Figure You Out

He was meant to be a hostage. He became their worst nightmare.

When Louis, spoiled and sharp-tongued Omega heir to a powerful dynasty, is kidnapped to settle an old pack debt, his captors expect him to break. To beg for mercy.
But Louis doesn’t break. He bites.

And at the centre of it all is Harry, the Alpha who wanted a bargaining chip. Instead, he got a storm in human form, a wild, unpredictable Omega who pushes every button, tests every boundary and somehow, buries himself under Harry’s skin.

Some preys are not meant to be caged.
And some predators are meant to fall.

Notes:

This all started because of my dear (debatable now) friend, D.
She sent me a stupid Instagram Reel of five seconds about Stockholm Syndrome and.. Boom, I was writing this.

(It was, again, supposed to be a One Shot.)

As usual, thank you for the people landing on here and taking the time to read anything stupid that comes out of my brain.

Buckle up, it's going to be a rowdy one.

Chapter 1: Enjoy the Silence

Chapter Text

The booth reeks of weed and vodka, mixing with sweat and scents from different people. Smoke curls lazily from Luke’s fingertips, drifting through the low purple glow of the VIP section, where bottles glisten in ice buckets and laughter spills over the bass.

Louis is draped over the leather couch like a king at a feast, the center of attention without trying, limbs loose but somehow elegant as he tips his shot back. He looks like sin itself. a sheer black mesh shirt that clings to his frame and leather pants so tight they leave nothing to the imagination. His hair is a perfectly tousled mess, effortless in a way that makes it obvious he knows exactly how good he looks.

Luxury. Indulgence. The feeling of being untouchable. He thrives in it.

With a lazy wave of his hand, he motions toward Luke. “Pass it.”

And Luke, helpless Alpha in love with him since they were teenagers, doesn’t just hand over the joint. He leans in, bringing it to Louis’s lips himself, watching with that same familiar devotion as Louis inhales, eyes flickering shut for a second before he exhales a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

The girls parading around their table in impossibly high heels, magnum bottles held above their heads, barely catch his attention. He didn’t drop thousands on this table for them, but the people around him care. It’s all about the show.

“I’m bored.” He announces, dragging the word out in a moan.

Luke perks up immediately. “You want to dance?”

Louis sighs, heavy and dramatic, like it’s the worst idea ever. “Alright.”

The stairs leading down to the dance floor are illuminated by pulsing neon, casting sharp slashes of red and purple across the glossy tiles. The crowd is thick, the air warm with sweat, perfume, and scents. Louis lets himself melt into the music, body moving smoothly, pressing back against Luke’s chest, letting the bass sink into his bones.

But his attention is elsewhere.

His gaze sweeps across the club, half-lidded, searching. The flashing lights distort faces, blur edges, but then, there. Something catches his eye. Something shiny.

Not just something. Someone.

A boy leans against the bar with ease, radiating a level of control that makes Louis’s skin buzz with interest. He’s tall, tanned, devastatingly composed. He wears a leather jacket, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal strong forearms laced with ink, silver rings flashing when he lifts his whiskey glass. His dark hair is cropped short but has a natural wave to it, and the neon glow of the club catches the sharp angles of his face, the cut of his jaw, the glint of a nose ring.

And he’s looking at Louis.

Louis rolls his hips against Luke in time with the music, dragging this boy’s attention through every shift of his body, every teasing twist and slow grind. It’s a game. One he’s played a thousand times.

Except this boy doesn’t play. He doesn’t react. He just keeps watching.

Louis’s lips part slightly, irritation curling low in his stomach. A flicker of something warmer beneath it. Intrigue. Fine. He’ll force a reaction out of him.

With an easy pivot, he pats Luke’s stomach gently, a silent, dismissive I’m over this , and steps away, cutting through the crowd with feline grace. The bodies pressing in around him are irrelevant. His focus is singular.

The moment he stops in front of the boy, he notices more, the slight curve of his mouth, the way his lashes fan against almost all the way up his eyebrows when he blinks, and the fucking piercing on his nose.

Louis tilts his head, lips twitching into a slow, teasing smirk.

“You know,” He muses, voice silk-smooth as he leans against the bar, “staring is free, but talking costs extra.”

The boy’s lips curve into a slow smirk of his own, dragging Louis’s stomach into a slow, thrilling drop. “Good thing I don’t do small talk, then.”

Louis’s pulse flutters in his throat.

Oh, this just got interesting. But Louis doesn’t believe in patience.

He steps into the boy’s space like he’s always belonged there, the neon club lights flickering across his grin. Their eyes lock, and Louis revels in the way the boy watches him, intent, steady, like he’s trying to figure out whether Louis is a temptation or a test.

That kind of attention makes Louis reckless.

So he reaches, fingers curling around the heavy glass of whiskey in the boy’s grip, his touch grazing the rings on his knuckles. Louis lifts the glass to his lips, his stare unwavering as he takes a slow, deliberate sip.

He hates whiskey. The burn is sharp, raw against his tongue, but he swallows it down anyway, just to prove a point.

“Invite me to drink.” He demands, almost lazy, but his eyes gleam with something far from indifferent.

The boy’s mouth twitches like he sees exactly what Louis is doing. “I had a drink.”

But his gaze drags down, taking Louis in, from the parted lips to the stretch of fabric hugging his thighs. And fuck, that, the way he looks at him, like he’s assessing, considering, sends something sharp and thrilling straight through Louis’s spine.

“Good thing I have plenty up there.” Louis murmurs, reaching for his wrist, his fingers skimming along the inked veins of his forearm before grabbing him.

The boy doesn’t resist. In fact, he does something that sends a jolt of pleasure straight to Louis’s stomach, he twines their fingers together.

By the time they slide into the booth, Louis is already pushing, testing, playing.

He drops onto the plush leather first, thighs spreading slightly as he leans back, watching as the boy slides in beside him. Close. Close enough that when Louis turns his head, he can smell the sharp spice of his cologne.

“Didn’t catch your name.” Louis murmurs, tilting his head, watching the boy from beneath heavy lashes.

“Didn’t give it.”

Louis laughs, breathy, pushing his knee against the boy’s. “Do you always let strangers drag you across the club, or am I just lucky?”

“Depends,” he murmurs, voice dark, thick. “Are you always this desperate for attention, or am I just lucky?”

The drinks keep coming, and Louis stops counting after the third.

It burns, but it’s easier now, easier when it’s mixed with the sweet, slow drag of the blunt passed between them, each inhale sinking warm and heady into his limbs. His body hums with it, a lazy, buzzing heat curling at the base of his spine, making his smirk looser, his touches lazier.

The boy watches him the entire time. Not just in passing, not just in amusement. Watches him . Like he could eat Louis whole, like he’s debating whether he wants to savor him or ruin him completely.

Louis fucking loves it.

“Y’know..” He murmurs, voice thick, slurring just enough to sound drunk on something other than whiskey. “I think you like staring at me.”

The boy hums, not looking away. “You make it hard not to.”

Louis grins, teeth sinking into his lower lip. His head tips slightly, loose curls spilling across his forehead, and he reaches for the drink again, lifting it to his lips just to see if the boy follows the movement. He does.

His gaze tracks the way Louis licks the rim of the glass before taking another sip, slow and indulgent, his throat working as he swallows. The boy exhales through his nose, shifting slightly, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Louis preens.

“You wanna touch me, don’t you?” He teases, tilting his head, barely able to keep himself from giggling when the boy just smirks, dragging his hand up Louis’s arm.

“Yeah.” The boy murmurs, voice low, rich, all confidence and heat. “And you want me to.”

The boy leans in then, shifting so his mouth is barely an inch from Louis’s, his breath warm, his hand sliding from Louis’s elbow down to his thigh. “You wanna get out of here?”

Instead of answering, Louis smiles, all lopsided and lazy, and leans in, one palm pressing flat against the boy’s chest. His body follows the movement, loose and fluid, until his mouth is half-hidden against the boy’s neck. His voice is barely a whisper, but he knows the boy hears it, feels it against his skin.

“Not even gonna kiss me first?” He pulls back just enough to tease, just enough to let his lips part, eyes flicking down to the boy’s mouth before dragging up to meet his stare. “I need to try before I buy.”

“You just had to ask, princess.”

And then Louis is pinned.

The boy moves so fast, shifting, one strong hand pressing into the booth beside Louis’s head, the other gripping his jaw as he crashes their mouths together.

Louis gasps, fingers twisting into the boy’s shirt, and fuck.

It’s not slow or teasing, it’s deep, all heat and hunger, lips parting, teeth dragging, the boy’s hand tilting his face up as he swallows Louis’s breathless whimper. Louis barely processes the hoots and whistles around them, the sound of their friends cheering like it’s all some kind of game.

But it’s not.

Not when Louis arches slightly, dizzy, high, heat pooling in his stomach, fingers gripping at the boy’s shoulders like he wants to be picked up, lifted, taken right now. He barely registers himself gasping when the boy finally pulls back, lips red, his thumb swiping over Louis’s lower lip.

“Come on.” The boy murmurs, voice thick with want. “Let’s go.”

Louis barely has enough breath to nod.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

Louis follows the boy into what looks like a perfectly normal apartment. Minimalist, but clearly expensive. Polished wooden floors, sleek furniture, low, moody lighting. A single piece of abstract art hangs above the couch, bold and chaotic, the only thing out of place in the otherwise pristine space.

It smells expensive, leather and faint cologne, something deep and musky that clings to the air. But there’s no trace of a particular smell that could let Louis know who is the boy.

Louis runs his fingers along the edge of the marble countertop in the kitchen. “Nice place. I expected something... messier.”

“You think I live like an animal?”

“More like a man who doesn’t own coasters.”

He laughs, stepping in closer, his hand skimming Louis’s hip, warm and firm as he tugs him back, pressing their bodies together. “Do I look like the type to give a fuck about water rings?”

Louis’s breath hitches, but he hides it behind a cocky smirk, twisting in the boy’s grip. He presses his palms flat against his chest, giving a light push before yanking him closer by the collar. “I think you’ve got other things to worry about.”

He hums, leaning in. “Want another drink?”

“Not really.” Louis purrs, his hand trailing down the boy’s stomach, fingertips brushing over the skin. He tilts his head, a playful glint in his eye. “I’d rather be putting something else in my mouth.”

“Always this direct?”

Louis grins, his voice dripping with confidence. “Always.”

Still, the boy steps away, moving to a glass cabinet and retrieving a bottle of whiskey that looks older than Louis himself. Louis catches the detail, impressed, but decides to roam around, touching and grabbing things in the room. “You’ve got taste.”

Behind him, the boy hums but doesn’t reply. And Louis maybe should take more time to understand why he can’t smell anything on him, no Alpha, no Omega. But he’s excited.

And by the time he turns around, the boy is sitting on the sofa and holding out the drink to him with a lazy smirk, letting the burn settle in his throat.

But Louis is already impatient, tilts the glass back in one go, the whiskey burning his throat and stomach, and he slams the empty glass onto the table. Without another word, he climbs into the boy’s lap, pressing their lips together in a fierce kiss.

Under him, the guy groans, his hands gripping Louis’s hips, pulling him into a slow grind. Their bodies fit together easily, the heat between them growing with every movement. Louis gasps into the kiss, his fingers threading through his short hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a low growl from his throat.

“Fuck, you’re hot.” He mutters against his lips, voice husky.

Louis hums, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, pupils blown. “I know.”

He chuckles, tightening his grip on Louis, but just as the moment starts to deepen, Louis pulls back, pressing a hand to his chest to keep him at bay. “Hold that thought.” He breathes, chest rising and falling. “I need the bathroom.”

The boy leans back, eyes heavy with desire, his lips curling into a smirk. “Don’t take too long.”

Louis winks, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, before he stumbles off his lap. He catches himself against the armrest, his body swaying slightly as he regains his balance. With a quiet, almost playful laugh, he slips down the hall, his footsteps light but unsteady.

Inside, he leans against the sink, exhaling slowly, trying to shake off the heady rush of alcohol that still clings to him. His fingers tremble slightly, the buzz starting to settle in heavier now. With a quick swipe, he pulls out his phone, his vision a little hazy but still manageable.

He types out a message to Luke: Everything’s smooth. Gonna get laid.

He snickers to himself, feeling the familiar excitement buzzing beneath his skin. He hits send and stuffs the phone back into his pocket, thinking about the night ahead, the taste of whiskey still lingering on his tongue. But then, something shifts.

His stomach gives a sickening lurch, and suddenly, a wave of nausea rolls through him, sharp and disorienting. Louis frowns, the uneasy sensation crawling up his spine. His fingers tighten around the edge of the sink as he leans forward, his breath coming a little faster now. His vision blurs at the edges, the room spinning slightly as his head swims.

Fuck, I must’ve had more to drink than I thought.

He tries to steady himself, but it’s like the ground is shifting beneath him. His body betrays him as the dizziness deepens, and he struggles to focus on the cold ceramic of the sink in front of him.

With a frustrated grunt, Louis leans over the basin, his hands shaking as he turns on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face in an attempt to clear his head. It does nothing to ease the mounting pressure inside his skull. His breath comes in shallow bursts as his knees begin to weaken.

Suddenly, his knees buckle beneath him, and he crumples to the floor. The last thing he sees is the black rug underneath him before everything around him fades to black.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

When Louis wakes up, he’s not in the apartment.

It takes him a while to realise.

His head feels like it’s been cracked open and stitched back together with barbed wire, his throat is dry, and his ears are ringing with a dull, persistent hum. He groans, shifting slightly, squeezing his eyes shut before trying to stretch his arms over his head.

He can’t.

His brows furrow as he tries again. This time, he tugs harder, a prickle of confusion creeping up his spine when his wrists don’t budge. He shifts his legs next, except they won’t move properly either. There’s a resistance, something tight and unyielding digging into his skin.

His ankles are bound. His wrists too.

Panic strikes fast, seizing his chest in a suffocating grip. His heart kicks up, hammering erratically against his ribs, his breath catching in his throat. His limbs go stiff, frozen with the realisation that something is wrong .

And then.

"Yeah, yeah, Everything went as planned."

A voice. Somewhere behind him. Casual, disinterested. A chair creaks, followed by the soft click of a lighter. Louis frowns, blinking rapidly, forcing himself to focus.

"Nah, you know how it is.." The voice continues, followed by a quiet chuckle. "Yeah, pretty though."

That laugh. The deep rasp to his voice.

Oh.

It’s him .

The boy from the bar.

Some of the panic eases. It’s not gone, but dulled just enough to let Louis get his bearings. He swallows against his dry throat and forces himself to take in his surroundings. The ceiling stretches high above him, exposed beams cutting through the space. The walls are brick, red and orange, huge windows line on the ceiling, allowing a bit of sunlight through.

It’s... nice. Too nice for some creepy basement or shady backroom. It reminds him of those industrial apartments he’s seen in Friends, all open space and urban charm.

A joke, then? A prank? A kink thing ?

He exhales sharply, flexing his fingers as he pushes himself upright, rolling his shoulders before shaking the hair out of his eyes. The movement makes his head spin, but he ignores it, blinking away the remnants of dizziness as he finally gets a good look at the boy.

The leather jacket is gone, revealing a black fitted tank top that clings to his torso. He’s leaner than Louis expected, less bulky, more wiry but the tattoos snaking up his arms and disappearing under his collar make up for it. There’s even one peeking from his back and up to his neck, disappearing beneath the hair near his temple.

Sexy.

Louis watches as the boy sets his phone down and reaches for a pack of Marlboros on the desk, tapping a cigarette loose with one hand. A slow smirk curls at Louis’s lips as he brings his chin on the backrest of the couch.

“I’d love to stay tied up for you, babe, but you’re gonna have to at least buy me dinner first.”

The reaction is instant.

The boy startles, twisting around so fast he nearly drops his cigarette. His eyes, sharp, dark, and unreadable lock onto Louis. For a second, he just stares, as if assessing whether he actually heard what he thinks he did.

Louis grins.

The boy lets out a slow breath, running a hand down his face before exhaling a laugh. "Jesus Christ."

“What?” Louis tilts his head, feigning innocence. “You’re the one who tied me up. If I knew you were into that, I would've let you do it at yours. Would’ve been much more comfortable.”

The boy exhales through his nose, amused but clearly unimpressed. “You always this mouthy?”

Louis’s grin widens. “Oh, babe, you’ve no idea.”

The boy watches him for a moment, then hums, sticking the cigarette between his lips. He flicks the lighter open, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw as he lights up and takes a slow drag. Louis takes the opportunity to tug at the bindings around his wrists. They’re tight, but they give slightly when he flexes his fingers. Rope . Not cuffs. Not chains.

Definitely a kink thing.

“You’re not even gonna tell me your name?” Louis pouts, resting his cheek against the couch. “Thought we had something special.”

The boy ignores him.

"Now, are you gonna untie me, or am I supposed to beg? ‘Cause, fair warning, I make it sound filthy.”

The boy levels him with a flat stare, dragging in another pull of smoke before finally exhaling a quiet sigh. He walks over, crouching down so they’re eye level, the scent of nicotine and something darker, muskier, filling the space between them.

Louis stares right back, unbothered.

"You really don’t get it yet, do you?" The boy murmurs.

"Get what?" Louis scoffs, tilting his chin up defiantly. "That you’re trying really hard to be scary? Babe, trust me, I’ve seen worse—"

The door swings open.

“Zayn, have you seen my— Oops .”

Louis blinks as a blond boy stumbles into the room, stopping dead in his tracks the moment his eyes land on Louis. His hand flies to his mouth, his blue eyes going comically wide as his entire face floods with colour.

Louis watches, intrigued, as Blondie slowly, so slowly, turns his gaze toward the tattooed boy, his expression shifting from pure shock to outright terror. He follows the glance, looking at Tattoo Boy, who has just closed his eyes like he’s summoning every ounce of patience in his body.

Huh.

Then it clicks. A slow, wolfish grin spreads across Louis’s lips. He raises his eyebrows, deliberately dragging his gaze back to the blond.

“So your name’s Zayn.” He muses, smug. “Cute. And what’s this then? Some little underground Fight Club cosplay? Or—" His smirk widens as he shifts on the couch, raising an eyebrow. "Oh. Ohhh. Don’t tell me.” He flicks his gaze between the two of them, delighting in how the blond looks even more panicked now. “This is a sex thing , isn’t it?”

Blondie chokes. “What? ”

“Well, I am tied up, and you both have the whole brooding, intense, leather-jacket vibe going on. Not to mention—” He nods toward Zayn, who still hasn’t looked at him. “You just outed your friend’s name, which means you probably didn’t want me knowing it, which means…” Louis gasps dramatically. “Oh my God. I’ve interrupted something, haven’t I?”

Zayn exhales sharply through his nose, looking absolutely murderous, while Blondie flails, eyes darting wildly as if looking for an escape route.

“I—I didn’t know he was awake.” Blondie blurts out, voice cracking slightly.

Louis hums, nodding sagely. “That’s what they all say.”

Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ni- Shut up.”

Blondie jumps, then immediately starts babbling. “I’m sorry, mate, I swear I wouldn’t have said anything if I knew he was conscious.”

“Well, I am conscious.” Louis interrupts. “And, honestly, I feel a bit left out now. If I’m meant to be the sub in this scenario, shouldn’t we agree on a safe word?”

Blondie lets out a strangled sound that might be a laugh or might be a wheeze. Zayn, on the other hand, is glaring daggers.

“Hey, no judgment. If this is your thing, I’m happy to roll with it, but I do prefer a bit of foreplay first. Y’know, maybe dinner, a bit of wine, some nice conversation.”

"Jesus fucking Christ.” Zayn mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

“I knew he’d be annoying.” The blonde whispers.

Zayn shoots him a look.

“Aw, come on, Blondie. Don’t be shy. You can tell me what’s actually going on now, right? I mean, since you’ve already fucked up your mate’s whole scary, mysterious act—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Zayn moves, faster than Louis can process. One second, Louis is lazily on the couch, taunting and smirking, and the next, he’s yanked forward by the front of his shirt. A sharp twist, a forceful pull and then he’s falling. His back slams against the cold, hard floor, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.

Before he can scramble up, something shines, a glint of silver catching the dim light.

A knife. A very sharp knife, now resting dangerously against his collarbone, tip pressing just enough to make his pulse jump.

Louis freezes.

Zayn is bent over him, calm and steady, one knee pressing into his ribs, his grip firm but not tight. Controlled. Like he’s not even trying yet.

“Listen carefully, sweetheart..” He murmurs, voice low, almost gentle. “This isn’t a game. It’s not a prank. And I sure as fuck don’t have a bondage kink.” The blade presses just a little harder. “You’re here because I let you be. So do yourself a favour and stop pushing.”

Louis swallows. His pulse spikes, just enough for him to feel it, the hammering beat in his throat, in his chest.

Because suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a joke.

It doesn’t feel like a game. It feels real.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

Louis doesn't know how long it's been.

Time has blurred into an aching haze of discomfort, but he’s very aware of the sharp bite of the cold floor beneath him, of the dull throb in his tailbone from sitting there too long. His wrists are sore from the ropes, his back stiff, but none of it is quite as annoying as the fact that they haven’t even offered him a bloody chair.

Zayn or Tattoo Boy, as Louis has mentally dubbed him, is perched on a chair in front of him, long legs spread, elbows resting lazily on his thighs. He’s been interrogating him, though Louis is using that term loosely. So far, it’s been mostly sighs, muttered curses, and the occasional sharp look when Louis gets a little too mouthy.

Which, unfortunately for them, is his specialty.

“So, let me get this straight.” He exhales dramatically. “You lot think I have what ? Some secret stash of blood money? Hidden bank accounts in the Caymans? Maybe a vault full of gold bars under my penthouse?” He pauses, then grins. “Ooh, is this the part where you pull out a big red button and threaten to blow up my family if I don’t hand over the codes?”

Zayn exhales sharply through his nose, arms crossed, jaw tight. Across the room, Blondie rolls his eyes from where he’s seated at a desk, typing away at a laptop.

Louis watches them both before adding, “I mean, it’d be sexy if it wasn’t so cliché.”

Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath.

“What was that? A prayer? Bit early to start begging, don’t you think?”

"Bloody hell." Blondie mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face.

Louis smirks. This is fun.

“Alright.” Zayn says, voice calm. “Let’s try this again.”

“Ooo, a new approach. I like it. Interrogation but with a touch of intimacy. You gonna light some candles? Pour us some wine?”

Zayn ignores him. “Your father’s money. What do you know about it?”

“You do have the wrong rich kid. My father is an investment banker, not a mob boss.”

Zayn’s expression doesn’t change. “You sure about that?”

“Oh, totally. Every morning before my croissant and espresso, I make sure to ask, ‘Hey, Daddy, you aren’t secretly involved in international crime, are you?’” He gasps, faux scandalized. “Shit. Maybe I forgot to ask this week.”

Zayn stares at him, unimpressed.

Louis tilts his head, watching the way Zayn’s fingers flex like he’s resisting the urge to strangle him. “Also, what’s with the setting?” He nods toward the exposed brick walls and industrial windows. “A warehouse? Really?”

Blondie doesn’t even glance up from his laptop. “It’s a loft.”

Louis lets out a delighted snort. “Wow. That makes it less cliché, yeah.”

Zayn clenches his jaw.

“Let me guess, you’re about to monologue about how serious this is, how I need to cooperate before things get ugly and…”

Zayn stands abruptly, chair scraping back.

Louis shuts up.

Zayn levels him with a stare. It’s the same calm look he’s had this whole time, but now it feels different.

“I’ve been nice.” Zayn says, voice low. “I’ve given you chances. But I do not have the patience for little rich boys who think this is a joke.”

“And you’re not as scary as you think.” Louis shot back. “I’ve had scarier facials.”

But then, well, he just can’t help himself.

“Is this the part where you show me the torture room?” He gasps, eyes going wide in mock horror. “Oh my God. Is it gonna be like Dexter? Is there plastic wrap downstairs? Listen, if you’re gonna kill me, just please don’t ruin my face.”

“Christ.” The voice is exasperated, unimpressed. It belongs to another guy, broad-shouldered, arms crossed, looking about one joke away from throwing Louis out the nearest window. “Can we gag him?”

Louis beams. “Kinky.”

Zayn, who’s been unnervingly silent for the last ten seconds, just stares at him. His expression is unreadable, and for the first time, Louis wonders if he might’ve pushed a little too hard. Then Zayn inhales sharply, stands abruptly like he’s made a decision, and reaches into his pocket for his phone.

Louis watches with mild curiosity as he pulls it out, scrolling with quick, precise movements before pressing it to his ear.

“Fine.” Zayn mutters, his tone clipped. “You wanna be a smartass?”

Something in his voice makes Louis hesitate.

“Zayn.” Blondie warns from across the room.

Uh oh.

Louis straightens slightly, but it’s not like he can go anywhere. His wrists are still bound behind him, the rope digging into his skin, the knot tight and unmoving. He shifts his legs, just enough to test the resistance, still tied together, still trapped.

He swallows.

Zayn doesn’t even glance at him. His fingers tighten around the phone, knuckles going white. “If you don’t deal with him right now.." He says, voice cold. “I’m gonna kill him myself.”

Louis stops breathing for a second.

Okay. Okay, that’s… fine.

He darts a glance toward Blondie, hoping for a sign that this is just posturing, just another part of the intimidation game, but the blonde is focused on his screen, lips pressed together. Not comforting.

Zayn ends the call without another word and finally, looks back at Louis.

Louis swallows again, shifting slightly, suddenly very aware of how little control he actually has here. The realisation settles in his chest, heavy and cold.

Zayn catches it.

And then, he smirks. He bends down then, his face inches from Louis’s. His breath is warm, his presence overwhelming, the dark ink curling around his throat now impossible to ignore.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” His voice is slow, deliberate. “He’ll make you talk.”

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

They all left the room.

Louis has been alone for exactly seventeen minutes. He knows because there’s a clock on the wall. Actually, there are six. One for Paris. One for Tokyo. One for Milan. One for London. One for New York. And the last, Chicago.

The ticking fills the silence, relentless.

He shifts, his muscles ache from staying still for too long. He needs to move, needs to talk, anything to stop his brain from eating itself alive. But he can’t. Not like this.

Then again… maybe he can.

His wrists are bound, his ankles too, but that doesn’t mean he can’t stand. He could hop, maybe even shuffle his way toward the door. It’s stupid, but he’s losing his mind just sitting here.

So he tries. And, of course, the second he pushes himself up, the sliding door glides open.

Louis freezes.

Not because of the ropes.

But because of him.

He’s tall, solid, with messy dark curls falling just above his ears. His face is tilted down, shadowing his expression, and he moves like he doesn’t need to hurry, because the room always bends to him anyway. He wears a black leather jacket, creased and worn, over a white button-down open on his chest. It should look soft. It doesn’t.

And when he looks up, Louis’s smirk falters for just a second. His inner omega stills. It’s instinctual, automatic. A primal recognition that sinks into his bones, holds him there, locked in place, breath tight in his chest.

The ropes should be the scariest thing in this room. But they aren’t.

Louis needs to play it cool. Needs to keep his head. He can’t let the nerves show, can’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him crack. So he straightens up, or at least he tries to, wobbling slightly on his bound ankles. He lifts his chin, forces a smirk, and says—

“So, you’re the big boss? Huh. Thought you’d be scarier.”

The man doesn’t blink.

There’s no hesitation. One second, Louis is standing, and the next, his entire world shifts.

A hand fists the front of his shirt, yanking him clean off the ground like he weighs nothing. His back slams against the nearest wall, the impact rattling through his ribs. The breath rushes out of his lungs in a choked gasp. His feet dangle just above the floor, toes barely scraping the concrete.

Up close, the guy is even bigger. His grip is solid, unshakable. Louis grabs at his wrist instinctively, but it’s useless, there’s no give, no mercy.

His brain scrambles for a comeback. Anything. A quip, an insult, even a stupid joke about all this dramatic manhandling. His mind screams at him to do something, maybe knee the bastard in the balls, maybe bite.

But then. Something hits him.

Not a fist. Not a boot. Something else. Something invisible but thick, something heady curling in his lungs, pressing against the walls of his ribs. It rolls over him like a wave, leaving goosebumps in its wake. His breath catches in his throat, panic momentarily forgotten as his body recognises .

Alpha.

And, fuck. He knows the second the guy smells it too. Because in the blink of an eye, everything shifts.

One moment, his captor’s expression is all sharp angles, dark brows furrowed, green eyes burning with frustration and barely restrained aggression. The next, those same eyes widen, just a fraction, shock flickering through them. It happens slow and fast at the same time, like his brain is taking an extra second to believe it.

They stare. And neither of them breathe.

Louis feels the fingers gripping his shirt twitch, the pressure loosening just slightly, like the guy is no longer entirely sure what to do with him.

Which, naturally, means Louis has to open his fucking mouth.

"Y'know, if you wanted to get me all hot and bothered, there are easier ways than throwing me around. Some people just ask." He smirks, tilting his head, trying for casual despite the way his pulse pounds in his ears. "But I get it. You alphas are all about the theatrics—"

And just like that, the tension snaps.

A growl rumbles from the man’s chest, low, warning, like the final crack before a storm breaks.

Before Louis can so much as blink, he’s yanked forward and dragged across the room, his bound feet stumbling clumsily as he tries to keep up.

Then, he is shoved.

The chair scrapes against the floor as Louis is forced down into it, his body hitting the seat with a dull thud. His captor steps back fast, too fast, like Louis is something scorching, something dangerous. He drags a rough hand down his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, jaw locked tight.

Like he’s trying to shake something off. Like he’s trying to shake Louis off.

And then, because he truly doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up, he huffs a breathless laugh and mutters. “Well. That was dramatic.”

"Thirteen thousand dollars."

The voice is deep, low, almost lazy in its menace. It rings in Louis' ears, settling thick in his chest, making his spine tingle against the cold wood of the chair.

"Thirteen thousand dollars." A pause. Then, slower, heavier. "That’s how much the scum you call your dad owes us."

Louis snorts.

It's instinct, really. A scoff punches out of his chest before he can stop it. Because, what ? His dad? The same man who spent Sundays pruning roses in the garden, who had an entire shelf of books about Winston Churchill? Owes money to some crime ring?

“Right.” Louis exhales, shaking his head, amusement curling at the edges of his lips. "And how much do I need to—"

"Shut up."

It’s not yelled. Not barked. Just said. But somehow, it has more weight than a gun against his temple.

The man turns, shoulders squaring, and, fuck.

Louis’ mouth snaps shut like a reflex. His lips press together, teeth grinding, even as a sharp protest sits at the tip of his tongue. He swallows it, forcing himself to exhale through his nose instead. His captor watches him. Green eyes dark, assessing, like he’s deciding exactly how much patience he has left.

Then, he speaks again. “What do you know about his business?”

Louis leans forward, chains clinking. “Why? You wanna invest?”

“Cut the shit.”

“Look, I know he’s not just a businessman. But I’m not his secretary. You think he trusts me with paperwork? I’m lucky if I get the name of the pilot flying my private jet.”

“You’re his blood.”

“Not by choice.”

“I’m not joking. This isn’t about ransom money. This is blood-deep. Pack-deep. Your father’s not just playing games with cash. He’s been feeding wolves to lions and acting shocked when they bite.”

Louis’s smirk fades, just slightly. “My dad’s a banker.”

The man’s lips curl, something bitter and amused. "Yeah? You think banks make that much money in backroom poker games?"

Louis' stomach twists. He feels the blood drain from his face before he can control it.

Poker games.

His silence must be enough of a confirmation, because the Alpha steps forward until he's looming over Louis' chair again.

"Your old man’s been gambling with money he doesn’t have for years." He murmurs, his voice almost mocking. "And when that wasn’t enough, he started moving our money for a little extra on the side." He tilts his head. "Tell me, Louis, how much did you think that fancy little private school cost? Or that flat of yours? So I’m going to ask you again, what do you know?”

Louis hesitates. Just a flicker. Then he grins, sharp and defiant. “All I know is, if this is how you flirt, you should work on your game.”

A hand shoots out, fast as a whip, gripping his jaw so hard his laugh dies in a strangled moan of pain.

His head slams against the wall, the impact sharp and stunning. His vision flashes white, stars bursting at the edges. His teeth dig painfully into the inside of his cheeks, and suddenly, he can’t even move his mouth.

The Alpha is too close. Close enough that Louis can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the harsh line of his jaw, the way his green eyes, fuck, pretty green eyes, if they weren’t so fucking terrifying, burn into him like fire on dry wood.

"Listen to me very fucking clearly. Your dad owes money not only to us, but to two other men who, trust me, you wouldn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with.” A beat, his grip tightening just enough to make Louis’ breath hitch. “You’re lucky I got to you first.”

Louis’ pulse is pounding, but he keeps his expression blank. He refuses to let this fucker see anything.

The Alpha tilts his head, studying him, then exhales sharply through his nose. “Still don’t believe me? Your dad bought a villa in Miami four months ago for some twenty-year-old blonde bimbo named Stephanie.” A pause. “Rings a bell?”

Louis’ breath stutters in his chest.

His mind scrambles, grasping, reaching, clawing for something to counter with. But his dad had gone to Miami recently. He had been acting weird, more distant than usual, always on the phone, stepping out during dinners.

The man watches him, smirking like he knows the moment Louis’ disbelief starts to crack. He slowly lets go of Louis’ face, probably because he can see how he went stiff. But still, he keeps going.

"You still don’t believe me?" He leans in, voice deceptively casual, like he’s chatting over coffee instead of pinning Louis against a fucking wall. “Charlotte’s doing great at boarding school, although she’s dating someone way too old for her.” His gaze darkens, lips pressing together as if in fake sympathy. “Felicite?” He pauses, just long enough for the silence to sink into Louis’ bones. "She’s a bit lost, isn’t she? A bit like you, drugs, sex. Craving attention in all the worst places.”

Louis spits in his fucking face.

There’s no thought behind it. No hesitation. Just pure, burning rage curling up his spine, flooding his chest, bursting out of him like venom. The spit lands just under the Alpha’s eye, dripping down his cheek.

The silence that follows is instant and suffocating. The air in the room turns thick, wrong.

The Alpha doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. And then, so slow it’s horrifying, he lifts a hand, swiping his thumb across his cheek. But Louis doesn’t back down or look away, eyes blazing. But beneath the fury, something else simmers, control.

Because Louis knows what he’s doing. His rage is a flare, but his scent? That’s calculated.

He tilts it just slightly, subtle but unmistakable. Lets it roll off him like smoke. A cocktail of challenge and seduction, disdain and heat. Not enough to trigger a full pheromone response, but just enough to sting. Enough to remind them that Omegas aren’t weak.

His scent doesn’t scream submission. It provokes.

The Alpha’s nostrils flare, barely. His green eyes flick back to Louis, dark and burning.

"Don't fucking talk about them.”

The man smiles. It’s not amused. It’s not even cruel. It’s worse. It’s something indulgent. "Am I touching a nerve, princess?"

"Shut the fuck up."

The Alpha hums, gaze flicking over him like he’s studying something fragile, something breakable.

Louis hates it.

"You still think this is a joke. Some elaborate prank your little posh friends cooked up."

"You’re full of shit." He bites back. "My dad wouldn’t—”

"You poor, spoiled little thing. You really don’t know, do you?"

Louis straightens, squares his shoulders. “Try me.”

"Your father is a fucking snake. He launders money through his shitty, crumbling empire. He gambles like it’s his second job. And when that isn’t enough, he borrows from the wrong people, then hides behind your family name like it’s bulletproof.”

Louis opens his mouth to bite back, but the Alpha steps forward again, and something changes.

The space between them tightens. Warps.

Louis can feel it in his chest, in his throat. Their breaths mingle. Their scents wrap, clash, spark. He tries not to inhale, not to breathe in the sharp, musky pull of the Alpha’s presence, but it curls in any way, deep and unwanted.

“And you…” The Alpha says softly. “You’re his perfect little distraction. All pretty and bratty and blind.”

“I’m not blind.” Louis spits.

“Then look at what’s happening.”

Louis flares his scent, sharp citrus, laced with bitter spices. A signal. An alarm. But behind it, buried so deep he thinks maybe it won’t be noticed, is the faintest ripple of something sweeter. Warm and honeyed.

The Alpha stills. His nostrils flare, nose scrunches up. His hand twitches.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Their eyes lock. The air between them goes very still. The tension is so thick, it’s almost obscene. The Alpha’s pupils dilate.

Louis tilts his head back, defiant. His lips curl into a taunting smile. “What? Afraid you like it?”

“I don’t like liars.”

“No.” Louis breathes. “You just like breaking them.”

The Alpha steps back.

Like he’s just caught the scent of something he really wasn’t expecting. He wipes his nose, closes his eyes for a second or two. "Get comfy," he mutters, turning for the door. "You’re not gonna be leaving anytime soon."

The sliding door slams shut behind him.

Louis sags just slightly, chest still heaving, fists shaking.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

Upstairs, Harry slams the door open so hard it rattles the frame.

He storms into the room like a bomb mid-detonation, boots heavy on the concrete, scent blazing through the space. Alpha. Agitated. Territorial. His anger is a wildfire, sharp and sour in the air, flooding every corner of the loft.

It hits Niall first.

The Omega stiffens where he’s sitting at the long table, eyes flicking up from his laptop. He swallows hard, fingers pausing mid-keystroke. The scent is too much, rage laced with something darker, something tangled with instinct and confusion.

Liam and Zayn straighten too. No one speaks. Not right away.

Harry doesn’t look at any of them. He stops in the middle of the room and breathes like he’s trying not to snap the table in half. His hands curl into fists at his sides, trembling slightly.

“He doesn’t know anything.”

Zayn exchanges a glance with Liam. “What do you mean?”

“I mean.” Harry growls, spinning to face them now. “He’s not bluffing. He’s not playing dumb. The Omega genuinely doesn’t know shit about his father’s debts, or the fraud, or the money. And he’s not scared. He’s bratty, he’s cocky, and he thinks this is some kind of fucking joke.”

Liam frowns, arms crossed over his chest. “Then maybe it is. Maybe he really is just a spoiled rich kid who doesn’t know anything.”

Harry slams a hand down on the table. Niall jumps.

“No! It doesn’t add up. The old man’s been laundering money through shell companies for years, and now everything’s starting to burn. And we’ve got his Omega son tied up downstairs, and he’s acting like we kidnapped him for a photo op.”

There’s a moment of heavy silence. Then Niall, voice cautious, finally speaks up. “I went through his phone.”

Everyone turns to him.

Niall shifts in his chair. “He’s not close to anyone. No long texts, no recent calls, barely any group chats. There’s this one Alpha, Luke, but even that’s mostly dry. Surface-level. The rest is just spam from clubs, flight confirmations, hotel bills. Ibiza last month. The Alps before that. Paris, Nice, Prague. He doesn’t tell anyone when he leaves, he just disappears. For weeks.”

“So no one’s looking for him?” Liam asks, putting the pieces together.

Niall nods. “Exactly. Not friends. Not family. Not even a personal assistant.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “How’s that even possible? That family’s media royalty.”

“Because he’s the black sheep.” Niall says, pulling up a screen on his laptop. “He’s been kept out of the press for years. I did a full social scrape. Barely any photos with his father after age sixteen. He got kicked out of school twice. Last name or not, he’s an embarrassment.”

Harry starts pacing.

Liam looks at Niall, nods to himself. “If he’s not close to anyone, we don’t need to keep him quiet. We need to use him. We make him think Louis is in danger and we see if he bites.”

Zayn smirks. “Bait.”

Harry brings his thumb to his mouth, tortures the skin there before sighing and stopping. “That’s not all.”

Liam raises a brow. “There’s more?”

Harry nods slowly. “There’s something about his scent.”

That gets their attention. Liam and Zayn share a look, half mocking, half intrigued.

“Did the royal Omega make your Alpha brain fuzzy?” Liam says dryly.

Niall tries to bite back a grin but fails. “What do you mean, something about his scent?”

Harry’s eyes flick toward the window like he might see Louis through the damn wall. “It’s strong. Too strong sometimes. But then, it’s gone. It fades like he can switch it off. Like he’s controlling it.”

That quiets the room.

Niall squints. “Wait, that’s not… Alphas can mask. Betas too. But Omegas? That’s not normal.”

“It’s not supposed to be possible.” Liam says, cautiously. “Especially not naturally. Most Omegas can’t shift their scent at will. Not without boosters or blockers.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not fake. I’d know if it was synthetic. This is… pure. Shifting. Like instinct layered over instinct. Like he knows exactly when to dial it up and when to vanish.”

Zayn snorts. “You sure you’re not just projecting, mate? He’s hot. You’re feral.”

Harry turns to him. “You found him first. You brought him in. What did you smell?”

Zayn raises a hand, deadpan. “I’m a Beta. Can’t smell shit on him. Just alcohol and the general smell of someone who parties five nights a week.”

“You’re useless, that’s what you are.” Harry barks, visibly still on edge.

Zayn shrugs. “Fair.”

Liam sits up a little straighter, frowning. “You know it’s illegal to enhance pheromone release like that, right? Half the Omegas in influencer circles are on black-market boosters just to make a room go feral. Half the clubs we sweep have to install neutralizers.”

Harry shakes his head again. “It’s not enhanced. It’s not synthetic. His isn’t fake. It’s natural. That’s the problem.”

The room stills again.

Niall licks his lips, visibly unsettled now. “So he’s dangerous.”

Zayn leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “Alright. So the Omega’s got a scent that can mind-fuck an Alpha. And he doesn’t know anything useful. What now?”

“We keep distance.” Harry mutters. “Liam and I, we try not to get too close until we understand how he’s doing it. Zayn and Niall are less susceptible to… losing brain cells around him.”

Zayn smirks, then lifts a brow. “We could force-feed him scent blockers. Level the field.”

Niall’s eyes widen. “That’s illegal.”

Zayn shrugs. “So is kidnapping. But here we are.”

“Still,” Liam cuts in. “We can’t push him too far. Not yet. He might not be useful now, but if he’s what we think he is…”

“You think he’s enhanced naturally.” Niall says. “That doesn’t exist. Not without something messed up in his genetics.”

"That's not all." Zayn says suddenly, shifting his weight. And for once, he looks almost sheepish.

Which, frankly, is terrifying.

Harry narrows his eyes. "What?"

"Niall might have told him my name."

Harry stares. Slowly. Carefully. "What?"

"No!" Niall yelps, lifting his hands in surrender. "I didn’t tell him! I just—” He grimaces. “I said it out loud. Without knowing he was awake."

Harry bristles. "You said it out loud."

"Yeah."

"While he was awake."

"...Yeah."

"Are you all fucking stupid?!" Harry roars, throwing his hands in the air.

Liam exhales, muttering something under his breath. Zayn just rubs at his temples. Niall physically winces.

"I mean," Niall says weakly, "it's not that bad, right?"

"Not that bad?!" He repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. "Oh, yeah, Niall. Not that bad. We’ve only got a bloody omega in the other room who now knows your name, who won’t stop fucking making jokes and apparently didn’t know anything about his father’s business. But nah. Not that bad at all."

This is a fucking disaster.

“Get the fucking blockers, but don’t use them yet. I want to see how long he lasts on his own.”

Liam smirked. “Gonna keep your little Omega on a leash?”

“No. I’m gonna make him want the leash.”

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

The door creaks open. Louis’s eyes snap up, his smile sliding into place like armor. He won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing how stiff his body feels, how dry his mouth is, how his head throbs from dehydration.

Blondie walks in.

The same one from earlier, the one with the soft jaw, disarming blue eyes, and a baby-faced frown that looks out of place in this house. He carries a tray, and from the scent wafting through the air, Louis can tell it’s something hot.

Louis whistles low, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Fucking luxury over here.." He drawls. "Might start liking it."

The blond snorts, setting the thing down on a small table in the corner.

Louis tilts his head, studying him. Not built like the others. Softer edges. There’s something different about him, his movements, the way he holds himself. Less force, more hesitance.

Interesting.

"So, what’s your name, Blondie?"

The guy doesn’t answer. Just kneels down, reaches for Louis’s arm. Louis flinches, but Blondie doesn’t react, just grabs him under the elbow and pulls him up. Stronger than he looks. Louis wobbles for a second, his legs feel weird, like they’ve forgotten how to hold him up, but Blondie steadies him, hands firm.

That’s when Louis notices it. The scent.

It’s faint, buried under layers of whatever blockers Blondie’s using, but it’s there. Something warm, something definitely Omega .

Louis freezes. His eyes snap to Blondie’s face, but the guy still won’t meet his gaze, just walks him over to the table, nudging him into the chair. Louis sinks into it, mind racing.

This one is like him.

"Interesting crowd you run with, Blondie.” Louis murmurs, watching him carefully. "Didn’t peg you for the type. “You smell like peaches and laundry detergent. Cute.”

“Fuck off.”

Louis grins wider. “That’s not very Omega of you.”

“Neither is kidnapping.” He mutters. “Don’t try that scent-shit on me. I’ve been around worse.”

“I’m just relieved. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one stuck in a house full of snarly Alpha pricks.”

He leans down instead and shifts the food toward Louis, clearly uncomfortable but trying not to show it. “Eat.”

A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he raises his bound hands, fingers wiggling dramatically. “I’d love to, Blondie, but unless you plan on feeding me like a baby bird, we have a bit of a problem.”

Blondie hesitates. Stares at the rope like it might bite him.

Louis tilts his head, watching the other omega carefully. His gaze flickers to the rope around Louis’s wrists, then, just for a second, to the door. Louis doesn’t miss a fucking thing. “I’m not asking for a weapon, mate. Just a fork. I’ll even promise not to try and seduce you while I’m at it.”

“I’m an Omega, not an idiot.”

“I know. That’s why I thought maybe you’d understand. This?” He holds up his wrists again. “This is unnecessary.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He watches Louis, really watches him, and something in his eyes flickers, unsure.

“You ran your mouth all night and kicked Zayn in the chest.”

Louis shrugs. “Self-defence. And Zayn liked it.”

That earns the ghost of a smile from him, quickly suppressed. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t matter. They’re keeping you tied for now.”

Louis tilts his head. “You afraid I’ll hurt you?”

“No. But I don’t trust you either.”

“That’s fair. But you’ll come around.”

Blondie snorts and moves toward the door. “Sure. Just don’t choke on your food. I’m not giving you mouth-to-mouth.”

“Shame.” Louis calls after him as the door starts to shut. “I bet you’d taste like peaches.”

The door slams.

But, not even five minutes later, the Alpha is back inside, leaving it ajar behind him.

Louis' sharp blue eyes flicker to him immediately, trying to control the way his heart picks and the way the back of his head throb by the sight of him. The Alpha’s presence takes up space, heavier than before, laced with anger and maybe frustration.

"Oh nice, it’s you again. Hello." He drawls. "I was hoping for Blondie. He was nice. Sweet. Omega solidarity, Anyway! Now, can you be a sweetheart and feed me? It’s not my type to rely on you guys, but I—"

Strong hands yanks his wrists up, tight fingers digging into skin rubbed raw from the ropes. Then, sharp and sudden, Louis barely has time to hiss before he rips the restraints away, the rough fibres burning against his skin.

It’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s just a show of force.

"Romantic." He murmurs. "Didn’t take you for the rough type, darling, but I guess I—"

The alpha pushes the tray so fast that Louis has to reach up to stop it from falling on his lap.

"Eat." He orders, voice cold, sharp as the edge of a knife.

Louis looks down at it, then back up at him. "Wow. You really do know how to provide." He muses. "Next thing I know, you’ll be buying me flowers."

He says nothing. Just steps back, arms crossing over his chest as he leans against the opposite wall, watching.

Louis hesitates. Not because he’s afraid, he’s not, but because he knows a test when he sees one. He reaches for the fork, digs into the meal, all slow, like he’s savoring it. Then he takes a deliberate bite, chewing leisurely, blue eyes locked onto him like he’s unfazed.

"So." He drawls. "What’s the deal? You here to glare at me all night, or are we gonna have some fun ?"

"Tell me about your father."

Louis smiles. "You first."

The guy finally looks at him properly. Really looks.

Louis is still in his clubbing outfit, sheer shirt clinging to his skin, tight black leather hugging long legs, tattoos scattered across his arms, his chest, peeking through the thin fabric. He should look out of place here, in the dim, industrial cold of this room, but he doesn’t. He looks... comfortable.

Like he belongs.

Harry’s eyes flick to his hands, expecting to see tremors, some sign of fear. Instead, Louis eats with an almost exaggerated enthusiasm, like this is the best meal he’s ever had. Like he’s not being held hostage.

"You know, the faster you talk, the faster you’ll be back home."

"Back home?" Louis repeats, tilting his head, feigning consideration. "Yeah, no, I think I’ll stay. Good food. Excellent company. Really enjoying the ambience here, very Sweeney Todd meets budget mafia film. You’ve got a whole aesthetic going, don’t you?"

Harry doesn’t rise to the bait.

"Look, Blondie was a better conversationalist than you, and he barely spoke."

"Blondie’s not in charge."

"And you are?" Louis lifts a brow. "Could’ve fooled me. You walk in here all dark and broody, leave the door open like I won’t notice, like I’ll be stupid enough to think there’s an actual way out. You’re testing me, yeah? Want to see how I react, whether I play scared or reckless."

Harry’s lips press into a firm line, but Louis sees the flicker in his eyes.

"Thing is.." Louis says, pointing at him with a chip. "I’m smarter than you. I know what you’re doing. You don’t think I see the angles? You, playing the patient interrogator. Me, the unwilling guest. Classic.”

Harry opens his mouth—

“But also..” Louis continues, cutting him off. “Really? A whole mafia gang and all? You think this is, what, a fucking movie? Be original, mate.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitches. Then, his voice drops into something smooth, something lethal. “When is your mother due again?”

The words slide into the air like a blade, slipping between Louis’s ribs before he can stop it. Louis goes still. His breath catches, so slight, almost imperceptible. But Harry sees it. Feels it.

“Two months, yeah?” He exhales, voice light, as if it’s nothing. “And Charlotte’s boyfriend—Lewis, was it? He works for… ah, I forgot.”

Louis doesn’t react immediately. He’s already pulling the mask back into place, the one made of sharp grins and sharper words. But Harry isn’t stupid. He sees the flicker of something underneath, the way Louis’s fingers twitch against his knee, the minute clench of his jaw.

“You’ve done your homework.” He finally says, voice even.

Harry smiles. “I always do.”

“So what, you think bringing up my baby sister and my mum’s pregnancy is supposed to scare me? Real fucking dark, mate. Can’t say I’m impressed.”

Harry flicks ash onto the floor, his expression impassive. “I don’t need to impress you.”

“No? You just want to see what rattles me.”

Harry takes another long, slow drag, then exhales toward the ceiling. “And I just did.”

“Cute. Real fucking cute. So what now? You gonna send one of your little lapdogs to rough them up? Maybe Blondie, oh wait, he’s too fucking soft for that.”

The Alpha doesn’t react. He just watches. Waits.

“Or maybe this is just you trying to flex, showing me how deep this shit runs. That you know things I didn’t think you’d know.” His head tilts, mock-thoughtful. “And if that’s the case, you’re wasting your fucking breath. My father doesn’t give a shit about me, and he sure as hell won’t give a shit about whatever stunt you’re pulling. You want to use me as leverage? Good fucking luck.”

Harry stubs out his cigarette, stepping closer. Louis doesn’t move.

"Maybe your father doesn’t care about you." Harry says, voice quiet. "Maybe all of this is useless. Maybe I should just call the other gang, let them have you, see what they do with you." He clicks his tongue. "Maybe I’m wasting my time.”

A pause.

“But your mother?” Harry leans in, voice a ghost of a whisper. “She will do everything she can to have her baby boy back home. Wouldn’t she?”

Something flashes in Louis’s eyes.

It’s so quick anyone else might’ve missed it, but Harry doesn’t. He sees the way Louis’s throat works, the way his fingers curl slightly into his thighs. That gets to him. Not the threats against himself, Louis can handle that, thrive off it, even.

But his mum?

Harry just found his opening.

“Fuck me.” Louis exhales, shaking his head, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “You really think you’re good at this, huh?” He leans back in his chair, stretches out his legs like he’s making himself comfortable. “The whole ‘calm and menacing’ thing. The quiet threats. The long pauses. Do you get off on it? This whole little act?”

“You tell me what I need to know.” Harry says softly. “And your mother stays untouched. No stress. No sudden accidents. You don’t, and maybe she starts getting some unexpected visitors.”

Louis’s smile is all teeth.

"Yeah? Then go ahead, do it.” His voice is light, almost mocking. “But you won’t. Because if you wanted me to talk, really talk, you wouldn’t be here playing mind games with me. You’d be using your fists. Or your knives. Or someone else's knives.” He clicks his tongue. “But you haven’t. And you won’t."

Harry studies him for a long, unreadable moment. Then, without a word, he pushes off the table and straightens.

He turns for the door, leaving it wide open behind him.

A deliberate message.

Louis watches him go, his smirk still in place but his fingers? They’re shaking.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

The Alpha doesn’t visit.

Louis notices, of course. At first, he expects it, expects him to barge in again, smug and unreadable, expecting him to react, to flinch, to crack. But days pass, and the door doesn’t open for him. The absence is almost worse than the presence.

It’s deliberate. Louis can tell.

They’d let him change into warmer clothes, long sleeves, thicker fabric, something more suited for the cold dampness of the room. The moment he was done, though, the ropes were back. They wanted him comfortable, but controlled.

Time loses meaning quickly. The only light comes from the low glow of the hallway when the door creaks open, sometimes in the morning, sometimes deep in the night, he can’t tell anymore. Sleep comes and goes at random, dreams blurring into reality, making his head heavy with confusion.

The silence is suffocating. It presses in on his ribs, making his breath tight.

The boys come in occasionally, never speaking directly to him. They drop food, never on a regular schedule, sometimes hours too late, sometimes just after he’s finished the last meal, just enough to throw him off. They leave water but never enough. Sometimes they don’t leave anything at all. A test, maybe. Or a punishment. He doesn’t know which.

Other times, they just stand there. Watching. Muttering under their breath before walking out.

It’s psychological warfare. Starve the mind before the body follows.

Louis plays along. At least, on the surface. He never lets them see him break, never lets his voice waver when he cracks a joke, never shows the way his fingers twitch when he hears their footsteps.

But it's working.

And so, it's silence.

It’s been hours since the last person left, Louis is sure of it. He’s learned their patterns, their movements. They always order food. He listened to them complain about it once. No one has brought anything today. No rustling paper bags, no lingering smell of fried food in the air. That means they’re gone.

His nose confirms it.

The ghosts of their scents clinging to the furniture, lingering emotions trapped in the walls. Tension, exhaustion, hunger. But none of it is fresh. None of it is here.

He’s alone.

Finally.

He moves slowly at first, testing the strength of his legs as he shifts on the couch. His ankles are still bound, the rope digging into his skin, but it’s not that painful anymore, although his skin his raw.

Louis has been patient.

Now, he hops.

He grits his teeth as he stumbles, knocks into furniture, scanning for anything sharp, anything helpful, anything. He makes a beeline to the tall cabinet near the wall and yanks at the handle. Locked. Of course.

“Shit.”

He moves on, drags open drawers, slams them shut, claws through cluttered shelves and forgotten things. Most of it’s useless. books, a roll of gauze, a cracked lighter. One of the drawers jams halfway out. He yanks it hard and sends it skidding across the floor.

Then, under a pile of scrap paper and a dusty tin box, he finds it.

A boxcutter.

Old. Forgotten. The blade half-rusted, nicked with time. But it's sharp enough.

He drops to the floor with a grunt, the breath knocked out of him as he lands hard on his hip. His fingers scramble in between his legs, awkward and clumsy. It takes everything in him to get the tiny blade open with shaking hands and angle it against the ropes at his ankles.

“C’mon,” he growls under his breath, sawing at the fibres. “Come on, come on—”

Snap.

The blade snaps in half mid-slice, the sharp end clattering to the floor, the other piece still wedged between his fingers.

Louis stares at it. His heart slams against his ribs. He lets out a strangled laugh, breathless and humourless. But he’s not done.

He shifts against the wall, plants his feet, and pulls. Pain flares, white-hot, where the rope bites into raw skin, but it gives. A final tug, and it snaps completely.

“Okay.” He whispers. “Okay, okay, okay.”

He has to shift on his knees to be able to get up, struggling without the use of his arms. But he reaches for the broken blade.

The next thing he does, immediately, he’s rushing to the door, pressing one ear against the surface. Silence. He wedges the jagged edge of the blade into the lock. It’s clumsy work, his hands are slick with sweat, and the metal keeps slipping. He grits his teeth, forcing it, turning, twisting.

It bites into his palm. A sharp sting blossoms across the pad of his thumb, hot, wet, bleeding.

“Shit—fuck— please.” He mutters, voice shaking now. “I am not dying in here. I am not some stupid little fucking hostage.”

He jams the blade deeper and twists hard.

Click.

The door creaks open.

His breath stutters out of him. He looks down at his hand, blood smeared across the handle, the blade tip bent and dull, his fingers trembling.

He presses his shoulder to the doorframe, listening again. Heart pounding. He can feel his omega reacting again, scent messy and all over the place, fear tangled with adrenaline, but it might be his only chance.

The stairs loom in front of him, narrow, industrial, the kind that creak if you so much as breathe wrong. Louis stares up at them, bare feet aching, wrists still tied, breath shallow in his chest.

One step at a time, he tells himself.

He places the ball of his foot carefully on the first metal stair. No sound.

Then the second. Then the third. Up he goes.

He moves like a ghost, silent, slow, bracing himself every time the iron beneath him shifts or groans. Every nerve is lit up, waiting for a barked order from below, a hand grabbing his ankle, the unmistakable weight of the Alpha’s presence behind him.

But nothing comes.

The mezzanine opens up into a short hallway, flanked by a few doors. The first one he tries is locked. He rattles the handle gently, leaning his shoulder into the frame just in case, but it’s no use.

The second door gives when he nudges it open with his elbow. And it’s… a mess.

A pool table dominates the center of the room, the felt stained and faded, its surface littered with empty beer bottles and crushed snack bags. A draft board sits forgotten on a small side table, mid-game. A PS5 hums quietly under the TV. Neon lighting casts a dull red glow from a beer sign above the minibar, flickering like a bad pulse.

No documents. No weapons. No plans for escape.

Still, Louis grins. “Sweet.”

He sidles over to the mini-fridge in the corner, squatting awkwardly and pulling it open with his bound hands. The cool air hits his face like a reward. He grabs the first bottle he sees, pops the cap against the pool table’s edge like a practiced brat, and takes a long, unapologetic gulp.

The beer is bitter and warm. It burns all the way down.

He exhales, licking his lips. “God, I missed carbonation.”

Back in the hallway, the last door catches his attention. Slightly ajar. He nudges it open with his foot and steps inside.

This one’s different.

A desk sits against the far wall, organized with the kind of rigid precision only an Alpha could bother with. A closed laptop. A black notebook. A half-made folding bed, one corner still rumpled like someone left in a hurry. The scent hits him instantly—him.

The Alpha.

It clings to everything, faint spice, smoke, sweat and cedar. It crawls up Louis’s nose, burns in his throat, makes something twist low in his stomach. The bed still smells like him too, and it’s all Louis can do not to recoil, or worse, bury his face in the pillow like a lunatic.

He grits his teeth, shaking it off.

He goes straight to the desk. The top drawer sticks but comes free with a hard tug, and there, tucked under papers and books, is his phone.

“Hello, baby.” he breathes.

But the screen stays black when he taps it.

Dead.

His eyes dart around the room, frantic. There. A cable plugged into the wall near a shelf. Louis drops to his knees, shuffling over, fingers fumbling as he tries to shove the charger into his phone. The device blinks to life. A tiny red battery symbol.

He watches the screen like it's his lifeline. Waiting. Hoping.

The phone screen flickers, struggling, before finally blooming open at 3%.

Louis doesn’t waste a second. Fingers awkward with his wrists still bound, he types his password. Misses a key. Curses. Tries again. It unlocks. And then… It buzzes.

Over and over. A frantic, choked gasp of a device overwhelmed with too many missed calls, too many unread texts. The screen floods with notifications, lighting up his face in the dim office.

Luke: 35 messages Where the fuck are you???
Oli: 22 messages Call me. CALL ME.
Vanessa, Jessica, Ian, Jeremy, even people he barely talks to.
Twitter. Instagram. Emails.
He scrolls, scrolls, scrolls—

And then he stops.

Nothing from his family. His throat tightens. It hurts, but it’s not surprising. He doesn’t have time to dwell.

And then. A creak . Far off. Muffled. A door?

He freezes.

Footsteps. Somewhere downstairs. Slow. Measured. Too fucking close.

Louis yanks the phone from the charger, fumbling, panicking. He knees his way under the desk, brings the chair close to him to hide himself and waits. Maybe no one heard him yet. Maybe he still has a chance.

The footsteps grow closer.

Each step is a slow, deliberate press against the creaky wooden floor. They stop just outside the door. Lingering. Waiting. Louis squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself silent.

Seconds stretch into eternity.

Then, movements. The footsteps retreat, softer now, fading down the hall.

He forces himself to breathe, but his entire body is a live wire of panic. His wrists, still bound, ache from the way he’s been pressing them against the floor.

And then he remembers his phone.

His fingers fly as soon as the lock screen loads. He doesn’t even check the percentage. He can’t call, his voice will give him away, but he can text. His thumb hovers over Luke’s name.

SOS. I need you right now.

He hits send. Nothing. No signal.

“No, no, no.” He whispers, voice cracking.

The footsteps retreat.

Louis holds his breath, ears straining, heart a wreck in his chest. Nothing but silence now—distant and uncertain. The faintest creak fades into stillness, and the whole loft settles like it's holding its breath too.

He looks down at the phone. The corner of the screen mocks him. Not delivered in pale grey.

He waits five more seconds. Ten. Then, slowly, he crawls out from under the desk, muscles stiff, limbs shaking. He rises onto his bare toes, careful not to make a sound, and creeps toward the door.

The hallway beyond is empty.

He peeks out, trying to smell, but the scent of Alpha is too strong in the room behind him. It clings to his clothes, his skin, nestles deep in his nose. It's a cocktail of pheromones and possession, and it curls like a hand around his throat.

The sheets smells like warmth and safety. Like arms around his waist and a low voice telling him to sleep.

No. Get out. Move.

He swallows the instinct down and bolts. He races down the hallway and throws himself at the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. The metal groans under his weight, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t dare. He’s so close.

He can see the front door now, just beyond the landing. One final flight. The sunlight spills through the high windows. Freedom.

He jumps the last four steps, hits the floor hard, stumbles, but keeps going.

The door’s in front of him. He lunges. Slams his shoulder into it, throws all his weight into the handle, yanks.

It opens.

Fresh air hits his face like a slap, cool, crisp, real.

And then his foot catches. He doesn’t even have time to see what it is before gravity grabs him by the spine and hurls him forward.

He hits the gravel chin-first.

Pain explodes through his skull. His vision whites out, then blurs. The taste of copper floods his mouth, sharp and hot. Tiny stones bite into his skin. The impact knocks the wind out of him, and his limbs go limp.

From somewhere behind him, a boot scrapes against the gravel.

"Nice try."

The voice slices straight through him.

Familiar. Cold. And full of amusement.

Then, it’s pure darkness.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

Shit.

Harry hadn’t exactly thought this through.

When he came back and saw Louis missing from the common room, the cut ropes on the chair, he figured the bastard had freed his hands first instead of his ankles. It was obvious, really. Louis always did things the wrong way first. That’s why tripping him had been easy—too easy.

What he hadn’t accounted for was how badly Louis would hit the ground.

Now, as he crouches beside Louis’s limp body, a sick weight settles in his stomach. The damage is worse than he expected. Blood smears along Louis’s chin, sluggish but deep, and there’s a nasty scrape along his forehead. His hands are raw, the skin on his palms torn open from not being able to catch himself.

Liam is going to kill him. Niall too.

“Great.” Harry mutters under his breath.

He should hoist Louis over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, like he deserves, but something stops him.

Maybe it’s the way Louis’s breath hitches in his unconscious state, too shallow and uneven. Maybe it’s the way he weighs nothing in Harry’s arms.

So instead, he lifts him properly and gently. One arm under his knees, the other around his waist, like something worth holding.

Getting inside is easy.

Easy until the smell slowly raises in the air and wraps around Harry's face, slips in his nostrils and invade his brain, little by little.

Louis reeks of omega. It clings to his skin, soaked into the sweat-damp collar of his shirt, deep, unshakable. Harry clenches his jaw so hard it clicks.

Fucking fantastic.

He inhales carefully, through his mouth, and tilts his chin high like it might put some distance between them. It doesn’t.

God, it’s annoying.

His Alpha stirs beneath his skin, uneasy and frustrated, but Harry keeps his grip tight, controlled.

His boots scuff against the floor as he carries Louis up the stairs. When they reach his office, he shoves the door open with his shoulder and kicks it shut behind him with a resounding slam. The lock clicks into place.

Finally.

With a sigh, he lowers Louis onto the worn leather couch. His limbs are loose, vulnerable, head lolling to the side as he settles. Harry straightens, rolling out the tension in his shoulders, and drags a hand through his curls.

Then, he looks at the mess he’s made.

Louis’s face is a wreck, split lip, bloodied chin, dark lashes clumped together with sweat and maybe tears. His wrists, still red and raw, twitch in unconscious discomfort. And there’s way too much blood on his hands.

Too fragile. Too fucking quiet.

His Alpha is snarling inside him, clawing at his ribs, demanding to fix this, to clean Louis up, to help. It’s infuriating. Because he shouldn’t want to. This is not his problem.

So Harry turns on his heel, jaw clenched, and strides toward the door. Determined and unyielding, he grips the handle, ready to slam it shut.

And then his Alpha snarls.

Not a whisper, not a quiet nudge of instinct, a full-bodied, visceral, gut-punch of a reaction. It claws through him, yanking at his ribs, a brutal, silent roar that shakes his spine and roots him to the spot.

He can ignore it. He tries. One step. Another. One foot over the threshold.

His Alpha lunges inside him, a feral pulse of rage and resistance, every fiber of his body rejecting the distance. His breath is ragged, hands tight, too tight against the doorframe. He swears his own body is working against him, dragging him back in like some invisible force.

This is ridiculous.

"Alright!" He barks, voice sharp and loud in the quiet room.

He’s going fucking nuts.

He turns back, strides inside without sparing Louis’s limp body a single glance and beelines for the cabinet. With too much force, he yanks the door open.

And rips it clean off its hinges.

Harry stares at it, at the broken wood in his grasp, at his own goddamn hand then slowly back at the cabinet.

A slow, deep breath, nostrils flaring. He tosses the splintered door aside, not in the mood to deal with that problem right now, and grabs the first aid kit, the one Liam had insisted on shoving in here “just in case.”

Yeah. This counts as ‘just in case’.

With a heavy sigh, Harry grabs a chair with his free hand and drags it toward Louis.

His Alpha doesn’t settle.

Not until he sits down. Not until he starts working.

It only quiets when he reaches for Louis’s face, when his fingers ghost over the split skin on his forehead and chin, taking in the damage he caused.

The bruises are already blooming, swollen and angry beneath the dim light. A thin trickle of blood clings to Louis’s lips, smudged at the corner of his mouth. He must’ve bitten his tongue when he hit the ground.

His Alpha growls low in his chest, guilt clawing at the back of his throat. This is on him.

Carefully, he starts cleaning. Disinfect. Wipe. Tap. Bandage. Repeat. His movements are practiced, methodical, until he gets to Louis’s hands.

Harry stills.

The ropes had been there for days now. They’ve carved deep, angry grooves into Louis’s wrists, raw and red, skin broken in some places, bruises mottling the surface in sickening shades of blue and purple.

His Alpha wakes up again, pushing at him from the inside, demanding he do something.

So he does.

Without thinking, without hesitating, Harry reaches for the knots and begins untying them, slowly, carefully. He doesn’t know why his hands are gentle, why he moves like he’s afraid of hurting Louis even more, but the moment the last rope falls away, relief floods his chest.

He finds a cream in the kit, something for burns and bruises and smooths it over Louis’s wrists. His fingers work carefully, massaging the ointment into the damaged skin, feeling the thin, delicate bones beneath.

The sharp scent of eucalyptus fills the space, cutting through the thick distress laced in Louis’s scent. Thank fuck.

Pulling Louis’s sleeve higher, Harry moves to clean his palms. His movements remain cautious, almost precise, as he bends closer and blows over the raw skin before wrapping them in fresh bandages.

And that’s when he sees it.

Scars. Faint, but unmistakable. A dozen of them, maybe more.

Some old, some newer, all faded into thin, pale lines, hidden beneath the ink of Louis’s tattoos.

His Alpha doesn’t react this time. He does.

Something heavy drops into the pit of his stomach. His fingers hover over the marks, tracing them with his eyes, afraid to touch. But then—before he even realises, his thumb is swiping over the deepest one.

The ridge of it is uneven, jagged. Too wide to be accidental. A blade? Scissors?

Harry swallows hard, the weight of something he doesn’t want to name settling over his chest.

He glances at Louis, as if expecting him to wake up, to catch him staring.

But Louis remains unconscious. And Harry’s thumb is still pressed against the scar.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

The loft’s kitchen is quiet except for the faint crackle of toast and the low, tinny hum of music leaking from Niall’s AirPods. He’s barefoot on the tiles, hips swaying slightly as he hums along to the chorus, some mellow indie song he can’t remember the name of but always comes back to.

Balancing the tray with one hand, he nudges the door open with his foot and heads down the hall. The music follows him, lazy and detached, as if it belongs to a completely different world.

It’s a struggle to unlock the door with the tray balanced in one hand but he manages.

But then, he stops.

The tray dips slightly in his hands.

Laid out on the sofa like a half-broken doll, wrists cuffed in front of him now, Louis is looking at him. His lip is split, one side of his jaw bruised purple-black, and there’s a stark white bandage covering the stitched gash on his chin.

He blinks up at him like he’s just been woken from a nap. Blinks once. Twice.

Then lifts his hand in a lazy wave.

“Morning. You guys out of orange juice, or is this just punishment? Also—” He lifts his chin slightly, the gesture almost graceful despite the bandage. “Not a fan of the beans. Got any hash brown back there?”

Niall stares. For a moment, he forgets how to move.

Louis squints. “Did someone hit pause on you?”

Niall jerks, nearly drops the tray. He yanks his AirPods out, shoves them into his pocket. “Jesus, what the fuck happened?”

Louis just shrugs, though a wince betrays him. “What? I’m not dead.”

Niall sets the tray down with a clatter and takes a step forward, then stops again, hovering, unsure. “Did he do this to you?”

“Define do. ”

Niall crouches next to the couch now, eyes darting over the bruises, the cuffs, the stiff way Louis is holding himself. “This isn’t okay.”

“Understatement of the year, Blondie.”

“I mean it. He knocked you out?”

“Apparently.”

“Fuck.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. He just looks at him. Watches the way Niall won’t quite meet his eyes, the way his scent is… different.

He narrows his eyes. Sniffs once. Then again.

Something clicks. Sweet. Musk. Not Louis’ panic, not Harry’s dominance. Something else. His brows lift slowly.

“Oh.” He says. His voice softens with surprise, like he’s just solved a riddle. “I see. ”

Niall flinches. “What?”

Louis smiles. A real smile.

“Don’t worry about it.” He leans back, exhaling through his nose, still smiling like he’s won something. “Suddenly the apple juice tastes just fine.”

Niall opens his mouth. Shuts it again. “What—what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing.” Louis shrugs with his free hand.

“I’ll be back.” He says, getting up quickly and motioning for the tray he brought. “Try to eat something.”

“Well, I’d love to but-”

The door slams shut and Blondie is gone.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

Zayn and Liam are mid-conversation, hunched over a laptop when Niall bursts in the room.

“You didn’t tell me he looked like that.”

Liam frowns. “What?”

“Louis.” Niall’s voice cracks, too loud. “You didn’t tell me he was bruised, stitched. He’s cuffed and bleeding.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about? We just arrived.”

“He hurt him.”

Liam sets his mug down, jaw tensing. “That’s not part of the agreement.”

“Exactly,” Niall hisses. “We said no real harm. No bruises, no breaking skin. No permanent marks. He’s…” Niall drags a hand down his face. “I—I’m not okay with this.”

Zayn stands. “You sure it was Harry?”

“Who else?” Niall throws his arms out. “Unless someone else in this fucking house slammed his face into gravel and stitched him up like a rag doll.”

Liam is already moving. “Show me.”

And indeed, Louis is lounging sideways on the couch now, chewing a piece of toast slowly, half-lidded eyes following the trio. “What, group therapy now? I’m not journaling, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Puppy eyes marches toward him immediately and Louis looks at him with disdain, mouth half full. He reaches for Louis’ chin and the omega flinches slightly. “Let me guess,” He says. “You’re the medic.”

"Jesus Christ," He breathes, horrified. "What the hell happened?"

Louis tilts his head, like he’s considering the question, and then shrugs. "I just tried to—Ouch!"

He winces when the man grips his chin too hard, forcing him to look.

"He may have decided to use my face as a punching bag. But, you know. Semantics."

Zayn doesn’t buy it. His gaze drags over the injuries, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Bullshit."

"Wait, wait, wait." Liam frowns, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. "He did that to you?”

"Yes."

Then, he sniffs the air. His eyes narrow slightly as he shifts forward, craning his neck. "Alpha?"

Liam immediately steps back.

Louis' brain starts to work, and like he can’t control it, he forces his smell to come out stronger, stares up at the Alpha. His pupils dilate. The air changes.

Niall notices it first.

“Stop.” He warns.

But Louis is already acting, tilting his head, leaning in just slightly. “You smell... calm.” He says softly, lashes dropping. “Like you’d never hurt me.”

The Alpha’ eyes flick up, a crease forming between his brows.

“I like that.” Louis keeps on, letting the words roll off his tongue like a purr. “I bet you’re the kind that listens. Takes care of people. I’m sure you’d never hurt me.”

The door slams open a third time, and suddenly, the air is charged. A scent crashes through the room like a storm. Sharp, bitter, electric. Possessive. Angry.

Zayn looks down. Liam steps back immediately, head lowered just enough to signal peace. Niall feels his stomach twist.

Louis is still grinning, but the second his eyes land on him, his smile vanishes. His Omega stirs. Not by choice, not by any conscious seduction. It’s pure instinct, primal and raw, a visceral reaction to the Alpha storming toward him.

And the Alpha doesn’t look at anyone else. His gaze is locked on Louis, dark and unyielding, a tight furrow between his brows. His movements are fast, decisive. He’s moving in one direction, with one purpose. As soon as he reaches for him, Louis flinches.

He brings his free hand in front of his face, shielding himself like he expected a hit.

Harry freezes for a fraction of a second.

Then he fists the handcuffs and yanks Louis up in one brutal motion. Louis stumbles, a small involuntary moan of pain escaping him as he hurts his wrists and arms, legs struggling to follow. But the Alpha doesn't give him time to adjust. He is already moving, dragging him toward the door.

Niall steps in front of them, blocking the way.

"What do you think you're doing?" The Alpha growls.

"Have you seen what you did to him?" Niall’s voice shakes, not with fear, but with anger. "That wasn't the deal. That wasn't how it was supposed to go!"

Harry takes a step forward, his scent darkening.

Louis goes still.

"He tried to run." Harry grits out. "He found something to cut the ropes, broke free, stole his bloody phone and sent a text before I caught him. Now his Alpha friend is going to show up at his place any second, looking for him.”

His tone is cutting, sharp as a knife to the throat. Niall doesn’t move.

"But I don’t know." Harry said, voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Do I need your permission to lead my fucking mission the way I fucking want? Or maybe if you lot had done your jobs properly, we wouldn’t be cleaning up this fucking mess.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

Then he shoves past Niall, drags Louis behind him and out the door.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

"I'm not telling you where I live." Louis mutters, hands shoved in between his thighs for a bit of warmth, despite the cold of steel against his wrists.

He can’t see anything with the blindfold around his face, and his Omega squirms at the proximity, the scents. It’s confusing, dark spice, woodsmoke and dominance. It clings to every surface. It coils in Louis’s lungs and he has to force himself to stay extremely focused.

There’s a beat of silence. Then a low snort.

"You realise we followed you before we kidnapped you, right?" The engine rumbles beneath them, steady and calm, but the Alpha beside him sounds entertained. “Besides, I went through your phone.”

Louis doesn’t react at first, but something prickles at the back of his neck. "What?"

"Last night, I went through your phone."

Louis’s stomach drops. "You—"

"So, yeah." He interrupts, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel like they’re just chatting. "I know where you live. I know everything."

Louis grits his teeth. He hates the way that word curls off his tongue, like he’s sinking his teeth into it. "Wow." He deadpans, shifting in his seat. "You must be so proud of yourself. Want a gold star?"

"Oh, I don't need one." He murmurs. "I already won."

"You won what, exactly?" he snaps, twisting to face him even though he can’t see. "Being a creepy bastard? Invading my privacy? Congratulations, then. You’re officially worse than the people I’ve dated."

He hums, smirk still firmly in place. "Yeah? You're talking about Luke?"

Louis falters. His mouth opens, then closes. Because fuck.

“He’s the one looking for you, you know.” He keeps up, voice casual. “All protective and flared up. He’s worried. Cute.”

Louis’s breath catches.

“Oh, and those last pictures you sent him? Nice.”

Louis's breath jerks out of him. His cheeks flush deep red under the blindfold.

“But I gotta say, if we are being honest..” His voice dips low, but the smile can be audible. “Red doesn’t suit you.”

Louis makes a strangled sound, caught between indignation and humiliation. He kicks his foot out blindly, hitting the glove box. “Shut up!”

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

The Alpha leads him through the door like a hunter dragging a prey.

Louis stumbles slightly on the threshold of his own flat, blindfolded and cuffed, his balance compromised not just by the restraints but by the rough grip on his arm. The familiar scent of his apartment, clean linen, candle wax, a trace of Luke’s stupid Armani perfume, hits him like a slap to the face.

He’s home. But nothing about this feels safe.

“You’ll do exactly what I say.” He mutters darkly, voice inches from his ear. “Say one wrong thing and I’ll make sure next time, you don’t get to text anyone.”

Louis hears the unmistakable metallic scrape of the deadbolt, the twist of the secondary lock, then the heavier thunk of the bar latch sliding into place. Each sound makes something coil tighter in his chest.

Locked in. Caged in his own flat.

The blindfold comes off in one swift tug.

Louis blinks furiously, light flooding his vision. The room spins for half a second before settling, and when it does, the man’s already standing between him and the door, cool, composed, dangerous.

“What now?” Louis says, sarcasm dripping from his mouth like venom as he rolls his eyes. “Have you seen my face? What do you think Luke’s gonna think, huh?”

"Use makeup." He orders.

“Oh, yeah? You want me to cover up your handiwork like some guilty husband in a domestic abuse PSA?” He steps closer, smirking through the sting of his lip. “How very cliché of you.”

The Alpha’s jaw ticks. Just once. But Louis sees it, how close he is to snapping. He can almost taste it.

A phone buzzes, sharp vibration in his pocket. Louis knows it’s his. He knows the Alpha took it. His eyes flicker to the Alpha’s pocket before back up to his face, calculating.

"Don't even fucking try anything funny." He warns, voice dropping an octave, a promise of violence wrapped in gravel.

"I mean, come on now!" Louis snaps, losing patience, throwing his cuffed hands up. "We both know my dad doesn’t give two shits about me. He’s not gonna pay. You need to… I don’t know! Take him to a fucking alley, beat him down, and take the money yourself."

His nostrils flare. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer, looming, the scent of alpha musk and control thick in the air, curling around Louis’s senses, making it hard to breathe—harder to think.

"Makeup."

After a good ten minutes, Louis tilts his head, admiring his work in the mirror. Not bad for someone who had to do it in fucking handcuffs. The bruising is concealed, the redness evened out. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.

Enough to lie. Enough to pretend.

And then.

The door rattles under the force of the knock.

"Louis! Louis, it's me! Open the door!"

Louis freezes, the concealer dropping from his hand.

In a second, the Alpha is in the bathroom again and a strong hand clamps around his arms, pulling him away from the mirror with unforgiving force. Louis stumbles, breath catching as his back collides with the sink, the cold porcelain biting through his sweater.

"Make it short." He says, low, measured. He’s right there, hovering over him, pinning him in place. "Whatever you want to tell him, whatever lie you feel like spinning, I don’t care." He doesn’t look away as he pulls something from his pocket. A tiny, gleaming key. "I’m giving you two minutes to have him out of here without suspicion.”

"What makes you think I won’t run?" Louis challenges, chin tilting up. "Won’t denounce you the second I get the chance?"

He searches for the Alpha’s eyes, digging, daring him.

They’re close now, the sound of Luke’s frantic knocking fading into the background, drowned out by the tension pulling between them. The Alpha looms over him, holding Louis’ wrist in his warm hands. Louis opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because the Alpha’s nostrils flares, and instantly, it makes his pupils grow in size.

Louis feels something dark, something hot and unwelcome curl in his stomach.

"You can try.” The Alpha answers, murmurs. And he doesn’t break eye contact when he shoves the key into the lock of the cuffs. He clicks them open. "I’d like to see you try."

And now, Louis’ fingers tremble as he unlatches the main lock, leaving the security chain firmly in place. It clinks softly, a thin metal leash between him and the world outside. He opens the door just a few inches, enough to see Luke’s face.

“Luke, hi.”

God, he’s never been so relieved to see someone. Luke looks wrecked, eyes wild, face pale, hair mussed from running his hands through it a hundred times. He smells like panic and Alpha pheromones spiked with protective rage.

“Louis—fuck, thank god... are you okay?” Luke leans in instantly, gripping the edge of the doorframe. “I’ve been calling, texting—I thought something happened. What the hell’s going on? What was that text?!”

Louis tries to smile. It cracks unevenly over his swollen lip. “I’m fine. Jesus. I… got drunk. Went home with someone. Didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

Luke’s eyes darken. He smells the lie. He knows Louis, too well. “You went home with someone? For almost four days?”

“I—”

"You—" He sniffs the air, blunt and unapologetic, and Louis’s stomach drops. "I smell an alpha on you."

"Yeah, well." Louis rushes out, pasting on another grin. "He's, uh.. he's still here. We're, um, a bit busy right now."

Luke’s gaze sharpens.

Louis holds his ground, blocking the doorway with his body, hoping to God that Luke’s natural curiosity doesn't win out over his sense of decorum.

"Right." Luke says slowly, voice dripping with doubt, before he shoulders forward, trying to push past. “Let me in.”

Louis plants his feet, resisting, even as Luke leans in, trying to peek inside. “No. Luke–”

And then, too fast, Luke’s scent shifts. Something snaps inside him. The concern, the confusion, it burns up in the heat of his Alpha instincts kicking in. Protective. Commanding. Possessive.

“Louis. Open the door and let me in.”

His voice deepens, just slightly. It’s not cruel. But it’s way too close to an Alpha command and Louis can’t move at all. He is so close to just obey, to let go of the door, to make space for Luke.

“He said no.”

Suddenly, there’s a hand, broad and veined and heavy sliding around his side and splaying on his stomach. The Alpha presses into his back, arm holding the door above Louis’ head and opens it wide.

Luke’s entire body tenses. His eyes lift from Louis’s face to the Alpha behind him.

And whatever he thought he was going to see, it wasn’t this.

“And who the fuck are you?” Luke growls and his scent grows heavier, spicier.

Louis jolts forward instinctively, hand pressed to the door, stopping him. “Don’t.” His voice is thin. “Please, Luke. Just go.”

“Is he hurting you?!”

The Alpha behind him doesn’t just touch him. He keeps him there, holds him there, like Louis belongs against him. Like this is normal, like he’s done it before, like he’ll do it again.

It’s a fucking display.

Luke sees it all. His jaw locks, his scent spikes, something defensive curling at the edges. His hands twitch like he’s fighting the instinct to pull Louis away, to get between them.

And Louis feels trapped, one Alpha behind him, all heat and presence and quiet control and another in front of him, bristling, suspicious, unwilling to back down. His omega stirs restlessly under the weight of it, caught between instinct and reason.

"Louis. If you want to leave, you leave. Now. With me.”

He thinks about it, telling Luke, reaching for him, running. But before he can summon the courage to speak, warmth grazes his ear, a slow drag of breath against his skin. It’s intimate in a way it shouldn’t be. A whisper of possession.

"Do you want to go with him?" The Alpha asks.

The words aren't meant for him alone. The voice is deep, smooth, designed to be heard. It rings in Louis' bones, vibrating through the press of their bodies, curling around his ribs, seeping into the air between them. It’s even worse than a command. It’s a challenge.

Louis’ Omega preens, content where he should be fighting. "No.." He forces the word out. "I’m okay, Luke. I was drunk. I don’t know what I was texting."

Luke looks up to the Alpha behind Louis, and for a minute, the Omega prays in his head for something above to protect him, or them, fearing a fight. And Luke’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his stance does. Maybe it’s something Louis can’t see. Maybe it’s something he sees in the Alpha behind, or something about his scent. But then, he takes a step back.

"Text me, yeah?" Luke asks, something almost pleading curling at the edges. "Please?"

"Yeah."

The Alpha doesn’t give him the chance for more.

From behind, a firm arm curls around Louis’s waist, palm pressing low against his stomach, forcing him further into his chest. His other hand, still on the edge of the door, pushes it closed. Helpless, Louis watches in a daze as the Alpha’ hand moves to the locks.

But his Omega fixates on the smallest details.

The veins shift on top of his hand, the flex of the muscle on his forearm as he twists the deadbolt. The faded cross tattoos and the anchor. The rough edge of a scar slicing his wrist.

Unconsciously, his Omega soaks in the Alpha’s scent, the warmth of his body pressed flush to his back, the strength behind that hand resting firm against his stomach. His mind screams danger, but his body doesn’t listen. His instincts are already starting to short-circuit, blurring the line between fear and something far, far worse.

And the scent? It wraps around him like smoke, earthy, spiced, dominant. It floods his head, curls in his lungs, sets every nerve alight. His Omega responds on instinct, confused and aching for comfort, for closeness, for the safety that only strength can offer.

“Let me go.” The words rasp out, hoarse and low, barely more than breath.

The Alpha hesitates, but his hand eases, loosening just enough for Louis to feel the absence, though the weight of his presence never leaves.

Louis slumps forward, forehead resting against the cool wood of the door, hands braced against the frame. “I can’t breathe.”

The room feels like it’s shrinking, stuffed full of Alpha scent. Luke’s fading presence still lingers, the barest ghost of safety, but it’s no match for the one standing behind him.

His instincts coil tighter, the panic surging hot and fast. His body betrays him, pheromones spill into the room, thick and sweet, like honey left too long on the stove. The scent of need, painted over with panic and exhaustion, pulses outward in soft, irresistible waves.

“Stop this.” The Alpha demands from behind. The voice is sharp, but frayed at the edges.

And that’s when it rings in Louis’ brain. The shift. Small, but there. Power tipping, just slightly.

So, he turns slowly. His lashes lower, his posture slumps just enough to look small, vulnerable, like he’s unraveling. He holds the Alpha’s gaze, lets the silence drag out, waiting for the weight of it to settle. Waiting to be seen.

And then, just behind the Alpha, only a few careful steps away, he notices the table. At its edge, the glint of metal. Handcuffs.

Here goes nothing.

He is still overwhelmed, but he knows how to hold it. Knows how to ignore it just enough. One careful step forward, trembling, like a cornered creature seeking comfort. His hands lift, slow and unthreatening, ghosting over the Alpha’s chest. Close enough to feel the heat radiating through the thin space between them, the thrum of muscle and tension under skin.

The Alpha steps back immediately and Louis lets his lips part, follows after him until they are close enough to the table. He leans in, just enough, and then lets it slip. A tiny sounding whimper. A broken thing. He feels the reaction instantly .

The Alpha’s nostrils flare. The pheromones are working. The Alpha’s instincts react before the man can catch up, a flicker of urge, of a need to comfort, to claim, to sink his hands into Louis’s hips and more.

Louis lets his eyebrows pull together, tilts his head just so, making himself look small. “I—” he whispers, barely breathing, “I think I’m gonna drop.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, lets his knees buckle.

The fall isn’t dramatic, it’s calculated. A graceful surrender, straight into the Alpha’s chest, just as planned.

And of course, the Alpha catches him instantly.

Strong arms wrap around his body like steel bands, holding him up, pulling him in. Warm and solid and strangely safe. He lets his cheek press against the Alpha’s chest, breath hitching at the deep, steady rhythm of the heartbeat under muscle. His fingers twitch near the edge of the table, he’s almost there.

Just a bit more. Just one clean grab, and he could turn everything.

He curses mentally about what he is about to do, bites on his tongue, fights himself, but it might be his only chance.

“Alpha...” He breathes.

The arms around him tighten automatically. Protective. Possessive. And terrifyingly real.

Louis’s hand edges closer to the cuffs, fingers grazing cold metal.

He just needs a second more.

So he leans in and tilts his head. Nuzzles the crook of the Alpha’s neck. His nose brushes skin, soft, warm and pulsing with that scent. That pure, raw Alpha smell, straight from the source. Unfiltered.

And that’s when everything shifts.

His Omega cracks open.

Heat rushes down his spine like lightning, short-circuiting every thought. The scent isn't just strong, it’s potent, thick with dominance and something almost gentle underneath. Like instinct laced in silk and smoke.

Louis gasps before he can stop it, knees wobbling for real this time. His vision sways.

The cuffs vanish from focus. The table disappears. Everything disappears.

Except for the Alpha.

Louis tries to pull away. His limbs feel heavy, syrup-slow with submission, but his mind screams for control. The only movement he manages is a small tilt of his head, just enough to look up.

The Alpha is staring down at him.

Jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might splinter.

His eyes, fuck, his eyes are gone. The green of his irises swallowed whole by pitch black pupils, wide and ravenous. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat pearling at his temples. There’s a tremor running through him, not of weakness, but restraint. His body is coiled, every muscle tense, not because he’s ready to move, but because he’s holding everything back.

A predator in stasis.

Louis swallows hard, heart pounding against his ribs like it wants out.

He did this. He made an Alpha lose control like this.

“Stop.” He demands, but it’s not a command. It’s not even a warning. It’s a plea. A desperate, shaky plea.

He tilts his chin up, nose grazing the man’ chin, and murmurs. “Make me.”

The Alpha makes a sound. Low, wrecked, almost a growl.

Roughly, one hand comes up and slaps around his neck, grabbing, holding.

That, that, shouldn’t happen.

An unmated Omega’s neck is off-limits. Touching it like this, cradling it like a possession, like a claim, it’s taboo. Something an alpha only does when they’re staking a claim. When they’re taming. When they’re soothing.

He tries to blink it back, shake it off, but the Alpha’s thumb moves, just slightly. A soft brush beneath his ear. Barely a graze.

And it almost breaks him.

He sways forward, a tremble starting low in his spine, threatening to unravel everything. There’s a scent curling in the air now, his scent, clinging sweet and desperate, tangling around the Alpha’s own musk, thick with dominance and sweat and arousal. Louis’s omega keens at the mix, dizzy and aching.

And then the world flips.

One second he’s wrapped in heat. The next, he’s spun. Thighs hit the edge of the table with a sharp thud that knocks the wind from his chest.

Click.

Cold metal clamps tight around his wrists.

Louis blinks, dazed, breath heaving.

No. No, no.

His breath comes in heavy, furious huffs. Rage and humiliation flood his veins in equal measure.

And in front of him, the Alpha stands, composed.

But Louis sees the truth beneath the calm.

The Alpha’s chest rises fast, each breath shallow. His shirt is damp along the collar, sweat glistening at his brow. His pupils are still wide, still wrecked, and there's a faint flush creeping down his throat.
The bulge pressing against the front of the Alpha’s jeans, thick and not ignorable, straining at the zipper.

“Thought you were clever, huh?” The Alpha says, dry but hoarse with heat. He gives the cuffs a sharp tug, just enough to make Louis’s shoulders jerk. “You think I didn’t see what you were doing?”

“Fuck you —”

“All those pretty little noises. That scent.” The Alpha pushes closer, and Louis has to go on his tiptoes for their faces to be apart. “And I let you. Just long enough. Just far enough.”

Louis doesn’t hear anything. He stares at his mouth.

“Oh, and the slut act?” The Alpha’ lips curve, but his breath is warm against Louis’ mouth. “Forget that too. Doesn’t look good on you.”

The humiliation burns, hot and sharp in Louis’ throat. But he swallows it down. Regains his composure. Looks up. “You don’t scare me.”

“Then why’s your heart beating so fast?”

Louis stares. Then, slow and deliberate, he cranes his neck forward, bringing their faces as close as the Alpha will allow. “Because you’re kinda cute.”

And, he slams his knee up, straight into his balls.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

Louis counts the hours by the way the light slants across the loft windows, time slipping between his fingers like sand.

No phone. No way to tell the time. Just the sound of footsteps, voices upstairs, the metallic groan of the stairs, the occasional slam of a door.

At first, he sulks. Then, he occupies himself as much as he can.

There is not much to do in there, even though the room is big. A single plant sat in the corner, tall and healthy. A rolling chair and a lone table where he could eat sometimes, and tons of books.

Now? The plant is completely bare from its leaves, and Louis uses them as bookmarks whenever he feels like reading, rolling on the chair from one end to the other.

He also tries listening for sounds beyond these walls, something that might give him a hint of where he was. No traffic, no airplanes, no sirens. Just the occasional hum of a motorbike. Isolated. Probably somewhere in the hills. Great.

The fear that had curled in his stomach in the beginning, that sharp, thrumming panic, had dulled into something closer to irritation. If they’d planned to kill him, they would’ve done it already. If they wanted to hurt him, well, they were taking their sweet fucking time. Louis wasn’t stupid. He saw it in the way they looked at him, the way they handled him. They were more talk than action, all sharp edges and cold words but little follow-through. It was almost disappointing.

Almost. Because if he was being honest, he wasn’t in a rush to find out what they were actually capable of.

And so, the strangest thing happens when Louis stops planning his escape and starts paying attention.

He hears Blondie laughing upstairs, something loud and easy.

And when sometimes, Zayn cooks, he’d let the door open to indulge Louis in small talk, would even ask him what he’d like to eat, sometimes.

They don’t feel like the monsters he thought they were supposed to be.

But the Alpha, the big, curly one, never comes back.

Louis didn’t even know why he noticed. It wasn’t like he cared. Shouldn’t be something that made him… tic . Like a splinter just under the skin, not painful enough to matter, but there.

Every time he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the loft, or footsteps approaching his door, something in him braced. Not in fear. Not in expectation, either. Just waiting. And it was never him. Every single time, it was one of the others.

The room is fully dark when there’s the softest creak at the door.

He’s lying on the sofa, curled in a ball and chilled to the bone and uncomfortable because of the cuffs. He goes a bit rigid at the sound, half expecting a heavy scent of Alpha. But it’s not. Citrus and linen, something cool and relaxing.

Blondie.

The Omega slips inside like a guilty secret, nudging the door shut with the toe of his sneaker, careful not to make a sound. His arms are full, a thick woollen blanket bundled close to his chest.

Louis blinks, suspicious. The way he moves, quick and shifty, tells him everything. The big Alpha upstairs surely doesn't know about this.

"Here." He whispers, padding over. "Gets cold down here."

He drapes the blanket over Louis without waiting for permission and Louis, who should shove it off, who should spit some barbed comment, doesn’t.

Instead, he clutches it tighter around himself, throat thick.

Blondie smiles awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, ready to leave.

Louis sits up and blurts out, desperate. "Wait."

He pauses, glancing back.

"Can I..." Louis hesitates, hating how pathetic he sounds, "Can I have a smoke?"

For a second, Blondie's face crumples, like he’s caught between wanting to help and knowing he absolutely shouldn’t.

Louis leans forward without thinking, the cuff chain rattling softly. His hands twitch at the blanket, fingers restless, fidgeting. He lifts his eyes, big and pleading without meaning to be, the kind of look that had always gotten him into or out of trouble before.

"Please." He says, like he’s bargaining with a friend he hasn’t earned yet. "I’ll behave. I swear."

The Omega chews at his bottom lip, gaze darting nervously toward the door.

“It’s just—” Louis mumbles, words tumbling out too fast. “I haven’t had a smoke since I got here. I don’t even know how long it’s been but… I just... I just need it. Just a little.”

There’s a long beat where Blondie hesitates.

Finally, he steps closer, lowering his voice to a whisper like they’re both teenagers sneaking out past curfew. "You can't tell anyone.” He says, sharp but not unkind. "Especially not... him. He’ll fucking kill me."

Louis's heart kicks. He nods immediately, swallowing hard. Promise sealed.

Blondie lets out a long, defeated sigh, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair before jerking his chin toward the door. "Come on then."

They creep out like ghosts.

Louis follows as silently as he can, bare feet brushing the cold floor, the occasional clink of the cuffs at his wrists sharp in the thick hush. Down a dim hallway, through a heavy metal door that groans at the hinges, into a vast garage.

It's huge, half workshop, half graveyard. Bikes and rusting car parts lean against dusty shelves. Tools scatter across battered workbenches. Camping chairs sit abandoned in one corner. The air is sharp with the smells of grease, steel and lingering cigarette smoke.

Louis hovers, nerves buzzing, as Blondie rummages through a battered drawer full of screws and screwdriver bits. Finally, he comes up triumphant with a battered pack of cigarettes, crumpled and half-empty and a scuffed black lighter.

Blondie fishes out two cigarettes, handing one over with a crooked smile. "Feels wrong to smoke alone.”

Louis fumbles a little with the cuffs but manages, cupping the flame with two hands and drawing in deep the second it catches. He closes his eyes, lets the smoke fill his lungs. It tastes awful. Stale and burnt and sharp enough to scrape his throat raw, but it’s freedom , and he almost moans with relief.
When he exhales, the smoke curls upward, soft and silvery toward the rafters.

For a long moment, they just stand there, passing the cigarette between slow drags, the silence almost comfortable. Then Louis cracks it.

"Why are you doing this?"

Blondie shrugs, kicking lightly at a loose bolt on the floor. "You asked.”

Louis flicks ash off the tip of his smoke, eyeing him. "So if I asked your name? Or the one of that curly cunt upstairs?"

Blondie barks a laugh, surprised, bright, real. "Don’t push your luck."

“Come on, a little Omega alliance.” Louis tries with a smile. “We could kick their asses, you know? Some kind of revolution.”

“They are my friends, do you realise?”

The mood shifts then, a shade heavier, but not hostile.

Louis, reckless as ever, presses anyway. "You look young." He says, taking a long inhale of smoke. "You don’t look like the kidnapping type. So what, they drag you into this too? You lose a bet? Join a cult?"

For a second, Blondie doesn’t answer. He just stares at the ember of his cigarette, like he’s thinking real hard about something. "I was sleeping rough in London." He says. "Couple years back. Streets’ll kill an Omega like me quicker than a bullet. Either that or worse."

Louis doesn’t interrupt. He barely breathes.

Blondie glances at him, a wry half-smile curling his mouth. "If it wasn’t for the ‘curly cunt upstairs’, I wouldn’t be here to sneak you a smoke, mate. Might not be here at all."

Louis sucks in a breath, holds it. It’s the first time he’s heard anything human about any of them.
It rattles him more than he thought it would. And it shocks him too. Enough that it leaves him blinking at the cigarette smoke curling between them like mist.

He leans back against the cool metal shelf, blinking slowly. Because for the first time since this whole nightmare started, he isn't thinking about escape or tricks or bribes. He’s thinking about himself.

About the life he had waiting for him outside those walls, the money, the endless stream of parties, the yachts and the champagne and the designer clothes he barely wore twice. He thinks about Luke dragging him to VIP clubs where everything smelled like fresh leather and polished marble and overpriced perfume. He thinks about laughing too loudly, drinking too much, fucking up and always having someone there to wipe it clean.

He thinks about how easy it had all been. How safe.

And then he looks at Blondie, at the way his blonde hair curls against his temple, the faint bruises under his eyes from too many sleepless nights, the faint scratch on his wrist like a reminder of old fights.

There’s something about him.

Something soft, something good, something so real it punches Louis straight in the gut.

His instincts flare, wild and confused, because Omegas were built to recognize goodness, to protect it, to nurture it. Blondie wasn’t a threat. He was the kind of person you wanted to carry along with you, tucked under your arm, safe from the sharp edges of the world.

The cigarette crackles as Louis takes another drag, his throat tight.

"You’re too good for this shit." Louis says finally, not quite looking at him.

Blondie chuckles, quiet and a little sad. "Ain’t about being good, mate. It’s about surviving."

And yeah, Louis understands this at least.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

The next night, as Zayn and Blondie are pulling their jackets on, ready to leave, it’s shower time for Louis.

And tonight, Puppy Eyes is on duty and he does not look pleased about it.

The Alpha is massive, all thick muscle and sharp edges, tattoos crawling up from his fingers to his arms like vines. A walking fucking wall. Buzzcut. Jaw like it could cut glass. Shoulders so broad he has to angle himself slightly to fit through the doorway.

He smells more like expensive cologne than pure Alpha, smoky and bitter and too clean, but Louis still hates how overpowering it is. Like it's hiding something. Masking.

And Louis? Louis doesn't believe in picture-perfect people. They don't exist. Which means this guy is pretending.

Louis is sprawled lazily on the couch, wrists still cuffed but arms raised behind his heads.

When the Alpha steps toward him with a grunt, Louis immediately perks up, lashes fluttering, voice syrupy sweet. "Aw, you again? You’re my favourite, big guy."

Liam stiffens like someone slapped him. Zayn snorts from the door, shaking his head. Niall just hides a grin behind the collar of his hoodie, not even trying that hard to suppress it.

"You know, if you wanted to get me naked, you just had to ask nicely." Louis says, dragging the words out like honey. He even winks.

The guy turns halfway, throwing a pained look over his shoulder. "Jesus. Can we give him back already?"

Zayn, already halfway out the door, just laughs. "Aw, no way. Let’s keep him a little longer. It's way funnier like this."

"Hey!" Louis pipes up, affronted. "I’m not a bloody dog you get to adopt for fun, you absolute twats."

"Sure you’re not, sweetheart!" Zayn drawls, and blows him a mock kiss before holding the door open for Niall, and then yanking it closed behind him.

The room falls quiet except for the soft scuff of Liam’s boots on the concrete floor.

“Come on, I don’t have all day.” Puppy Eyes ask.

Louis stands slowly, cuffs clinking, giving him his best innocent smile, the one that had gotten him out of parking tickets, night club brawls, and at least three arrests.

"Be gentle with me, handsome." He purrs, cocking his hip slightly. "It’s my first time."

The Alpha exhales heavily through his nose like he’s centering himself. Like he’s two seconds away from snapping or laughing and he can’t decide which.

“Just move." He mutters, jerking his chin toward the hallway.

Because he can. Because winding these Alphas up is the only little rebellion he has left. And because fuck them if they think he’s gonna make it easy.

There’s no mirror in the tiny bathroom. No way to see himself, no way to check if the bruises on his chin or the split in his lip are gone. Not that it matters. No one here gives a shit what he looks like.

The room smells of too many things, old soap, mildew, leftover Alpha pheromones that cling to the walls like grime. It should feel clean. It doesn’t. Still, the scalding water had done something , peeled off a layer of grime, made him feel almost human again.

The best part? No cuffs. Just for now.

He flexes his wrists experimentally, rolling them, savouring the sting of movement. It won't last, he knows that. But it's still a tiny victory.

He pulls on the clothes they tossed him, a loose, worn hoodie and soft joggers and immediately notices the lack of heavy scent. If he had to guess, they’re Blondie's. Or maybe Zayn's. He breathes easier because of it, fabric soft against his skin instead of heavy with dominance.

A hard knock rattles the door. "Time's up." The Alpha calls, voice gruff.

Louis rolls his eyes and very deliberately ignores him. He moves slower, dragging the towel through his hair like he’s got all the time in the world. He lets his body relax, even lounges a little against the sink.

Testing. Pushing.

Because for once, it’s just the two of them. And Louis has been thinking. He glances at the door. Then lowers his gaze, focuses inward, on that part of himself that’s bone-deep instinct. Omega. Delicate, fertile, sweet.

He lets his body go loose, lets his scent curl into something softer, richer, a sugary, dizzying note that brushes against the walls like a tease. Maybe... maybe if he could throw enough pheromones into the air, get Puppy Eyes drunk on it, he could bolt. Slip past him. Maybe even make it outside.

He toys with it, adding a tiny whine under his breath, just for effect. Enough to set any unattached Alpha twitching.

Another, sharper knock. "Louis." The Alpha says, low warning now. "Don’t make me come in there."

Louis smirks to himself. Oh, darling, that's exactly what I want.

"Alright, that's it." the Alpha growls.

The door swings open, slamming against the wall.

Louis doesn’t startle. He straightens slowly, deliberately, tilting his head and blinking up at Liam through thick lashes. He lets his scent flood the room, sugar-sweet and heady, desperation layered over want.

“Hey.” Louis says, soft and coy. His voice is a melody, light and inviting. “No need to be rough, yeah? I’ll come easy for you.”

He stops mid-step. His pupils widen, his nostrils flare and for a moment the Alpha’s instincts betray him. His hand twitches at his side.

Louis sees it, sees that crack, that split-second weakness and pushes harder. He lets his head loll to the side, damp hair falling messily over his eyes, throat bared, exposed, and he leans back against the sink, ready and open.

“How long’s it been, huh?” He purrs. "Since you’ve properly knotted someone?”

The Alpha stiffens like he’s been struck. His breathing hitches, jaw locking so tight a muscle twitches under the skin. The cuffs in his hand rattle, his grip tightening like he’s anchoring himself against the pull of instinct.

“Stop.” The Alpha grumbles, voice low and warning. His hand shoots forward. “Give me your wrists.”

But his hands are shaking.

Louis sees it, smells it.

He pushes off the sink, stepping closer with a languid, deliberate sway of his hips. His scent pours out again, sugar-sweet, desperate Omega, clinging to the air between them. He lifts his wrists just shy of his grasp, pouting up at him.

"You sure you don't want something else first?" He whispers, eyes glittering with mischief.

The Alpha freezes, pupils blown wide.

Now.

Louis moves fast, twisting, ducking low, slamming his shoulder into the Alpha’s chest to knock him off balance.

But he doesn’t make it two steps.

A hand snaps out like a viper, grabbing the back of Louis’s hoodie. Yanks him back hard.

Louis doesn’t really know what happens next, because his Omega panics. Reacts.

A snarl tears from his throat, raw and guttural, and he twists violently, shoving back with every ounce of strength he has. He thrashes, trying to claw the Alpha’s grip off him, trying to fight his way free, teeth bared, heart hammering, the need to run so sharp it drowns everything else out.

Somewhere in the chaos, Louis turns, swings blindly and his fist connects with something solid.

The Alpha grunts, a low, dangerous sound rumbling from deep in his chest. For a fraction of a second, Louis hopes. But the victory dies before it’s born.

The shove that comes next isn't a shove at all. It's a goddamn detonation.

One moment, Louis is on his feet, the next, his back collides with the tile wall, hard. Crack.

He gasps, tries to move but then an arm slams across his chest, pinning him. Crushing him. The pressure steals his breath instantly, ribs aching under the unrelenting weight. Every inhale feels like a knife between bones. His vision spots, going hazy at the edges.

It hurts. It fucking hurts.

But Louis, stubborn, un-killable Louis, only grins. Wide. Bloody. Wild.

"Go on then, little Alpha." He hisses, tilting his head back against the cold wall. "Show the tiny, helpless Omega just how big and bad you really are."

The arm across his chest presses down harder in answer.

Louis bites back a whimper, refusing to give the Alpha the satisfaction of hearing him break. He glares up at him, chest heaving shallowly, fire still burning hot behind the pain.

But the Alpha leans in, close enough that Louis can feel the heat of his breath against his skin.

"You think your scent’s a weapon?" His voice is sharp, clinical. Like he’s assessing damage, counting fractures. "You're not powerful, Omega. You’re desperate. Reckless. Every time you pull that little trick, you’re waving a red flag at things way worse than me."

Louis’s jaw tightens. He hates the way the words sink under his skin. Hates how something inside him flares at the implication, reckless, stupid, weak.

“You’ll get yourself killed long before anyone else lifts a finger." He says, tightening his arm across Louis’s chest just enough to make it hard to breathe.

The words land like a slap, sharp, humiliating.

And maybe, if Louis was calmer, if he wasn’t already bruised and panting and hurting, he might’ve backed down. But he’s not calm. He’s a feral, cornered thing.

So he bites. Hard.

Teeth sink deep into the meat of the Alpha’ forearm, right over the veins, a vicious, primal clamp that tears past skin. He tastes blood immediately, sharp, metallic, flooding his mouth, smearing across his teeth.

Liam shouts, a short, brutal sound of pain, more shock than anything and instinctively yanks his arm back, the bite tearing wider, blood blooming fast over his skin.

For a moment, he doesn't think. His body moves faster than reason.

Louis barely has time to blink before Liam’s fist snaps up into the air, knuckles tight, aimed straight for his mouth. Pure instinct.

Louis’ heart stutters. For the first time, a flicker of something cold and real grips him. This is it. This is the hit that’s gonna do it, splits him open, break him, maybe worse. He’s not getting up this time.

"Liam."

The word isn't just spoken. It's commanded. It vibrates through the air, through the walls, through Louis.

An Alpha voice.

It rings in Louis’ fucking DNA.

Before he even knows what he's doing, his body obeys. His head bows. His spine locks rigid. His hands fall still where they'd been half-raised in defiance. His entire body freezes, locked down by a command bigger and older than himself.

His mind screams, furious, wild, but his body belongs to something else now. It waits. Silent. Supplicant. Waiting for permission. For orders.

And he isn’t the only one. Liam recoils as if he'd been burned. His fist drops. His whole frame stiffens, then wilts, shame rolling off him in bitter waves. He steps back immediately, head ducking low, eyes dragging to the floor like gravity itself is punishing him.

Because he touched an Omega that wasn't his. Because he forgot himself. And in the brutal, wordless hierarchy of pack law, that’s a sin you don’t walk away from without a mark.

With the weight on his chest disappearing, Louis falls on his knees, too weak to catch him.

He doesn’t dare to look up, stares at the ground, shaking from anger, fear and shock, but he catches the movement in his peripheral, the Alpha steps in. And with that, the air fucking shifts.

But still, he forces himself to move, to stand. His legs wobble beneath him, he has to plaster a hand against the wall or he’d fall, again, exhaustion dragging at every limb. There’s a shuffle of feet, the quiet sound of someone leaving the room.

And then, someone’s approaching.

Louis knows exactly who it is. He doesn’t need to look. Doesn’t need to smell.

Fuck.

His legs give out again. But he doesn’t hit the floor.

A hand catches him right under his armpit, holds him upright, gently walks him back against the wall so he is steady. But still, he flinches. Try to shove it away. But the grip doesn’t budge, just adjusts, strong but not forceful.

"I am fine." Louis rasps, voice wrecked.

"Shut up." The Alpha says, quiet but absolute.

That makes Louis more furious than anything else.

“Fucking—get off!” He snarls, jerks his body, tries to force a reaction.

His heart still pounds from the fight, from the violence, from the burning cocktail of fear and adrenaline that thrums in his veins. His body doesn’t know the danger has passed.

So he does what he always does. He fights like an animal.

He swings again, aiming for something soft, something vulnerable, anything that will make the Alpha let go. He tries to knee him in the balls, but the second his leg moves, it’s caught. Blocked. Like the bastard was expecting it.

He tries again. The Alpha doesn’t even have to look down, doesn’t even move a single muscle except to shift his weight, keeping Louis exactly where he wants him.

And then… Louis isn’t against the wall anymore. He’s upside down. On the fucker’s shoulder. He chokes out a sound, something between a growl and a shout, hands flying out to brace against something, anything as his stomach lurches.

“Put me down, you oversized piece of shit!” Louis thrashes, kicks, fists pounding at the bastard’s back, kicking his legs, but the Alpha doesn’t falter. Doesn’t stumble. Just walks.

Walks like Louis is nothing. Walks them out of the bathroom. Back toward his prison.

“You can’t just—You fucking—PUT ME DOWN!” He shouts, his voice rough, raw. He pounds his fists against the Alpha’s back, but it’s like hitting a wall.

No answer. No reaction.

“I swear to God—” Louis thrashes harder, breath coming in sharp bursts. “I’m gonna kill you!”

He’s falling again. Not thrown, not dropped, but put down fast, so fast his head jerks, vision blurring with the force of it. His bum is shoved against hardwood, hands flying out to brace himself, barely having time to realise he’s been thrown on top of a table. It’s like the Alpha couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. Like the second he was inside the room, he needed Louis off of him.

“Are you gonna shut your fucking mouth?” The Alpha barks in his face, curls flying with the gesture of it.

Louis swallows. His throat clicks. Then, slowly, he pushes off the table. “You could kill me in two seconds, huh?” His lips curl, teeth bared in something that isn’t quite a grin. “Big, scary Alpha. Should I be shaking in my boots?”

The Alpha’s gaze darkens. “You think you could fight me?”

“If you let me, I’d have you on your ass in five seconds.”

The man in front of him doesn’t blink. Just keeps watching. That stare, it’s too much. It’s prying, intrusive, relentless. It sees things Louis doesn’t want seen.

“Is that what you’re into?” Louis voice drops, sharp and mean. “A little fight before you bend someone over? Is that why you haven’t killed me yet? Needed a challenge first?”

It’s an instant reaction. A shift. A flicker in the Alpha’ scent, thick, potent, unmistakable. Arousal and anger. Louis doesn’t miss it. His omega doesn’t miss it. It hits like a slap to the face, intoxicating, fucking obvious. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it.

The Alpha exhales hard, hand dragging down his face in frustration and then turns around, ready to leave the room probably before his instincts could take control.

Louis should let him. But he never takes the high road. He acts before he thinks, hands snapping out, grabbing the first thing he finds. And then, he throws it. The cup, heavy and ceramic, smacks the back of the Alpha’s head.

The man freezes, his back to Louis, hard and stiff and huge. Then, slowly, turns around. His face is carved from fury, raw and blistering. His scent, thick in the air, oppressive, floods the room, and it’s not just anger.

It’s hunger. It’s want.

“Come on.” Louis purrs, eyes alight with reckless, stupid energy. “Hit me. Growl at me. Show me your teeth, Alpha. Isn’t that what you do?”

And that does it. The Alpha launches. Again. And again, Louis doesn’t have time to react.

He’s grabbed. A fistful of his sweater, he’s dragged forward, lifted from the ground and then slammed down, flat against the table. The impact rattles the wood, has him closing his eyes for a second from the shock.

The Alpha leans over him, pinning him without even trying, every inch of him radiating fury and dominance. His scent is a wildfire, raw sweat, salt, and something darker, thicker.

Louis feels it in his gut, in his spine, in the place between his legs that aches in shameful, furious need. The Alpha’s hands curl into fists at either side of Louis’s body, shaking with the effort not to tear into him.

And then, the growl.

“You’re so fucking desperate.” A laugh, cruel and amused, vibrates through the narrow space between them.“You want me to hurt you? Is that it, little Omega?"

The way he says it, Omega, makes Louis’ whole body light up like it’s been struck by lightning.

It isn’t just a title. It’s a fucking claim. A brand pressed into his skin with a single word.

"You forget what I am, Omega?" Harry rasps, so close his breath caress Louis’ nose.

Louis shudders under him, but he bares his teeth, twisting his head to glare up, eyes blown wide and feral.

And the Alpha, fuck, isn’t unaffected either.

"You’re the one panting like a bitch in heat." Louis snaps.

The slick is starting, pooling shamefully where he can’t control it, coating the inside of his thighs, soaking through the thin sweatpants they'd thrown at him after his shower. And he smells it. Louis sees the exact second it hits him, the way his nostrils flare, the way his pupils go huge, the way his whole body tenses like a gun about to go off.

"Fuck." He hisses, his hand fists the fabric at Louis’s waist so hard it strains the seams and arches him up from the table. "You like this. You’re fucking wet for it."

Louis flushes hot, tries to pull his wrist away, but the Alpha’s hand tightens, keeping him there.

"You’re desperate for it." He breathes and then he slowly inhale, he fucking smells him, no shame. "Your body’s begging for it, isn’t it?"

"You’re not much better." Louis hisses back, trying to claw at something, anything to hurt. "You can smell it, can't you? It’s driving you fucking insane."

For a second, a terrible, perfect second, Louis thinks he’s won. Thinks the Alpha’s about to snap, about to tear him apart, claim him, ruin him.

His body hovers over his like a dam about to break.

But then, the Alpha lets out a sound, rough and furious and wrenches himself back like it costs him. He reaches for the cuffs, the sharp click of metal loud and brutal in the charged air, and seizes Louis's wrists. Forces them together with a roughness that makes Louis hiss.

Louis thrashes, tries to yank back, but he is much stronger. His big hands lock the cuffs tight, his breath still harsh and uneven against the side of Louis's face.

Without another word, the Alpha shoves him off the table with a firm, brutal push.Louis stumbles, his body still humming with need, head spinning, heart breaking open with how badly he wanted, no, needed something more.

The Alpha steps back, muscles coiled tight like he’s barely keeping himself in check. His jaw ticks violently. He moves toward the door, pulling it open. Before he leaves, he throws one final look over his shoulder, voice low, wrecked and ragged and cruel.

"Know your place, Omega.”

And the door slams shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a final, merciless sound.

Leaving Louis panting in the empty room, wrists bound, slicking messily through his clothes, skin still singing from the ghost of the Alpha's heat.

Helpless. Furious. Wrecked.

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Figure You Out

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Chapter 1: Enjoy the Silence

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