Chapter Text
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, flooding the tall stained-glass windows of the formal drawing room with a crimson, almost blood-red light. The coloured reflections, breaking through the glass, fell on the oak parquet in intricate, quivering patterns. In the air hung a heavy scent, steeped in decades of unshakeable traditions—old wood that had soaked into every beam, mixed with the sharp aroma of floor polish that had been rubbed to such a gleam that the crystal pendants of the massive chandeliers were reflected in it.
The Rozanov mansion—a stone colossus rising above the surrounding area as a grim monument to its own power—bore down on the guests from the east who had arrived here without an invitation of the heart, driven only by the dictates of necessity, silently reminding everyone who had dictated the rules in this city for more than half a century. Its walls, built of granite darkened by time, seemed to have absorbed not only the dampness of Montreal winters but also the echo of countless intrigues, conspiracies, and ruthless decisions made in these very halls with cold, almost divine detachment.
But today, inside its depths, there was an unusual, unnatural silence, as if the house itself was holding its breath—a ringing stillness before the storm, which here, in the circle of the initiated, was proudly and with a cynical smirk called a "historic alliance," as if that phrase could mask a banal, rotten deal stitched together with rotten bast.
Ilya stood by the window, his hands shoved into the pockets of his impeccably pressed trousers. His posture, which from the outside looked relaxed, was in fact full of concealed, serpentine tension. His light, wavy hair, which he usually tied back in a careless bun to reveal the chiselled line of his neck, was now loose and fell in soft waves over the shoulders of his expensive, custom-made charcoal-coloured jacket, whose cold sheen only emphasised the pallor of his aristocratic face.
He watched the autumn wind, merciless and gusty, chase the crimson, blood-like leaves along the driveway, swirling them in some wild, funereal dance. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly but predatorily, catching even through the glass and the distance the very scent that had haunted his nightmares for the past few weeks.
Down below, at the service entrance, hidden in the shadow of the colossal columns, the Hollander cortege had just come to a halt. The black cars stopped silently, like predators stalking their prey. And even through this barrier—the thickness of armoured glass and a good hundred metres of wind-swept space—he caught it: the sweet, almost cloying scent of tea roses mixed with thick, amber honey—the smell he had heard countless times from reports, gossip, and fleeting rumours. The scent of his future husband, invading his lungs and making the beast inside him bare its teeth and growl in foreignness.
"They're here," he hissed through his teeth, addressing his own distorted reflection in the dark glass rather than anyone around him. His own scent—noble bitter chocolate with the astringent tang of expensive tobacco and the citrusy, sobering freshness of bergamot—immediately intensified, grew heavier, filling the space by the window, reacting to the stranger with the same aggressive, uncompromising hostility as Ilya himself.
Behind him, by the fireplace where the logs crackled lazily, almost reluctantly, Grigory Rozanov, a hefty alpha with noble silver threading through his once jet-black hair, was lighting a cigar. Bluish smoke curled up to the stuccoed ceiling, filling the study, enveloping the heavy carved furniture and the ancient portraits of ancestors in a suffocating haze. The flames of the fireplace played on the massive gold signet ring bearing the family crest on the patriarch's little finger, and in that gleam one could read the entire indomitable, oppressive will of the clan.
"Bear it," his father's voice rang out low, with metallic, unyielding notes, cutting through the suspended tension like a blade. "Your feelings mean nothing here. This is business. Landry and Marlow are just waiting for us and the Hollanders to tear each other's throats out, weakening both clans. That will not happen. Do you understand me?"
Ilya smirked, twitching the corner of his lips in a cold, humourless grin, and didn't turn around immediately, letting the silence stretch until his father's last words dissolved into the crackling of the logs. He lingered, savouring this small, almost teenage display of defiance, before finally turning fully, tearing his gaze away from the driveway where the figures of the guests were already beginning to appear.
"I remember, Father. Business," his deep, enveloping voice, comparable in richness to the melted chocolate of his own scent, cut through the silence of the drawing room, filling it with the poison of scepticism. He finally turned away from the window for good, looking at Grigory with the filial insolence that bordered on reproach. "But you seem to forget one tiny detail: this 'business' will be sleeping in my bed, smelling of me, and whining like all omegas do when they want something."
He took a few steps towards the door leading to the hall. His gaze—cold and appraising—swept over the ancient portraits of his ancestors on the walls with a futile plea, but it was too late. He was about to meet his betrothed—Shane Hollander. The omega he had seen only a few times at public receptions, and each time the other had looked at him as if he were thin air, tilting his neat nose: condescendingly, with disgust. And he was to spend the rest of his life by his side.
Unless this omega turned out to be too fragile and fled the bonds of marriage before he could bear an heir.
Ilya clenched his jaw. The upcoming wedding was a sentence for both of them, but he certainly would not be the first to bend. Tonight, at the traditional family dinner, they would be forced to sit side by side, and tomorrow they would be bound by the terms of the contract. The younger Rozanov intended to show this pampered omega from the Hollander clan who the real master was here.
The waiting time flew by unnoticed, and the moment came to go down to the hall and receive the guests. As much as Ilya wanted to escape this dinner, he couldn't—his father had staked too much on this.
The heavy oak doors of the dining room swung open, and the Hollanders entered. Ilya, already seated at the head of the long table—to his father's right—slowly raised his gaze from contemplating the family silver. His fingers, which had been lazily drumming on the tablecloth, froze. Into the hall drifted the scent—tea rose, honey, and something else—bitter: adrenaline? fear? or poorly concealed hatred? Focusing, Ilya recognised notes of wild cherry and its pit in the air. The omega smelled so clean, so fiercely, clearly drawing the free alpha towards him. The Hollanders had made sure—obviously—Ilya barely suppressed a condescending smile.
They were displaying their omega like the finest product on a counter, one that should attract the attention of anyone capable of assessing the value of this deal. A virgin, fertile omega—what more could a young alpha want, presented with such care? But if it weren't for the agreements, Ilya would have considered this fraudulent act a personal insult; however, he could do nothing—only raise an eyebrow, trying to get a better look at his betrothed.
But David Hollander strode in first—tall, portly alpha with a gaze sharp as a blade. His aura pressed down, trying to compete with the heavy energy of Grigory, but Ilya only smirked at the corner of his lips. The Hollanders had always been second, and this marriage merely cemented their status, no matter how they twisted and turned. And behind his father, like a shadow, followed Shane himself.
Ilya let his gaze slide over him—and involuntarily held his breath for a moment longer than intended.
Thick dark eyelashes cast shadows on high cheekbones, lips—slightly swollen, pale pink—were pressed into a thin line. He was dressed in a dark blue suit that fit him perfectly, emphasising his slender waist and fragile shoulders. His look was not weighed down by heavy jewellery, cumbersome watches, or even a tie—which was more than acceptable for an omega of his standing. In the light of the crystal chandeliers, his hair—dark chestnut, falling in soft waves over his forehead—gleamed with copper. He looked at no one, keeping his eyes lowered to the floor, to his polished-to-a-shine shoes, as if walking to the scaffold rather than to an engagement dinner.
"David, glad to see you," Grigory's voice boomed over the table. He rose to greet his old enemy with a handshake. The alphas exchanged curt, tension-filled nods. "Oh, and, of course, the guest of honour," the Rozanov clan head nodded to his future son-in-law. "Come in, Shane. Sit down."
Ilya observed: he saw Shane's Adam's apple twitch as he swallowed. Saw his fingers, thin and pale, clench into fists for a moment before he forced them to relax. The omega raised his head just enough to see where he was going, and his gaze accidentally—or not?—brushed over Ilya. Just a fraction of a second, but in those eyes, the colour of dark whiskey, Rozanov saw neither softness nor submission—something cold and stubborn splashed there. A challenge. Disguised as modesty, but still a challenge.
It stung, intrigued, and angered the clan heir.
"Shane," Ilya allowed his voice to sound slightly louder than the situation required, "sit here."
He indicated the seat next to him. His palm, broad and confident, rested on the back of the adjacent chair, pulling it out just enough to demonstrate his hospitality but not exaggerating the importance of the arriving guests. Ilya's deep, enveloping timbre filled the space, and he noticed a barely perceptible shiver run down the omega's spine. Disgust? Excitement? Ilya didn't care; at the moment he revelled in the control of the situation.
The omega lowered himself slowly, gracefully, onto the offered seat. The scent of tea rose intensified, mingling with the smell of bitter chocolate and tobacco. Sweet and bitter—honey and ash. Their scents intertwined in the air, creating a suffocating, intoxicating cocktail.
They say that when the scents of an alpha and an omega are so distinct that they weave together into a unique and pleasant fragrance for the receptors, they will have healthy offspring. Ilya, admittedly, didn't feel anything special in this demonstrative mingling—unlike the rest of those present.
"Thank you," Shane's voice was surprisingly soft and unforgivably gentle, like the petals of the very roses his skin smelled of.
Ilya leaned in slightly, pretending to adjust his table knife, but his lips almost brushed Shane's ear, and he felt the omega freeze, turning into a frightened little animal.
"Relax, little omega," he breathed so quietly that only Shane could hear. "You're among family. Though I must admit, watching your fear is rather… amusing."
He pulled back and, grinning broadly, raised his glass of water, meeting the gaze of David Hollander, who watched the scene with a stony face. Shane, however, to the alpha's surprise, did not shrink his head into his shoulders in response to his future husband's jab. Instead, his fingers rested on the edge of the table, and he slowly, very slowly, ran the tip of his index finger along the silver fork. The gesture struck Ilya as almost threatening.
"I'm not afraid of you," Shane rustled, not raising his eyes, but his lips curved slightly into the hint of a cold smirk. "And I doubt any of this will be amusing."
Ilya froze, absorbing the omega's words. Wine was already being poured around the table, Shane's father was discussing the details of tomorrow's contract with his father, and these two sat so close their shoulders almost touched. The air between them crackled—a war had begun. Neither wanted to lose.
And it all began so long ago that not every resident of modern Montreal remembers in detail what spark ignited the fire that devoured entire families for decades, leaving behind only ash, blood, and ingrained hatred. This story, passed from mouth to mouth first as a tragic ballad and later as a dry cautionary tale, had its roots in the turbulent times when the world was just beginning to lick the wounds inflicted by the Second World War, and the air still carried the bitter taste of gunpowder mixed with desperate hope for renewal.
It was then that a young alpha from the Rozanov clan, bearing the proud name Viktor, first saw at a spring ball a young omega from the Brown family—Charlotte—whose laughter rang out for him like a bell of fate. He was twenty-four and had already known the underside of life, but his heart remained passionate and reckless, while she had barely turned sixteen and looked at the world with the trembling, frightened tenderness that belongs only to creatures on the threshold of their prime.
Viktor, captivated by this fragile, barely blossoming beauty, threw himself at her feet without reserve, ready to wait for the maiden's consent as long as it took, no matter how agonising the wait might seem. He carried armfuls of flowers to her house, not demanding personal meetings, not seeking secret dates behind the backs of strict parents, only humbly leaving at the doorstep tender buds that held the warmth of his palms and a silent promise of fidelity.
The alpha showered her with gifts worthy of a princess, tried to win her family's respect through an impeccable reputation and diligent work, rising to an important position in society with the sole goal—to come to her door in a few years, when the girl turned eighteen, and with all due respect ask for her hand and heart from her father. But these plans, so carefully and tenderly laid, were not to be fulfilled—fate, known for its cruel wit, decided otherwise, crossing out years of longing with one reckless act.
Charlotte, barely reaching adulthood, ran away not with the one who had worshipped her from afar for years, but with a daring, impetuous alpha from the Hollander family named Catherine, whose eccentricity and love of freedom turned the inexperienced omega's head more than the strongest wine. They married swiftly and secretly, hiding their happiness from prying eyes, but soon, tired of pretending, stopped hiding, defying conventions and breaking Viktor's heart to pieces, without hope of repair.
Rozanov could not forgive the betrayal, though he had never received specific promises from Charlotte—but did that matter to someone who had breathed solely the dream of reciprocation for so many years? The cup of his bitterness overflowed, and from it grew a fierce, merciless enmity that marked the beginning of a real war in Montreal.
Over a little more than half a century, in various skirmishes, cowardly attacks from around corners, and open bloody clashes, nearly ten thousand city residents died. The streets, once full of life and music, were soaked in the grief of inconsolable widows and orphans.
But in modern realities, where old traditions were cracking at the seams and pragmatism increasingly triumphed over blind rage, continuing the bloody war over the sins of ancestors had become simply imprudent. What had begun because of an unfulfilled marriage was decided, with bitter irony, to be closed by a completed marriage, sealed with all formalities and forced consent, to put an end to the senseless slaughter.
However, though the rules of the game had changed, turning from military confrontation into an unshakeable alliance, one thing remained unchanged, untouched by time or diplomatic tricks: decades-old traditions, steeped in the poison of mutual grievances, remained intact.
The Rozanovs continued to look at the Hollanders with the same contempt as half a century ago, barely hiding their disgust behind strained smiles at official receptions. The Hollanders, in turn, paid them back in the same coin, uttering perfunctory pleasantries through clenched teeth and not missing an opportunity to remind them of the old, seemingly buried under a pile of treaties, betrayal. And even the long-awaited truce, about which so much was said and which was so solemnly proclaimed, worked only in words, remaining a fragile, almost transparent screen behind which the embers of old, never-gone hatred continued to smoulder.
One could only hope that the years would pass and this whole story would remain on the pages of books, ending with a new beginning.
Ilya slowly sipped from his glass, not taking his eyes off Shane's profile. The omega sat with a perfectly straight back, as befits a well-bred omega from a good family: slender fingers delicately held the stem of his glass, but he never took a sip—just held it, as if it were an anchor saving him from the storm. The younger Rozanov smirked into the rim of his glass and turned his head slightly, pretending to examine the painting on the opposite wall.
"Good posture," he whispered, barely moving his lips, in a voice meant only for the omega's ears. "Have you been trained since childhood like a purebred dog? 'Sit', 'stay', 'smile at the guests'?"
Shane didn't turn his head; only his eyelashes fluttered slightly, and a blush appeared on his flawlessly smooth cheek for a moment—but not of embarrassment, of restrained anger.
"At least my breeder didn't teach me to growl at those who are weaker," he answered quietly, finally bringing his glass to his lips. He took a tiny sip, and a drop of red wine remained on his lower lip before he licked it off with the tip of his tongue. "Only at those who pose a threat. You, unfortunately, are not on that list."
Ilya could not stand the pressure of his betrothed, wanting with all his being to respond to the barb he'd heard. Under the table, where neither their parents nor the servants could see, he turned his leg and, with deliberate carelessness, touched Shane's thigh with his knee. Not hit, not pushed—just pressed, heavily, with insistence, and immediately felt the omega's muscles tense under the thin fabric of his trousers.
Shane stopped moving; his fork froze over the appetiser plate. For a second their eyes met—Ilya saw a real fire in those whiskey-coloured eyes. But the omega quickly lowered his lashes and, without changing his posture, slowly, very slowly moved his leg away. Not fearfully, not jerkily, but with dignity, as if removing expensive fabric from dirty fingers.
"Careful, Rozanov," Shane put a tiny piece of cheese in his mouth, chewed, and only then finished, turning his head slightly towards him, "One more move like that, and I'll think you're trying to court me."
Ilya laughed quietly, lowly. The laugh came out bitter and, fortunately, didn't attract unwanted attention. He leaned in slightly, pretending to reach for the pepper shaker, and his breath burned Shane's neck.
"I see no point in courting what's already mine," his lips almost touched the delicate skin behind the omega's ear. The scent of tea rose and honey was thicker here, more concentrated, and for a moment his head swam.
The alpha instincts demanded he bite, mark this watery omega, claim his rights right now, but he only exhaled hot air on that vulnerable spot and pulled back.
"Tomorrow you'll take my surname, wear my scent, sleep in my bed. Get used to the idea that every move you make from now on belongs to me."
Shane finally turned to him fully: their faces were dangerously close—so close that Ilya could see every tiny freckle on the omega's cheeks and the golden sparks in his irises.
"You can take my surname, my body, and climb into my bed," Shane whispered back. "But you will never take what's inside. And without that, Rozanov, all you'll have is an empty shell. A doll. A porcelain toy that will smile at your guests and bear you heirs. But it won't give a damn about you."
He turned back to his glass, and that same cold, condescending smile played on his lips—the one Ilya had hated since their first meeting. He wanted to grab Shane by the chin, turn him around, wipe that smirk off with a kiss or a bite. But at the table sat their fathers. Irina, his mother, was already casting wary glances at them, Grigory was loudly discussing some contract terms with David, but his eyebrow was slightly raised—he too was watching. Not the conversation. Them.
Ilya forced himself to lean back in his chair and take a large gulp of wine. The tart liquid burned his throat, unexpectedly sobering his mind.
"We'll see how long you last with that pride, little omega," he tossed into the space in front of him. "When you're left in my house. Alone, without daddy's protection."
Shane didn't answer, but his fingers, resting on the tablecloth, clenched slightly, crumpling the starched fabric. Ilya noticed and smiled. The war was only beginning, and damn it, he was going to win it.