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Shang Qinghua was finishing his review of the latest map of the Northern borders when he felt that familiar chill. It wasn’t the cold of the frozen desert — he’d long since learned to ignore that. It was a specific kind of shiver that only appeared when Mobei-Jun was standing behind him.
“You don’t have to watch me all the time, you know,” he muttered, not turning around.
“You didn’t complain the other times,” came the calm, deep reply. A cold breeze brushed the back of his neck. “I thought you liked having me near.”
Shang Qinghua sighed, dropping the brush onto the table.
“I do. But there’s a difference between ‘liking’ and ‘being followed around like a starving cat.’”
Silence.
He turned around. And there he was — Mobei-Jun, broad-shouldered, posture perfect, eyes sharp and cold as midnight frost. No omega should look like that. No omega should be that... monumental. Commanding. Full of power. But Mobei was. And yet, he looked at him with pleading eyes.
His robes were open as always, the long black cloak trailing behind him, his toned chest fully exposed. Only a silver chain connecting one shoulder to the other kept the fabric from falling completely to the office floor.
The scent he gave off was heavy, thick, impossible to ignore — sweet and icy pheromones seeping through the room like a quiet fog. It was like a battlefield where no one fought with weapons, only with presence.
Shang Qinghua swallowed hard. His throat burned as he rose from his seat. His skin prickled, his body reacting without his permission. It was as if Mobei-Jun was pouring his soul into every drop of that instinctive perfume, begging without words: take what’s yours.
Nonsense. Shang Qinghua told himself he was reading too much into it again, shivering as the feeling wrapped around his body.
“You’re suppressing your scent again,” the king said, stepping forward with sure strides. “I don’t like it when you do that.”
“I’m a recessive alpha. It’s not like there’s much to suppress,” Shang replied, half-laughing, half-uncomfortable. He was much smaller than Mobei-Jun, always had been, even since they were teens — and it never bothered him. Not until Mobei-Jun started looking at him differently, as if expecting something. “My scent won’t attract you. It shouldn’t.”
Mobei-Jun stopped right in front of him. The height difference, the imposing figure, the icy aura — everything about him radiated power. Except his eyes. His eyes pleaded: accept me.
“But you do attract me,” Mobei-Jun said firmly.
“I’m recessive.” The phrase came out smoothly, almost automatically. He’d said it so many times, it no longer held surprise — only weariness.
Mobei-Jun stepped closer, practically pressing against the alpha and rubbing his scent onto him. It was dense and dominant, wild and desperate pheromones flooding the room. Unignorable. The office felt far too small to contain such restrained longing.
“And you still think that matters to me?” Mobei’s voice was low, but firm. “Do you think I , of all people, would surrender to someone I considered weak?”
Shang let out a tense breath.
“You’re the king. Ruler of the North. A pureblood demon. You control snow, command legions, carry the sky on your shoulders. You don’t bow. You don’t need me.”
“But I want you.” It was a raw confession. Simple. Undeniable.
The air between them felt heavier than usual — not just from the silence, but from the pull of a latent bond, from Mobei-Jun’s aching body, from years of quiet waiting.
Shang looked away. Because hearing that was dangerous.
He wanted. He had always wanted. But wanting was easy. Accepting was hard. Because Mobei was... everything. And he was just Shang Qinghua: an awkward human, an almost-beta alpha, someone who had survived by clinging to lists, dodging feelings, and running away.
And still, Mobei-Jun stood there. Unmoving. Letting his scent bloom and press against Shang’s soul — not with force, but with presence. Waiting.
“You want me to claim you. To mark you,” Shang whispered, more to the air than to the man.
“ I want you to, ” Mobei replied without hesitation. He brought a hand to Shang’s waist, fingers cold but steady. “And if you can’t... I still want it to be you. Only you.”
The touch was gentle, but carried urgency. Shang felt the truth in his fingers, in the intoxicating scent, in the way Mobei’s body trembled slightly under tightly held control.
He laughed nervously, covering his face with both hands.
“Why me, Mobei? Seriously. Why not someone better?”
The king didn’t respond with logic. He didn’t list reasons. He simply stepped forward until their bodies touched fully. The air grew colder, Mobei’s warmth standing stark against his frozen aura, wrapping Shang completely. He tilted his head and pressed their foreheads together, breath mingling, nose brushing cheek and jaw in a tender, almost reverent gesture.
Shang held his breath.
“I saw you,” Mobei whispered. “Before I ever wanted you, I saw you. When you stood beside me when you could’ve run. When you were afraid but still spoke. When you used words instead of force, restructured my entire court, and exiled those who stood against me for being an omega. When you survived without ever betraying yourself — or me. I saw that. And that is what I wanted.”
Shang Qinghua’s throat tightened, like something was stuck there — an old longing, a choked reply.
Mobei-Jun exhaled that persistent scent, warm and thick, shrouded in his freezing aura that begged silently: choose me. take me. mark me.
Even as a recessive. Even as a human. Even if the world said he wasn’t worthy, Shang felt, deep in his chest, that maybe… just maybe … he could claim a king.
Maybe it wasn’t foolishness.
His teeth sank into his lip, trying to hold himself together, emotion rising in his chest like a tide — hot and dense. He was tired. Tired of hiding. Of running. Of pretending he didn’t want.
He took a deep breath.
Once. Twice.
“If I try,” he said softly, “you can’t laugh. Or give me weird looks. Or throw it in my face later.”
“I would never laugh at you,” Mobei-Jun replied. And there was a gentleness in that promise so steady that Shang believed him.
Another pause. A silence heavy with unspoken things.
“If I’m going to claim you,” he murmured, “it’s going to be on my terms.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to deal with all of it. My insecurities, my dramatic escapes, my stupid lists, my awful sense of humor—”
“Yes.”
“—and my pace. Which is like… glacial. Pathetic.”
Mobei-Jun smiled. A rare, small smile. The kind only Shang ever got to see. One that belonged to him — just like Mobei-Jun would.
“I’ll wait.”
Shang Qinghua let out a theatrical sigh and threw his head back like the ceiling had just caved in.
“You’re a nightmare, you know that?”
“I’m yours.”
“Fuck.”
But this time, he said it laughing.