked, setting down her cup, her attention now fully on him.  

Louis swallowed hard. His pulse thundered in his ears.  

There was no turning back now.

"I—" Louis squeezed his eyes shut, as if bracing for impact. His heart pounded, his breath shuddered. And then, finally, the words tumbled out.  

"I'm pregnant."  

The silence that followed was deafening.  

"Jesus!" his mother gasped, her voice sharp with shock.  

Lottie, wide-eyed and frozen, stared at him like he had just grown a second head. "W-Who? What? What the fuck, Louis?!" she blurted, her voice rising in disbelief.  

Louis flinched. His fingers clenched around his cup, his knuckles turning white. 

Louis let out a slow, weary sigh, his grip tightening around the warm cup in his hands. "My boss." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Harry Styles."

Lottie audibly gasped, her shock turning into something sharper—something dangerously close to anger. "Louis! How could you? Your boss?! Do you even know the kind of alpha he is?" Her voice wavered, a mix of frustration and fear. "There’s no way he’ll ever claim you! Does he even know?"

Louis opened his mouth, but before he could answer, his mother’s voice cut through, raw and trembling.

"How could you be so naïve, Lou?" Jay’s eyes shone with unshed tears, her hands gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping her steady. "Alphas don’t care about this kind of thing! They don’t—" Her voice broke, and she inhaled sharply, shaking her head. "How are you going to bear this alone?"

"We're getting married!" Louis nearly shouted, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.  

The room fell into stunned silence. His mother’s mouth clamped shut, Lottie’s eyes went impossibly wide. For the first time since he had spoken, they had nothing to say.  

Louis let out a breath, his heart still hammering in his chest. For the first time in days, he felt a flicker of gratitude toward Harry. Because if this was how his own family reacted, he couldn’t even begin to imagine how the rest of the world would treat an unclaimed, pregnant omega.  

"Let me finish, at least," he said, his voice softer now but with a slight tinge of hurt.  "Of course he knows. We’re getting married in two weeks. You’re both invited, obviously. And of course he’s going to claim me and our baby."  

His chest ached at having to say it like that, like a reassurance, as if the idea of Harry choosing him was so impossible that even his own family couldn’t believe it.  

The hurt settled deep. But there was nothing he could do now but wait for them to accept it.

Their faces softened, the sharp edges of their initial shock dulling into something gentler.  

"I'm sorry, Lou," Lottie murmured, her voice tinged with hesitation. "It's just... I haven't heard the best things about him. But—" she exhaled, forcing a small smile, "I'm glad he's taking responsibility for you. That must mean he loves you, right? Because he's really not the type."  

Jay nodded quickly, her eyes still glistening. "Of course he loves him! Why else would he claim him?" She reached for Louis’s hand, squeezing it tightly. "God, I’m sorry too, love. I just— I got so worried. I'm a single mother, I know how hard it is. I didn’t want that for you."  

Louis let out a slow, measured sigh. "I understand."  

And he did. He understood their fears, their doubts. But the love comments?  

They cut deeper than he could admit.  

He forced a small smile, swallowing the ache in his throat. He wouldn’t correct them. It didn’t matter. He had already accepted that love had nothing to do with this.

"Are you happy, Lou?" Lottie’s voice was softer now, searching.  

Louis nodded without hesitation. He had to lie, didn’t he? "I am," he said, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. "I’m getting married to the alpha I love. Of course I’m happy." He smiled—or at least, he tried to.  

Jay’s expression melted, her motherly instincts overriding everything else. "Oh, honey!" she exclaimed, standing up and wrapping him in a tight embrace.  

Lottie joined in, their warmth pressing in on him from both sides. "Good, or I would've kicked his ass," she muttered, her voice laced with protectiveness.  

Louis let out a small chuckle, playing his part.  

Then Jay pulled back, her eyes scanning him carefully. "You’re still working for him, darling?"  

Louis shook his head. "He said he didn’t want me to work while I was pregnant."  

Another lie. Another mask.  

It was easier this way.

"That’s very nice of him. He’s right," Jay said with a nod, as if that settled it and let go of the hug. She had been scared, so scared but now knowing that a rich alpha was marrying his son, she felt all of the worry leave her body.

"He better not make you work. With all the money he’s got, he better let you rest all day long," Lottie huffed. She refused to let go of the hug, as if they were at war and she was the last line of defense for her brother and his unborn child.  

Louis let out another laugh, lighter this time, though still forced. "You alphas and your weird protective instincts. Get off me!"  

Lottie gasped, feigning offense. "Excuse me? I’m just making sure you and my future niece or nephew are safe!"  

"We’re fine!" Louis insisted, finally managing to wriggle free, though Lottie still eyed him like she was considering tackling him again.  

For a moment, it almost felt normal. Almost.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Two days after Christmas, Louis found himself sitting in Dr. Hale’s office for a check-up. The sterile scent of the hospital lingered in the air, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the holidays still hanging in his mind.  

Dr. Hale entered, her calm presence a welcome relief. She gave him a reassuring smile as she sat down across from him.  

"How’re you holding up, darling?" she asked, her voice soft, yet full of concern.  

"Well," Louis replied, trying to keep his tone steady, though his mind felt anything but.  

"Good," Dr. Hale said, her smile never wavering.

"I have some good news for you," Louis said, his voice a little more confident now. He could see the way Dr. Hale’s eyes softened. She had always been hesitant about him carrying an unclaimed pregnancy, her concern clear whenever they spoke about it.  

"Really? What is it?" she asked, her curiosity piqued as she began setting up the equipment around her.  

"I talked to my baby’s father. We’re getting married in about two weeks," Louis said, trying to keep the excitement in his voice, despite the mix of emotions swirling inside him.  

"Really?!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise. "Thank fuck!" She quickly caught herself, blushing slightly. "I’m so sorry, this is unprofessional, but I’m so happy for you. This will be much easier and safer now. Thank God. You’re a sweet omega, Louis. You deserve this." She smiled warmly, her relief evident.  

Louis couldn’t help but smile back, the words she had spoken washing over him like a wave of reassurance.

"Okay! I'm still buzzing, but let's get started. Any new symptoms?" Dr. Hale asked, her smile fading slightly as she focused on the task at hand.  

"Not really. The nausea has gotten much better since you gave me those pills," Louis said, trying to keep his tone even. "But I've been feeling a bit feverish lately."  

"Hmm, that’s expected now," she replied with a nod, scribbling something down on her clipboard.  

"Is it?" Louis asked, furrowing his brow.  

"Yes," she said, meeting his eyes with a calm expression. "Now that I assume you're seeing your baby’s father, you’ll likely feel feverish. Excuse me, this is personal but important—when was the last time you and your baby’s father had intercourse?"  

Louis' face flushed crimson, and he fidgeted in his seat, avoiding her gaze. "It's been awhile," he mumbled.

"Hmm," Dr. Hale nodded thoughtfully. "Your omega is craving that. Pregnant omegas do need intercourse once or twice every month at the least. Most crave more than that. But if you go less than that, you might fall into touch starvation."  

"Jesus Christ," Louis mumbled, his face turning an even deeper shade of red.  

Dr. Hale chuckled softly, clearly amused by his reaction. "Imagine how I feel," she said with a smirk. "Every time a pregnant omega asks me for medicine regarding feeling feverish or uneasy, I have to prescribe them with... that."  

Louis couldn’t help but chuckle too, the awkwardness easing just a little. "This will be quite the mortifying conversation with the father."  

"No need to have a conversation," Dr. Hale said with a knowing smile. "His alpha will know. Next time you see him, he’ll realize it immediately."  

Louis sighed, both dreading and strangely relieved by the idea. 

As Dr. Hale started taking his blood pressure, she continued explaining with the same calm, professional tone. "Pregnant omegas absolutely need intimacy from their alphas. That’s why an unclaimed pregnancy is so dangerous. We have to give them so many medicines to prevent touch starvation. Intimacy helps an omega stay relaxed, and the chances of complications—especially the risks of dropping—become much less. Much less. An omega needs warmth when they’re pregnant. Warmth and comfort. Even the toughest of alphas break when their omega is pregnant."  

Louis sat there, his heart heavy with the weight of her words. God, he desperately hoped so. That Harry—his alpha—would understand. That he would step in when it mattered. That the cold distance between them would be bridged by something more than obligation.

Dr. Hale finished taking his blood pressure and did a few other routine checkups and made a few notes on her chart, then looked up at Louis with a reassuring smile. "You’re doing well so far. Just keep taking care of yourself and make sure to stay on top of your appointments. If anything feels off, don’t hesitate to reach out."  

Louis nodded, the weight of the conversation still lingering. "Thanks, Dr. Hale. I’ll do my best."  

She smiled again. "You’re stronger than you think. Just keep listening to your body and we’ll handle the rest."  

Louis stood up, gathering his things, feeling a mix of relief and apprehension. "I will. Thanks again."  

With a final nod, he left her office, the uncertainty of the next steps still gnawing at him, but he knew there was no turning back now.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The day of the wedding arrived with a crispness in the air, the sun shining down on the immaculate gardens of Harry’s mansion. While Louis had insisted on keeping the ceremony simple, the lavish surroundings told a different story. The garden was adorned with delicate white and gold accents, the flowers meticulously arranged along the path where Louis would walk. There were no grand chandeliers or ballrooms, but the scene still exuded wealth and sophistication, a quiet elegance that was unmistakably Harry’s style.

There were only Louis's mother and sister, and a close friend, Liam, and then, from Harry’s side, a couple of his business associates—Niall and Zayn. Their presence was formal, perhaps even cold. And amidst the small circle, a few media personnel stood in the corner, their cameras poised to capture the moment the world would learn about Harry’s marriage to Louis. This wasn’t just a wedding; it was an announcement. The end of one chapter and the beginning of another, one that the world would watch closely.

Louis stood before the mirror in the dressing room, hands shaking slightly as he adjusted the delicate lace of his dress. It was understated, elegant, a stark contrast to the sometimes intimidating grandeur of the surroundings. The dress hugged his body perfectly, flowing gently around his feet in a cascade of soft ivory. His hair was styled simply, his face a little flushed from nerves, but the overall effect was striking. Beautiful.

"Louis," his mother said softly, appearing in the doorway with a proud smile. "You look stunning, sweetheart."

Louis met her gaze in the mirror, trying to hide the knot in his stomach. "Thanks, Mom."

The dress felt heavier than he imagined, not just in fabric, but in the weight of the commitment he was about to make. It was real now. This was happening.

His family took their seats in the small, curated space that had been set up in the garden. Harry’s business associates lingered near the back, a quiet tension in the air as the media snapped photos from a distance. The air smelled like roses and fresh greenery, but Louis could barely notice it. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears drowned out everything else.

And then, as the music began, Harry entered.

He was dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit, his presence commanding despite the simplicity of the surroundings. When his eyes found Louis, there was no softness there—not yet—but a steady, unflinching gaze that sent a shiver down Louis’s spine. Harry wasn’t smiling, but there was an unmistakable tension in his posture, as if he too were aware of the weight of this moment.

Louis walked down the aisle slowly, his legs feeling unsteady, every step feeling like it was pulling him closer to something he couldn’t entirely comprehend. His family watched him, but it was the eyes of the media that burned into him, and Louis couldn’t help but wonder what they would say.

The ceremony itself was brief—vows exchanged, rings slipped onto fingers—but the eyes of the few dozen people there made it feel like an event much larger than it was.

Harry’s voice was steady when he spoke his vows, and Louis could feel the magnitude of every word, even if they weren’t filled with the softness he had imagined. There was an intensity in Harry’s gaze.

"Do you, Louis, take Harry to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the officiant asked, and Louis froze for a moment, the weight of those words settling heavily on his shoulders.

"I do," Louis said, his voice a little more strained than he would have liked.

And when Harry spoke his vows and slid the ring onto Louis’s finger, the world outside seemed to disappear for a moment. This was real. This was happening. There was no going back.

The officiant declared them married, and the media photographers quickly snapped their shots, capturing the moment for the world to see. The cameras flashed, but Louis felt a strange sense of detachment from it all. This wasn’t the fairy tale wedding he’d once dreamed of. It was something much more complicated.

After the ceremony, Harry’s business associates congratulated them briefly, their expressions more professional than warm. The media began asking their questions, trying to piece together the story, but Louis only half-listened. His thoughts were elsewhere, trying to make sense of what had just happened, and what was coming next.

The ceremony ended with an almost clinical finality, the last of the vows exchanged and the media snapping their photos as they made their exit. The guests, Louis's family and Harry's business associates, began to filter out, their murmurs fading into the distance. 

Louis stood at the edge of the gathering, the ring on his finger feeling like it weighed a ton. His heart thudded in his chest as he watched Harry, who stood at the far side of the garden, speaking with his employees. Harry didn’t look at Louis, not once. Louis felt a pang of something sharp, an anxiety that churned low in his stomach.

When the last of the guests had gone, Harry turned to one of the maids who had been present throughout the ceremony. She was a tall woman, efficient, professional, with an expression that held no warmth as she approached Louis.

"Mrs. Styles," she said quietly, her tone neutral, almost robotic. "Master Styles asked that I escort you to your room."

Louis felt a tight knot of fear clench in his chest. His body wanted to protest, to ask why, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he nodded, the motion stiff and mechanical, as if it wasn’t even his own body moving. The maid didn’t wait for him to speak, already turning on her heel and walking toward the entrance of the mansion. Louis had no choice but to follow, his legs heavy, each step echoing in his mind.

The silence between them was oppressive, and with every corner they turned, Louis felt smaller, more insignificant. His heart raced, thudding louder in his chest with each step as the reality of what he had just committed to pressed in on him. Harry’s words, his cold demeanor—it all felt so distant.  

When they reached the door to their room, the maid opened it without a word, holding it open for him to enter. Louis stood there for a long moment, staring into the darkened room beyond. The vastness of it seemed to swallow him whole. It felt too silent, too empty. 

"Master Styles will join you shortly," the maid said curtly before walking away, her heels clicking against the polished floor, leaving Louis standing alone in the doorway.

Louis's breath caught in his throat, and his heart pounded so loudly he thought it might burst. He stepped into the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. For a moment, he just stood there, frozen in the middle of the room. The silence was suffocating, the weight of the unknown pressing in on him. 

What now? What had he just agreed to? The thought made his knees weak, and he sank down onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling in his lap. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to step into something far deeper, far darker than he could have ever imagined. The promise of marriage felt more like a sentence now, one he wasn’t sure he was ready to face. 

Minutes passed, each one stretching into eternity, as he waited for Harry to return. But the longer he waited, the more he realized how alone he really was.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers gripping the fabric of his dress as the minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity. An endless, suffocating wait. Harry still hadn’t come.

The silence of the room pressed down on him, thick and unbearable. At first, he had been anxious, uncertain, but now something else was creeping in—something hotter, more insistent. Anger. Frustration.

His body was burning, a slow, simmering heat curling beneath his skin, unfamiliar and unsettling. It wasn’t just impatience anymore. It was need—deep, primal, clawing at his insides like a beast stirring awake. His inner omega, already restless before, now thrashed against the absence of the alpha it had just been bound to.

The air felt too thick, his dress suddenly too heavy. He pressed a trembling hand against his chest, trying to steady himself, but it did nothing to cool the feverish heat creeping up his spine.

Louis couldn’t stand being in that cold, empty room any longer. The silence was suffocating, his skin burning with something restless, unbearable. Still in his wedding dress, the heavy fabric dragging behind him, he pushed open the door and stepped out into the dimly lit halls of the mansion. His bare feet made no sound against the polished floors as he wandered aimlessly, frustration simmering beneath his skin.  

When he finally reached the living room, he stopped in his tracks.  

Harry was there. Sitting on the sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his posture relaxed—like nothing about tonight mattered. Like he hadn’t left Louis alone, waiting, desperate, humiliated.  

Louis’s breath hitched. Heat curled in his stomach, not just from the fever burning through him but from the sheer frustration clawing at his insides.  

Harry looked up then, his sharp green eyes locking onto Louis. For a moment, he said nothing, only taking him in—the delicate silk and lace of his wedding dress, the way his soft hair clung to his forehead, his flushed cheeks and bright blue eyes. Louis could feel the weight of that gaze trailing over him, slow and deliberate.  

“Louis,” Harry finally acknowledged, his voice smooth, unreadable.  

Louis clenched his fists, stepping closer. His chest rose and fell unsteadily as he stared at the man who was supposed to be his husband. The man who hadn’t even come to him tonight.

Louis swallowed, his throat tight as he took a hesitant step closer. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, gripping the delicate fabric of his dress. His heart pounded against his ribs, but he forced himself to speak.

"You left me in that room for hours," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "On our wedding night."

Harry didn’t move at first. He simply exhaled, slow and measured, before tilting his head slightly. "You’re upset."

Louis hesitated, his breath uneven. "I just… I waited," he admitted, his voice raw with something he didn’t want to name. "I didn’t know if you were coming."

Harry finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers tapping lightly against his glass. "Go back to bed, Louis."

The words hit like a cold gust of wind, stealing what little warmth Louis had left. He blinked, his hands tightening around the silk of his dress.

He stared at Harry, at the man who was supposed to be his husband, and something inside him twisted into something sharp, something unbearable.

Before—before the wedding, before the vows, before he had been bound to Harry in a way that was now inescapable—things had been different.

Not better, but different. Back then, if he had been in Harry’s room, if he had wanted him, at the very least, Harry would have come to him. Would have taken him, even if it was nothing more than a physical act, even if it was just an afterthought to the alpha.

But now? Now Harry wouldn’t even give him that.

A flush of frustration rose to Louis’s cheeks, his hands trembling at his sides. His body still ached, his skin burned with restless energy, his omega twisting inside him, desperate and ignored. His own husband didn’t even want to touch him.

His chest heaved, his blue eyes dark with something raw as he took a step forward. "Really, Alpha?" he bit out, his voice shaking, not with fear but with anger. "Now that you’ve completely stripped me of everything, ruined me, now I’m not even worth enough to fuck?"

Harry’s eyes flickered, something shifting in them, but his expression remained unreadable. He didn’t answer, didn’t move. He simply sat there, watching Louis like he was something distant, something unimportant.

Louis’s breath hitched, and the silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms, but Harry still said nothing.

The realization settled over him like a crushing weight. This was worse. So much worse than before.

Harry set his glass down with a quiet clink, barely blinking as he looked at Louis. His voice was calm, indifferent. “It was obvious you didn’t want it.”  

Louis felt something in him snap. His breath caught, his chest tightening, his hands trembling at his sides. He could feel his inner omega flushing through him, pushing against his skin, burning him from the inside out. His wolf wasn’t quiet like Harry’s—wasn’t controlled, wasn’t ignored. His omega ruled him in ways he couldn’t help, and right now, it was desperate, frantic. It needed.  

Unlike Harry, who clearly let his human side overpower his instincts, Louis was ruled by his own. And his body—his omega—knew exactly what it wanted. His omega didn’t understand rejection. It didn’t understand why the one person who was supposed to give him warmth, who was supposed to take care of him, was pushing him away.  

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he hated it. Hated that he felt weak, that his body was betraying him like this. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his whole body burning up, but Harry just sat there, watching him, cold and unmoved.  

Louis swallowed, his throat tight, before a bitter, choked laugh escaped him. “That’s funny,” he said, voice shaking. He lifted a trembling hand to wipe at his eyes angrily before clenching his fists again. “Because I don’t remember saying that. I don’t remember doing anything to make you think that.” His voice cracked, his frustration mounting as he stared at Harry, desperate for anything, any kind of reaction. “So tell me—what exactly made you so sure?”  

Harry exhaled slowly, his gaze unreadable, his face betraying nothing.  

Louis shook his head, chest rising and falling rapidly. “You know what I think?” His voice wavered, barely holding together. “I think this isn’t about me at all. I think it’s you who doesn’t want it.” His lips parted, a shallow breath escaping as he looked at him, his eyes wet, his entire body trembling. “Isn’t that right, Alpha?”  

Something flickered in Harry’s gaze—something dark, something unreadable, something dangerous. But it was gone before Louis could make sense of it.

Harry exhaled slowly, then stood.

The motion was effortless, fluid, but something about it sent a sharp bolt of tension through Louis’s spine. His breath hitched, his omega immediately recognizing the shift in the air, in the way Harry carried himself. He was an alpha. No matter how much he tried to suppress it, to act indifferent, to push Louis away—his presence alone still dominated the room, still made something primal in Louis want to fold, to submit.

Louis swallowed hard, refusing to step back even as Harry closed the space between them.

When he finally stopped, mere inches away, Louis had to tilt his chin up to meet his eyes. The scent of whiskey and something distinctly Harry wrapped around him, making his already feverish skin prickle.

Harry exhaled sharply, his eyes raking over Louis, taking in his flushed skin, the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the frustration burning in his blue eyes. His lips curled slightly, voice low and edged with something cruel.  

“You’re shaking,” he muttered. “What, are you that desperate for me now?”  

Louis’s breath caught, his fingers curling into the silk of his dress. He knew Harry was trying to humiliate him, to push him away like he always did. But he was past caring. His body was screaming at him, his omega clawing under his skin, and Harry—Harry, with his sharp words and his cold stare—was the only one who could fix it.  

“I may not want it,” Louis bit out, his voice trembling with anger, with something close to desperation. “But my omega does.”  

Harry’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes.  

Then, as if testing him, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Louis’s wrist.  

The moment their skin touched, Louis shuddered violently, his breath stuttering in his throat. It was instant—the way his body reacted, the way his omega surged forward, desperate for more. His scent bloomed thick and sweet around them, almost suffocating in the air.  

And then—Harry froze.  

Louis saw it happen. Felt it.  

Harry’s fingers twitched against his wrist, his jaw tightening. His nostrils flared slightly, his pupils dilating as realization crashed into him.  

Louis was heating up.  

Not just from anger. Not just from exhaustion.  

It had been a month. A full month since Louis had been touched the way an omega needed to be. And now that Harry was close enough, now that he was touching him, his alpha instincts—no matter how much he tried to suppress them—recognized it immediately.  

Louis saw the exact moment Harry realized just how close Louis was to breaking.

Harry’s grip on Louis’s wrist tightened for a moment, and the sudden intensity of it made Louis’s heart race. Every inch of his skin screamed for more, for the touch he was so desperately craving. Louis couldn’t hold back the need that surged within him, his body practically thrumming with the desperate ache of his omega. 

Harry’s eyes flickered over Louis, taking in the delicate lace of his wedding dress, the way the fabric hugged his body, the way his hair framed his face. His gaze softened, just for a split second, before his lips curled into a smirk. 

“You look good in that dress,” Harry’s voice was low, husky. 

Louis’s breath hitched, and before he could stop himself, his fingers shot up, gripping the tie around Harry’s neck with an almost violent need. His fingers twisted into the fabric, pulling him closer, his lips aching with the desperate desire to taste him, to feel him. 

“Then do something about it,” Louis whispered, his voice raw, almost pleading. 

Harry’s eyes darkened at that. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at Louis, the tension between them thick and almost suffocating. And then, without warning, Harry’s mouth slammed against his, hard and hungry. 

The kiss was brutal. Harry’s lips crushed against his with a ferocity that sent shockwaves of heat through Louis’s body. Louis could taste the whiskey. It was a kiss that didn’t ask for permission—it took, it consumed, it ignited everything inside Louis that had been starved for far too long. 

Louis gasped, his hand gripping Harry’s tie tighter, pulling him closer, needing more. He felt Harry’s hands move to his waist, then up, brushing against his side before his fingers slid to his back, holding him firmly. The heat of Harry’s touch burned through him, sending jolts of electricity through his body. 

Harry’s lips trailed down his neck, biting lightly at the soft skin, and Louis’s breath hitched. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Harry murmured against his skin, his voice low and dangerous. 

Louis shuddered, his body trembling under Harry’s touch, his praise. Every inch of him was on fire, his omega screaming for more, for everything Harry could give him. He tilted his head back, arching into the touch, pressing himself closer to Harry, desperate for more of that raw, heated contact. 

“Don’t stop,” Louis whispered, his voice trembling. “Please don’t stop.”  

Harry paused for just a moment, his breath coming heavy, before he captured Louis’s lips again, this time with even more urgency, his hands roaming over Louis’s body, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the delicate fabric. Louis’s heart pounded in his chest, every part of him aching, longing for the release that only Harry could give him. 

The world outside them didn’t matter anymore. Only Harry’s touch, only the heat that was building between them. Only the desperate need they shared that couldn’t be ignored any longer.

The kiss deepened, growing hotter, more urgent, as Harry’s hands slid over Louis’s body, his touch demanding, almost desperate. Louis’s pulse hammered in his throat, his skin burning, his omega wild, clawing for more. Harry’s lips were relentless, leaving a trail of fiery sensation wherever they touched, his fingers digging into Louis’s skin, as if he couldn’t get enough. 

“Where?” Harry growled between kisses, his voice thick with desire. His grip on Louis tightened, pulling him closer, his body pressing against his with a heat that made Louis’s head spin. 

Louis’s breath hitched, his heart thundering in his chest as he met Harry’s gaze. His inner omega was screaming, crying for the kind of release only Harry could give him. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus on anything but the burning ache deep inside him. “The bedroom,” Louis breathed out, his voice rough and raw. “Please, the bedroom.” 

Harry’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous in them, before he nodded. Without another word, he swept Louis up in his arms, lifting him effortlessly, and started toward the stairs, his pace quick and determined. 

Louis’s hands instinctively wrapped around Harry’s neck, clutching at him for stability as they moved. The heat between them was unbearable, and the way Harry’s body pressed against his made Louis feel like he was about to melt, like every part of him was on fire. His omega was desperate, aching for Harry’s touch, for him to finally claim what was his.

When they reached the bedroom, Harry kicked the door open, carrying Louis inside. He didn’t set him down immediately, instead, he backed toward the bed, his gaze burning with intensity. “Thank fuck you came to me,” Harry muttered, his voice rough. “I was sitting there, thinking about you, about this… driving myself insane.” 

Louis’s breath came in ragged gasps, his heart still racing, every part of him trembling. “You don’t have to tell me,” he whispered, his voice low, desperate. He felt the weight of everything crashing down on him, felt the immense pressure in his chest, his omega clawing for what Harry could give him.  

Harry’s eyes locked onto Louis’s, and without another word, he lowered him onto the bed. His hands were everywhere, his touch frantic, like he was afraid Louis might slip away if he didn’t move fast enough. But Louis didn’t want to go anywhere. Not now. Not when he was finally getting what he needed, what he had been craving for so long.  

Harry loomed over him, looking down at Louis with a mix of desire and something darker in his eyes.

Louis’s body was on fire, every inch of him aching for Harry to do more, to touch him, to claim him. The only sound in the room was their harsh breathing, the frantic, desperate need that surged between them, pulling them closer and closer.

Harry leaned closer to Louis, on top of him now, his hands were relentless, his fingers working quickly to rid Louis of his clothes. He tugged at the cloth, pulling Louis's dress off and throwing it on the floor. His breath was hot on Louis's bare skin. Louis arched into Harry's touch, his skin tingling everywhere Harry's fingers grazed. Slowly, Harry pulled off Louis's panties too making the omega gasp.

Harry didn't waste time, his own clothes coming off just as fast, buttons popping, fabric sliding to the floor until there was nothing left between them but heat and need. 

Louis's breath caught at the sight of Harry, all hard muscle and coiled power, his alpha presence overwhelming, intoxicating.

Louis could already feel himself slicking up, his body reacting instinctively to Harry's proximity after so long. His thighs were wet with it, the scent thick in the air, and Harry growled low in his throat at the evidence of Louis's readiness.

"Fuck," Harry muttered, his voice rough as he dragged his fingers through Louis's slick, spreading it over his hole. Louis whimpered, his hips jerking up, silently begging for more.

Harry didn't make him wait, he pushed two fingers in, stretching Louis. Louis whined high in his throat, his eyes shutting close as Harry fucked his fingers in and out of Louis's hole. Louis was already clenching around him, his body desperate to take more.

Harry let out a sharp breath, his jaw tight with restraint. "That's the only prep you're getting today." He growled, pulling his fingers out despite Louis's whine of protest. "You can take it, can't you omega?"

Louis nodded frantically, his eyes wide and pleading. "Yes, yes, please Alpha. I can take it. Do whatever you want to me." His voice was wrecked already, submissive and entirely under Harry's control.

Harry's eyes darkened, a possesive snarl curling his lips as he lined himself up. "Mine," he breathed and then he was pushing in, thick and unrelenting, splitting Louis open in one thrust.

Louis cried out, his back arching off the bed, his fingers digging into Harry's shoulder. It burned—God, it burned. But it was perfect. The stretch was overwhelming in the best way, his omega was rejoicing at the feeling of being filled so completely.

Harry didn't give him time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing pace from the start. Louis was sure he wouldn't be able to walk for weeks. Harry had never fucked him this rough. He was almost scared.

"You feel—fuck—you feel perfect." Harry groaned, his voice ragged. His hands gripped Louis's hips hard enough to bruise, holding him in place as he fucked into him with relentless force.

Louis could only gasp, his body alight with pleasure and pain, every nerve ending on fire. He was lost in it, the way Harry wrecked him.

At a particularly hard thrust, straight at Louis's g-spot, Louis shattered as pleasure ripped through him like a storm. His cock spilling untouched.

Harry followed him over the edge with a growl, his knot swelling and locking them together.

With Harry's knot, still buried deep inside Louis, Harry's hands roam possessively over Louis's stomach. He leans down, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses to the curve of Louis's belly, murmuring against his skin.

Harry growls, "You're all mine. My omega. My bride. My baby growing inside of you. You're perfect like this."

Louis whimpers, his body still trembling from the intensity of his orgasm, his cock twitching weakly against his stomach. Harry's words sending another wave of heat through him.

"A-alpha," Louis breathes, his voice wrecked, his fingers tangling in Harry's curls as he continues to lavish attention on Louis's stomach.

Harry nips lightly at the skin, just enough to make Louis gasp and then soothes it with his tongue. He was more his wolf, Louis figured, since he was being slightly softer now, "You're carrying my pup," he murmured, voice dark. "No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to touch you like this."

Louis's head falls back, his back arching as Harry's hands slide up his sides, gripping him tightly. The alphas scent is overwhelming—thick with satisfaction. It makes Louis dizzy.

Then, his lips are on Louis's again, kissing him deeply, consuming him whole. When he pulls back, his eyes are burning.

"We have one essential step of the wedding to complete." Harry says.

Louis nods immediately, his omega instinctively knowing what's coming. An alpha-omega wedding isn't complete without bonding, without the alpha sinking his teeth in the omega and claiming.

Harry's fingers tighten on Louis's fingers, adjusting him slightly, his knot still keeping them locking together. He nuzzles into Louis's neck, inhaling deeply. Louis shivers, anticipation and fear mixing in his stomach. This was inevitable.

"I'm going to bond us. Stay as relaxed as you can." Harry murmures against Louis's skin, voice dark.

And then-

Pain.

Louis gasps, body jerking as Harry's teeth sink into his gland, sharp and deep. For a second all he can feel is this, pain, sharp and brutal, a claim. Harry marking him. And then-

Euphoria.

It crashes over him like a tidal wave, all consuming, overwhelming. His entire body lights up with pleasure so intense it borders on agony. His cock hardens instantly, twitching against his stomach, his toes curling.

"F-fuck! Alpha!" Louis sobs, his hands flying to Harry's shoulder gripping him desperately. His vision whites out, his entire world narrowing to the point where Harry's teeth are burried in his neck.

It's so much, it's too much, he can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel.

Harry growls against his skin, the vibrations sending another shockwave of pain-pleasure through Louis's body. The alpha's hand wraps around Louis's cock, stroking him roughly and Louis screams.

"N-no, too much, please," Louis begs, tears streaming down his face. His body is oversensitive, his nerves on fire but Harry doesn't stop.

He works Louis's cock with ruthless precision, his teeth still sunk in Louis's neck, his knot still keeping them tied together. Louis had never felt so pinned, so helpless before.

Louis comes again with a broken cry, his orgasm ripped from him violently, his body convulsing. The pleasure is so intense it hurts, his mind fracturing under the sensation.

He's sobbing openly now, lost in the haze of omegaspace, his entire existence reduced to Harry's touch, Harry's scent and Harry's claim. God, he loved Harry so much. It was pathetic.

Finally, Harry releases Louis's neck, licking over the bleeding mark, soothing it, before pulling Louis towards his chest. The omega is a trembling, overwhelmed mess, his body limp and mind floating somewhere far away.

Harry shifts them carefully, sitting up against the headboard, Louis draped bonelessly over him, his knot still in Louis.

Harry strokes Louis's back soothingly, pressing soft kisses to his hair, his forehead, his swollen lips. Louis whimpers.

"Shhhh, darling, you're fine." Harry whispers, his voice tender in a way Louis had heard only once before, all the rough edges smoothed into warmth. "You did so well for me. So perfect."

Louis whimpers, nuzzling weakly into Harry's chest, his tears still falling. He's exhausted and overstimulated but feels so light. His omega was feeling the happiest it had ever felt, finally claimed and finally stress free.

Harry cups Louis's face, tilting it up to meet his eyes. Harry's eyes are soft, tender, Louis instantly realizes that it's Harry's wolf. His thumb brushes away Louis's tears, "Too overwhelming?"

Louis is barely conscious but he makes out Harry's words and nods.

"Oh darling," Harry murmurs leaning down to kiss his forehead again.

“Since you did so well,… I’ll give you whatever you want. Anything. No matter how expensive.” Harry says.

Louis sighed, nuzzling closer into Harry’s chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns over his skin. “All I want,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something deeper, “is for you to be here when I wake up tomorrow. Please.”

Harry’s fingers stop. He swallows, brushing Louis’ damp hair back. "There’s so much you could ask for. A house. A car. A fucking island.”

Louis’ breath hitched, a quiet sob escaping him as he clung tighter. "That’s all I want.”

Harry inhaled deeply, not answering.

As Harry’s knot loosened, he slowly slipped out of Louis, shushing him gently when Louis winced at the sensitivity. “Shh, I know.”

He pulled Louis flush against him, stroking his back in slow, soothing circles until the tension eased from Louis’ body. The room was quiet now, just their breaths syncing, the warmth of skin on skin. Louis's body was cold, overwhelmed and trembling, he needed the warmth Harry's body provided.

"Please. I took it all. I- please." Louis whimpered.

Harry stilled. He didn't do promises, didn't do stay. But Louis was trembling against him, still slick and open where Harry had slipped out of him, there was dried blood on his shoulder. Something inside Harry twisted.

"Fine." Harry yielded. Not having the heart to say no to Louis while he was still so vulnerable. "But don't make it a habit. Just this once."

Louis nods, finally content, he let himself drift off in Harry’s arms.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

Louis stirred awake in the dim morning light, his body aching in quiet protest. A dull throb settled in his neck and lower back, reminders of the night before. He kept his eyes shut, a soft, involuntary whine escaping his throat as he shifted slightly—only to find himself completely caged in.

Harry’s arms were wrapped around him tightly, one slung over his waist and the other tucked beneath him, holding him flush to the alpha’s broad chest. Louis could feel the steady rise and fall of Harry’s breathing against his back, warm and grounding. He tried to move again, but Harry’s grip didn’t loosen. He was trapped in place—secure, and unbearably close.

Louis exhaled softly, his body sinking deeper into the warmth enveloping him. His omega, once frantic and unsettled, now purred quietly under his skin—comforted, soothed. It was rare, this kind of stillness inside him, and he didn’t want to disrupt it.

So, he let his eyes flutter shut again, letting the heavy weight of Harry’s arms ground him. It didn’t matter how complicated things were. In this moment, Harry had kept his word. He hadn’t left. That counted for something.

Time passed in a haze of half-sleep, Louis drifting in and out, lulled by the sound of Harry’s heartbeat at his back. Eventually, he felt a shift behind him—a low groan, the tightening of muscle, a stretch.

Then came a voice, still gravelly from sleep.

“Morning,” Harry muttered, his breath brushing against Louis’s neck.

Louis hummed in reply, eyes still closed, lips twitching just barely. “Morning.”

Neither of them moved yet. The silence hung between them, thick but not heavy, a strange kind of calm settling over the bed.

Harry shifted behind him, moving closer, and Louis felt a warm breath against the crook of his neck. A moment later, something wet and soft dragged slowly across his skin—Harry’s tongue, carefully tracing the fresh bond mark.

Louis shivered at the sensation, his breath catching. His omega stirred again, responding instantly to the attention, soothed by the gesture, lulled by the intimacy of it.

Harry let his lips hover over the mark for a second longer before he murmured, “How’s it doing?”

Louis blinked slowly, voice quiet. “It’s… fine, alpha. Just tingly.”

Harry hummed in response, low and rough. “It might sting or ache for a month or two. Depends on your body. But it’ll settle.”

He kissed over it once more, slower this time, like he was sealing it all over again. Louis’s eyes fluttered shut, his body going still in his arms again. It wasn’t just the bond mark that tingled—it was everything. Every inch of him felt aware of Harry now, the closeness, the weight, the warmth.

Louis lay quietly for a moment, the silence between them stretching, warm and fragile. Then, softly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it, he whispered,

“Thank you… for staying.”

Harry didn’t answer right away, but his arms tightened ever so slightly around Louis’s waist, and that was enough of a response. Louis let the breath he’d been holding slip out slowly.

His eyes traced the pale morning light spilling across the room, the weight of everything slowly pressing down on him. The bond mark still pulsed faintly beneath his skin—an echo of heat and permanence. It was done now. Official. There was no undoing it, no backing out.

He was bonded. Married. Claimed.

His omega felt settled in a way it hadn’t been in months, but his own mind couldn’t stop running. The way Harry had bitten down last night, the growl in his throat, the strength in his grip—it hadn’t been soft. It hadn’t been gentle. But it had been real. And that terrified Louis as much as it comforted him.

They were tied now, in a way that went beyond law or vows. It was instinct. Nature. Something deeper than he could ever explain.

Harry’s hand moved slowly over Louis’s stomach, fingers brushing the thin fabric of his shirt with absent-minded ease. For a long while, he said nothing—just breathed against Louis’s neck, the bond mark still faintly glowing between them.

Then his voice came, low and steady.

“I keep my word.”

Louis swallowed, his throat tightening. The words were simple, but the weight they carried wasn’t. He didn’t know why they made his chest ache. Maybe because a part of him hadn’t believed it—not truly. Not until now.

He turned his face slightly toward the pillow, eyes blinking slowly. “I know.”

Harry didn’t speak again, but his hand didn’t leave Louis’s body. He just stayed there, holding him, letting the silence fill what neither of them could say out loud.

Louis closed his eyes again. His omega, sensing the steady presence of its mate, stayed calm, humming with contentment. But Louis—Louis wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel.

The bond had changed everything. Even if Harry said nothing else. Even if this moment slipped away.

They were bound.

Louis lay still in Harry’s arms, the words I keep my word echoing in his mind like a solemn vow. He wished they gave him more clarity, more reassurance—but they didn’t. They just made it real. Undeniably real.

His fingers slowly curled into the sheets beneath him as he stared ahead, thoughts loud inside the quiet.

The ache in his neck reminded him that he was claimed. The ring on his finger told the world he was married. And yet—Harry hadn’t looked at him like a husband. Not once. Not with affection. Not with softness. Last night had been instinct and possession. Necessary. Binding. But not tender.

His omega was quiet, yes, but Louis felt his own self wrestling underneath that calm. He wasn’t sure if he should feel grateful or empty.

Harry shifted behind him, his breath still warm against the back of Louis’s neck. “You’re quiet,” he said finally.

Louis hesitated before answering. “I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

A beat passed.

Then Harry said, “Too late to turn back now.”

Louis huffed a breath—half a laugh, half something sad. “Was never an option, was it, alpha?”

“No,” Harry said simply. No apology. No comfort. Just fact.

Louis nodded, even if Harry couldn’t see it. His eyes slipped shut again.

No, it had never been an option.

Harry shifted behind him, his arms loosening. Without much warning, he sat up and swung his legs off the bed.

“We should get cleaned up,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”

Louis nodded, still curled up in the sheets, thinking—maybe, for a fleeting second—that they’d shower together. That maybe Harry would tug him up, guide him to the bathroom, say something, anything warm.

But instead, Harry grabbed his robe from a nearby chair and walked straight toward the door. “I’ll use the guest shower,” he muttered, already halfway out. “You can use this one.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Louis let his eyes drift closed for a second longer, but the silence felt heavier now. He sighed, pushing the covers back and stepping out of bed, wincing slightly at the ache in his thighs.

Their room—it was still massive, sprawling, luxurious. But it had once been just Harry’s. Louis had been here before, nights when Harry had called him up, ordered him in. But now, it was theirs. At least in name.

He padded across the cool marble floor toward the massive en suite bathroom. Every inch of it gleamed—silver fixtures, towering glass panels, white and gold tiling. Everything about it screamed wealth.

He stepped in front of the mirror, his breath hitched.

The bond mark was the first thing he saw—angry red, bruised at the edges, with faint puncture wounds still healing. It sat just beneath the curve of his neck, raw and impossible to ignore.

And then there were the other marks.

His throat, his collarbones, his thighs—everywhere, dark purples and reds bloomed over his skin. His belly, soft and gently curved from the pup inside, bore love bites and fingerprints, impressions where Harry had gripped him too tightly in the haze of instinct.

There was dried blood. Slick. Traces of Harry still on him.

His throat tightened.

He turned away from the mirror and stepped into the huge glass shower. Warm water poured over him from above like a cascade, and he braced both hands against the tile, eyes falling shut.

He had to wash it all away.

He had to breathe again.

As Louis stepped out of the massive shower, steam curling behind him, he took a slow breath. He toweled off gently, wincing when the fabric brushed over the bond mark. It was still sensitive, and he swore he could feel the pulse of it under his skin—constant, like a second heartbeat.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, padded over to the vanity, and picked up one of the many new toothbrushes that had been arranged there. Likely by the maids. He brushed his teeth.

Then, with delicate fingers, he applied the rose-scented creams left neatly in a small gold tray. His movements were slow, almost ritualistic. It helped settle his nerves.

He dressed in a soft, pearl-white knit blouse with lace cuffs and a silky pair of tailored beige trousers. Everything about him felt gentle. Light. The outfit hugged his small frame gently, still slightly oversized. He brushed out his hair, letting it fall feathery and light around his face. A bit pretty. A bit delicate.

When he finally opened the door to head out, a maid was standing there, poised with perfect timing.

“Good morning, Mrs. Styles,” she said politely, folding her hands. “Breakfast is ready. This way, please.”

Louis blinked. It hadn’t hit him quite like that yet. He nodded slowly, not trusting his voice, and followed her through the long, echoing halls of the mansion.

The dining hall was nothing short of overwhelming. Gold accents, huge windows spilling soft sunlight, a long polished table adorned with crystal, silverware, and food—so much food. It looked like a royal banquet rather than breakfast.

He took a tentative step in just as another door opened, and Harry walked in.

Louis didn’t look at him directly, instead made his way quietly to the table and sat. A moment later, Harry joined him across the table.

Without saying a word, Louis picked up a porcelain plate and began serving Harry. It was not him but his inner wolf who was practically dying to serve Harry.

A croissant. Some fruit. Eggs. A spoonful of preserves. Then he reached for the teapot and poured him some tea, careful and quiet.

Harry watched him like he was witnessing something... foreign.

“What are you doing?” he asked, low and slightly cautious.

“Serving you,” Louis said softly, not looking up.

Harry frowned faintly, his brow drawn. His wolf, however, stirred inside him at the sight—at the care, at the quiet submission, the instinct in Louis’s movements. It made something click into place. Something possessive and pleased.

Still, Harry couldn’t help but speak.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Louis said, finally meeting his gaze. “I want to.”

Harry held his stare, confused. Uneasy. But didn’t stop him.

Louis slid the finished plate to him, then his tea. Then turned to fix his own.

Harry picked up the fork slowly, eyes trailing over Louis's delicate hands as they worked on their own plate. The image clashed with the cold, heavy mansion around them. His mate. His omega. The thought sat heavy in his chest.

And Louis, quietly content in the act of serving, said nothing else. Just offered Harry food with gentle hands, soft eyes, and a calm he didn’t quite feel—but pretended to. Because this, at least, felt like something he could give.

They ate in silence for a while, the soft clinks of silverware against china the only sound filling the expansive hall. Louis took small bites of his toast, occasionally sipping from the delicate floral teacup beside his plate. Across the table, Harry ate without hurry, but also without much thought, his eyes occasionally flicking to Louis—then back to his plate.

It wasn’t until Louis looked up more fully that he noticed.

Harry was dressed in a sharp black suit. Crisp lines, clean tailoring, the collar of his shirt stiff and perfect. His tie was a rich navy, his cufflinks gleaming. He looked like he was on his way to handle business—serious business. Exactly like how he used to look when Louis worked under him.

Louis blinked and set his fork down quietly.

“You’re going to the office?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Harry nodded, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.

“Yeah. I’ve got meetings today.”

Louis paused, lips parting slightly. “Oh.”

That was all he said. Just that one small word. He picked his fork back up, but he didn’t eat.

Of course Harry was going to the office. What had he expected? That they’d spend the day together like a normal married couple? Like this was a honeymoon?

Still, he couldn't stop the small pout that formed on his lips, even if he caught it quickly and looked back down at his plate. His chest felt oddly hollow. He didn’t have a real reason to feel disappointed—not with the nature of their marriage—but his omega, soft and freshly bonded, whimpered low in his chest anyway.

Harry didn’t say anything more. He hadn’t noticed the pout, or if he had, he didn’t comment on it.

Louis focused on his tea. It was still warm, but it didn’t soothe as much as it had earlier.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

In the heart of the city, high above the chaos below, Harry sat behind his obsidian-black desk, the walls of his office lined with shelves of files, weapons, and secrets that could shatter entire lives. A thick silence cloaked the room, save for the occasional ticking of the antique clock on the wall and the muted shuffle of papers being sorted by Zayn at the far end.

But Harry wasn’t paying attention.

He’d already signed off on the weapons shipment for the Eastern bloc. He’d already threatened a traitorous partner through clenched teeth and a cold smile. The kill order on a rival gang’s lieutenant had been authorized. Everything was moving the way it should in his world of power and shadows.

Yet all he could think about was him.

Louis.

The curve of his throat. The soft whimper he made when Harry's teeth had sunk into his neck. The way he’d trembled, open and sweet, in that white dress like some fragile offering.

And now—he bore Harry’s mark.

Harry leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched. He brought a hand up to his own neck, rubbing the place where he could still feel Louis, as if the bond had created an invisible tether between them. And maybe it had. It was maddening. Distracting.

He’d sworn to himself that the bond wouldn’t mean anything. That it was a necessity, a solution, a way to silence whispers and solidify control. It wasn’t meant to affect him.

But fuck, it did.

His inner wolf, usually buried beneath years of discipline and control, was restless. Pacing. Growling. It wanted to be near Louis. It wanted to touch him, protect him, cover him in its scent again and again until there was no part of Louis left untouched. Until the world knew he belonged to him.

His fingers dug into the leather armrest, eyes narrowed.

“Sir,” Zayn spoke, tone careful. “The Easton boys are asking for confirmation on the docks transfer tonight.”

Harry didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Tell them it’s approved. And send someone competent. No screw-ups.” His voice was sharp, cold—but his mind wasn’t on the docks.

It was on the tiny, soft omega he’d left behind at the mansion, probably still smelling of him.

Harry let out a slow breath. What the fuck was Louis doing to him?

Zayn stood by the tall window, files tucked under one arm, phone in the other, dark eyes flickering over the city skyline before he spoke again.

"Also," he said, turning back toward Harry, "Vaughn's been making noise again. Word is, he’s ready to cooperate."

Harry let out a sharp laugh—one that was more mockery than amusement. He dragged a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, dark brows arching.

"Of course he is," he drawled. "That spineless fuck’s got all the bark of a starving dog and none of the bite. The moment we pulled his supplier, I knew he'd crawl back, belly up, begging for a pat on the head."

Zayn smirked. “Told Niall the same thing last week. Vaughn talks a big game, but he folds the second you so much as breathe in his direction.”

“Pussy always did bleed easy,” Harry muttered, sipping from his glass of whiskey, the crystal clinking slightly. “He was never cut out for this world. Should’ve stayed in whatever shithole suburb he came from, selling knock-off pills to teenagers.”

Zayn chuckled lowly, nodding in agreement, but then his gaze shifted. Sharpened.

He crossed the room and leaned against the edge of Harry’s desk, folding his arms.

“I’ve been working for you a long time, sir,” he said, voice even but firm. “Long enough to know that me and Niall are about the closest thing you’ve got to friends in this damn empire.”

Harry didn’t respond. Just stared at him, eyes cool and unreadable.

Zayn continued anyway.

“So I’m gonna say something, and you can punch me later if it pisses you off. But you shouldn’t be here today.”

Harry’s expression flickered, almost imperceptibly.

“You just married him,” Zayn said, quietly but not gently. “Claimed him. Bonded him. That’s not a small fucking thing—not for you. Not for him. And especially not for that baby he’s carrying. I was pretty damn surprised when I found out you were getting married, never thought I'd see the day, honestly.”

Harry’s jaw ticked, but Zayn didn’t back down.

“You think you’re keeping things in order by coming here? Acting like it’s just another day? Nah. You’re being a goddamn coward. That little omega’s back at that mansion probably waiting for a hint of warmth from you, and instead, you’re here barking orders and pretending like your life didn’t just fucking change overnight.”

Silence thickened between them.

Then Harry leaned forward slowly, elbows on the desk, his gaze burning now—not cold, but volatile.

“You’re right,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You are the closest thing I’ve got to a friend. Which is why I’m not going to break your jaw for that speech.”

Zayn gave a small, sardonic smile. “I’m honored.”

“But don’t push it,” Harry added, voice like steel. “You don’t know what that bond feels like. How loud it is. How wrong it is.”

Zayn’s eyes softened just slightly.

“Maybe not. But I know how lonely it is to have someone and pretend like you don’t.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just stared down at the surface of the desk, knuckles white where his fingers clenched the edge.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel in control.

Harry sat back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders like steel rods beneath his suit. He exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers to his temple before speaking.

“I’ll finish today’s meetings,” he said finally, voice low, steady. “Then I’ll head back.”

Zayn nodded, though there was still a flicker of disapproval in his eyes. He pushed off from the desk with a sigh.

“Good. Just don’t take too long, mate. The longer you leave him in that place alone, the louder that bond’s gonna scream.”

Harry didn’t respond, just gave a tight nod as Zayn turned and left the office.

He spent the next few hours grinding through back-to-back meetings. Cold negotiations, dirty figures, veiled threats dressed up as business proposals. The usual. But his focus kept drifting—back to a small, warm body curled under silk sheets. To a mark etched in flesh. To blue eyes wide and still soft with hope, no matter how much he’d tried to beat it out of them.

Finally, as the last meeting concluded, Harry stood and reached for his jacket.

Just then, a knock tapped at the door before a sleek, efficient-looking woman stepped in, tablet in hand.

“Mr. Styles,” she said crisply. “Before you go—I’ve compiled a shortlist of potential assistants for you. I’ll email it shortly.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, brow furrowing. “Assistants?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding quickly. “Since obviously Mr. Tomlinson won’t be returning.”

There was a pause. A tight beat of silence.

Harry gave a slow nod. “Right. Email it.”

She blinked, then stepped out, heels echoing down the hall.

Harry stood there for a moment longer, staring at the closed door. His jaw was clenched again.

The idea of anyone else sitting at that desk, arranging his schedule, knowing the little things—how he liked his coffee, how he hated phone calls before nine—suddenly made him irrationally furious.

Harry stayed still for a long moment after the door shut.

He didn’t want someone new in Louis’s place. The very thought made something sour churn in his gut. But logic was louder than emotion right now—and unlike Louis, Harry had trained himself to listen to logic. Always.

Louis was pregnant. He wouldn’t be coming back. Shouldn’t come back. Not to this world.

Harry wouldn't let him.

That chair would stay empty for months if he let this feeling rule him—but the business didn’t pause for personal bonds. Not even this one.

With a low sigh, he pushed off from his desk and grabbed his keys. He’d go through the list the assistant emailed. Pick the least annoying candidate. Someone quiet. Efficient. Disposable.

Louis wasn’t coming back.
And the space he left behind, Harry would have to fill. At least on paper.

He walked out of the building, long strides taking him straight to his car. He got in, jaw clenched tight as he started the engine.

And without another thought, he drove home.

When Harry stepped into the mansion, the familiar hush of the grand entrance hall welcomed him. The house was quiet—too quiet for what he expected after the morning. He slipped off his coat and handed it to the maid waiting nearby, his movements sharp and automatic.

He was halfway through the hall when he heard soft footsteps approaching.

“Harry,” came Louis’s voice, gentle, tentative.

Harry looked up.

Louis stood at the threshold of the dining room, dressed in a soft cream sweater tucked loosely into fitted lounge pants, barefoot on the polished floor. His bondmark peeked faintly from the side of his neck where the collar didn’t fully cover it.

“You’re home,” Louis said with a small smile.

Harry blinked. “Yeah.”

“I made dinner,” Louis added, stepping aside to motion toward the dining room. “Nothing fancy. Just… something simple.”

Harry followed him inside and stilled.

The dining room had been subtly transformed. Only one end of the long, opulent table was set for two—candles burning low, real plates, not the pristine white ones staff usually used. And in the center: a modest home-cooked meal.

Harry’s brows furrowed slightly.

“You made this?” he asked, voice unreadable.

Louis nodded. “I asked the maid where everything was. I know you probably have chefs but… I wanted to. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I guessed.”

Harry stared at the table again, then back at Louis. There was something strangely vulnerable about the sight. Not the food—but what it meant.

No one had ever done this for him.

“I pay people to cook,” Harry muttered, almost like he was reminding himself.

Louis smiled, almost sheepishly. “I know. But… I wanted to do something. For you.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. His eyes lingered on Louis—soft, flushed, gentle—and something deep in his chest twisted in response.

He finally moved to sit down, more cautious than usual. “Alright,” he said lowly, eyeing the plate as Louis began to serve him.

His inner wolf, ever silent around others, stirred faintly at Louis’s careful touch. At the way Louis laid the food out for him, almost instinctively.

Harry didn’t understand it. But he didn’t stop him either.

Harry watched as Louis carefully ladled soup into his bowl, lips pressed together in soft concentration. It was quiet, too quiet, and the tension crept in again.

After a long pause, Harry leaned back in his chair, voice low but firm.

"You don’t need to do this, Louis. This is the second time I'm saying this to you."

Louis blinked, pausing mid-motion. “What?”

“This,” Harry gestured vaguely at the table—the food, the candles, the little effort at warmth. “You don’t need to play house. I never asked for this from you. You’re not expected to act like some perfect little wife. All of this won't impress me.”

Louis’s face dropped, his hand slowly placing the ladle back in the bowl. His fingers trembled slightly.

“I wasn’t trying to impress you,” Louis murmured, eyes lowering to the table. “I just… I thought it’d be nice. You’ve done so much, and I—” He swallowed hard. “I just wanted to do something in return.”

Harry exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Louis…”

But Louis just shook his head, not looking at him. “I know what this is. I’m not stupid. I know what kind of arrangement this is. I just—thought maybe a quiet dinner wouldn’t feel so awful.”

There was a sharp sting in Harry’s chest he didn’t know how to process. The kind that made his inner wolf restless—agitated at the hurt radiating from Louis in waves, soft and unspoken.

Louis picked up his own spoon quietly, not saying anything more, his posture stiffer now, shoulders drawn in like he was preparing for more rejection.

Harry didn’t speak either.

He just stared at the boy across from him—delicate, proud, and somehow still trying.

Dinner continued. Harry sat at the edge of the dining table, his eyes fixed on the untouched plate in front of him. The silence in the room felt suffocating, and his mind kept wandering back to Louis—Louis’s quiet attempts to make this all seem more than it was. It wasn’t just that Louis was trying to make the best of the situation; it was the way he looked at him—expectantly, desperately almost. As if there was hope in those eyes that Harry didn’t have the strength to extinguish.

But he had to.

He couldn’t allow it. Not now, not ever.

He had been soft, just for a moment, but it was dangerous. Weakness, it felt like. And he couldn’t afford to be weak. His world—his empire—demanded control, demanded coldness. Louis didn’t fit into that.

And Harry hated how much it affected him. The way Louis’s every attempt to bridge the gap between them made him feel something that wasn’t useful. He hated that something inside him wanted to reach out, wanted to give him more than just the cold practicality of their arrangement.

Frustrated, Harry forced himself to stand up, to face the inevitable. Louis needed to understand his place. He had to. And Harry wasn’t going to let himself forget it.

“You’re here to carry my child,” Harry’s voice was sharp, cold, and deliberate, each word falling like ice. “That’s what you’re here for. To give me an heir. To carry my pup.” He let the words hang in the air between them, the finality of it cutting through the room. “I can give you comfort, luxury, everything money can buy. Anything you want, I’ll provide it. But don’t ever mistake that for anything else. I’m not here to coddle you. I’m not here to offer you affection or anything beyond what we agreed on. You’re just here for the pup. Nothing more.”

Louis’s lips trembled, his body stiffened as though the words physically struck him. His eyes, impossibly wide and glistening with unshed tears, looked at Harry, but there was nothing in them but resignation.

“I know,” Louis’s voice was soft, shaking but steady, each word a blow to Harry’s chest. “I was hoping…” He swallowed, his breath catching, and it was almost like the words were too much for him. “I was hoping you’d change. That maybe, when this all started, there was a chance that something between us might shift. That you might see me, maybe even care. But I guess I was wrong.” He shook his head, the sadness in his eyes slowly being replaced with something like quiet acceptance. “I guess you’re right. You’re just cruel, aren’t you? You always will be.”

Louis’s voice cracked, his lip quivering slightly, but he refused to let the tears fall. “I won’t expect anything more from you,” he added, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of his words was enough to crush him.

The words hit Harry harder than he expected. He was angry, yes, but beneath that, a strange pang of guilt gnawed at him. Louis wasn’t screaming at him, wasn’t accusing him with venom. No, he was simply… saying it. Accepting it. The sadness in his voice was unbearable.

“I didn’t ask for much,” Louis’s voice was barely above a whisper now. “I never did. But don’t make me feel like I’m just a tool for your legacy."

Harry froze at that. The words slid into him, past all the walls he had built, past all the defense mechanisms he had layered over the years. It shouldn’t have affected him. But it did.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but no words came.

Louis stood up then, walking away with the quietest resignation. It was that silence, that unspoken defeat that lingered in the room long after Louis had disappeared from view. And Harry—Harry, the man who had never let anything or anyone get to him—found himself wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, he had made a mistake.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

Louis was upset with him. Harry could see it in everything he did—and didn’t do. That night, Louis had slept on the farthest edge of the bed, his back firmly turned, as if even their breaths shouldn’t touch. At breakfast the next morning, he was quiet, distant. He didn’t smile, didn’t serve Harry like he had before. He barely looked at him.

When Harry came home from work that evening, there was no greeting, no soft voice welcoming him back. Louis didn’t even bother pretending. He showed up to dinner out of obligation, sat at the other end of the long dining table, picked at his food, and left without a word.

And that’s how it had been for the past week. Cold silence. Measured distance. No fights, no tears—just absence. A quiet withdrawal that was somehow louder than anything Louis could’ve said.

Louis had this unique, maddening thing about him—no matter how much Harry tried to keep him at arm’s length, no matter how cold or indifferent he was, Louis always sought him out. Always made the effort. He liked being in Harry's space, even if it meant sitting quietly while Harry worked. He used to strike up the most senseless conversations just to catch Harry’s attention.

But now?

Now, Louis wasn’t doing any of that. The light, the quiet need to connect—it was gone. The omega seemed to be doing his best to stay out of Harry’s way. And that was somehow worse than any angry outburst could’ve ever been.

Harry didn’t know what the omega expected from him. An apology? For what—telling the truth? He might’ve been blunt, sure. Maybe too blunt. But he'd only been trying to lay the groundwork, to make things crystal clear between them so Louis wouldn’t start dreaming up some fantasy life Harry had no intention of giving. He thought he was being practical—honest, even. Wasn’t that better than lies?

So what was all this now? Silence. Distance. A cold shoulder, every damn day. Louis wasn’t saying a word, wasn’t looking at him like he used to. Like Harry meant something more. Instead, he acted like a ghost floating through the mansion, polite to everyone else, avoiding Harry like the plague.

And Harry didn’t care. Obviously.

Except… he kind of did. He hated the way the halls felt quieter now. Hated how the seat beside him at dinner stayed empty a little longer than it should. How the soft voice that once filled up the room was just gone. And at night—when Louis lay curled up at the farthest end of the bed, as though even a brush of Harry’s leg might burn him—Harry’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach out. Just once.

But he didn’t. Because it didn’t matter. Of course it didn’t. He had real responsibilities. Dangerous ones. He didn’t have time for this petty domestic bullshit. He didn’t care.

Except that maybe—just maybe—he was starting to. And it pissed him off.

Harry arrived at his office tower just past nine, stepping out of the car with his usual heavy presence, black coat flaring behind him, expression unreadable. His security nodded and stepped aside as he entered, but his mind wasn't on them. It was barely even on the meeting he was supposed to have in fifteen minutes.

At the top floor, Zayn was already waiting by his office door.

“She’s in there,” Zayn said, voice low, expression unreadable. “New assistant.”

Harry gave a short nod and stepped in.

The woman, a beta, stood up quickly from behind the desk near his office. “Mr. Styles,” she greeted, composed and professional. “I’m Sophie. I look forward to working with you.”

Harry just stared at her for a second. She was polished, clearly competent. Her resume had been excellent. She was sharp, poised—everything he should want.

“Fine,” he said curtly, walking past her toward his office. “I’ll forward you my schedule. Don’t touch anything unless I say so.”

“Of course, sir.”

Sophie sat back down, typing something out efficiently. Harry paused at the threshold of his office, jaw tight, fingers curling once before loosening. It was all wrong. The rhythm. The tone. Even the damn scent in the office had changed.

Louis used to sit there. Cross-legged half the time. Hair a mess, nose scrunched, asking questions or chewing on the end of a pen while frowning at a spreadsheet he couldn’t figure out.

He wasn’t meant to be an assistant, not in a world like this. But Harry had gotten used to him. The sound of his whimper when Harry was forced to take a call on speaker and threatened someone with poetic violence. The way he’d always bring him lunch without asking.

This woman wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t meant to. She wasn’t Louis.

Harry clicked the door shut behind him harder than necessary, cursing under his breath.

Why the fuck was he thinking about this so much?

----------------

Harry powered through the meeting. Barely. His thoughts weren’t where they should be, but his instincts carried him through negotiations, orders, and threat assessments with mechanical precision. By the end, several men left the room looking either impressed or terrified—usually a good sign.

Niall lingered.

“That file,” he said, tapping the table lightly with a knuckle.

Harry looked up, expression unreadable. “Safe.”

Niall raised a brow. “Safe where?”

“In a private locker. The key’s with me,” Harry said, then added smoothly, “and with Louis.”

There was a pause. Everyone still in the room went silent for a beat. Then Zayn let out a quiet scoff and leaned back in his chair.

“Valentino would never expect you to hand that to your pregnant omega,” he said. “That’s genius.”

“Exactly,” Harry replied, voice flat. “If anyone tries to get the key from him, we’ll know. I want eyes everywhere, especially on the insiders.”

“Understood,” Niall said with a nod.

“Meeting’s done.” Harry stood, already done with this. “Go.”

Everyone filtered out.

Harry walked back to his private office, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. He went to his drawer, unlocked the third compartment, and pulled out a small, silver key. The metal was cool in his palm.

It wasn’t the real one, of course.

This key opened a duplicate locker in a separate facility, one that held a near-perfect replica of the file—identical enough to fool anyone. Louis wouldn’t know the difference, and Harry didn’t need him to. Not for now.

If someone came sniffing around asking him about it, Harry would have his mole. And then… well, it would be a short conversation.

He turned the key over in his hand, jaw ticking.

Time to give it to him.

-------------------

Harry drove to his mansion, he loosened his tie as he walked in. He was incredibly hungry, he chose to have dinner first and then shower. He walked to the dining room where dinner was already served.

Harry sat down at the head of the long dining table, the warm lights above casting a golden sheen over the polished wood and the elaborate spread laid out before him. Silver lids were lifted by waiting staff, revealing a meticulously prepared meal.

He picked up his glass of water, about to take a sip, when a maid stepped forward, hesitating.

“Sir,” she began carefully, “Mrs. Styles won’t be joining you tonight.”

Harry lowered the glass, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“He said he wasn’t hungry.”

He blinked. “Did he eat earlier?”

“No, sir. He hasn’t eaten anything since lunch.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He’s skipping meals now? A gnawing instinct curled hot in his gut, something primal and sharp. His omega—his pregnant omega—was going to bed without dinner? That didn’t sit right.

Without another word, he stood from the table and left the dining room, his footsteps echoing through the grand marble halls of the mansion. He checked their shared bedroom first. Empty.

Then the guest room. Still nothing.

The conservatory. Quiet.

The greenhouse. No sign.

His irritation began to bubble—not at Louis, but at himself. This place was too fucking big, he couldn’t even find his own mate in it.

He stopped in front of the library door, noticing a faint light bleeding out from beneath it. He opened it slowly.

There, curled into a velvet armchair near the tall windows, was Louis. A book sat open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading. He hadn’t even noticed Harry walk in—or maybe he had and just didn’t care.

Harry stepped in and let the door close behind him with a soft thud.

“Why aren’t you at dinner?”

No response. Louis turned a page, eyes vacant.

Harry walked closer, stopping a few feet away. “Louis.” He warned.

“Not hungry,” Louis said flatly, eyes still fixed on the book.

“That’s not a real answer,” Harry bit out, his voice edged now.

“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.” Louis’s tone wasn’t harsh, just… tired.

Harry took a breath, the frustration at the back of his throat tightening. “You’re pregnant. You don’t get to skip meals.”

Finally, Louis looked up, blue eyes glinting in the low golden light of the library. “You made it clear I’m just here to carry your child. I’m sure he’ll still grow if I miss one meal, Alpha.”

Harry’s eye twitched. That word—Alpha— had never sounded so bitter before.

Harry exhaled slowly, the sound almost a growl in the heavy silence of the library. He looked at Louis—really looked at him. Curled up in the chair like that, in one of his soft sweaters and with that tired defiance in his eyes… he looked far too small. Too pale.

Guilt twisted in Harry’s chest like a hot knife.

He rubbed his palm across his jaw and said lowly, “You’re being irrational.”

Louis let out a humorless breath of laughter, eyes flicking back to the book. “Am I?”

“Yes.” Harry stepped closer. “You need to eat. You haven’t had anything since lunch, Louis. You’re carrying a pup. This isn’t the time to be… dramatic.”

Louis snapped the book shut with a thud, finally meeting Harry’s eyes again. “Why do you even care?”

Harry blinked.

“If I’m just here to carry your child, if that’s all I am to you,” Louis pressed, voice tight, “then why do you give a shit whether I eat or not? Whether I sleep on the floor or bleed in a hallway? Why does it matter to you?”

“I—” Harry stopped. His jaw worked, but no words came for a moment. He didn’t have a good answer. Or maybe he did, but it wasn’t one he could admit aloud yet.

Louis shook his head slowly, eyes glassing over again. “You don’t know either, do you?”

Harry looked down at the floor, then back at him. His chest rose and fell a bit heavier than before.

“You need to eat,” he said again, quieter this time. “Just come with me.”

But Louis didn’t move. And Harry… didn’t know what to say next. He had never dealt with this. He had never done this before. He didn't go up to people and beg them to eat food. But here he was.

Louis's shoulders were stiff, jaw locked like he was fighting himself—then suddenly he snapped, voice sharper than he intended.

"I've been throwing up all day," he said, finally looking up. His eyes were rimmed with frustration, maybe even shame. “That’s why I didn’t come to dinner. I haven’t been able to eat anything.”

Harry blinked. The shift in tone caught him off guard.

“I didn’t think it’d get this bad again,” Louis continued, eyes glassy now. “It was like this at the beginning, before Dr. Hale prescribed the nausea meds. I couldn’t keep food down, I was dizzy all the time, and just—” he cut himself off with a breath. “She lowered the concentration this morning. Because I’m not unclaimed anymore. She thought it’d be easier now.”

His lips parted like he might say more, but he didn’t. Just shook his head, defeated. “My body’s not adjusting. It’s just… a mess.”

Harry’s brows drew together. The flash of guilt that hit him was immediate and visceral. Without another word, he stepped forward and sat on the chair next to Louis's.

“You should’ve told someone,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to cause a fuss,” Louis replied, too tired to even put up a front.

Harry watched him. “Is there anything I can do?”

Louis blinked, thrown off by the sudden softness in his tone. “You really want to?”

Harry didn’t respond right away. But his voice, when it came, was low and steady. “You’re sick. You’re carrying my pup. It would be psychotic if I didn’t want to help.”

Louis didn’t answer—he just stared at the floor. Breathing shallow. His fingers brushed across the small rise of his belly.

“Just… sit with me,” he said after a beat. “That’s all I want right now.”

And Harry did. Quietly. Without complaint. Just sat there, like he might stay as long as Louis needed.

Harry didn’t say anything at first, but then he gently pulled Louis onto his lap, settling him carefully against his chest. Louis froze for a second, surprised by the movement, but then his body seemed to melt against Harry’s warmth. It was unexpected, yet… comforting.

Harry’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, and for the first time in days, Louis felt something other than the weight of tension pressing down on him. Harry’s scent washed over him, familiar, comforting. Slowly, Harry began to nuzzle into his neck, scenting him in the way alphas did to their omegas, soothing him. It worked like magic, the tension in Louis’s shoulders melting, his breathing slowly evening out.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, Harry’s warmth cocooning him, the steady rhythm of his breath lulling Louis into a quiet calm. But eventually, Harry spoke again, his voice low, as if he were just speaking to himself.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Louis. I was just telling you the truth. I didn’t want you to expect anything from me I couldn’t give.” His fingers gently stroked Louis's back, soothing him even more.

Louis swallowed thickly, feeling the weight of the words press down on him. He wasn’t sure if he was upset anymore—there was something comforting about Harry’s closeness that made the hurt seem distant. He didn’t answer right away. It made him sad, but he didn’t feel the need to fight it. Harry’s offer of comfort, in a way, made everything else seem less important.

After a long pause, Louis finally spoke, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “How was your day?”

Harry hesitated, a brief moment of silence before he answered. “Met the new assistant. Had some meetings. Same old stuff.”

Louis’s brow furrowed slightly, an unexpected sting of jealousy twisting in his stomach. The mention of a new assistant—it wasn’t that he was upset about the assistant itself, but the thought of someone else, someone new, filling a role that he used to occupy, made him feel small. He didn’t say anything at first, trying to calm the jealousy that surged through him. It was irrational, but he couldn’t help it.

“And… did you like them?” Louis asked, voice quiet, as if he were testing the waters.

Harry’s fingers brushed through his hair absently as he considered the question. “I don’t know yet,” he finally said. “I don’t usually trust anyone that quickly.”

Louis nodded, but the jealousy didn’t fully go away. The thought of Harry relying on someone else, even if it was just work, made his stomach twist. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Harry, or what he expected, but right now, it felt like he was being pushed further out of Harry’s world, even though he was physically there.

“You’re still my assistant,” Harry added softly, as if sensing the unease in Louis’s silence. “I just… can’t have you working right now with everything going on.” His voice was quiet, but there was a layer of sincerity in it. “When you’re better, we’ll figure it out.”

Louis nodded, but inside, the ache didn’t quite disappear.

Louis’s curiosity was piqued again. He looked up slightly from where he rested against Harry’s chest, his voice soft but tinged with a slight edge of jealousy. “Is your new assistant… an omega?”

Harry chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through his chest. He adjusted his hold on Louis, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No, just a beta,” he said casually, brushing a hand through Louis’s hair.

Louis’s brows furrowed slightly, his lip jutting out in a subtle pout. “A beta?” He huffed, a bit too dramatically. “That’s still dangerous, though.”

Harry shrugged, an amused glint in his eyes as he gazed down at the omega in his arms. “Sure, I’ve been with them once or twice, but they’re not my preference. Never were.” He gave Louis a wink, not fully explaining how or why, but it was enough to make Louis feel slightly reassured, though still uncomfortable with the idea of someone else taking his place.

Louis hummed, settling back into Harry’s warmth, feeling content despite his underlying jealousy. He didn’t want to give in to the feeling, but it was hard not to. His head stayed pressed to Harry’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat calming him, as he let his thoughts wander.

Harry let a few moments of silence pass before he spoke again, his voice low and calm. "I have something for you, though."

Louis perked up at the change in tone, lifting his head slightly to look up at Harry with wide eyes, his curiosity bubbling over. “What is it?”

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, metal key, his fingers brushing against Louis’s skin as he held it out. Louis’s eyes widened in shock, his heart skipping a beat.

“This is for you,” Harry said, his voice oddly soft for someone so accustomed to giving orders. "The key to the locker where I’ve kept a very important file. I trust you with it. If that file got into the wrong hands, it could be disastrous for me. But of course, it won't."

Louis’s breath caught in his throat, a sudden rush of happiness washing over him, making his chest swell. The joy on his face was unmistakable as he took the key from Harry’s hand, his fingers trembling slightly. He couldn’t believe it. Harry was entrusting him with something so important, so… significant.

“I—I get to hold on to it?” Louis asked, his voice a little too high-pitched in his excitement, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t help it. This felt different from anything Harry had ever done before. This was trust. A real form of it. Louis felt as if something inside of him had clicked, as if he had been given a part of Harry’s world, and it made him feel strangely powerful, even if just for a moment.

Harry’s expression softened just a fraction, though he remained guarded. “You’ll be the only one with it, Louis,” he added, his eyes scanning Louis’s face with an unreadable expression. “It’s important. Make sure it stays safe.”

Louis nodded eagerly, his chest warm and his heart full. “Thank you,” he said, his voice genuine, though he wasn’t fully aware of the weight behind Harry’s words. “I won’t let you down.”

But Harry didn’t mention that the key he had given Louis was only a dupe, that the real one was tucked away in a much safer place, hidden where no one else would ever find it. For now, though, Louis was blissfully unaware, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a strange tug of guilt when he saw the genuine joy in Louis’s eyes.

He leaned down slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to Louis’s forehead, though his thoughts remained distant. There was still so much to be done, so many plans to put into motion, and Louis—sweet, trusting Louis—would never know how much of this was just another part of Harry’s game.

But for now, Louis’s happiness seemed to make everything else feel just a little bit lighter.

Harry let out a deep sigh, his gaze drifting down to the key in Louis's hand. His heart tugged at the sight of how genuinely happy Louis was, but the quiet ache in his chest grew heavier. This moment felt... nice, too nice. He was allowing himself to be pulled into Louis’s world, and Harry knew himself well enough to understand how dangerous that could be.

He’d been giving, soft even, but he couldn’t keep it up forever. No matter how much he told himself he could change, he knew that he couldn’t. He was always going to pull away, always going to put distance between them. Because that’s what he deserved. He didn’t deserve love. Not from Louis, not from anyone. He was broken. And he was doing Louis a favor by not letting himself care too much.

But as the seconds passed, and Louis’s joy wrapped itself around him, Harry found himself distracted, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn’t just the key he’d given Louis that had changed the atmosphere—it was everything. Louis was sweet, too sweet. And Harry was a fool for allowing it to make him feel something more.

“Alpha?” Louis’s voice broke through his internal chaos, gentle yet insistent.

Harry blinked, snapping out of his reverie, his mind suddenly clear but weighed down with the reality of it all. Louis was watching him with wide, concerned eyes.

“You should eat,” Louis continued, the softness in his tone a stark contrast to Harry’s conflicted thoughts. “You must be hungry after your day.”

Harry nodded slowly, still caught up in his mind. “Yeah, I should,” he muttered, forcing a small, neutral smile. He pushed away the heaviness in his chest. It wouldn’t do to let Louis see him like this. Not now.

Louis stood from the chair and stretched slightly, clearly making an effort to push the earlier tension away. He reached for Harry’s hand, pulling him gently towards the dining room, the large space before them lit with golden light. The mansion was beautiful, but tonight, it felt too big—too empty. Harry followed, his fingers brushing Louis’s lightly as they walked.

As they reached the table, Louis started to sit, but Harry stopped him, his gaze softening as he looked at the omega. “You should eat some fruit. They won’t make you nauseous,” Harry said gently.

Louis looked at him for a moment, clearly surprised by the care in his voice. He nodded slowly. “Okay, I’ll have some.”

Harry took a seat, watching Louis move gracefully around the table, setting things out. The tension between them hadn’t entirely dissipated, but Louis’s efforts to make this moment as normal as possible spoke volumes.

Once Louis sat, Harry picked up his fork and took a bite of his meal, trying to force himself back into the present. He couldn’t allow himself to get lost in the comfortable silence between them, not when he knew he would just pull away again.

Louis’s eyes flicked up to him, and for a brief moment, Harry caught a flash of something—hope, maybe. He wasn’t sure. But it made his chest tighten.

As they ate, Harry’s mind kept returning to the same thoughts. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever. He wasn’t the kind of man who could give Louis the softness he craved. He wasn’t capable of that kind of tenderness. But tonight, he’d allowed himself to feel a small spark of something that made it all feel a little less lonely.

And that thought was dangerous.

Louis smiled at him, his energy so different from the cold walls Harry had built around himself. Harry didn’t deserve that kindness, that sweetness. But as Louis placed a plate in front of him and looked at him with those hopeful eyes, Harry wondered, just for a second, what it would be like if he could let himself feel it.

But no. That wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t allowed to want that.

So instead, he ate, allowing the silence between them to settle comfortably, though a part of him—small, fragile, and fleeting—wanted to reach across the table and hold Louis close. But that part of him would stay locked away, where it belonged.

Chapter Text

Yelling. Distant at first, but unmistakable. It clawed through the silence like nails on glass—echoing, desperate, familiar.  

“Help! Please—God—NO!” 

Harry was running. His feet pounded against the ground, but he wasn’t getting anywhere. The scenery blurred around him like smoke, the voice pulling him forward with unbearable urgency, and yet—he couldn’t move fast enough.  

He was trying. God, he was trying.  

But then—  

Gunshot.

Sharp. Final. Just like always. He didn’t make it in time. He never did.  

The world tilted—  

And shifted.  

Suddenly, he was inside the church. The old one.  

The one his mum used to drag him to, the one that smelled like dust and candle wax.  

It was quiet now. Too quiet.  

Rows of pews lined the space like silent sentries.  

And Harry was crying. Alone, his fists clenched at his sides.  

Then—  

A hand. Cold and bony, resting on his shoulder.  

A whisper in his ear. Low. Icy. Final.  

“Let it go, Harry." 

But he couldn’t.  

The cries came again. Shattering the stillness. Louder this time. Closer.  

“Help me! Please—!" 

Gunshot.  

Again.  

The sound tore through his chest like shrapnel.  

Harry jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his body slick with sweat, heart racing like it was trying to outrun the past. His breaths came in ragged pulls as he sat up, hands trembling, face damp.  

Just a dream.  

But it never felt like just a dream.

He sighed, sitting up slowly, dragging a tired hand through his hair. The air was still, heavy with the remnants of his dream. He turned his head slightly, eyes falling on the figure curled up beside him.

Louis was asleep, tucked beneath the covers, his face half-buried in the pillow. The steady rise and fall of his chest was almost soothing. He looked small like this—peaceful, gentle. Adorable, even.

Harry stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, jaw ticking. How the fuck did I end up with someone like that? someone so soft, so radiant, tethered to someone like him?

He shook the thought away and carefully slipped out of bed, the hardwood cool under his feet as he made his way out of the bedroom. The digital clock on the wall blinked mockingly. 3:06 AM. The devil’s hour.

Of course.

He walked down the long corridor, the silence of the mansion pressing against his ears like static, and pushed open the door to his home office. The dark wood and dim lighting welcomed him like an old vice. He didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights—just the small lamp on the desk.

Still in nothing but his black sleep pants and a loose tee, he reached for the drawer, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a practiced flick of his wrist.

The first inhale was sharp, biting at his lungs. The second brought quiet. Calm.

He leaned back in the leather chair, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

At least the burn was familiar. At least this made sense.

Harry sat there for a while, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling in soft tendrils above his head. The dark silence of the office wrapped around him like a cloak, the only sound the occasional soft creak of the old mansion or the scratch of his pen as he absently jotted a note down from the file he’d pulled open in front of him. 

He wasn’t really working—more so flipping pages, eyes scanning, mind elsewhere. But the silence was better than the noise in his head. Always better.

Just as he reached for another document, a sharp thud echoed from somewhere behind him.

He froze. Body tense. Ears straining.

Another scrape. Closer this time. 

Harry stood slowly, cigarette now clenched between his lips, hand drifting toward the drawer that held his gun. His instincts flared, eyes narrowed as he stepped out of the office.

The corridor outside was dimly lit by the nightlights lining the walls. He moved silently, following the faint sounds. Past the study. Past the coat room.

And then—a soft meow.

He blinked.

There, sitting casually in the middle of the hallway with her tail wrapped around her paws like she owned the damn place, was Lucy.

Harry sighed harshly, rolling his eyes.

“You’re lucky my omega is an emotional wreck who loves you,” he muttered darkly, eyeing the feline. “Otherwise, I’d shoot you myself.”

Lucy gave a disinterested blink before hissing at him and sauntering away like he wasn’t worth her time.

“Fuck you too,” Harry called after her, shaking his head and dragging one last inhale from his cigarette. He turned around and padded back to his office, muttering under his breath, “Damn cat.”

He worked through the night, flipping through files, responding to messages, and making notes for the meetings ahead. It was easier to focus when everything was still and no one was expecting anything from him.

By the time the clock on the wall struck five, the sky outside was still a deep navy, but a faint line of grey-blue began creeping at the edges. Harry leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

He figured he might as well get an early start at the office—being ahead of everyone else gave him control. And right now, he craved control.

He stood, cracking his neck as he made his way out of the office and toward the bedroom. Louis was still fast asleep, curled up under the duvet like a painting of peace and softness Harry didn’t feel equipped to touch.

He moved quietly, pulling on a crisp black shirt, buttoning it up with practiced ease before slipping on his jacket. He adjusted his cuffs, grabbed his phone and keys, and stepped out.

Just as he made it to the front hallway, the head maid, Suzie, approached, clearly surprised to see him up so early.

“Sir,” she greeted, smoothing down her apron. “Would you like me to have breakfast prepared?”

Harry shook his head, voice gruff. “No. I’ll eat later.”

Suzie nodded politely, stepping back with a small bow of her head. “Safe drive, Mr. Styles.”

Harry said nothing, just gave a slight nod and pushed through the heavy front doors of the mansion. The morning air was cold against his face, crisp and quiet.

He slid into the driver’s seat of his car, started the engine, and pulled out onto the long private road, heading to work before the rest of the city had even stirred.

He had worked far too much that day. The hours had bled into one another, seamless and suffocating, until he lost all sense of time. By the time Harry finally stepped into the quiet stillness of his mansion, it was just past 2 AM.

Louis was asleep again. Of course he was.

Harry hadn’t intended for this to become a routine—it simply had. One day of late nights had stretched into two, then three, and now… he wasn’t even sure how many. There was a strange kind of comfort in the solitude, in not having to speak or be touched. Just work. Just silence. That’s how Harry liked it.

Or so he told himself.

As he walked through the dimly lit hallway, loosening his tie, he caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance. Suzie.

The old maid was tidying up near the dining room, her movements slow but practiced, worn into muscle memory by years of habit.

“You’re off the clock at ten,” Harry said, his voice low and rough from disuse.

She looked up at him and gave a soft, knowing chuckle. “I’ve been working for your family since I was twenty-three, sir. I don’t think I’ll ever truly be off the clock.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly. Of all the staff his parents had hired, he had dismissed every one of them after taking control of the estate. Except her. He never said why. Never even let himself think about it too much. She just stayed.

“You’re a saint,” he muttered, and brushed past her.

“I’m guessing there’s no need to serve dinner, sir?” she asked gently, already knowing the answer. Harry always ate out when he came home this late. That, too, had become part of the pattern.

He nodded once without stopping.

“Sir.”

He halted at the quiet call, turning slightly. “Yes?”

There was hesitation in her tone, something careful, deliberate.

“Forgive me if it’s improper to say, but… Mrs. Styles waits for you most nights in the living room. He always tries to stay awake but gets tired and goes to bed. Tonight, he was determined. He didn’t go to bed at all. But—he’s there now. Fast asleep.”

The words hit Harry like a brick to the chest.

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t, for a moment.

He only gave a small nod and turned away, the air suddenly heavier around him as he made his way toward the living room.

The house was silent as Harry made his way down the corridor.

His footsteps softened as he reached the living room. The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the marble floor, but he didn’t need much light to spot Louis.

There he was.

Curled up on one end of the massive velvet couch, arms folded under his head, chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of deep sleep. A soft throw blanket was half-slipped from his body, his small frame barely filling the space. His lips were parted slightly, brows relaxed, lashes casting gentle shadows across his cheeks. 

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, something strange catching in his chest. He stepped closer, pausing for a moment just to look. Louis didn’t stir.

With careful hands, Harry bent down and slid one arm under Louis’s back and the other beneath his knees. The omega didn’t wake, only let out a soft sound and unconsciously curled closer into Harry’s chest as he was lifted.

Harry held him easily. He turned to leave the room, carrying him through the hushed halls.

He reached their bedroom and gently laid Louis down on the bed, pulling the blanket over his sleeping form. He stood there for a second longer, watching him. Then he turned walking away from Louis. Like he always did. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Despite what most believed, Louis had come to understand something else entirely.

The opposite of love wasn’t hate.

No—hate still required feeling. Still demanded energy. It was fueled by fire, by attention, by care, twisted as it may be. Love and hate were close cousins, tangled together on the same thread, each pulling the other tighter with every breath. You couldn't hate someone unless a part of you had once loved them—or still did.

But indifference?

Indifference was cold. Hollow. It required nothing of you. No passion, no emotion, no memory. Just silence.

Louis had realized quickly that indifference was the worst thing a person could experience from someone they once gave their heart to. It was the cruelest punishment. To speak into a void and hear nothing back. To ache and know the other person felt absolutely nothing in return.

It was excruciating.

And yet, despite knowing that, Louis didn’t feel indifference from Harry. Not truly. No, what he felt burned deeper, sharper.

He hated Harry.

He hated him with every fraying thread of what was left inside of him. Every quiet dinner alone. Every night spent waiting on the couch. Every glance that went unnoticed. Every inch of tenderness Harry refused to give. He hated how much he still cared. How much he still hoped.

And every day, it became more painfully clear: Harry didn’t feel the same.

Harry didn’t care.

And Louis... Louis was still breaking anyway.

Harry was at the office, as always. And Louis, left to his own devices in the sprawling mansion, found himself wandering its many halls. The place still felt unfamiliar in parts, like a gilded cage with corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly. There were areas locked behind heavy doors—spaces only Harry could access—but plenty more remained a mystery simply because Louis hadn’t had the chance—or the courage—to explore them.

Until now.

He turned a corner and came upon a wide room, almost like another sitting area, though grander. A maid was inside, dusting in quiet rhythm. Louis hesitated for a second at the threshold, then stepped in. His footfalls were soft against the marble, but the air shifted nonetheless, as though the walls themselves were watching.

The space was filled with portraits. Dozens of them. Lined up in neat, reverent rows across the high walls.

All of them men. Alphas. Dominant. Proud. Cold.

Louis's breath caught as his eyes flicked from one nameplate to the next—Desmond Styles, Robert Styles, Damond Styles and so on. The lineage was unmistakable. Father. Grandfather. Great-grandfather. Each of their faces bore the same sharp angles and piercing stares. The same sense of ruthlessness, heavy as iron. Even in portraiture, they looked like they’d never shown mercy a day in their lives.

He swallowed tightly.

And then—his gaze stopped.

One portrait stood apart. A woman. An omega.

Anne Styles.

Her frame gleamed, spotless in contrast to the dust and wear around the others. And her expression… it was soft. Kind. There was strength there, yes, but not the kind forged in blood and cruelty. A quiet resilience. Her smile was warm. Her presence gentle.

Louis’s eyes widened.

He recognized those eyes. They were Harry’s. But different—untainted. She looked like someone who had known love. Who had given it, freely.

Something squeezed in Louis’s chest as he stared up at her.

In a house built on dominance and silence, Anne Styles looked like the only light that had ever lived here.

And now… Louis wasn’t sure whether that made him feel comforted or completely, utterly alone.

He realized, with a hollow pang, that he didn’t truly know anything about Harry.

The alpha told him nothing. Shared nothing. Louis didn’t know who Harry’s parents had been. He didn’t know the full extent of his family history, didn’t really know what Harry did behind all the locked doors and cryptic meetings, didn’t know what he was feeling at any given moment—or if he even felt anything at all. He didn’t know if Harry cared for him. Not really.

Harry was a mystery. A fortress with walls too high and too thick to climb. An enigma Louis feared he could spend his entire life trying to unravel and still never fully understand.

But now—standing in front of these portraits, in this room so steeped in legacy and ghosts—he had a glimpse. A sliver of insight, of who Harry came from. And that clarity… it felt strange.

Like stumbling into someone’s memories uninvited.

It didn’t make Harry any less complicated. If anything, it made him more.

The maid cleared her throat softly, pulling Louis out of his trance.  

“If you could move aside, please, Mrs. Styles,” she said politely.

Louis blinked, nodding quickly as he stepped back to give her room.

She reached up and began to gently dust the portrait of Anne Styles—careful, reverent, almost tender in her movements. But once she was done, she turned to leave, making no move toward the other portraits lined along the wall.

Louis watched her for a moment before curiosity got the better of him. He recognized her now—she was the same maid who had quietly led him to his bedroom on the day of the wedding. She’d been discreet, composed, but there had been something kind in her eyes.

“Why don’t you clean the other portraits?” he asked, voice quiet but laced with genuine confusion.

The maid paused and glanced back at him with a faint smile.  

“Mr. Styles gave strict instructions,” she said. “Only the portrait of Anne Styles is to be cleaned. No one else.”

Louis’s frown deepened, a flicker of emotion passing through his chest like a ripple across still water. He had to ask, even though the answer already lingered at the edge of his mind. The resemblance was undeniable—the shape of the eyes, the curve of the mouth. But the woman in the portrait looked... softer. Gentler.

“She’s… his mother?” he asked, voice small, almost afraid of the confirmation.

The maid looked momentarily surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him not to know. “Yes, sir. She is. The others are his father, grandfather, great-grandfather… this is the Styles Portrait Room. Every alpha born into the Styles line gets their portrait hung here after death. Wives usually didn’t. Omegas never did. But Mr. Styles changed that when he took over. He had his mother’s portrait hung here too.”

Louis nodded slowly, lips pressing into a thin line as he bit the inside of his cheek. He’d known Harry’s parents were dead, but it hit differently now—standing in front of the only clean portrait in a gallery of dusted legacies.

Louis lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the edges of Anne Styles’ portrait, the only one spared from dust and time. A strange tightness coiled in his chest—the kind that came with knowing something you weren’t supposed to. He glanced back at the maid, who was quietly gathering her supplies.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice softer now.

She looked up, surprised for a moment, then gave a gentle nod. “Suzie, sir.”

Louis returned the nod. “How long have you worked here?”

She paused, thinking. “Twenty-seven years.”

His eyes widened. “That long?”

Suzie chuckled faintly. “Started when I was a young girl, really. Before Mr. Styles was even born.”

Louis’s gaze drifted back to the walls, the line of portraits, the generations of legacy and expectation staring back at him. After a long, thoughtful pause, he spoke again.

“Then… you must’ve seen him grow up.”

Suzie didn’t answer at first. Her hands slowed in their work, and when she finally did speak, it was with a soft, sorrowful smile. “I did.” A beat passed. “It’s a tragedy, truly, what he’s become.”

The words hit harder than Louis expected. He turned to look at her fully, a crease forming between his brows. “What do you mean?”

Suzie didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she looked up at Anne’s portrait—almost as if seeking permission. Her voice dropped to a near whisper.

“He was different when he was younger. He was warm, bright. There was a light in him… He used to laugh.”

Louis swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat and looked back up at Anne’s face. She had the same eyes as Harry—only hers still held something soft. Something that hadn’t been lost.

Suzie stood quietly for a moment, as though the memories had transported her to another time—a simpler one. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at Louis, eyes kind but laced with something much deeper: grief, perhaps, or hope. Or maybe both.

“It’s good to have you here, Mrs. Styles,” she said finally, the words weighted with sincerity.

Louis blinked, caught off guard by her tone.

Suzie continued, “I don’t say that lightly. This house…” she glanced around at the cavernous room, the old portraits looming like shadows of the past, “…it’s seen too much silence. Too much cold. For a long time, it was only footsteps and closed doors."

Louis’s throat felt tight. He didn't speak.

Suzie gave a tired smile. “And then you arrived. I know things haven’t been easy between you two. I won’t pretend to understand the ways of alphas and omegas, or the way the world spins for people like Mr. Styles, but I do know what it means to see light again. And you… you brought some of that back with you.”

Louis looked down at his hands, unsure what to do with the warmth spreading through his chest. He didn’t feel like light. Most days, he felt like noise. Like a presence that Harry tolerated at best and ignored at worst. But Suzie’s voice was steady, certain.

“He notices you, even when he pretends he doesn’t,” she added gently. “There’s a shift in the air when you’re near. He’s still fighting it, whatever it is he feels—but he’s never let anyone this close before. Not since her.”

Her. Anne.

Louis looked back at the portrait, at those eyes that mirrored Harry’s so uncannily. He suddenly wondered what kind of woman she’d been. What kind of love she’d given that made Harry hang her portrait here—clean and cherished—while the rest of the Styles men collected dust.

“I’m not sure he’ll ever let himself be loved,” Louis said quietly, the words more to himself than to her.

Suzie paused at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder, her voice soft but resolute. “Then I hope you’re patient, sir. Because if anyone can reach him, I think it’s you.”

Louis exhaled shakily, her words settling heavy on his chest. He didn’t reply. His fingers tightened slightly at his sides, the tremble subtle but there.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, before speaking, his voice a soft whisper, “What was she like? Anne?”

Suzie didn’t answer immediately. She seemed to lose herself in thought for a moment, her eyes softening as if remembering something long past. When she finally spoke, it was as though she were pulling the memory from deep within.

“She was… light,” she began, her voice gentle but steady. “There was this warmth about her—something that drew people in. She had a kindness that didn’t just touch the surface, but went deep. She could see through people in a way that made you feel like you mattered. And that mattered to her.” Suzie’s gaze moved over the room, as if her mind were tracing the very air Anne had once breathed.

"Anne had hired me herself. I was young and in desperate need of a job. She was kind enough to grant me one. I think that's why Mr. Styles didn't fire me. He fired everyone hired by his father, which were all the other employees." Suzie explained.

Louis nodded, lost in her words. He understood, in a way, what Suzie meant—he could see how Harry’s face reflected his mother’s, how the kindness in Anne’s eyes seemed to haunt the alpha. But Louis didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to make sense of the pieces that felt so out of place.

His voice was quieter this time. “And... his father? Desmond?”

Suzie’s expression shifted—just slightly, but it was enough for Louis to catch the flicker of something darker in her eyes. She chuckled, but it was hollow, a sound stripped of humor and filled instead with weary bitterness.

“The answer to that, Mrs. Styles,” she began, her voice heavy with the weight of truth, “is that Mr. Styles has spent every waking second of his life trying to not become like his father.”

Her words hung in the air, thick with implications. She took a moment before continuing, as if collecting herself, then looked at him directly, her gaze steady but laden with sorrow.

“And that,” she said, her voice low, “is the cruelest irony of it all. Because in doing everything he could to avoid becoming his father, he’s become exactly like him. The same way Sir Desmond spent his entire life trying not to be like his father. But it isn't just the bloodline—it's the mistakes. They’re woven into the very fabric of who he is. And now… now, he is bound by them.”

She paused for a beat, her eyes softening as she looked toward the portrait of Anne, her expression pained.

“Mr. Styles… he has his mother’s face. But his father’s mistakes.”

Louis stood very still, the words settling like a weight in his stomach. His heart thudded, a quiet ache spreading through his chest. He hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that truth, how much he needed someone—someone like Suzie—to explain the unspoken. The years of Harry’s internal struggle, the way he’d been torn between what he wanted to be and what he feared becoming. It was a prison Louis had never even known existed for the man.

He didn’t know how to respond. What could he say to something so devastating, so... final? Instead, he simply stood there, staring at the portraits of the men who had shaped Harry into what he was now—the man Louis had married, the man who haunted him.

Suzie looked at him one last time, her face softening with the kind of compassion that only comes from seeing someone else’s pain mirrored in your own. She nodded once, as if to herself, and quietly left the room, her footsteps fading into silence.

Louis was left alone, surrounded by the ghosts of a family’s past. The weight of it all pressed on him like a physical thing, and he felt, for the first time since coming here, that he truly understood just how much Harry carried—how much he had to carry.

His gaze moved slowly from the portraits, now somewhat haunting, to his own hands. His fingers unconsciously moved to rest against his stomach, a soft touch that sent a ripple of warmth through his chest. The bump was small, barely noticeable, but it was real. His child, his baby.

His heart twisted as he thought of what Suzie had said—about Harry’s battle with the legacy of his father, about the man he had become because of it. A sudden, irrational fear gripped Louis. His breath hitched as he thought about what kind of world he was bringing his child into. What kind of future was there, when the empire Harry had inherited was built on blood, on power, on darkness?

The tears came before he could stop them.

Louis blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back, but it was no use. They slid down his cheeks, one after another, leaving warm tracks on his skin. He wiped them away quickly, ashamed of the vulnerability, but the fear—the fear—it wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t shake the thought, the terrible thought that lodged itself in his mind.

Would his baby grow up to hate Harry the way he did sometimes? He couldn’t imagine the child growing up in that world—the world. The world that had created Harry, the world that shaped him into what he was now.

What if it inherited that darkness? What if it was forced into the same path, molded by its legacy just as Harry had been? Louis’s chest tightened, the weight of it all suffocating him.

He didn’t want his baby to grow up like that. He didn’t want it to hate its father, didn’t want it to be consumed by the same empire of shadows that Harry had been born into. He didn’t want it to feel trapped in the same kind of life, bound by the same mistakes that had haunted Harry for years. He didn’t want his baby to one day sit in this very room, staring at those portraits, wondering how it could ever escape the blood-stained legacy it was forced to inherit.

He could almost feel it now—the baby inside of him. His child. Would it grow up to be just another cog in the cruel machinery of the Styles empire? Would it be pushed into the same cold, calculating world of power plays, lies, and violence?

Louis’s heart wrenched. He wanted something different for this child. Something better. He wanted it to grow up with the kind of life he never had, with the freedom to choose its own path, to feel safe and loved without the weight of bloodshed and power hanging over its head.

But could he protect it from all of that? Could he keep it from becoming like Harry? Could he stop history from repeating itself, from forcing another generation to bear the sins of the past?

The tears came again, this time more freely, his hands clutching his stomach as if to hold the fear in place, to stop it from consuming him. He sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, but the sadness lingered. The guilt. The overwhelming sense of helplessness.

What if my baby ends up just like Harry? He will have to run all these businesses that Harry runs. Harry will expect it to.

Louis pressed his hand against his belly once more, as if grounding himself. He didn't have all the answers, not even close, but one thing was certain: he would protect this baby. No matter the cost. No matter what Harry became, no matter how dark the world around them grew, he would do everything in his power to make sure his child didn’t become just another casualty of the Styles family history.

Even if he had to fight for it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Harry arrived home earlier than usual, the weight of his busy schedule pressing down on him. He stepped inside, expecting to see Louis, but was told by the staff that Louis had gone to the doctor for an appointment. Harry didn’t comment, instead deciding to retreat to the garden for some quiet, uninterrupted time.

The cool air outside greeted him as he made his way to the gazebo. He sank into one of the chairs, letting the calm of the garden wash over him. A maid brought him a cup of coffee along with some pastries, and Harry nodded his thanks, leaning back to enjoy the peace. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the stillness settle in. He needed this time to clear his head.

Just as he began to relax, there was a soft thud, followed by the sound of something clattering against the stone floor. Harry's eyes snapped open. Lucy, the damned cat, had jumped onto the table and knocked over his coffee. The cup rolled across the stone with a wet splat, spilling the dark liquid all over the surface.

Harry sat up with an irritated sigh. “Get this damn cat out of here,” he said coldly to the maid standing nearby. “Send it to be put down. Now.”

Louis’s voice cut through the air, calm but firm, as he stepped into the gazebo and picked up Lucy, his eyes immediately locking onto Harry. "Alpha," he said, the word heavy with the weight of unspoken frustration, "the cat stays."

Harry looked up, surprised by Louis’s sudden arrival and the soft yet unyielding tone in his voice. He hadn’t noticed him approaching, and the sight of Louis, standing in the doorway with the cat cradled gently in his arms, made something in Harry’s chest tighten. 

He took a moment to study Louis—his clothes, the way he carried himself. Louis didn’t seem angry, but there was a quiet force in him now, an air of determination that Harry hadn’t seen before.

Harry exhaled slowly. "It’s a cat from hell, Louis," he muttered, more to himself than to Louis.

Louis’s expression didn’t change. "It’s only been sweet to me," he said, his tone still soft but carrying an edge of insistence. "So, maybe it’s a you problem."

Harry blinked, taken aback by the comment, but before he could respond, Louis’s voice came again, this time with even more finality. "The cat stays. In fact, she’s mine now. I’ll get her a collar. I’ll take care of her. You don’t need to worry about it at all, Alpha."

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. It was obvious that Louis really liked the cat and Harry wouldn't dare get it put down, he had merely said that out of frustration.

Louis shifted the cat in his arms and took a step forward, his gaze steady. "And where have you been, Alpha?" he asked, his voice still calm but the question carrying a hint of frustration. "A whole week straight? Was that really necessary?"

Harry stiffened at the question, a slight frown tugging at his lips. "I’ve been busy," he replied, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

Louis’s eyes softened, but there was a quiet, resigned anger in them as he exhaled. "A week, Alpha," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "I don’t think anyone should be that busy."

Harry didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back, letting out a tired sigh. He motioned to the empty space next to him on the bench. "Come sit," he said, his voice less commanding than usual, more... inviting. "Please."

Louis hesitated for only a moment before slowly walking over and sitting down beside him, though the slight stiffness in his posture told Harry that he wasn’t entirely at ease. Louis wasn’t outright disobeying him, but Harry could tell that the omega was struggling with the distance that had grown between them. 

There was a long pause as the two of them sat in silence. Finally, Harry turned to Louis, his voice softening. "How did the appointment go?" he asked.

Louis took a breath, his fingers gently stroking the cat in his lap. "Your child is fine," he said, his voice steady, though there was a brief flicker of emotion in his eyes. "Healthy."

Harry raised an eyebrow at the pointed answer, the smallest of smirks tugging at the corner of his lips. "And my child’s mother?" he asked, his tone teasing but also a little unsure, as though the question held more weight than he was willing to admit.

Louis turned his head slightly, looking away as his fingers tightened just a bit around the cat. "He’s fine too," he muttered quietly, the words almost a whisper.

Harry watched Louis for a moment, his gaze sharp, and for the first time in a long while, something softer flickered behind his eyes. Louis, despite his soft words and the quiet moments between them, had a quiet strength to him that Harry hadn’t fully understood until now.

After a long beat of silence, Louis finally spoke, his voice quieter than usual, almost vulnerable. "Can you be there at the next appointment, please?" he asked, his eyes still avoiding Harry’s, his fingers absently toying with Lucy.

Harry paused, surprised by the request. His brow furrowed in slight confusion. "You want me to be there?" he asked, the weight of the question hanging between them.

Louis nodded, his expression still unreadable. "Of course, I do," he said quietly, though there was a hint of frustration in his voice, as if this should have been obvious to Harry by now.

Harry was silent for a moment, the gravity of Louis’s request settling in. He hadn’t expected this, not after everything. But there was something in Louis’s tone, something raw, that Harry couldn’t ignore. "Alright," he said eventually, his voice steady. "I’ll be there."

Louis’s gaze flickered up to meet his then, his voice quiet but insistent. "You promise?"

Harry met his gaze, and despite everything, there was a sincerity in his eyes. "I promise, omega."

Louis’s shoulders slumped slightly, as if the weight of the promise felt heavier than he expected. He let out a breath, shaking his head softly. "You're so confusing," he murmured, more to himself than to Harry, frustration seeping into his voice.

Harry’s eyes softened, his tone a little quieter now. "You don’t have to try to figure me out."

Louis’s lips curled into a humorless chuckle, but there was a sharp edge to it. "Oh, but I do," he replied, though the words were laced with bitterness. "Maybe I keep thinking you'll show me something real. But you never do."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unsaid things, until a maid arrived to announce that dinner was ready.

Louis sighed, a deep, exasperated breath, and stood. His voice was laced with sarcasm as he glanced at Harry. "Will you finally do me the honor of eating dinner with me?" His words were sharp, like a quiet jab, laced with hurt that he couldn’t fully hide.

Harry stood as well, watching Louis carefully. Despite the tension, he gave a small nod. "Yes," he said, his voice softer than before, tinged with something that might have been regret. "Let’s go."

Louis didn’t respond immediately, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Harry, the hurt still evident in his expression. "You know," he muttered, almost too quiet to hear, "it’s always like this with you, isn't it? As long as it’s convenient for you. Always on your terms."

There was no venom in his words, just a weary resignation, and Harry knew Louis wasn’t expecting an answer. Instead, they walked together, side by side, the tension between them palpable, but there was an understanding in the silence. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

The morning was hushed, quiet in that unsettling way the mansion always seemed to be. Louis sat at the long table, fingers wrapped loosely around a steaming cup of tea, the rim nearly touching his lips though he hadn’t taken a sip in minutes.

Harry sat at the other end, reading something on his phone between slow bites of breakfast. Louis stared at him for a moment, then down at the untouched pastries on his plate. He needed to say something—anything—to cut through the silence pressing between them.

He cleared his throat lightly. “Would it be alright if my sister visited?”

He hadn’t needed to ask. He already knew the answer. But maybe—maybe part of him wanted Harry to realize how hesitant Louis still felt. Maybe he wanted to be seen as someone uncertain in a home that wasn’t truly his—not yet. Maybe he wanted Harry to feel the weight of that, just a little.

Harry looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before settling into something unreadable. "Of course."

Louis nodded once. “I thought I should ask.”

“You didn’t need to,” Harry replied, gaze lingering now. “She’s family.”

That word family made Louis flinch inwardly.

He pressed his cup to his lips. “Still felt right to check.”

Harry studied him. “You can do what you want. Within reason.”

Louis gave a faint, humorless chuckle. “That’s reassuring.”

Harry set his phone down with a soft click, finally giving Louis his full attention. “I don’t control every aspect of your life, omega.”

“Feels like you try sometimes,” Louis said, voice light, but the barb was there.

Harry didn’t rise to it. He just watched Louis, unmoved. “You live under my roof. There are boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” Louis echoed, looking down at his cup. “Right.”

The silence stretched again, cold and stifling. Louis knew he should let it die there, let the conversation end before it broke something. But he didn’t.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m walking through a museum. One wrong step and I’ll break something.” Louis said.

Harry didn’t blink. “Then watch where you step.”

Louis let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “That’s not the same as feeling at home.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, looking at him coolly. “This place wasn’t built for comfort, Louis. It was built to survive.”

Silence stretched between them, colder now.

Louis reached for something—anything. “You don’t even tell me what’s behind half the doors here.”

“I tell you what you need to know,” Harry said sharply.

“And what if I want to know more?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He set down his coffee slowly, deliberately. “Then you ask.”

Louis frowned. “And you’ll actually tell me?”

Harry looked at him, the weight of that stare enough to silence the question before it had even finished leaving his lips.

“I’ll decide,” Harry said.

The silence returned, heavier than before. The kind of silence Louis had grown far too used to in this house.

He swallowed. “Can a friend of mine visit too?"

“Yes.” Harry’s tone didn’t warm. “I’ve already said that.”

Louis nodded once, his shoulders tight. “Thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me. You're not a guest.”

Louis gave a weak, almost bitter smile. “Hard to tell, sometimes.”

Harry didn’t reply.

And so they went quiet again, each retreating into their own silence—Louis nursing the ache in his chest, Harry behind the armor he never seemed to remove.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Later that day, the mansion felt a little less like a cage. Harry was at the office—gone with his usual quiet efficiency.

The grand front doors opened around midday, and Louis hurried to the foyer barefoot, the marble cool under his feet. His heart jumped as he saw her—his sister, Lottie, stepping inside with a grin that didn’t quite hide her worry.

“God, this place,” she muttered, wide-eyed. “It’s like a palace.”

Louis threw his arms around her. “Took you long enough.”

Lottie hugged him tightly. “I had to bribe the guards at the gate with a smile and a laminated invitation. Real charming, your husband’s security team.”

Louis laughed under his breath and pulled back. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Behind her came Liam, carrying a small bag of things—books, a candle Louis had once said he missed, and a box of sweets from a shop they used to haunt back home. Louis stepped forward and hugged him too, grateful and shaken by how comforting it was to see someone who knew him before all this.

“Don’t tell me you’re being pampered in here and forgot all about us,” Liam teased, eyeing the chandeliers above with mock offense.

“I haven’t,” Louis said quickly. “God, I haven’t.”

The three of them moved into the drawing room, where a maid had already laid out tea and finger sandwiches at Louis’s request. It felt oddly formal—like he was hosting a press event instead of seeing the only people who still reminded him who he used to be.

Lottie flopped onto a velvet armchair. “So, how are you? And don’t say fine.”

Louis sat carefully across from her, smoothing his sweater over the bump at his belly. “I’m… managing.”

Liam poured the tea. “That’s code for not great but pretending. I know that one.”

Louis smiled faintly. “Maybe. But today’s good. You’re here.”

Lottie glanced around the ornate room, voice softer now. “You look tired.”

“I am,” Louis admitted. “But I’m okay. Really.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy but comforting. Then Liam raised a brow and asked playfully, “So where’s the elusive alpha, anyway? Locked in the tower?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Work. Obviously.”

“Of course,” Lottie said, not hiding the sharpness in her voice. “Probably off commanding dragons or plotting world domination.”

Louis snorted into his tea, grateful for the laughter that bubbled up. “Stop. You’ll summon him.”

But beneath the jokes and the tea and the warmth, a small part of Louis kept glancing toward the front doors, wondering when they’d creak open again.

Lottie leaned forward slightly, watching him with that sisterly look he’d known his whole life—the one that could see through every mask he tried to wear.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now. No teasing. Just her.

Louis hesitated.

Then, without meeting her gaze, he murmured, “I always loved him.”

Lottie didn’t speak. She just listened, patient and still.

“I did,” Louis said again, a breath catching in his throat. “Even before all of this. I don’t even know why. I think… I just saw him once and that was it. He didn’t even know who I was then.”

Liam’s gaze dropped to the floor, lips pressed together.

Louis swallowed and kept going. “But I knew. And when I was marrying him, it felt like fate. Like maybe, just maybe, it could become something. Maybe he’d look at me and… maybe I’d matter.”

Lottie stood slowly, walked to his side, and knelt beside him, taking his hand gently.

Louis looked down at her fingers over his.

“I don’t think he’ll ever love me,” he whispered, as if saying it too loud would break something inside him.

Lottie’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “Then he’s a fool.”

Louis let out a soft laugh—shaky, wet around the edges.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “And I know it hurts. I know it feels like you’re waiting for something that may never come. But you’re not alone, Lou. You’ll never be.”

Louis nodded, trying to keep his breathing even.

Liam’s eyes had stayed on Louis throughout the confession, unreadable at first—but now his jaw tightened, just slightly.

“You know he doesn’t deserve that love, right?” he said, his voice calm, but lined with something heavier. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Louis looked at him, startled.

“I guess,” Louis whispered, his throat dry. “But feelings don’t really care about deserving.”

Liam sighed, then stood and walked over, wrapping his arms around Louis without hesitation. Louis leaned into him immediately, curling into the embrace like he’d been waiting for someone to hold him like this all day. He buried his face into Liam’s chest and let himself breathe deeply.

“God,” Louis mumbled into the soft cotton of Liam’s hoodie. “Your scent is so comforting. You always smell like… calm. Like fresh air after a storm.”

Liam huffed a laugh. “You’re the only omega I know who compliments scent profiles like poetry.”

Louis smiled, weakly. “It’s just always been comforting.”

Liam pulled back slightly and peeled off his hoodie, holding it out. “Here. Keep it. You can wear it if the house starts feeling too heavy again.”

Louis took it with a soft laugh and set it on the couch next to him. “Thanks.”

“You always were a little clingy,” Liam teased.

“Oh, piss off,” Louis said, but the smile had found its way back to his lips.

Lottie gave a dramatic sigh. “If you two keep cuddling like this, I’m going to feel like a third wheel.”

Louis looked between them and grinned. “You are a third wheel.”

“Rude,” she shot back. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Louis leaned over to bump her shoulder with his. “I am lucky.”

From there, the mood lifted like a curtain. Lottie started recounting a ridiculous story about their mum mistaking a vibrator ad for a facial massager. Louis burst into laughter so suddenly he nearly choked on air. Liam howled beside him.

They sat like that for hours—joking, gossiping, passing snacks back and forth. For the first time in weeks, Louis felt like himself. Not Mrs. Styles. Not the omega tied to the head of a crime empire. Just Louis. Surrounded by the people who still saw him for exactly who he was—and loved him anyway.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
It was well past midnight when Harry finally returned home. The mansion was cloaked in shadows, quiet and still, save for the distant echo of a grandfather clock chiming the hour.

He handed his coat to a maid in the foyer. She bowed her head slightly.

“Mr. Styles,” she said softly, “welcome back.”

Harry nodded once. “Where’s Louis?”

“He’s already had dinner, sir. Earlier in the evening. With guests.”

Harry paused. “Guests?”

“His sister and a friend, sir.”

Harry said nothing, just offered a curt nod before walking toward the dining room. He sat down alone, the silence a stark contrast to the low buzz of voices he could almost imagine lingering from earlier.

Dinner was served without ceremony. The clink of silverware against china echoed in the large room as he ate, slow and methodical, his mind somewhere else entirely.

When he finally made his way upstairs, the bedroom was dimly lit, empty.

He exhaled, jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t call out—just turned on his heel and walked the familiar halls until instinct led him.

The library.

And there he was.

Louis sat curled up in one of the armchairs by the tall window, a throw blanket draped over his legs and a thick book in his lap. His hair was tousled, a pair of glasses sliding down his nose—he only wore them when reading late. A soft lamp lit the space in warm amber.

Harry leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a long moment.

“You’ve taken a liking to this room,” he finally said, his voice low.

Louis jumped a little, startled. He blinked up, then adjusted his glasses and sat up straighter. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“I noticed,” Harry said simply.

Louis folded the corner of his page and shut the book gently, placing it on the table beside him.

Harry stepped into the room, slower now. “Couldn't sleep?”

Louis shrugged. “I didn't try, didn’t feel like it yet.”

“Did you have a good time?” Harry asked, his tone mild—neutral, almost.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Louis said, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “It was nice."

Harry stepped further into the room. As he did, he immediately noticed a scent. An unknown scent around Louis. On Louis. He clenched his jaw. Perhaps it was of his sister? But it didn't feel familial.

"Must be fun, seeing your sister and friend again." Harry commented, his tone pointed. He had said this just to get Louis talking, to get more details.

Louis nodded. “Lottie’s always been good for me. And Liam—he’s always been that solid person. Protective. A bit much sometimes, but it’s comforting, you know?”

Another step.

Louis felt the presence shift closer.

“We’ve been friends for years,” he continued, suddenly talking a little too fast. “Used to walk me home from school and everything. He’s an alpha, but it’s not like—”

He stopped.

Too late.

Harry’s eyes darkened. “An alpha?”

Louis licked his lips, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. But he’s—he’s just Liam. You don’t have to—”

Harry stepped closer again, gaze dropping to the hoodie Louis had wrapped around himself. It was worn-in and soft, a shade of charcoal grey that didn’t belong to anything Louis owned.

Harry’s voice dropped a note lower. “Whose hoodie is that? Charlotte's?”

Louis blinked. His omega was starting to get anxious. “I—uh—it’s Liam’s. But he's like a brother to me."

“Mm.” Harry’s expression didn’t shift. His voice didn’t rise. But something underneath it crackled like lightning ready to strike. “And you let him scent you?”

Louis’s eyes widened. “What—no, it’s not like that, Alpha, he just—he offered me his hoodie when I said—”

Harry cut him off. “When you said what?"

Louis swallowed. God. Why did he keep talking? “That his scent was… comforting.”

The silence that followed was terrifying.

“You told another alpha that his scent comforts you?” His voice was hoarse now, tight in his throat.

Louis shivered at Harry's tone. Feeling immensely submissive. And he was reminded that he could never truely defy Harry. Because at the end of the day his wolf considered Harry their Alpha and was so pliant for him that a single sentence could derail him.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Take it off,” he said, low and dangerous.

Louis swallowed. “What?”

Harry’s hand shot out, gripping the collar of the hoodie and yanking it gently but firmly away from Louis’s skin. “I said, take. It. Off.”

Louis’s hands trembled as he pulled it off. His cheeks flushed, eyes darting from Harry’s to the floor, submissiveness spilling off him in waves. “Alpha—”

“Don’t alpha me,” Harry hissed, voice like velvet over a blade. “You’re wearing another alpha’s scent like it’s nothing. Like it belongs on you. Are you fucking insane?”

“I-it was just a hoodie—”

“You think I give a damn what it was?” His hand reached forward again, this time gripping Louis’s jaw, tilting his face up until their eyes met. “There are two things I don't tolerate, omega—disrespect and disloyalty. And right now, you’re wading far too close to both.”

Louis blinked rapidly, breath catching, the sheer heat of Harry’s fury making his body coil in on itself. He didn’t pull away, though. He couldn’t.

Harry leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a growl. “Either you get comfort from me, or you don’t get it at all. There’s no middle ground. No borrowed warmth. No other scent but mine on you. Do you understand me?”

Louis nodded quickly, voice barely a whisper. “Y-yes, alpha.”

Harry didn’t move for a long second. Then, without a word, he ripped the hoodie from Louis’s lap and turned on his heel. Louis twisted around in time to see Harry toss the fabric into the fireplace, where it caught flame instantly, the fire hissing and cracking like it shared Harry’s fury.

“Tell Liam,” Harry said, without looking back, “that if he gives you anything again, I’ll make sure it’s the last thing he ever gives anyone.”

Louis sat frozen, breath shallow, heart hammering against his ribs.

And still—deep beneath the fear, somewhere twisted and low in his stomach—was a flicker of heat. Of something darker. Something terrifyingly safe in Harry’s brutality.

Something that reminded him, undeniably, whose omega he was.

The fire behind Harry flared, casting gold and orange shadows across the room, and the fabric of the hoodie blackened and curled in on itself, hissing as it was consumed.

Louis sat stiffly on the couch, still reeling from the burn in Harry’s voice, from the sharp grip on his jaw, from the terrifying promise of violence laced with care. His hands were folded in his lap, knuckles white. But his chest heaved, and his eyes shimmered with something more than just fear.

When Harry turned back to him, his eyes weren’t on Louis’s face this time.

They were lower.

Exposed now, where the hoodie had once clung to his neck, was the skin just above Louis’s collarbone. Flushed. Soft.

And bitten.

Harry's eyes darkened.

The bondmark was faint, but there. His mark. A scar of possession pressed into tender omega skin. Shaped by sharp teeth and sealed with something far older and deeper than words.

Harry stared at it for a long second, his breathing slowing. The heat of his anger didn’t cool—it shifted. Deepened. His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to touch it, claim it again. Reinforce it.

Louis didn’t move. He felt the weight of Harry’s gaze like a hand against his throat. His body reacted without permission—his spine straightened, thighs instinctively pressed together. That look from Harry made every nerve stand on end.

“You’re mine,” Harry said quietly, voice thick and low, walking closer again.

“I know,” Louis whispered, voice barely there.

Harry dropped to a crouch in front of him, gaze never leaving that mark. His fingers reached up, brushing against it with maddening gentleness—such contrast to the fury from just moments ago.

“You cover it too often,” Harry murmured, thumb ghosting along the bite. “Why?”

Louis shivered beneath the touch. “I... I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Louis’s lips parted, then closed again. He looked away.

“I don’t want to be just your obligation,” he admitted softly, a tiny crack in his voice.

Harry was silent for a moment, then his fingers slid into Louis’s hair, gripping—not cruelly, but firmly enough to make him tilt his head back and meet Harry’s eyes.

“You think I marked you out of obligation?”

“I don’t know what you feel.”

Harry leaned in close, his breath brushing Louis’s lips. “Then listen carefully.”

He kissed the bondmark, slow and deliberate. A single, burning press of his mouth against that scarred skin. Louis whimpered—his body jolted with the feeling. His fingers twisted in the cushion.

“No more covering it,” Harry said, lips still against Louis’s throat. “No more letting other alphas scent you. No more doubt. You belong to me. And I don’t share.”

Louis trembled, his body instinctively softening. “Y-yes, alpha.”

Harry’s breath hitched, and he smiled against his skin—dark, possessive.

“Good."

The moment was shattered by the sharp buzz of Harry’s phone vibrating on the table beside them. It cut through the air like a knife, severing the tense, heated atmosphere that had enveloped them.

Louis’s body went still, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He could feel the warmth of Harry’s presence all around him, but it wasn’t the same. It had shifted. The change was subtle but undeniable. It was like the world had shifted its axis just a little, and Louis was left trying to regain his balance.

Harry didn’t even look at the screen—he just reached for it with an almost mechanical precision, his jaw tightening before he even spoke. Louis could feel the shift, the dark edge in the air as soon as Harry answered the call.

“Zayn,” Harry’s voice was low, controlled, but there was something in it—something that sent a chill through the room. The possessiveness from moments ago was still in his voice, but now there was something else, a rawness.

Louis’s gaze flickered down, watching Harry’s body tense as he listened to whatever Zayn was saying on the other end. Harry’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched in that familiar way when something didn’t sit right with him. The intensity in his gaze sharpened, and Louis couldn't help but notice the way Harry’s grip tightened around his phone.

“Zayn,” Harry’s voice was even lower now, dripping with restrained fury. “Vaughn and Valentino? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, boss,” Zayn’s voice crackled through the speaker, a slight tension in his tone. “I’m not imagining it. They’re collaborating. I’ve got men on the ground, but it’s starting to look like they’re preparing for something bigger. Something more dangerous. They’re planning to step on our turf.”

Harry’s lips pressed together in a tight line, a storm brewing in his chest. He knew exactly what this meant. The blood started to rise to his face, his hands flexing around the phone as if to squeeze the life out of it.

“I suspected as much,” Harry muttered under his breath, his voice laced with dark understanding.

Louis could feel the tension thickening in the room, Harry’s anger palpable in every word. “Tell me everything you have on them,” Harry continued, his voice colder now, sharper. “And Zayn—let me know if they make a move. I’ll handle this personally.”

“Understood, Harry,” Zayn replied, his voice a little more cautious now. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Harry didn’t even wait for the conversation to end. He growled into the phone, “If they think they can play games with me, they’ll learn what happens when you cross the wrong person.”

Louis shivered involuntarily. The rawness of Harry’s anger gripped him, making him feel small and vulnerable, as if the very walls of the room were closing in on him. He knew—he knew how Harry handled threats in his world. Brutality. Power. Control. The mafia wasn’t kind, and neither was Harry when someone tried to take what was his.

As Harry hung up the call abruptly, the finality of it echoed in the room. He exhaled sharply, frustration still evident as he ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing with a simmering rage that made the room feel suddenly smaller, more suffocating.

Louis stayed quiet, waiting for him to make the next move. He knew Harry, knew how quickly his anger could turn into action.

But as Harry stood, his eyes flickered toward Louis, and Louis didn’t need to speak for Harry to know what he was feeling. The disappointment was clear in Louis’s eyes. He had been hoping—hoping they could forget everything for just a moment and go to bed, that maybe, for once, they could just be with each other without the weight of the world pressing down.

But Harry didn’t move toward the bed. Instead, he looked at Louis for a long, silent moment, and Louis could feel the distance grow between them in a way that stung.

“I have to go handle this,” Harry said quietly, his voice softer now, but still laced with the tension of everything he’d just learned.

Louis nodded, unable to hide the disappointment in his chest. He didn’t want to show it—not to Harry. But it was there, lingering like a shadow, making his chest feel tight and hollow.

Harry didn’t say anything else as he turned, walking toward the door with purposeful steps. His movements were sharp, but Louis noticed the slightest shift in his posture, the briefest pause before he left. It wasn’t much, but it was there. It was Harry’s way of showing that he was leaving with unfinished business, that Louis wasn’t just an afterthought.

But Louis could feel it—could feel the hurt in his own chest, the ache of being left alone again, the distance widening between them.

He stayed in the room, his heart heavy as Harry left, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.

He belonged to Harry—and Harry belonged to the world of shadows and danger. The mafia, the business, the bloodshed—it would always come first. Always.

Louis let out a quiet sigh, fingers curling into the sheets beneath him, knowing it would be a while before Harry would return. He groaned. He hated Harry. He really did.

Louis sat there in the dimly lit room, the door softly closing behind Harry, but his mind remained fixed on the image of him. He couldn’t shake the memories—those moments with Harry that felt burned into his skin. He thought of Harry’s toned chest, the way his muscles rippled under his skin when he moved, the sharp lines of his abs that had always made Louis’s heart race. The image of Harry, bare, hovering over him, his strong body dominating, never left his mind.

His fingers, long and rough, always moving with such purpose, as if he had the power to make Louis forget everything else. The way those fingers would trace the lines of his skin, marking him, claiming him. Harry’s tattoos, inked in dark patterns that curled and wound across his arms and chest, always felt like a symbol of the power he wielded, the control he had over everything—including Louis.

And then there was Harry’s voice. Low, deep, rough—always commanding. It was the sound that would always settle something deep inside Louis, a voice that could make him tremble, make his body react without thinking. The sound of Harry’s voice, ordering him, guiding him, making him feel more alive than he’d ever felt before.

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away, but the images flooded him even more intensely. He could still feel the heat of Harry’s body against his own, the sharpness of his breath, the way Harry’s green eyes darkened with desire when he had him beneath him. How Harry had gripped him, controlling every movement, every inch of him. How it had felt to be lost in the weight of him, to be completely taken by Harry’s touch.

He couldn’t breathe.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, his heart pounding in his chest, the desire too much to ignore. His body ached with the need for Harry. The memories were vivid, relentless. His fingers twitched, imagining them tracing the tattoos on Harry’s body, following the lines that always made him feel so... consumed.

His mind wandered back to those moments—how Harry had kissed him so roughly, so passionately, leaving him breathless, marked with Harry’s scent, claiming him in ways that made Louis forget everything else. The way Harry’s knot had filled him, stretching him, making him feel complete, lost in the pleasure, in the control.

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push those thoughts away, but it was impossible. The memories lingered, vivid and unrelenting. His body reacted in ways he couldn’t control. His chest tightened, his breath hitching as he remembered the way Harry made him feel—like he was everything, and yet, nothing, all at once.

He thought about how Harry’s eyes darkened every time they were together, how possessive and controlling he could be, and how much Louis had craved it. The intensity, the passion. The way Harry always knew what to do, how to make him ache for more. He could still feel the weight of Harry’s body on top of him, pinning him down, the hot breath against his neck, and the way he murmured things that Louis would never forget.

Louis felt his pulse quicken, the tightness in his lower stomach growing. He swallowed hard, his hands instinctively reaching for his own body, but then he quickly pulled them away, forcing himself to stop.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. What was happening to him? He hadn’t been like this before, but ever since he’d been pregnant, it was like a switch had flipped. He felt needy, desperate. His body wanted Harry in ways that left him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Harry sat behind his desk, the dim office light casting long shadows across the polished wood. His fingers tapped absently against the armrest of his chair, the monitor in front of him long forgotten. Numbers, reports, contract clauses—all of it blurred into noise beneath the heavier weight pressing at the edge of his mind. Louis. His warmth. His scent.

It was suffocating.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, jaw locked tight. He could feel it—the pull through the bond like heat under his skin. The ache of Louis’s need, the lingering press of their shared moments, the whisper of soft gasps and trembling submission. And still, the maddening sweetness of it clung to him like a second skin. It had him distracted. Weak.

The door opened without a knock, only a soft click.

Zayn stepped in dressed in black, tailored to the inch, carrying a folder thick with weight—both literal and figurative.

“They moved the last shipment through the Rostov channel,” Zayn said, voice low, clipped, efficient. “Exactly where we told them not to. We’re tracking three names: Vaughn’s lieutenant, someone from Valentino’s side, and a third that we haven’t identified yet. Probably the rat.”

Harry didn’t look up. His fingers had stilled. His body was motionless—but the storm in his chest was beginning to churn harder.

Zayn continued, “I’ve already sent word to intercept, but if you want them alive—”

“Alive,” Harry said flatly, voice like steel scraped across marble. “I want names. Every one of them.”

Zayn gave a sharp nod, but his gaze lingered on Harry’s face. He noticed the twitch in his temple, the faint crease in his brow. He stepped closer, setting the folder down carefully on the desk.

“You haven’t looked at a single page of this,” Zayn said.

Harry’s silence was answer enough.

Zayn studied him for a beat longer. “Is it Louis?”

Harry’s head lifted slowly.

There was no flicker of warmth in his eyes. Only the deep, dark green burn of restraint.

Zayn straightened but didn’t retreat. “You’ve never let yourself get this unguarded. Not even when half the Bratva wanted your head.”

Harry didn’t reply at first. His gaze returned to the desk. He spoke quietly, but the words were jagged at the edges. “He’s… loud.”

Zayn arched a brow.

“In the bond,” Harry clarified, running a hand through his hair. “I can feel him." He said it like it was a curse. “And it’s crawling under my skin.”

Zayn exhaled through his nose, not in judgment, but with a grim sort of understanding.

Harry stood up suddenly, pushing his chair back with a low scrape. He moved to the window, staring out into the night, fists clenched.

“I need to shut it off,” he muttered. “I can’t lead when I’m like this.”

Zayn’s head tilted slightly. “But shutting off the bond will make your omega feel it. He’ll know. It’ll make him sad.”

Harry didn’t even hesitate. “I don’t care.”

Zayn arched a brow, but he said nothing.

Harry stared out the window. “He wants warmth. I’m not built for warmth. I’m built to protect. To destroy.”

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply—and then he pulled back. Not from Louis, but from the bond itself. He severed the threads gently, like trimming the wick of a candle—not to extinguish it, but to keep the flame from growing too wild. He silenced the ache. Buried the heat.

It hurt. For a heartbeat. But then it was quiet.

He felt alone again.

In control. He opened his eyes.

He turned back to Zayn. “We move tonight. No delays.”

Zayn nodded. But his eyes lingered a second longer on the man before him—colder now. Harder.

And lonelier.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

Louis felt it instantly. A jolt—sharp and electric—raced down his spine, stealing the air from his lungs. One moment, Harry had been there. Not in body, but in essence. In the way Louis could always feel him, like a pulse beneath his own skin. Then, silence.

His breath hitched as he sat up in bed, hands gripping the sheets. The room felt colder. Emptier. Like someone had opened a window in the dead of winter and let the warmth escape.

Harry had shut off the bond.

The realization struck him harder than he expected. It wasn't supposed to matter—he told himself it wouldn't. But it did. God, it did. The space where Harry’s presence used to hum was now hollow, and it ached in a way Louis couldn’t name. A slow, creeping sadness began to crawl up his chest, threading around his ribs, tightening.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to remember what it had felt like just minutes ago—when he’d still been able to feel Harry in the quiet. Now, all he had was quiet.

He put his head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp as if pressure could force the confusion out of him. Why would Harry do this? Especially now—now of all times. After everything. After gripping Louis like he belonged to him, after telling him to show the bondmark more often.

So that was it? Louis was supposed to brand himself with the bond like a collar, walk around dripping in Harry’s scent, marked and claimed—while Harry got to walk untouched, unmoved? While Harry had the power to just… turn it off?

Louis swallowed around the lump in his throat, a flicker of nausea curling in his stomach. He suddenly felt too full of something he couldn’t name—like his skin couldn’t hold all the tension writhing inside him. A slow burn spread over his chest, trickling down his arms. Restless. Hot. Empty.

He pushed back the covers and stood, legs shaky beneath him. The silence of the mansion seemed louder now, echoing as he padded barefoot down the hall toward the kitchen. The tiles were cool beneath his feet, a stark contrast to the heat crawling along his spine. Sweat slicked his skin, damp at the nape of his neck.

He reached for the faucet with trembling fingers, filling a glass with water. The rush of it was too loud, the fluorescent kitchen lights too bright. He brought the glass to his lips and drank, swallowing greedily, hoping the cold would anchor him, smother the fire that Harry had left burning in his chest.

But it didn’t. The thirst wasn’t in his throat. It was somewhere deeper—something that water couldn’t touch.

The wave of melancholy came back—stronger this time, darker, heavier. It wrapped around his chest like cold iron, pulling him under. He gasped, breath stuttering as the world tilted slightly. The glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor in a spray of water and shards. He barely flinched.

His fingers gripped the edge of the counter as he closed his eyes, trying to breathe through it, trying to find solid ground beneath his feet. But it was gone—Harry was gone. Not physically. But the bond had always been there, steady, pulsing softly in the background like a heartbeat. Now, it was just quiet.

He heard footsteps, hurried and light.

"Mrs. Styles! Are you well?" a maid gasped, rushing into the kitchen.

She didn’t wait for a reply. Her hands were gentle but firm as she took his arm, guiding him away from the broken glass. Her touch was cautious, like she didn’t want to startle him more than he already was.

“Please, sit,” she urged, pulling out a chair for him.

Louis sat. Slowly, heavily. And as soon as he did, something inside him cracked—wide and raw. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders trembling, and let the sobs come. Quiet at first, then harder, his body curling inward like he could hide from the emptiness pressing in from all sides.

He didn’t cry loudly. But the pain was thick in the air. Palpable. The maid hovered close, unsure, helpless.

She gently patted his back, her touch light but steady. "What's wrong, dear? What can I do for you?" she asked softly.

Louis tried to speak, but the lump in his throat nearly choked him. A sob clawed its way out before he could stop it. He lifted his face, red-eyed and trembling, lips wobbling as he hiccuped through the words. "H-he shut the bond. F-from his side."

The maid—Sophie, he remembered now—froze.

Her expression shifted in an instant, all color draining from her face. Horror bloomed in her eyes—not the startled kind, but the quiet, knowing kind. The kind that came from experience. From memory. Her features twisted with something far older than the moment—something mournful and full of shadows.

It wasn’t just sympathy she wore—it was grief. Incredibly tragic, like she was remembering a past memory. One she had buried deep but could never forget.

Shutting off a bond was not a casual thing—it was calculated, deliberate. Almost cruel. There was no physical pain to it, no external bruising or sting. But the emotional devastation it caused? That was something else entirely. It hollowed you out from the inside, carving through everything soft and warm until all that remained was an aching void.

Louis felt that ache now—sharp, consuming, and impossibly cold.

But even in the depth of it, he knew with a bitter certainty that Harry wasn't feeling it the way he was. Not as deeply. Not as destructively. Maybe Harry felt something, a dull echo of what Louis did. But he would bear it. He always did. Because Harry—Harry had control. The kind of ruthless, precise control over his wolf that most didn’t even dream of.

Omegas could shut off a bond too, in theory. But few ever managed. It required discipline, dominance over instinct, the ability to silence the primal part of themselves that screamed for connection, for closeness. Most omegas weren’t built that way. Louis certainly wasn’t.

Alphas, though… alphas could do it. Especially alphas like Harry. Harry who had been trained to suppress, to dominate, to shut down emotion when necessary.

The bond still pulsed faintly, still tethered them, but it was like a lifeline dragged too far: slack, dulled, cold. Its presence was distant now, like trying to hear through water or see through fog. Still there, but faint. Fading.

He could feel Harry, just barely. A warmth that used to burn steady and constant now flickered low in his chest like a dying flame.

The ache of it settled behind Louis’s ribs. Heavy. Hollow.

The bondmark on his neck glowed like nothing had changed. It hadn’t dulled, hadn’t faded. From the outside, everything still screamed claimed. Mated. Connected. No one would ever guess the truth unless Louis told them.

But inside, he knew.

Bonds were supposed to hum. Whisper. Carry each other’s thoughts and comfort like background music. Harry’s presence had always been there, a weight in his chest, a warmth under his skin.

Now it felt like radio static. A flicker where there once was fire.

Not broken. But dim.

And far, far too quiet.

And suddenly, like a match to dry tinder, Louis felt it—anger. Blazing, white-hot, and unrelenting. It surged through his veins, catching him off guard with its ferocity. He’d known frustration before, he’d felt pain and confusion, but this… this was something deeper. Something furious and raw that clawed its way up from his chest like a scream.

His hands curled into fists against his knees.

“He always does this,” Louis hissed, voice shaking with restraint. “He gets so close—so fucking close—and then the next day, he shuts down. Like it didn’t happen. Like none of it meant anything.” He paused, breathing through the ache in his throat. “It’s so confusing. It’s so—tiring.”

Sophie, ever gentle, patted his back again. “Would you like some tea, sweetheart? A bit of calm, maybe?” she offered, her voice a soft balm.

But Louis shook his head, jaw clenched. “No. No thanks.”

Because tea wouldn’t help. Nothing soft would.

There was only one thing that could help now. One thing that could cut through this storm cloud hanging in his chest.

Confronting Harry.

For once, Louis didn’t feel the tremble of submission that usually held him back. That pull of his omega, that innate urge to yield—to stay soft, stay quiet, stay good. Harry had almost rejected that part of him, turned his back on it, and Louis… Louis wasn’t going to let that slide.

Not tonight.

He was pregnant. Vulnerable. And still, Harry had chosen to dull their bond like it meant nothing.

No more.

Louis rose from the chair, his movements sharp, controlled. A fire had been lit in his belly, and it had nothing to do with the baby he carried. It was his own fire—his own rage. A part of him that had long gone quiet, long buried under obedience and longing, now roaring back to life.

Despite everything he was—every soft, yielding part of him—there was still a darkness in Louis. A quiet wrath born from heartbreak. A sharp, beautiful anger he’d never let out before.

But tonight, he would.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The warehouse lay quiet—unnaturally so. The kind of silence that made the back of the neck prickle, a silence that didn’t belong. The building was decaying, steel ribs rusting under time’s weight, air thick with engine oil, sweat, and the sour stench of betrayal. It was the kind of place no one would wander into unless they had death written into their evening plans.

Harry stood just beyond the crumbling metal doors, his coat heavy around his shoulders, dark curls pushed back by the wind. His green eyes narrowed, scanning the perimeter with the cold precision of a predator. He could smell them. The traitors. Their fear clung to the air like smoke before a firestorm.

“They’re inside,” Zayn muttered beside him, tone clipped. “Four. Vaughn and Valentino slipped out just before we arrived.”

Harry’s mouth twitched, something too sharp to be a smile. “Of course they did. Cowards always let their dogs die first.”

He rolled his neck slowly—vertebrae cracking like gunfire—then drew his pistol with unhurried grace.

“Orders, sir?” Niall asked, already cocking his weapon.

Harry’s voice was a blade—sleek, deadly. “If they talk, they breathe. If not… paint the fucking walls.”

They moved in silence.

The metal doors slammed open with a deafening groan, echoing through the hollow shell of the building. Harry wanted them to hear. Wanted the bastards to feel death crawling toward them.

Gunfire broke first. A bullet grazed his shoulder, spinning him half a step. The pain seared, but he didn’t falter. He turned, eyes glowing with rage, and fired three precise shots. One man dropped like a puppet with cut strings. Blood splattered the wall behind him.

Another rushed towards Harry, wielding a rusted pipe. It connected hard—Harry caught it, but the impact ripped through his wounded arm, forcing him to one knee. For a moment, the world narrowed to pain and steel and blood.

Then Harry surged upward, snarling. His elbow drove into the mole’s jaw. The man staggered, and Harry followed with a vicious uppercut. Bone cracked. His own knuckles split open, blood blooming red against pale skin.

But he didn’t stop.

The mole struck back, fists wild. One caught Harry across the cheek, splitting skin. Another slammed into his ribs, and he staggered—but then Harry grabbed him by the collar and slammed his head into a crate.

Twice.

Three times.

The body dropped.

Harry’s chest rose and fell, blood slick down his jaw, one hand already swelling around a fractured knuckle. His skin was slick with sweat and crimson, eyes glowing with fury. His coat stuck to his back, the fabric soaked through with exertion and heat. He held out his gun, kiling a man that was trying to run away.

Zayn emerged from the shadows dragging two men, one half-conscious, the other trembling.

“This one pissed himself,” Zayn said flatly.

Harry walked toward them like death personified—coat fluttering, boots echoing over the blood-slick floor.

“I—I didn’t know,” the mole stammered, nose broken, voice high and panicked. “Please, I didn’t know!”

Harry didn’t speak.

He just kicked him in the ribs—hard. The man howled, curling in on himself.

“You knew,” Harry growled, voice low and coiled like a serpent. “You always fucking know.”

He crouched beside the mole, gripping his jaw tight, blood from his own broken knuckles dripping onto the man’s shirt.

“You sold me out. You thought I wouldn’t find out?”

A blade slid from his coat. Not to kill—yet.

Harry dragged it across the man’s thigh. The mole screamed, body arching.

“You invited me in,” Harry hissed. “Now I’m home.”

Then he stood. Looked down on the man like he was nothing.

And drove the blade into his throat.

One clean, merciless thrust. The body jerked, gagged, then fell still. Blood gushed across the concrete, soaking Harry’s boots.

He pulled the blade out with a flick of his wrist. No tremor in his fingers. No hesitation.

Zayn didn’t flinch. Just watched, silent. Him and Niall rounded up the men shooting the bodies once more to ensure they were dead.

Harry looked down at his busted knuckles—split, raw, pulsing with agony. One knuckle was clearly dislocated, and the bones beneath his skin ground every time he flexed. Still, he slipped the bloodied knife back into his coat with ease.

“Burn it,” Harry said, voice a death sentence. “Ashes. I want nothing left.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Zayn and Niall moved to carry out his order, Harry walked into the night. The cold wind kissed the sweat and blood on his skin, but he didn’t feel it. Didn’t feel anything.

He slid into the SUV alone, the door slamming shut like a coffin lid.

He could still feel Louis faintly—soft warmth like a thread burning at the edge of his consciousness. His bond. His omega. Harry had dulled it, shoved it down, locked it behind walls of steel and rage.

But it pulsed there. Waiting.

His chest ached. Not from the fight.

From the part of himself he kept killing piece by piece.

He clenched his bloody hand and looked away from the window.

Control. That’s what he needed.

Not comfort.

Not connection.

Just the silence of his own making.

Just the cold.

-------------

By the time Harry returned to the mansion, he was unraveling.

Normally, after a job like this—after blood and violence and the silence that always followed—he’d drown himself in noise. He’d go to VENOM, lose himself in the chaos, the music, the haze of alcohol and shadowed faces. Anything to distract from what he’d done. From what he’d become.

But tonight, he came home.

Not because it was safer. Not because it was better.

Because something in him needed the silence. The stillness. The cold emptiness of the marble floors and high ceilings. The place where Louis slept.

The adrenaline had started to drain from his veins, slow and sickening, and with it came the pain—sharp and punishing. His shoulder throbbed with every movement, a fire he could feel deep in the bone. His knuckles were worse. Busted open, skin split and raw, swelling over broken joints. It burned every time he moved his hand, every time blood seeped through the bandages he’d hastily wrapped in the back of the SUV.

But he didn’t care.

He’d felt worse.

Much worse.

And still, nothing compared to this—this ache he couldn’t name. The hollowness carved into his chest. The knowledge that Louis was somewhere in this house, and the bond between them pulsed like a dying ember. Weak. And it was his fault. All of it.

He stepped into the mansion, the heavy doors closing behind him with a quiet finality. The air inside was cool, sterile, and thick with silence. Not the kind that brought peace, but the kind that made your skin crawl. The kind that told you something was wrong.

Harry stood still in the dim light of the grand entranceway, boots bleeding filth onto the polished marble. His coat hung heavy with dried blood, his breath shallow, pain radiating through every inch of him. His busted knuckles ached in time with his heartbeat, and his shoulder throbbed like something alive. But none of that hurt as much as the thought that lingered just beneath the surface.

He wouldn't be welcome where he wanted to go.

A sound echoed in the distance—footsteps. Light. Controlled. Steady.

Then he appeared.

Louis.

He stepped into view like a dream Harry wasn’t sure he deserved to have. Dressed up, hair neat, eyes wide with something unreadable. There was beauty in him that stabbed Harry in the chest. Clean. Untouched. And Harry—God, he must’ve looked like a monster in comparison. A beast returning from the hunt, soaked in the blood of men.

Louis gasped.

His blue eyes swept over Harry’s ruined form, taking in every detail—every smear of blood, every tear in the fabric, every bruise swelling beneath his skin. Harry could feel it then, the shift in the air. Fear. The instinctive recoil of an omega sensing danger. But Louis didn’t run. He stood his ground. Burning with a quiet fury.

“Louis,” Harry said, his voice low, a thread of smoke in a dark room.

Louis's gaze broke away from the gore and lifted to Harry’s face, pain flickering in his expression. “What happened to you?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“A business meeting,” Harry replied coolly. “That’s all, omega.”

He said it like it was nothing. Like murder could be folded into polite conversation. Like it hadn’t torn something raw inside him.

Neither of them moved.

“You’re covered in blood,” Louis said, voice trembling.

Harry tilted his head slightly, unfazed. “I suppose I am.”

Then Louis’s eyes dropped lower—to the gun still strapped to Harry’s thigh. The sight of it made his breath catch, a flinch that barely showed but that Harry caught all the same.

And still, Louis didn’t back away.

There was something new in him tonight. Fire. Rage. A rebellion that Harry didn’t just allow—he welcomed it. Expected it. Deserved it.

He moved slowly, deliberately, and unstrapped the weapon, setting it down on the glass table beside him with a metallic thud. A gesture of peace. Or as close as he could offer.

Louis’s voice cracked as he asked, “Is it your own? The blood?”

Harry’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Some of it.”

And there it was again. That silence. That suffocating, dead silence that screamed louder than any argument. Cold. Empty. Bruising.

Between them was everything unspoken.

And then—Louis moved.

Trembling with emotion more volatile than Harry had ever seen, his hand shot out, and Harry knew. He knew what was coming, could practically taste the fury rolling off him like fire. He ducked instinctively, just in time.

The vase shattered against the marble floor behind him, glass exploding like a scream into the stillness.

Harry straightened slowly, stunned—not by fear, but by the audacity. His eyes widened, just a fraction. Louis had thrown something at him.

The silence that followed was loaded. Violent.

Louis stood with his chest heaving, blue eyes wild and glassy with tears. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouted, voice cracking. “How dare you? How fucking dare you shut off the bond!”

Harry had anticipated the confrontation, the inevitable fallout. The dramatics, the yelling. But he hadn’t expected this much rage. Not from Louis. Not the storm of it.

“I did what I had to,” Harry said, voice infuriatingly calm.

“No. No, you did what you wanted to,” Louis snapped back, stepping closer, voice louder now, unhinged with fury.

Harry sighed, already tired, already aching. “It was necessary, omega. I can’t afford the distraction.”

Louis laughed bitterly, tears cutting trails down his cheeks. “Distraction? You told me to stop hiding it. You told me to show it off like some fucking collar, and then you go and shut it off? Am I your pet now? Do I wear your brand while you walk around like you’re fucking free?”

He was shaking, his voice rising with every word. “You don’t want to feel the bond, do you? You don’t want to feel me. Feel what you do to me. This thing—” he gestured to the mark on his neck, fingers trembling “—this goddamn bond has ruined my life!”

Harry’s jaw clenched hard, the pain in his shoulder radiating now, raw and throbbing. “It was a liability,” he said through gritted teeth.

Louis flinched like he’d been slapped. Then, quietly—hauntedly—he whispered, “What were you even doing out there? Look at you.”

Harry said nothing.

“You look like Lucifer himself,” Louis continued, his voice nearly shaking apart. “You smell like death. You’ve got blood on your boots, your knuckles are broken, your shoulder is covered in blood.” his voice cracked.

Harry raised his eyes at that, something cold and dangerous gleaming in them.

“Then maybe,” he said softly, “you shouldn’t speak to me so fearlessly, omega.”

The words dropped like ice between them.

Harry took a slow step forward. “And I’ve told you. It was work. It’s always work.”

Louis didn’t retreat.

His wolf was screaming beneath his skin, fear and fury tangled so tightly he didn’t know which one he was breathing. But he held his ground.

Because this—this—was the closest he’d ever come to seeing Harry Styles unmasked.

And he wasn’t going to look away.

“No!” Louis shouted, his voice echoing off the grand, shadowed walls. “You won’t shut me up tonight. I’m speaking—do you hear me? I’m speaking now!”

His chest rose and fell with fury, his voice trembling but louder than it had ever been in Harry’s presence. “It’s always you—you talk, you command, you yell. And I listen. I tremble. But not tonight. Tonight I talk.”

Harry continued advancing, slow and quiet, a bloodstained shadow in the dimly lit mansion.

“Where were you?” Louis demanded. “Who did you murder? And who did you fuck?!”

His words sliced through the air like a blade, but Harry didn’t flinch.

“I murdered many,” Harry said coldly. “But I fucked no one, omega.”

“Then why?” Louis cried. “Why did you shut off the bond?” His voice cracked with pain. “That’s why most alphas do it, isn’t it? So their omegas can’t feel them cheat—”

He cut himself off with a bitter laugh, a sound that didn’t belong in his throat. “But no... no, of course that’s not why you did it. You didn’t shut it for me. You shut it for yourself. So my wolf—my poor fucking wolf—you riled him up, then left him there to starve. And you didn’t want his cries in your head. You didn’t want to be disturbed.”

His voice was breaking now. “You would never shut it off to hide something, no. You’re crueler than that. You’d let me feel the betrayal. You’d want me to feel it.”

Harry’s jaw twitched.

Louis stepped closer, eyes glistening. “Because you don’t care enough to protect me from the pain. You never have. Because you don't know that emotional pain exists because you have no emotions!”

The tension was molten. And then it snapped.

Harry lunged forward and gripped Louis’s arm hard, snarling through his teeth, “Who the fuck do you think you are, speaking to me like this?”

Louis didn’t flinch. He didn’t back away.

His voice came out like a war cry, ragged and defiant, “Your wife!”

“And not just your wife,” Louis said, voice low and trembling with a fury too long contained. “I’m the mother of your child.”

Harry was close now—close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to see the way Louis’s lips shook with restraint.

“I know who you are, but—” Harry began, trying to reclaim the edge of control slipping between his fingers.

“Do you?” Louis snapped. “I think you’ve been taking me far too lightly. Do you understand what it means that I’m the one carrying your child?”

His voice turned cold, lethal. “Because, Alpha, I could make that child hate you. Despise you. I could tell them truths—ugly, honest truths—about who you are.”

Something shattered behind Harry’s ribs.

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” he growled, voice tight, but Louis’s words were already spiraling through his skull. My child could hate me... like I hated—

Louis tugged at the arm Harry still held in an iron grip. He didn’t fight hard—just enough to remind Harry of the choice.

Harry let go.

“I wouldn’t even have to do anything,” Louis said, breathless, wounded, furious. “It would happen on its own if you keep going like this. You walk around like you’re some brutal protector, a dark knight saving me and the pup—but you know what you are?”

Louis’s voice broke with rawness. “You’re a heartless, cruel murderer who keeps hurting the only person who gives a damn about him, again and again, because he can’t fathom the idea that emotional pain is real.”

Harry tried to steady his breath, arm aching, knuckles throbbing with every heartbeat. “I’ve never killed someone who didn’t deserve it.”

He said it quietly. Almost to himself. He didn’t know what else to say—no one had ever told him killing was wrong. That it could damage something inside you.

Louis stared at him, blue eyes wide, wet with disbelief. “You’re not God, Alpha. You don’t get to decide who deserves to die.”

“Shut the fuck up, Louis.” Harry’s voice dropped an octave, dangerously low. “I’ve let you speak—don’t take it too far.”

Louis didn’t flinch. He took a step forward, fire in his eyes.

“No. I will take it too far. Someone has to show you what you’ve become.” His fists shook at his sides. “Do you know who you are, Alpha?”

“You’re your father.”

Harry froze.

The words rang out like a gunshot. Something in him split. He stared at Louis like he was staring down a loaded weapon. He didn’t know how Louis knew. Didn’t know how he’d found the one sentence—the only sentence—that could obliterate him from the inside out.

A sound escaped Harry’s throat. Anger flared like wildfire, too quick to contain.

“Louis!” he barked, and raised a hand—only to push his blood-matted curls out of his eyes. But Louis saw the movement. And he recoiled.

His whole body jerked back with a soft, broken whimper.

“I wasn’t—” Harry tried, stunned, trying to speak through the panic that tightened his throat.

But Louis’s eyes were already swimming with betrayal.

“No. No, go on. Do it.” His voice was cracked glass. “That’s the only thing left, isn’t it?”

Louis didn’t move. He stood there, jaw clenched, breath ragged, eyes daring Harry in the dim light.

“Well?” he whispered, then louder—stronger—“Do it.”

Harry’s brows pulled together.

“Go on, Alpha. You raised your hand. Don’t back out now,” Louis spat. “Isn’t that who you are? Isn’t that what you were made to be?”

His voice cracked on the last word, but he didn’t look away. His body trembled violently, fury and heartbreak bleeding from every pore. And yet he stood tall—daring, challenging, waiting.

Harry’s world tilted. His chest felt like it had caved in under the weight of the moment. The air around them felt thick, poisoned by pain and things neither of them had ever said aloud. His blood felt like it was simmering under his skin—hot, unforgiving.

He wanted to roar. To break something. To make Louis take it all back.

But his eyes dropped instead, helplessly, to Louis’s belly. To the faint swell there. To the life they had created together—something impossibly small and fragile, wrapped in a storm they had never learned to navigate.

His throat burned. His vision blurred—not from tears, but from something heavier. Something more brutal. The reality of what he was. The reflection Louis had forced him to see.

Louis’s arms were wrapped around himself now, like he was barely holding his body together, his wolf on the edge. His mouth was trembling.

Harry’s voice came out in a hoarse rasp, barely controlled.

“Go to bed.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“Go to bed, omega,” Harry ground out, the words cutting through the silence like a blade. “You’re shaking. You’re exhausted. You need to sleep.”

“You think I can sleep after this?” Louis asked, breathless, stunned. “You think I can just lie down after—”

“I said go to bed!” Harry snapped, louder this time, his voice raw with the effort of keeping himself from collapsing, from sinking to his knees in front of Louis and breaking entirely. “You’re carrying my child. You think I can look at you right now? You think I want to stand here and watch you flinch away from me?”

Louis stilled.

“You told me I’m my father,” Harry continued, voice low now, dangerously quiet. “Don’t make me prove it.”

A long silence stretched between them. Louis’s breathing was uneven, and Harry’s fists were clenched so tightly his broken knuckles screamed in protest.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Harry said again, softer this time. “No matter how much you think I’m a monster… I wasn’t going to touch you.”

“Go,” he whispered. “Sleep. Before I do something I can’t undo.”

Louis didn’t move right away. But eventually, he turned—slowly, painfully—and walked up the stairs without another word. His shoulders were hunched. His steps unsteady.

Harry stood in the hallway long after he was gone.

The blood on his skin felt colder now. Like it didn’t belong to him.

And in the silence that followed, he finally let himself feel the thing he feared most.

Regret.

The pain came back the moment Louis was out of sight. It rolled through Harry’s shoulder like a live wire, pulsing, unforgiving, and sharp. His knuckles throbbed with a deeper kind of ache—bone-deep and bruised, reminding him that his rage always left a mark.

He didn’t go to bed.

Instead, he moved through the quiet, looming halls of the mansion like a shadow, ignoring the low flickering of the sconces, the chilled air, and the scent of Louis that still lingered faintly in the hallway. It haunted him more than the blood drying on his skin.

His home office stood silent. A cold, dim-lit room with a towering window and heavy mahogany furniture, designed more for power than comfort. Harry shut the door behind him and yanked his shirt off with a grimace, the fabric sticking to his shoulder where the skin had split just enough to sting.

He walked to the sleek black cabinet, pulling out the small medical kit he kept tucked in the drawer. He stood in front of the wall-length mirror as he sat on the desk’s edge and began cleaning the torn skin of his shoulder with a harsh breath through his teeth. The antiseptic burned, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.

He wrapped the shoulder himself with stiff, practiced movements. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

Once done, he slid the shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned as he sat back down, switching focus to his knuckles now—scraped raw, bloody, half-split in places. He unwrapped the gauze and paused to shake out his aching hand.

The quiet creak of the door startled him.

He looked up sharply.

It was Sophie.

The housekeeper was always the last to leave—one final sweep of the mansion before she locked up for the night. A ritual she’d kept since Harry was a child. She stopped just past the threshold, startled but not afraid, her eyes flickering over the blood and bandages.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn’t know you were still awake, sir,” she said softly.

“I am.” Harry simply said.

Sophie lingered just inside the doorway, unsure if he wanted her there—but not yet dismissed. “The new flowers in the east wing were already drooping,” she said lightly, voice soft and careful. “I had to toss them out. Told the gardener they’d better be fresh next time or I’ll report him to you.”

Harry gave the faintest huff through his nose. Not quite amusement. Not quite anything. “He’s terrified of you, you know.”

Sophie allowed a small smile. “Good. Someone around here should be.”

He looked up then. Just for a second. Eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion, the barest glint of something warmer in his otherwise unreadable expression. “You’re the only one in this house who dares to make demands of me.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing, sir,” she replied evenly, her tone dipping back to seriousness as her gaze caught on the blood-streaked gauze, the unbuttoned shirt, the cut on his shoulder peeking beneath the wrap.

He rolled his sore wrist, eyes drifting toward the dark window, his own reflection warped in the glass. “Sophie…”

“Yes, sir?”

His voice was low now, rough like gravel. “How does Louis know about my father?”

She didn’t answer right away. He turned to look at her again, and this time, there was something colder in his stare. Demanding. Tired. Fractured.

Sophie smoothed the front of her blouse, letting out a quiet breath. “Mrs. Styles likes to wander. He found the potrait room.” she said finally.

Harry’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking just beneath the surface. “Of course he did.”

He sat back against the desk, bones aching, temple pounding, as if the house itself was pressing in on him.

“And the bond,” he said suddenly, his voice oddly detached. “Shutting it off… doesn’t hurt.”

Sophie watched him. She didn’t move.

“No, sir,” she said carefully. “Not in the way you mean.”

He snapped his gaze back to her. “There is no other way,” he said sharply. “Pain can only be physical. You break, you bleed, you heal. That’s all there is.”

She didn’t flinch. “That’s all you’ve known.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing.

Harry finished the last knot around his knuckles, jerking the bandage tight. The pain flared again, sharp and unforgiving, but he welcomed it—needed it. Something tangible. Something real.

“I know it doesn’t hurt,” he muttered absently, more to himself than Sophie. “My mother told me that once… when he…”

But the words dissolved as they came. His voice faltered. Thought hit a wall. His hands stilled over the edge of the desk.

A single memory slammed through the fog.

His mother, sitting on the garden bench, pale in the late winter sun. Her hands wrapped in a shawl too thin for the cold. Harry—just a boy—had asked if she was okay, if it hurt. He remembered the way she’d smiled. Tired. Quiet.

No, darling. It doesn’t hurt. Don't worry about me. It's just something Alphas do once in awhile.

But it had. Of course it had.

His fingers slipped from the desk.

It had hurt her. She just hadn’t wanted him to know.

A rush of breath left him, but it wasn’t relief. It was dread. It clutched at his chest, slithered up his spine. His eyes widened—distant, blank. A flicker of understanding ignited, fast and brutal, and then spread like wildfire across his mind.

He'd done it too.

He had become him.

The realization dropped into his gut like lead. His mother hadn’t been comforting him—she had been protecting him. From the truth. From what his father was.

From what he was becoming.

Harry's vision blurred for a moment as he blinked too hard. He dragged a shaky hand through his hair, nails digging into his scalp like he could rip the thought out by force. But it wouldn’t go. It sat there. Heavy. Immovable.

His reflection in the glass mocked him—shirt half open, bruised, bandaged, hollow-eyed and haunted. A mirror not of the man he was... but of the man he’d sworn never to become.

He turned his head slowly toward Sophie, but there was no need to ask. Her face was solemn. Steady. She knew. She’d always known.

His mother had lied to protect him. And Harry had turned around and done the same thing his father had done—without flinching.

A sick, quiet sound built in his throat.

He moved without a word. Just turned, crossed to the whiskey bottle with a sharpness that felt like desperation, unscrewed the cap with bloody knuckles, and tipped it back.

The burn didn’t touch him.

Not compared to this.

The silence pressed down like a hand around his throat. And in it, he could almost hear his father’s voice.

Almost see himself in that man's shadow.

--------------------------

The hallway was colder now. Or maybe it was him—blood cooling under the skin, thoughts colder still.

Harry walked back toward the bedroom, the bottle of whiskey abandoned on the office desk, the burn of it still haunting his throat but not doing a damn thing to silence what echoed in his skull.

The bedroom door creaked open with the same low groan it always had, but the silence that greeted him inside was... different.

Louis wasn’t there.

The blankets were untouched. The air didn’t carry the warm, soft pull of his omega’s scent like it usually did. Not deeply. Just faint traces, like a memory already fading. Harry stood there for a beat, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the still room.

Guest room.

He didn’t need to ask. He knew Louis had left their room. Chosen space. Chosen distance.

He didn’t go after him. Not yet.

Instead, he dragged his feet toward the bathroom and turned the shower on so hot that steam curled against the tiles before he even stepped in. Water beat against his shoulders, his back, his ribs—over the bandages and bruises—but he stood there, unmoving. Letting it scald him clean.

Sleep came only because exhaustion did first.

He dropped into bed after drying off, barely pulling the sheets over himself, his skin still warm from the shower. The pillow smelled like Louis. That made it worse. Or maybe better. He didn’t know anymore.

---

He was back there. In the black suit that had never fit quite right. In the cold wind that kept pulling at his collar as he stared down at the casket.

His mother was dead.

Gone.

Flowers. Words. Dirt.

And Harry—barely taller than the tombstone—was crying. Silently at first. Then harder. His little fingers clutched tight to the edge of the black coat his father had made him wear. Tears streamed down his cheeks in fat, trembling lines.

Behind him, the man stood tall, dark eyes colder than the sky.

And then the voice.

Cruel. Sharp. Deep. Disgusted.

“Stop that sniveling,” his father said, his voice slicing through the air like a lash. “You’re not in pain. Pain can only be physical.”

The words slammed into him like a blow. Little Harry flinched, like they’d hit his skin. He shook his head, crying harder now, trying to explain—but the man’s hand gripped his shoulder, hard, bruising.

“Control yourself,” his father hissed, “or I will.”

---

Harry gasped awake.

He sat up so fast the sheets tangled around his legs, sweat soaked through the bandages on his shoulder. His chest rose and fell in fast, heavy breaths. His hand went to his face, his mouth, like he could wipe away the echo of his father’s voice still ringing in his ears.

But it was still there.

Pain can only be physical.

A lie.

And now, his own nightmare. His own truth.

He stared into the darkness.

And felt it stare back. And for the first time, Harry realized the gravity of the mistake he had made.

Chapter Text

At the break of dawn, Harry paced the length of the balcony, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The sky was still painted in bruised shades of blue and grey, the world just beginning to stir. Sleep had eluded him entirely. The night had been long—cold in ways that had nothing to do with the weather—and deeply, unbearably quiet.

He had missed Louis.

More than he cared to admit, even to himself.

Missed the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing beside him. Missed the warmth of his presence, the subtle weight of his hand brushing against Harry’s in sleep. The bed had felt too big. The silence too loud.

Harry exhaled a slow stream of smoke, rubbing at his temple with the heel of his palm. His head throbbed—part exhaustion, part regret, part everything he couldn’t put into words.

He lit another cigarette.

And kept pacing.

Harry was unraveling by the minute. His wolf clawed at the insides of his chest, desperate and agitated, pacing behind his ribs with a restlessness that made his skin itch. The ache to see Louis—to make sure he was alright, breathing, whole—was growing unbearable.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Without overthinking, he slipped off the balcony and padded quietly across the hall to the room opposite his own. Louis hadn’t returned to their bed, and Harry hadn’t dared go to him in the heat of the night. But now, in the pale grey light of morning, something in him fractured.

He pushed the door open gently, the hinges letting out a soft groan.

And what he saw on the other side nearly broke him.

Louis lay curled in the center of the bed, a faint calm settling over his delicate features. His shirt had ridden up just enough to expose the soft swell of his belly—their pup. The bondmark was visible too, carved into his skin like a promise neither of them had truly understood when it was made.

Harry’s throat tightened. He could see dried tear stains on Louis’s cheeks.

He moved slowly, cautiously, crossing the room like he might shatter something sacred. He stopped at the edge of the bed, just standing there, looking down at him like he was something holy. Something lost and found and still not his to keep.

Reaching out, Harry brushed a few strands of hair from Louis’s face, his fingers trembling despite himself. The contact was featherlight. Reverent.

His wolf whimpered quietly within.

Louis stirred under the delicate touch, instinctively leaning into it, the way a flower tilts toward light. He shifted closer, brow twitching faintly before his lashes fluttered open. Sleep clung to his features like dew—his eyes hazy, soft, surprised to see Harry so near, looming above him in the quiet hush of morning.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, his voice stripped of the steel it usually carried. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He bent down, just enough to bring their faces level, so he could see every detail—those flushed cheeks, those parted lips, those ocean eyes still glazed with the remnants of slumber. His hand lingered near Louis’s temple, frozen in midair, like he didn’t know if he had the right to touch again.

“It’s okay,” Louis murmured, his gaze slipping to Harry’s bandaged hand, then slowly back up. His voice was rasped, hoarse with sleep. “It’s good that you bandaged. I was… I was worried.”

“You shouldn’t worry about that. I’m used to getting a little hurt,” Harry murmured, the edge in his voice dulled by the tenderness in his touch as his hand slid once more through Louis’s hair—slow, reverent, like it soothed something in him too.

Louis exhaled, the kind of sound that only came from finally letting go of a breath you’d been holding too long. “Leaving for work?”

“Yeah,” Harry hummed, his fingers never pausing, weaving through soft strands like it grounded him. Like Louis was the only thread still holding him together.

There was a pause. A breath between them. Then—

“I hate you, Alpha,” Louis whispered, voice fragile, laced with raw emotion. “But… could you please hug me?”

Harry stilled. His gaze locked onto Louis’s face—those tear-swollen eyes, that trembling mouth, the barely held-together vulnerability in his voice. And something in Harry cracked.

He nodded, wordless, and leaned forward, arms slipping around Louis with a quiet desperation. He held him close. Close enough to feel every beat of the omega’s racing heart, close enough to pretend—for a moment—that everything wasn’t breaking apart around them.

Louis clung to him, inhaling his scent deeply. Like he needed the contact to breathe.

Because he did.

Because no matter how much pain Harry caused him… Louis still couldn’t survive without the comfort of his arms. They were mates, afterall.

“You can ask me for whatever you want,” Harry murmured, still holding Louis like he was something sacred, breakable. “Doesn’t matter if you hate me.”

Louis’s voice was small, almost disbelieving. “Anything?”

Harry pulled back just enough to see his face. His expression was steady, sincere. “Anything. I’ll buy it. And if it’s not something that can be bought… I’ll give it to you.”

Louis hesitated. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip, worrying the skin there until it was red and trembling. Then—he nodded, barely.

Harry’s gaze dropped to that lip. His chest tightened. His heart beat faster, too loud in the silence between them. God, Louis was beautiful. Even like this—especially like this. Tired and tear-stained and so, achingly, real. His fingers twitched with the need to touch, to feel, to take—

But he didn’t.

Instead, he asked. Gently.

“Can I kiss you?”

Louis stared at him. Really stared. And for a moment, Harry thought maybe—just maybe—he’d say yes.

But then Louis let out a breath, soft and sad. The kind of sigh that carried weight.

“No,” he said quietly.

Harry closed his eyes, swallowing hard. The rejection stung, unexpected only because he’d never heard the word before—not in this context, not from someone who made his whole body ache with longing. But this time, he didn’t argue. Didn’t push.

He just nodded, opening his eyes again to meet Louis’s.

“Fair enough,” he whispered, voice hollow. Because deep down, he knew.

He deserved it.

Harry pressed a soft kiss to Louis’s forehead—gentle, almost reverent. Then he stood, the movement slow, like his body didn’t want to pull away.

Louis’s voice broke the silence, hesitant. “I thought you’d be mad at me… for talking to you the way I did last night.” Louis knew he was in the right last night but he couldn't help but feel slightly restless, he couldn't control his instincts that much.

Harry paused, glancing back at him. “Nothing to be mad for.”

But they both knew that wasn’t entirely true. No one spoke to Harry the way Louis had—not without consequences. Not in his world. Not in his house. And yet… he’d taken it. Absorbed every word like he’d earned it—because he had.

With a deep breath, Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. His fingers hesitated for the briefest second before slipping out a sleek black credit card. He placed it carefully on the bedside table beside Louis, the click of it hitting the wood louder than it should’ve been.

“Figured asking me for everything might feel uncomfortable,” he said quietly, avoiding Louis’s eyes. “Just buy whatever you want. This is yours now.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and left the room. The door closed behind him with a quiet finality.

And Louis lay there, staring at the card—at the gesture that meant so much and yet, somehow, still wasn’t the thing he needed most.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Harry had wanted nothing more than to stay at the mansion today. To set up in his home office, maybe half-work, maybe not at all. He just wanted to be near Louis. To hear the occasional creak of the floors above, or catch the sound of Louis’s voice floating down the hallway. But that luxury wasn’t his today—not with everything piling on.

Too many meetings. Too many fires to put out.

He stepped into the towering glass lobby of his downtown office, the air already thick with tension. The morning was still grey, the clouds pressed against the windows like they, too, were eavesdropping.

His gaze cut across the space, sharp and unreadable, until it landed on his new assistant—young, over-eager, always ready before she was even needed. Without slowing his pace, Harry gave a single curt nod.

“Meeting room,” he said, his voice flat, clipped.

The assistant scrambled to follow. Harry didn’t wait. He was already moving, his long strides echoing down the marble hallway, the weight of the day crashing over him before it had even begun.

The meeting room was quiet when Harry stepped in, the kind of quiet that came right before a storm. Zayn was already seated at the long, matte-black table, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight. He looked like he hadn’t slept either—not out of guilt, but vigilance. Paranoia. Survival.

Harry dropped into the seat at the head of the table, fingers drumming once before going still.

Zayn didn’t waste time. “Valentino’s pissed. Vaughn too. Not just annoyed, not just rattled. They’re fucking furious, Harry.”

Harry didn’t respond. He simply leaned back, his expression unreadable, eyes narrowed slightly—waiting.

“We left bodies. Big ones,” Zayn continued. “In their eyes, this wasn’t just strategy. This was humiliation. We embarrassed them. On their turf, with their men. Vaughn’s entire northern line has been thrown into chaos, and Valentino—he’s bleeding influence.”

Harry’s jaw flexed.

“They’ll want revenge,” Zayn said flatly. “Not a little slap on the wrist. I mean teeth-bared, blood-in-the-mouth revenge. They’ll come hard. And they’ll come smart.”

Harry reached forward slowly, grabbing a glass of water he wouldn’t drink. “Let them.”

Zayn shook his head. “That’s not the point. You don’t get to walk into a den and burn it down without thinking about what comes next. These men—they’ve got money, desperation, and pride. They’ll throw every resource they have to break your spine. They’ll go for your allies, your fronts, your blood. And if they can’t touch you—”

Harry’s eyes snapped up, sharp, lethal.

Zayn didn’t flinch. “They’ll look for someone they can reach.”

There was a long silence. The kind that buzzed under the skin.

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a moment. Just stared ahead, calculating. Replaying the blood. The bodies. And what it might’ve cost him.

“What do you suggest?” he finally asked, voice like steel cooled in ice.

Zayn leaned forward. “I suggest we don’t underestimate how far men like them will go to hurt you. Because they’ve got nothing left to lose… and you, for the first time in years, finally do.”

Harry leaned forward, slow and deliberate, both forearms braced against the edge of the table like a beast preparing to pounce. His voice came out low and unwavering—measured, yet savage.

“I’ll kill them,” he said. “With my bare hands. Vaughn first. Then Valentino. I’ll rip them apart piece by piece, and I’ll make it so public their allies choke on the fear.”

Zayn didn’t argue. He knew that tone—deadly calm wrapped around unrelenting rage. There was no room for reasoning when Harry got like this. Only strategy. Only control.

Niall cleared his throat and stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against the wall, flipping open a small black folder.

“We’re ahead,” he said. “Far ahead.”

Harry looked at him. Niall met his eyes squarely and continued.

“Our operations are solid. South side is locked down tighter than ever. The buyers are still loyal. Vaughn lost two ports after the incident. Valentino’s lost key distributors. Half his men are whispering about jumping ship. Our name’s carrying more weight now than theirs ever did.”

He flipped another page.

“They’re bleeding money. And they’re desperate. That makes them dangerous… but it also makes them reckless. Sloppy.”

Harry nodded once, sharp and decisive.

Niall kept going. “We’ve also reinforced security around all major locations. And the house. No suspicious movement yet. But we’re watching everything. They try to breathe in our direction, we’ll know.”

Zayn crossed his arms. “Still, we shouldn’t get comfortable.”

“We won’t,” Harry said. “Comfort is how you get killed.”

There was a pause. The room was still. But beneath it, the quiet thrum of war stirred like a storm building in the distance.

Harry exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the polished wood of the table. “I want extra protection around the mansion. By tomorrow morning. I don’t care what it takes—double the guards if you have to.”

Zayn nodded instantly. “Of course, boss. It’ll be done.”

He paused a beat, then added, “And for your own safety, sir… Mrs. Styles shouldn’t leave the mansion without a guard. Not with things heating like this.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly but he nodded. “Agreed.”

There was a beat of silence. The air had shifted—more personal now.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I need to talk to him. Louis. About all this.”

Niall’s brows rose slightly in surprise. “You haven’t told him yet?”

Harry gave a slow shake of his head. “No. I haven’t. He’s… he probably won’t like the extra protocols. He already doesn’t like the maids I assigned him.”

Zayn cocked his head. “The wife maids?”

Harry sighed again, this time deeper, more tired. “Yeah. The wife maids.”

The term hung in the air like something sacred and dangerous all at once.

“They’re loyal to the Styles wives, not the husbands,” Harry explained, almost as if reminding himself. “They’re secret keepers. Bound by oath to their mistress, not me. Most alphas don’t allow them, think they’re a risk. But I let Louis have them. I wanted him to have that freedom. That safety. I didn’t want him to feel alone in this house.”

Niall blinked, processing that. Zayn looked thoughtful.

“But he hates them,” Harry continued, shaking his head faintly. “Thinks they spy on him. Thinks they pity him.”

“And now you’re going to have to tell him that he has to live under even more eyes,” Niall murmured.

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The guilt already lay heavy in his chest.

Zayn leaned against the edge of the long table, arms folded tightly over his chest, his eyes following the rim of his now-empty coffee cup.

“Normal people like Louis… they weren’t made for this life.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. His fingers twitched slightly against his thigh as his eyes locked on the stack of papers in front of him—maps, red-marked dossiers, threat analysis scribbled in ink. The kind of thing that shaped his world. Their world.

Finally, he spoke. “I used to think that too.”

He glanced up briefly, then back down again. His voice was even, but there was a tremor beneath it—buried beneath exhaustion and something darker.

“But there’s something in him. Yeah, there’s softness—undeniable softness—but there’s also… a darkness. A quiet one. It’s there, just under the surface. He sees more than people think. Feels it, carries it. And he never would’ve stayed. Not with me. Not with the blood I’ve spilled, the way I am… if there wasn’t something in him that could live with it.”

From across the room, Niall—who had been standing near the windows scanning over a new security blueprint—turned back toward them. He walked over, took the seat beside Zayn, and leaned back with his hands laced behind his head.

“People underestimate omegas all the time,” he said, casually. “Always painting them as soft, helpless creatures.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “But they can be vengeful. Cold. Protective like hell. You ever seen an omega cornered? Hell hath no fury like an omega scorned.”

Harry gave the faintest scoff—more breath than sound. His gaze dropped to the bandage wrapped around his knuckles, the skin still sore beneath.

Harry inhaled sharply through his nose, like he was forcing himself out of his own thoughts. He straightened in his chair, pushing the pain and the creeping dread back into the vault where it belonged.

“Anyways,” he muttered, shaking his head once. “Let’s focus on the task at hand.”

Zayn gave a tight nod and reached for the file again, flipping it open to the next page. Niall adjusted his seat, pulling his tablet closer as the holographic layout of the mansion refreshed on screen.

Numbers, names, schedules. Routes for the security teams. The tech upgrade reports. Strategies for tightening every inch of Styles territory.

And just like that, the conversation shifted.

Back to business. Back to control.

The meeting room filled with the low hum of planning and precaution—voices calm, movements measured, every man in sync. But under it all, just beneath the surface, Harry’s mind never fully left Louis. Not for a second.

Not when the stakes were this high.

Not when he had something to lose.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The garden was quiet, kissed with the golden haze of early sunlight. Birds chirped lazily from the hedges, and the wind was gentle, tousling the leaves of the rose bushes that Louis had once adored tending to.

He sat on one of the stone benches, wrapped in a soft cardigan, his arms resting over his growing bump as if in silent defense. The baby hadn’t kicked much this morning. Maybe it sensed the way his thoughts were coiled—heavy and bitter and completely unrestful.

A maid stood just a few feet away, one of his maids—the kind Harry had insisted on, even if Louis hated the implication. She wasn't looking at him, just standing there with a small basket of folded linens, eyes lowered, respectful. Watching, waiting.

Louis tried to ignore her. He tilted his head toward the sun, breathing in the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass, hoping it would calm him. It didn’t.

His mind kept circling back to Harry.

To that awful, awful silence.

He could still feel the bond. But it was like pressing his hand against frosted glass and finding nothing on the other side. He couldn’t feel him. Not his emotions, not his presence. Just... absence.

And that made it worse.

He hated him.

He hated Harry.

Hated how he’d blocked him out. Hated how he’d taken and taken and left him hollow. Hated how even now, even after everything, he missed him so much it made his chest ache like something was clawing through it.

A shift of wind rustled the trees. The maid looked up briefly, and Louis caught the movement from the corner of his eye. His jaw tightened.

He hated this too. This… watched feeling. Harry’s precautions. His guards. His invisible chains.

Louis looked down at his belly, his fingers brushing the soft cotton stretched over his skin.

He didn’t want to feel vulnerable. He didn’t want to feel his.

But no matter how hard he tried to push it away, the silence from that bond roared louder than any scream.

And god, he hated him for it.

Louis' eyes were fixed on the greenery before him, trying to calm his mind, but the quiet hum of his thoughts was interrupted by the soft footfalls of a maid approaching him. She stood still for a moment before speaking, her voice soft but respectful, as was her custom.

"Sir," she began, her tone formal yet laced with something approaching concern. "A female omega is at the door, crying, and insists on speaking with you. She is quite... distressed, and refuses to leave until she has an audience."

Louis’ brow furrowed slightly at the interruption. His gaze remained distant, though a flicker of irritation sparked beneath the calm exterior he maintained. A crying omega at his door? Unannounced? His lips pressed into a thin line as he processed her words.

"Let her in," Louis replied, his voice flat, though there was an undercurrent of something darker—reluctance, perhaps, or the knowledge that this would not be a simple meeting.

The maid hesitated for a moment, before speaking again, her words measured and careful. "Are you certain, sir? She is quite insistent, and... in a fragile state. Should I have her sent away?"

Louis’ eyes turned toward her, his gaze sharp. "I said, let her in," he repeated. "But... have a guard accompany her. He should stand at a distance—far enough that he cannot overhear, but near enough to ensure her safety."

The maid nodded, a brief flicker of concern passing over her features before she masked it once more. "Of course, sir."

She turned and walked swiftly toward the entrance, leaving Louis alone with his thoughts once again. He exhaled slowly, letting the moment of solitude settle over him.

A female omega, distressed, begging to see him. It stirred something inside him, but he wasn’t sure what. He didn’t welcome unannounced visitors, and especially not ones in tears. But there was something about her desperation that tugged at him—an unfamiliar sensation he was determined to ignore.

He glanced back at the horizon, forcing himself to relax. Why now? he thought.

As he waited, a familiar tension coiled in his chest, the unanswered questions swirling in his mind.

Louis rose as the crying omega was escorted in, her movements timid. The garden around them glowed golden under the morning sun, flowers swaying gently—but the peace of it all felt at odds with the storm twisting in Louis’s chest.

She was young. Younger than him, maybe. But her eyes had aged a lifetime. They were swollen and red, and her lips trembled as she tried to curtsy before him.

“No, please—sit.” Louis gestured quickly. “What happened? Who are you?”

The omega sank onto the bench, folding in on herself. “Thank you. I—I didn’t expect you to see me.”

Louis sat across her, face soft but wary. “I did. Now tell me why you’ve come.”

Her eyes met his then—wet, wide, gleaming with pain, yes, but something else too. Something subtle. Calculated. But he didn’t see it—not fully. Not yet.

“My name is Chiara,” she began, voice cracking. “I’m the daughter of a man your husband did business with. Or—rather, against. I never knew much, I left that life. I married a man who wanted nothing to do with it. We moved far away. We wanted to raise our baby in peace.”

Louis blinked, unease crawling across his spine. The name Chiara meant nothing to him. But he waited.

She continued, wiping at her cheeks but letting the tears keep falling. “Then… then he found us. Your husband. I don’t know who gave us away. I don’t even think he cared, he just wanted to hurt my father. He… killed my husband.”

Louis reeled back slightly, eyes wide.

She clutched her stomach. “I was pregnant. Five months. I went into shock and lost the baby. He didn’t just kill one life that day. He destroyed everything.”

“No—” Louis choked. “No, I… I don’t understand. Who are you the daughter of?”

“Valentino,” she whispered. “You’ve heard the name, haven’t you?”

He had. Once. In the office. A murmured threat in a conversation he hadn’t been invited to. It had been buried since.

“I… I don’t know him. Not truly,” Louis said, voice shaking. “Harry never told me.”

“Of course not,” Chiara laughed bitterly. “Why would he? You’re soft. You’re kind. You wouldn’t understand the blood he swims in. I hadn't expected you to be this kind after all you are the wife of the most heartless mobster. He's a tyrant, your husband. At least my father doesn't kill omegas or alphas who have a family.”

Louis looked down, pain tightening in his chest. The bond between him and Harry still sat muted—silent. It made everything worse. Emptier.

Chiara leaned forward slightly, eyes shining. “I came here because I had nowhere else to go. Not to accuse. Not to threaten. Just to beg. You’re the only person in this house who still has a soul.”

Louis’s lip trembled. He hated how her words dug deep. Hated how they worked.

“I don’t know how to help you,” he whispered. “But I want to. I can’t even imagine—”

“You can,” she cut in. “You’re pregnant. Aren't you? I can tell from your scent. Imagine loving someone, and then watching them die. Imagine losing a baby because someone like your husband decided to play god.”

Tears filled Louis’s eyes now, real and full. “I’m sorry. I am. If I could undo that pain—”

“But you can’t,” she said, still soft but now deadly calm. “No one can. But there’s something. A file. I heard my father mention it before he cut me off. It’s something big. Something that could drag Harry Styles to court. Maybe even to hell.”

Louis stared at her.

“I don’t know if you’ve seen it, or heard of it, but if anyone has access to the truth… it’s his spouse. It’s you."

Louis’s mouth opened but no words came out. Chiara reached out and briefly touched his hand—soft, desperate, but there was steel in the grip.

“I didn’t expect your kindness. But now that I’ve seen it… I’m begging you. Don’t let my baby’s death be for nothing.”

And then she looked down again, tears falling onto her lap like quiet bullets. And Louis—bleeding with guilt, fragile with hormones, cold from the bond—sat frozen, unsure which part of himself she had just awakened.

Louis’s breath caught in his throat.

“I… I don’t want to believe it,” he said, his voice low, trembling. “You’re showing me no proof."

Chiara didn't blink. Her eyes gleamed like glass about to shatter. “You want proof?” she asked quietly.

From her coat, she pulled out a folded piece of paper. Her hands were shaking as she held it out, fingers pale and tight.

Louis stared at it for a beat too long before taking it. The paper was warm from her skin, worn soft from being folded and unfolded over and over again. He peeled it open.

A photo.

Blurry. Gray. But unmistakable.

Harry—his Alpha, the man he shared a bond with—standing over a crumpled man on the floor, a gun still in his hand. His posture cold, exact. One man behind him was looking away. The other was pointing a weapon toward the body, like backup for a command already done.

No mercy.

No regret.

Just action.

Louis stared and stared until his eyes burned. Then he folded the paper with trembling hands and pushed it back toward her, but she didn’t take it.

“My husband was a teacher. You can search his name on LinkedIn, Charles McClintock, all he had ever been was a teacher,” she said softly. “He came home early to surprise me with dinner that day.” She looked at Louis with eyes hollowed by grief. “I lost the baby the next morning. And no one answered my calls. No one cared. No one would care. Because Harry Styles doesn’t leave traces. No one would take my case. Everyone was too scared.”

Louis bent at the waist, bracing his hands on his knees. His stomach twisted violently.

He thought of the key.

That tiny, unremarkable key.

He remembered when Harry had given it to him. The warmth of Harry’s fingers against his palm, the weight of the metal pressing into his skin.

Louis had flushed, smiled even, heart blooming like something delicate and full. He’d felt special. Not just a trophy. Not just some omega tucked into silk sheets and forgotten. Important.

He’d hidden the key carefully, in the hollow space under a ceramic vase in his room. He’d never touched it again, just remembered it was there.

A secret between them.

Now it pulsed in his memory like a warning.

“Please,” Chiara said, voice rough with tears. “ I came because I heard whispers about a file. A file your husband keeps. Evidence. My father once mentioned it when I still spoke to him. I think it’s in a private locker, one he doesn't let anyone near. But if I could even know where he keeps them—”

Louis closed his eyes. Every breath scraped his ribs raw.

He turned away without a word, footsteps unsteady as he walked back toward the house. He moved in a daze, skin prickling, vision narrowing.

Upstairs. His room.

He reached behind the vase. His fingers brushed cool metal.

The key was still there. Still nestled in its hiding place like a promise.

He lifted it slowly.

His reflection caught in the mirror across the room.

He looked wrong. Lost. His lips parted, dry. His cheeks tear-streaked.

His hand shook.

He turned it over once. Again.

Louis bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood.

He didn’t know what the key unlocked. But he knew what Harry kept in lockers—sensitive files, backups, proof of things he didn’t want digital. Cash. Insurance policies. Maybe this file. Maybe not. But it was something Harry trusted him with. Something sacred.

And Louis was about to hand it over.

He went back out.

Chiara stood exactly where he left her, silent and waiting. Like she knew.

Louis stopped in front of her.

He didn’t speak. Just extended his hand.

The key lay in his palm.

“This might help you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “It could lead to one of his locker locations. You’ll have to figure out which. I don’t know where it leads, or if it even leads to that file. But it’s all I can give you.”

Chiara looked at him like he’d handed her the world.

Then she surged forward and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face to his shoulder.

“Thank you. Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”

Louis stood stiff as stone, letting her hold him.

When she stepped back, he barely nodded.

But as she walked away with the key clutched tight, Louis couldn’t breathe.

His entire body vibrated with cold anxiety. His chest felt caged.

Harry hated betrayal.

And this—this would be unforgivable.

But justice had a price. And Louis had made his choice.

He turned back toward the house, one hand clutching his chest like he could keep the guilt from bleeding out.

He didn’t know how long he had before Harry found out.

But his hands already felt stained.

Chapter Text

The meeting room reeked of smoke and exhaustion. The air was heavy—burnt coffee, sweat, tension. Empty coffee cups cluttered the long mahogany table, alongside scattered papers and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a pale halo over the chaos.

Harry sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, collar loose, a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with fatigue, flicked to the clock on the wall.

1:04 AM.

He sighed, slow and sharp. The kind of sigh that came from deep in the bones.

Everyone in the room looked the same—Zayn with his tie undone, pacing with a stack of intel; Niall hunched over a laptop, typing with his jaw clenched; a few other men whispering quietly by the whiteboard, drawing lines, crossing names.

Harry took a drag of his cigarette, then crushed it into the tray with unnecessary force.

No one flinched.

They were all too deep in it.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck, and reached for another cup of coffee—cold now, bitter as guilt. He drank it anyway.

He knew tonight would be endless.

He knew none of them would be going home.

The door to the meeting room slammed open with a violent crack, crashing against the wall. A man stumbled in, breathless and wide-eyed, panic etched into every line of his face. The room froze.

Harry shot to his feet immediately, the sudden movement scraping his chair back with a screech. “What is it?” His voice was low, sharp, already laced with dread.

The man gulped down a breath. “S-sir—intelligence just came in—Vaughn and Valentino… they’ve got the file.”

A suffocating silence fell like a shroud.

“They’re on their way here, sir,” the man continued, voice cracking. “And they’re coming for revenge.”

Chairs scraped back all at once as everyone else in the room shot to their feet, eyes darting toward Harry, then to each other. The air turned electric with fear and disbelief. And then, a second later—

The blaring scream of the office siren split the tension like a blade.

Harry stood still for a moment, shoulders tense, cigarette frozen in his hand. His eyes narrowed, jaw tight, heart thundering.

“There’s no way he has that file,” Harry said, voice low, dangerous. “There’s no fucking way.”

“It’s confirmed intel,” the man said quickly, backing up a step. “They’re coming—armed, sir. We don’t have time.”

Harry exhaled slowly, the fire in his chest igniting. His features hardened into steel.

“Get everyone here. Now,” he ordered.

Men scrambled out of the room, shouting orders down the corridors, alarms still wailing like death itself had been let loose.

And Harry stood in the middle of it all, unmoving.

Everyone was trying to stay composed, but the panic was unmistakable—it was in their eyes.

Harry lit another cigarette with shaking fingers, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating the storm brewing in his expression. The smoke curled around his face, veiling the dread he couldn’t quite push down.

He pushed open the doors of the meeting room and stepped into the hallway, boots heavy against the cold floor. The upper level was packed now—his men, his guards, all gathered, tense and silent. This wasn’t the front-facing office where deals were polished with champagne and masks. This place was darker, quieter, the underbelly of the empire—built in the shadows and meant to stay there.

Hidden from the city. Tucked away like a secret. And now? That isolation felt like a curse.

Harry stood in front of them, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes scanned the faces of the men who’d die for him. Or kill for him.

“Grab your guns,” he said, voice razor-sharp and unflinching. “Arm yourselves and be ready.”

A pause. The air was thick. Then—

“Be ready to kill.”

Somewhere, someone swallowed audibly.

“Stick to the plan. Don’t break formation. We’ve trained for this.”

He dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his heel.

“And say your prayers.”

They all moved at once, chaos with a purpose. Guns drawn. Radios lighting up. The silent acceptance of what was coming.

Harry didn’t know who had betrayed him yet. But someone had lit the match.

And now the whole kingdom might burn.

As the final preparations clicked into place, Harry turned to Zayn and Niall, his two most trusted lieutenants. His expression was carved from steel.

"Zayn, Niall—mansion security falls on you now."

Zayn’s jaw clenched, already anticipating the worst. “We’ll secure it. Not even a shadow will get near Louis.”

Niall checked the magazine of his rifle and nodded grimly. “We’ll double the guard, eyes on every perimeter, air and ground.”

Harry gave one sharp nod.

The atmosphere inside the compound had shifted from tension to grim resolve.

Men pulled on bulletproof vests with practiced hands, loaded weapons with steady fingers. There was no cowardice here—just discipline, sharp and cold. No one flinched. They had served under Harry Styles long enough to know what was expected of them. Fear wasn’t welcome. Hesitation wasn’t tolerated.

And tonight, none of them would fall short.

Harry stood in the center of it all, like a storm with a steady eye. He wasn’t barking orders now—he didn’t have to. His men moved like clockwork, every second sharpened by training and loyalty. The older ones were already checking vantage points, the younger ones scanning exits, reinforcing entry points with practiced ease.

Harry pulled on his black gloves and opened a hidden compartment in the wall, revealing a velvet-lined drawer. Inside lay two sleek pistols—his personal favorites—and a silver blade. He took them without hesitation, securing them to his body like armor. Then came the earpiece. The commlink snapped into place, and a familiar voice crackled through.

“Ground perimeter’s set. Rooftop eyes are in place. We’re ready, boss.”

Harry pressed the mic. “No one shoots unless I say. We make it clean. Efficient. If they walk in here thinking this is some revenge fantasy—remind them what hell really looks like.”

The compound's lights were dimmed, replaced by emergency red strobes that painted everything in blood and shadow. The gates were sealed. The back exits locked. Snipers moved to position on the second floor. Men took posts behind furniture, windows, and barricades. Guns were cocked. Breaths were held.

Harry made one last sweep of the floor, nodding to every man as he passed. His presence was a force—anchoring, commanding. Then he stood at the head of the long corridor leading to the main entrance.

And waited.

Whatever came through those gates tonight wouldn’t be met with mercy.

They would be met with fire.

As the sound of steel sliding into chambers filled the air, Harry grabbed a radio from the table and barked into it, “Zayn, Niall—status on the mansion?”

Zayn’s voice crackled back through static, sharp and urgent. “All points secured. I’ve got eyes on every entrance, perimeter patrols doubled. If a leaf twitches wrong, we’ll see it.”

Niall’s voice followed, lower but tight with tension. “The panic rooms are ready. Louis is still in the west wing. Your omega is safe. For now.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. “If anything changes, anything, you alert me.”

“Understood.”

He dropped the radio and looked out the glass windows just as the distant boom of an explosion split the night. A column of fire erupted from the front gates.

“They’re here,” someone whispered behind him.

And they were.

The first vehicle rammed through the outer barrier—steel tearing through steel like paper. Flames licked up its sides as it plowed forward, screeching to a halt before bodies spilled out of it, feral and screaming.

“Hold your fucking line!” Harry bellowed.

Gunfire exploded like thunder.

The outer courtyard turned into a kill zone. Bullets tore through flesh and concrete alike. Blood sprayed across the marble staircase leading to the entrance. Screams of agony echoed as Vaughn and Valentino’s men were gunned down in droves.

But they kept coming.

Some threw smoke grenades, others carried explosives. One broke through the front corridor and blew his own chest open with a charge, ripping through the steel-lined wall and allowing more to pour in.

It was carnage.

Harry’s men fought like devils. The floor was slick with blood, the walls echoing with howls of death.

And then the madness parted.

From the fog of smoke and screams, two figures emerged. Calm. Composed.

Vaughn and Valentino.

Blood streaked their coats. Vaughn’s right hand was bandaged, soaked red. Valentino’s lip was split, but he walked like a man untouched.

They moved as if they were guests arriving for dinner, not the cause of an outright slaughter.

“Enough,” Vaughn called out. His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. “We didn’t come here to burn your empire tonight, Styles. We just want to talk.”

Harry, standing on the upper balcony, soaked in gunpowder and death, narrowed his eyes.

His hands were bloodied from dragging his own injured soldier behind a column. His shirt was torn. A bullet had grazed his arm.

And still, he stood tall.

“Bring them up,” he growled.

Guards moved forward, guns raised as they surrounded the intruders.

Valentino smirked, stepping past a pool of blood where one of his own men bled out. “We’ll behave.”

The two were escorted through the decimated building—past the bodies of their men, past broken glass and ruined walls—until they reached the top floor.

The elevator doors opened.

Smoke trailed in with them.

And Harry was waiting. Unmoving. A god at the top of his desecrated altar.

Vaughn stepped out first, expression unreadable, the bloodied edge of his coat dragging across the polished black floor. Valentino followed with a cruel smirk, adjusting the gold cufflink still fastened to his wrist despite the massacre below.

The room had gone dead silent. A suffocating, electric stillness that felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

Zayn stood at Harry’s right shoulder, rifle slung and finger twitching near the trigger. Niall stood on the left, one eye on the elevator, the other sweeping the room. Guards were stationed at every corner, red-laser sights trained on skulls and hearts alike.

It was a ceasefire—but only just. Tension snapped in the air like a live wire.

Harry didn’t move from where he stood at the head of the war room. The city lights far behind him framed his silhouette like a ghost king, and the blood on his hands had dried to a dull brown.

He eyed the two men as they stepped into his domain. His lip curled.

“I figured if you were going to come,” Harry said, voice cold and laced with contempt, “you’d crawl in under the cover of night like the rats you are. Didn’t disappoint.”

Valentino laughed—sharp, mocking. “Still so dramatic, Styles. You love pretending you’re better than us, don’t you? Untouchable. Unbreakable.”

Vaughn’s voice followed like a shadow. “You’re good. But not as good as you think.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, feral and deadly. “You lost half your fucking army getting in here. Bleeding all over my floors just for a little conversation. That doesn’t scream strength. That screams desperation.”

Valentino’s grin only widened. “Desperation?” He reached into his coat slowly—Zayn and Niall raised their weapons in sync, a breath away from pulling their triggers. “Relax,” he sneered. “I’m not here to shoot.”

From his coat pocket, he pulled out a small silver flash drive.

“I’m here to ruin you.”

Harry’s eyes locked onto it, his breath catching for only a fraction of a second.

“This,” Valentino said with twisted delight, “is the file.”

Harry growled low in his throat, stepping forward. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, but it is.” Valentino twirled the file. “Every document. Every transfer. Every silent deal you made when you were still your father’s shadow. All of it. And one little signature… from the man who now calls himself clean.”

Laughter bubbled up in his throat. “It’s poetic, really.”

Harry’s body went rigid.

Zayn muttered low under his breath, “Boss…?”

But Harry didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the drive. On the threat. On the impossibility of what he was seeing.

He had burned that past to ash.

So how the hell did they have it?

And then the weight of something darker crept into his bones.

Someone had betrayed him.

Vaughn’s boots clacked against the polished floors like a war drum, steady and cold. His men flanked him, guns raised, but there was no immediate violence. Not yet. Zayn and Niall stood beside Harry like steel towers, ready to die if needed—but even they could feel it.

The shift.

The storm about to crash over their king.

Valentino stepped forward slowly, a sickening grin spreading across his lips like rot. The top floor office was eerily quiet, the air thick with gunpowder and tension. Blood still ran down the stairwell from the men who had died trying to stop them.

Harry stood tall, cigarette between his fingers, but his heart was thundering. Not from fear. From a dread he couldn’t yet name.

Valentino broke the silence with a chuckle, a low amused sound that grated like nails on steel.

"You always thought you were invincible, didn’t you, Styles?" he said. “The monster in the shadows. The nightmare they warned their sons about.”

He took a step closer, waving a hand lazily. “But look at you now. You built an empire on blood and fear—and all it took was one trembling little omega to burn it down. One soft voice. One pair of pretty eyes. And you crumbled.”

Harry’s jaw flexed, but his expression didn’t waver. He stared.

Vaughn sneered, "Tell me, how does it feel, knowing the person you crawl into bed with handed us the key to your fucking coffin?"

Harry didn’t blink. Pain errupted in his chest. A feeling so intense, so deep that Harry knew he would never recover.

Louis. Louis. Louis.

Louis with his blue eyes and soft lips.

Louis that made Harry break so many of his rules. Louis who had managed to melt Harry's heart. Louis who made Harry feel guilty with a single glance.

Louis.

Valentino leaned in slightly, like a vulture. “He didn't even hesitate, you know. He looked sad, sure—oh, he cried—but he still gave it to us. That precious little key. The one you gave him like a vow. Like a goddamn wedding ring. He gave it away like trash.”

Harry’s lungs stilled. His mouth was dry.

Valentino’s words cut deeper. “He trusted us more than he trusted you. Isn’t that fucking rich? You, the infamous Styles—outmaneuvered by a little pregnant omega. A nobody. All because you wanted to play husband.”

He stepped closer, now face to face. His breath stank of smoke and blood.

“Tell me, Styles. When you gave him that key, what were you thinking? That he loved you? That he was yours forever?” Valentino laughed—a full, loud, mocking laugh. “He probably held it in his hands and thought what an idiot.”

Inside, Harry was unraveling.

He remembered the moment vividly—giving Louis that key, placing it in his palm like a crown jewel. He’d trusted him. For the first time in his cursed, blood-soaked life, Harry Styles had trusted someone wholly.

Louis had smiled that day. A little sad, a little warm. Said he’d keep it safe.

And he had.

Just not for Harry.

And now…

Now he knew that key had been handed to the enemy. Not stolen. Not pried from his hands.

Given willingly.

By Louis.

His mate.

His omega.

The betrayal tasted worse than poison. It sat in his gut like fire and glass, crawling up his throat.

His wolf was howling. Pacing in his chest. Confused. Wounded. Furious. Grieving.

Vaughn added the final twist. “The best part? You didn’t even notice. So obsessed with your empire, your guns, your territory—you didn’t see the knife coming from the bed beside you.”

Harry blinked slowly. His hands weren’t shaking, but only because every nerve inside him had gone numb.

He could see flashes—Louis smiling. Laughing in the garden. Touching his cheek after a nightmare. Curling into him during a storm. All of it. A lie.

Or maybe not.

Maybe Louis had loved him. Or wanted to. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

Because he hadn’t trusted him.

Valentino stepped back finally, holding up the file like a trophy. “Your omega gave us this,” he said coldly. “Your mate. Your heart. He handed over your sins wrapped in a bow. So tell me, Styles…”

He tilted his head mockingly.

“How does it feel to be ruined by love?”

Harry blinked once, slowly. His face was carved in stone, expression unreadable. To the world, he was calm. A lion among jackals. His voice, when it came, was low and eerily steady. “Your point?”

Vaughn grinned. “Our point?” He laughed, ugly and cruel. “You’re pathetic. A dog blinded by love. You think you’re feared, but you’re a joke. You gave your heart to someone soft, and he carved it out and gave it to your enemies. On a fucking platter. I warned you at our first meeting about that omega, Styles, you should've listened to me.”

A muscle ticked in Harry’s jaw. Blood pounded in his ears.

But still, he didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Harry retrieved a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He exhaled smoke slowly, calmly, like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

He gave a smile. A broken one. A haunted one.

“Are you done?,” he whispered, voice like glass.

But inside, he was shattering.

Because there was no worse betrayal.

Not from an enemy.

Not from a brother.

Only from the person you trusted when you swore you never would again.

Zayn’s fingers hovered over the trigger of his gun, jaw clenched tight. Beside him, Niall looked between Harry and the two men before them, chest rising and falling with silent tension. There was panic in their eyes—not from fear of the enemy, but fear for Harry. The silence that hung around him was worse than fury. It was the quiet of a man on the verge of breaking.

But Harry didn't move. He only smoked.

And then, in a voice that sliced the thick air clean through, he spoke.

"Open it."

Valentino frowned. "What?"

Harry’s eyes didn’t flicker. “The file. Open it. Read it again.”

Vaughn scoffed. “Don’t play games, Styles—”

“Read it.” Harry barked, a deadly edge lacing his voice now.

Both men hesitated. But the steel in Harry's tone left little room for argument. Slowly, they opened the file. Their eyes scanned the pages, confusion beginning to bloom on their faces.

Valentino’s smirk faltered.

Vaughn’s brows drew together.

“This—this isn’t—” Valentino flipped through the pages again, faster now, the blood draining from his face. “Where’s the rest of it?!”

Vaughn turned to Harry, suddenly unsure. “This… this isn’t the original copy. It’s a decoy. These are nothing but old transactions—meaningless details. This isn’t enough to even scratch you.”

Harry exhaled smoke like a ghost releasing a soul. “No. It isn’t.”

And then, he stepped forward, slow and calm.

“Do you really think,” he said, voice hollow, “that I would trust anyone with something that dangerous? Not my men. Not my lawyers.”

His eyes darkened, burning now with something deeper than rage. “Not even my omega.”

The words burned his own throat. But he had to say them. He had to *believe* them. Because the alternative was too unbearable.

“I gave him a key,” Harry continued, low and venomous. “But I never said what it was for. You think I’d leave my empire exposed just because I had a soft moment?”

He leaned in. "You're not special. You're not smart. You're desperate. And you fell for a game I set months ago."

Valentino’s face twisted in horror.

Vaughn looked pale.

Then, suddenly—panic. Vaughn turned to bolt, hand going for his weapon.

But Niall was faster.

Gun raised, safety off, voice like thunder—“Don’t.”

Zayn moved simultaneously, blocking Valentino’s exit with the fluid grace of a man who'd killed in silence for years.

They were trapped.

“You wanted revenge,” Harry said, voice cool again. “Wanted to humiliate me. You brought your army, spilled blood, broke through my walls.”

He dropped his cigarette onto the bloodstained floor and crushed it under his boot.

“But all you did was walk straight into the lion’s den. And now... I don’t have to come looking for you.”

He offered them a dead smile. “Thanks for saving me the trouble.”

Valentino trembled, no longer the predator but prey cornered by his own arrogance.

Harry stood tall, but inside, everything was bleeding. Behind his cold eyes, his wolf howled in agony. Because even if the file was a dupe, even if Louis had unknowingly handed them a decoy—

He had still handed it over.

He had chosen them. Over Harry.

And no amount of strategy could outmaneuver that kind of wound.

But Harry stood firm, because that’s what strong men do.

Even when they’re dying inside.

The command came from Harry with a single motion of his hand.

“Disarm them.”

His men surged forward with brutal efficiency. Vaughn and Valentino shouted, cursed, tried to resist, but it was useless. Their weapons were ripped from their grip, arms twisted behind their backs. A few strikes were thrown—Valentino spat blood onto the floor. Vaughn’s jaw was cracked.

“Kill every one of their men,” Harry said coldly. “Leave only those willing to talk.”

The order was carried out swiftly. Gunshots echoed down the hallways of the fortress-like estate. Screams—short, guttural. The sound of flesh hitting concrete. Bodies slumped. It was a massacre.

But Harry didn’t stay to watch.

He turned, the weight in his chest threatening to crush him. He walked down the hall to his office, pushed open the door, and grabbed the nearest bottle. Whiskey. Dark and sharp. He poured too much into a crystal glass and downed it like water.

The burn was nothing compared to the one behind his ribs.

Louis.

His mate. His bonded. The one person he'd allowed behind the walls.

And he had handed them the key.

Even if it was a dupe, even if the file had meant nothing—Louis hadn’t known that. He’d chosen to believe them. Chosen to believe the worst of Harry.

He didn’t even ask me. He didn’t even ask.

The glass shattered in Harry’s hand.

He didn’t feel the cut.

Not over the ache in his chest.

He wiped the blood on his shirt and walked out, returning to the upper floor.

Vaughn and Valentino were there, now on their knees. Hands tied behind their backs. Bloodied. Bruised. Alive—barely.

The air stank of smoke and gunpowder.

“Everyone out,” Harry ordered. “Except Zayn. And Niall.”

The others obeyed without hesitation. Footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving only the four of them in the dim light of the war room. Zayn stood with his arms crossed, eyes like stone. Niall paced like a caged beast, gun still warm in his hand.

Harry stood still.

Silent.

Vaughn broke it first. His mouth was bloodied, but his voice came out strong. Deliberate. Mocking.

“You won, Styles. We lost. And we’ll die here, fine.” He spit onto the floor. “But I’ll tell you this—you may kill us, but you’re the real fucking loser here.”

Harry didn’t react.

Vaughn leaned forward, grinning, teeth red.

“Your own pregnant omega turned on you. He gave it up like it meant nothing. That’s pathetic.”

Niall stepped forward, furious—but Harry raised a hand to stop him.

Vaughn wasn’t done.

“Maybe you’re just not enough. Maybe you’re not man enough to keep him satisfied. Maybe I should’ve had a turn with him—might’ve stayed loyal if I fucked him right.”

That was the last thing Vaughn ever said.

The gunshot rang like thunder.

Harry’s hand didn’t even shake.

Vaughn screamed as he dropped sideways, trying to clutch the gaping wound in his groin. Blood poured out between his legs, soaking the floor beneath him. His shrieks bounced off the walls like a dying animal.

Zayn’s eyes widened.

Niall flinched, but said nothing.

Harry just stared.

Breathing hard. Chest heaving.

Still silent.

Because he wasn’t even angry anymore.

Just broken.

Vaughn was still screaming, writhing on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. But Harry didn’t stop at the gunshot.

He dropped the weapon.

And stepped forward.

Hands bare.

“Harry—” Zayn started, but Harry didn’t hear him. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

He moved like a predator. Silent. Unforgiving.

One brutal kick to Vaughn’s face shattered his nose. Another crushed his ribs. Bones cracked beneath the fury of his boots. Then Harry dropped to his knees and grabbed Vaughn by the hair, dragging him upright, even as the man gurgled in his own blood.

Harry gripped his blood-slick throat, and began to squeeze. Vaughn thrashed, choking, clawing at Harry’s arms, but there was no mercy in the Alpha’s face. Just a terrifying, silent rage. There was no mercy in the Alpha’s face. Just a terrifying, silent rage.

“Talk about my omega again,” Harry whispered, voice eerily calm. “One more time.”

Bones cracked under Harry’s fingers. The sickening sound of a windpipe collapsing. Vaughn’s eyes rolled back, his body convulsing before falling limp.

Dead.

Harry stood up, slow and trembling.

Then turned to Valentino—who was trying to crawl back, eyes wide with horror.

“P-please—Harry—”

Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed Valentino by the collar, dragged him forward, and began slamming his head into the marble floor. Once. Twice. Over and over again. Blood splattered like paint, thick and hot across the polished tile.

Zayn and Niall watched in stunned silence. They had seen Harry kill before. Many times. But never like this. Never with his bare hands. Never unhinged.

Harry didn’t stop until Valentino’s body was still.

Until both were lifeless heaps of blood and meat on the floor.

Only then did he rise. He stood amidst the carnage—panting, covered in blood. His shirt was soaked. His knuckles split. His eyes…empty. His breathing sharp and uneven. Chest heaving like he’d just come back from war. Or like the war was still inside him.

The two men lay at his feet. Nothing left of their power. Nothing left of their pride. Just blood and bones.

Zayn stepped forward slowly, voice cautious. “Boss… are you alright?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Zayn’s expression hardened. “He betrayed you. Louis is a disgrace. You should leave him.”

That broke the silence.

Harry turned sharply, eyes wild. In a flash, he shoved Zayn so hard he slammed against the wall, breath knocked from his lungs.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry snarled. “He’s my wife. He still wears my bondmark. And as long as he does—you will not speak about him that way.”

Zayn staggered back, stunned. It wasn’t the force that shocked him—it was the fury in Harry’s eyes.

Zayn said nothing. Just nodded, eyes wide.

Niall stared. Speechless. He had never seen Harry like this.

Not broken.

Not this broken.

This was different. Harry wasn’t angry. He was destroyed.

Shattered.

Emotionally gutted, trying to patch himself back together with violence.

“Get the cleanup team,” Harry said roughly, voice cracking. “Make sure everything’s burned. Bleach the floors. Discard the bodies. Make sure not a trace is left."

He didn’t wait for a response.

Harry walked out, shoulders stiff with rage, blood dripping from his hands as he disappeared down the hallway—like a ghost.

And for the first time… he didn’t look like the devil.

He looked like a man who had just lost the only thing he ever truly loved.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Venom was alive tonight—sweating, throbbing, drowning in heat and lust. The floors pulsed with bass, a low, slow beat like the heartbeat of something unholy. Smoke curled through the air like serpent tongues. Omegas lounged in shadow-drenched corners, perfume thick and sweet like sin, lips red, necks bare, waiting.

And then the door opened.

Harry Styles stepped in, and the atmosphere shifted violently. Like a hurricane had slid in under the skin of the club. Conversations died. Heads turned. The music hiccuped.

He looked like war. Like vengeance incarnate. Blood still crusted around the edges of his shirt cuffs. Dark eyes ringed with exhaustion. Face set like marble—but it was cracking. Cracks so thin they barely showed, but they ran deep. And he was bleeding behind them.

Gasps followed him. So did desire.

Omegas rose from their velvet couches like flowers stretching toward the sun.

"Alpha Styles," one breathed, her dress clinging to her like a second skin. "You’ve been gone too long. Let us make it better."

Another stepped in front of him boldly, lashes thick and eyes alight with hunger. “We heard what happened. You must be… aching. Let me help.”

“Please,” a third omega whispered, curling a hand over his arm, “let us take your mind off it all. Just for a little while. You deserve it. You always deserve it.”

He stopped walking.

Not because of their words—but because something inside him had just… buckled.

He turned slowly. Looked at them.

There was no lust in his eyes. Only devastation, so pure and unfiltered that one of the omegas actually stepped back, a hand going to her throat.

“I don’t want you,” Harry rasped, voice low, cracked, brutal. “I don’t want anyone.”

And then he moved past them, up the stairs, steps heavy with ghosts.

No one followed.

He slammed the door to his private suite behind him and tore off his coat like it burned. The silence inside was deafening. The city blinked outside the tall windows, neon and lifeless.

He went to the bar.

Poured bourbon with shaking hands. Downed it. Another. Another. Until the burn stopped hurting.

Then came the sound.

A broken, guttural noise, pulled from deep in his chest.

He sank into the leather chair like his bones had given out. Pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. But the tears came anyway—uncontrollable, shuddering sobs. They ripped through him like claws. He hadn’t cried in over a decade. Not since his mother. Not since he'd buried softness beneath steel.

But now he couldn’t stop.

He had trusted Louis.

He had imagined opening the bond. Letting Louis in. He’d planned to apologize. To kneel, even, if that’s what it took.

You’re just like your father.

He had tried so hard not to be.

Now he wasn’t sure if there was anything left but his father’s shadow.

He slammed the glass against the table. He felt pain in his hand, already bruised and bleeding. His shoulder, his arm, his knuckles all were starting to hurt as the adrenaline wore off. But was nothing compared to the actual pain he felt currently.

“Still my wife,” he growled at the empty room, voice splintered, broken, half-drunk and half-mad. “Still mine.”

But even as he said it, he knew it didn't matter. He was dead inside.

He had tried so hard to get himself to not care about Louis. Because he knew to care for someone would ultimately result in his destruction. And he was correct. Even though, he had won. He was nothing but ruin now.

There was no worse pain than betrayal from the only person you'd decided to trust.

And now Harry Styles—the man who had built an empire, who had killed kings—was reduced to a weeping, blood-stained wreck in a club he owned, drowning in liquor and loss, while the world outside dared to keep spinning.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

By the time Harry reached the mansion in the early hours of the morning, he was a fractured shell of himself—battered, bleeding, a staggering silhouette of the man who once ruled shadows. His steps were uneven, a subtle sway in his gait betraying the remnants of alcohol still burning in his bloodstream. He looked like ruin wrapped in silk and blood.

The grand doors groaned open, and a cluster of maids rushed toward him like moths to flame—offering water, concern, their trembling hands reaching for his bruised skin.

“Don’t,” Harry snapped, voice low and serrated. “Get away from me.”

They recoiled instantly, silence swallowing their sympathy.

“Where’s Louis?” he asked, each word dipped in lead.

“In the west wing, sir,” one maid replied cautiously. “By the library.”

Harry nodded once, barely registering the words. Of course. The west wing—quiet, filled with dust and books and ghosts. It suited Louis.

“Go back to your duties,” he muttered. “I don’t want a soul near the west wing. Not one.”

The maid bowed her head and vanished down the hall.

Harry turned toward the corridor, the air thick and heavy around him, as if the mansion itself held its breath.

His boots echoed down the marbled floor, each step dragging memories and betrayal behind it like chains. The bond burned like acid in his chest, the silence of it more agonizing than any scream. Betrayal. His omega. His. The only one he'd let close enough to hurt him. And he'd plunged the knife so deep.

Harry’s thoughts swirled like storm clouds. Louis’s laugh. Louis’s hands. Louis’s voice when he’d said, “You’re just like your father.”

He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the wall. His breath hitched. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion and pain that felt more bone-deep than any physical wound.

By the time he reached the library door, he was trembling.

His hand hovered over the handle.

This was madness.

But he was already there. Already too far gone. The key had been given, the file taken, the wound made—and now, Harry Styles stood before the person who had undone him.

He pushed the door open with force, and the sound of it slamming against the wall echoed like a gunshot through the silent mansion.

Blood still dripped from the cut on his hand.

His eyes, red and rimmed with rage and grief, scanned the room.

And then they found him.

Louis.

Louis was lounging on the sofa, draped in the golden hush of morning, a quiet softness to him that didn’t belong in Harry’s bleeding world. He looked ethereal in the way only someone untouched by war could look. His fingers threaded absently through Lucy’s fur, his lashes casting pale shadows beneath his eyes. Peaceful. Gentle. Almost unreal.

For a fleeting, cruel second—Harry forgot.

Forgot the blood dried on his knuckles. Forgot the betrayal pulsing in his chest like a second heartbeat. Forgot he had come here to confront the man who had torn him apart.

Then Louis stirred.

The soft thump of Lucy hopping down hit the floor. Louis straightened and stood up, slow and wary, his hand falling from the cat to his side.

His eyes met Harry’s—and there it was.

Fear.

Not the kind Harry used to strike into enemies. No. This was intimate. Personal. Louis’s fear was raw and shaken, like a windowpane rattling in a hurricane. He saw the wreck Harry had become—the bruises, the blood, the drunken stagger wrapped in a suit worth thousands, now shredded like paper. The air between them was thick with smoke, liquor, and silence.

Louis’s voice came, hesitant. “W-what happened?”

Harry laughed. Cold. Hollow. The kind of laugh you hear before something breaks.

“What happened?” he echoed, eyes glinting like cracked glass. “You tried to have me ruined. And I survived.”

The words sliced the air. Louis’s lips parted in shock.

“M–me?” he breathed, voice caught in his throat like glass splinters.

Harry tilted his head, moving forward with the precision of a man who no longer trusted the ground beneath him. Each step was deliberate. Dangerous.

“Yes. You,” he said, voice like velvet laced with poison. “Who else? You, my omega. My wife. The mother of my unborn child.” He was inches away now. “You.”

Louis took a step back.

Harry’s eyes raked over him—not with love, not even hatred—but with devastation. He looked at Louis the way a drowning man might look at a shore that had vanished. Like something that had once promised salvation and now only promised death.

“Tell me,” Harry murmured, voice suddenly low and shaking. “How does betrayal taste on your tongue, Louis? Was it sweet? Did it feel good? Did it feel like power?”

His voice cracked at the end. Just a hairline fracture. But it was there.

And Louis stared, breathless.

Because beneath the blood and fury—

Harry was breaking.

Louis’s lips quivered. “W-what you did… it was wrong—”

Harry stilled, his expression unreadable. His voice, when it came, was a ghost of itself—too calm, too still. “So you did give them the key?”

A desperate kind of hope clawed at his insides. He needed Louis to say no. Needed it with every fractured shard of his soul.

Louis nodded.

But Harry didn’t accept it. He couldn’t. He stood frozen in place, his breath caught somewhere between fury and disbelief.

No, maybe—maybe he didn’t mean to nod.

He stepped forward, voice taut with strain. “Use your words. Tell me. You gave them that key?”

Louis’s gaze dropped like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Yes,” he whispered, brokenly.

“Willingly?” Harry asked, holding onto the last splinter of possibility like a man clinging to a cliff’s edge.

“Yes,” Louis breathed again, and this time, a tear escaped the corner of his eye.

Harry stepped forward and seized Louis’s shoulders, hands trembling. He stared into his omega’s face like a dying man begging for mercy. His voice cracked around the edges, thin and fraying.

“Are you sure, omega? They didn’t threaten you? They didn’t coerce you? Didn’t… didn’t force your hand?”

“No, Harry.” Louis’s voice was soft. Regretful. A whisper carved from guilt.

Silence.

Then Harry’s hands dropped from Louis’s shoulders like they burned. He staggered back a step, the breath rushing from his lungs.

“Why?” he murmured, almost inaudible.

And then louder—anguished, brutal.

“Why?!”

Louis’s voice cracked as he tried to explain, panic and sorrow battling in his throat. “Because of what you did! You killed that man—Valentino’s son-in-law! He had nothing to do with your feud, and she—she was pregnant! She lost her child! She came to me in tears—what was I supposed to do? Turn her away like she meant nothing?”

Harry stared at him like he was looking at a stranger. “Whose son-in-law?”

“Valentino’s,” Louis choked.

For a moment, the room was dead silent. Then Harry let out a slow, hollow laugh. He looked at Louis like he’d just confessed to gutting him with his bare hands.

“Valentino has no daughter.”

Louis blinked. His knees buckled as his world collapsed inward. “No. No, that’s not true—she showed me photos—she cried—she…”

Harry dragged a hand through his hair, breath shaking. “You were played. You were used, and you didn’t even stop to think. You—” his voice cracked again, raw and jagged, “you didn’t ask me. You didn’t come to me. You just… handed them the blade.”

Louis clutched his chest, as if to hold his heart together. “I didn’t know—Harry, I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t want to know,” Harry growled. “You wanted me to be the villain. And you gave them the key to bury me.”

He turned away, back heaving with the force of what he was trying to contain.

“I trusted you,” Harry whispered. “The one time—the one time in my life I let myself trust someone…” he laughed bitterly, voice thick with heartbreak, “you handed me to the wolves.”

"Oh God,” Louis whispered, his voice cracked and desperate, his hands trembling at his sides. He was bracing for it—the eruption, the fury. The kind of wrath only Harry could wield like a blade. And this time, for the first time, he would deserve it.

Then his eyes caught the bruises painting Harry’s skin like violet curses. The blood crusting his knuckles. The tear in his once-pristine suit.

Louis’s chest ached with sudden, visceral pain. “A-are you okay?” he asked, voice breaking as he took a tentative step forward. “Your hand—does it hurt?”

But Harry stepped back, as if Louis’s presence was poison. “Stay away.”

The words struck like a lash. Louis froze, lips trembling, tears still flowing freely down his cheeks. Harry looked at him then—really looked. And what Louis saw in those eyes wasn’t rage. It was something worse. Something cavernous and rotting and hollow. Something breaking.

There was no lie on Louis’s face. No calculation. Just sorrow, horror, and a childlike ache to be forgiven. And that hurt more. That meant he truly believed it—that Harry was cruel enough to murder a man whose only sin was being loved. That he thought Harry capable of extinguishing an unborn life.

Harry’s voice came low, nearly inaudible, carried on the ghost of a breath. “I could’ve died.” His eyes didn’t meet Louis’s. “Would’ve, if I hadn’t given you a fake. The key… it was a decoy.”

Louis flinched as if struck, lips parting, words forming and failing. Pain bloomed across his features, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t get to. Not now.

A bitter, mirthless laugh left Harry’s lips, cracked and hollow like a coffin lid unsealing. “I thought you didn’t lie,” he murmured, each word a shard of glass. “You said you loved me.” His voice trembled, broken beyond repair. “But I get it. I do. There’s nothing in me that deserves love. I’m the monster. Your culprit. I treated you badly, I—hurt you. I know I'm not a good husband. But betrayal?”

Louis shook his head, tears falling in waves now. “No,” he choked. “No, I do love you. I swear I do.” He stepped forward again, hands raised like surrender. “I—I didn’t do it to hurt you. I thought—I thought it was the right thing. I thought I was protecting—”

“I told you,” Harry rasped, jaw clenching. “I don’t kill innocents.”

And yet here they stood—Louis, bathed in guilt and anguish, and Harry, silent and splintered, a man hollowed out from the inside.

Harry didn’t yell. He didn’t scream. He just broke, in a way no sound could capture.

"Say something!” Louis cried, voice raw and unraveling, his breaths sharp and shallow as he closed the remaining inches between them. “Please! Yell at me—curse me—punish me like you do the others who betray you. Just… say something!”

Harry lifted his hand—not with rage, but reverence. His trembling fingers brushed softly over Louis’s damp cheek, gathering a falling tear like a fragment of something sacred. “Hurt you?” he whispered, the words brittle. “Like I do the others? I can’t. You’re too precious.”

A pause. A breath that felt like death.

“I don’t hurt the ones who betray me, omega,” Harry murmured, drawing his hand away. “I kill them.”

Louis shivered violently, like a string pulled taut, and his tears flowed faster. Still, he stepped closer, close enough that their breaths mingled in the quiet between them. “You can’t,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m pregnant. You can’t…”

“Of course I can’t,” Harry replied calmly, his voice colder than winter steel.

“Then punish me,” Louis begged, desperate, clinging to his shirt like a drowning man. “Like you have before. I’ll take anything. Just… forgive me.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “Punishments are for disobedience. For mistakes. Not for treason.”

Louis sobbed, words tumbling from his lips like confessions from a bleeding soul. “Please, alpha… for the sake of this child—for the sake of us—forgive me. I was just trying to do the right thing. You’ve not been kind to me, not always—you’ve wounded me, starved me of warmth, and then given me a single drop of love like it was mercy. And then you pull away and leave me gasping. I was hurt. I was furious. I—”

“For shutting the bond?” Harry interrupted, eyes dark and unreadable.

Louis nodded, guilt painted in salt and trembling.

“You should be grateful I did,” Harry hissed, stepping forward. “If your wolf had still been tethered to mine when you handed over that key, do you know what would’ve happened? You would’ve dropped. Collapsed. No omega can survive the pain of betraying a bonded alpha—not while their wolves are connected. Do you understand that?”

Louis’s lips parted, but no sound came. The realization hit him like a thunderclap. His wolf wouldn’t have endured it. The child inside him wouldn’t have endured it. And for the first time, Louis truly saw the violence of the danger he'd walked into.

“You would’ve destroyed yourself,” Harry whispered bitterly. “More than you destroyed me.”

“I am destroyed!” Louis cried out, hands fisting in Harry’s torn shirt. “Don’t you see that? Please—don’t you understand?” His voice was a litany of grief, trembling at the edge of hysteria. “I love you. And the worst punishment I could ever endure is you doubting that. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared—we never talk, not really. We’re not a real couple, are we? We don’t share, we don’t trust, and I—God, I panicked. I was so scared. I should’ve asked you. I should’ve believed you.”

Harry stared at him, his expression carved from anguish and betrayal. His voice was the sound of something crumbling. “You tried to ruin me,” he said, low and sharp. “You humiliated me. In front of everyone. Now they all know… that my own omega turned against me.”

Louis shook his head, desperate now, his voice barely a thread. “Please…” His eyes, wide and rimmed with anguish, met Harry’s hollow stare. “Why aren’t you getting angry? Why won’t you shout—break something—punish me, for God’s sake. Just… do something! Say it! Scream!” His voice cracked like glass, begging to be shattered beneath the weight of Harry’s silence.

But Harry only shook his head, slow and weary, as if the motion itself hurt. “No,” he murmured, voice dulled like a blade that had seen too many battles. “I have no fight left in me, Louis. None.” He looked through Louis now, past him, beyond him. “I understand why you did it. I know I haven’t been the kind of alpha you deserved. I know I’ve wounded you in more ways than one.”

Then, quieter, bitter, “But this... this wasn’t justice. This wasn’t love. There were other ways to hurt me—less final, less devastating. You knew who I was, omega.”

Louis’s sob turned raw. “That’s not why I did it! I wasn’t trying to punish you! Why can’t you believe me? Why—”

The air shifted. Thickened.

Harry’s pheromones darkened, crashing through the room like a thunderclap. Anger coiled in the air like smoke from a fire just starting to rage. Louis faltered. His wolf whimpered deep inside him. He knew. He knew that Harry had let him speak this long only because he allowed it.

But that allowance was over.

“I’ll open the bond in a few days,” Harry whispered. “If I don’t, it could hurt the baby.”

Then, Harry’s hand snapped forward, gripping his face—his jaw caught between strong, unyielding fingers. He leaned in, close enough to burn, his breath heavy with the scent of something dying inside him. “You’ve made me break every single one of my rules,” he said, voice like a cracked bell tolling in the dark. “I don’t kneel. I don’t beg. I don’t forgive or apologize. I kill, Louis.”

His eyes were wild—haunted—swimming in betrayal and fury and grief.

“I took my first life when I was fourteen. A rat. A traitor. I slit his throat in the snow and never flinched.” Harry’s voice trembled now, not from weakness but from the unbearable weight of emotion he could no longer drown in whiskey or war. “But you... look at what you’ve made of me. Look at what I’ve become.” He pulled back slowly, as if recoiling from a reflection he could no longer bear. “You’ve turned me into a hypocrite. A coward. A man who breaks every rule for someone who shattered him.”

Louis’s tears spilled freely now. “You should’ve told me who Valentino really was—”

“Enough!” Harry roared, voice rolling through the library like thunder breaking the spine of the earth. He let go of Louis’s face like it burned him.

Louis collapsed into stillness. His body trembled violently, his instincts surging—raw and primal. His head dropped in submission, neck bared, eyes fixed to the floor. He couldn't speak. Wouldn’t dare.

And then, gently—desperately—he pressed a hand to his belly, trying to soothe the life growing within, as if shielding it from the storm outside and the wreckage inside him.

“Stay away from the top floor,” Harry commanded, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet, “and all of the south wing. Where my office is.”

His pheromones pressed down like a yoke, authoritative and final.

“Carry my child well. If you need something… my card will suffice.

Louis nodded, silent, compliant. A ghost in the shape of a boy.

Harry’s gaze lingered on him, cold and unreadable, yet something raw flickered beneath—the dying embers of a once-blazing fire.

“We will no longer share a bedroom,” he added flatly. “I’ll be on the top floor.” 

Louis’s lips parted, a protest hanging half-formed on his tongue, but he swallowed it. Drowned it. Said nothing.

What would he even say? That he couldn’t sleep without the steady weight of Harry beside him? That even on the nights Harry said nothing, did nothing, the sheer presence of his alpha had anchored Louis through nights? That he’d give anything to wake to the feeling of his scent wrapped around him again?

But Louis had forfeited the right to that comfort the moment he handed over the key.

Harry could see it—all of it. The thoughts unraveling behind Louis’s tear-glazed eyes, flickering across his delicate features like shadows across glass. He’d always been so easy to read. An open page. A trembling parchment.

 Harry knew he was spiraling. He knew Louis's mind was unraveling with the implications: the separation, the silence, the vast loneliness that was about to become his new reality.

And worse—the terrifying thought of other omegas, of Harry reaching for someone else. Someone who hadn’t betrayed him.

“I won’t sleep with other omegas,” Harry said suddenly, gruff and low.

Louis blinked, his head snapping up in surprise, eyes wide with disbelief.

How—how had he known?

But before Louis could even utter a breath of gratitude, Harry’s voice cut again, sharper, crueler, bitter with rage he no longer cared to conceal. “For a traitor, you’re awfully easy to read. Maybe that’s why you were so easy to manipulate.”

It was like being punched in the gut. Louis felt it physically, his chest collapsing in on itself. His knees nearly gave. He flinched at the word—traitor—as if it had claws.

Because he wasn’t. Not really. Was he? 

The guilt had gnawed at him since the moment he found out what he’d done. But now, hearing it from Harry’s lips made it real. Made it a scar carved into his identity.

Harry turned then, without softness, without farewell.

But Louis—barefoot, broken—reached out and clung to the back of his shirt, fists trembling. “Please,” he whispered. A single syllable soaked in ruin.

Harry stilled. The muscles in his back twitched beneath the fabric. Then, slowly, he pried Louis’s hands from his clothes—delicately, almost reverently. As if the act itself was a eulogy.

His touch was soft. But his silence was merciless.

And then he left—without looking back.

Louis stood there, alone, in the echoing silence, the scent of him still lingering like a memory that refused to fade. He pressed a palm to his abdomen, as if that could keep his heart from spilling out.

Chapter Text

Time. It moved forward like a cruel river—indifferent, unyielding. It did not pause for shattered hearts or mourn for the things it swept away. It slithered through wounds like ivy, growing over the cracks and pretending they were never there. While humans clung to ghosts and remnants of yesterday, time marched on, cold and relentless.

Harry and Louis were strangers now.

Strangers who lived beneath the same roof, yet occupied different worlds. Strangers who breathed the same air but never in unison. Strangers who once shared skin and silence and warmth—but now stole glances when the other wasn’t looking, longing wrapped in shame.

They were strangers who knew each other too well to be indifferent. And too hurt to be anything else.

The bond had been reopened. It pulsed between them again, an invisible tether that should have bridged the chasm—but it didn’t. It only reminded them of what had been lost. A lifeline wrapped around bleeding wrists.

Louis had tried, in the early days after it all. He had wandered toward Harry’s shadow, hands hesitant, mouth trembling with words never spoken. But the distance never closed. Harry’s eyes, once molten with affection, were cold stone now. And eventually, Louis had stopped trying. After all, Harry hadn’t been kind either. He had wielded silence like a sword. If penance was owed, Louis was not the only debtor.

And Harry… Harry had returned to the shell of the man he once was. Hardened. Untouchable. The walls he built now reached heaven, impenetrable and high, sealed with guilt and rage. He tried to convince himself he didn’t feel—that the crack in his soul wasn’t aching every time he passed Louis’s scent in the hallway. That the silence didn’t gut him.

Nights found him far from home, far from the soft ache of Louis’s memory. He haunted bars and alleyways, surrounded by smoke and dim lights, drowning in venom that couldn’t numb him. And though he kept his promise—no other omegas, no wandering hands or whispered sins—he told himself it was for the child.

But it wasn’t. They both knew it wasn’t.

It was because no one else would do. No touch could compare. No scent could calm the storm.

But Harry would never admit it. He’d rather bleed quietly than beg. Rather stand alone than kneel.

And so they moved through their shared life like ghosts—haunted, haunting, and too afraid to say that they missed the sound of the other’s voice.

Because in the wreckage of love, pride is always the last thing to die.

It had been a month.

A month since everything fell apart, and the silence was beginning to bleed into Louis’s bones. Not the soft kind, not the merciful kind—but the brutal, fire-laced kind the doctor had warned him about. The kind that wrapped around his ribs like a vice and whispered in his ear in the dead of night: You’re alone.

And he was.

He needed Harry.

Not in the way he once had, when the bond first tethered them together—clumsy, desperate, uncertain. But now with a quiet, aching need that burned low in his chest and made his breaths feel like broken glass. He couldn’t keep up the game anymore. Couldn’t keep pretending that pride was heavier than pain. Not when he was carrying life inside him. Not when every heartbeat inside that growing swell of his belly reminded him of who helped create it.

But Harry had made himself unreachable.

He occupied the top floor like a ghost king—unseen, untouchable, divine in his distance. His absence was not accidental. It was deliberate. A knife in slow motion. He had barricaded himself behind thick walls and wings of the mansion Louis wasn’t allowed to enter. And Louis—Louis had obeyed.

He always obeyed.

Their marriage had never been built on the dreams people spoke of. There had been no vows beneath soft candlelight. No whispered confessions. No falling into each other with reckless joy. No, their union was forged in smoke and strategy, sealed with power and paper. It had been a matter of necessity. Of survival. Of legacy. Not love.

At least… not for Harry.

Louis liked to pretend it was different. He liked to believe that somewhere in that cold-blooded man was a softness only he could reach. He told himself he loved Harry, said it aloud once—twice—too many times. But Harry never said it back. Never even looked like he believed it.

Maybe he never would.

And so Louis sat alone in the quiet, in the unshared bed, with the baby beneath his heart and Harry a floor too far. Swallowed whole by the silence, waiting for something to break. Maybe Harry. Maybe himself.

Louis felt it again—that burn beneath his skin, that ache that curled low in his belly and higher in his throat, pressing against the sobs he refused to let out. It wasn’t a want. Wants were simple. Childish. This was a need. Raw, primal, unbearable. His wolf was crying for him. Crying for Harry.

But even the thought of approaching him now felt insurmountable, like standing at the edge of a cliff with nowhere to fall but down.

He didn’t want Harry’s arms. He needed them—needed that intoxicating warmth, that rare heat that came with Harry's hands on his body, heavy and possessive, with his scent like smoke and shadow curling around Louis’s spine. Needed to feel small and safe and claimed beneath him. He knew the feeling. That dizzying high of surrender, of being pliant in his alpha’s hold, of melting into someone bigger, crueler, gentler, his.

But then—inevitably—Harry would leave.

He would pull away with that frozen detachment, like nothing had passed between them. Like Louis’s need was an inconvenience. Like love was a myth meant for other people.

And Louis would be left cold.

So cold.

He shivered just thinking of it.

That aftermath—the silence, the ache of absence, the air too empty where Harry had just been—it felt lethal now. Like something he couldn’t survive a second time. Not after everything.

And so he sat with it, this burning ache, swallowing it down like poison, praying it wouldn’t kill him. Knowing, deep down, it already was.

It was evening.

He hadn’t eaten. Couldn’t. The thought of food made his stomach churn. Something inside him felt too wild, too unsettled, like a storm trapped beneath his skin, clawing at his insides. So he left the bedroom, the silence pressing too heavy against his chest, and wandered.

The hallway stretched ahead like a ghost’s corridor, lined with shadows and whispers of a life that didn’t feel like his anymore. Louis walked slowly, each step drawn out, as if the weight of the ache in his chest had seeped into his limbs.

He found his way to the garden.

It always looked beautiful under the bruised hue of dusk. The sky was painted in silvers and violets, a quiet kind of weeping light, and the flowers bowed gently in the evening wind. Louis had loved this place since the first moment he stepped foot in the mansion—it had felt like a secret kept just for him. A sanctuary.

Now, it felt like memory.

He sank to the earth, knees curling close to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them like he could fold himself into something smaller, quieter, easier to forget. He rested his head on his knees, and breathed through the hollowness inside him.

It hurt.

It ached in a way that no one ever warned you about. Not the kind of ache that came from broken bones or torn flesh—but the kind that lived in your soul.

And then—there was a sound.

Soft paws against the grass. A gentle padding. Then fur, warm and familiar, nudging his foot.

Louis lifted his head, eyes wet, and a broken smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

“Lucy,” he whispered.

The cat meowed softly.

She padded over, slow and deliberate, and curled beside him in the grass. Louis reached out a trembling hand and stroked her fur, burying his fingers in her softness like it might ground him, like it might stitch him back together.

Lucy purred. A sound so simple, so constant, so real.

So he stayed there. In the garden. With nothing but the flowers and the wind and the cat who loved him when the world forgot how.

And for the first time that day, Louis let himself cry—not in silence, not in shame—but in the open, beneath a bleeding sky.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Harry sat in his office, shrouded in shadows, the weight of night settling like ash across his shoulders. Thoughts of Louis curled around him like smoke—inescapable, suffocating. It had become a ritual, this quiet ache. Each evening bled into another with Louis on his mind, a name he could not exorcise.

Louis.
Louis.
Louis.
Louis.

The name throbbed in his chest like an old wound reopened. He was everywhere. In the scent that still clung faintly to Harry’s clothes, in the shape of the bed left too empty, in the haunting silhouette of soft footsteps echoing in memory. His hair. His mouth. The child swelling gently beneath his skin. The tremble in his voice when he called him Alpha.

It had been a month since he’d heard that voice directed towards him, and it was unmaking him.

Harry had once believed himself unfeeling, a vessel carved hollow by survival. But Louis had awakened something monstrous and tender all at once—a storm of need and ruin. And now, in the aftermath, Harry was left to drown in the very thing he thought he had outgrown: feeling.

The scar Louis left on him wasn’t visible, but it pulsed like something infected beneath his ribs. To survive in the world Harry ruled, a man didn’t need a hundred laws. Just a few. Steel-bound. Bone-deep. Immutable. Break them, and you invited collapse. There was one rule Harry had never dared violate—never spare the mole. Show no mercy. Mercy is a crack. And cracks let the rot in.

But Louis—Louis had broken him clean in half.

And still… he could not lift a hand to hurt him.

Louis had shaken Harry to his very core—splintered the steel of him, cracked open the shell he’d forged from blood and iron. He couldn't—wouldn't—even imagine hurting the omega. Not Louis. Not the boy who smelled like spring storms and looked at him like he was something worth saving.

But still, the echo of an old argument rang in his head, sharp and familiar, like glass underfoot.
“Go on, Alpha. You raised your hand. Don’t back off now.”

Harry let out a bitter, hollow sigh, the kind that scraped its way up from somewhere deep and dark.
As if.
As if he could ever follow through with that. As if he hadn’t frozen, paralyzed, the moment Louis had flinched. As if he hadn’t hated himself instantly for making him believe—even for a second—that he would.

And in the chaos that followed—the silence, the distance, the cold—it hadn’t even hit him. Not until now. Not until he sat here alone and let himself feel it.
That Louis had believed he would.
That Louis had braced for it.
That somewhere along the line, Harry had become a man his omega thought might strike him.

The realization gutted him.

He knew he wasn’t a good husband. Had never intended to be one. He’d never asked for this life—for marriage, for softness, for belonging.

If it had been any other omega, he would’ve let them go. Paid them off. Given them a safe house, a new name, a life far from him.

But if it had been any other omega... none of this would’ve happened.
Because Harry would’ve never let it get that far.
He wouldn’t have knotted them. Wouldn’t have cared.

But Louis—
Louis. Louis. Louis.

He'd wrecked everything. Set fire to every rule, every boundary.
And Harry still couldn't bring himself to extinguish the flame.

Harry had bent a rule for Louis—a rule that was the cornerstone of his world, the spine of his survival. And he hadn’t just bent it. He’d shattered it. For Louis. Only Louis.

But truthfully, it wasn’t just love, or obsession, or possession that made him do it. It was understanding. A deep, bitter kind. The kind that made guilt settle like rust on the edges of his conscience.

Louis was soft. Too soft for the sharp edges of the life Harry led. And Harry—fool that he was—had mistaken that softness for resilience. Had thought Louis would adapt, learn, grow teeth. But he hadn’t. He’d stumbled. Been thrown into the mouth of the beast, left alone to decipher the snarls and shadows. And Harry had let him. That was the cruelest part. He’d kept him at arm’s length, convinced that distance meant protection, that silence meant safety.

He had been so wrong.

Louis had made his choice—yes. But he had done it with trembling hands and a heart too full of hope. Not malice. Not ambition. Just belief. That he could fix something. That he could do what was right.

Harry saw it now. Every time he closed his eyes. The look in Louis’s face before the betrayal. That wild, impossible glint in his eyes—a stubborn hope. A fire he refused to put out, even when the wind howled and the rain came down. A fire that still burned, even now, behind tear-streaked cheeks and downcast eyes.

And Harry—Harry, who had spent his whole life putting out fires—found himself unable to smother this one. Not because he couldn’t. But because he didn’t want to.

He could feel it now—sharp and aching through the bond and it reminded Harry of why he had closed it in the first place. But he wouldn't dare do it again. No. He needed to better.

He felt a phantom throb that wasn’t his, but pulsed beneath his skin like it belonged there. Louis. Always Louis. The ache in him was constant, quiet, but tonight it howled. Restless. Hollow. Hungry.

It had been a month.

A month of silence. A month of avoidance. A month of punishment neither of them deserved but both endured.

Harry's wolf stirred, agitated, unsettled. He didn’t need words. Instinct screamed it at him—he needs you. And Harry had ignored it for too long, locked in his ivory tower of coldness and pride, trying to forget that Louis wasn’t just anyone. He was his. And he was pregnant. And alone.

With a breath that shook loose something deep in his chest, Harry closed his laptop. The snap of it echoed like a verdict. Enough. He stood, fingers trembling, jaw tight with emotion he wouldn’t name—not guilt, not grief, not love. Something heavier.

He turned toward the door, ready to leave the building. Ready to go where he should’ve been all along.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

When Harry returned to the mansion, the first thing out of his mouth was a quiet, clipped question—“Where is he?” The maid, Sophie, didn’t hesitate. “The garden,” she said, and Harry gave a hard nod, already turning away.

The sky had softened into twilight, casting gold and violet over the sprawling grounds. The garden stretched wide before him, silent and still, but his eyes found Louis instantly—a small figure folded into himself at the far end, head buried in his knees, like he was trying to disappear into the earth.

Harry’s throat tightened. Something in his chest squeezed, harsh and unforgiving.

He walked slowly, each step deliberate. And as he drew near, he saw it—Louis was crying. His shoulders shook with it. Silent. Consuming. And so lost in it he didn’t even hear Harry approach.

Until the cat.

Lucy.

The damn beast launched out of nowhere like a tiny, furious sentinel, hissing as she landed between them, her back arched, her golden eyes aflame.

Louis’s head snapped up, breath catching as he saw Harry standing just a few feet away. His eyes were red, wet. He wiped at them quickly, ashamed.

Harry didn’t move. Just stared down at the cat with a resigned breath.
“Yes, Lucy. I hate you too.”

She hissed again—a warning, a promise—then gave both of them one last judgemental glare before sauntering off with her tail high, proud as a queen.

Louis sniffed, biting back a smile as he rubbed his eyes. “Oh. You were right. She really doesn’t like you.”

Harry’s lips curled at the edges, the smallest breath of a laugh leaving him.
“Yeah. Seems I was.”

And for a moment—just a moment—the world softened around them.

Harry looked at Louis again, truly looked at him—and what he saw made his chest ache. The omega cowered faintly under his gaze, like a flame flickering against wind, too delicate to burn bright, too stubborn to extinguish. He was so beautiful it hurt. Louis had always been beautiful. But now, with tear-glazed eyes—Harry was convinced those eyes would be the death of him. Blue like frostbite. Like sorrow. Like drowning.

“What are you doing out here all alone?” Harry asked, voice low, barely above the wind. “It’s almost night.”

“I… I don’t really know.” Louis’s reply came as a whisper, uncertain, frayed at the edges. He didn’t lift his head. Couldn’t meet Harry’s gaze. He sat there, stunned—frozen in disbelief. Because Harry was here. Talking to him. Coming to him. After a month of silence so heavy it had suffocated every bit of hope Louis had been clinging to, this moment felt like a hallucination.

Maybe it was a dream.

Because a month of silence from the one person you love… that’s not silence. It’s poison. It seeps in slowly, quietly, until it rots everything. And just when Louis thought it might finally end him—when he thought he might collapse under the weight of it—Harry came back. Like he always did. With just enough tenderness to keep Louis breathing. Just enough mercy to keep him from dying.

That was the cycle. Harry would let him suffer—let him wither—and the moment Louis found the strength to let go, Harry would show up. To feed him a drop of warmth. Just enough to survive. And then he’d disappear again. And Louis would suffer all over again. Always.

It was cruel.

It was love.

It was Harry.

Harry lowered himself to the grass, folding his tall frame in front of Louis with the hope—no, the quiet desperation—that proximity might coax the omega’s gaze to rise. But still, Louis wouldn't look at him. Wouldn’t lift those eyes that had once clung to him like the stars clung to the night sky.

“I know you’re upset,” Harry said softly, voice gentled, trembling just at the edges. “But… please. Look at me.”

And slowly—tentatively—Louis did.

A silence fell then. Deep. Sacred. A breath caught between them. And in that moment, Harry forgot every word he’d rehearsed, forgot every grudge he tried to hold. He was drowning in Louis’s gaze, in the way sadness softened the lines of his face into something unbearably tender. His omega. His undoing.

And Louis… Louis looked up at Harry as if he were the moon itself. So painfully handsome it made Louis want to cry all over again. That strong jaw, the curve of his lips, those impossibly green eyes that had once made him feel safe, now foreign and familiar all at once.

“You’re home early today,” Louis murmured, eyes flicking down, fingers brushing over the blades of grass like they might anchor him.

Harry nodded, his voice low. “Mhm. I missed you.”

Louis’s hand froze mid-motion. A breath hitched. And just like that—without fanfare, without warning—the tears came rushing back, stinging behind his lashes like salt on a wound. That one phrase cracked something open in him. Harry had never said that to him before.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, voice breaking around the confession.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, his voice a low murmur beneath the hush of the garden. “Our current position aside… I can feel you, you know. Through the bond. My wolf can feel it.”

Louis bit his lip hard. He wanted to say, Then why ask? Why pretend at distance when their souls still tangled like ivy? Why make him ache when he was already unraveling?

But he didn’t say it. He only looked down, lashes trembling.

“Your wolf can feel it,” he whispered. “That’s the answer, Alpha.”

The title fell from his lips like a surrender, a curse he was too tired to fight. Harry inched closer. Slowly, tentatively, as if any sudden movement might send Louis vanishing into mist. His hand hovered, then found Louis’s wrist, fingers curling around it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Louis whimpered at the contact—a soft, choked sound—and Harry felt it then.

Heat.

Not just an ache in the bond, but the wildfire beneath Louis’s skin. His scent had shifted, sweet and sharp and blooming. It clung to Harry’s senses like a drug. Harry let Louis's wrist go.

“You’re burning up,” Harry murmured, concern threading through his voice. It was too soon for fever. Omegas weren’t meant to go this long unmet—not when their bodies were carrying life.

“Please don’t make me say why,” Louis said with a faint laugh—bitter, strained. A joke painted in pain.

But they both knew it wasn’t a joke. Not really.

Because the reason was Harry.

Always him. Either his presence or his absence.

Harry let out a slow, pained sigh. “It can’t go on like this, Louis. You need me. This... this can get serious. You’re bordering on touch starvation.”

Louis shivered, the weight of the words curling around his spine like frost. “I’ve never denied that I need you,” he whispered, voice trembling like a leaf caught in wind.

Harry’s gaze darkened. “You haven’t come to me either.”

Louis looked up then, eyes locking with Harry’s, blue and stormy and shining like broken glass. “Can a man dying of thirst walk toward a well miles away?” he asked, voice soft but searing, each word dipped in ache. “When every step feels like it might be his last?”

Harry’s jaw tensed, his throat tightening. He stared at Louis, into the vast, bottomless ocean of him. And in those eyes he saw it: the wreckage of all they’d become. A boy who had been left outside the gates too long. A bond stretched threadbare, unraveling at the seams. A need so loud it had turned to silence.

God, Louis.

Harry’s fingers twitched at his side, as if aching to reach out. As if his body knew before his pride did.

But still, he sat there, jaw clenched, heart howling.

Because the truth was—he wasn’t sure who was thirstier.

Louis, for the touch he was starving for...

Or Harry, for the boy he never stopped craving.

“Come with me,” Harry asked, voice quiet—gentle in a way that cracked Louis open further.

But Louis shook his head, and the motion made tears spill down his cheeks, soft and helpless.

Harry’s brow twitched in surprise. “This isn’t the time for arguments, omega. You need this.”

“I—I’m not sure if I can handle it,” Louis whispered, voice fragile as glass.

Harry leaned in closer, the scent of him suddenly overwhelming, familiar, shattering. One hand reached forward, rough fingers brushing away a tear with a softness that didn’t belong to a man like him.

“Come with me,” he repeated, lower now, coaxing. “You need this. I promise… I’ll make you feel good.”

Louis bit his lip, trembling under the weight of the promise. God, he didn’t doubt that. Harry always made him feel good—blissful, wrecked, seen. And that was the danger.

“And I’ll hold you,” Harry added, and Louis’s heart paused. “Afterwards. For as long as you want.”

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way Harry said them—like they cost him something, like they meant everything. That look in his eyes, vivid green and almost unbearably sincere. Louis had never heard him promise comfort before. Never heard him offer his arms not just for the act, but for the after.

Louis stared, breathing shakily.

As long as I want? he thought. How long is that? How long could Harry bear? Because Louis didn’t want a moment. He didn’t want an hour.

He wanted eternity.

He wanted Harry to hold him until the days folded into darkness, until their limbs blurred into one tangle of ivy-covered devotion. Until the aching distance between them softened into soil and was buried under the weight of wanting. Until there was no Harry and Louis—only them. Intertwined. Boundless.

But maybe not even eternity could undo what had passed between them. Maybe not even forever could reconcile the words hurled, the wounds etched in silence, the betrayal heavy on their tongues. Maybe they were too broken.

And yet—Louis ached. He burned.

He needed him.

So he yielded.

He nodded.

Harry leaned in and kissed him—devoured him, like he’d been starved and Louis was the only thing that could keep him alive.

Louis didn’t resist.

He melted.

He moaned softly into Harry’s mouth, arms rising, wrapping around his neck like ivy, desperate to pull him closer. Closer. Closer. As if proximity could erase pain. As if skin against skin could undo a month of silence.

The kiss broke with a breathless gasp, but Harry didn’t pause. His lips traveled lower—to Louis’s jaw, to his throat, to the tender line where scent bloomed strongest. He kissed. He bit. Louis shuddered, a tremble cascading through his entire body. It felt like being remade. Like Harry’s mouth, his teeth, his scent—were piecing Louis back together again from the ruin he had been.

Then, suddenly, Harry stood. Before Louis could rise on his own, strong arms swept him up. He gasped, startled.

“Harry—”

But he didn’t resist that either. He folded into the embrace like a prayer finally answered, looping his arms around Harry’s shoulders, letting his head fall against his alpha’s chest.

Harry carried him with a purpose. Through the garden’s side entrance, into the mansion, and past the usual halls—he moved swiftly, taking a secret door that led straight to the wing. Their wing.

No.

Not their wing.

Not anymore.

It used to be Harry’s. Then it was theirs. And now… now it was Louis’s alone. A room soaked in memories. In emptiness. In echoing nights and unspoken longing.

But as Harry carried him through that door, something shifted in the air—something ancient and aching, something that smelled like home.

The door creaked shut behind them with a heavy finality, the sound echoing like the closing of some sacred vault. The room was quiet, dimly lit by the dying light of evening pressing through the windows. The air was thick with everything they hadn’t said, everything they had buried. And yet it smelled like them. Like the bond that refused to die.

Harry walked them slowly toward the bed—their bed. It hadn’t felt like it in weeks, not since Harry had exiled himself upstairs, but now with Louis in his arms again, it remembered them. It welcomed them back.

He laid Louis down with the kind of care reserved for something fragile. Something irreplaceable.

Louis looked up at him, breath caught in his throat. The way Harry hovered above him—green eyes dark, unreadable—he felt like a ghost trying to remember what it meant to be alive.

Harry didn’t touch him right away. He just stood there for a long moment, taking Louis in. His swollen belly. His tear-streaked cheeks. The tremble in his hands he tried so hard to hide.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Harry whispered hoarsely, almost ashamed to say it.

Louis blinked. His breath hitched. “Even after everything?”

Harry didn’t answer with words. He leaned down and kissed his covered belly, reverently, slowly. Then he took off Louis's shirt with and kissed his belly again. Then higher, lips brushing over Louis’s chest, his collarbone, his throat. Louis’s eyes fluttered shut. A soft sob escaped him, but it wasn’t pain this time. It was relief. It was surrender. It was the aching echo of finally.

Harry hovered above him again, lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but couldn’t. So Louis said it for him.

“Be gentle and don’t leave after. Please.”

Harry’s gaze shattered. He cupped Louis’s face like it was something precious, like if he let go too fast it might splinter into a thousand pieces.

“I will be and I won’t. I told you already, I won't.” he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of everything they were. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until you tell me to.”

Louis exhaled a trembling breath. “Then you’ll never leave.”

And Harry didn’t reply—he just kissed him again, slow and deep and aching. As if eternity could begin in that one breath.

Harry kissed him again—slower this time. Less like hunger and more like worship. Like he was relearning Louis’s mouth, re-etching every soft breath and trembling sigh into memory. Louis clung to him, fingers sliding into those familiar curls at the base of Harry’s neck, trying to anchor himself in the reality of this—of them.

It had been too long. His body ached in places beyond muscle and bone—his soul throbbed with need.

As Harry’s hands traced down Louis’s sides, over the swell of his stomach, Louis gasped softly. He could already feel it beginning—slick. His body responding to Harry's touch, the bond awakened again like a flame catching on dry wood. They took off their clothes with practiced ease.

“I can smell you,” Harry murmured, voice low and reverent, eyes flickering gold at the corners. “You're so ready for me.”

Louis flushed, hips shifting restlessly on the sheets. He was. God, he was.

Harry moved lower, kissing across Louis’s skin, down the inside of his thighs, murmuring quiet nothings into him like prayers. When his mouth finally reached where Louis needed him most, he didn’t hesitate. He licked deep, slow, firm. Louis arched with a broken moan, one hand clamping over his mouth, the other twisting the sheets.

Harry’s tongue worked him open with practiced care. It burned a little—just the faintest scratch from stubble on Harry’s jaw—but Louis liked it. Liked the rawness of it. Unfiltered, untamed. Him and Harry, skin and scent and surrender.

He was so slick now it dripped onto the bed beneath him.

Harry pulled back just enough to speak, voice hoarse and thick with emotion. “I need to knot you.”

Louis looked at him through half-lidded, teary eyes and nodded, lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came out. Just a breath. Just yes written into every trembling inch of him.

Harry aligned them slowly, hands never leaving Louis’s body. When he finally pushed in, Louis gasped and held onto him with everything he had. It was a stretch, deep and overwhelming, but it was right. He’d missed this. Missed Harry inside him, around him, with him.

The rhythm was gentle, almost reverent. Harry whispered soft nothings against Louis’s skin, every thrust. Which was a big change. Harry didn't do gentle. He was always rough but today he couldn't be. Couldn't bring himself to use Louis. Because before this, every time he'd had sex was for his own pleasure. But today—today it was for Louis. To make Louis feel good. To make Louis's ache, his deprivation go away.

Louis moaned and whined as Harry thrust in and out. Harry groaned, loving the feeling of Louis around him.

And then came the knot—thick and insistent, stretching Louis further until it locked them together. Finally, Louis climaxed moaning, Alpha! Louis whimpered, overwhelmed, and Harry pulled him close, arms curling around him like a shield.

They stayed like that—knotted, tangled, still. Harry’s hand on Louis’s stomach, feeling their baby move beneath his palm. Louis’s head tucked into Harry’s shoulder, tears drying on his cheeks.

Harry stayed pressed to him, body warm and firm and breathing steady. Their knot pulsed gently where they were joined, anchoring them together like it always had—like a promise Harry never knew how to keep, but always came back to anyway.

Louis lay quiet, cheek resting against Harry’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. He felt safe there. Heavy-limbed and warm and full. As if he could finally melt into the silence and disappear from the ache for just a little while.

But all things passed.

The knot began to ease, slowly softening inside him. Louis shifted, and a faint whimper escaped him without warning.

“Shhh,” Harry whispered, brushing the back of his knuckles down Louis’s flushed cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He pulled out gently, so carefully, and Louis flinched with a soft sound, one that twisted something deep in Harry’s chest.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Harry murmured again, easing Louis to lie flat and curling around him protectively. He reached for a nearby blanket and wrapped them both in it, cocooning Louis in heat and scent and the safety he hadn’t had for weeks.

Louis nestled into him, eyelids fluttering. He was exhausted, but his mind hadn’t stopped spinning.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“Are we… okay now?” Louis whispered. “ Are you not mad at me any longer? Can we start over?”

Harry was quiet for a moment. Then he kissed the top of Louis’s head and tucked him in closer, hand resting over Louis’s stomach again.

“Don’t think about all that right now,” he said softly. “Just sleep, omega. I’m not going anywhere.”

Louis blinked up at him, and Harry looked down, eyes green and tired but something in them had softened. Something was different this time. Harry was never like this. Louis didn't know what had happened in that one month to make Harry so soft. Maybe Harry had really missed Louis. Had realized that Louis actually cared for him. Or maybe he had realized that his child felt the sadness Louis felt.

“Sleep,” he said again, brushing their noses together gently. “We’ll figure it out. But right now, you rest.”

And Louis did. For the first time in weeks, he let go. Let himself drift off in Harry’s arms, wrapped in his scent, his warmth, his promise.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The morning was still, golden with the gentle light of dawn. The warmth of the bed clung to Louis like a soft haze, the sheets wrapped around him, Harry’s scent thick in the air. His limbs were heavy, pleasantly sore, and he wasn’t quite ready to move. Not yet.

He heard the soft rustle of clothes—buttons fastened, a belt buckled, the gentle swish of polished shoes against the floor. Harry was getting ready.

Louis blinked his eyes open just in time to see him buttoning up his shirt in the mirror. Strong, quiet, put together. As always. Harry caught his gaze in the reflection, paused.

“I have to go in for a few hours,” he said, his voice lower in the hush of morning. “Is that okay?”

Louis blinked. Permission. That was new. He gave a faint nod, eyes still half-lidded with sleep. “Yeah.”

Louis opened one eye lazily. “I might go shopping today… with Lottie.”

Harry came over to the bed, sat on the edge. His hand ran gently down Louis’s arm under the blanket.

“You can go shopping if you want,” he added, brushing some hair from Louis’s eyes. “But take a guard with you.”

Louis’s brows furrowed slightly, lips pressing into a faint pout. “Seriously?”

Harry gave him a patient look. “It’s not up for debate, Louis. Just one guard. Please.”

Louis let out a sigh, turning his face back into the pillow. “Fine,” he mumbled.

Harry stood, smoothing the cuff of his sleeve again. The silence stretched.

Louis shifted a little, suddenly unsure, heart beating faster though nothing had happened. “Um…”

Harry turned back. “Hm?”

Louis bit his lip. Embarrassment crept up his throat. “Do you have… I mean, can I have one of your hoodies? I need your scent today.”

Harry blinked. His wolf was ecstatic at Louis's request. He felt happy, proud. He walked back to the closet and pulled out a dark blue one. He tossed it lightly onto the bed. “It’s yours.”

Louis pulled it to his chest, eyes lowering as he clutched it. “Thanks.”

A beat passed. He wondered—just for a flicker of a second—if Harry would say something more. Something about last night. About what it meant. If they'd talk. Really talk. But Harry didn’t. Louis knew he wouldn’t. That wasn’t who he was. Harry avoided things that cut too deep. And maybe… maybe Louis did too.

So he said nothing. He watched as Harry crossed to the door, gave him one last look—green eyes unreadable—and disappeared into the quiet hallway.

Louis curled back into the bed, hoodie held to his chest.

Chapter Text

A few more days had passed, and slowly—almost imperceptibly—things began to mend. The air between them was lighter, no longer thick with silence and unspoken hurt. Louis had discovered that shopping, much to his own surprise, could actually be fun. Especially when there were no limits. When the world, for once, didn’t say no. It was almost addictive. It did have it's pros, being married to a wealthy alpha.

Harry didn’t care how much he spent—on the contrary, he encouraged it. The first time Louis had come back from an outing with Lottie, bags in hand and guilt clouding his features, he’d quietly approached Harry and murmured an apology. “I might’ve gone a bit overboard…”

Harry had looked at him, genuinely confused. “I didn’t even notice,” he’d said. “That’s not a lot, Louis. Spend whatever you want. It’s your money too.”

Louis had only nodded, heart twisting strangely in his chest. Not used to that kind of generosity. That kind of freedom.

He still didn’t go wild, but he allowed himself to enjoy it. To feel a little pampered. He told himself he deserved it. Just a little sweetness for once.

Today, though, hadn’t been about him.

Today, he’d gone shopping for the baby.

He didn’t know the gender yet—his next appointment was still a week away—but that hadn’t stopped him. He’d wandered through the aisles of the boutique, fingers brushing soft cotton and tiny booties, selecting gentle colors and sweet, neutral patterns. Creams and greys, sage greens, soft yellows.

He had held up a tiny onesie with little stars printed on it and imagined holding a bundle close to his chest. Imagined Harry holding it too.

And for the first time in a long while, Louis smiled, small and quiet and true.

Louis was curled up on the living room couch, a warm mug of tea cradled in his hands, the soft rustle of shopping bags on the table nearby. Evening light spilled in golden threads across the carpet. He heard footsteps—steady, familiar. Harry was home.

Harry hadn’t said goodbye that morning. Not even a whisper before leaving. Since their night together, he'd made it a habit—stroking Louis’s hair or pressing a kiss to his temple before he left. Today, nothing. And Louis felt it. Besides, he was very hormonal these days and any small matter could make him upset or cry.

When Harry entered the room, his eyes went straight to him—Louis, small and wrapped up on the couch like something fragile.

“Hello,” Harry said softly, walking toward him.

Louis didn’t look up. He tightened his fingers around the mug and gave a quiet, pointed pout. “Hi,” he murmured, the word falling like a drop of cold water.

Harry raised an eyebrow, unbuttoning the top of his coat as he sank down onto the couch beside Louis. His gaze swept over the shopping bags before landing back on the omega. “Went shopping today?”

Louis finally looked at him, eyes flat, lips curling into a false smile. “No. I went on a date with another alpha. I’m having an affair.”

Harry’s expression shifted instantly—green eyes darkening like storm clouds rolling in over the sea. The corner of his jaw ticked. “Careful with your jokes, omega,” he said.

“I wasn’t joking,” Louis replied coolly, holding Harry’s gaze with infuriating calm. “But okay.”

Harry didn’t respond with words.

Instead, he reached forward, snatched the teacup from Louis’s hands and set it down sharply on the table. The next second, his hands were at Louis’s waist, gripping tightly—possessively—and in one swift, fluid motion, he pulled Louis into his lap.

Louis gave a tiny yelp of protest, hands bracing against Harry’s chest, but the alpha only tightened his hold.

“You think that’s funny?” Harry said, his breath brushing against Louis’s cheek. His hold on Louis tightening.

Louis let out a dramatic huff but didn’t resist. He never really did. He melted into Harry’s hold, letting the alpha arrange him however he pleased—like always.

“You didn’t even say goodbye to me before leaving,” he whined, voice small, petulant, as he buried his face against Harry’s chest.

Harry blinked, and then it clicked. He let out a low chuckle, brushing a hand down Louis’s spine. “That’s what this is about? I’m sorry. I was in a hurry.”

“You’re always in a hurry,” Louis mumbled, lips brushing the fabric of Harry’s shirt in a soft pout.

And he was right.

Harry didn’t argue, because the truth sat bitter on his tongue. He had been working more—more meetings, more reports, more endless complications. And Louis's mistake was why he was so busy now. But he hadn’t said that, hadn’t explained anything. He just kept slipping out in the mornings like a coward. Like always. Avoidance was second nature to him.

And Louis, sweet Louis, had said nothing. He just let it happen. Let Harry come and go as he pleased, like a dream that visited at night and vanished by dawn. They hadn’t talked about what happened. They hadn’t talked about anything.

Harry sighed and slid his fingers through Louis’s hair, soft and familiar. “Relax.”

And Louis did. Instantly. His body went boneless against Harry’s, like a weight finally finding its resting place. Harry felt it—the quiet surrender. So he held him tighter, arms wrapped around the only thing that ever made him feel human.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything. Because the silence was safer than the truth. 

Harry felt Louis shift in his lap. His arms cradled the omega instinctively, possessively. Louis’s hand slipped between them, resting over his own belly—where the gentle swell of four months pulsed softly beneath his palm.

“I have a doctor’s appointment next week,” Louis murmured. “It’s an important one. You promised you’d come.”

Harry’s eyes sharpened instantly. He tilted his head down, brushing his nose against Louis’s temple. “Of course I’ll come,” he said, no hesitation, voice rough with guilt and resolve. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Louis nodded slowly, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders with Harry’s answer. He nestled deeper into Harry’s chest, fitting perfectly into the shape of him like they’d been carved from the same body. His fingers traced lazy, protective circles over his bump.

“Can’t believe it’s already been four months,” he said softly, a strange wonderment in his tone, like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real. “Feels like yesterday… and forever ago.”

Harry swallowed hard. He felt it too—that duality. The way time collapsed and stretched around Louis. How it both healed and wounded. Four months of growth. Four months of ache.

He lowered his head and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to Louis’s forehead.

“We’re getting closer every day,” he whispered. And though he wasn’t sure if he meant the baby… or them, he let the words hang between them like a fragile promise.

Louis shifted in Harry’s lap again, reaching toward the shopping bags on the table, his fingers brushing the handles with anticipation. “I got some things,” he said, a quiet kind of brightness in his voice.

Harry glanced down lazily, his expression unreadable. “Yeah?”

“For the baby,” Louis clarified, already pulling one of the bags onto his lap between them.

He reached inside, eyes lighting up as he brought out a soft, cream-colored onesie. “Look at this,” he said, holding it up with both hands, like it was something precious. “Isn’t it adorable? I couldn’t stop touching it in the store.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to the tiny outfit. “It’s small,” he said.

“Well, yeah, he or she is going to be small,” Louis giggled softly. “It’s for a baby, Harry.”

Louis was already reaching into the bag again. “And this—look, it’s got little stars on it.” He held up a pale yellow romper, his voice warming with excitement. “I thought it was so cute, and gender-neutral too. I figured it was better to be safe.”

Harry leaned back against the couch, watching him with a flicker of something quiet in his eyes.

Louis kept going, pulling out socks next—tiny and soft, in whites and pale greens. “I didn’t go overboard,” he said with a sheepish smile, though he clearly had. “Okay, maybe I did. But everything’s just so small. I mean, I could fit a whole stack of clothes in one drawer.”

Harry huffed, finally reaching out to pluck one of the socks between his fingers. “This looks like it’d fit Lucy’s foot.”

Louis grinned. "For someone who doesn't like cats, you are quite obsessed with her you know."

"If it wasn't for you, she wouldn't be here." Harry muttered.

Harry’s hand trailed lazily down Louis’s side as he leaned back into the couch, his green eyes scanning the shopping bags once more before flickering to Louis’s face.

“Did you take a guard with you?” he asked flatly, voice low but lacking warmth.

Louis groaned, his head falling back against Harry’s shoulder. “Yes, I took a guard. He trailed behind me like some giant shadow.”

Harry’s lip curled faintly at that, the closest thing to amusement he gave. “Good.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “I hate it.”

Harry didn’t argue, just looked at him with that unreadable calm. “It’s for your protection. You know that.”

“I know, I know,” Louis muttered. “Still hate it.”

Harry’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest before he spoke again. “You’ll have to get used to it. This is your life now. Mine. Ours. It comes with certain... precautions.”

Louis frowned a little but didn’t speak.

"I can't wait to buy more clothes for our baby. I barely scratched the surface this time." Louis mumbled.

Harry chuckled, he pressed a kiss to Louis's head, "Buy as much as you want."

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

It was late now, the house cloaked in a heavy hush that only the deep hours of night could bring. Harry had just stepped out of his office, the soft click of the door behind him echoing through the quiet halls. He was heading to his bedroom—his own, not the one he used to share with Louis. That had become a silent rule between them. They only shared a bed after sex, and even then, Harry would eventually pull away.

He knew it hurt Louis.

But he couldn’t take it back. He never liked to undo a decision once it was made. Still, he had moved to the same floor, the same wing, close enough to reach Louis quickly if needed. A compromise. A quiet one.

A sudden thirst stirred in him, so he made his way to the kitchen. But as he stepped in, he stopped short.

Louis was there.

Seated at the kitchen island, barefoot in one of Harry's sweaters, a half-full glass of water in front of him. His shoulders were small and still, except for the faint tremble that gave him away. A single tear slipped down his cheek.

Harry's heart twisted, his brow furrowing instinctively. Louis gasped when he noticed him, quickly wiping his face like a child caught crying past bedtime.

Without a word, Harry crossed the room and laid a hand gently on his back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Louis shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing. I—I’m fine. Just... tired.” He sniffled.

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek, searching Louis’s face. And there it was again—that ache in his chest, blooming warm and painful all at once. It hit him every time he really looked at Louis. Really looked. At the boy he’d hurt. The boy who’d hurt him. The boy who still, despite everything, loved him.

Louis was beautiful. Devastatingly so. With flushed cheeks and damp lashes and that soft, pale skin Harry could never quite forget.

Harry’s hand moved in slow, soothing strokes up and down his back.

“It’s not nothing,” he said gently. “Tell me.”

Louis hesitated, then looked up at him with damp, shining eyes. “Really... it’s just hormones. Pregnancy stuff.”

Harry nodded. But Louis wasn’t finished.

“I just...” he paused, gathering the pieces of his heart before offering them up. “I feel lonely.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

“I don’t like sleeping alone.”

The words cut deep—not in anger, but in truth.

Without saying anything more, Harry moved closer. Louis leaned into him, arms wrapping tightly around his middle as though afraid he might disappear. And Harry let him. He exhaled shakily, holding him back.

His wolf whined inside, restless with guilt. Omegas were so susceptible to touch starvation, and Louis more than most. He’d almost fallen into it twice. Harry had sworn he’d never let that happen again.

Without another word, he lifted Louis into his arms. The glass of water forgotten. The thirst forgotten. Louis clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist like it was instinct.

Harry carried him to their—no, Louis’s—room, and sat down on one of the deep couches, reclining as Louis settled on top of him like he belonged there.

Silence stretched, comfortable and heavy. And then Louis leaned in, lips brushing Harry’s ear, voice a breath of pain wrapped in silk.

“Sometimes,” he whispered, “I feel like an incubator. Like I’m just here to give you a child and nothing more.”

Harry’s eyes slipped shut. The words pierced straight through him.

“You’re more than that,” he said, voice hoarse. “So much more.”

Louis didn’t reply right away. He lay still, listening. Then, softly, with eyes searching the dark—

“Am I?”

Harry looked down at him, a thousand things in his eyes.

“If you weren’t,” he said, “I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have forgiven you.”

A fragile quiet followed. Then—

“...You’ve forgiven me?”

“Yes.”

Louis curled tighter against him. He wanted to be close, always. Needed it like breath.

And then, small, almost inaudible, a trembling thank you:

“Thank you.”

Harry didn’t answer the “thank you.” Not directly. Instead, after a long pause where he just stared at the shadows on the wall behind Louis’s head, he murmured, “You were okay when I came back from work. We were together for a bit... then I went to my office. What happened?”

Louis hesitated, then gave a small shrug against Harry’s chest. “I don’t know. I just... suddenly felt lonely. And upset. Like it snuck up on me out of nowhere.”

“Oh,” Harry said quietly.

Louis rushed to fill the silence. “It’s nothing. Just hormones. Stupid pregnancy stuff. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Why would you apologize?”

“Because I’m wasting your time,” Louis said softly, eyes fixed on a thread in Harry’s shirt. “You’ve been busy all day. You probably just want to rest now.”

Harry shook his head and cupped the side of Louis’s face, tilting it up until their eyes met.

“Honestly, you know what I want right now, Louis?”

Louis blinked up at him. “What?”

“I want you to be happy.” His voice cracked slightly, not from weakness but from something deeper. “That’s all I want. I know it doesn’t always seem that way, but to my wolf, this—seeing you like this—is hell. I just want my omega to be happy.”

Louis looked at him, eyes swimming.

“I am,” he whispered. “Sometimes.”

Harry’s heart clenched. “Sometimes?” he echoed.

A pause.

“You don’t like it here?”

“I—I do,” Louis whispered. “It’s not that, Alpha.”

Harry’s hand paused on his back. “Then what is it?”

There was a silence, heavy and pulsing between them.

And then Louis pulled back just enough to look into Harry’s face, his voice trembling with something between defiance and heartbreak.

“Why do you suddenly care so much?”

Harry froze.

And for a long moment, he didn’t answer—not because he didn’t have one, but because the truth was a door he’d never dared to open. Not to Louis. Not even to himself.

The silence stretched, and in that stillness, something shifted inside him. A quiet cracking. A slow crumble of walls that had stood too long, built brick by brick out of pride, fear, and years of learned detachment.

And then, when he finally spoke, it wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t even intentional. It just slipped out of him like breath.

“I always have,” he said. “I just... didn’t show it.”

It was a quiet confession. But beneath it lay something bigger—something he had never admitted, not aloud, not in the dark, not even in the quietest corners of his own mind.

Because the truth was...
He had cared. All along. In ways that didn’t make sense. In ways that hurt. In ways that felt too dangerous to look at directly, like staring into the sun.

He had cared every time Louis flinched. Every time he walked out of a room and left Louis sitting there with his shoulders curled inward, pretending not to be disappointed.

He had cared when he chose the other bedroom, even though he hated how empty the bed felt without Louis’s warmth curled beside him.

He had cared when Louis cried in silence.

And yet he’d convinced himself it was safer to stay distant. To pretend the feelings didn’t exist. Because caring meant risk. Caring meant weakness. And weakness had no place in the world Harry had been raised in.

But this—this moment—was the first time the truth slipped through the cracks.

Louis frowned, confused and disbelieving. “No, you haven’t.”

Harry let out a bitter breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. He looked down at the boy in his arms, the only person who had ever made him feel this raw, this helpless, this real.

“In my own fucked-up way, I have,” he said. “Even if I didn’t know it until just now.”

And just like that, the door had opened. Even if just a crack.

Louis exhaled, a small, shaky sigh that brushed against Harry’s neck.

“I should really count my blessings,” he murmured. “I never thought I’d even get this with you, Alpha.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, brows drawing together. “This?”

“Yes.” Louis looked up at him, eyes shining in the dim light. “Being in your room. Talking to you openly. Cuddling like this. You… speaking to me in that soft tone. I never thought I’d get that. Not from you.”

The way Louis said it—with quiet acceptance, not bitterness—hit Harry like a slow, splitting ache. Louis’s eyes, that ocean blue, were wide and open and entirely sincere. God. He was beautiful. Beautiful in the kind of way that made Harry feel guilty just for looking.

And then, as if summoned by that guilt, came the memories.

The flashbacks.

Of how he used to treat Louis.

How he played with him—cold, cutting, calculating. How he’d carved invisible bruises into Louis’s soul with every dismissive word, every indifferent glance. He had been cruel. So cruel that now, this—this crumb of gentleness—felt like a feast to Louis.

Harry swallowed hard. Louis and him... they were a strange story. A paradox wrapped in history and pain. Harry still didn’t know how he’d managed to forgive Louis. He never forgave. He destroyed. He eliminated.

But with Louis? He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

How could he destroy something so breakable, so infuriating, so utterly his?

“You used to be a lot more scared of me,” Harry murmured after a pause, his voice quiet, almost nostalgic. “Always stuttered when you spoke to me.”

Louis chuckled, but it came out sad. “Now I’ve fought with you so many times, I’ve stopped caring.”

That made Harry snort, an amused sound beneath the grief. There was something darkly familiar in that—how their relationship had always swung between extremes, like a storm searching for land.

Louis inhaled, voice tinged with that old hurt. “The only ounce of care I got from you back then was you ordering me to go with your driver. That was the only time you seemed worried.”

Harry hummed low in his throat. “And even that,” he said, “you disobeyed once. Remember?”

Louis nodded slowly, then shivered.

“You spanked me so hard for that,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, thoughtful. “It was deserved.”

Louis gave him a dry look. “Thank God I’m pregnant now. Or I wonder how you’d punish me this time.”

Harry’s lips curled into a dark smile, his voice a quiet promise wrapped in threat and amusement. “You don’t want to know.”

Louis gave a breathy laugh, one that trembled with nerves and nostalgia. “You’re probably right. I don’t.”

Harry looked at him then, properly. The way Louis was curled up in his lap, his bump pressing faintly between them, his lashes casting soft shadows on pale cheeks—Harry felt like something sacred was being offered to him, and he didn’t know how to hold it without ruining it.

“I was so scared of you,” Louis whispered after a moment, voice barely audible. “But I wanted you so much. It was the stupidest thing. You terrified me, and yet... I kept coming back.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. His hand ran slowly up Louis’s back, then down again, a steady motion.

“You weren’t stupid,” he said eventually. “I just didn’t give you anything better to want.”

Louis’s eyes shimmered. “And now?”

Harry looked at him, stared like he was searching for something buried under all that pain. “Now... I’m trying.”

It wasn’t a promise. Harry didn’t believe in them. But coming from him, those two words meant more than any vow.

Louis shifted slightly in his lap, resting his head against Harry’s shoulder again. “I don’t need perfect,” he murmured. “I just need you. Even a little. Just... not nothing.”

Harry closed his eyes.

Not nothing.

That’s what he’d given him before. A void. Silence. Cruel control in the place of comfort. Dominance in place of devotion.

And Louis—this boy who had every reason to hate him—was still here. Still asking for less than he deserved.

Harry’s throat tightened.

“You’ll never get nothing from me again,” he said, and it sounded almost like a warning to himself.

Louis smiled faintly. His fingers curled into Harry’s shirt, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry felt him breathe easy. Fully.

“You should sleep here tonight,” Louis whispered.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Should I?”

A tiny grin. “I’m not asking. You’re staying.”

Harry chuckled under his breath, something warm tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

Louis’s eyes fluttered shut, his voice sleepy now. “Always was.”

And in that quiet, under the weight of all they’d been and all they still had to become, Harry let himself sink into the stillness—with Louis in his arms and something dangerously close to peace in his chest.

For now, it was enough.

Harry stayed still for a long while, holding Louis close, listening to the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. But when he felt the weight of the omega sink deeper against his chest, heavier with sleep, he knew it was time.

Carefully, he shifted, standing up with Louis still wrapped around him like something precious he couldn’t afford to jostle. Louis murmured something unintelligible into his neck, but didn’t wake. His arms tightened instinctively, and Harry held him tighter in return.

He padded softly through the room and toward the bed. The mattress dipped gently as he lowered Louis onto it. He tugged the blankets up over his legs, smoothing them out, taking care to cradle the round curve of his belly. Then, slowly, Harry crawled in beside him.

He gathered Louis back into his arms without hesitation, pressing their bodies together beneath the soft weight of the duvet. One arm draped across Louis’s stomach, protective and warm, and his nose buried into the crook of Louis’s neck.

And then—the scent.

That scent.

It flooded him. Sweet and soft and painfully familiar, threaded with comfort and something deeper—something that struck his wolf like a drug. That scent had been the only constant during chaos. He had hated how much he craved it. Hated how it undid him.

Now, he let it in.

He breathed it like air.

Louis shifted in his sleep and pressed back into him with a soft sigh. Harry pressed his lips gently to his mate’s neck, closed his eyes, and finally—finally—surrendered to sleep.

---

The dream was slow to come.

It started quiet.

He was in his office. Alone. The walls felt too tall, the ceiling too low. Something in his chest twisted.

He blinked—and now he was in bed.

But not their bed.

His old bed. The cold one. The one he used when he needed distance.

A silence hung heavy in the air, and then—

A scream. Sharp. Muffled. Distant.

“Help!”

Louis’s voice.

Harry bolted upright in the dream, heart hammering.

“Harry, please—”

He ran. Or tried to. But the hallway stretched endlessly in front of him. His legs wouldn’t move right—heavy, like wading through water. He pushed harder, lungs burning. Louis’s voice kept calling.

“Help me! Harry, please!”

And then—too late.

He reached the door. Threw it open.

Louis was on the floor, crumpled. Crying.

Blood.

So much blood.

And Louis looked up at him, hollow-eyed and broken. “You weren’t there,” he sobbed. “You weren’t there in time. Our baby is gone. Because of you.”

Harry fell to his knees. “No,” he choked, voice ragged and shaking. “No, no, no, no—Louis, please—”

“I begged you,” Louis whispered. “I begged.”

---

"Harry! Harry, wake up!"

He woke with a jolt.

Gasping.

His skin was clammy, chest heaving with panic. The room was dark, moonlight spilling across the floor in quiet silver lines.

And Louis—Louis was sitting up beside him, eyes wide and worried.

“Harry?” he whispered. “What happened?”

Harry blinked rapidly, trying to ground himself, to tear himself away from the fading grip of the nightmare. His hand instinctively reached out, touching Louis’s stomach, his arm, his face—real.

Real. Warm. Alive.

He let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Louis’s shoulder. “You’re okay,” he muttered. “You’re okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Louis's hands came up to hold his face, gentle and confused. “You had a nightmare?”

Harry nodded against his skin, clinging. “I thought I lost you. I thought I lost both of you.”

And his voice cracked, the weight of the dream still dragging at his heart.

Louis curled around him then, pulling him in like he was the one that needed protecting.

“I’m right here,” Louis whispered. “We’re okay. You didn’t lose us.”

Harry clutched him tighter.

Louis pulled back slightly, his eyes wide with concern, scanning Harry's face as though trying to piece together something fragile and broken.

“You were mumbling,” he said softly. “You looked like you were in pain.”

Harry exhaled, slow and bitter, dragging his gaze away.

This part of himself—these nightmares—he’d hidden so carefully. Locked in vaults that no one, not even Louis, had been allowed to peer into. They had plagued him for years, shaped him, scarred him, and now they lay bare—exposed in the moonlight, trembling on Louis’s sheets.

“Do you get nightmares often?” Louis asked gently.

It should’ve angered him, that question. Should’ve made him recoil, lash out, build up walls and ice to protect whatever vulnerable thread had unraveled just now. Once upon a time, he would have. He would’ve called it an intrusion, an overstep.

But Harry was tired. And the dream… God, the dream had shattered something in him.

He was used to nightmares about the past—the coldness, the trauma, the screams he couldn’t silence. But this—this had been about the future. About failing someone who still lived. About Louis. About their child.

It had carved a new kind of terror into him. One that bled even now.

He should lie. He knew how to lie.

But he didn’t want to.

Marriage had made him soft. Or maybe it had made him human. And in this moment, he felt cracked open. Frightened. Honest.

Still looking away, he gave a small nod.

There was a pause—one full of disbelief and quiet shock.

Louis stared at him, his lips parted slightly, as if he couldn't quite believe Harry had offered the truth so freely. As if he knew how rare a thing it was.

Without a word, Louis reached out and ran a hand slowly up and down Harry’s arm. Warm. Grounding.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

Harry nodded, just once, his throat too tight for words.

And then—quieter, like something he hadn’t even decided to say until the words were already leaving him—he murmured, “I’ll sleep next to you from tomorrow. And you’ll need to have a maid. Or a guard. With you at all times.”

Louis blinked. Then huffed lightly, the sound soft and incredulous. “I’m happy about you being with me at night,” he said. “But isn’t the maid thing a bit too much?”

Harry shook his head, eyes dark with the residue of fear. “It’s important,” he said. Then added, almost begging, “Just—Louis. Please.”

And Louis could’ve argued. Should’ve, maybe. But Harry looked tortured—drawn thin with some ache that hadn’t faded even now. So he simply nodded, his voice quiet and obedient.

“Okay, Alpha.”

Harry exhaled, relief washing over his face like a storm tide finally pulling back.

Louis gently pressed a hand to Harry’s chest, easing him down. Harry let himself fall back into the pillows, and Louis curled beside him, head resting over Harry’s heart. The rhythm of it—steady, strong—echoed in his ear. And Harry’s arm came around him, tight and safe.

A few seconds passed. Just breath and warmth. The hush of midnight between them.

And then, Harry spoke again. Quiet. Uncertain.

“I usually get nightmares about my mom.”

Louis’s breath caught.

He turned his head slightly, eyes lifting to Harry’s face. The confession was fragile—so out of place on the tongue of a man like Harry, and yet here it was. And Louis knew enough to understand that Harry didn’t say things like this. Not unless he meant them. Not unless they were clawing their way out of him.

“You were close with her?” Louis asked, voice almost reverent.

“Very.”

Louis smiled softly, sadness threaded through it. “That’s sweet. I’m sure she was lovely.”

A rare smile ghosted across Harry’s lips—fleeting but genuine. “She was. She would’ve liked you.”

Louis’s eyes widened, stunned. “Would she have?” he asked, blinking. As if the idea of impressing any Styles—let alone the one who made Harry—was impossible.

Harry nodded, calm and certain. “Yes. She was… soft like you. Gentle. She liked cats, too.”

Louis wondered how she ended up marrying a Styles if she was soft and gentle. Had she fallen in love like he had? He let out a breathless chuckle, eyes glittering. “I’m glad you think she would’ve liked me.”

Harry looked at him then—not as a threat or a burden or a mistake, but as something he wanted to hold onto. Something real.

“I don’t think,” he said simply. “I know.”

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Harry let the quiet settle around them—not like a weight, but like peace.

Chapter Text

Harry was a piece of shit.

Today was supposed to be special—the doctor’s appointment they’d been waiting for, the one where they would finally learn the baby’s gender. Afterwards, they were meant to go shopping, pick out tiny clothes together, build memories.

But Harry had called an hour ago, voice tight with frustration and apology, asking Louis to reschedule. Something had come up at work. Something urgent, unavoidable.

Louis understood. He had been Harry’s assistant once—he knew how the business devoured time without mercy, how meetings appeared like sudden storms and refused to be ignored. This wasn’t Harry’s fault. Not really.

But still, he sat there, dressed and waiting, heart slowly wilting. The soft anticipation he had been nurturing for days dissolved into an ache behind his ribs. His hands rested on the small swell of his belly, warm and protective. He had been so excited. So ready.

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, uninvited but persistent. It wasn’t just disappointment—it was hormones, he told himself. Just the pregnancy messing with his emotions. Still, no matter how many times he reminded himself of that, it didn’t dull the sting. He wanted today. He had needed today. And now, it was just another day of waiting. Another promise postponed.

Suddenly, something in him snapped into place. A quiet, stubborn resolve. He huffed, brushing away the lingering tears with the back of his hand. If Harry couldn't make it, then fine—he would go alone. He’d done it before, hadn’t he? All those early appointments, sitting in cold waiting rooms with his fingers clenched tight around paper forms and his heart louder than the ticking clock. Alone.

This wouldn’t be any different.

He rose from the edge of the bed, steadying himself as he felt the weight of his body shift around the growing swell of his stomach. He wanted this—needed this. And if it was just going to be him and the baby, then so be it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Harry felt it instantly—a sharp tug in the bond, like a spark skipping down his spine. He stilled, hand frozen mid-reach for his coffee. Louis.

He had just gotten off the phone with him, had listened quietly as Louis, voice tight with disappointment, told him it was fine, that he understood. But Harry knew him. Too well. That wasn’t understanding, that was resignation—and underneath it, something fragile and breaking.

He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing into his palms, then looked over at his assistant. “There’s no way to move the meetings?”

She winced sympathetically. “I’m afraid not, sir. The Tokyo team’s already on call. It’s stacked.”

He nodded, jaw tight, frustration burning behind his eyes. Of course. Of course it had to be today.

If Louis had been in her place, he would've moved mountains. Harry knew that. And that knowledge stung. Louis. Always Louis.

He felt a flicker of something colder now—an intuition. That omega of his, as sweet as he looked, had a steel will. And Harry had just pushed him too far.

He reached for his phone, dialed fast.

The driver picked up almost instantly. “Sir?”

“Don’t drive Mrs. Styles anywhere. Don’t give him the car keys. Not until I’m home. Tell the others too.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied.

Harry ended the call with a groan, leaning back in his chair.

Another storm was brewing. And it had blue eyes and a baby bump.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis stormed across the marble hallway and out into the garden, each step punctuated by a breathy, irritated huff. The air was thick with roses and restraint. He looked every bit the part now—pregnant, glowing, and draped in soft luxury. But behind the expensive knit and glossy curls was a fire barely contained.

He didn’t just look like a Styles wife anymore. He *felt* like one. Trapped. Pampered. Controlled.

He marched through the manicured garden towards the garage where Harry’s collection of absurdly expensive cars gleamed beneath the lights like a fleet of silent guards. The usual pair were there: the driver in his pristine uniform and the stoic guard with his hands behind his back.

“Good evening, sir,” the driver greeted politely.

Louis gave a curt nod, already scrolling through his phone. “Evening. I need you to drive me to a clinic—I’ll send you the location.”

The driver stiffened awkwardly. “Apologies, sir. I can’t do that.”

Louis blinked, lips parting. “You… can’t?”

The driver winced at his tone. “Mr. Styles has given explicit orders.”

Louis crossed his arms, fury bubbling just beneath his ribcage. “Harry told you to ignore my orders? Has he not made it very clear that you answer to me when he’s not around?”

“He has, sir,” the driver said quickly. “But his orders still come first. And he’s made it very clear—we are not to drive you anywhere. Not without his permission.”

Louis’s jaw dropped slightly. A sharp, exasperated breath escaped his nose. Of *course* he did. Of course Harry had predicted this.

“Has he?” Louis said through gritted teeth, half-laughing in disbelief.

“Yes, sir.”

Turning to the guard now, Louis snapped, “Fine. Then just hand me the keys. I’ll drive myself.”

The guard shifted uncomfortably, offering an apologetic smile. “I’m very sorry, but… Mr. Styles has forbidden that as well.”

There was a beat of silence. Louis stared. The audacity. The sheer, infuriating gall.

“I’m not allowed to do anything anymore!” he burst out, throwing his hands in the air. “What’s next, hm? Is he going to put a bracelet on me that zaps me if I walk out the front door?!”

Both men stood frozen, trying not to look at each other, or at the small fury who looked ready to set the garage on fire.

“It is my basic human right to go where I want! Tell your boss that he does not own me!”

Louis inhaled slowly, his chest rising with a breath that barely held back the tide of frustration surging through him. It wasn't just irritation—it was something deeper, something simmering beneath the surface. The kind of restlessness that only came with change.

Pregnancy had rewritten his instincts. It made him impatient, impulsive, recklessly bold. And Harry—Harry had gone soft. Too soft. He hadn’t raised his voice in months. Louis suspected he wouldn’t dare to now. The alpha tiptoed around him like he was made of glass and wild fire all at once.

Still, he tried to tame the fury coiling inside him.

“What’s the most expensive car in this garage?” Louis asked sweetly, his tone dripping innocence, as he scanned the lineup of thirteen glossy beasts parked like trophies.

The guard blinked, clearly caught off guard. “That one, sir. The Bugatti La Voiture Noire. Extremely rare. Incredibly expensive. Only a few exist in the world.”

Louis smiled. Serene. Angelic. Dangerous.

“Excellent. Now tell me—did Mr. Styles give any orders forbidding me from wielding a bat? Or perhaps a golf club? Or must I sit here and marinate in boredom until he returns?”

The guard looked puzzled, uneasy. “Um… no specific orders about golf sticks, Mrs. Styles.”

“Splendid,” Louis said, still smiling. “Then get me one.”

“Mrs. Styles?” the guard repeated, blinking.

“Golf stick. Please,” Louis said again, a little more sharply.

“Y-yes, sir.” The guard stammered and rushed off, while the driver beside him stared, as if unsure whether to laugh or run.

A minute later, the guard returned with the club, offering it like it was a bouquet of roses to a mad king.

“Thank you,” Louis said, voice syrupy, smile angelic. He turned and walked toward the Bugatti like a soldier approaching a battlefield.

The driver leaned in, whispering urgently to the guard. “He’s going to smash the car, isn’t he?”

“Oh, absolutely,” the guard whispered back. “He’s furious.”

“Shouldn’t we stop him? Mr. Styles adores that car.”

“Are you insane? He’s his omega. If we so much as breathe wrong near him, Mr. Styles will have our heads.”

“So… we just let him destroy it?”

“Yes. And call Mr. Styles. Now.”

As Louis stood before the sleek, obsidian car, he raised the golf club like a knight with a sword, and with a grunt, shattered the first headlight. Then the second. Then came the hood. The door. The side mirror. Each blow sharp, cathartic, punctuated by the echo of cracking glass and metal under fury.

The guard dialed frantically. “Mr. Styles?”

“Yeah?” came Harry’s voice, smooth and casual.

“Um… Mrs. Styles is… currently destroying your car.”

A pause. Then, the unmistakable sound of Harry sighing deeply. “Which one?”

“The Bugatti.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. That’s my favorite.”

More glass shattered in the background.

“Let him do whatever he wants,” Harry said at last, resignation and affection lacing his voice. “He’s my omega. Even if he’s utterly unhinged.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Louis was finished, he dropped the golf club with a clatter, not even sparing the mangled supercar a second glance. He walked out of the garage like a storm receding, leaving behind two men frozen in stunned silence.

Neither could understand it. Their boss—the ruthless, feared, mafia kingpin—had just allowed his pregnant omega to total a million-dollar car.

And the strangest part?

He didn’t even sound mad.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

After what felt like an eternity of endless meetings—more than any sane man should be expected to survive in one day—Harry finally stepped out of the towering building. The evening air hit his skin like a balm. He gave Zayn a tired nod as he passed, the subtle gesture speaking volumes of brotherhood and shared fatigue.

Sliding into the backseat of his car, Harry leaned back with a sigh, running a hand through his curls. His mind, already saturated with numbers, negotiations, and power plays, drifted instinctively to the far more volatile subject of Louis.

His omega.

His stubborn, impossible, fire-for-blood omega.

God, what had happened? Louis used to tremble in his presence. Used to flinch when his name was spoken too loud. Used to be quiet and obedient and wary like a cornered cat.

And now?

Now he broke million-dollar cars with golf clubs.

Harry chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head. He couldn’t even bring himself to be angry. Not really. Somewhere along the line, domination had turned into devotion. Possession into protection. He no longer just wanted to own Louis—he wanted to shield him from the world, wrap him in silk and steel, keep him safe from every shadow.

But, honestly… it was starting to seem like he was the one who needed protection from Louis.

The drive home was quick. The moment the gates opened and the familiar silhouette of the mansion came into view, Harry exhaled deeply, relief and anticipation threading together in his chest. He stepped out of the car and headed straight for the garage.

And there it was.

His beautiful, rare, absurdly expensive Bugatti.

Absolutely wrecked.

Glass scattered like confetti. Headlights smashed in. The body dented in half a dozen places, a cruel parody of modern art. Harry winced.

He rubbed his forehead, biting back a smile that tugged uninvited at his lips. Of course Louis had gone for that car. The crown jewel of his collection.

Did the brat not realize Harry could just buy another?

He shook his head with a breath of helpless amusement and turned away, heading toward the house. Toward the hurricane he loved more than anything. Toward his defiant omega.

Toward home.

Harry stepped into the living room, shoulders heavy with exhaustion, but the moment he saw him—curled on the sofa like something precious and lethal—his heart eased.

There lay Louis, lounging like a prince in exile, flipping lazily through a magazine as if the world hadn’t just felt the wrath of his golf club.

“Hello,” Harry greeted, his voice warm, but careful.

A nearby maid, who had been nervously dusting the mantle, stiffened at the sound. She knew. Everyone in the house knew. And yet Louis looked as composed as ever, infuriatingly unbothered.

“Hello, dear husband,” Louis replied, the words syrupy with politeness as he placed the magazine neatly on the table and sat up, crossing one leg over the other with practiced grace.

Harry gave the maid a silent glance, and she understood immediately. With a swift bow of her head, she vanished from the room, shutting the door behind her like someone sealing off a battlefield.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” Harry asked, his voice quieter now that it was just the two of them.

“No,” Louis replied, meeting his gaze. “I was waiting for you. I wanted us to eat together.”

Harry nodded and eased down beside him on the sofa, letting his arm rest along the back. “What a sweet omega I’ve got,” he murmured, eyes glinting.

“Yes,” Louis agreed, a soft purr in his voice. “I left you a present in the garage, alpha. You should go see it.”

He leaned into Harry’s side, letting his head rest against the alpha’s chest like it belonged there. And it did.

Harry laughed, low and amused. “What sweet words. You’re dangerous.” He kissed the top of Louis’s head. “I saw it already. Loved the present.”

Louis pulled back slightly to look at him, brows furrowed in disbelief. “You’re not angry? I destroyed your favorite car.”

“I’ll buy another,” Harry said, simple and unapologetic.

Louis narrowed his eyes. “I’ll wreck that one too.”

Harry threw his head back and laughed, full-bodied and delighted. “You can.”

And in that moment, Louis didn’t know whether he wanted to scream or kiss him.

The laughter died down slowly, fading into a comfortable silence as Harry looked down at Louis, one hand absently moving through his soft hair. Louis exhaled, long and tired, nuzzling his face into the warmth of Harry’s chest. For all his anger earlier, for all the walls he tried to keep up, this—this quiet intimacy—was the part that always unraveled him.

Harry’s hand stilled in his hair.

“I’m sorry about us having to reschedule the doctor’s appointment,” Harry said softly, his voice barely above a whisper against the calm of the room.

Louis shifted where he sat, curled up against Harry’s side, their bodies molded together in that effortless way that only came from years of knowing each other’s shape. He sighed, a long, tired sound. “I know. It’s just so frustrating. You’re always busy.” His voice quivered slightly. “I waited so long for today. I was so excited. I wanted to know the baby’s gender so bad.”

Harry’s arm tightened around him, guilt weighing heavy in his chest. “I know, baby. I hate that I missed it. It’s just—work doesn’t wait. And I keep telling myself I’m doing it for you, for the baby, for us. But I know I’m not there enough. I feel it. And I’m going to try—really try—to be better about it. I need to figure out how to balance both without losing you.”

Louis’s brows knit as he looked up at him, his voice smaller this time. “I miss you when you’re always working,” he said. “I need you.”

Harry leaned down and kissed his forehead, slow and lingering. “I know, sweetheart. I miss you too.”

Louis rested his head back on Harry’s chest, his fingers twisting into the soft fabric of Harry’s shirt like he was anchoring himself. “I just wanted to be excited together. To hear the heartbeat again and not be alone this time.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered into his hair. “We’ll go tomorrow. Or the next day. I’ll clear my schedule. I want to be there when we find out if we’re having a little girl or boy.”

Louis let out a soft breath. “Okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Harry said. “I don’t care what it takes.”

Louis didn’t answer at first, just nestled in closer, eyes fluttering shut.

“You can start,” he murmured sleepily, “by not buying another Bugatti.”

Harry chuckled against his hair, arms holding him tighter. “Deal.”

The silence stretched between them, warm and familiar, like a blanket tucked around their shoulders. Louis lay still for a long moment, breathing in the quiet thrum of Harry’s heart under his ear. It was steady. Comforting. Real.

Then he shifted slightly and whispered, “I’m sorry I smashed the Bugatti.”

Harry smiled, lips brushing against the top of Louis’s head. “Are you really?”

Louis looked up at him, face sheepish but proud. “I mean… not entirely. I was very angry. And hormonal. But I do feel a little bad now.”

Harry hummed, running his fingers along the curve of Louis’s spine. “Well, if it makes you feel better, you can wreck all the cars I own. Every last one.”

Louis blinked up at him, startled. “What?”

Harry grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. “If that’s what it takes to get you to talk to me like this, to tell me what’s going on in that beautiful, chaotic head of yours, then go ahead. Smash the Ferraris, the Aston Martins, hell—take a bat to the Rolls.”

Louis stared at him for a second, then burst into quiet laughter. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Harry murmured, brushing a knuckle over Louis’s cheek.

Louis rolled his eyes, cheeks pink, but didn’t pull away. “You spoil me.”

“I’m supposed to,” Harry said softly. “You’re carrying my child, you keep me sane, and you still manage to put up with me after all this time, after all the things I did. Honestly, I should be the one apologizing.”

Louis’s gaze softened, his hand lifting to cradle Harry’s jaw. “We’re both a mess,” he whispered.

Harry leaned into the touch. “Yeah. But we’re our mess.”

Louis smiled, small and true. “Tomorrow?”

Harry nodded. “Tomorrow. First thing. I won’t miss it.”

And then they just sat there, wrapped around each other on the couch, two stubborn hearts learning how to meet in the middle again. Somewhere outside, the night stretched quiet and calm, but in that room—in that moment—they were enough.

Chapter Text

Harry’s fingers gripped the steering wheel with practiced precision as he maneuvered the sleek car through the late morning traffic. His phone was pressed to his ear, voice smooth and commanding.

“Yes, and transfer those funds into my account… mmm, right. Yes. Yes, set up a meeting with the Japanese team,” Harry instructed calmly, his tone razor-sharp despite the gentle lilt of distraction in his eyes.

He was perfectly aware—painfully aware—of Louis beside him, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, his stormy gaze drilling a hole through Harry’s temple. Louis wasn’t even trying to hide his frustration, his leg bouncing slightly, jaw tight. But Harry couldn’t afford to crumble under a moody omega’s glower, not now. Not when business demanded his attention.

“Yes, proceed with the negotiations,” Harry continued smoothly. “Good. That’s all.” He ended the call with a flick of his thumb, the screen going dark before he slipped the phone back into the console.

A small, irritated sound escaped Louis. “Finally,” he groaned, his voice heavy with exasperation, drawing out the word as if the phone call had been some unbearable test of endurance.

“It was important,” Harry said simply, his voice low and even, offering no apology, no room for argument.

Louis sighed but gave a tight nod, shifting slightly in his seat. The tension in the car was tangible, heavy like the thick silence between them.

Without warning, Harry took a sharp turn, tires biting into the asphalt as they curved neatly around the corner. Louis braced a hand against the door, his eyes flicking up to the street ahead.

They were close now. The clinic was just ahead.

Harry’s jaw clenched slightly as he refocused on the road, his mind flickering between business and the quiet, restless presence at his side.

Louis bit down gently on his lower lip, worrying the soft skin as his fingers twisted in his lap. His nerves were a silent, buzzing thing, crawling under his skin.

Harry’s sharp eyes flicked over to him, one brow arching with quiet amusement. “Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice edged with a knowing softness.

“Very,” Louis exhaled, the word slipping out on a sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly.

“It’ll be okay,” Harry murmured in reassurance, his tone calm, steady — the voice of someone who rarely entertained doubt.

Soon, they pulled into the clinic parking lot. Harry cut the engine smoothly, stepped out, and without missing a beat, came around to the passenger side. He opened the door, offering Louis a hand with a subtle gentleness that contrasted his usual sharp precision. Louis hesitated just a second before taking it, letting himself be helped out.

Together, they moved through the glass doors of the clinic, their footsteps quiet on the polished floor as they made their way to where Dr. Hale was waiting.

Louis offered a polite, familiar greeting. “Good morning, Dr. Hale.”

“Good morning, Louis,” she replied warmly, though her eyes flicked, just briefly, to Harry with thinly veiled surprise.

Louis settled onto the examination bed, lying back with a little sigh, while Harry lingered awkwardly at his side, unsure of where exactly to stand or what to do with himself.

“You can sit on that stool right there, Mr. Styles,” Dr. Hale offered, a flicker of amusement in her tone as she gestured to the small stool near the bed. Her surprise was clear — Harry had never accompanied Louis to an appointment before.

Harry gave a small nod, silently sliding onto the stool, his broad frame folding into the small seat, elbows resting loosely on his knees. He stayed close, close enough that Louis could feel the heat of his presence.

Dr. Hale began her routine checks, fitting the blood pressure cuff around Louis’s arm with practiced ease. As she worked, she glanced briefly at Harry, a light smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“It’s good to see you here today, Mr. Styles,” she said conversationally, her tone easy.

Harry cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “Good to be here,” he murmured.

Dr. Hale moved through the remaining checks with calm efficiency — pulse, reflexes, a few gentle presses here and there. Then she straightened, pulling off her gloves with a light snap, and smiled warmly at them both.

“You’re doing really well, Louis,” she said, her voice kind. “It’s really nice to see. Everything looks perfectly normal.”

Louis let out a shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing against the examination bed, while Harry exhaled beside him, a tension neither of them had fully realized now slipping quietly from the room.

“Now,” Dr. Hale continued, her eyes twinkling a little, “about the gender.”

Louis gave a small, nervous chuckle, his fingers twisting lightly in the edge of his shirt.

“Go ahead and lift your shirt for me,” Dr. Hale instructed gently. Louis obeyed, pushing the fabric up to reveal the slight swell of his stomach. The room felt still, hushed, as she reached for the cold gel and smoothed it expertly across his skin. Louis flinched a little, hissing at the chill, while Harry leaned forward unconsciously, eyes fixed intently on the process.

“What are we hoping for?” Dr. Hale asked conversationally as she adjusted the machine, setting everything in place.

Louis gave a small, genuine smile. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he murmured softly. “As long as the baby’s healthy.”

Harry said nothing, but his hand shifted, resting lightly on the edge of the bed near Louis’s, his thumb brushing against the cool metal.

Finally, the machine beeped to life, and Dr. Hale pressed the wand gently to Louis’s stomach, her eyes flicking to the monitor.

“There we are,” she murmured, adjusting the image before glancing back at them with a small, delighted smile. “That’s your baby right there.” She pointed, and both Harry and Louis leaned in instinctively, eyes locking onto the grainy shape on the screen — small, delicate, flickering with life.

Louis’s lips parted in a soft, awed smile, while Harry — usually so composed, so unreadable — let the faintest, unguarded grin tug at his mouth.

“And…” Dr. Hale paused for just a beat, letting the moment stretch, “it’s a boy. You can hear his heartbeat.”

A steady, rhythmic sound filled the room — fast, sure, impossibly small.

Louis let out a soft, breathless giggle, his eyes shining as he watched the screen.

Harry — who so rarely let his emotions slip, who wore control like a second skin — smiled so hard it almost hurt. Without hesitation, he reached over, fingers threading tightly through Louis’s, anchoring himself to the moment. His thumb brushed over Louis’s knuckles as he clutched that hand, as if afraid that if he let go, this fragile, beautiful instant might shatter.

He felt overwhelmed.

This was the first time he was seeing his baby — their baby — and it hit him with a force he hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for. His chest tightened, his throat burned. He felt as though he could cry, but not from sadness or fear or exhaustion, not from any of the familiar, bitter things. No, this… this was something new.

A boy.

A little boy.

His son.

The word echoed inside him, strange and sweet and unbearably tender. For a man who had built his life on control, power, sharp edges, and carefully measured steps, this flood of raw, aching happiness was something he had never known — or perhaps had never allowed himself to know.

It was as if, in this one moment, he realized he had never truly been happy before. Not like this.

As he gazed at the small, fluttering image on the screen, the rush of emotion in his chest was so sharp, so deep, it almost scared him. He was feeling so much, all at once — a love he hadn’t known he was capable of, a fierce protectiveness, a wonder that stole his breath.

And for once, Harry let it all in. He squeezed Louis’s hand tighter, his eyes damp but shining, his smile unshakable, as the rhythmic heartbeat of their little boy filled the room.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Harry drove them back through the quiet streets, one hand light on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh — but his heart… his heart was still fluttering, light and full, every beat echoing with a happiness so sharp it almost startled him.

Beside him, Louis wore a soft, lingering smile, one hand protectively, instinctively resting on his small bump. Harry kept stealing glances, catching the gentle way Louis’s fingers curved around his stomach, the tender, absent-minded touch — and it melted him. Something deep inside Harry stirred, a fierce, bone-deep protectiveness wrapping around both Louis and the tiny life they were bringing into the world.

“Harry?” Louis’s voice came suddenly, soft and curious, pulling him gently from his thoughts.

“Yes, darling?” Harry answered smoothly, eyes still trained on the road but his tone unmistakably warm.

Louis turned slightly in his seat, gazing at him, eyes bright. “You’re happy, right?” he asked quietly, his voice filled with such innocent hope that it made Harry’s chest ache.

Harry’s heart twisted — and he almost laughed at himself, at how easily this small omega could undo him with just a single question. “Of course I am,” Harry murmured, his voice low and certain. “I’m ecstatic.”

Louis’s smile stretched wider, radiant, a grin that could rival the sun. Harry caught the glow in the corner of his eye and felt his own lips tug up again, helpless to stop it.

Then, after a beat, Harry’s voice curved with amusement. “Do you want to go shopping?”

Louis hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Hmm, yes… I do need a pair of shoes,” he said lightly.

Harry let out a low chuckle, shaking his head fondly. “I meant for the baby,” he teased, his tone playfully exasperated. “But I’ll get you your shoes too, darling.”

Louis’s cheeks flushed the softest pink as he mumbled, “Oh. It’s okay, I don’t need shoes—”

“I don’t care,” Harry cut in smoothly, a flicker of amusement in his voice. “I’m buying them for you anyway.”

Louis bit his lip, gaze darting away toward the window, fingers nervously twisting together.

Harry’s eyes flicked to him briefly, a knowing edge in his tone. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Louis asked, voice small, trying to play innocent.

“This,” Harry said, a faint huff of exasperation threading through the word. “Don’t get shy about spending money. You were getting better at that. What’s happened, hmm?”

Louis dropped his eyes to his lap, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I guess I just… don’t want to waste your money.”

Harry let out a low, amused laugh. “Louis, I have too much of it. You can waste it. You can burn it if you want. That’s basically what you did when you totaled my car, remember?”

Louis gasped indignantly, a playful spark flashing in his eyes. “I did that under the influence of pregnancy hormones! That’s different!”

“Definitely,” Harry agreed smoothly, fighting a grin.

Louis let out an exasperated little sigh. “I just—ugh—I can go back to working, you know?”

Harry’s brow arched sharply. “While you’re pregnant? Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“Louis. No.”

“I waste so much of your money—” Louis protested softly.

Without warning, the car eased to a stop on the side of the road, tires crunching gently on the gravel. Harry shifted in his seat, turning fully toward Louis now, his green eyes sharp and glittering with intensity.

“Two questions,” Harry said, his voice low, steady. “One, do you have to do this while I’m driving?” His lips twitched faintly before flattening again. “And two — are you insane?”

Louis blinked, startled.

“There’s no your money or my money,” Harry said firmly, the words measured but soft, like they were meant to be carve dstraight into Louis’s chest. “You’re my wife, Louis. It’s our money.”

Louis’s throat worked silently, eyes wide. Louis’s voice came out soft but stubborn: “What if I want to go back to work and earn?”

He didn’t, not really — pregnancy was exhausting, and just the thought of balancing a job on top of it made his back ache. But something inside him had been gnawing, restless, since yesterday, when he’d read that stupid article about an omega who had baby-trapped and married a rich alpha just for the money. The words had stuck to his skin like burrs, whispering doubts he hadn’t known he’d had, and now here he was, blurting things he wasn’t even sure he fully meant — all because he needed Harry to know he wasn’t like that.

Harry let out a long, tired breath, dragging a hand through his curls. “You can,” he said patiently. “I’m not stopping you. But you can only work for me.”

Louis turned, one brow arching sharply. “So you can pay me an obscene amount of money and make me do nothing?”

“Exactly,” Harry replied without missing a beat.

Louis let out a frustrated sound. “That’s not a real job, Harry!”

Harry sighed, shaking his head as he eased the car back onto the road, sensing this conversation wasn’t going anywhere quickly. “Be a cute housewife for me and raise my babies,” he murmured, glancing sideways at Louis with a faint, amused smirk. “That’s a real job.”

Louis rolled his eyes dramatically. “Normal housewives have chores to do. I have nothing! You have so many maids, Harry!”

“I cannot believe,” Harry said slowly, eyes flicking between the road and his mate, “that you’re actually complaining about not having to work.” His voice softened just slightly as he added, “What’s this actually about, hmm?”

Louis huffed, his fingers curling into his lap, gaze dropping to the window. “It’s about the fact that I’m not a gold digger,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry’s jaw tensed slightly, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel — and in that instant, his heart gave the faintest, almost imperceptible ache. He hadn’t realized Louis had been carrying this around, hadn’t noticed the silent war the omega was waging with his own pride. And now, hearing it laid bare like that — it was like being handed something delicate and fragile, something he needed to handle with care.

“Louis,” Harry murmured, his voice dipping quieter, steadier, “I know you’re not.”

Harry felt the sharp, hot rush of anger flare up in his chest — not because Louis had said something wrong, but because Louis was thinking this way about himself. It pissed him off, straight to his core. Louis was supposed to be happy, cared for, wrapped in the safety Harry had fought to build around him — not spiraling into some pointless, anxious overthinking.

And then Louis, in a soft, almost guilty voice, added: “I also didn’t baby-trap you. If you ever… wonder about that.”

Harry’s hands clenched hard on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white as he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose.

How could Louis think he’d ever believed that? Even at his worst, even in their most volatile moments, Harry had never thought Louis was the kind of person to scheme or manipulate like that. He knew Louis — knew his heart, his softness, his fire. And hearing Louis doubt himself like this?

No. Absolutely not.

This was where Harry drew the line.

“Louis,” Harry said, his voice suddenly edged with steel, deep and commanding.

Louis’s breath caught, his eyes flicking wide as that strict tone slid down his spine like a shiver. “Y-yes, alpha?” he whispered, voice instinctively small.

Harry’s green eyes stayed fixed on the road, but his presence seemed to fill the entire space, heavy and crackling. “Do you want to be punished?”

“N-no, alpha,” Louis stammered softly, shifting slightly in his seat.

“Then I suggest you stop saying nonsense,” Harry said smoothly, the weight of his authority curling through every word. “You know I’m still the same alpha I’ve always been, right? Underneath all this newfound softness.” His voice dropped just slightly, dark and firm, every syllable sinking deep. “So don’t test me, Louis.”

Louis swallowed hard, his cheeks warm, his fingers nervously playing with the hem of his shirt again. The inside of the car felt charged, electric — and for a beat, Louis could only nod, heart hammering.

The rest of the drive was heavy with a tense, coiled silence — not cold, but charged. Louis sat small in his seat, hands folded tightly in his lap, eyes flicking toward Harry’s profile every so often. He could feel the quiet weight of Harry’s dominance, like an invisible hand pressed to the back of his neck, reminding him wordlessly who was in control.

When they pulled up in front of the house, Louis reached for his seatbelt, but Harry was already moving — out of the car, around to Louis’s side, opening the door with a fluid, almost predatory grace.

“Come,” Harry murmured, his hand resting firm on the small of Louis’s back as he guided him up the steps, inside, shutting the door softly behind them.

But before Louis could even take another breath, Harry’s hands were suddenly on him — pinning him back against the closed door, his broad chest pressing Louis flush to the wood. One large palm cupped Louis’s jaw, tilting his face up, while the other settled possessively at his waist.

Harry leaned in, his mouth brushing close to Louis’s ear, voice low, dark, and unmistakably edged. “Did you understand what I said in the car, Louis?” he murmured, each word slow and deliberate. “Or do you need me to make you understand… in another way?”

Louis let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding hard enough he thought Harry could probably hear it. “I— I understood, alpha,” he stuttered softly, eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of nervousness and heat.

Harry let out a soft, satisfied hum, his thumb brushing along Louis’s jawline, his mouth curving into the faintest, pleased smile. “Good,” he said simply, his voice warm but edged in steel.

And just like that, he pressed a fleeting kiss to Louis’s forehead — a sharp contrast to the tension crackling between them — before stepping back smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

“I have to go get some work done,” Harry murmured, eyes glittering with a knowing look. “You behave yourself, sweetheart.”

And with a final, pointed glance, Harry turned on his heel and strode off toward his study, leaving Louis standing breathless against the door, his cheeks flushed and his heart still racing.

Louis wandered slowly toward the living room, his fingers brushing absently along the wall as he moved — still a little flushed, still feeling the phantom weight of Harry’s body pinning him to the door.

With a quiet sigh, he dropped onto the couch, grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV. Bright colors, fast voices, flickering images filled the room — but none of it touched the restless whirl of his thoughts.

He shifted, pulling a throw pillow against his chest, one hand instinctively resting over the soft curve of his bump. His thumb rubbed gentle, absentminded circles there as his mind spun away from the screen.

What kind of work is keeping Harry so busy today? he wondered, staring blankly ahead. He knew better than to ask — knew Harry would tell him only what he needed to know — but his mind couldn’t help slipping into darker corners.

Drugs? Deals? Cleaning up someone’s mess? Murder?

Louis let out a slow, heavy sigh, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. The weight of it all pressed on him — the quiet, the uncertainty, the knowledge that his alpha was out there in some sharp, brutal world he only ever got to see pieces of.

Louis stayed curled on the couch, the TV a meaningless blur of sound and color in front of him. His thumb traced slow, absent loops over the soft swell of his bump, his gaze glassy, fixed somewhere far beyond the room.

Harry’s world.

He knew it in shadows and fragments, in half-heard phone calls and quick flashes of sharp-edged violence. He had seen the cold set of Harry’s jaw after certain meetings, the way his green eyes darkened when things weren’t going his way, the bone-deep authority in his voice when he gave orders no one dared question. Louis had never been naïve — he knew what Harry was, what power he wielded. But there was a difference between knowing and feeling the full weight of it, and today, sitting alone, Louis felt it heavy in his chest.

He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking downward to his belly. His son. Their son.

Will you have your father’s eyes? His smile? His sharp mind?

Louis’ heart twisted painfully.

But will you have his world?

The thought clawed at him. This was inherited — this darkness, this empire built on blood and power, passed down from father to son, alpha to heir. Would his sweet little boy, not even born yet, be bound to carry that burden too? To wear the weight of the crown Harry wore so effortlessly — the crown Louis himself had never wanted to touch?

Louis hugged the pillow tighter, his breath catching softly.

I don’t want him to inherit the darkness, Louis thought fiercely. I don’t want him to grow up surrounded by cold orders and bloodstained legacies. I want him to be happy. Free. Innocent.

He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closing, a tear slipping silently down his cheek.

How do I protect him from something so much bigger than me?

A lot of time had slipped by, unnoticed, as Louis lay wrapped in his thoughts — dark, looping worries that kept circling back to the same place: the future of their child and the brutal legacy he might be born into.

He hadn’t realized how quiet the house had become. How long he’d been staring blankly at nothing.

When Harry finally descended from his office, the change in the air was immediate. The heavy silence of the living room broke under the weight of his presence. His footsteps were soft, but there was a tension in the way he moved — all sharp, focused power.

Louis didn’t notice him at first, not until—

“It seems that you didn’t understand,” Harry said, his voice cool and cutting as a blade.

Louis jerked upright in surprise, eyes widening as they met Harry’s unreadable gaze. “No, I was just—”

“Stop talking.”

Harry’s voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was clipped, restrained, coiled with that particular kind of control Louis had only seen a few times — the kind that made his breath catch in his throat.

Louis shut his mouth immediately, swallowing hard.

And in that moment, it hit him again — sharp and clear.
Harry let him talk back. Let him argue. Let him be stubborn and emotional and dramatic, because Harry chose softness for him. But the power? The command? That had never left. Not for a second.

Underneath all the tenderness, the laughter, the gentleness Harry had been showing lately — he was still Harry.

Harry stepped forward and sat down on the sofa where Louis had been lying. Louis immediately shifted, tucking his legs aside to make room.

But Harry didn’t let him pull away for long. One hand reached for Louis’s calves, gathering them and gently placing them over his lap, securing Louis in place.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just rested his hand over Louis’s shin, gaze heavy and unblinking, jaw tight as if weighing what to do with him.

Louis stayed still, his heart thudding unevenly in his chest. Not afraid — not quite — but aware. Aware of the balance of power. Aware of how much Harry was holding back. Aware that submission wasn’t something Louis gave, it was something that Harry drew out of him — like instinct. Like gravity.

Harry’s hand came down gently on Louis’s leg, a stark contrast to the thunder brewing behind his eyes. “What’s going on with you?” he asked, voice low but tight. “You should’ve been happy today.”

Louis hesitated, heart skittering against his ribs. “I am… I just…”

“Just what?” Harry’s voice was clipped now, the warning in it unmistakable.

Louis took a shallow breath, his fingers twitching on the curve of his belly. “Our son… he’s going to inherit all of this, isn’t he? Everything you are. Everything you’ve built.”

Harry nodded without hesitation. “Obviously. I’m the only heir. So he will be too.”

“All the businesses?” Louis pressed, already knowing the answer.

“All of them,” Harry repeated, voice like stone.

“Even…” Louis’s throat closed around the word.

“Especially that,” Harry finished, his gaze unwavering.

Louis’s stomach churned. “And what if I don’t want that life for him?” he whispered. “What if I can’t bear to see him become what you’ve had to become?”

Harry tilted his head, bored eyes turning sharp. “Then let me remind you, Louis,” he said coldly, “that you only have as much say as I allow.”

Louis sat up with a jolt, fury and despair colliding in his chest. “You want that for him? For our child to be forged in violence? To grow up knowing blood and death?”

“I want him to be better than me,” Harry said evenly.

“He won’t be,” Louis snapped. “How could he? He’ll be walking the same damned path!”

Harry’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Working in the mafia isn’t what made me who I am. It’s not that simple. I’m a result of a thousand choices, thousands of wounds, none of which our son will have to endure—unless fate decides otherwise.”

Louis’s voice cracked. “I don’t want our son to ever have to take a life.”

Harry sighed, long and tired. “Louis. Stop. Don’t spiral. This is how the world works—our world. If he’s an alpha, he’ll have to carry it.”

“And if he’s an omega?” Louis asked, barely above a whisper.

“Then he’s free,” Harry replied without hesitation. “That burden won’t be his.”

Louis looked up sharply, eyes glassy. “But you’ll want an alpha heir still, won’t you? If he’s not one—you’ll want another child.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Eventually. And I hope you’ll be willing to give me one.”

Louis’s breath caught. “So I carry children for you to send them into a slaughterhouse?”

Harry’s expression shifted, just barely. “What slaughterhouse?” he said, voice rising with a bite of frustration. “I’m still here, aren’t I? It’s dangerous, yes—but it’s survivable. And it’s not weakness that survives, Louis. It’s blood. It’s legacy. It’s the name. Our children will be Styles. They’ll be prepared. They’ll know what they’re doing. It’s in their blood.”

Louis gripped a pillow tight against his chest, tears threatening to spill again, but he blinked them back with force.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You make it sound like it’s noble. Like being born into this is some kind of honour. It’s not. It’s a cage dressed in silk and diamonds.”

Harry’s jaw flexed. His fingers, still resting on Louis’s calf, twitched once before curling into a fist. “It’s survival,” he said, quieter this time, though his voice lost none of its intensity. “It’s power. It’s a legacy that kept me alive when the world wanted me dead.”

Louis looked away, wiping at his eyes. “He’s not even born yet and you’ve already decided what he’ll become.”

“I haven’t decided,” Harry replied. “The blood has. The name has.”

“No,” Louis said, voice a little stronger now. “You have. You’re the one choosing this.” Louis looked down at his lap, his fingers twisting tightly together.“It’s too much,” he whispered.

“You’re too soft,” Harry muttered, not unkindly—just as a statement of fact.

“You already make more than enough from your clean businesses,” Louis pressed. “You don’t need this anymore.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s never been about the money. It’s about the roots. My family is buried deep in this. There’s no clean break. And the truth is—I don’t want one."

Silence fell between them like a blade.

Harry dragged his fingers slowly up and down Louis’s leg again, grounding him. There was something gentle in the touch, something unbearably intimate in contrast to his words.

His fingers moved slowly up and down Louis’s calf, the motion deceptively soothing, almost absentminded—like he was trying to anchor them both with the only gentleness he had left.

“I can be softer,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Louis’s face, voice a quiet blade. “Kinder. For you. Only for you. I can fill this house with everything you’ve ever dreamed of. I’ll never touch another omega again, you have my word on that.” He paused. The silence that followed was thick and final. “But if you’re waiting for me to walk away from that world… to get clean… Louis, I can’t. I won’t. That’s the one thing I can’t give you. You’ll have to live with that.”

Louis’s breath hitched as he looked at him, something fragile breaking in his eyes. He sniffed and gave a trembling nod—he didn't agree, but he understood.

That was enough for Harry.

Without another word, Harry patted Louis’s leg once more—briefly, like punctuation—then slipped his hands under Louis’s knees and lifted them from his lap, slow and careful, as though Louis were something delicate. Precious.

He stood. His movements were fluid, almost elegant, but with the unmistakable weight of something being shut off inside him. And then he turned toward the door, walking with that signature confidence—unbothered, untouched, untouchable.

Leaving. Always leaving.

Louis’s voice broke the silence like a fracture.
“I love you.”

It wasn’t loud, but it echoed. In that massive, opulent room where their love had always felt a little too small, it bounced off the cold marble walls like a confession buried under grief.

Harry stopped mid-step.

Stillness stretched. A heartbeat. Two.

But he didn’t turn.

He didn’t look back.

And then he kept walking—through the door, down the hall, disappearing into the shadows he never intended to leave behind.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

It was late—so late the world felt suspended, caught in that fragile hour between night and morning. Louis lay on his side in bed, eyes open, staring into the dim hush of the room. The quiet pressed in around him, thick and unmoving, like a heavy curtain drawn over everything.

Then, the stillness broke.

The front door opened with a low thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of shoes being kicked off in a rush. Harry.

Before the bedroom door could open, Louis shut his eyes quickly, pretending to sleep. The door creaked a little, and for a brief moment, a soft light spilled across the bed before it was swallowed again as Harry closed it gently behind him.

Louis stayed still, his breathing even. He could feel Harry’s gaze linger—warm and weighty, like a hand that never quite touched—before the quiet rustle of movement signaled his walk toward the wardrobe.

Suddenly, Louis found himself deeply regretting his decision to stay in their shared room. The silence between them was louder than anything—laced with the sting of his own words left hanging in the air. Harry had left without a single glance, without a word, after Louis had bared the most vulnerable part of himself. That hurt still sat in his chest, raw and unspoken.

The wardrobe door creaked quietly, and then Harry stepped out. Louis didn’t move, but he felt every motion—the gentle dip of the mattress as Harry lay down beside him, the subtle shift of weight that made the silence feel even heavier.

A few heartbeats passed in stillness.

Then, softly, Harry whispered, “Are you awake?”

Louis’s eyes fluttered open slightly. He let out a low hum, quiet and tired. “Hmm.”

Then he felt it—Harry shifting behind him, the mattress dipping again with slow intention. A breath later, strong arms curled around Louis from behind, wrapping him in a hold that was far too tender for the silence they'd been sitting in all night. Harry pulled him in, slowly but firmly, until Louis’s back was flush against his chest.

Louis’s breath caught in his throat. Harry was warm, solid—bare. The skin-to-skin contact sent a tremor through him. And that scent—earthy, familiar, and unmistakably Harry—wrapped around him like a memory. He was being held. Cuddled. As if nothing had happened. As if everything had.

Louis didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Louis…” Harry finally spoke, his voice low, each syllable deliberate, like it had taken a lifetime to reach this moment.

“Yes?” Louis breathed, almost afraid of the answer.

“Don’t say that to me again.”

The words were quiet. Not cold—worn out, like a surrender.

Louis felt his heart falter, missing a beat. “Say what?”

Harry hesitated, but only for a second. “You know what I mean.”

And he did. That confession. Those three words. The ones Harry wasn’t ready to receive.

“It’s the truth,” Louis whispered, his voice quiet but unwavering.

Harry sighed—deep and weary—like the sound came from somewhere far beneath the surface. His arms tightened around Louis, holding him closer, as if afraid that the silence might pull them apart if he let go.

For a moment, there was nothing but stillness again.

Then Harry said it, barely above a murmur: “Love isn’t real.”

Louis’s chest constricted, but he didn’t waver. “It is though. I’ve felt it.”

A sharp, bitter chuckle slipped from Harry’s lips. “I don’t believe you. If you have, then tell me—” his voice curled with quiet mockery, “what does it feel like?”

Louis didn’t need time to think. He had carried the answer inside him for what felt like forever—waiting for this very moment, for Harry to finally listen.

“Love burns,” he said.

And his voice was calm. Certain. Like a match held steady to flame.

Harry was quiet behind him, but Louis could feel the tension coil in his arms, feel the stillness in his breath. So he kept going, voice low, steady, almost reverent.

“It’s not soft. Not always. Sometimes it feels like it’s tearing you apart from the inside—like a fire you asked for, even though you knew it would hurt. It aches when they leave, and it aches when they stay, but you still want them to. You still choose them. Every time.”

Harry didn’t speak, but his grip shifted—fingers curling just a little tighter around Louis’s waist.

“It’s waking up and thinking of them first,” Louis whispered, “even when you’re angry. Even when you’re scared. It’s... knowing they could destroy you and still handing them the match, because it’s them. And somehow, even if it hurts, it matters.”

A long breath escaped Harry, but still—no words.

Louis swallowed. “That’s what it feels like. That’s what you feel like.”

Harry's breath had quickened, shallow and uneven against the back of Louis’s neck. His heartbeat pounded like a drum—too fast, too loud, betraying every word he hadn’t said. And though he remained silent, his hands trembled where they held Louis, fingers twitching slightly, as if they weren’t sure whether to hold on or let go.

They lay there like that—entangled in a silence that felt louder than any argument, more intimate than any kiss. But inside Harry, something was shifting. Quietly. Violently. A realization blooming like smoke behind his ribs, spreading through every inch of him with slow, unbearable clarity.

Louis didn’t push. Didn’t speak. The weight of the moment had drained him, and eventually, lulled by the steady rhythm of Harry’s body around him, he drifted off to sleep—softly, breath evening out, the fire of his confession still glowing faintly in the quiet dark.

But Harry didn’t sleep.

He lay there, eyes wide open, staring into the ceiling like it might answer for the ache unraveling inside him. Thoughts clashed like waves in his chest, pulling memories, fears, and the echo of Louis’s voice—

Love burns.

—over and over again.

And when morning came, and golden light spilled into the room in soft ribbons, Louis stirred beneath the sheets around ten.

The space beside him was cold.
Empty.
Harry was gone.

No note. No sound. No trace—
Just the lingering scent on the pillow and the quiet aftermath of everything Louis had dared to say.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Harry was going insane. He really was. And it terrified him—not in the way fear usually touched him, cold and calculated—but in a way that cracked something in his chest, something he couldn’t glue back together.

He had never known madness before Louis. Never felt the edges of his mind fray like this. He had always been composed, always sharp, always the one who kept everything and everyone in check. Control wasn’t just a habit—it was his identity. His armor. His sanctuary.

But Louis—
Louis had come in like a storm wrapped in soft eyes and reckless truth. And ever since, Harry had been losing pieces of himself. Quietly. Relentlessly. Control, gone. Detachment, shattered. Emotions—

Emotions, the one thing he prided himself on mastering—now surged and spilled and strangled.

Burns? Burns! Burns?!

The words echoed in his skull like sirens, taunting him, circling, refusing to leave.

Lies. He has to be lying.

He has to.

Because if Louis wasn’t—if love really burned—then Harry was already ash.

Louis.
His name alone made Harry clench his jaw, shut his eyes, bite back the scream sitting at the back of his throat.

God.
What had he done?
What had Louis done?
And why, why, in all the twisted logic of his world, did part of him still want to run back into the flames?

Harry hated this. Hated the way the word wouldn’t leave him alone.
Burns.
It kept repeating, clawing through his head like a fever dream.

He should've mocked Louis for saying it, dismissed it like some poetic nonsense meant to manipulate him. But now—now he couldn’t run from it. Because he’d felt it. God, he had lived it.

The burning.
It wasn’t metaphor anymore.
It was memory.

His chest had seared the night Louis quit, walking away like he hadn’t just torn the ground out from under Harry’s feet. It had burned when he’d found out Louis was pregnant—rage and fear and disbelief all crashing into him like a wildfire. He'd burned every single time Louis looked up at him with those eyes, wide and open and far too knowing.

Every time Louis said his name like it meant something.
Every time that soft voice whispered Alpha with such fragile reverence, it made Harry's control bleed.
And in the dark, in the sweat and heat and tangled limbs, when Louis moaned beneath him, because of him—
God. It burned.
It all fucking burned.

And he hated it.
Hated that Louis had been right.
Hated that no matter how hard he tried to douse the flames, Louis had already lit every part of him on fire.

His stream of thoughts was finally interrupted when someone knocked at his office door.

Chapter Text

Knock, Knock.

“…Come in,” Harry muttered.

Zayn stepped in, holding a folder and a paper cup. But the second his eyes landed on Harry, he stopped mid-step.

“…Jesus, you look like someone told you your empire fell.” He squinted, "you look actually insane."

Harry snorted, low and bitter. “Feels like it.”

Zayn closed the door slowly, setting the coffee on the desk but keeping the folder in his hand. “What happened?”

Harry hesitated—something so uncharacteristic that Zayn’s brow twitched in concern.

Then Harry exhaled and said, “Louis told me he loves me.”

Zayn’s face didn’t shift much, but the pause said everything. “…Oh.”

Harry stood abruptly and walked around the desk, needing space, motion, something. “I told him not to say it again.”

Zayn tilted his head, mouth twitching. “Wow. Romantic.”

Harry shot him a glare. “Don’t.”

Zayn raised his hands in defense. “Alright, alright. You look like you’re going to snap anyway. Go on.”

Harry paced a few steps, jaw tense. “I told him love isn't real. Then I asked him what love feels like. And he told me it burns. He told me he burns. But if it does, Zayn. Then, I burn too. Every fucking time I look at him. Every time he speaks, or touches me, or even breathes. It burns.”

Zayn slowly sat in one of the armchairs, watching Harry like he was a caged animal tearing at the bars. “And you’ve only just realized that?”

“I’m losing it,” Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t… I don’t know what to do.”

“You do,” Zayn said simply. “You just don’t like the answer.”

Harry froze.

Zayn leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You either admit you love him, or you let him go. But don’t keep punishing him just because you’re scared.”

Harry blinked. The words hit like bullets.

“I’m not punishing him,” he muttered, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

Zayn gave a slow, dry chuckle. "Sir. You forgave Louis. When have you ever done that?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Zayn let the silence hang for a moment. Then,

“You forgave him. You held him. You let him stay. That was the day I knew you loved him. You just don’t want to admit it because admitting it means surrender. And you’ve never surrendered anything in your goddamn life.”

Harry stared out the window, something tight in his throat.

This wasn't the first time Louis had said it to him. He said it once when he quit. 

"Because I loved you."

Harry had just barely recovered from that. But then Louis had said it in the past tense, 'loved' not 'love'. And Harry had been satisfied with that. 

So Louis was naive and loved him and once he found out what a monster Harry was, he stopped. It made perfect sense.

But this—this confession in the present tense was driving him mad.

“Burning doesn’t mean weakness,” Zayn added quietly. “Sometimes it’s just love trying to survive the fire.”

Zayn shrugged. “You’ve been burning for him a long time. Maybe it’s time you admit it.”

The room was quiet for a few moments, thick with everything Harry couldn’t yet say aloud. Then Zayn stood, dusting imaginary lint off his blazer.

“Anyway,” he said, like the entire soul-scorching confession hadn’t just happened, “I came here for a reason.”

Harry blinked, dazed. “…What?”

“There’s a gala. You know the one the mafia world has annually? It's on saturday night. It'll be a big one—press, investors, allies, probably enemies in fancy shoes. Your presence is required. And Louis has to be there with you.”

Harry didn’t react.

“The media loves your omega pregnancy arc,” Zayn added with a smirk. “They eat it up. The mafia king who’s got a soft spot. It makes you human. You want to stay untouchable but also untouchably loved? You show up with Louis on your arm. Let them see he’s yours.”

Zayn walked to the door.

Then he was gone, leaving Harry alone with the flames licking at his insides.

Love burns.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis was being ignored. He had had enough of it. The silence was suffocating, and Harry’s clipped replies all evening had been sharp enough to slice through bone. No eye contact. No softness. No warmth. Just cold distractions and buried glances.

It wasn’t anger that stirred in Louis—it was need. The kind of restless ache only an Omega could truly understand, that bone-deep craving to be seen. To be touched. To be felt. And if Harry wasn’t going to give him attention willingly, Louis would just have to take it.

So he showered, letting the warm water soothe the tension from his muscles, steam curling around him like a second skin. When he stepped out, he didn’t bother dressing properly—only pulled on a fresh pair of underwear and one of Harry’s oversized hoodies, the hem of it brushing the tops of his thighs, sleeves swallowing his hands. It smelled like Harry. Strong, grounding. Dangerous.

He padded barefoot into the kitchen, timing it perfectly. Around now, Harry usually buzzed for one of the maids to bring him his late evening coffee. But Louis intercepted, flashing a soft smile at the maid and gently taking the cup from her hands. “I’ve got it,” he said simply.

And then he climbed the stairs, heart beating with something wicked and hopeful all at once.

He stopped at the door of the home office. That door—always cracked open, always a line Harry rarely crossed from work to them. Louis raised his hand and knocked lightly. Deliberate. Soft.

A pause.

The quiet sound of shuffling papers, then Harry’s voice—distant, distracted. “Come in.”

Louis opened the door slowly, letting it creak just a little, the smell of fresh coffee wafting into the room ahead of him. He stepped inside—small, barefoot, and in his hoodie—every inch of him designed to pull focus.

Harry looked up—and then he didn’t look away. He couldn't.

There it was again.

The burning.

So sudden, so visceral, it felt like someone had pressed a lit match to his ribs.

His gaze dragged slowly, helplessly, over Louis’s legs—bare, pale, impossibly soft like poured milk under moonlight. His hoodie hung off him like it didn’t belong to him, because it didn’t—it was Harry’s. Drowning Louis in its size but making him look even smaller, even more his. His eyes drifted higher, to Louis’s face, that infuriatingly beautiful pout, those expectant eyes…

God damn it. It burned.

It burned worse than last night.

Worse than any time before.

He was holding the coffee carefully with both hands, sleeves falling over his fingers, lips slightly parted like he’d been waiting for Harry to say something sweet. And maybe he had.

Harry blinked, like he could snap himself out of it. He’d been trying so hard to avoid Louis since the night of that confession. Since the flames started creeping into places Harry didn’t want to feel.

And especially since what Zayn had said earlier after knocking on his office door:

"You either admit you love him, or you let him go. But don’t keep punishing him just because you’re scared."

It echoed in his head now, unwanted, cruelly well-timed.

Harry cleared his throat, brow twitching with something between surprise and panic. “You?” he said, too sharp. Too empty.

Louis’s pout deepened, exaggerated and painfully cute. “What? I can’t give you coffee now?” he asked, tilting his head, hair still a little damp from the shower, scent warm and sweet.

Harry stared at him, jaw tense, fire rising again in his chest.

You shouldn’t be here, his mind screamed.

But I want you here, his heart whispered.

He was losing this battle.

And Louis—Louis knew exactly what he was doing.

Harry shook his head quickly, almost too quickly. “No—no, you can. Of course you can. I was just… surprised.” His voice tripped over itself, too casual, too thin for the weight in the room. The sight of Louis pouting at him in his hoodie had thrown him off balance. It was almost unfair—the power Louis had without even trying.

Louis’s lips curled into a soft smile, delicate and disarming, and he walked in like he belonged there. Like this office, like this entire house, bent around him. He placed the coffee on Harry’s desk with quiet care, then looked up with wide, innocent eyes.

“I just felt like making my husband coffee. Omega instincts and all.”

Husband.

Omega instincts.

Harry swallowed hard. The words hit somewhere low in his stomach, hot and primitive. Omega instincts, huh? They were working. God, they were working. His inner Alpha—always composed, always restrained—growled quietly in approval, watching Louis move like some soft little prize he hadn’t earned but wanted to hoard anyway.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Harry said, his voice dipping, softer now, almost reverent. Because how the hell could he be cold when Louis was standing there, blushing under the weight of his gaze like some ethereal thing sent to ruin him?

Louis looked down shyly, smile growing just a little. “You’re welcome,” he murmured.

And for a moment, neither of them moved.

Just Louis, glowing in the middle of Harry’s space, and Harry, burning quietly behind his desk—completely, utterly undone by a cup of coffee and the boy he couldn’t stop wanting.

Louis lingered a second longer, then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, his hands dropped to his belly—softly, gently, rubbing over the slight curve that had only just begun to show beneath the oversized hoodie.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

The gesture was deliberate. And Harry’s gaze, as if pulled by gravity itself, dropped instantly. He had gotten all of Harry's attention now. Without much work.

That little swell. Their child. The physical proof of everything Louis was, everything they were becoming. And Louis, standing there cradling it like it was sacred, looking so soft and vulnerable and his—it sent another wave of heat straight through Harry’s chest.

Harry blinked, his throat tightening. Fuck.

Louis looked up at him again, eyes searching. “Did I… do something wrong?” he asked, voice quieter now. Not accusatory—just unsure.

Harry’s heart clenched. “No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t.”

Louis nodded slowly, hands still resting protectively on his belly. He took a small step back, gaze falling away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For saying I love you. I wasn’t trying to make things complicated, I just…” He shook his head, forcing a little laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “I won’t say it again. Just… please don’t ignore me.”

His voice cracked just a little on the last part. Just enough.

And Harry felt it. Like a strike to the ribs. Because it wasn’t the words that hurt—it was the apology. Louis apologizing for loving him. For being honest. For giving him something so terrifyingly real that Harry hadn’t known what to do with it except run.

His hands twitched on the desk.

He wanted to reach out.

He wanted to fix it.

But all he said—for now—was, “Louis…”

And his voice was rough. Gutted. The beginning of something he hadn’t let himself say.

“Louis…” Harry said again, his voice barely above a whisper now, scraping at the walls of his throat.

He stood, slow and uncertain, as though the wrong move might make Louis slip away like smoke.

“I won’t ignore you,” he said, firm this time. Quiet, but resolute. “I’m sorry. I won’t… do that to you again.”

Louis looked at him, blinking slowly, as if making sure he heard right. Then he nodded, eyes softening. “Thank you,” he said, almost like he couldn’t believe it.

He hesitated, then added, more to the floor than to Harry, “I don’t want to be annoying. I swear I don’t. I can handle you ignoring me—hell, you used to do it all the time. Before…”

His hand instinctively rubbed his belly again.

“But ever since I got pregnant, it’s been…” he laughed a little, voice thick, “harder. I don’t know why. It just hurts more now.”

Harry’s heart clenched. Every word Louis said was a knife he’d earned. And yet the boy was still here, still gentle, still trying.

“You’re not annoying,” Harry said, stepping closer now, voice low and sincere. “And I won’t ignore you. I promise.”

Louis looked up again, eyes a little glassy but hopeful now, his fingers still resting protectively on the curve of his belly.

“You mean it?” he asked softly.

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said, eyes locked on Louis’. “I mean it.”

Harry lingered there, staring at Louis like he still had more to say. Then he cleared his throat, glanced away briefly as if trying to gather himself—return to something steadier. Something he could control.

“There’s a… gala,” he said, voice a bit rough, like it scratched against the words as they came out. “It’s this weekend. Big one. All the elites. Can’t get out of it.”

Louis tilted his head, brows knitting slightly as he tried to catch up with the sudden shift.

Harry’s eyes flicked back to him. “You’re coming with me.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

Harry shrugged, trying for casual, but his jaw was tight. “It’s formal. Big names. Media. They’re expecting to see my Omega.”

Louis’s lips parted slightly, unsure if this was a command or a request.

“I want you there,” Harry added quickly, softer this time. “You belong at my side.”

Louis searched his face, reading between the lines. Harry never asked for company—especially not at public events. He was all business, all stone. And now… this?

“You want me there?” Louis echoed, voice cautious, hesitant.

Harry nodded once. “Yeah. I do.” His eyes flickered down to Louis’s belly, then back up.

For a second, Louis just stood there, stunned still.

Then he smiled—slow, gentle, a little stunned. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll go.”

And Harry nodded like it was settled. But inside, something restless clawed at him again.

He hadn’t even begun to imagine what Louis would look like in formalwear.

And now, he wouldn’t have to.

Louis shifted his weight, the hoodie swaying gently around his thighs. “When is it?” he asked, voice lighter now, like he was trying to climb out of the heaviness they'd just shared.

“Saturday night,” Harry replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seven. We’ll leave by six. I’ll have a car ready.”

Louis nodded thoughtfully. “Do I need to go shopping or something? Get something new?”

Harry opened his mouth to say yes—of course, it was a high-profile event, and Louis deserved the best—but Louis beat him to it.

“I have a black dress that’ll do,” he said with a little shrug. “It still fits. Mostly.”

Harry blinked. Then nodded slowly. “Alright. If it’s what you want.”

Louis turned to leave then, the soft pad of his bare feet against the office floor the only sound in the room.

But just as he reached the door, he hesitated, hand on the knob. He looked back, voice quiet, but with a spark of mischief in it now. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you… maybe wear a black tie that night?” Louis asked, cheeks already pinking.

Harry raised a brow, surprised. “A black tie?”

Louis coughed, immediately fumbling with the sleeves of the hoodie. “Just for... coordination,” he mumbled. “You know. For the media. Makes us look more put-together or whatever.”

Harry’s lips twitched like he was holding back a smirk. “Sure,” he said, watching him carefully. “Black tie it is.”

Louis nodded, too quickly. “Good. Great. Perfect.”

Then he slipped out the door before Harry could see the full force of his grin—because of course he wanted them to match. And of course Harry saying yes made his heart somersault.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Louis bit his lip as he finally managed to zip up the black dress, letting out a breath of relief. For a moment, he had feared it wouldn’t fit—not with the way his body had been changing—but the fabric, always a little loose before, had thankfully forgiven him this time.

He turned to the mirror, running a slow hand down the front of the dress. He definitely looked cute. A little fuller around the middle, sure, but he was pregnant—that was to be expected. His skin had a healthy glow, his cheeks soft and warm. His hair fell just right, tousled but styled, and his lips had a natural flush.

What really caught his attention, though, was the jewelry.

A gold necklace and a matching bracelet, both heavy with polished black stones that caught the light like drops of night. They looked… expensive. They were expensive. Suzie, one of the maids, had delivered them earlier that morning with a soft smile and a quiet, “Mr. Styles said to give these to you.”

Louis had been stunned then. He still was.

He touched the necklace gently now, fingers grazing the cool metal. It rested just above his collarbone—bold, elegant, impossible to ignore. He swallowed.

Harry had picked this for him. That meant something.

And whether he wanted to admit it or not, Louis felt… wanted. Chosen.

Then, there was a knock on the door—low, firm, but unhurried.

“Louis?” came Harry’s voice, velvet-edged and unmistakable. “Are you ready?”

Louis glanced once more at his reflection, gathering what little courage he had left. The dress hugged him delicately now, the dark silk like a second skin, soft but bold. The necklace lay heavy against his collarbone, the bracelet cool at his wrist, both glinting like black fire. They felt like armor—expensive, glittering armor. He exhaled slowly, trying to steady the flutter in his chest, and opened the door.

Harry stood just outside, mid-motion as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, but when he looked up—

He stilled.

As if the world had gone momentarily silent around him.

His eyes swept over Louis—slow, deliberate. From the curve of his bare shoulders down, to the bondmark on display to the gentle swell beneath the black fabric. That small, growing proof of what they had created together. His gaze lingered on the shimmer of the necklace, the shine of gold against pale skin. And when their eyes finally met, there was something fragile and sharp in Harry’s expression. Something wordless.

“What?” Louis asked, softly, shifting under the weight of it.

Harry blinked. Once. Then again, as if coming out of a trance.

“You look…” His voice faltered, breath catching at the back of his throat. “You look beautiful.”

It was a simple word, but it landed heavy—like something sacred.

Louis’s lips parted slightly. He wasn’t used to being looked at like that. Not even before the pregnancy. And from Harry, of all people. His cheeks warmed, and his fingers instinctively brushed against the bracelet on his wrist.

“Thank you,” he murmured, glancing down. “You picked the jewelry?”

Harry nodded, but slower this time. His voice had dropped a little when he replied, gentler. “Yeah. I told Suzie to give it to you this morning.”

Louis looked up, brows furrowing slightly at the tone. “They’re beautiful.”

A pause.

“They were my mother’s,” Harry said, quietly now. 

Louis froze. His fingers stilled against the gold. "Oh...”

“I didn’t think I’d ever give them to anyone,” Harry continued, eyes fixed on Louis’s throat, on the glint of black and gold. “But you.... you're something else, Louis." Harry sighed.

Louis’s heart did something painful and sweet at once. He could barely breathe past it. “I’ll take care of them,” he whispered.

Harry looked at him with something unreadable—something dangerously close to vulnerability. “I know.”

They stood there for a moment in silence. And then Louis’s gaze lifted to him, and this time he was the one stunned.

Harry looked…

Sinful.

There was no other word. His black suit was tailored so perfectly it should’ve been illegal—cut just right across his broad shoulders, the jacket fitted to his narrow waist. His black tie was knotted neat and sharp, but the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing just the edge of his collarbone and the glint of the gold chain he always wore underneath.

His sleeves framed strong forearms, and his hair, styled but slightly tousled, looked effortlessly powerful. Dangerous. Like a man who didn’t need to command the room, because it had already bent to his will.

“You look…” Louis swallowed, heat rising to his cheeks. “Very dangerous.”

Harry’s lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. “That’s a compliment?”

Louis let out a soft breathy laugh, brushing his hair back behind one ear. “With a suit like that? Definitely.”

Harry didn’t smile often—not really. But now, something gentler crept into his expression. Something warm and quiet, sitting just beneath the surface. “You sure you’re up for this?”

Louis nodded, his hand drifting instinctively down to rest over the swell of his belly. “Yeah. Especially now that you’re wearing the black tie.”

That made Harry arch a brow, bemused. “So that’s why you asked?”

Louis looked away, the blush deepening. “I said it was for media consistency.”

Harry tilted his head, smirk deepening. “Not because you wanted us to match?”

Louis rolled his eyes and huffed, turning as if to leave, but not without the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Shut up and escort me, Mr. Styles.”

Harry extended his arm, slow and deliberate, the edges of his suit catching the light like onyx. “Gladly, Mrs. Styles.”

--------------------------------

The late sun spilled molten gold across the estate, casting long, honeyed shadows over the manicured stone path as Harry and Louis stepped out of the mansion.

Their steps were in sync, heels tapping lightly on the stone, but Louis could feel the subtle gravity of Harry’s presence beside him. It was never just proximity with Harry—it was pressure. A pull. Like standing next to a thunderstorm and pretending the air wasn’t alive with lightning.

At the base of the steps, the black car waited like a beast crouched at the gate—gleaming, still, and utterly silent. The driver greeted them with a stiff nod, to which Harry responded with a single dip of his chin. Then, in a move too casual to be meaningless, Harry stepped ahead and opened the door himself.

Louis didn’t expect the gesture. Harry didn’t often do things like that. But there he was—one large hand holding the door, the other resting at Louis’s lower back, warm and steady.

Louis inhaled sharply as Harry’s fingers grazed the curve of his waist. It wasn’t a possessive grip, not exactly. More like a silent promise. An anchor. A brand. His hand lingered just long enough to burn.

“Careful,” Harry murmured as Louis slid into the plush leather interior.

His voice was low—gravel wrapped in velvet—and it ghosted across Louis’s skin like a whisper meant for somewhere darker.

Once Louis was inside, Harry followed and shut the door with a muted, expensive thud that echoed in Louis’s chest. The car pulled away from the estate gates like a shadow melting into twilight.

Louis barely noticed the movement. He noticed something else.

They were close.

Too close.

The ambient chill of the car’s AC didn’t reach Louis—he was burning. 

The car glided down the darkening street like a predator, smooth and silent, its interior cloaked in soft shadows and stitched luxury. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the subtle rustle of fabric—Harry adjusting his cuffs, the sharp white edge of his shirt slipping out from beneath the jacket’s sleeve as his fingers worked with calm precision.

Beside him, Louis fussed quietly with his dress. The hem had risen just a little too high on his thighs, and he tugged it down with graceful fingers. Then his hands fluttered protectively over the gentle swell of his stomach—absently smoothing the fabric there too, a quiet, subconscious gesture.

Harry noticed.

Of course he did.

His eyes, sharp as ever, flicked downward—and lingered. He stopped mid-motion, his cuff half-finished. Something about the sight of Louis’s hands over his belly, the vulnerability of it paired with such quiet elegance, struck something deep and dangerous inside him.

Without a word, Harry leaned in.

Closer.

Louis felt it like a shift in gravity. His breath caught in his throat the second Harry’s warmth brushed against his side—his scent rolling in like storm wind, all cedar, smoke, and something darker.

“Comfortable?” Harry murmured, his voice low, thick, and dangerously smooth—like sin dressed in silk.

Louis dared a glance at him, lashes fluttering like moth wings. “Mm-hm,” he breathed. “You?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He looked at Louis instead—his eyes wandering languidly over the dip of his collarbone, the way the dress clung lovingly to his frame, the way his skin caught the last of the light.

“I’m alright,” Harry said at last, though his voice had dropped into something deeper, more intimate. “Would be more comfortable if you were nearer.”

The words curled between them like smoke.

Louis’s cheeks flushed, a soft pink blooming across them like rose petals under glass. “I’m… I’m right here,” he replied, voice small but warm.

“Not near enough,” Harry murmured, voice low and rough like gravel warmed by fire. Then he shifted—deliberately, unapologetically—closing the last sliver of distance between them until their thighs were flush, his presence thick and inescapable.

Louis inhaled sharply, his lips parting as Harry’s heat pressed into his side. The air in the backseat was suddenly heavier, charged with something unspoken but undeniable. Every nerve in Louis’s body was on edge, strung tight like a violin waiting to be played.

Harry didn’t speak. He just looked at him—eyes dark and slow and devastating, tracing Louis’s features like a man committing something sacred to memory.

“You’re staring,” Louis said softly, turning his face toward the window, cheeks tinted a soft, helpless pink. The words lacked bite; they were barely a whisper, more like a plea for mercy.

But Harry took it as an invitation.

He leaned in further, brushing his lips first against the delicate angle of Louis’s jaw, then lower, to the hollow of his collarbone, just above where the gold glinted against his skin. The kisses were light, reverent. Dangerous.

Louis shivered, eyes fluttering closed.

“Can you blame me, darling?” Harry whispered in his ear, his voice velvet-laced and intimate, like a secret slipping through the cracks of control.

Before Louis could fully recover, Harry’s hand slid down with purpose, settling on his thigh with a confidence that made Louis’s breath catch. His thumb began to move in slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of his dress—each pass a spark threatening to ignite him.

Louis exhaled shakily, heart pounding beneath his ribs like it wanted to escape. Gathering himself, he turned to face Harry again, eyes wide and lashes low, cheeks flushed like wine had bloomed beneath his skin.

“Alpha… please,” he murmured, the word heavy with longing and submission.

Harry’s pupils darkened, his expression shifting—hungry and mesmerized. That familiar heat stirred in his chest again, the burning. It always came back when Louis said his name like that. Like a prayer. Like it belonged to him.

A low chuckle escaped Harry’s lips, smoky and rich. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Can’t help it. You look so pretty.”

Louis rolled his eyes, trying to regain some footing, but the curve of his lips gave him away. “Stop before I’m unable to attend the gala with you.”

With a reluctant sigh, Harry finally lifted his hand, the heat of his touch lingering like an imprint.

“Hmmm,” he mused, straightening up but never quite pulling away. “I definitely don’t want that.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter Text

The car slowed as it turned off the main road, tires crunching softly over white stone. The iron gates loomed ahead—black and towering, adorned with swirling gold filigree and an ornate crest that gleamed in the faint moonlight. A symbol only men like Harry understood. Men of power. Men of secrets.

The driver didn’t need instruction. He eased the vehicle forward as the gates creaked open, revealing a long, winding path flanked by tall, shadowy cypress trees. The air was still, almost reverent, as if even nature held its breath for what lay beyond.

Louis shifted slightly in his seat, smoothing his dress again, this time not out of nerves but instinct. His fingers grazed the bracelet on his wrist—heavy and cold, grounding. He cast a side glance at Harry, who now sat still, composed, but with a quiet storm brewing behind his eyes.

And then, the mansion came into view.

lluminated by subtle golden lights that spilled like molten metal down its white marble steps, the estate stood proudly against the darkened hills—a monument to wealth and danger. Its windows were tall and narrow, like the eyes of someone always watching. Music throbbed faintly through the ground beneath them, bass-heavy and elegant, a symphony stitched with menace.

Doormen in tailored black suits approached the car even before it stopped. One opened the door swiftly with a bow of the head.

Harry stepped out first.

He stood tall, exuding quiet dominance, dressed in a tailored black suit that clung perfectly to his broad frame. His tie was sharp and knotted neatly, his hair slicked back just enough to reveal the hard cut of his jaw. The cold air didn't dare touch him. He was every bit the mafia king—composed, ruthless, and untouchably beautiful.

Then he turned, and extended a hand.

Louis placed his fingers into Harry’s, letting himself be guided out like something precious. The contrast between them was striking—Harry, all dark fire and authority, and Louis, the soft gleam of moonlight. His dress rippled around him like ink on water, the jewels catching the light as he stepped out with slow grace, baby bump subtle but present, dignified.

All eyes turned.

Even in a crowd full of the elite—men in blood-money suits, women in diamond-drenched gowns—Louis stole attention like he was born for it.

Harry didn’t speak. He simply offered his arm.

Louis took it.

Together, they walked toward the great stone steps. Louis could feel the weight of the stares, the whispers beginning already—some in awe, some in doubt, many in envy. But he didn’t falter. Not with Harry beside him, not with the way Harry’s hand rested at the small of his back like a claim, a promise, a threat.

As they approached the main doors, a man in a black earpiece stepped aside and gave Harry a respectful nod.

“Mr. Styles. Welcome.”

Harry only tilted his head in acknowledgment.

And then the doors opened.

Inside was another world entirely—warm light flooding the marble halls, chandeliers like frozen rain above their heads, gold-trimmed columns and archways twisting upward into darkness. The music was louder here, a slow jazz laced with something wicked. Waiters moved like ghosts with silver trays, and laughter curled in the air like smoke—beautiful, indulgent, sharp.

This was no ordinary gala.

This was the gathering of empires in silk gloves.

And Harry Styles had just walked in with a crown on his head, and Louis Tomlinson glowing like his chosen queen.

Louis exhaled softly, leaning into Harry’s side.

“Remind me again,” he whispered just loud enough for Harry to hear, “are we attending… or ruling?”

Harry smiled, slow and feral.

“Both.”

As they walked deeper into the marble-laced opulence of the gala, Louis’s heels clicked softly against the floor, barely audible beneath the hum of conversation and slow jazz. But inside—beneath the glitter and glow—his stomach churned. Not from the crowd or the lights or the sharp scent of champagne and expensive perfume.

It was the dawning understanding.

This world—this grand, ruthless, reverent world—they were walking through… it was Harry's.

The way people looked at him, like he was something divine and dangerous. The way the crowd shifted almost subconsciously as he passed, parting like water before a ship. The way waiters flinched to make room. Even the soft nods from guards, the stiff smiles from politicians, the way the mafia wives stood straighter in his presence—all of it spoke volumes.

And suddenly, Harry’s answer echoed through Louis’s mind.

"There’s no clean break. And the truth is—I don’t want one"

It was naive of Louis to ask Harry if he’d ever leave all this behind.

And Harry hadn’t even hesitated.

Now, walking beside him as eyes trailed after their every step and envy bristled from every corner of the ballroom, it made terrible sense.

How could he give this up?

Power like this makes gods out of men.

Louis’s hand instinctively pressed against the curve of his belly, protective, grounding. He tried to breathe, but the air tasted too rich, too heavy with secrets.

A group of omegas near the bar—draped in silk and diamonds, their bodies lean and curated—were watching Louis with narrowed eyes.

One of them, tall and sharp-jawed with lips like rubies, whispered something into another’s ear and laughed softly. Louis could feel the sting of it in his chest. His baby bump, the soft roundness of his face, the fullness of his limbs from pregnancy—he was glowing, yes, but not desirable the way they were. Not sculpted and bare-shouldered and made to be watched.

And still Harry had his hand on Louis’s lower back like he was proud. Possessive.

That same ruby-lipped omega blinked, and her smile slipped.

Yes, Louis thought. Be jealous, you bitch.

They crossed the ballroom to a cluster of older, sharper-looking men near the grand fireplace. Men with silver hair and dark eyes, suits made of cloth so fine it looked poured onto their bodies. Men with cigars in their fingers and their fine looking middle aged wives by their side.

As Harry approached, the circle shifted. Immediately.

One of them—Don Marcello, head of the Verona syndicate—straightened, pressing his cigar into a nearby ashtray like a student standing for his headmaster.

“Harry,” Marcello greeted, voice gravelly with reverence. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight. But I’m glad I did.”

Another man chuckled tightly, “And you bring beauty with you. We hardly deserve such a sight.”

Louis flushed, but Harry only gave a faint, closed-lipped smile. Dangerous and polite.

“This is Louis,” Harry said, his voice low but steady, made of silk and command. “He’s my omega, my wife.”

There was a beat of silence, just for a moment.

Then the men nodded, one by one, slow and deliberate. As if a ceremony had just occurred. The other wives looked Louis up and down and smiled amongst themselves.

“A pleasure,” Don Marcello said, his eyes flicking over Louis—not with hunger, but calculation. Respect, even. “We’ve heard… whispers. You’ve been keeping him well-hidden.”

Harry placed a warm hand at the small of Louis’s back again.

“Some things are too precious to parade,” he said simply. And the way he said it—not a weakness, but a warning—made the men all nod again. 

Louis stood a little taller.

He looked up at Harry, and for a flicker of a second, Harry looked down at him too. And though he wore the suit of a king and bore the gaze of a wolf, his eyes—when they met Louis’s—softened.

Louis’s stomach still churned. But now… it wasn't just nerves.

It was love. And fear. And power.

And the knowledge that he was standing beside a man no one dared touch.

And somehow… that man had chosen him.

Each of the guests took a turn introducing themselves, offering firm handshakes and polite nods. Louis returned their greetings with soft smiles and a gentle grace that somehow disarmed even the sharpest of men. He was poised yet sweet, like the calm eye in the center of a storm.

“Is that Anne’s jewelry?” Don's wife asked, her voice thick with fondness and memory. “She would’ve absolutely adored you. You look stunning, sweetheart.”

Louis’s cheeks flushed delicately. “It is. Thank you.”

Harry’s hand lightly pressed against the small of his back as he chuckled. “You really do have the keenest eye.”

The woman let out a light laugh. “Darling, when you’re married to a dangerous man, having a keen eye is a survival instinct. And you—” she turned to Louis with a conspiratorial twinkle, “—you better start sharpening yours too. Keep a close watch on this one.”

Harry rolled his eyes, amused. “Stop radicalizing my omega.”

She laughed again, unbothered. “As an elder omega, it’s my sworn duty. Besides, someone has to teach him the art of dealing with alphas like you.”

Another woman stepped forward—slender, silver-haired, and carrying herself with quiet authority. “Honestly,” she said, smiling knowingly, “never thought I’d live to see the day this man would be… committed.”

Louis chuckled softly, the sound sweet and unassuming. “I don’t know how I managed it myself,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I suppose… God helped me.”

There was a beat of laughter, and then one of the women added, dryly, “Only God could’ve pulled that miracle off.”

Harry smirked. “True,” he murmured, eyes flicking sideways to Louis. His voice dipped lower, flirtatious and brazen. “But… just look at him.”

The group chuckled again, several of the wives exchanging amused glances.

Louis, cheeks blooming pink, glanced down in bashful protest. His mind spun, trying to decipher whether Harry was simply putting on a show for the audience—or if he truly meant the glint in his eye, the hand that hadn’t left his waist all evening, the little smirks just for him.

Either way, the affection in Harry’s voice had felt real.

And Louis was glowing. 

The atmosphere shifted subtly as Don Marcello cleared his throat, the warmth of laughter fading just slightly. His sharp eyes swept toward Harry, and the corners of his mouth lifted in something like approval.

“You and your little altercation with Vincent and Vaughn,” he said, voice smooth but edged with steel, “has become quite the tale. Incredibly done.”

A ripple of agreement passed through the circle.

“They got what they deserved,” another man echoed, clinking his glass.

Harry’s posture straightened imperceptibly. The easy charm in his face dimmed, his jaw tightening as a flicker of shadow passed through his gaze.

“Yes,” he said, voice cold and precise. “Thank you.”

Louis swallowed. His stomach gave a soft, uneasy twist. He could never get used to how they talk about murder. SSocalmly? As if it were just another business acquisition? The sudden coldness in Harry’s expression sent a shiver down his spine. His fingers fidgeted at his side, instinctively curling in.

From across the circle, Don’s wife caught his discomfort and offered a sympathetic smile, a silent I know, darling, that made Louis feel just a little less alone.

Then she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as they scanned him. “Are you carrying, honey? You don’t quite look it, but I can tell. Keen eye, and all.”

Louis’s cheeks flushed with color. He nodded bashfully.

Harry, beside him, let out a pleased hum. “Oh yes. We forgot to say. He is.” His hand curled more protectively around Louis’s waist, thumb brushing lightly across the soft fabric of his dress.

A soft chorus of murmured congratulations followed, warm and sincere, and Louis offered quiet thank-yous with a grateful smile.

But then Don’s wife clucked her tongue and raised a pointed brow. “Well, don’t you gentlemen have any chivalry left in your blood? Talking about that bloody business in front of this sweet little omega. Really—have we taught you nothing?” She waved her hand as if shooing away flies. “Go on, go away with your secrets and shadows. We’ve heard enough stories to last a lifetime, but rules are rules.”

The men chuckled—some sheepishly, others respectfully. Louis noticed how they obeyed her with the same deference they offered their husbands’ superiors. It made sense—she was likely the longest-standing wife among them, and something about her presence demanded reverence. She had the wisdom of survival carved into every line of her face, and it made even the deadliest of men lower their heads.

“Yes, boss,” her husband said with a smirk, earning a round of chuckles.

Harry grinned. “You’re the only person I fear ending up on the bad side of.”

A few more chuckles passed between them, and then Harry turned to Louis. He leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek before lowering his voice.

“I’ll be right over there,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Louis’s ear. “Talking business. You stay here and try to get to know these women—they’re good people, allies to our family. They’ll be kind to you.”

He pulled back, eyes warm but serious. “And if you need me... I’ll know. Alright, sweetheart?”

Louis gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Harry smiled gently, gave his waist one last squeeze, and turned to disappear into the shifting sea of tailored suits and whispered deals, leaving Louis standing in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, surrounded by watchful, knowing women who had survived this life—and now, perhaps, would help him survive it too.

The moment Harry disappeared into the polished crowd, Louis suddenly felt the weight of his own stillness. The chandelier above cast golden light across the marble floor, illuminating the dark silks and glittering jewelry of those around him.

For a second, he felt like an outsider peering in. A quiet omega with a storm inside him, standing in the lion’s den dressed in black and gold, pretending he belonged. But then, the Don’s wife, Amelia, looped her arm through his with practiced ease, grounding him.

"Come on now," she said, her voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "You’ve braved the worst already. The rest is just smiles and secrets."

The other women drew near, gathering him into their circle as though he had always been part of it. They were all dressed in dazzling gowns, their eyes painted sharp, but their laughter was soft and knowing.

"First gala?" one of them asked.

Louis nodded, cheeks still pink. “Yes. I’ve… never been to something like this before.”

They all hummed in understanding, a symphony of shared memory and old power.

"We were all you once,"  Amelia said, sipping from her glass. "Looking around like lambs in a temple of wolves. But don’t worry, dear. You’ve already done what most couldn’t.”

Louis raised a brow slightly, curious. “What’s that?”

She smiled, slow and wry. “Tamed him.”

Laughter bubbled around the group, warm and genuine.

“Maybe not tamed,” another wife amended, “but you’ve got him leashed. That’s just as impressive.”

Louis’s heart fluttered at that—part pride, part disbelief. Could it be true? Had he truly changed Harry? Or just made him more vulnerable? More tied down?

He looked over his shoulder.

Across the grand room, beneath an enormous oil painting of a crowned lion, Harry stood among men with faces carved from power. His presence was thunderous even in silence. They leaned in when he spoke, their heads nodding in attention, and parted when he moved as though pulled by gravity.

God, he really was something.

"He's watching you," one of the women whispered with a smirk.

Louis turned again. And sure enough, through the conversation and the heavy smoke of power, Harry’s eyes were locked on him like a magnet. Steady. Burning. Possessive.

Louis felt heat rise to his chest.

The Don’s wife nudged him gently, voice teasing, “Might want to tone down the blushing, darling. Otherwise your alpha might storm back here and drag you off before dessert.”

The circle erupted in gentle laughter again, and Louis bit his lip, trying not to smile too wide.

Maybe this world wasn’t as cold as it seemed.

Maybe—just maybe—he was meant to belong here.

Wrapped in black silk, glittering under golden lights, with the eyes of the devil himself tracing his every move from across the room.

The laughter around Louis was warm and easy when the air shifted—barely perceptible, but sharp like a change in the wind.

Two omegas approached the circle, the same ones that had been eyeing Harry and Louis before, heels clicking against the marble like metronomes of calculated confidence. They were beautiful, no doubt—glossy hair, slender waists, dresses that screamed couture and cunning—but their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes.

“Hello, Amelia,” the first one greeted with sugary sweetness, eyes briefly flicking to Louis before returning to the Don’s wife. “You look radiant as always.”

Amelia smiled politely, resting her gloved hand on Louis’s arm. “You’re sweet, Celeste. This is Louis, my new favorite person.”

The second omega, tall and painfully elegant in crimson, nodded in Louis’s direction with a half-smile. “Of course. We’ve seen him around. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Louis replied softly, tone gracious but not overly warm. He knew that look. The kind that cut without ever needing to raise its voice.

Celeste tilted her head. “It must be so… overwhelming. You weren’t born into all this, were you? I mean—this world can be a bit much for outsiders.”

Louis offered a smile, one that didn’t flinch. “It’s a lot to take in, yes. But Harry makes it easier.”

“Mmm,” the second omega murmured. “I suppose he does. We know Harry very well, don’t we, Celeste?” she said, glancing sideways, her smirk a snake coiled around her lips.

“Oh yes,” Celeste said, drawing out each syllable like a thread she wanted to strangle someone with. “He used to prefer very specific things. Certain... types of omegas. Very lean.”

She paused, eyes trailing pointedly over Louis’s baby bump and softer frame, masked by expensive fabric. “But maybe he’s changed his taste.”

The hit was clear.

Louis’s smile didn’t falter.

“Well,” he said sweetly, smoothing a hand over his stomach in one elegant movement, “I am carrying his child, so it would seem his tastes have… evolved.” He said it like it was the most casual thing in the world—then met her gaze, steady and unbothered.

The other omega blinked, her mouth twitching like she’d tasted something sour.

“Right,” she replied quickly. “Of course. Congratulations.”

But Celeste wasn't done. Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “Still, this life can be hard for someone who wasn’t raised in it. It's all about legacy, tradition. Some of us have been groomed for it since birth. It’s not something you can just… step into.”

Louis opened his mouth, but Amelia was already chuckling, low and delicious.

“Oh, please,” she said, waving her hand with flair. “He’s the wife now. Who the hell cares where he came from?”

The other women in the group laughed in agreement, some muffling it behind their glasses, others smirking openly.

“He married Harry Styles,” Amelia added with a pointed lift of her brow. “You can’t get more legacy than that. That’s the game, darling. You win the king, you become the queen.”

Celeste’s smile cracked at the edges. The other omega offered a polite nod and shifted her weight uncomfortably, clearly outnumbered now.

Louis let out a soft, gracious laugh, nodding toward Amelia. “I suppose I have excellent instincts.”

Amelia winked. “That’s why I like you.”

And just like that, the air was back to warmth. The snakes had slithered away, their venom ineffective against a circle that had closed ranks around Louis like silk armor.

For the first time that evening, Louis wasn’t wondering if he belonged.

He knew he did.

---------------------------

Louis was laughing softly at a joke when the subtle shift in the air stole his breath. The room quieted—not fully, not obviously, but just enough that the atmosphere bent around it. Heads turned.

Harry was coming.

Louis didn’t need to look. He felt him before he saw him, the heat of that gaze, the slow roll of command in every step that echoed through the marble floor. The conversations dulled. Eyes drifted. Whispers stirred like smoke in corners of the ballroom. 

And when he reached the group, he didn’t spare anyone a glance. His eyes were locked on Louis like he was gravity.

Harry’s lips curled slightly, like he knew exactly what kind of effect he had.

“There you are,” he said low and smooth, almost fondly. “Having fun without me?”

Louis looked up, pulse fluttering. “Maybe just a little.”

“Hmm,” Harry hummed, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Unacceptable.”

Before Louis could reply, soft strings swelled in the air—the lights dimmed slightly, and a hush of elegance swept the ballroom. The band had started to play. A slow, romantic waltz curled into the space like warm smoke.

Without waiting for permission, Harry extended a hand. “Dance with me.”

Louis blinked. “Oh. Right now?”

“There’s no one else I’d rather dance with.”

Louis’s heart tripped over itself. He reached out and placed his hand into Harry’s, and was immediately pulled forward—not roughly, not urgently, but fully, until there was barely room for breath between them.

Harry’s arm wrapped low around his waist, fingers splaying gently across the curve of his back and the rise of his bump. Their hands joined, interlocked like habit, and Louis placed the other gently against Harry’s shoulder.

They moved.

The rest of the ballroom melted away as Harry led him in a slow, gliding circle across the floor. Everything else was a blur. Only the violin and Harry’s chest against his mattered. His cologne and his warmth, the scent that made Louis feel safe and ruined all at once.

“You’re glowing,” Harry murmured near his ear, lips brushing the shell.

Louis blushed. “That’s what happens when your husband actually pays you attention.”

Harry huffed a breath of amusement, but it was laced with something tender. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not dancing with you sooner.”

Louis swallowed. The intimacy was so thick it nearly made his knees weak. “I didn’t think you danced at all.”

Harry’s eyes flicked down to him, soft and dark. “I don’t. Just with you.”

A blush bloomed across Louis’s cheeks. Their bodies stayed pressed close, swaying in time to the music. Harry’s thumb stroked a slow circle into the small of his back. His hand tightened around Louis’s waist as the music grew deeper, the violins weeping in delicate notes.

“You’re staring. Again.” Louis whispered, trying to ease the tension bubbling under his skin.

Harry leaned down and brushed his lips against Louis’s temple. “Again, can you blame me?”

Louis’s lashes fluttered. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Harry didn’t smile this time. He just whispered, “Then I’ll take care of every piece.”

The dance eventually ended and after eating some delicious food and a few pleasantries so did the gala. 

The night air outside the grand estate was crisp, laced with the fading perfume of roses that lined the cobblestone path. The stars shimmered like fractured glass above, and for a brief moment, Louis tilted his face up to breathe it in—just to steady himself. The gala had ended. Laughter and music still lingered behind the carved oak doors, but outside, everything was quieter. Still.

Harry stood beside him, lighting a cigarette with a flick of silver. The glow briefly lit up his face—sharp jaw, unreadable eyes. His free hand was wrapped protectively around Louis’s waist, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against the fabric of the black dress.

And then they heard it.

Voices, male and low, drifting from a few feet away near the valet circle. Not meant to be heard. Careless. Crude.

“Did you see Styles’ toy tonight?”

A coarse snort. “Yeah. Fuck, what a sight. Lucky bastard’s got himself a hot bitch.”

Louis went still, his spine tightening.

“Pretty sure he used to be Styles’ assistant. Little secretary slut turned house omega, huh?”

The man laughed. It was sharp, ugly. “If I had an assistant like that, I’d bend him over my desk too.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. Smoke curled slowly from his lips like venom.

“He’s got a hell of an ass though, not gonna lie,” someone else added, voice thick with alcohol and arrogance.

“Yeah,” came another, followed by a low whistle. “The whole time he walked past me, I was imagining how easy it’d be to flip him over. Hear him moan.”

Louis’s breath caught—sharp, stinging. Heat rushed to his face, not from shame, but fury. His hand instinctively moved over his stomach.

Harry didn’t say a word.

But something in the air shifted. Dense. Violent.

He slowly turned his head toward the voices, his eyes glinting with the chill of a blade unsheathed. The cigarette dropped from his fingers and hissed out against the stones. 

His whole body froze, like a predator catching scent. The laughter in the distance—the way Louis’s name twisted out of their mouths, sticky and crass—it rotted the air around him. His head turned slowly, expressionless at first. But his jaw ticked, the vein in his neck throbbing like a warning.

He reached out—calm, too calm—and took Louis's hand in his own.

"Go sit in the car," he murmured.

Louis blinked up at him, startled by how low Harry’s voice had dropped. It wasn’t his usual command. It was grave. Like he was holding back something deadly with every word.

"Harry, wha—"

“I said get in the fucking car. Now. Lock the door."

Louis obeyed, his steps hesitant as he walked away. His heartbeat thudded in his throat as he moved toward the car slowly, the feeling in his stomach no longer churn, but something like dread. Not because he feared Harry—but because he knew what Harry was capable of when he stopped holding back.

Harry didn’t wait to watch Louis go.

He turned.

Walked towards the group of men standing half-drunk by the marble railing, their laughter still echoing, not yet aware of the storm bearing down on them.

"Hey!" Harry barked.

The laughter died.

One of the men—broad, mid-forties, draped in a gaudy suit—straightened up. “Mr. Styles, we were just—”

Harry’s fist collided with his face before the man could finish the sentence. A crack split the air. Blood sprayed across his cheek as he went flying sideways, smashing into the stone planter behind him with a choked grunt.

The others barely had time to react.

“You open your fucking mouth about my omega again,” Harry snarled, advancing on the second man, who backed up, hands raised, “and I will rip your goddamn tongue out and feed it to your wife.”

"We were just jok—”

Another punch. Brutal. This one to the gut. The man crumpled forward, gagging. Harry grabbed him by the collar and slammed his head into the hood of the nearby car. The metal dented. Blood smeared.

“Fucking jokes?” Harry hissed. “You joke about touching him? Fantasizing about him?”

“Please—”

“You pathetic little rodents think you can breathe near him, speak his name, and walk away?” Harry’s voice dropped to a growl, so low it was almost unrecognizable. “I built this empire with blood and bone, and I will burn it all down before I let animals like you sniff around what's mine.”

Harry didn’t stop. Not even close. They tried to hit back. Defend themselves. But it was useless and they knew it. 

His face had twisted into something inhuman—lips curled back in a silent snarl, eyes wild, murderous. He grabbed the next man by the collar and slammed him into the wall hard enough to make the stone crack. Blood splattered. The man shrieked, but Harry’s fist came again and again and again until his mouth was full of broken teeth.

"You fucking insects," Harry spat, his voice nothing but venom. “You dare—you fucking dare talk about my wife like that?”

The last man, trembling, tried to back away. Harry caught him by the throat and dragged him close, his eyes blazing—feral, unholy, like hellfire brewed behind his pupils.

"That’s my omega. My goddamn wife," he snarled. "You think you can look at him, speak about him like that, and go home to your sad little lives?”

The man whimpered. “P-please, Boss, we didn’t mean—”

Harry’s grip tightened. “Shut the fuck up. You think I don’t know men like you? Cowards who talk like wolves when your dicks are limp and your blood is weak? You’re not predators. You’re not alphas. You’re fucking parasites.”

He let go suddenly, letting the man collapse like a sack of meat onto the pavement.

Harry stepped back, face splattered in someone else's blood, eyes soulless.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he whispered. “Go home. Kiss your wives goodnight. Tuck your children into bed. And write your fucking wills. Because I will find you again. Very soon. And when I do—you’ll beg me for death.”

He smiled.

That terrifying, slow, dead-eyed smile. “And I will give it to you.”

Then, as calmly as he’d walked in, he turned on his heel and walked back to the car. Footsteps deliberate. Controlled.

Louis, still wide-eyed in the backseat, watched as Harry opened the door, slid in, and slammed it shut. The car started moving.

His knuckles were soaked in red. And worse of all, something deep in him burned.

The silence inside the car was loud—so loud Louis could hear his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs.

Harry’s breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled heaves like he was trying—failing—to hold back a monster inside. His hands were still soaked in blood. Knuckles torn open. There were droplets on his cuff, on his sleeve, even some dried into the edge of his jaw.

Louis reached out slowly, his fingers brushing Harry’s arm. 

"Are you okay?" Louis whispered. 

Harry didn’t look at him. Not yet. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed straight ahead. Like if he dared meet Louis’s gaze, he’d fall apart or do something worse.

But when Louis touched him again, more firmly this time—gentle fingers over blood and bruised knuckles—Harry flinched, exhaled, and finally turned.

His eyes were black. Not with rage now. With something else.