Chapter Text
• JOSS •
The air in the warehouse was a stagnant soup of salt, rotted fish, and the acrid chemical sting of raw synthetic narcotic that was currently flooding the streets under my father’s sigil. It was a sloppy operation untidy, unprofessional, and insulting.
I stepped over a puddle of murky harbor water, my boots echoing like a death knell against the concrete. The only light came from a single, flickering halogen bulb swaying from a rusted chain, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced across the faces of the four men tied to steel chairs in the center of the room.
My knuckles were already bruised, the skin split across the joints, but the ache felt good. It was grounding. Behind me, my team of six Alphas with suppressed weapons and cold eyes stood like statues in the periphery.
"I’m going to ask one more time," I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the hum of the warehouse like a blade. I reached out, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking the head of the man in the center back until his neck corded with tension. "Who gave you the seals? Who told you to move this filth using the Obsidian mark?"
The man coughed, a spray of copper tasting blood hitting the toe of my boot. I looked down at the stain, my jaw tightening. I hated mess.
"We… we didn't have a choice, Joss," he wheezed, his eyes darting toward the darkness where my men stood. "The Caskey family… They pinned us. They said if we didn't move the drug under your father's name, they’d send our families to the bottom of the sea in concrete boots. We were pressured! It’s Gawin’s father! He’s the one squeezing the docks!"
A low, guttural growl vibrated in my chest. The Caskeys. Again.
It was a classic, pathetic play: flood the market with low grade poison, slap our name on it, and watch the police and the smaller syndicates turn on us while the Caskeys sat clean in their ivory towers. My frustration bubbled over into a cold, focused rage.
"Pressure," I repeated, my smirk devoid of any warmth. "You chose their pressure over mine. That was a tactical error."
I didn't wait for a plea. I didn't need a confession; I had a name. I pulled the silenced Beretta from my holster in one fluid motion. The sound of bullets hitting their bodies was rhythmic, almost musical. Four bodies slumped in unison, the flickering light making the blood look like black ink as it pooled on the floor.
"Clean this up," I barked at my second in command. "I need a drink that doesn't smell like failure."
An hour later, I stood in the mahogany lined sanctum of my father’s office. The old man sat behind his desk, the smoke from his cigar curling around his head like a crown of grey thorns. I had just finished my report, the adrenaline still humming in my veins.
"So, the Caskey patriarch is using our reputation as a shield for his narcotics," my father mused, his eyes narrowing. "He thinks he can play in our dirt without getting his hands stained. It’s time we gave him a taste of his own medicine. He has a son, doesn't he? The youngest."
"Gawin," I said, the name feeling strange on my tongue.
"He is the only leverage that will make that man bleed," my father stated, leaning forward into the light. "Kidnap him. Keep him in the safehouse. No ransom notes yet I want Caskeys to sit in silence and wonder which part of his son is being mailed back to him first."
He paused, his gaze sharpening as it landed on me. "But listen well, Joss. You are to keep him in captivity, but don't dare to touch him. He is an Omega of high desire rare, pure, and fated for a political union that could cement our power for decades. Do not let your instincts cloud your judgment. Love and the throne do not come at once. A King who falls for his prisoner is a King who loses his head."
I let out a sharp, mocking bark of a laugh, leaning against the doorframe with an arrogant tilt of my head. I thought of the Omegas who threw themselves at my feet in the lounges, the cloying, sweet scents of lilies and honey that made my stomach turn with their desperation.
"You worry too much, dad," I smirked, my eyes cold and dismissive. "I’ve never been turned on once by an Omega, no matter how 'addictive' their scent or how beautiful the face they hide behind. To me, they’re just biological accidents. Fragile, loud, and entirely beneath my notice."
I adjusted my glasses, the reflection hiding the predatory spark in my eyes.
"I’ll bring him in. But don't expect me to enjoy the company."
Before the freaking mission, there was the paperwork.
I don't go into any operation blind. My father might think I’m just a blunt instrument, but I’m a surgeon with a blade. If I was going to snatch a Caskey from a public event, I needed to know every crack in his armor.
I sat in the dim light of the syndicate’s surveillance hub, the blue light of the monitors reflecting off my glasses. Force stood behind me, scrolling through the digital files we’d pulled from the Caskey family’s encrypted servers and the much easier to hack databases of the local music conservatory.
"He’s a ghost, Joss," Force muttered, tapping a key to bring up a grainy photo of Gawin leaving a library.
"Nobody is a ghost," I said, leaning forward. "Everyone has a tether. Find it."
"Here," Force pointed to a scanned document. "He officially petitioned for a name change two years ago. His father blocked it, of course. But look at his bank records. He’s flat broke.
I studied the list of lyrics sheets and compositions we’d intercepted from his mail. It was all there: the rebellion, the isolation, the desperate need to be heard.
"That's the 'Black Sheep' for you, Joss," Force had said, his voice crackling. No offshore accounts, no property deeds, no blood on his hands. If you want his life story, you're better off looking at a fan page than a report."
I looked at the social media profile now @Gawin verified, with a clean 100k followers. It was filled with aesthetic shots of guitar strings, blurry videos of him humming into a microphone in a dim room, and cryptic captions about freedom. It was too polished. Too simple.
"One hundred thousand people watching him," I muttered.
"He’s weak," I murmured, though something about the lyrics and the raw, jagged edges of his words made a strange shadow of a thought cross my mind. "He’s an Omega who thinks he can survive in a city of Alphas by playing a song. It’s pathetic."
"He’s not just an Omega," Force cautioned, his voice dropping. "According to the medical records the Caskeys tried to bury, his pheromone profile is... off the charts. High desire. The kind of scent that can trigger a frenzy if he isn't on heavy suppressants. That’s why his father wanted him for a political marriage. He’s a biological prize."
I scoffed, closing the file with a sharp click of the mouse. "He’s a pawn. Nothing more. I don't care about his 'profile' or his 'desire.' I want to know his exit routes. I want to know exactly what time he finishes his set and which door he uses to escape the fans."
"Joss," Force said, hesitation creeping into his voice. "Are you sure about this? If we take him, there’s no going back. This isn't just a territory dispute anymore. This is personal."
I stood up, adjusting my cuffs, the cold weight of my Beretta at my hip a comforting presence.
"It was personal the moment they used our name for their filth," I said, my voice like iron. "I’m going to take that little bird out of the sky. Let’s see if he still sings when he’s in a cage."