Chapter Text
“Sir, Shane Hollander is here.”
Ilya nodded, scanning the room from his usual seat, and the messenger stepped away, blending into the background again. The dance floor down below was packed, sweaty bodies pressed too close, scents mingling in a sickening cacophony of desire, shame, insecurity, disgust. The smell of any nightclub worth its salt; pulling hot, young clientele with too much money and not enough self-respect.
Ilya was proud of it. When he had inherited control of the club seven years ago, a razor-edged test from his father thinly disguised as an eighteenth birthday present, it had been a total dump. Little more than an abandoned warehouse on an abandoned strip of riverside property belonging to the Rozanov Corporation (Very Legitimate™), it was frequented only by crackheads and the occasional rat.
Ilya had turned it around in four months.
He scanned the dance floor again, but he couldn't see him. Shane Hollander. Here. Tonight.
Ilya stood, going for casual and - always - succeeding. You didn't grow up in the Rozanov household and survive without learning how to hold a poker face; how to shove every thought and feeling and silly little dream so far down your own throat you nearly puked on it. And Ilya had done more than survive. Ilya had thrived.
The same could not be said for his idiot brother.
“Ilyaaaa! Is it true, then? The Hollander omega is here?”
Alexei sidled up to him at the railing, overlooking the floor below, and Ilya set his jaw, scanning the crowd again. Alexei said omega the same way most people said slut or whore or piece of ass. Which, to Alexei, was all an omega was.
Which to many people - especially in the criminal underworld where conservative values were still seeped into the cracks of the very foundation - was all an omega was.
Ilya had learned that the hard way, when he found his omega mother cold and unmoving after she swallowed a bottle of pills. He learnt that the hard way when he presented as an alpha, and he realized he would be hated by his beta brother from that moment forward until one or both of them was in the ground.
Ilya suspected Shane Hollander had learnt that the hard way the day he presented as an omega three years ago.
“You have a wife. And a child,” Ilya said, not looking at him, sounding bored.
“Ah, Ilya, but it is in the name of the family,” Alexei drawled, “The audacity of a Hollander to enter our territory without permission - I’ll teach the little fucker a lesson.”
And he was right - if it were any other son, any other family, Ilya would have broken bones himself already, sent some teeth home to their parents in a velvet-lined box, roots still intact.
But not - not Shane Hollander.
Yuna and David Hollander’s only son, a disgrace - the blight on his family’s name. It was only testament to what Ilya's father called David's soft underbelly that Shane had not been exiled on his presentation, or worse: sold to the highest bidder; forced into whatever mating secured the Hollanders better trade routes, better access to resources and land and men to do their business, as all the families did business.
Instead, Shane was left to do as he pleased. Unfit to take over as head of the family, he was left to his own devices. Spoiled. Indulged. Seen only at night; wearing as little as he could get away with, glitter on his lashes.
Or so Ilya had heard. It's not like he ever looked for the man.
Not like he was looking for him now, scanning the bopping heads for one particular brunette, one striking head of black hair Ilya still saw in his dreams some nights -
There: center of the dance floor. He was swaying to the music, one hand holding a glass of champagne over his head, the other running teasing fingertips down his own chest, grazing his nipples shamelessly through the silk shirt draped over his shoulders. Ilya watched as the omega threw his head back in a laugh as his blonde companion - Rose, Ilya thought, the Landry daughter, a childhood friend of the Hollander's - as she shouted something to him over the deafening bass. Ilya watched the lights catch on the glitter smeared along Shane’s throat.
Spoiled. Indulged. Ilya's grip tightened on the railing until his knuckles were white.
“Or maybe you will finally take care of it, brother? Finally send those snooty fucking Hollanders a fucking message, huh? So up their own ass -”
Alexei kept muttering into his vodka, so lost in his musings that he seemed to forget what he was trying to do to begin with: talk down to his brother, taunt Ilya with the suggestion that he was not doing enough as the next head of the family, that he was letting things slide.
Because his brother was an idiot but things - things were tense. Something was afoot, lately, and Ilya had lost many a night of sleep over it. It was not the time to let one’s guard down, or project even a hint of weakness. Because lately, people had started dropping dead like flies - important people, people with influence who could have swayed important decisions one way or the other. There was a pattern but not; a thread running through them yet no discernible way to link the victims to any one family or faction, or even to link the killings to one killer.
Whoever was doing this, they were smart. Smarter than every person in the Boston underground combined.
Ilya watched as Shane brought the champagne glass down to his mouth, about to tip the rest of the sparkling alcohol down his throat when an alpha bumped him - hard, hard enough to spill Shane's champagne over the front of his blouse instead, the thin material staining instantly. Shane looked shocked, his pink mouth dropping open in a way that distracted Ilya for just a second - a second long enough for Shane to spin on his heel and shove the alpha behind him - or try to, anyway. The other man barely budged, a grimy smirk spreading onto his face as he shoved forward, instead, hands grabbing onto Shane's hips and dragging the omega flush against him.
Ilya couldn't hear it over the music, but he saw the words Shane threw at the man, so vile in such a pretty mouth. It might've made Ilya smile, a little, under any other circumstances.
As it was, he ducked his head; caught the eye of one of the enforcers standing nearby, and nodded towards the commotion. The bouncer nodded, once, and then he was shouldering his way through the crowd, dragging the offending alpha away by the scruff of his neck. He caught Ilya's eye again, a silent question, and Ilya nodded.
Alexei scoffed a laugh next to him.
“You're too soft, Ilya. Fucking slut had it coming. Shouldn't be asking for it if he can't handle himself.”
Down below, Rose Landry was wiping at Shane's eyes, eyebrows drawn together in worry as she spoke to him soft and fast. Shane was nodding, meekly, hands shaking a bit at his sides.
Ilya narrowed his eyes.
“I'm going to my rooms. Do not disturb me,” he said, to his brother, but also to the men always standing guard, in the shadows, and - at their answering nod of understanding - he left.
The walk up to his rooms was quiet. Once through the back of the offices the walls were soundproofed; the din of the club muffled as soon as the door swung shut behind him. The staff corridor was narrow and dark, only the soft nightlights to light his path, but he appreciated the time alone for the first time in what felt like days.
He was busier now than he had been at eighteen: running multiple trade routes, handling traitors and deserters, figuring out how he was going to kill his father before the year was up. But despite this, he still had a soft spot for the club, still came back to supervise in person when he could. Still kept private quarters on the top floor, on the rooftop; floor to ceiling windows providing a stunning view of the city across the river.
Would've impressed any partner lucky enough to be brought back to Ilya's bed, but, despite the fact that he had long lost count of that number, none of them had been lucky enough to see this bed.
If he did pull at the club, they had back rooms. But it had been a while since he'd done even that.
Ilya sighed, rubbing his eyes, lost in thought as he made his way to the elevator on the far side of the building.
He stopped short, something rustling in the dim corridor ahead. Ilya pulled his gun before he realized it, running on instinct, aiming carefully at the figure materializing in front of him, but then he heard - sniffling.
The figure turned, and Ilya watched as Shane Hollander nearly jumped out of his own skin.
“Oh! Oh my god! Oh, uh, I'm so sorry,” he said, lightning quick, wiping his eyes hurriedly and trying to pull back his shoulders in a show of composure.
He was failing, a little bit.
“Sorry, I um - I'm looking for the bathroom, I'm sorry,” he murmured, hands lifting in front of him as his eyes caught on Ilya's weapon. “Oh my god, please don't shoot me, I'm so sorry.”
Ilya sighed, lowering his weapon but not putting it away. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you, I'm looking for a bathroom, I just needed a moment -” Shane swallowed thickly, eyes still trained on the gun. “Can you put that away? Jesus.”
Ilya watched the omega, watched the way his fingers trembled, stretched out in front of him. He couldn't smell the other man; he traced his gaze along Shane's exposed throat again for signs of his scent patches but couldn't make them out. He lingered longer than he had reason to, maybe: he knew the new patches were obscenely expensive but practically invisible. Shane Hollander would not mar his angelic visage with anything less, Ilya suspected.
And who could blame him.
Ilya trailed his gaze down further; over the stained silk blouse now undoubtedly ruined, down the black pants practically painted on, clinging obscenely to those thighs -
He watched Shane shift - uncomfortable, probably, nervous.
He should be.
Shane drew in a small breath, through his teeth, high and tremulous, and Ilya saw the shiver go through him, goosebumps rising on his arms, his nipples hard against draped silk.
“Sorry, it's just - it's colder back here, than in the club,” Shane murmured, reaching one hand across his body to grip his own bicep tightly, drawing in on himself. His gaze jumped between Ilya and the gun, and he bit his lip.
“Listen, I'm just gonna go, if that's okay,” he said in a small voice, shifting on his feet, and Ilya sighed.
Fuck it.
“Come,” he said, tucking his gun back into its holster. Shane looked up at him like a deer in headlights. “I will take you to a bathroom.”
Whether or not Shane realized which bathroom Ilya meant, he didn't say anything as Ilya guided him into his private elevator with one hand on the small of his back. Ilya felt the answering shiver through his fingers, but Shane didn't feel cold to the touch. If anything, he was running a bit warm, the back of his neck flushed.
Ilya bit down on his own teeth, jaw clenched, and scanned his iris at the camera next to the doors.
The elevator deposited them in the living room of his apartment, windows a cityscape of twinkling lights like fireflies, and Shane seemed drawn like a moth, socked feet padding across the length of the room until he came to a stop inches from the glass, fingertips reaching out to rest on the surface.
Ilya watched him, from the other side of the room, saying nothing. He thought, idly, that this was the best that view had ever looked. He wondered if Shane would let him fuck him up against the glass; leave an imprint of that pretty face Ilya would never get cleaned.
Ilya cleared his throat, and Shane jumped, a little bit.
“Sorry! I just - distracted,” Shane mumbled, and Ilya let himself enjoy the flush on Shane's cheeks for a moment before he gestured to the hallway.
“Bathroom,” he said, simply, and Shane nodded, ducking his head as he scurried back across the carpeted floor and down the hall.
Ilya followed him, at a slower pace. Maybe Shane wanted to be alone. Maybe he was being a creep wanting to watch the man in his own bathroom.
He couldn't resist.
He leaned his weight on the doorframe, arms crossed, curious. Shane was filling the sink with what looked like cold water and hand soap, and Ilya wondered what the fuck he was doing. Then he pulled his shirt over his head, and Ilya had a moment to drink in the exposed skin of Shane's shoulders, his waist, the dimples on his lower back, before he was distracted by Shane dunking his shirt in the sink.
Ilya didn't know anything about caring for fine fabrics, but he was pretty sure that ruined it for good.
“We met before, y’know, once,” Shane said, not looking at him, fingers swirling the silk through the soapy water idly, and Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, when I was still - just before I presented, at a family thing,” he said, waving one wet hand at the word thing like it was a lacklustre Thanksgiving dinner and not one of the tensest meetings between the Rozanovs and Hollanders that Ilya had ever been present for.
It had been a routine meeting, at first, polite nothings exchanged and terms reaffirmed, and Ilya had been glad it wasn't anything special because he couldn't follow more than two words between his father and the Hollanders before his eyes were drawn back to - him.
Shane Hollander. So serious, so stiff, buttoned up and sitting next to his mother with a small frown marring his brow, following the proceedings diligently. Ilya remembered thinking he was much too serious for a seventeen-year-old, that Ilya should steal him away and show him the city: the sights, the sounds, the wonders, until he never frowned again.
Then one of the Rozanov enforcers - an alpha - had decided to corner Shane during the banquet; crowd him into a dark corner with nothing but bad intentions.
Shane had broken the man's hand in four different places, and the adults had taken to a private room, furious on both sides.
Little less than a year later, Shane presented as an omega, and all was forgotten.
Especially the alpha who had tried to force himself on Shane that day. No one ever really questioned where he went. But Ilya knew. He knew exactly where he dumped him after he cut every finger and then the man's dick off, shoving it down his own throat for him to choke on.
Ilya pushed off the doorframe; walked over to Shane curiously.
“What are you doing, kotik? I'm sure that isn't helping.”
“It's helping,” Shane said, short, his brows drawing into a small angry frown, as Ilya watched him in the mirror. “It - smells like that asshole from downstairs now,” he spat, poking at the fabric more violently. “I would burn it if I could.”
Ilya watched, transfixed, as his mouth twisted, and moisture gathered on his lashes. Shane sniffed, once, still glaring at the sink, then he looked up; met Ilya's eyes in the mirror.
“I -” he started, stopped, and all at once, his face crumpled. “I smell like that asshole now.”
Ilya was moving before he could really think about it.
He reached for his own buttons and made quick work. He shucked off his shirt, warm from his body, smelling of the day's sweat, and wrapped it around Shane's bare shoulders gently, holding those big brown watery eyes through the mirror as he guided each of the omega's arms through the sleeves.
Shane's breath stuttered on an inhale. Neither said a word.
Ilya stepped closer, bare chest brushing his shirt on Shane's back, and dipped his head: looking for the tell-tale sheen of a scent patch on Shane's skin. He caught the corner of one with his fingernails, peeled it off and tossed it into the sink; then did the same on the other side.
He wasn't ready for the way Shane's scent hit him like a visceral blow.
His scent was warm - like milk and spices over a low flame; cinnamon and vanilla and anise, but also - caramelised sugar, sticky sweet and tempting and undoubtedly the scent of pre-heat.
Ilya groaned, pressing his face into the crook of Shane's neck - easy, so easy, the omega making space for him as Ilya yanked at his own patches: thicker, not as fancy. Then he was pulling Shane against him, pressing his neck against Shane's in small insistent movements, feeling Shane gasp stuttering breaths against him, his fingers clutching at Ilya's forearms around his waist desperately as their scents mingled and flooded the room and overpowered all else.
Ilya felt like he was losing his mind.
He tried to pull back; couldn't let go.
“Shane,” he growled, but Shane's eyes had gone a bit glassy in the mirror, his mouth dropped open, like he was trying to taste Ilya on the air.
He did not have to try. Ilya would give him what he wanted.
He spun Shane to face him and then Ilya's lips met his. Shane drew in a short breath, nearly a hiccup, shoulders drawing back for just a second before Ilya swept his tongue across Shane's bottom lip and into his open mouth and the younger man keened.
Ilya's grip tightened, almost painfully, he thought, but Shane did not voice a complaint. If anything, he melted against the alpha, Ilya's arms around his waist holding most of his weight as Ilya licked into his wet little mouth like a man starved.
He supposed he was.
Four years of visions, dreams, memories of freckles and flashing teeth and a frown so cute he wanted to bottle it. Four years of living with his ear to the ground; impassive but listening, always listening, for where he was, who he was with. Four years of leaving every room as soon as Shane entered so he didn't do something ridiculous like sink his teeth into that pretty neck in the middle of a dinner party.
Ilya dragged his hands lower, smoothing over that perfect pert bum to settle lower; grasping a handful of each thigh and lifting Shane onto the counter easily.
Shane moaned, panting small wet breaths into Ilya’s mouth, his hands grasping at Ilya's shoulders, nails no doubt leaving red tracks in their wake, and Ilya stepped into the space between his legs like it was made for him.
A dark part of him believed it was.
Then Shane was leaning back, reaching for the buttons of his own pants with clumsy fingers, and Ilya wasted no time before helping.
Shane lifted his hips off the counter in invitation and Ilya tugged off the offending item of clothing, half a mind to just rip them off instead - how did Shane even get into them? - but he lost all train of thought when he caught sight of what was underneath.
Red lace, a delicate pair of panties sitting so prettily on his hips, almost innocently, if it wasn't for how Shane's cock strained the fabric, head peaking out over the top, steadily dripping precum, twitching as Ilya took in the sight.
Ilya watched as Shane flushed, all the way from his nipples to the tips of his ears, trying to close his legs in a sudden display of modesty but Ilya was faster, one hand on each knee holding Shane open for him, spreading him further, exposing him to Ilya's hungry gaze.
The fabric covering his hole was stained with slick, and Ilya’s mouth watered at the sight, at the smell. He dropped onto his haunches, pressing his mouth against the damp red lace helplessly, and Shane could only let out a small oh! before Ilya was taking his cockhead into his mouth, suckling gently.
Shane twitched against him, his whole body jerking at the sudden, wet sensation, one hand weaving into Ilya's curls, clenching almost too-tight. His scent was overwhelming, so much stronger here between his legs, and Ilya felt half in a trance, breathing him in. It was milk and honey and much, much closer to heat than even two minutes ago.
Ilya pulled off and Shane made a sound like a wounded animal.
“What is this, kotyonok?” Ilya asked, running his thumb along the red lace, over Shane's cock, his voice rough to his own ears.
“Who did you wear these for, hmmm?” he asked, and he had meant it as a tease but suddenly the thought of anyone else seeing Shane like this made him feel a bit delirious, a bit mad. The thought of Shane dressing like this for anyone else on purpose -
He growled, a dark, ugly thing. “Who were you hoping would see this pretty little present tonight?”
Shane bit his lip and said nothing.
Ilya nearly cracked a molar.
He reached for Shane; pushed his knees up, forcing Shane's heels onto the counter next to him and tilting his pelvis up so he was forced to lean back against the mirror behind him, but the omega did not complain; merely grabbed behind his own knees obediently, keeping himself spread open and on display for Ilya.
Ilya slipped one finger under the edge of the lace; ran it teasingly up the crease of Shane's thigh before tugging the fabric to the side, exposing the omega's wet little hole to his gaze. Ilya felt saliva pool at the base of his mouth, and he swallowed thickly, letting his middle finger run once, twice, over the tight furl, the glide sickly sweet. Ilya watched as Shane’s hole clenched, helplessly, under his teasing touch, a fresh glob of slick pushing out and dripping down his taint, and Ilya turned his head to the side, biting down on the silky soft inside of the omega's thigh to keep from dipping his head and tasting him.
He couldn't afford that. Not now. If he allowed himself that now, he knew, he would never come back up again.
Ilya pushed down harder, felt Shane's entrance give at the pressure, and Shane keened, whether at the feeling of Ilya's finger breaching his body, pushing insistently deeper, or the feeling of Ilya's teeth breaking skin on his inner thigh, he did not know.
He did not stop to ask.
Shane was impossibly wet and tight and warm around him, and Ilya wondered, for a second, delirious, how he would ever fit his cock in him. Then he crooked his finger, pressed his fingertip mercilessly against Shane's prostate, and Shane reacted so beautifully he knew -
He would make it fit.
“Oh, oh, oh oh oh fuck-!” Shane stuttered, rising on his toes as much as the awkward angle allowed, whether in a vain attempt to escape the sensation or press closer to it, Ilya did not know, but he suspected neither did Shane, the way he clenched down on Ilya's finger like he was suckling on it.
Ilya pressed his forehead against the inside of Shane's thigh, the hand not inside of him grabbing Shane so tightly Ilya thought it would bruise, and he closed his eyes as he sucked in a deep breath, lathed his tongue across the bite he left on Shane's skin, and pressed a second finger inside of him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Ilya, Alpha -”
Ilya thought he heard tears in those words, and as he bullied his way further into Shane's body, the slide so, so wet, Shane burning up from the inside out, the sobs confirmed it.
Ilya swore, once, in Russian, and pulled his fingers from Shane's hungry body. It felt like torture.
Judging by the sound Shane made, he agreed.
“Shhhh, shhhhhh, solnyshko,” Ilya purred, standing, pulling Shane against him and off the counter. Shane came so easily, legs wrapping around Ilya's waist as he let the alpha pick him up without hesitation, his hands tangling in Ilya's hair to pull Ilya's mouth against his again, and Ilya felt a pang, somewhere near his heart, but he ignored it.
“Beautiful boy,” Ilya growled, into his mouth, and Shane whined. “Look at you.”
He turned, made his way to the bedroom, murmuring sweet nothings against Shane's lips, his freckles, his jaw, as he went.
“You are the sun and the stars, dusha moya, look at you. Perfect. Worth more than any fucking alpha in this town, worth more than all of them combined,” he murmured, and Shane shivered against him, the scent of his slick permeating Ilya's every thought.
“They underestimate you, malysh. They are idiots.”
He spoke the words into the heat of Shane's neck; felt the skin soft as velvet under his lips, under the graze of his teeth, and for a moment, for a crazy, terrifying, brilliant moment, he thought: I would give this boy everything if he asked for it.
“But I am not an idiot, Shane Hollander, and I know that underestimating you was the last thing a great many people did on this earth.”
Ilya pulled back just in time to see Shane's eyes go wide, and then he was dropping the omega onto the bed, a wrist trapped in each hand. Shane kicked up, hard, nearly launching Ilya off of him, but Ilya was heavier, and prepared for it, and not dangerously close to a full-blown heat.
Ilya snapped the cuffs around Shane's wrists, linked through his headboard - oak, not going anywhere - and yanked himself off his bed and off his- the omega with all the self-discipline beaten into a Rozanov son.
Shane yowled like an alley cat, his scent souring into a bitter tang, and Ilya drew a deep breath into his lungs through his mouth instead, turning to the sideboard on the other side of the room, focusing his attention on the crystal decanter waiting there.
“How stupid do you think I am, Shane?” Ilya asked, pouring himself two shots of vodka, ignoring how the fingers on his right hand still glistened in the lamplight.
“What the fuck are you doing?! Let me go!” Shane shrieked, and Ilya looked at him, unimpressed.
“You know, I have been thinking. About the killings,” Ilya said instead, and he was impressed how his voice barely shook, even as his insides felt like they were tearing themselves up. He settled into the leather armchair at the foot of the bed, knees spread to give his cock some room. He was still hard, despite everything. The way Shane was writhing on the bed, his bare legs kicking against the duvet, wasn't exactly helping Ilya's cock wilt either.
“What killings, Jesus, I don't know anything about any killings, let me go!” Shane moaned, yanking on the handcuffs ineffectually.
“Nobody can figure out who's doing it. There is no signature. You know the families, they love credit,” Ilya said, pausing to take a sip of his vodka as Shane sobbed on his bed. “All the victims are alphas. Strong, capable, always on guard - and they died quietly, without a fight, by blade or poison needle. One by a very sharp hairpin to the femoral artery.” Ilya chuckled. “Kreativnyy.”
“So I think to myself: who is doing this? Who can do this? Who can get so close to these alphas with so little suspicion? How can they get so close to them, if not by offering that which these alphas - any alpha - desires most? I think of this,” Ilya said, almost to himself, now, but it rang clear in the room. Shane had gone still, seemingly having tired himself out, finding that yanking on his bonds - and Ilya could see the bruises forming on his wrists already - would do him no good.
Ilya stood, placing his empty tumbler down, and walked to the end of the bed, watching his captive.
“And I think of you, Shane Hollander, made from milk and honey. Who could say no to you?”
Not me, Ilya thought, watching the beautiful boy panting on his bed, dressed only in Ilya's dress shirt and a pair of damp red lace panties. Certainly not me.
“Do you fuck them, before you kill them?” Ilya asked, casual, hoping his voice didn’t betray how his gut clenched at the thought, how he suddenly lamented that every one of those men and women were dead already so he couldn’t kill them himself for having seen Shane like this -
“Fuck you,” Shane spat, flush rising on his chest anew, “I’m not a fucking whore.”
Ilya smiled despite himself. “That is the part that bothers you?”
“And obviously I haven't killed anyone either, oh my god, you fucking psycho!”
Ilya raised an eyebrow, and said nothing.
Shane bared his teeth at him.
“So, what?!” he spat, fire and fury, pulling his legs up as if to cover himself, and Ilya tried not to stare at the slick shining on the backs of his thighs, along the curve of his ass; tried not to heave in lungfuls of Shane's scent as it thickened like custard over a flame, and Ilya realized the omega had dropped fully into his heat.
“You think I just - I just use my omega wiles and fuck my way into any damn alpha’s bed and slit their throat while they sleep?! Nothing but some dumb slut with a good name?!”
Ilya watched him, watched as fresh tears spilled over, and as Shane frowned, turned his head to wipe his wet cheek on the pillow angrily, Ilya thought those might actually be the first real tears of the evening.
He placed a knee on the bed, felt the mattress dip under his weight, and then he was crawling to Shane, helpless, catching the omega's legs between his own before he could get a good kick in, his hands braced on the mattress on either side of Shane's beautiful face.
“No. I do not think that,” Ilya said, his voice low, and he reached up to wipe a thumb across Shane's freckles, wipe away some of his tears, and he watched as Shane swallowed thickly.
“Any alpha off the street, maybe this would work. But not these. No. You - you are very good. You watch them, yes? You study them. You see what makes them tick. Then you tick too, just like them, and they don't know you are taking them apart like a rusty watch until it is too late.”
Shane sniffed; lifted his chin, as a fuck you, probably, but all it achieved was to expose his neck to Ilya even more, the scent of heat thick and cloying and making Ilya's mouth water.
“You are very good, yes: look, you are here, even I let you in,” Ilya whispered, chuckling at himself, really, self-deprecating. “I let the viper into my bed because how could I not?”
He reached out one hand; ran his fingers through the strands of hair sticking to Shane’s forehead, damp with sweat; pushed them back off the omega's flushed face and thought how ridiculous an action it was, so tender when Shane would probably just as soon bite his fingers off.
“What did you see when you looked at me?” Ilya mused, the question rhetorical, but Shane spoke anyway, voice small, barely trembling, to his credit.
“Are you going to kill me?”
He should.
He would sooner slit his own throat.
“Are you going to give me a choice, Shane Hollander?”
It happened before Ilya could blink. A whisper-soft sound, a barely audible snick, metal on metal, and then Shane's right hand was free, holding a dagger to Ilya's throat.
Ilya froze, leaning back slowly, Shane's dagger following without so much as a tremor. He caught Shane's gaze and Shane held it, hard, unyielding, even as he panted small, hot breaths, face flushed with heat.
“Ah,” Ilya said. “There he is. Krasivyy.” Beautiful.
Shane's mouth twisted, but he said nothing.
“Where were you hiding that? I am sure I searched you. Thoroughly.”
Many people had accused Ilya of having a death wish over the years, but here, hearing his own stupid voice with Shane Hollander's dagger pressed to his carotid artery, was the first time he actually believed it.
What a way to go, though.
“I hid it. Earlier. Obviously,” Shane said, quietly, evenly, for some reason responding to Ilya's pointless pre-death musings.
But - wait.
“You broke in? Here?” Ilya asked, and he sounded as incredulous as he felt.
These were his private quarters. Nobody but him - and Shane, before tonight - had stepped foot in here since it was renovated. He oversaw the security himself - had the man who designed the system shot after installation. This place was impenetrable. It was a fortress.
Shane raised an eyebrow. “What, like it's hard?”
Ilya huffed a laugh in surprise, and he saw something spark in Shane's eyes, for the first time since they started this charade, something bright and calculating and very, very naughty.
“Tell me, before you kill me, what was the thread? Some of the victims, yes, their deaths benefitted the Hollanders. The rest?”
Shane's brows drew together, and Ilya thought that yes, he must be mad to still find this omega cute, on his deathbed.
“The rest were assholes,” he said, flatly. “Rapists. Pedophiles. They hit their wives.” His mouth twisted. “One of them said my ass was flat.”
The day his mother died was the last day Ilya swore he would ever love anybody. Unfortunately, he was going to have to break that vow.
Shane's hair had fallen into his face again, and Ilya itched to smooth it back, but he didn't dare move.
“Shane, zaychik, beautiful creature, I am afraid you must make a choice,” he said, calmly, quietly, and Shane bit his lip, the blade stinging against Ilya's neck.
“You must choose to kill me now,” he said, and he leaned into Shane's hand; felt a trickle of blood run down his neck, watched Shane track it with his eyes, saw the moment they glazed over, just for a moment.
“Because if you do not kill me, I will fuck you into this mattress until you can no longer remember your own name.”
Shane drew a sharp breath: hesitated, for only a moment, but it was all the opportunity Ilya needed. Shane was faster but Ilya was bigger, and the blade clattered to the floor uselessly.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
Then Shane's lips were on his, Ilya releasing his wrists to take hold of his face instead; to wrap the fingers of one hand along the contour of Shane's jaw as the other trailed down that beautiful form, Shane arching into his touch with a mewl, skin damp with sweat. Hands were buried in his hair; tugging, demanding, begging, and Ilya groaned at the sting, licking into Shane's mouth like he owned it.
Sweat prickled at the back of his neck at the thought, his incisors itching at his gums, and Ilya pulled away just enough to sink his teeth into the thin skin over Shane's collarbone instead.
Shane made a sound that went straight through Ilya, and he dipped his head lower, latching onto one hard, darkened nipple with his lips, his teeth, as Shane wrapped his legs around him and ground his cock against Ilya's abs shamelessly.
Ilya pressed his own aching cock into the mattress, and swore.
Shane was hot to the touch, so hot, burning up, and Ilya trailed his hands up that irresistible waist, tried to slip his hands into the dress shirt draped over Shane's shoulders and push it off his arms but Shane whined, unhappy, let out a stream of no no no's that had Ilya pausing immediately.
“Don't take my shirt,” Shane whined, and Ilya had to rest his forehead on Shane's sternum for a second, nails dragging down the omega's sides in barely-there restraint before coming to rest on red lace.
He tore Shane's panties off him in one quick motion, only the waistband left behind to roll up on Shane's lower stomach like a brand.
Ilya's teeth followed, sinking into the soft giving flesh just underneath, just above his hipbone, and Shane sobbed out something that might've been a word, the scent of fresh slick flooding the room.
Ilya reached down, grabbed one hand behind each of Shane's knees, and pushed them up to his chest, exposing the omega to his gaze again for the second time that evening.
This time, he did not deny himself.
The first taste of Shane on his tongue was better than any drug money could buy, and Ilya would know. He licked a fat stripe over Shane's hole, up his taint to just under his balls, gathering slick on his tongue and swallowing it down like a man starved, going back for more before Shane had time to draw new breath into his lungs, pressing the flat of his tongue wetly against the tight furl of Shane's body until it gave way at his insistence, softening beautifully under his attention. Shane was so wet he thought he could drown in it; Ilya drinking him down with fervour, only for the omega to pour more slick into his mouth as reward, his hole a tight, fever-hot clench around Ilya's tongue bullying inside of him. Ilya growled his pleasure into Shane's skin, against his rim, and Shane's hips bucked, his high, breathy pleas mingling with almost-there words as Ilya pressed one hand down on Shane's leaking cock, hard, holding him against his own stomach and his hips to the mattress as Ilya worked him open mercilessly with his mouth and Shane came on his tongue with a sob, a cry that sounded almost pained, his cock twitching and spurting under Ilya's hand as he flooded Ilya's mouth with his slick. Ilya lapped at him, lost, only letting up when Shane gripped a hand in his hair and pulled, weakly but begging, begging, really crying now, by the sounds of it.
Ilya relented, pulled away, settled back to look at his work. One thumb on either cheek, Ilya spread Shane open; watched his flushed, tongue-fucked hole clench hungrily and dribble even more slick, impossibly, just for Ilya, just for his Alpha, and Ilya thought this, this is how he might go mad. He never wanted to be anywhere else again, he wanted to live between his Omega's legs, listening to him cry and beg and moan and giving him every pleasure he possibly could.
When he drew level with Shane, the omega's knees falling open on either side of him, he decided it was a good thing that he was a man who knew how to get what he wanted. Shane was beautifully flushed, freckles a constellation against his pinkened skin, his eyes glazed with heat, tracking Ilya like prey would a predator, panting hot little breaths against Ilya's face. Ilya reached up again, smoothed wet hair from the omega's forehead; drank in the sight before him. That was me, I did that.
Shane leaned forward, and Ilya thought for a moment he was going for a kiss, leaning to meet him - anything he wanted, anything - but instead Shane's mouth landed to the right of Ilya's; warm, wet tongue peaking out to lap at Ilya's face, and Ilya realized, like he had been struck, that Shane was licking his own slick off of Ilya's skin. Shane made a small, contented sound, and Ilya pressed his own aching cock into the mattress, still trapped in his pants, and let his Omega work.
When Shane had finished with his face, he trailed down and licked at Ilya's neck; licked at the wound left behind with his dagger, cleaned it with small apologetic laps of his tongue, and Ilya's nails tore through the sheets.
He thought he felt a smile against his skin, but a haze had settled over his vision, and he could only think of one thing.
Somehow, he got his pants undone, shoved down his legs with his underwear, and then they were skin to skin, Ilya's fat cockhead pressed up against the soft, slippery entrance to Shane's body, the Omega's hole giving way so beautifully, like he was made for it, made for me.
He sank in the first few inches like a submarine going under; easy, natural, helpless, his blood a deafening buzz in his own ears. He felt Shane stutter in a breath beneath him, felt his nails sinking into Ilya's biceps reflexively, and he reached down, hitched one of Shane's legs up and to the side, and sank in another few inches. He watched as Shane threw his head back, eyelids fluttering, jaw dropped open, the long column of his neck on display, and Ilya was drawn to him helplessly, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the skin of his throat, one of Shane's hands landing on the nape of Ilya's neck and holding fast.
Ilya had fucked many people, men, women, omegas, betas, even alphas. Not a single one compared to the feeling of Shane taking him in, hot and wet and impossibly snug, his body suckling on Ilya's cock like it was desperate for his come already.
Ilya would not let his Omega want for anything, especially not that.
He drew back, the slide slick and easy and the most difficult thing he had ever had to do; to leave his Omega's sweet wet heat for even a second. Then he was pushing back in, a little deeper this time, and Shane cried out, the sound cutting through the cotton wool in Ilya's brain, this time.
“Fuck, fuck, Ilya, Ilya, Alpha, fuck me, please -”
Ilya groaned. “You beg so beautifully, moy lyubimiy,” he growled, licking a stripe up Shane's jaw. “Did you beg so nicely for those other alphas, too?”
Shane shook his head, eyes wide.
“No no no - none of them -” he panted, a stray tear spilling over, and then another, “None of them touched me.”
“None of them?” Ilya grit out, and Shane bounced on his next thrust, “Not even their fingers, their mouths, like you let me touch you earlier?”
“No, no, no one,” Shane sobbed, desperate, “I was waiting, I was waiting for you Alpha -”
Ilya clenched his jaw, felt his teeth protest, and reached one arm under Shane's body, across to his opposite shoulder. He grabbed on, holding Shane tight, in place, and fucked his hips forward with a barely-contained violence. He bottomed out, hips slapping against Shane's ass, finally, deep, so deep inside Shane with the thought that he was the only one who had ever been there, and the only one who ever would.
Shane's eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth dropping open, and Ilya leaned forward, unable to resist, and spit into Shane's open mouth.
The sound his Omega made nearly had him coming on the spot.
He pulled back, fucked back in, immediately a desperate, unforgiving rhythm, pure instinct and a need to claim, to own, to chase the little uh uh uh’s he earned from Shane every time he breached him deep inside.
Shane was clinging to him, at his mercy, his eyes glassy and far away, spit running down one side of his face, the most beautiful vision Ilya had ever laid eyes on. He was a pilgrim worshipping at the feet of his god.
And it struck him, with a sudden and terrifying clarity.
He was never going to let Shane go.
He was going to fuck him full of his pups, keep him hanging off his knot until he didn't know anything other than his Alpha, his mate, his be all and end all.
Shane was too far gone, too far under, to decide, to consent - Ilya knew this, he knew, but he also knew there was no way he was letting his Omega walk out of this room without his mark, without his knot, without his pup planted inside him.
Shane could never leave him, not then. Beautiful, impossible Shane. His sweet boy. His, forever.
His knot popped and caught; once, twice, popping past Shane's rim at almost too-big to settle, finally, inside of him. It expanded to the point where Ilya started to wonder if Shane could even take any more, physically, but as he fucked forward with a small, aborted thrust, Shane clamped down, his hand flying up to slap against the headboard, and then his Omega was coming on his cock with violent, toe-curling spasms, coming over his own chest and Ilya's in seemingly endless waves, and Ilya fell off the cliff behind him, his vision whiting out as he planted his come so deep inside his Omega he thought dimly that it would be a modern medical marvel if Shane wasn't fat and swollen with his pup by the end of this.
That vision alone was enough to bring him back to reality, and he gripped Shane by the hair, tugged his head to one side, and sunk his incisors into the mating gland in the side of the Omega's neck.
Shane yelped, because it hurt, of course, his nails sinking into Ilya's back until they drew blood, but his insides clenched, milking another wave of come out of Ilya's knot, and Ilya felt the shiver that ran through him, his cock twitching against Ilya's stomach.
Ilya pulled back, licked his lips, tugged Shane's head to the other side, and bit down again.
This was unnecessary. This was overkill. This was so far past possessive it was bordering on obsession. No one could ever mark his Omega again. No one could ever doubt who Shane belonged to now.
Mine, he thought, as Shane clamped down on his cock again, hard, and went limp in his arms.
He just hoped Shane wouldn't put a bullet through his brain when he woke up.
The garden of the Hollander Estate had always been one of Shane's favourite places to be, and as he reclined in the sun, surrounded by rose bushes and the sound of a nearby fountain, hand resting idly on his belly, he thought it still was.
Second only to being under his mate, these days.
“Mr Rozanov, nice to see you every once in a while,” Rose drawled, dropping onto the lounger next to him, mimosa in hand.
“Hollander-Rozanov,” Shane corrected, pulling off his sunglasses and smiling at his friend. He had opted for hyphenated, for the sake of family lines and legacies, yada yada. It was important, the game, and he played it, for the sake of his family.
It didn't matter: in his heart, he knew who he belonged to.
“And you saw me two weeks ago,” he said.
“I used to see you every second day,” she said, pouting, but he knew she was just playing. “Can't believe you let yourself go get claimed by the most possessive man this side of Siberia, you bitch.”
“Whoops,” he said, and Rose raised an eyebrow.
“Whoops?”
“He got the best of me. I hesitated,” Shane said, innocently.
“You don't hesitate,” Rose replied flatly.
Shane smirked, put his sunglasses back on, and Rose sat back with a sigh.
“You're a fucking psycho, you know that.”
Rose had not been impressed to find out what Shane had gotten up to after she thought he left the club, safely in a town car on the way home, to go ride out his sudden definitely unexpected heat in the comfort of his own home.
She knew about the other part of his life; the espionage and the killing, had since the beginning, always a useful partner to drag along to events where he met targets. But somehow this little scheme was where she drew the line.
“Thank you, I'm touched.”
“He could have just killed you, or made you kill him, and then where would we be,” she said, as if it helped, now, to chastise him after the fact.
“Dead, probably,” he said, flatly, and Rose rolled her eyes.
“You're not funny.”
My mate thinks I'm very funny, he thought, but didn't say, lest he test his friend's patience.
It seems he was doing a lot of that, lately.
His parents hadn't exactly been elated when he walked into their office and announced that he had mated Ilya Rozanov and was carrying the next Hollander-Rozanov heir, but he can't say they looked particularly surprised either.
They raised him, after all. To rise above his designation. Use it to his advantage. Turn his weakness into his strength. Never let anyone tell him what he could or couldn't be.
And what he wanted to be, most of all, was Ilya's Omega. Not his fault no one saw that coming.
Not even Ilya, really. But the Alpha had played his part so beautifully. Just like Shane knew he would.
To their left, a set of French doors opened into the garden, and Shane watched as his mother stepped through, followed by his mate. They were discussing some business today; usually Shane would join, but he was lazy, had been a bit sick that morning, so he didn't fight too hard when Ilya deposited him in the garden with instructions to rest. He would catch him up later, he knew. He always caught up pretty quickly.
He ran his eyes over the figure of his Alpha standing on the terrace, biting his lip. Ilya looked good enough to eat today. All black, as usual, but in his leather jacket today instead of a suit; casual, for the family.
Ilya had asked Shane what he saw when he looked at him, that night. Shane hadn't answered, but the truth was Shane saw Ilya: possessive, protective, obsessive. Unyielding, merciless, the monster parents told their children about at night. Had seen the Alpha at seventeen, stoic and unbothered, standing behind his father, and even before Shane had presented, a voice had whispered to him.
Mine.
“Do you think he suspects?”
“Maybe,” Shane said. Probably. His Alpha was very perceptive. “It doesn't matter now,” he smiled, resting his hand on his stomach, the bump barely-there, but he couldn't stop himself anyway.
He was so happy it hurt, sometimes.
“You know I hired him,” Shane said, casually, and Rose raised an eyebrow.
“Hired who? To do what?”
“That guy, to harass me. The night Ilya mated me.”
Rose muttered Jesus Christ.
“No one's heard from him again,” Shane said, and he couldn't keep the grin off his face. “I think Ilya had him killed.”
He couldn't wait to get home and swallow his Alpha's cock. Maybe, if he really misbehaved, he could get Ilya to fuck his face, make him choke on it.
A shiver skittered down his spine at the thought.
As if sensing his Omega's thoughts, Ilya's head turned to him, catching Shane's gaze and holding it, his eyes hungry, suddenly.
Shane saw his mom say something to Ilya, waiting, and when she got no response, throw her hands in the air, saying something that looked like fucking alphas and going back inside.
“You could've done it yourself. Better, even, probably,” Rose said.
“Of course. But I didn't have to,” Shane shrugged.
“It's nice, Rosie,” he said, quietly, and Rose reached over and squeezed his hand.
“What are you whispering about, moy lyubimiy?”
Shane shivered as his Alpha's breath tickled his neck, his mate having snuck up on them. Shane reached back one hand to weave his fingers into Ilya's curls.
“Just scheming about how we're going to get Rose her alpha,” Shane said, turning his head for a kiss that quickly involved more tongue than was strictly appropriate outside the privacy of their own home.
Rose made a gagging sound, and Ilya pulled away with a grin.
“Why scheming?” Ilya asked, looking at Rose with a raised eyebrow, “No need for scheming. Svetlana will do anything for you, just ask.”
“Okay, you know what,” Rose said, holding up a hand and pretending like her face hadn't just gone bright red, “you two go home and fuck and get out of my face.”
Shane giggled, let Ilya pull him to his feet and into his arms.
Yes, that sounded like an excellent scheme indeed.