Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Rape/Non-Con

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Patrice Drapeau, Gilbert Comeau, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Russian Mafia, Finger Sucking, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Alpha Shane Hollander, Omega Shane Hollander, Fuck or Die, Sounding, inexperienced Shane Hollander, Praise Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Cum Eating, Dom/sub Undertones, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Dubious Consent, Scent Marking, Spit Kink, Oral Fixation, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omegaverse Alpha Bitching | Alpha Turning into an Omega, Pissing Inside Someone, Insecure Shane Hollander, Embarrassment, Cock Warming

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-09 Updated: 2026-07-08 Words: 172,062 Chapters: 24/?

Of Frying Pans and Fires

Summary

 

The wolf beneath Shane's skin is not some committed leader, intent on controlling others. Yes, his designation fits well with his need to protect those he loves. To protect innocents. But, his alpha status is not the same caliber as Ilya Rozanov's.

        In this moment, it's both good and bad news. If Ilya manages to do what his brother has tasked him with, Shane won't suffer too much in changing designations. The pride in him is attached to his accomplishments, not whether or not he can pop a knot. But on the other hand, his flexibility practically guarantees that, with enough time and effort, Ilya will succeed. They will end up permanently mated. All because Shane couldn't sleuth stealthily enough.

Or, Agent Shane Hollander gets caught, cover blown. It's up to Ilya, their confidential informant, to save him. But will the price be worth it?

Notes

Read the tags and click away if they're not to your taste. And let me know if you'd like me to continue. Obviously, like everyone else, every comment is a ping of motivating satisfaction.

Chapter 1

       

       Shane knows his posture isn't doing him any favors. Spine curved harshly over his folded knees, shoulders hunched near his chin, his body is signaling 'pathetic' and 'submissive'. Even as he tries to force his eyes up, to face the threat in front of him, he can't manage it too well. Sweat pouring down his face and soaking into the suit he's in, Shane tries to work past the fear and the panic he's currently drowning in so hard, that he can scarcely manage enough brain power to translate the Russian being spoken by the mobsters in front of him.

        He's not doing a great job in keeping track of the conversation, the frantic, animal panic clawing up his throat is distracting him from his job.

       He's an agent.

       Trained for life-ending scenarios.

        He should be in the middle of formulating a plan. Some means of escape, even in this - the direst of circumstances, since his cover is blown.

        He's not the first agent they've uncovered. None of the agents, known to have been sniffed out, have come back from their time undercover. Officially, there's no telling what happened to them, but the assumption is they're dead.

        So the Bureau had tried a different approach with Shane - to get close from a position of power rather than trying to climb up the ranks from the inside. But now the Russians know he's not an Asian client. They have his ID pulled up on a phone. Alexei just called him Agent Hollander.

        If there's a lie he could feed them right now that they'd believe, he's not clever enough to know what it would be and how to speak it convincingly.

        Fuck, they're going to kill him.

        He's a dead man.

        He's never going to see his parents again. Will never hang out with Hayden and Jackie. Will never hear Hayden's kids call him Uncle Shane again.

        Regrettably, it's a short list. Not too much to miss out on. The much bigger loss is all the women and underaged girls who will be getting shipped off to other countries, the human-trafficking ring in-tact because Shane failed his mission. Over two dozen lives ruined, 24 souls to-be-enslaved because Shane was too slow with the time their informant had given him in the warehouse.

        The pit in his stomach expands as he catches fragments of the discussion being waged above his head. They're trying to decide how to kill him. Drowning? Accidental overdose? Buried alive?

        It isn't until Ilya strolls down from the upstairs office that the conversation shifts. "What boring suggestions," he mutters in Russian, slow and lazy enough that Shane can translate.

        His brother, Alexei, glares at him. "Oh? You have a better way of disposing of this dog?"

        Ilya shrugs his ridiculously broad shoulders. "Why kill him? Look at his face. It's so pretty. Would be worth plenty on the market."

        Alexei snorts outright at the suggestion. "And expose a decorated agent to our supply routes? Our contacts? If we get unlucky and Interpol intercepts him, or finds him later, our operation will crumble. No, the agent must die."

        "It's a waste," Ilya argues, parting the sea of underlings as he comes closer to where his brother is standing over Shane. "All that canny intelligence, all that pride...Extinguishing it would be too easy. The Bureau will just send another agent. Even if they find the body, they won't learn the right lesson. After all, there are worse things than death."

        "Are there?" Alexei snorts, not convinced in the slightest.

        But Ilya's grin is almost answer enough, the curve of it filthy with promise. "How long do you think you'd last if you were suddenly bitched? If everyone you ever loved or cared about or respected suddenly knew you'd been fucked by another alpha so thoroughly that you'd lost a part of yourself? Who would trust you, knowing you'd been dominated into a new designation? The humiliation alone would probably have you slitting your wrists in a dark corner, even if you managed to escape the alpha who'd turned your hole into a breedable cunt. And imagine if the bitching took? To suddenly be pupped by the person you hated most..."

        Ilya's voice is playful and cajoling, but wrapped in darker temptation. Maybe unsurprisingly, there are suddenly a lot of hungry stares focusing on Hollander. Even Alexei, already married and deeply paranoid of being seen as weak, especially in comparison to his brother, whose prowess with women is well-known and frequently a topic of casual conversation amidst the underlings, looks intrigued.

        "He will not be easy to bitch." And then, eyes turning sly, his gaze catches on Ilya. "And bitching would not be enough. His loyalty would need to be guaranteed. Even a pup would not be enough to control a dedicated agent. Someone would need to not just bitch him, but mate him."

        Ilya's maniacal grin starts to slip away slowly. "Ah...maybe we just kill him and be done with it. Unless, there's an alpha here who is ready to take responsibility of a federal agent." His eyes wander the room, flitting from one face to the other as he gazes over the gathered goon squad.

        "No, you're right. He deserves to suffer more than one second of pain as he becomes a martyr and rallying cry for his department. You are right - he should be bitched and mated. And the only alpha potent enough for the job is you."

        Ilya rears back at the suggestion. "No," he says immediately. "We have unpartnered men here who can - "

        "None who could handle an agent. He will try to bribe and beg and swindle. And he is not very small or very weak for an alpha. He will need someone substantial to submit to. So, you, little brother, will have to do it."

        Cursing loudly, Ilya rakes a hand through his hair. "No," he tries again, but without the same level of conviction as before.

        "Yes," his brother hisses. "Take one of the cam rooms, that way we can monitor your progress and step in if he manages to subdue you. Bitch him, brand him, and mate him when you're done. If you can, of course. If you can't, we can always put him down like the dog he is."

        The challenge issued, no one moves. Everyone is waiting to see what Ilya will do.

        Mouth down-turned in a heavy frown, Ilya mutters something below his breath, but eventually his shoulders square and he nods decisively. "Sure, no problem. Next time you see me, I will have a pretty wife on my arm."

        Shane tries not to react to any of it, unsure whether the men in his immediate vicinity are aware of his ability to speak their language or not. His goal is to give nothing away. Whatever edge he can find, he needs it.

        Ilya stalks up to him, his strides quick and decisive. Long fingers curl into Shane's overgrown hair, tugging harshly to get him to stand. "Ready to get fucked, pretty boy?"

        Baring his teeth and growling low, Shane tries his best to sound intimidating. Regrettably, he's not a very intimidating alpha. He knows his status, deep down, is largely built off of aloofness, calculation, logic, and planning. He'd been too inflexible to present as a beta, and too unfriendly to present as an omega. So, his status as alpha had come as a default. The wolf beneath his skin is not some committed leader, intent on controlling others. Yes, his designation fits well with his need to protect those he loves. To protect innocents. But, his alpha status is not the same caliber as Ilya Rozanov's.

        In this moment, it's both good and bad news. If Ilya manages to do what his brother has tasked him with, Shane won't suffer too much in changing designations. The pride in him is attached to his accomplishments, not whether or not he can pop a knot. But on the other hand, his flexibility practically guarantees that, with enough time and effort, Ilya will succeed. They will end up permanently mated. All because Shane couldn't sleuth stealthily enough.

        He doesn't apologize as Ilya yanks him into a room by the collar of his suite jacket, cognizant of the camera mounted in the corner of the room. But it's a near thing.

        Because, though he doesn't know Ilya well, he knows the man is bisexual, and that he's been seeing a high ranking alpha woman for several years now. Attaching himself to Shane can only be a step down for the young alpha, and it's likely why his brother - power hungry and desperate to elevate his own status over that of his younger, more successful brother's - is forcing this bond onto Ilya.

        Ilya, whose life Shane is ruining because of a moment of inattention. A few seconds spent too long in front of a filing cabinet in a place he really shouldn't have been.

        Ilya Rozanov - anonymous informant to the Bureau, whose standing in the underworld's hierarchy determines how quickly and easily they can dismantle the criminal enterprise that's transpiring on the streets of Montreal.

        The same Ilya Rozanov who just selflessly tricked his brother into letting Shane live.

       The desperately-macho gangsters they've just left in the warehouse might feel like being bitched and mated is a fate worse than death, but Shane understands himself well enough that he's sure the wolf beneath his skin won't fight too hard to keep its alpha designation. It won't roll over and make it easy for Rozanov, but if the man manages to do it, Shane won't be broken at the end of the process.

        He'll just be Shane Hollander with a slightly different scent. With the right blockers, whether he ends up an omega or a beta, it won't be anymore of a problem than he currently has being an alpha.

        So, between the two of them, Shane's pretty sure he's the one being dealt a favor and losing less in the process. Unlike the blonde alpha, he's never dated, never been interested in women, never really felt drawn to another person romantically. Obsessed with his work, prepared to live his life in celibacy with only his hand to relieve the occasional rut, Shane can only benefit from suddenly being able to traipse past previously-locked doors, with the mob boss's son's mark on his neck, wafting a scent that would have heads bowing to him in deference as he passed.

        The guilt he feels at costing Ilya his future certainly won't help him keep his alpha status. Already, he can feel that mental presence tucked in the back of his primordial mind pacing. Ruminating over the logic of allowing the change, of giving in, submitting without too much struggle. 

        Shane's awareness of that presence snaps when Rozanov hauls him onto the bed by the lapels of his suite jacket. "You are going to want to fight me," Ilya says, the pace of his speech slower as the words come out in English. "I would not advise this." With breathtaking strength, he grabs Shane by the hips and flips him onto his stomach as easily as if he were manhandling an unruly child.

        He's quick to mount the bed, knees dropping into the mattress on either side of Shane's legs as he seats some of his weight over Shane's knees, effectively pinning both the thighs and calves to prevent Shane from kicking out.

        "Screaming is allowed, but only if it is my name. Maybe you not know this, but my brother wants me to mate you. This mean you will be treated nicely in this bitching. So, if something hurts too much, you will say."

        A huge paw of a hand suddenly clamps down over the scruff of Shane's neck, squeezing in gentle threat. "This body...I am going to make it mine. The next time you leave this room, it will be as my mate. And my mate cannot be sad, crying loser who is hurt and needs trauma therapist, so when I ask you questions, you will answer truthfully. If you do not, I will put you over my knee and the men on other side of camera will have treat. Nice show watching you be spanked like bad behaving toddler, yes?"

        Thankfully, Shane's able to turn his face into the mattress as he is forced to verbally acknowledge that he understands the rules. He's not sure if there are covert cameras in the room, hidden into crevices or the side table's alarm clock, but it's better that he can hide his shocked expression into the bedspread. The anxiety that had been thrumming through him, turning his spine rigid and making the room smell like burnt hair, eases a bit and he wonders to what degree Ilya had known he needed to be given an idea of how this terrible situation is going to play out. It's not an outline, but at least he knows to expect an audience.

        He knows now not to expect that Ilya has some way to save him or release him covertly, because they're being monitored by multiple people. Maybe everyone who had been out on the warehouse floor, given all the hungry looks that he'd seen in that crowd.

        And, fuck, but it's a little clever, how Ilya has managed to throw out some reassurance, plainly saying he isn't going to hurt Shane, will try to check in and minimize his stress, but in a way that none of the goons watching will flag as suspicious.

        "Ready or not, is time to begin," Ilya says, voice a thick, lascivious growl, a performance for all the lower-level mobsters probably watching with a hand down their pants. But hidden beneath the suite jacket Shane's still wearing, Ilya's thumb dips beneath the collar and smooths a soothing coin of pressure into his skin.

        Stripping Shane of his clothes happens quickly and efficiently, Ilya's nimble fingers tipping buttons through the holes of Shane's dress shirt in just a few seconds, despite only having one hand to work with. The other is busy exerting pressure on Shane's nape, forcing him to curve his spine upwards so that the hand undressing him can fit between his belly and the mattress.

        His shirt and jacket are pulled down his resisting arms. It's quick work to undo Shane's belt buckle and, in one tug, Ilya frees the leather from the loops. Unfortunately, he doesn't throw the belt behind him to join the shirt and jacket currently gathering dust on the floor. Surprised and suspicious of the delay, Shane twists his head far enough to watch the bigger man twist the belt into a figure-eight, then loop the leather over the first half, and feed the tail through the keeper loop near the buckle, and keep going until it comes around again, through the buckle. It takes Shane an embarrassingly long second to realize why Ilya's playing with his belt.

        By the time he makes the realization, Ilya's already forcing his hands through the loops and tightening the strap enough to keep Shane's hands trapped behind him as effectively as if he'd been handcuffed.

        "What the fuck?" he growls, hackles rising at the unpleasant surprise. "It's not like I can just sprint out of here. You don't have to tie me up!"

        Smoothing huge hands up Shane's arms, Ilya makes a hushing noise. "You will want to fight me," Ilya reminds him, caressing over his back like he's soothing a miffed puppy, all slow, wide circles, pressing hard enough to drag Shane's skin, leaving a trail of warmth behind. "In time, you will drip with need for my cock, but this is not soon. Even easy bitching takes minimum two days and always experience is things you will not like. So, until we are past this, belt stays on. Not too tight?" he asks, every word easy, like he's making small talk about the traffic he hit on his way in this morning.

        Teeth grinding together, Shane mutters an angry, "No."

        "Good boy," Ilya praises, voice performatively condescending even as he gently cups the side of Shane's head in a rewarding caress.

        Undressing Shane the rest of the way is just a matter of undoing a button, pulling down a zipper, and tugging down with enough precision that Shane's pants, underwear, socks and shoes come off in one sweep.

        And then he's naked, but for the belt, in front of a fully-clothed Ilya and everyone watching on the camera feed. A curling heat spreads from Shane's cheeks downwards in an embarrassment that only burns brighter at Ilya's open and vocal appreciation.

        "Such a beautiful boy," he says, hands tracing down Shane's sides to stop over his hips and squeeze. "Poor choice, becoming agent. Pretty boy like you could have been model. No danger for model. No blood, no fighting, no bitching..."

        "No meaning," Shane mutters almost in reflex, adding to the thought Ilya's posed unintentionally.

        "Is meaningful job worth this?" Ilya asks, tone turning snide and lecherous as his hands shift lower, easily covering the meat of Shane's ass cheeks and spreading them outwards, revealing the vulnerable hole nestled in the crease.

        Shane knows the tone is on purpose. It's not meant for him, so he ignores the question, playing up his affront with a scoff. At no point does he think he's meant to answer the question.

        Grip tightening in a hard squeeze, Ilya reminds him, "I ask, you answer. Always out loud unless your mouth is occupied. If mouth is full, then you use kitten claws to explain, yes? But now, mouth is not full." He squeezes again, in a silent prompt to actually provide a response.

        Twisting to look over his shoulder, Shane can't believe Ilya's seriously asking him that. "Yes," he huffs, in exasperation. "I want my life to mean something. For what I do every day to matter. They wouldn't have hired me otherwise."

        His answer, he thinks, is too aggressive. Too sarcastic. A shiver goes down his spine as he takes a second to understand Ilya's serious expression, wondering if he's going to get punished for speaking to the bigger man like that.

        But Ilya just nods down at him, a tension disappearing from around his eyes. As if he's relieved to hear that, given this ultimate consequence, Shane still would have chosen this life. After all, he's made a difference to countless lives during his almost decade-long career.

        "Let's see if maybe I change your mind," Ilya says, leaning again into a condescension that isn't meant for Shane, the fingers sweeping in an almost apologetic caress over the globes of his ass making that clear.

        "You will not like the first step in bitching process," Ilya tells him, plainly. "The body is like machine that must be programmed. Needs signals and inputs to produce desired outputs. Alpha body must be told a stronger alpha is present and expects obedience. I will tell it I am here, that I am strong enough to use you. Signal will be pheromones and hormones. You are too stiff and too off-putting right now so...first message will maybe be least liked for you."

        It's a long speech that Shane knows is meant to again set expectations. Some distant logical part of him appreciates that Ilya is perceptive enough to realize that being left in the dark would be...very bad. The man might not know that Shane is at risk of a panic attack in these specific circumstances, but he's at least got the emotional intelligence to recognize Shane needs a warning about what's going to happen before it happens.

        Regrettably, between the broken English and the vagueness of the message, Shane still has no idea what to expect besides pheromones and hormones. And, of course, that he won't like it. Bold assumption, given they don't really know each other outside of sending encrypted info dumps back and forth.

        The first move in whatever Ilya's planning appears to involve spitting directly on Shane's tightly closed hole.

        His yelp is entirely involuntary and mostly a product of surprise. It's not like it hurts to be spit on, but Ilya's fingers start to knead at his ass, as if in apology. And his hands are so fucking big, that his thumbs easily dip into the crease to start spreading his spit over the tight pucker holding strong against the sudden pressure of being massaged.

        "You do not need to be very open for this first part, but it will be easier to aim if you relax enough for thumb to go in."

        "Ah," Shane hums, realizing that Ilya probably means to cum on him. Picturing Ilya pushing cum into his hole with a thumb is just so...he doesn't know how to feel about it, but his face floods with color at the thought. "Gonna be hard to do that," he warns.

        "I believe in you," Ilya says, mockingly, another glob of spit hitting the top of Shane's crease and sliding down to meet the fingers gently trying to work him open. "Deep breaths. Inhale for ten seconds, then exhale as hard and as long as you can."

        Shane doesn't want to do it, knowing already that given Ilya's confidence, the technique will work. But it's illogical to put up a stand when he knows he'll need to go through this process. The longer he delays, the longer he'll have to suffer those fucking goons watching him through the camera. Every extra second gives them the chance to pull in more of an audience.

        Swallowing hard, he starts a deep breathing routine and, before long, his focus drifts away from Ilya's consistent ministrations. He ends up relaxed enough for Ilya to slip in a spit-wet thumb. He doesn't go far, just hooking in to the first knuckle and using the leverage to pull down, creating space enough for the next wad of spittle to drip into his hole without meeting resistance.

        When he hears the zipper as Ilya takes out his cock and uses his free hand lift Shane up a bit, ensuring his ass is the highest point of Shane's body in how he's still laying pinned and prostrate on the bed, he's expecting Ilya to strip a load onto his back and push his spend into his hole.

        Simple, messy, a bit degrading.

        No big deal.

        He tries not to sigh when he feels Ilya press the head of his dick over the top of his thumb, wondering how the man expects to get himself off and still aim at the tiny gap he's worked open.

        At no point does he expect to suddenly feel the hot splash of urine streaming down his rectum.

        With a wailing complaint, Shane tries to wriggle free, a wave of humiliation coursing through him as his mind feeds him vivid pictures of what's going on behind him. Of what those fucking goons on the other side of the camera are watching.

         Ilya just shifts with him the meager amount Shane manages given the weight and muscle he has to work against. It's impossible to escape the indignity he's being subjected to with the slit of Ilya's dick aimed squarely into his hole. For what feels like a long time, there's a fire hose of hot piss being drained into him. Part of it is probably shock making every second feel like a minute. But another part of it is just Ilya being a large man, with a large bladder, that he's apparently determined to empty into Shane's bowels.

        "Why?" Shane is shocked to hear himself asking, an uneasy hiccup to his breathing when he's finally able to find his voice again.

        Without needing clarification, Ilya understands the question immediately. As his flow comes to a dribbling stop, his thumb comes out, letting Shane's hole wink closed. The pressure on Shane's knees disappears as Ilya rises off him. Then hands are lifting Shane's hips, forcing his bottom higher so that he's on his knees in the stereotypical omega presenting position.

        His actions are all quick, efficient, automatic so that Shane doesn't spill a drop before it's gravity doing all the work of keeping Ilya's urine inside him. And all the while, his voice is as soothing as the rest of him, for once, as he answers, "Alpha body needs to be told it lost a fight without fists or blood. There are many ways to understand sex and cum. Some alphas like being mounted. Usually not exclusively, but is no big deal to be fucked. I will not harm mate, so need to do something alpha will not like. Being marked like a tree, being told 'you are other alpha's possession to be marked' is strong message."

        "Why not just bite my fucking gland?" Shane spits out, voice strengthening, growing rougher with outrage as he grapples with the feeling of liquid heat trapped inside him. With the fact that he's been used like a urinal. It's not fair to hate Rozanov for this, but no amount of logic seems to override the visceral horror of the position he's in. Of what some nameless, faceless group of mafia underlings just witnessed.

        "Bite does not make alpha into omega. If it did, alphas could not mate together. Bite would only make you my alpha mate. That is not what my brother wants. So, first step is biological understanding. You must hold position for twenty minutes. Biomarkers need time to...go in," Ilya huffs in frustration, not happy with his word choice, but like fuck is Shane going to offer up the word 'absorb' that Ilya's probably looking, for when he'd rather be punching the guy in the face.

        "If you smell...bendy," another huff of frustration as Ilya chooses a filler for what probably should have been 'flexible' or 'malleable', "then we can proceed to next steps. If not, will need to do this again. Usually, is not needed. Marking inside is strong message." He pats Shane's ass as he lifts off the bed and zips himself up.

        Twenty minutes.

        Hunting down the alarm clock with his eyes, Shane notes the time, wondering if Rozanov is going to leave him here like this, stuck in this humiliating position until he comes back. Briefly, he considers straightening up, but the act of rebellion would be pointless. He'd just have to suffer the humiliation again. And some poor woman, likely one of the trafficked women he'd been sent to help, would just be forced to clean up the mess, as Ilya continued his work in another one of the many cam rooms on this end of the warehouse.

        But his choices are nonexistent because Ilya doesn't leave. Instead, he slips under Shane, keeping him locked in the position he put him in, but with one key difference. With a hand cradling the back of his head, fingers flattening rows in Shane's short hair, he presses Shane's face against his crotch, ensuring that his every breath is filled with the other alpha's musk.

        Before Shane can rear back, the other hand comes down in a clamp at the back of his neck, scruffing him. "Settle," he rumbles, brusque and commanding for the cameras, even as that fucking thumb starts rubbing more soothing little coins at the top of Shane's shoulders.

        Not soothing enough to erase any of the humiliation Shane's feeling. Hackles rising, he tries to shift his head in the other direction so that it's his teeth rather than his cheek being pressed against Ilya's dick. It's unclear whether it's experience or an expert reading of body language, but Ilya seems to understand what Shane's itching to do.

        With one hand still controlling Shane's head, the other quickly shifts from his nape to his mouth. And all he needs is that one fucking oversized hand, to apply pressure with his thumb and fourth finger on both sides of Shane's jaw, and force his mouth open. Outrageously, that's really all it takes for Ilya to single-handedly stuff pointer and middle fingers between Shane's lips.

        "Suck," Ilya orders, rocking the tips down the length of his tongue until they're settled deep in his mouth, but not so far that Shane's gagging around them.

        Resisting the command should be easy. Shaking his head, he doesn't manage to dislodge Ilya's grip on him at all, but it's still an act of defiance. Except, Ilya starts murmuring something in Russian, too fast for Shane to translate. Probably hurtful filth for their mutual audience, since the speed and indistinct pronunciation seems meant more for a native speaker than the level Ilya knows Shane's at in terms of Russian fluency. But the hushed flow of indistinct words feels soothing on some level to Shane, and eventually drool starts to flood his mouth, threatening to slip out the sides of his lips and down his face.

        He imagines it drying, itchy and unpleasant on his face, or spending the next...fifteen minutes, according to the clock, dripping like a broken faucet into the cloth of Ilya's pants he's being forced to rest his head against, nose-first.

        Maybe that's why Ilya doesn't ask again. Just waits him out, as if knowing Shane's resistance is at war with his sensory issues. When Shane finally gives in and has to suck and swallow the drool away from his gums, teeth, and tongue, Ilya immediately rewards him with a warming, petting massage along his scalp and a swift 'Good boy', like he's training a dog with a clicker and a treat.

        Shane's face flushes with hot, pulsing embarrassment that he feels in the tips of his ears. He wants to say 'I didn't do it for you' and 'this isn't compliance'. But Ilya likely knows this already. Why Shane did it isn't important. All his body and mind will care about is that Ilya gave a command, Shane performed said command, and Ilya rewarded him for it.

        From there, it only gets worse.

        Ilya waits until whatever tell he's picked up on, and right before Shane swallows the next round of spit, before it can dribble down his face, Ilya tells him to suck, and then rewards him with praise and caresses.

        In an attempt to fuck up Ilya's timing, Shane suffers the first few rounds, before deciding to swallow earlier, ahead of his mouth getting too full.

        Except there must be some kind of muscle movement giving away Shane's intention to swallow, because again, Ilya gets the timing right.

        Repeatedly, Shane tries to create variation without letting saliva drip down his face, and every time, Ilya fucking Rozanov gets it right.

        Exasperated and ornery, Shane, for some reason, comes to the conclusion that if he keeps swallowing back-to-back, so that Ilya can't repeat the cycle of command-action-reward fast enough, he'll 'win'. Whatever the fuck 'winning' means in this context.

        And that's how he ends up voluntarily suckling at Ilya's fingers. Fingers that start to rock into his mouth, dragging deliberately over the top of his tongue, forcing him to really taste Ilya as he fucks two digits into Shane's mouth.

        The dick beneath Shane's cheek starts to shift from half-mast to fully hard and, since he still has a hand in Shane's hair, palming his skull, he has no trouble pressing Shane down harder into his lap, starting to undulate his hips so that he's gently humping the side of Shane's face, the scent of him building in the air.

        "Look at you, sweetheart. Your mouth is so wet and warm. You make such good pressure with your mouth. Going to be such a good cocksucker, aren't you? Alphas usually not so good at this. They struggle and bite and growl and choke. Is rare to have alpha suck with no punishment. But you needed nothing, yes? Just a little push and you are nursing on fingers like puppy. Good boy, Shane. Such a perfect, good boy."

        It's trash talk. Cheap and straight out of a dirty porno, probably. But what makes it devastating is Ilya's tone. The wonder in it. The unadulterated sincerity.

        It shouldn't have an impact, but Shane feels body-slammed by every word. Taking deep breaths, nose forced to fill with the scent of Ilya's arousal, Shane tries to mentally twist away from the satisfaction that comes from Ilya's praise. Tries to ignore the way his mouth feels satisfied right now, stuffed full of another alpha's fingers. Tries to ignore the fact that he's just as hard as Rozanov even though he's not the one getting consistent pressure anywhere that should count.

        It's embarrassing.

        Fuck, what must all those fucking assholes on the other side of the camera be thinking, seeing him like this.

        And they've hardly even begun...

        

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Who the fuck cares how I'll feel? This is happening regardless," Shane growls, trying his best to lean away.

        "You are future mate. Is important - the psychology part. Some people feel deeply about designation. To try to twist them into something new is very hard, then. And very damaging. You do not seem to be hurting. But perhaps is because we are early in process. Perhaps you hope it will not happen."

        Ilya's sincerity is distressing to see. There are probably more cameras in the bathroom, since the whole setup is for trafficked girls, but apparently not in any angle that would capture the care and investment in Ilya's face. Like Shane's answer really matters.

Chapter Notes

Um...are pwps supposed to have this much dialog? And oh boy...the outline I put together and where we are in this story is a bit concerning.
"This will be short, no problem..." and now I'm watching it turn into a beast.

If you have a spare moment to leave a comment, fully appreciate it. They're nuggets of motivation that make sitting down to write easier.
Enjoy ^_^

         At the twenty minute mark, Shane tries to talk around the fingers still resting in his mouth, petting at his tongue. It's a good sign that the alpha immediately takes his digits out, freeing Shane to talk without turning it into a fight.

        "It's been twenty minutes. You said twenty minutes," Shane says, his delivery coming out a bit frantic.

        "Shhh," Ilya hushes him, running his other hand over the top of his head. But he dutifully leans over, nose finding the crook of Shane's neck, and breathing in. "Better," he declares. "Not so sharp anymore. Not cutting, but still pointy. Stay," he orders, shifting away and out from under Shane. "Fight me and you will spill and make mess. Let me bring you carefully to shower. Just relax. Will be very quick."

        "Shower?" Shane looks around the room, but other than the door they came in through, there are no other doors in the room. For a long enough second to have his heartrate climbing, he's convinced Ilya is going to leave the room with him like this. Naked, bent over, fully exposed...and there's no way Shane's going to let that happen. It's bad enough that there's an audience watching through the cameras, but like fuck is he going to let them see him like that in the flesh. 

        Unexpectedly, Ilya crosses the room in the opposite direction, stopping in front of the bookcase. Of all the things he'd expected to see in a mobster warehouse, somehow 'Murphy doors' was low on the list. Shane doesn't see what Ilya does to open it, but the bookcase swings inwards, revealing a bathroom. "Is for girls to use between clients, if they are not working just at camming. Must be secret, so bad client does not decide to try waterboarding," Ilya offers, reading the question in Shane's face.

        Resisting the urge to look behind him, at the one camera he knows is there, Shane wonders if any of the men watching this find the explanation strange. The tidbit is useful. Once he can contact the Bureau, Shane can warn them to keep their eyes out for ridiculous things like trap doors and hidden passages. He wishes he could say, 'this is risky; tell me later' but he doesn't know what facial expression he could make that would convey that to Ilya.

        With the door to the bathroom open, Ilya strides over to the bed and picks Shane up as if he were a statue, trapped forever in this stupid, ass-up position. It should be tricky to do, and Shane is by no means light, but Ilya shows no sign of effort as he carries Shane through the wide doorway and directly into a glass-encased shower. He releases Shane carefully, placing him down in the shower like he's delivering a package with a bomb inside.

        Stepping away, the bigger man quickly starts to strip out of his clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the end of the counter.

       Shane wants to scold him for the mess, unreasonably annoyed at that bundle of already-wrinkling expensive fabric given the circumstances. There's such a long list of things he should be upset about in this moment, and yet all he can focus on is Ilya's clothes. And it makes him wonder about his own suit in the other room. Remembering how haphazardly the other man had removed his clothes, the things Shane had worn are probably in a messy heap at the foot of the bed. In his distracted annoyance, Shane doesn't even consider standing up.

       Despite his cuffed hands, it's not as if he can't get to his feet just because his hands are tied behind his back. But it's not until Ilya joins him in the shower and pulls him up that Shane realizes he could have moved earlier. Maybe then he wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of Ilya telling him, "Such a good boy. You wait even without alpha telling you to. Is your instinct to do this?"

        Shane has so much to say to that. Wants to argue so badly, but he can't catch his breath or find words in this moment as gravity starts working against him. At first it's a trickle, Shane's muscles tight and somewhat clenched, but as he begins to feel the liquid inside him dribbling out, the shock of it feels like the bottom dropping out from under him. It doesn't help that Ilya pulls him into what would be a hug, if not for the way his hands clamp down on his ass cheeks instead of completing the loop. Helping, Shane supposes, to empty him by pulling his cheeks apart and mumbling straight into his ear, "That's it. Let it out. No need for more with such a good, easy boy. Is a mistake, I think, you being alpha."

        "My designation wasn't a mistake," Shane hisses, at the same time as Ilya reaches out to turn on the shower. Shockingly, the water comes out warm, hitting Shane's skin in a pleasant patter.

        "You enjoy being alpha? You will miss it?" Ilya asks. After a second of Shane ignoring the question, Ilya's hands slide up to his waist and embrace Shane, pulling him closer with a squeeze. "I ask, you answer," Ilya reminds him.

        "You don't need to know that. Who the fuck cares how I'll feel? This is happening regardless," Shane growls, trying his best to lean away.

        "You are future mate. Is important - the psychology part. Some people feel deeply about designation. To try to twist them into something new is very hard, then. And very damaging. You do not seem to be hurting. But perhaps is because we are early in process. Perhaps you hope it will not happen."

        Ilya's sincerity is distressing to see. There are probably more cameras in the bathroom, since the whole setup is for trafficked girls, but apparently not in any angle that would capture the care and investment in Ilya's face. Like Shane's answer really matters.

        With a sigh, Shane admits, "I never cared about designation. And after this, I intend to ignore whatever I end up as. Just like I was already doing."

        "Nyet," Ilya says immediately. "You could ignore it because you were alone. No partner. No mate. Is not so easy when you are not alone."

        Shane almost makes the mistake of saying 'but we'll break the bond'.

        Fuck, it's such a near miss.

        Besides the fact that maybe someone might read into that statement correctly, putting Ilya in danger if they realize the two of them already know each other, it's not even true. At least, not immediately. After going through this experience, it wouldn't make sense for both Shane and the Bureau not to capitalize on his new proximity to the organization. He's going to have to stay bonded.

        "What's the difference?" Shane asks out loud, wishing he had access to a search engine. Genuinely curious, for the first time, Shane wonders if it's maybe not going to be as easy to ignore his designation as it was in the past.

        "Instincts change. Is like allergies. By yourself, is like you have medicine for allergen. With partner, is like you are standing next to allergen all day, being triggered."

        "What, you won't let me take blockers?" Shane asks, trying not to put too much emphasis on the let, as if he's asking a real question, rather than the sarcastic one where he makes clear Ilya won't be 'letting' him do anything. Maybe in public, in range of cameras being watched by Russian goons, he can pretend to defer to the alpha, but in private, the man wasn't going to dictate what Shane could or could not do. Especially not about his own body.

        "Blockers will help with some physical symptoms. Let you skip heats, dampen smell, decrease reactivity. But instinct will still be there, getting triggered by bond. I will not need to stand next to you for it to happen. Maybe is even worse without bond-mate close to you." Ilya shrugs, as if what he's saying isn't critical and Shane needs it to be accurate. Not just a best guess.

        "Well, can you look it up? Which is it?" Shane doesn't mean for his voice to go so high, his attempted whisper turning shrill as he considers the implications. Shane needs control. Needs his own body and its reactions to be predictable. Not just for work, but for his own peace of mind. His life is built from a foundation of rituals, schedules, and plans. What he doesn't need is random instincts dictating his schedule based on what some dude he hardly knows is doing.

        "Phone is in office. Sorry...no way to check until later," Ilya says, wincing a bit as he seems to clock how important the answer is to Shane. "Will it be problem? If new designation not so easy to ignore?"

        "I can't answer that," Shane grinds out, pulling at the belt in some desperate hope it will unwind or fall off his wrists. Feeling very trapped all of a sudden, Shane leans away from Ilya, trying to put some distance between them.

        Ilya lets him go, his hands coming away by degrees as if he's afraid letting go too fast will make Shane slip. There's a bar of soap encased in a porous, exfoliating bag stashed on a shelf in the shower. Taking it in hand, Ilya starts to work it over Shane's skin, scrubbing harder at the areas that are usually used for scent marking. "Does this hurt?" he asks, on his third round of scrubbing the harsh material under Shane's arm.

        "Pretty sure that spot's clean," Shane says, glaring up at the taller man.

        "Getting caught made you very nervous. Covered you in sweat and spread your scent around. To subdue alpha, need to take away their scent and replace it with another. For a while, it will seem unnatural, having the smell of me on your skin. You will feel unnatural."

        "How do you know? Maybe you're wrong," Shane asks, starting to feel his irritation rise at all of Ilya's declarative statements. As if there's no way he can be mistaken, or that someone might react differently. As if it's all set in stone and they're just visiting the landmarks one by one.

        As if it's all inevitable.

        "I want to be wrong. Especially for you," Ilya says, but then his face twitches, as if realizing what he's said came out too soft. Too considerate, given their likely audience. "To mate a broken shell is very unpleasant. I want you begging for my cock at end of this, not crying in corner. Maybe if I tell you how sad you will feel, you will rise to occasion and prove me wrong," he says, to fix it.

"Is that why you haven't taken off the belt?" Shane asks, yanking his elbows in opposite directions.

        It's not a good time for a hug. Shane's not someone who casually touches others or gets touched often. But beyond his own usual reluctance to be physically close to someone, there's also frustration eating at him. 

        Unfortunately, Ilya doesn't listen to any of the clear signals to stay away, choosing instead to glomp onto him. Practically throwing his weight into the embrace, arms draping heavily over and around Shane's shoulders.

        "Get off me," he growls. His hackles are so high, that he actually does consider ducking his head the few inches separating his mouth from Ilya's chest, and taking a bite out of him at around nipple-height. "You fucking asshole," he seethes, hating the way Ilya's bulk forces his arms to stay at his sides. Hating the hand at the back of his neck scruffing him again.

        "Ah...good. Very good. Was starting to think alpha designation was lie. Good to see first extinction burst. This anger will rise up in you a few times. Means we are on track. And, da, this is why you have belt."

        "How the fuck do you know the phrase extinction burst? And what does that even mean?"

        Ilya snorts. "I know English words for car parts, financial phrases, legal terms. Useful things for business and personal interests. So, yes, I know phrase 'extinction burst'. Better question is why you not know this? Canadian school system not teach you basic biology?"

        "They don't talk about changing designations," Shane scoffs. "Why would they?"

        Lifting his head so he can look Shane in the eye, Ilya's mouth takes on a wry grin. "In Russian schools, they teach as warning. Signs to look out for, in case of grooming. To teach children signs of changing designation before it's permanent. Is funny or sad that Canada not do this? People too polite here to try to take advantage? Or is everyone just naive?"

        Considering what Shane was investigating when he got caught, he can't answer that. The fight drains out of him as he considers how many of the women and children he's trying to save might have never ended up like this if they'd known what to look out for. Maybe not specifically about designation-change, but just in general...how to spot a predator.

        "Is okay," Ilya says, patting his head with a palm wide enough to cover the top of Shane's head. "I will not let my mate be naive. Extinction burst is phrase meaning alpha in you will try very hard - harder than ever before - to stay same. More aggressive, more angry. The closer it is to losing, the more it will fight. Like trapped animal."

        As Shane tries to process the information, Ilya starts to rinse him off, using his hands to sweep away soap suds. "I don't feel clean," he says, when he sees Ilya starting to reach for the knob to turn off the water.

        Smile stiff, Ilya says, "Next few days will be dirty business. I will wash away the mess, but it will stay in your mind. In your senses. Only time can make you clean. And maybe therapist."

        "God, you fucking dick! Stop saying shit like it's a fact, because it's making you sound dumb. Honestly, is this how you take showers? Because I clean behind my ears, and I wash my hair with shampoo, and I run a scrub brush between my toes. I feel unclean, because I am unclean!"

        Oddly enough, Ilya starts laughing. "Fussy. Like angry kitten," he says, turning off the shower and quickly bundling Shane up in a thick, white towel.

        "I'm serious!" Shane yells, trying to kick out as Ilya pulls him onto a shoulder in a fireman's carry, palming his ass to keep him in place.

        "Is warehouse. Cam-room in warehouse. Soon as I put you on bed, you will feel unclean. But if toes and ears are so dirty, then no worries. Next shower, I will clean for you. Then, maybe after, will clean again with tongue, like cat."

        "What?! No, that's gross," Shane huffs out, just before Ilya drops him carefully onto the bed. Aiming so that Shane hits the mattress with his shoulder, Ilya uses his grip to immediately roll Shane back onto his stomach, this time facing the doorway rather than the pillows, with a towel stuck under him.

        "Your definition of gross will change this week, Hollander," Ilya says, rolling on top of him. Again, his movements are careful, his weight present, covering Shane's back in a warm blanket of pressure, but not so much that it's squashing him into the mattress. With some intentional shifting, he manages to work his still semi-hard dick in between Shane's cheeks and leaves it resting there.

        Shane's hands, still belted behind him, end up at about the height of Ilya's lower abdomen.

        "Open your fists. Hold onto me with your palms," Ilya murmurs.

        "Why? You want me to gouge you?"

        "With what? Nails you bite short?"

        "I don't bite my nails! Why? Do you let yours grow out like some kind of heathen?"

        "What is heathen?" Ilya asks, nosing into the crook of Shane's neck, then slowly lapping a wet tongue up the length of it.

        "Ew, stop drooling on me!"

        "Poor boy does not like to be wet. Tell me, how will you be when between your legs is dripping wet? You say 'eww' then too?"

        "That's not a real thing," Shane mutters, face flushing red at the mere suggestion.

        For some reason, this makes Ilya freeze. "What you mean, not real? You think omega holes don't drip?"

        "Stop fucking saying that," Shane demands, but Ilya doesn't seem to be listening.

        "Hollander, please say you are not virgin." And oddly enough, it sounds less like teasing and more like an honest request. "You have fucked before, yes? You are twenty-six," he announces, as if he needs the reminder.

        "Yeah, sure," Shane mutters. Although, he's wondering if owning a drawer full of toys really counts as fucking.

        "You do not sound so sure."

        "If I say I'm a virgin, is that going to magically get me out of this mess?" Shane asks.

        "No..." There's a loud swallowing sound behind him as Ilya probably realizes just how irrelevant Shane's experience is to the situation. "Just means will need more stretching. And probably less time. If your alpha does not fuck, there is less cement to its status. Mentally and physically."

        Shane doesn't give him more details and, thankfully, Ilya doesn't ask.

        Hard to ask when your mouth is occupied, Shane supposes, trying not to flinch as Ilya continues to coat saliva over his neck while rocking his hips. The movement seems to lack purpose, no speed or fiction to it. For a long time, as Ilya mouths along his shoulders, and actually does lick and suck at his ears, Shane thinks the rocking is for Ilya's benefit. Like maybe somehow the motion will eventually make him cum.

        That notion is dispelled when Ilya breathes hot against his ear, asking "How do you feel? Your smell is calm and your heart feels not so fast with the pulse at your neck. Your hands also, now open and relaxed. But I would like to hear you tell me in words."

        Only then does Shane wonder if maybe the rocking was for him. Gentle motion to soothe him. And, for some reason, it feels so embarrassing - to be managed like that. Managing people is his job. He’s supposed to help people. Calm people. Help turn trauma into triumph by ridding the world of people like Alexei and the men who happily work for him. He does not need soothing.

        "How long are you going to lay on me?" he asks.

        "Until you tell me," Ilya says, nipping him in a prompt to speak.

        "I'm good. Er...as good as you can be in a situation like this." Shane shakes his head in disbelief at his own capacity to trivialize shit that happens to him. There's no need to minimize this. For the sake of the theater he and Ilya are partially performing for the goon squad, it would probably help to show vulnerability. To cry and rage and shout. But the instinct to stay quiet, keep the situation calm, ease other's worries is so deeply ingrained that, even now, he doesn't complain.

        "Such good, polite, Canadian boy," Ilya huffs sarcastically, but doesn't push for a different answer.

        The rocking stops and Ilya starts to move down Shane's body, spitting into the hollows of Shane's underarms, massaging it in, and moving on to Shane's wrists. Then the backs of his knees. Then back up to the crease of his thighs.

        Unsurprisingly, the last wad of spit is aimed at his hole. Somehow, Ilya misses the mark, spit hitting the top of Shane's ass and falling in an unnerving slide to its destination, where Ilya's fingers work it over his rim.

        And then, with a strong grip over Shane's hips, he flips him over.

        "This next part, you probably too won't like."

        Staring up at the bigger alpha, Shane swallows hard. This time he believes him. Enough for a feeling of dread to pool in his stomach. "What are you going to do?"

        As if he can see the tension in Shane's lower abdomen, Ilya starts rubbing over the spot in comfort. "Control is important to you. Many alphas feel this, but you especially need control. Is main root I need to weed out. This will take many steps. Tried and true method is shocking system. Introduce things which are new to you and give you feeling of no control."

        Glaring now, Shane asks, "What the fuck does that mean? Electro shock? You want to, what? Zap me into losing my alpha?"

        Eyebrows lifting in surprise, Ilya shakes his head. "Nyet. Nothing must be painful. Slow, gradual, neutral or pleasant. I do not need scared mate with distrustful omega under skin. This ‘something new’ will not hurt, but you must be still. Injury is possible if you fight me."

        "Tell me what you're going to do," Shane demands.

        Whether on purpose or just for a change of pace, Ilya shifts one hand to cover Shane's pec and squeezes in a very ‘straight porn’-reminiscent way. He probably doesn't mean it to be a reminder of what he's losing in this - a chance to have a female partner, the alpha woman he'd been courting before Shane fucked up his assignment - but it certainly serves to cool much of the anger bubbling under his skin. He's not the only loser in this scenario. And, of the two of them, this situation is more his fault than Ilya's.

   "Hey," Ilya clicks out, quick and staccato, in an attention-catching way. "What's wrong?"

        "You mean, besides everything that's happening right now?"

        Ilya snorts. "You must think I am blind. Your eyes are sad and far away. Is wrong emotion for hearing I am going to use you again in way you don't like. Except now, I need you to follow directions, or will be dangerous."

        "Just thinking about my job," Shane says, meeting the hard stare being directed at him with his own pleading one. He tilts his head deliberately towards where the camera is mounted and raises an eyebrow, hoping Ilya understands that the truth isn't something he can say out loud, even if he wanted to.

        A flash of understanding in those stupidly perceptive eyes and Ilya's smirking again. "Fuck job. No more job for you. My omega will not work. But before this, first you must become omega. Not through electro shock. Instead, I will fuck your dick and see how much spit I can work into it."

        Shane raises his eyebrows, unable to keep the amusement out of his expression. "I think you need to work on your English a little more frequently."

        Ilya outright smirks at him. "Why you say this?"

        "Because what you just said was all over the place."

        With a hum, Ilya tilts his head, mouth still curved into that infuriating smirk. "What you think I try to say?"

        "That you want to fuck me with your dick and work more spit in," Shane says, trying so hard to keep his tone even, free of embarrassment. Alphas are supposed to be more...unflappable. It's ridiculous that he can't even choke out a bit of dirty talk without blushing.

        "Nyet," Ilya says, running his thumb in a circular motion over Shane's nipple. "I say what I mean. Until you can get wet, I will not fuck you. For now, I only fuck your dick."

        Shaking his head, Shane says, "Are you talking about a blowjob?"

        A look of genuine surprise not only appears, but stays on Ilya's face. With his tongue caught between his lips, it looks like he's trying not to laugh. He stays frozen like that for several seconds, before his amusement wanes enough for him to ask, "You think I not know the word blowjob?" in a carefully neutral voice.

        Whether he's tamping down his amusement for the benefit of the cameras, or to spare Shane's feelings, is unclear. But Shane starts to realize that, rather than a language issue, maybe his lack of understanding is an experience issue. He should shut up. He absolutely should not give away any more of his inexperience than he already has. But, in his incredulity, he can't help saying out loud, "You can't fuck a dick."

        It's a small, breathless laugh - more like a spasm of amusement than anything else - but having seen the man successfully bite back his laughter before, it seems like Shane's knowledge gap is wider than he previously assumed.

        "You can. I will show you. The feeling will be strange and you will not like it for now, but if you are good then I will give you blowjob as reward," Ilya says, with particular stress on the blowjob, eyebrows flexing as if Shane needs the pointed reminder that, of course, Ilya knows that word. 

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

As Shane lays there, watching Ilya get ready, faintly terrified of what it means to fuck a dick, a part of him feels...maybe a tiny bit...eager?

        All those women can't be wrong, right?

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for commenting. It really helps. <3

Sigh...I suddenly realized, this premise would technically work in cannon. If Shane wanted to have Ilya's baby and proposed it...and then they kept it secret from the league, with him just taking a leave of absence...

Could you imagine? Having to come out in a different way to parents and friends? Team and press? The risk of someone growing suspicious, seeing a child with both their features. Shane having to deal with additional stigma? Ilya's conflicted feelings and wondering if he should offer instead, since he's not the 'diversity hire', even though he maybe doesn't like bottoming ?

Writing takes too long and I have too many ideas and there's real world paid work I need to be doing. But if someone decides to run with the above, let me know! Because now I really want to read it but I don't have time to write it.

       The anxiety Shane feels, watching Ilya gather supplies across the room, is...different than usual. It's not the kind of anxiety he's used to. It's anticipatory. With the barest hint of curiosity.

        The thing is, Ilya Rozanov has a reputation.

        He's known for being one of the best built gangsters in Montreal, with more muscle than most of his hired bodyguards.

        For his looks. With underworld peers complaining their wives can't look away from the sharp panes of his face, lingering on his artful golden curls as they try to attract ice-sharp, gleaming blue eyes in their direction.

        For his cleverness, with many of the above-board ventures their organization pursues stemming from his thoughtful market and trend analysis.

        And for his ruthlessness when challenged.

       Shane's had the particularly harrowing privilege of being forced to watch the bigger man through a shaky-but-live CCTV feed, while he 'duels' men who want to override a decision he's made on the direction of his side of the...'business'. And, he's had the pleasure of being at the end of truly Machiavellian plans, handcuffs at the ready, as men Ilya's carefully setup or enticed into a maze of decisions that all end in arrest, arrive none the wiser that they'd been manipulated.

        But also, Ilya Rozanov is known for being good in bed.

        Years before he contacted the Bureau through back channels, sick of the new and expanding human-trafficking schemes his brother was spearheading, years back when Shane was still new to the job, a rookie in every sense, tasked with just reviewing the surveillance of already-placed camera feeds or audio mics, there had already been women getting pulled into interview rooms, being asked for any scrap of information they had on Ilya Rozanov. And instead of handing over useful information, like whether they'd seen anything suspicious in back rooms, galas, or parties the Bureau didn't have access to, they instead spent the time gushing over Ilya's prowess in the bedroom. Going on for tens of minutes, despite numerous attempts to redirect them and pull them back on topic, about the quality of Rozanov's kisses, the 'incredible creativity', the 'positions I didn't even know were possible', and in every fucking interview, they talked about the man's uncanny perception. His ability to read them. To not only notice the things their bodies said for them, but to interpret the messages correctly.

        Every. single. fucking. interview.

        Different women, from different backgrounds, many of whom had advanced education, who knew they couldn't get in trouble for just reporting what they saw. And yet all of the them seemingly got distracted reminiscing about him and the one-night-stand he'd treated them to. Which probably just meant Ilya knew how to pick women who'd have that oblivious, sex-focused mindset around him.

        But as Shane lays there, watching Ilya get ready, faintly terrified of what it means to fuck a dick, a part of him feels...maybe a tiny bit...eager?

        All those women can't be wrong, right?

        On the other hand, the Bureau was never able to track down any of the men Ilya had been reportedly fucking on the sly. Are sex skills transferrable across gender? And what about designations?

        Many of the women had been alphas. A few betas. No omegas...which Shane wonders if he should worry about.

        As Ilya arrives at the bed, a set of zippered pouches and a bottle of lube in one hand, and dragging an overbed table on wheels in the other, Shane blurts out, "Do you even like omegas?"

       Though his hands are busy arranging his inventory and positioning the table, Ilya's gaze roves over Shane. Studying him. "Da. Why you ask this?"

        Since revealing how much he knows about Ilya in front of the cameras would be problematic, Shane's only choice is to ask, "Do you ever sleep with omegas?"

        "Ah," Ilya nods to himself, then shakes his head. "No. But is not really choice. Scent is a message, and to them I smell like warning. I approach and they walk in the opposite direction. Let us hope the warning does not work on you. Will be problem if I must chase my mate forever."

        Shane scoffs. "That can't be the reason you've never slept with one."

        "Because of..." Ilya's eyes narrow as he waves in a vague gesture to indicate the room they're in, "business?" Something must show up on Shane's face because, without waiting for an answer, he continues, "You are first to be in this situation with me. All others agree happily. Some even beg. Just happens that none of them were omegas."

        "So, given the opportunity, you'd have slept with them?"

        With his wide shoulders and huge frame, Ilya can't help but loom when he leans over him, but the hand with which he cups Shane's head, thumbing along the path of his freckles, is gentle. Too soft for this moment. "I will enjoy fucking you, regardless of designation," he says out loud with performative mirth.

        But, regardless of the word choice and tone, Shane can't help the way his breath catches over the fact that Ilya noticed his insecurity and addressed it head-on, despite the roundabout way Shane had approached it. As nice as it is, not having to lay it out in plain, vulnerable English, and still be understood, there's still an element of discomfort in being so well seen. So obvious to a near stranger.

        "Now, no more stalling," Ilya says, with one last rub across Shane's cheek. "How are your hands? Does it hurt to lay on them?"

        "Does it matter? If they hurt, are you going to let me go?" Shane asks.

        "We can switch to cuffs and attach to headboard."

       Eyeing the headboard over Ilya's shoulder, Shane doesn't like the idea of having his arms attached to the bed frame, his body stuck in place, trusting that someone in this den of iniquity will eventually free him. He imagines Ilya being called away and someone else entering the room. The thought of some stranger touching him in any capacity is enough to make his skin crawl.

        On the other hand, his elbows are starting to ache, his wrists are going numb, and his shoulders are growing stiffer by the moment.

        Both reading and seemingly understanding his indecision, Ilya promises, "I will not leave room while you are bound."

        He doesn't say 'I'll release you if I need to leave the room', because he can't. But Shane's pretty sure the meaningful way he meets Shane's eyes is meant to convey the unspoken assurance.

        "This position is getting uncomfortable. And we're not even doing anything yet."

        Ilya puts down the implements he's fiddling with on the table and immediately pulls Shane into a sitting position.

        "Be good for me, Shane," Ilya whispers, directly into his ear, as his hands unwind the belt.

        It's such a deliberate thing.

        The cameras won't pick it and, good thing, because his tone had too much care in it. So, it was meant for Shane. And the deliberate use of his name...

        The part of his brain that's always on alert, ready to go to work at a moment's notice, sits up intrigued. Is it a manipulation tactic? Meant to disorient or distract? Is it a calming technique, meant to soothe the alpha still under Shane's skin? Or just common decency? A bit of politeness to make the fact Ilya's swapping from one kind of restraint to another more palatable?

        Before he can reach a conclusion, Ilya's repositioned him with more manhandling and casual flaunting of strength, and his wrists are re-cuffed, this time a bed's width from each other, encircled in a softer leather. "Good?"

        Shane just sighs at him, which earns him a pat on the cheek.

        Settling over Shane's thighs and seating some of his weight over his legs, probably to further reduce his mobility, Ilya drags the roller table closer. He picks up the first implement - a tapered, shiny bit of metal with cascading steps that seem to increase in diameter the closer they get to the keychain on the end.

        "This is steel stretching plug. Making piss tunnel wide enough for tongue or finger fucking is process. Not something can be done quickly. So, we start small."

        Shane can feel his mouth drop open. Immediately, he has so many issues with everything Ilya just said. "Eww, no. Piss tu...Just, no. Never call it that again. The word you're looking for is urethra. Say it, so I know you'll remember."

        For not the first time, the direness of the situation sort of slips away from both of them. For Shane, out of frustration. And for Ilya, out of amusement. "Your-eat-rah," Ilya says dutifully, looking charmed for some reason. The pronunciation is wince-worthy, but Shane already knows 'th' sounds aren't used in Slavic languages, so he lets it go.

        Jumping immediately to his next issue. "No fucking way are you putting a finger or your tongue up my dick."

        "Yes, I say this already. You need training. First we work on width, then later, if you like, we add depth. Maybe try to reach prostate with urethra sounds. But first, must start with small plug."

        "That's not small!" Shane practically shouts, hips automatically trying to buck the larger man off him. The best he manages is a wriggle that freezes as soon as Ilya's hand closes over the base of his dick.

        "Is tiny. Only four inches and thirteen millimeters at the widest point."

        "The end of that thing looks like the size of my pinky finger!"

        Ilya has the nerve to glance at Shane's hand, as if to verify that statement. With a grunt of acknowledgement, he shrugs. "Maybe your finger will fit, but I do not suggest you try playing with yourself like that. You say you are not clean and is easy to get infection. I sterilize plugs so they are safe. Maybe wash hands if you are too tempted."

        Frustration making his skin prickle, Shane has no idea whether Ilya's playing him or if it's the language barrier. "I don't want to put a finger in my dick, Ilya," he says slowly, careful to enunciate and giving the other man time to translate the words as they come out. "It's too big. It won't fit. It will hurt," he says, keeping his sentences short. Simple. Easy to understand.

        "You are scared?" Ilya asks, head tilting, as if he never would have guessed. Also, that's not the word Shane would have chosen.

        Regrettably, like Hayden's three-year-old, he insists, "I'm not scared. It's just not possible. You're going to hurt me."

        "Nyet," Ilya says, demeanor changing on a dime. Serious and devoid of all teasing. "You will say if stretch hurts and I will listen. But, agents, they do tests, yes? Running and lifting and flexing?"

        "Something like that," Shane mutters, not liking where this is going.

        "You train, then you pass. You do not just show up. It takes time and discomfort, but hard work makes you pass tests, da?"

        "Don't you have anything smaller?" Shane asks, not needing to be told about how training for the mile run is like widening a urethra far enough to fit a finger.

        Stroking along the length of the dick he's been holding for the past few minutes, Ilya pulls Shane's foreskin down and away from the head and tilts it towards him. "Look."

        "What am I looking at?" Shane asks, staring at the head and wishing he were anywhere else.

        "Slit is about average, so between five and seven millimeters on the inside. Plug starts at six. Smaller than urethra will not cause stretch and bad for beginner. Do not use small plug," he says, as if Shane would ever willingly try fucking his dick on his own. "Progress will be as slow as you need. But, you are nervous. Perhaps distraction will help."

        Shane snorts. "What, you going to turn on the TV? If you're taking requests, I'd like ESPN."

        With a hum, Ilya asks, "What sports do you like?" he asks, but with the inattention of a pediatrician asking his patient 'what's your favorite subject in school?' as he releases Shane's dick and digs into one of the pouches on the table.

        "I'm Canadian, so...hockey, mostly," Shane replies, studiously watching as Ilya pulls out two small, black objects, about the size of shot glasses, except shaped like two board game pawns - bulbous on top and sitting on a hollow cone-shaped base.

        "What are those?" Shane asks, but not quickly enough to protest as Ilya places one silicone 'pawn' over Shane's nipple and squeezes the bulb. The vacuum seal that results is enough to answer Shane's question.

        But as he's placing the other one, Ilya says, "Is nipple suckers. Will make you sensitive for later."

        They look so stupid, attached to his chest, rising and falling with each breath. "Fuck you," Shane growls.

        "Not now. It will confuse your alpha if you are fucking now. But later..." Ilya trails off with a bit off snick, spine stiffening as he seemingly remembers his role. The one the men on the other side of the camera expect. The big, bad alpha who wouldn't offer to be on the bottom even if the fate of the world depended on it. "Later, I fuck you so hard you forget you have dick. Maybe we stretch it so much, it becomes just another hole," he says, crude and aloof in his delivery.

        Shane cringes at the mental image, wishing Ilya would just shut up. Maybe if he stopped talking, he'd say fewer damning things and then he wouldn't need to overcompensate with the kind of filth he's spouting now.

        "But before it can be hole, we must start small," Ilya says, flicking sharply at one of the stupid nipple suckers.

        With a gasp, Shane arches, surprised at the zing of pleasure that seems to go directly from his covered, straining nipple to his dick.

        And in that distracted second, Ilya uses one hand to expose the head of his half-hard dick from its foreskin sheath while the other pours lube over it. The way he starts working it over Shane's tip, applying slight pressure whenever his thumb rolls over the slit, sends sparks of pleasure rolling through Shane. He's fully hard by the time Ilya decides he's slick enough to start working the tip of the plug into Shane's dick.

        It's a disconcerting feeling. Not painful, but also not painless. There's a slight burning sensation as Ilya starts to stretch a part of Shane that, bar a medical procedure, would likely have gone untouched and unknown for the rest of his life. This isn't something Shane's ever experimented with or considered trying. But more than the discomfort of being widened as Ilya feeds the first half inch into him, Shane's more bothered by his lack of knowledge on the topic.

        He doesn't know the statistics. Has no clue what risks are associated with the activity other than Ilya's vague warning about 'infection', probably meaning a UTI. He's not aware of the proper procedure for urethral stretching and has no experience to lean on that could help him identify dangerous techniques or common pitfalls.

        He gets so far into his head over it, that Ilya flicks one of the nipple suckers again with his free hand. "Describe what you are feeling," Ilya tells him as he gently works the tip of the plug another half inch into him.

        "It's weird," Shane mutters, glaring at the Russian.

        "Weird like platypus?"

        "What? No. How do you know the word for platypus? I just mean...I don't remember ever feeling that part of my body."

        Ilya laughs. "Ah, Hollander, you never touch your cock before today? Is religious choice or crazy Canadian thing?"

        "Shut up. And no, not from the inside. I can't believe people do this voluntarily. This just makes me think of catheters. Which makes me think of hospitals and accidents - "

        "You know someone who has catheter?" Ilya interrupts, beginning a repeated pattern of pushing that first inch into Shane slowly before pulling it out in one quick motion, applying lube when he feels too much resistance. Essentially already fucking Shane with the thinnest part of the plug.

        "What, like permanently? No, but I've visited a friend after his s-s-sur-surgery. Oh, fuck, wh-why does that feel so - " Shane's question disappears into a whimper as that first inch starts to feel...

        "Better?" Ilya asks, starting to vary the pace, and every few thrusts, he dips a little further, by the tiniest of increments. And this time, the burn is almost...satisfying.

        There are still moments where it feels like too much, too soon, as Ilya twirls the widening plug deeper like he's screwing in a lightbulb. Still watching his face for any flicker of pain, Ilya eases off in these moments, pinging the suckers with devastating flicks to flood Shane with more pleasure.

        Who knows how long it takes. Shane loses all track of time as Ilya makes this impossible thing feel good. He actually starts to get close to cumming, a steady stream of pre-cum dribbling out between thrusts.

        "So wet," Ilya says, as he spreads it along the head, exacerbating the drip. "You were made for pleasure. Is strange you not find partner, when you are so reactive. Making these sweet little noises and leaning into every touch. Fucking beautiful."

        He doesn't walk it back at all, maybe because Shane's hot blush of embarrassment justifies it. "I never had the time to look for one," Shane mutters.

        Grinning, Ilya says, "Lucky me," as he feeds the final few centimeters into him. And just leaves it there.

        And then he gets off the bed.

        "Wh-where are you going? I was about to -"

        "No cumming," Ilya says. "We will wait for your dick to adjust to plug. Then I will fuck your dick with it a little, see if is easy. And after, I will blow you."

        Getting an outline, a set of expectations to anticipate, does make Shane feel slightly better about being left aching on the bed. So, he's only somewhat put out when he asks, "How long are you going to make me wait?"

        Reaching over to flick both of the suckers at once, Ilya says, "Twenty minutes."

        "What is your obsession with twenty minutes?"

        "It works. Thirty minutes is too long. Fifteen is too short. Round number, easy to keep track of." Ilya shrugs, issuing another series of rude flicks at the suckers until he gets a moan out of Shane.

        He doesn't get a chance to watch the clock with Ilya interrupting him every other minute, asking him stupid but harmless questions - about hockey, his opinion on sports betting, favorite brand of running shoes, if he'd ever consider growing his hair out - interspersed with more flicks, keeping Shane primed and so fucking close to what feels like the edge of eruption.

        It's unfair, how good at this Ilya is.

        At tugging his attention where he wants it, divesting Shane of his ability to concentrate, making him lose track of time. He remembers Hayden shaking his head after the interviews with Ilya's conquests and complaining about how there was no way they were telling the truth. That they should have gushed less if they wanted to be believed 'because no one's that good'.

        The pervading theory had been that Ilya was paying the women off and coaching them over what to say if they got pulled in by law enforcement.

        But Shane's starting to think their theory was bogus. Nothing they've done in this room so far is anything Shane had wanted to try. And yet, Ilya's presence has shaved away the fear and disgust. He's made the experience tolerable to the point that Shane's not so sure he's going to need too much therapy after this. He doesn't feel unsafe with this stranger, who he's only ever seen from afar and interacted with via encrypted texts.

        By the time twenty minutes have passed, Shane feels ready to combust, but it doesn't feel like he's been waiting over a quarter of an hour for release.

        Blessedly, Ilya doesn't make him wait any longer. Spilling lube over Shane's dick, he works the plug first slowly, and then in quick, jabbing movements that have Shane's eyes rolling to the back of his head. His mouth won't stop making noises, desperate mewling wordless requests for more.

        "Good. We will work on this in future. Looks like you enjoy having dick fucked," Ilya says, pulling the stretching plug out and dumping it onto the roller table.

        And then, immediately, his mouth is around the head of Shane's dick.

        Whimpering, Shane stares down his body, confused at what's happening as Ilya just stops there. He finds sharp blue eyes staring back at him. Ilya lets his mouth fill with saliva and then starts to work the drool into the hole he's stretched, letting it slide in before sucking it back out again.

        Whining at the strange, overwhelming pleasure of it, Shane complains, "Th-this isn't a blow...blowjob." He's breathless over the way Ilya tongues at his piss slit, applying the kind of pressure that feels like a promise to one day penetrate the space he's carving out for himself.

        And Shane feels the alpha in him sit up and take notice. Rolling his neck to ease the perturbed feeling coming from within, Shane looks away, shifting his gaze into the corner.

        It doesn't last long, a large hand taking hold of Shane's jaw and turning his head so that he's forced to watch the bigger alpha pull off and spit on his dick, thumb working it over the head and dragging over his urethral slit in a way that exposes its sudden openness and malleability.

        "Good, sweet bitch," Ilya says softly, eyes molten as he stares at Shane, hunger in the way he licks his lips. "Is great gift, reshaping you into perfect mate," he says, voice turning low, too intimate and too quiet for the cameras.

        Shane feels a pang at that. "Weren't you going to mate an alpha? Or did you not mate her because she wouldn't agree to change for you?" he asks in a whisper, hating just how much he cares about the answer. He's not going to stay an alpha regardless, and they're being forced to mate. Ilya's authentic preferences are irrelevant.

        Curving over him and leaning in to say the words into Shane's ear, Ilya says, "Designation is not important. But you are learning to like what I like. You are learning to play like I play. And someday, you will show me in other direction. Make me perfect mate for you in return." And he punctuates it with a quick kiss to Shane's cheek.

        "Oh," he breaths out, struck dumb over hearing such an oddly touching sentiment being shared with him in this otherwise repugnant situation.

        When in the next moment Ilya swallows him down to the root in an amazing feat of deep throating, Shane's still too fucking breathless to make a sound as his body spasms, muscles tightening, every part of him trying to curl inward as he cums down Ilya's throat. His hips try to mindlessly shift away from the bigger alpha as his pleasure spikes higher with the way Ilya's gripping the base of his dick in a harsh cuff, preventing it from thickening with a knot, turning his orgasm into a long, drawn out wave.

        And he's still breathless, when Ilya starts stripping his own cock, working it in long, efficient strokes, until he's cumming over Shane.

        "Gross," he mumbles, looking down at the mess all over his chest and splattered across his pelvis and thighs, some of Ilya's spend even covering his dick. "How the fuck did you shoot so much?"

        "Is proportional, no?"

        "Is it?" Shane asks, still flummoxed over how much of him has been painted white with Ilya's orgasm.

        "You are neat freak, yes? This part is also one you will not like," Ilya says as Shane notices the man doesn't seem to be reaching for a washcloth or a wet wipe.

        "Am I going to like anything we do together?" Shane asks, already hating where this is going.

        Ilya tilts his head at the pouches still on the table, as if to remind Shane that he actually did end up liking the plug, but out loud, he says, "Not yet. Maybe after tomorrow."

        Which is not what Shane wants to hear. Multiple days of this is just...not good. Swallowing hard, he keeps his questions to himself. A second later, all his concerns about what that means for meals and using the restroom, and sleeping, leave his head, replaced by outrage as Ilya starts to work his cum over and into Shane's skin.

        Kneeing his legs apart and using his body as a wedge to hold them open, Ilya starts rubbing it into the creases between Shane's thighs, over his balls, along his perineum, against his hole. He dips his cum-slick thumb into the rim, pulling down enough to push more into the first inch of the opening.

        "Stop it! Come on, I already smell like you! You've been sweating on me and you licked me all over not too long ago. This is fucking overkill!"

        But nothing Shane says manages to dissuade him as Ilya moves on to massage it into the backs of Shane's knees and arm pits, along his wrists and under the slope of Shane's pecs.

        Shane's so sure it can't get worse, but then Ilya starts running his mouth.

        "You look so pretty like this. Like fucked out mess. Like every thought has disappeared and you are just exposed nerve, waiting to be worked over again. If you see your eyes, you would be surprised. So much fire, so much energy, but hazy with lust."

        He doesn't realize it's a distraction until Ilya's trailing cum-dipped fingers into the hollows of Shane's clavicles, then up his neck, over his gland, behind his fucking ears, and then, above Shane's fucking lip so that he's forced to breath in the smell of Ilya's culminated pleasure with every inhale.

        He's spitting mad over it, ready to rip Ilya a verbal new one, but he never gets the chance. Because Ilya uses his clean had to squeeze the hinges of Shane's jaw with enough pressure to force him to open. And then the fucker spoons one of the bigger gobs of cum off Shane's chest and feeds it to him.

        He tries to spit it out, but Ilya's fingers lodge in his mouth, depressing his tongue, petting over the muscle as if that will soothe him. He can't clamp down in a punishing bite because of the pressure still keeping his jaw open. In the end, he's force to swallow it down and then keep sucking at Ilya's fingers to keep from drooling all over himself and adding to the tacky, sticky, unpleasantness he's stuck in for...

        "Twenty minutes," the fucker says, a strangely apologetic curve to his mouth even as his eyes look amused at Shane's outrage.

        He spends the next twenty minutes complimenting Shane in ways that are filthy and degrading, but somehow still fucking, irredeemably hot. And all the while, Shane's trapped, suckling on Ilya's fingers and smelling his musk with every drawn breath.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Why is there not a tag for 'the porn is the plot' because I think it is very accurate here. Or maybe I have an issue where I can't write one without the other.

By the way...if you're looking for a Russian song to listen to on a loop, this one is fun:
Игорь Скляр, Atomic Heart - Komarovo (DVRST Phonk Remix) 1 hour | 1 час

If you're looking for a vaguely soviet inspired instrumental song to listen to on a loop :
Papers Please OST - Death Extended

If you're looking for a moody 80s song with Russian themes but some English :
GARBO - Perestroika(DANCE VIDEOMIX)

And if you're looking for a pop song that overuses the word love and is fun to bop around to:
Время и Стекло - Имя 505

If you have any suggestions, would love to hear them. And as always, thank you so much for comments. They really help in working on this.
<3 And thank you for giving this work a chance ;)

       Another twenty minute wait, but this time Shane starts to feel uneasy. As Ilya pets and rubs at him, flicking the nipple suckers periodically and rocking his fingers into Shane's mouth, the unease grows. The alpha inside him seems to be pacing, unsettled.

        Upset.

        Shane finds himself shifting his shoulders, fidgeting with the chains on the cuffs he's wearing, still attached to the bed. His toes flex and curl and his knees try to come back together despite Ilya's bulk keeping them wide apart.

        "You cannot smell yourself, yes?" Ilya asks suddenly, sliding his fingers out of Shane's mouth.

        "What?" Shane asks, startled out of his distraction.

        "Can you?" Ilya prompts again, nodding at him as if to encourage him to try.

        Frowning up at the larger man, Shane takes a deep breath through his nose, and the feeling of wrongness increases. Ilya's face looks like he's confirmed something for him. "No, that can't be it," Shane insists. "It's not like I ever sit around in a cloud of my own funk. I shower twice daily," he emphasizes, trying to convey that he's not someone who would notice not being able to smell himself.

        "Is not just absence. Strong smell of other alpha all over you, touching you, covering where your own scent is strongest. Subconscious notices. Skin notices."

        Shane snorts. "Your cum is not a cream. I think you're wrong about this."

        Ilya tisks at him, looking genuinely annoyed for once. "Popular opinion is Canadian schools are good. Now, I think this is wrong. What they teach you there? Seminal fluid is ninety percent of semen. And yes, semen will not magically sink into your skin. But water, proteins, and urea in seminal fluid will sink in enough for alpha to notice. Why you think is so rude to not clean up?"

        "Because it's gross," Shane says slowly, feeling truly out of his depth in this moment. Because it's a good question. Why doesn't he know this? He's never fooled around, but he's known many kids and young adults who were promiscuous throughout his schooling. Had they known about all this shit? About things that could change your designation? Was there a manual Shane hadn't received that everyone else did? Were parents out there, telling their kids about this stuff?

        "Shh," Ilya hushes against his ear, hands running over Shane's sides with enough pressure to be soothing. "You know now you have knowledge gap. When we leave, you will learn," Ilya promises.

        Shane's head turns sharply towards Ilya, startling the other man. The fucker deserves it because Shane feels like he's been zapped. He meets that sharp-eyed gaze head on, mouth loose with disbelief. He can't say it out loud, but internally he's freaking out.

        Because how does Ilya know that its his own ignorance bothering him?

        Their exchanges had always been factual and dry prior to today. And no one at the Bureau would have leaked such a stupid, specific quirk of Shane's during their more involved interactions with Ilya Rozanov. On the off chance they had, it would still mean Ilya remembered it well enough to utilize the information, who knows how much later.

        Regardless of whether Shane's given something away in the past few hours, or Ilya's using some agent's rambling anecdotes to make Shane feel better, the end result is the same. Shane feels unnervingly seen.

        And what he sees in return, in Ilya's attentiveness and care, his cleverness and subterfuge, is only made more appealing because of it.

        Even though they're going to be forced into mating by the end of this, it still feels inherently unsafe to be so rapidly developing such a strong attraction to someone he doesn't know. And he fucking hopes it's just attraction and not attachment, because that's something he cannot deal with.

        He swallows hard and winces at the dryness of his throat.

        "Need water?" Ilya asks, because of course he notices.

        "Yes, please."

        With a snort, Ilya lifts off him with a parting rub across his cheek, along the most prominent stretch of freckles. "Polite Canadian boy," he teases, on his trek over to the mini-fridge in the corner.

        "Fuck you," Shane says, reflexively. The already weak rejoinder is just further ruined by the crack in his dried out voice.

        With an amused hum, Ilya smirks at him, returning with a chilled bottle of water.

        Shane starts to sit up, expecting Ilya to uncuff one of his hands and hand him the opened bottle. Instead, Ilya straddles his waist and takes a swig.

        "Is this another alpha thing?" Shane asks. "Are you going to deprive me of water until my alpha gives up the ghost?"

        Ilya makes a face at the expression, likely unfamiliar with it, but doesn't respond because his mouth is still full of unswallowed water. Leaning over Shane, Ilya thumbs his mouth open and presses their lips together, and only then does Shane realize the water's still for him. He's just not going to be allowed to drink it like a normal human being.

        The strangeness coupled with the unease of his alpha has Shane trying to jerk away. Before he can do more than twitch, Ilya catches his chin with his huge hand, grip gentle but firm as he cups Shane's jaw. The hold is too strong to break and Shane's sincere thirst drains the fight out of him.

        It starts off awkward and messy as water misses its mark, streaming out the sides of Shane's mouth and across Ilya's fingers. After a second, Ilya manages to control the stream of water out of his own mouth and into Shane's and then he keeps their lips pressed together until Shane swallows. He's not sure why until Ilya's tongue licks past the seam of Shane's lips and the pressure on his mouth increases. Between all the weird ways he's been touched these last few hours, it takes a long moment for Shane to realize it's a kiss.

        He's being kissed.

        At no point had he noticed that they'd skipped over this particular intimacy. And even if he had noticed, it wouldn't have occurred to Shane to push for this.

        He's only ever kissed women, which he suddenly realizes might be why he'd always considered the activity banal and uninteresting, if not an outright sensory nightmare. What, with the stickiness of lip gloss, the moist heat, the up close sounds of breathing, the smell of their last meal or beverage, the color or fucking endless bits of glitter staining his own mouth when it's over...

        But with a man - or maybe with Ilya in particular - Shane finds himself straining upwards, chasing Ilya's lips as they leave his. The water he'd been so thirsty for suddenly becomes a secondary concern. As Ilya's mouth returns, watering him with a deliberately controlled stream, Shane swallows quickly and moves to close the breath of distance between them, sucking Ilya's bottom lip into his mouth.

        The noise Ilya makes at this, Shane's first show of initiative, sounds fucking wounded. The sound cuts off quickly, but Ilya gives in for moment, indulging Shane with a deep kiss.

        Logically, Shane doesn't understand why there's a difference. Other than the lack of lip gloss, everything else should still hold true. And kind of does.

        Ilya's mouth tastes of them - a strange, vaguely edible flavor, between salty and savory, diluted by water and spit. It should disgust him, but he can't help sucking at the tongue that's mapping the inside of his mouth.

        Given previous experience, it should feel off-putting to have that foreign muscle licking over his teeth, dipping into grooves, grazing the roof of his mouth, the insides of his cheeks.

        And Ilya's breathing is no quieter than a woman's. There's still panting as Ilya nips at Shane's lips and starts to lap into his mouth, varying his pace so that it's suddenly another act of penetration.

        But it is different.

        In defiance of logic, kissing Ilya feels satiating. It introduces an ache, and then fills it.

        When Ilya suddenly tears away, Shane has no control over the whimper that comes out of his throat.

        "Dangerous," he mutters, tracing Shane's bottom lip with his thumb, trailing spit along the swelling skin he's bitten into a darker rouge. "Kissing is allowed in public. Is not considered indecent. How will I take you anywhere when kissing feels like this? You should warn people. Do not kiss me. It will ruin your life."

        "Our lives are already ruined," Shane says unthinkingly. He freezes, surprised by how immediately the rejoinder slipped out, and wondering whether he's fucked up. Whether Ilya will stop kissing him and just shove the water bottle at him to drink alone.

        But rather than taking offense, Ilya studies him for a long moment and says, "Nyet. You are too good to be ruined. I will not allow this,"  in a low whisper so that, without it being spoken directly into Shane's ear, he can barely make it out.

        "I feel the same way," Shane admits, tilting his head and straining up, speaking slowly in his own whisper so that Ilya can fully understand. "You're too good to be ruined. I want your future to be bright." He really does mean that. The sharpness in his face, the ageless quality of his eyes, his imposing stature - it all works to build the illusion that Ilya's older than he seems, but the man is just a months older than Shane. Still in his twenties, with decades of growth ahead of him. And despite everything in his life working to pull him deeper into the dark, into the seedy underbelly of the criminal world, despite his family being in charge and having influenced him since childhood, Ilya decided to turn his back on all of it. To become an informant, even though getting caught would mean a horrific death. If he were to get caught in a way where people in the organization knew about it, they'd make an example out of him. Brutalizing him and making it a spectacle. Shane's not sure if that's better or worse than if Ilya were to get caught quietly, by someone in the inner circle, or one of his family members. Because then, they'd make him disappear, working to erase even the memory of him. This man deserves so much better than his terrible family and toxic 'coworkers'. 

        Shane does not expect his wish to be met with a growl as Ilya plunges his tongue back into his mouth. And fuck, but Ilya's right about these kisses.

        They're fucking devastating. Shane's body shudders, causing the stupid fucking nipple suckers to jiggle, as he feels his bones melt, the whole of him going loose and languid as all the tension drains out. He can feel his heart pounding in a way he's not used to. His finger tips are tingling and his arms somehow feel empty, like they're meant to be around Ilya's shoulders, cradling the larger alpha and keeping him close. He doesn't want it to end. Would happily spend the rest of the day making up for the quarter century he spent oblivious to the magic that is kissing someone you desire.

        But again, Ilya's first to pull away, groaning. "You are supposed to drink. Water, not spit. Stop distracting me," he mumbles into the skin of Shane's neck.

        "Fuck you. This is your fault. You could have handed me the bottle instead of opening this can of worms. Wish I wasn't learning you can actually enjoy kissing in this, of all rooms."

        Ilya slowly raises his head, blue eyes looking vaguely flinty as he catches Shane's gaze. "This is joke, yes? You kiss people before this..."

        "Sure," Shane says, eyes going wide. He's not even lying. It's the truth.

        And yet, Ilya doesn't seem to read it that way, if the horror that flashes across his face is anything to go by.

        "No, I mean it. I really have," Shane rushes to assure him, speaking over Ilya's cursing.

        "No good kisses. No real sex. You hug people Hollander, or will we find out together that you like being held?"

        Shane doesn't know how to respond to that. "I have parents," he tells Ilya. "And a friend who has kids and a wife. They're all extroverts who like to hug. Except maybe for my dad, but he still hugs me."

        Ilya stares at him like he's finding out Shane's secretly an alien. Looking utterly confused, he asks, "You ever visit designation therapist? Check if maybe alpha is disordered?"

        "What?!" The yelp that comes out almost feels like an extension of the alpha in him.

        "You are not touch-starved?" Ilya asks, more pointedly. "No feelings of being detached? Far from body? Far from self?"

        Shane shrugs. "How the fuck would I know?" he asks. "I've always been the same way, so..."

        Breathing deep and letting it out through his nose, Ilya says, "Much will change. Transition will not be hard in usual ways. You alpha has been quiet. Invisible. Unfelt. Biggest change will be disappearance of detachment. Omega will be part of you, not off to side."

        Shane shakes his head. "People are different. Not everyone works the same way."

        Nosing at the side of his head, Ilya doesn't argue with him. And then he stiffens, realizing once again how far they've drifted from their roles. His posture straightens and without another word, he turns watering Shane into something rote and methodical. And he doesn't stop at the one bottle. Even after Shane says he's had enough, Ilya makes him drink another full sixteen ounce bottle and half of another one.

        There's no pulling away from him and Shane's not willing to force his hand by refusing to swallow.

        And in this way, he goes from being thirsty to satisfied to overfull in...twenty fucking minutes.

        "How you feel?" Ilya asks, fitting a hand over Shane's stomach, cupping it in a way that reminds Shane of expecting fathers. The alpha in him cringes away, horror rolling through him as he wonders if new life really can grow in a former alpha.

        "You gave me too much," he complains. "Why didn't you stop?"

        Ilya shrugs. "More messages to alpha. You drink water, but only with my spit in it. Meaning other alpha provided for your needs. I give you more than you want. This says other alpha decides when is enough. Control is not yours. Whole process is just messages. And next message is also one you will not like."

        "You can stop telling me that," Shane mutters. "You've already said I won't like any of it until the day after tomorrow."

        Raising an eyebrow, Ilya gives him a doubtful look. "Quiet would hurt you," he says like it's a fact. "Yes, maybe you remember, but if reminder is missing, you will feel..." Ilya waves a hand, at a loss as the word he's looking for eludes him.

        "Untethered?" Shane asks, wondering himself at how well the word fits.

        "Is mean what?"

        "Like the opposite of grounded? As if you've been let go and you're floating away without direction?" Shane offers, thinking about what the word means in context and to him in particular.

        "Yes," Ilya decides. "Good word. Terrible to say."

        Shane smirks at him, amused that he's bolstering Ilya's vocabulary with words containing the dreaded 'th'.

        Flicking one of the nipple suckers, Ilya says, "Will not be so funny when I teach you hard Russian words," before lightly gripping the two bulbs and lifting them up without breaking the vacuum seal.

        Shane whimpers, straining to follow the upward motion to relieve the pressure being concentrated in his nipples.

        "These will be next message," Ilya says, softly. Tone changing, he continues, much louder, "These will become bitch tits. Will make them stick out longer from your chest, more sensitive, visible through shirt. Pretty teats to pull and suck, so alpha knows it is being asked to change to omega. That these," he tugs the suckers a little harder, "are for nursing and should be prepared to one day fill with milk."

        Oh, fuck no. 

        Shaking his head, Shane tries to scrabble away from Ilya, up the bed. The thought of having breasts is giving him palpitations. His panic feeds him horrifying scenarios. Like being called into his supervisor's office at work and being told he needs to start wearing a bra to work. Or having one slip out the side of one of his workout shirts at the gym, catching the attention of the person he's spotting.

        As his breaths turn shallow and become more frequent, Ilya leans into Shane's ear and hushes him, cooing into the shell. "Shh, breathe like me. Match my pace," he says, exaggerating his breathing so Shane can follow along more easily. And once he's got him on the right pace, he kisses Shane's cheek and says, "Whatever you imagine, is worse than reality. Without baby, there is no milk. Nipple sucking is not surgery. If big tits so easy to shape with just mouth and toy, plastic surgery would not be so popular."

        "B-but they wi-will change...won't they?" Shane struggles to get out between still strained breaths.

        "Not much, no. Is why former alphas can be spotted in crowd of omegas. Larger dicks and smaller tits."

        "I don't want to have tits," Shane practically wails.

        "Shh..." Ilya pets his head, but the look he gives him is confused. "You already have tits. You make them this big already. They bother you now?" he asks, squeezing Shane's chest lightly, fingers digging into his pectorals and jiggling the meat he finds there.

        "That's mostly muscle," Shane hisses, trying to twist his body away from the suggestively grasping hands.

        "Muscle to fat ratio is question of diet and exercise. Is still tit. Will you feel better if we take measurement? I think mine are bigger than yours," he says, flexing his chest obnoxiously.

        "Fuck you," Shane says, shaking his head in disbelief. He has no idea if this is a question of language or kink or something else entirely, but it's making him feel a little feral. Fueled by anxiety and the rising feeling of wrongness coming from his alpha, he tries to buck Ilya off of him. "Why are you so fucking heavy?" he growls. It feels like he's trying to lift a boulder.

        In response, Ilya stops being passive, shifting his seat so that he's pinning Shane's legs down at the thighs, taking away most of his leverage and then those fucking massive hands fasten themselves to his hips, pushing down.

        There's a brief feeling of hope in Shane that, as long as he keeps fighting, Ilya will have to stay like this. With no limbs available to work on delivering that next message.

        Hope dies a very swift death.

        Because Ilya is taller, broader, and with at least thirty additional pounds of muscle packed onto his long limbs. So when the fucker stretches out and lays that densely-packed weight over Shane, it effectively pins him to the bed.

        "No," he whines, and the distress he feels at the thought of his body changing in such a visible and obvious way - that maybe someone from across the room or down the street will be able to tell his designation just by looking at him - is enough to make him tear up.

        Ilya doesn't panic, but his own scent starts to get heavy in the room, and he's suddenly cradling Shane's head against his neck and petting his hair. Ilya's chest starts to vibrate with the rumbling, animal purr that Shane hasn't heard or felt in years.

        Not since he was a little boy, cradled in his alpha mother's arms as she tried to soothe him after his carefully organized pencil box fell open, spilling everything he'd spent an hour categorizing, sharpening, fixing into place onto the floor. He'd taken one look at the mess - the glue bottle with its top popped off, contents spilled all over the wooden floor and in between the cracks in the boards, broken and chipped pencils with their erasers probably ruined by the sticky puddle they were laying in, the roll of tape coated in gunk, the little calculator with its cheap, plastic backing chipped and battery half-out, markers with their caps fallen off - and he'd burst into hysterical sobs. He remembers that day so clearly, even though much of his other memories from that time period are just a wash of hazy impressions and foggy recollections.

        To have a strange alpha purring at him the way his mother did two decades ago is enough to carve straight through his distress. It feels like such an overreaction. It's not like he's actively crying. The alpha in him is upset, and the everyday implications of having more prominent nipples or a higher ratio of fat in his chest because of a hormone change, is something he thinks is worth being upset about.

        But for his mild distress to trigger another alpha's comfort-purring response is just...kind of ridiculous. At work, there have been plenty of moments where coworkers have gotten teary-eyed. Hayden regularly gets a bit emotional reading through case reports and victim accounts. No one's ever purred at the beta to try and cheer him up. Thinking about it more, Shane realizes he's never seen an adult comfort-purr at another adult. He's never even seen his mom purr at his dad. Maybe it's because they've never been in an accident, and there haven't been any funerals...

        But even in movies...he's seen omegas comforting alphas or children on screen, but in alphas, that purr is such a unique sound and such a difficult response to trigger, that no big box movie has ever tried to fake it, and Shane doesn't watch the kind of daytime TV soap operas that might.

        Baffled, Shane noses into Ilya's neck and murmurs, "Hey, are you okay?"

        Ilya's purr cuts off. He looks down at Shane, wide black pupils eating up the blue of his eyes. "You are afraid," Ilya says, like it's an answer.

        "Um...no. That's not really...I'm not afraid of tits. I mean, fuck..." Shane huffs in frustration. "Alright, you asshole, I want you to swear I'm not suddenly going to end up needing a bra if I let you do this. I'm so fucking serious. If I can't go to work in just a button down shirt after this, I will fucking cut your balls off and feed them to a squirrel."

        Ilya blinks at him. "Canadian squirrels eat meat?"

        Shane's nose twitches. "That's not the point."

        "Also, very scandalous to show up at work in only business shirt. Do you buy so long shirts, they cover your ass? Or is not so important?"

        "Fuck you, you asshole. You know what I mean!" Shane growls, even as he wonders if anyone watching finds it weird to see Ilya so playful. Or does it come across differently on camera? Without seeing Ilya's soft eyes and fond smile, does his teasing sound meaner? More callous?

        "Bra is personal decision. With such sensitive nipples like you, I would wear bra already. Maybe also cup. And ear warmers. Scarf too. This why you live in Canada? Need cold to let you hide sensitive body in big sweaters?"

        Shane lets him go on teasing him, his attention less on the words and more on the tone. With some relief, Shane realizes he does sound mean. Like he's exploiting Shane's weakness to make fun of him. And then he wonders how many of those low level guys actually know English well enough to even understand Ilya's teasing.

        With only a tone, a view of Ilya's huge body keeping an already-chained-up Shane pinned, maybe this does read as harsh. And then he wonders how much of Ilya is always filtered through a lens like that. Seeing only one point of view? Hearing only the mean part of what he's saying? Reading into his tone and deciding there must be cruelty and coldness in it?

        As if to catch his wandered attention, Ilya flicks both of the nipple suckers at the same time.

        Biting back a moan, Shane suppresses the need to flinch away, his instinct still insisting on distance. To get away from the alpha who's crossing his boundaries.

        "Ok?" Ilya asks.

        "Fine," Shane says, shortly.

        Though his eyes are locked on Shane's expression, vigilant now that he knows Shane might react negatively, Ilya still takes him at his word. His fingers massage the meat of Shane's chest first, slowly working inwards toward where the stupid looking nipple suckers protrude from Shane's chest like little party hats. He tugs on them, gently at first. Then with more insistence. Pulling them up and holding for long seconds, before offering release.

        Watching him do it, Shane feels his cheeks flood with heat. It looks so mundane. Trivial and easy and...silly. The nipple suckers look silly. Like something you could put on a friend who'd fallen asleep at the beach as a joke. A prank to make them look funny. Not something that could have Shane rock hard after just a few minutes of light teasing.

        "Is new to you, playing with nipples?" Ilya asks, thumbing the sucker tops so that they wobble.

        Eating another moan, Shane says, "Who the fuck plays with their nipples?"

        "People with sensitive ones like yours," Ilya snorts.

        "You made them sensitive," Shane argues.

        "How would you know if you never touch them?"

        A fair question, Shane supposes. As he's trying to think of a snarky comeback, Ilya squeezes the bulbs, releasing the vacuum seal and freeing his nipples.

        Shane stares at them in shock, eyes tearing at the sight in a way that's completely out of his control. They're so fucking long. Nothing like they should look. Standing out from his chest in a really obvious, elongated way, Shane's nipples are dark with blood rush and prickly with the feeling of 'too much'. The slightest gush of air as Ilya shifts, breath close and billowing down towards his chest, has him shivering. "You promised," he whines.

        "Is temporary," Ilya says, petting his hair as his purring starts up again. "Here, let me fix."

        And then he does the opposite of fixing it by leaning down and suckling at one of Shane's nipples like it really is a milk-filled teat.

        "S-st-sto-" Shane's voice disappears as Ilya tickles a nail over the other nipple and then starts working it with his fingers, squeezing and pulling directly, without the rubber barrier nullifying some of the effects.

        It's too much.

        As if there's a direct line from Shane's nipples to his cock, every lick, every wet suckle, every flick of nail against flesh makes his dick jump. For all that he has strong feelings about this, a part of him loves it. Ironically, the alpha in him feels disappointed that he can't actually provide Ilya with milk. As if it somehow means Ilya can't rely on him for his needs.

        And that disappointment pings inside of him, sharp and pointed, even as externally he 's arching into Ilya's mouth, thrusting his chest out, begging with his body that Ilya keep sucking and licking at his nipples.

        Of course, Ilya obliges, nipping at the sensitive flesh, licking at the raised peaks, rubbing at the ends.

        "So pretty. Makes me think of flower buds, waiting to bloom," Ilya tells him. "Bright and swaying. Do not wear bra. Is not right to hide sweet, tiny tits, even if sensitive. Go outside and let wind make you cum. No one will complain."

        Too breathless to defend himself, and far too close to begging Ilya for the very thing he was just fighting to avoid, Shane bites his lip and tries to endure without embarrassing himself further.

        But Shane's cock doesn't get the memo. The next time Ilya runs a nail over one nipple and bites the other, his spine stiffens with imminent release.

        Immediately, Ilya changes tack, sliding down Shane's body and sucking the head of Shane's dick into his mouth. One hand tightens over the base of Shane's dick, preventing his knot from forming, while the other squeezes tight over Shane's pec, as if it really were a breast.

        Shane cums, but with a heavy feeling of wrongness in his gut. As if it shouldn't have happened this way. He's puzzled enough that Ilya reads it in his expression when he finally surfaces.

        "What's wrong?" he asks, the rumble returning, as if he can just trigger it on command.

        Deciding on honesty, Shane admits, "That felt weird."

        "You feel weird or alpha feel weird?"

        "The alpha."

        Ilya snorts. "Question should not be so easy for you to answer. Other alphas do not recognize difference between self and designation. Is very integrated. But ok, yes, this weird feeling is why it is rude to touch alpha like this. For alpha, feels like I decide to use you as substitute. Sucking only tip like is a clit, squeezing chest to make tit look bigger...Is like negging alpha."

        "Who taught you the word negging?" Shane asks, because it's the easiest part to focus on. Nothing else Ilya said sounds like something Shane wants to acknowledge.

        He hates that it's true. That instead of satiated by his orgasm, Shane feels depleted. Low. Not good enough. Like he's been given a bad performance review. And it's worse that Ilya didn't cum. That the scent of the other alpha's fresh release is missing from the room. As if Shane's selfishly pursued his own orgasm without considering his partner. His head ducks down in something not too far from shame, despite having just heard Ilya describe how calculated and intentional it all was. An explanation, the bare-faced logic, doesn't override the feelings elicited. And Shane hates that.

        Ilya leans into Shane, chest starting to vibrate as his purr deepens. "Sorry," he murmurs into Shane's neck as he mouths at the gland, running his teeth over it in a tease.

        At first, Shane thinks it's for the weird orgasm. But his alpha only gets more distressed as the seconds pass. Shane tilts his head away from Ilya thoughtlessly, exposing his neck and making the gland more prominent as a result.

        When all Ilya does is kiss over it, Shane's teeth snap in irritation. Only then, irrational anger thrumming through him, does Shane realize the apology was also for this teasing. For touching that spot with a considering, indecisive softness, likely deepening that message of 'not enough'.

        With a new knot of anxiety in his stomach and distress permeating his thoughts, Shane almost doesn't notice that his discomfort isn't just mental. It's also physical.

        With Ilya still pressed against him and after being forced to consume two and half bottles of water, Shane really needs to go to the bathroom. And fuck...he's going to have to ask for permission, as if he's back in elementary school.

        There's enough offended alpha still in him to try demanding, "Take off the cuffs. I need to go to the bathroom."

        "How bad?" Ilya asks, lifting up so that he can palm the space between Shane's belly button and pelvic bone. Right over his bladder.

        "Don't!" Shane yelps, authoritative voice gone in an instant.

        "Be good boy and ask nicely."

        "Fuck you," Shane growls.

        The pressure of Ilya's palm against his bladder increases.

        Shane whimpers, but it doesn't garner him any sympathy.

        In fact, the pressure goes up a notch.

        "Please?" Shane tries, biting his lip. Nervous at how much he desperately needs to go.

        "Nicer," Ilya orders, nipping Shane's earlobe and pulling it into his mouth while his palm rubs a heavy circle into Shane's bladder.

        Frozen in horror, so fucking close to losing control, Shane starts outright begging. "Please, Ilya, please. I'll do whatever you want, say whatever you want. Just let me go to the bathroom." Inspiration hits and Shane says, "Y-you're so good at taking care of me. I want to do whatever you ask me to. I promise I'll be good. Just, please let me go to the bathroom."

        Complimenting another alpha's ability to provide for him has to count for something. He's not sure if that's the line that ultimately has Ilya standing up, but the important part is that his lower abdomen isn't being squeezed anymore.

        "Ok," Ilya says, voice strangely low, in a register he hasn't used before. Detaching the chains from the bed, he lets Shane stand before forcing the cuffs back together again, behind Shane's back.

        Gritting his teeth, Shane glares at the man, but he's too tired to argue about the cuffs. Maneuvering in the bathroom without the use of his hands will be a trick, but he figures he can manage it. Lift the lid with a foot, squat down so there's no way to miss the toilet bowl, flush with his foot...He doesn't like it, but he can do it.

        Except that Ilya's hands find his shoulders before he can get more than a foot away from him.

        "What?" he asks.

        Ilya gently pushes him forward, leading him from behind. Past the Murphy door, into the bathroom, and around the waist-high privacy wall that separates the shower from the toilet.

        "Thanks, but I knew this was here. I saw it when we were taking a shower. By the way, when do I get the next one? Your cum is starting to flake off, it's so dry. I'm starting to feel itchy."

        "This is not tour," Ilya says, pulling Shane to stand in front of the toilet and then standing directly behind him. One hand wraps around Shane's waist, pulling him in tight, while the other one takes hold of Shane's dick.

        "What are you doing?" Shane asks, going stiff as he mentally prays this isn't what he thinks it is. Hoping Ilya will let go in a second and leave the room.

        "Aiming," Ilya says, tone so fucking nonchalant. Like it's normal. Like this is just a thing people do. As if Shane's the weird one for never having held another man's dick as he was trying to go to the bathroom.

        Red in the face, Shane tries to lean away far enough from Ilya's chest to throw an elbow. When that just results in Ilya dragging him closer, arm tight around where Shane definitely can't stand it to be, he tries to stomp his heel into Ilya's instep, but the bigger man just widens his stance, pulling his feet out of good stomping range.

        "Why can't you just let me do this in peace?" Shane rages, head swinging back, hoping his skull smashes into the other alpha's nose.

        "Extinction burst cannot be rewarded," Ilya tells him, squeezing the base of Shane's dick in warning. "Behave or I make you piss on floor and then walk you through it. No shower. Will tell poor woman who cleans it up that you have accident. And I will not give you chance to tell her apology."

        Shane's mouth falls open, shocked at the threat. So fucking specific and like it was tailor made to actually punish him. He's so caught off guard that he turns to look over his shoulder at Ilya.

        His expression is serious. And the look in his eyes is knowing.

        Shane can't believe it.

        Thank fuck that Ilya hates his association to crime, because he'd be a dangerous enemy to have. Perceptive, clever, creative...a recipe for a truly diabolical mobster, or a scary as hell mate. Wide-eyed and swallowing hard, Shane flips back around as a zing goes through his nerves. Fuck...he's never going to be able to get away with anything.

        Massaging over Shane's lower abdomen, Ilya asks him after a long moment, "You piss shy?"

        "Shut up."

        "Should I turn on faucet? Make you think of waterfalls?"

        "Shut. Up."

        "Maybe I put my cock between your legs and take piss so you do not feel so alone?"

        "Shut up! You're not helping! This isn't fucking normal and all I need you to do is fucking shut up! You fucking asshole!"

        The asshole has the nerve to smile at that. Shane knows because he can feel the shape of it against the back of his neck. But blessedly, Ilya goes quiet. Doesn't say another word.

        Shane should know better that silence is not a good thing.  He's an agent, for fuck's sake. He should have already learned to be suspicious of Ilya's silence.

        As he stands there, dick in Ilya's hand, trying to remember how to unclench enough to go to the bathroom, he feels wetness at the back of his neck. Not a little, but a lot. A stream of drool wetting the lower edge of his hair and sliding down his neck in a warm, rolling slither downwards.

        And then Ilya licks it up and does it again.

        With a bewildered groan, Shane asks, "Why are you so gross?" But his body betrays him, rewarding Ilya's outrageous efforts by finally opening up the floodgates.

        As Shane releases his bladder, Ilya aims his dick for him, thumb rubbing gentle, encouraging circles at his base, while his other hand massages over his lower abdomen. "Good boy," he murmers, hot against Shane's ear. Still fucking smiling.

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

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Chapter Notes

If you're reading chapter notes, maybe you recall a story I mentioned. About how this concept could probably be done in canon. I figured out how, without retreading stuff from this story. It's sort of hinted at in this chapter.

Not sure if I'll write it, but it's not great that I'm already dreaming up scenes and conversations for it...
Thanks again for being so helpful in motivating me with comments. Any time I find myself struggling, I look back at the comments and realize that there are people actively reading this. <3

Also, Happy Valentine's Day.
Luckily, I have the bandwidth to just keep writing today, so guess I'll go continue doing that...

         After Shane's done relieving himself, Ilya doesn't shake his dick to get the last drops of urine into the bowl. Choosing instead to run his thumb over the tip to remove the last bit of moisture.

        "Don't you dare fucking touch me," Shane says, immediately leaning away from that hand. With the way he's crowded into the alcove, that just means he plasters himself harder against Ilya's chest. Voluntarily. After suffering the unique humiliation of having another man 'let' him go to the bathroom. Or making him go?

        With the back of his neck sloppy with Ilya's spit and the man's arm still tight around his waist, depressing his lower abdomen, it certainly doesn't feel like he went voluntarily. And his alpha agrees. He can feel it wild and snarling in the back of his head. But for all the irritation thrumming under Shane's skin, there's a quality to it that feels closer to defeated than defiant.

        "Relax," Ilya says. "We are taking shower now. Piss will wash off." But he keeps his hand off to the side, making it clear he won't touch Shane with his urine-wet fingers. Won't make him flinch away like a bully at the school yard until ultimately 'winning' by doing the thing Shane asked him not to.

        In other words, he acts like a normal, polite adult and it makes Shane feel unaccountably touched. As if the man has done him a favor. Knowing he shouldn't feel grateful for not being antagonized further doesn't keep him from experiencing the feeling. And for the first time, Shane feels bad for the alpha in him. Like he's letting it down by having no control over his feelings.

        His distraction and discomfort is so high, that Ilya actually has to lead him into the shower despite how badly he wants one.

        "I will wash you thoroughly this time. You will tell me if I miss anything, so that maybe you feel clean while we sleep."

        "Sleep?" Shane repeats dumbly. "Isn't it too early for that? What time is it?"

        "Twenty-three o'clock."

        "Twenty-three hundred," Shane corrects automatically.

        "Why?" Ilya asks, baffled.

        "Because there's only twelve numbers on a clock face. O'clock is short for 'of the clock'. If you're using zero through twenty-three, it's considered military time, so you say hundred instead of o'clock."

        Mouth twisting in disgust, Ilya says, "Is stupid. New generation cannot even read clock face. And almost all people use digital clocks on phones and apple watches and alarm clocks next to bed. They should not teach o'clock any more then. Is antique."

        "Antiquated," Shane corrects, automatically. Shaking his head, Shane can't believe they're having this conversation in the secret shower of a mafia-owned warehouse. The dissonance of being in this predicament, but also engaging in such an everyday conversation, is jarring.

        "If I say twenty-three o'clock, everyone understand, yes?"

        "Well...yeah."

        "Then fuck hundred. There is not hundred seconds in a minute. What, you go from twenty-two hundred and fifty-nine to twenty three hundred? Is stupid."

        Whether it's the day catching up to him, the exhaustion of stress and adrenaline and orgasms layered on top of each other, or genuine amusement, Shane's not sure, but he starts to laugh.

        Actually laugh, out loud.

        Nothing swallowed down. Nothing bit back. Nothing choked off.

        He laughs till he feels heat in his cheeks and actual tears stream down his face.

        And when he looks up, the last of gasps of hilarity petering away, Ilya's staring.

        Wide blue eyes in a fixed stare taking him in with a strange hunger glinting in the icy depths.

        Ilya's hand reaches up to turn on the shower, steaming up the room as warm water rains over them from above, the echo of pressure in the pipes and droplets against the plastic shower base loud in the little, tiled room. Loud enough to give them audio-privacy from the cameras.

        And in the temporary safety of the shower's generated white noise, Ilya leans in and says, "I hope I will make you laugh every day. You look so beautiful when you are really smiling. I want to be one of the reasons you really smile."

        Breath catching, Shane can't help the way he tries to devour Ilya's expression with his eyes. He wants to remember the way he looks in this moment - eyes lit up, the sharp panes of his face softened with the sudden loss of tension, lips gently parted like he's been genuinely awestruck just looking at Shane...

        With his arms still trapped behind him, Shame stands on his toes and sways into the arms Ilya raises immediately to catch him. He kisses the jut of Ilya's chin because it's as far as he can reach, but Ilya eagerly rewards his effort, hugging Shane close and kissing him.

        And it's like that one kiss opens the floodgates for Ilya. Even as he grabs a soaped up silicone scrub brush and starts to work it over Shane's cum-crusted skin, he keeps dropping kisses any place his mouth comes near.

        Pressing Shane back against the tiled wall, Ilya kneels down and picks up Shane's foot, working soap between every one of his toes and scrubbing slow and firm along the bottom of his foot, over the heel, up his ankle. But as he does it, his gaze is fixed on Shane's and he's kissing his calf, his knee, his thigh.

        And it feels like worship.

        It's too fucking much.

        Reddening with embarrassment at the open, admiring attention coupled with all the careful, too tender touching, Shane ducks his head to the side, staring into the corner.

        "Nyet. Please, look at me."

        Startled by the sudden politeness, Shane can't help but meet Ilya's gaze. "Russians know how to say please?" he jokes, trying to break up the intimacy of the moment with forced levity.

        "To make Canadian mate happy, of course Russian will learn how to say please," Ilya responds, but his voice is too sincere to take away from the moment and lighten the atmosphere. And the feeling of intimacy only reasserts itself harder when he says, "Don't look away from me. Watch me cleanse you of this day. There is no reason to feel shy. I want your attention. Want to feel your eyes on me."

        "Ah," Shane nods, feeling some relief as he guesses, "This is another alpha thing? A message?"

        Instead of the immediate yes he's expecting, Ilya tilts his head, thoughtful.

        "Taking care of mate is mutual. Designation is not important. For you, since control is so important, then this moment does reinforce that another is in charge." His shrug is unrepentant. "Faster or slower, designation will change. If this moment sends no message, is not end of world. Just look at me and let me wash you."

        "But that's -" Shane cuts off, unsure what he wants to say. All he knows is that his chest feels too tight, stomach clenching as he takes in Ilya's deliberate, attentive scrubbing - the way he makes sure to run the brush over every inch of him in a way that makes clear that he heard Shane and understood what he meant in the previous shower they took together.

        And by making Shane watch, he ensures that Shane notices too. That no part of him is left unwashed. That every crack and crevice of his skin gets soaped up and rinsed off. Fingers dipping into his navel just as thoroughly as they do his ass. Hands working over the backs of his arms, between his fingers, behind his ears, with each new clean bit of skin garnering kisses - to a shoulder, an elbow, an arm pit, a hip, to the center of Shane's chest...

        And in the end, he massages Shane's scalp with shampoo while peppering Shane's face with kisses. Light brushes of lips to his forehead, cheeks, nose, and eyelids as hands tug Shane's head back to rinse the soap out of his hair.

        He hopes like hell that the tears that slip out the creases of his eyes are sufficiently disguised by the flow of water from overhead, because he doesn't want to be asked to explain them. Overwhelmed at how quickly Ilya's carved a space out for himself in Shane's...no, not his heart. Can't be. They don't know each other.

        But they're two people navigating a dangerous situation with only each other to rely on. Only each other for comfort and support. And their task will culminate in a real mating.

        As much as he'd known he was fucked as soon as those warehouse goons found him, he hadn't realized he should be trying not to catch feelings. Around the office, and before that, in school, he'd been known for his aloofness and detachment. As much as he could find someone theoretically attractive, maybe even rub one out looking at a picture of a hot body, people didn't attract him. He was quick to notice things that irritated him, dragged on his senses, worked on his nerves, and it had kept him from making meaningful relationships with most people.

        So, he hadn't thought to guard his heart against this unknown alpha.

        Now, as he watches Ilya take the scrub brush to his own skin in quick, utilitarian movements, harsh with none of the care he showed Shane, it almost feels too late. Seeds already planted and watered. As long as the sun keeps shining, he imagines they'll take root and grow. And that's the frustrating part. The sun shouldn't be shining. This is a terrible situation and every part of it has been a calculated effort to irritate him. Meant to be abrasive and uncomfortable.

        But something about Ilya is so substantially charming, so convincingly kind and caring, that the world feels brighter despite the dark things lurking just outside the door. And Shane's catching feelings regardless.

        "Such a sweetheart," Ilya murmurs against his ear, as if Shane needs pet names to help cement the...crush he has on this man.

        It has to be a crush.

        A bit of limerence.

       Shallow and easy to overturn once they get back out into the real world.

        "Uncommonly sweet alpha," Ilya comments.

        With a snort, Shane shakes his head. "No one's ever called me sweet before. Cold, maybe. Not very friendly. Awkward to be around and hard to interact with."

        "Awkward and sweet are not opposites. You can be both," Ilya tells him. But he also says, "Is important to find your people. Those who will see and understand you, even if you are introvert in a world where people do not live in villages, no longer forced to know lots of different kinds of people. But is good for me, that people saw you and did not see sweet. I get benefit of their ignorance."

        "You get the benefit? More like you're forced to, whether you like it or not."

        Ilya hums. "Good thing I like. This way, what is forced feels like gift," he says. Then the privacy they have with their makeshift white noise machine ends as the water starts to cool and Ilya turns off the shower.

        He takes a fresh, fluffy towel and wraps Shane in it as he noses into the hollow of his neck and takes a deep breath. "Sweet like knedle...You are closer. Enough that maybe tomorrow will not need chains."

        "T-tomorrow? Are you going to make me sleep in hand cuffs?" Shane asks, weight shifting to his back foot in anxiety, shoulders already aching at the thought.

        "We will both sleep wearing a cuff," Ilya says, cleverly announcing his plans in a way that sounds more equitable than 'I'm chaining you to me'.

        Still, it's better than being forced to spend the night wide awake and in pain, forced to watch Ilya sleeping peacefully beside him. Turning him gently, Ilya decouples the cuffs, letting Shane's hands swing free. Then, he just picks up the towel and starts patting Shane dry, mostly by wrapping the fluffy fabric around different parts of him and squeezing tight.

        "You're hugging me dry?" Shane asks, faintly amused. "I've never seen anyone employ this strategy before."

        "Mothers will do this, I think, for young children that still need bath time. Rule is not to rub skin. And like this, there is less chance to catch cold."

        "I'm hearty. You don't have to worry about me getting sick. Not from this at least," Shane says, tone brusque in hopes it'll remind Ilya to keep up his performance of smug conqueror.

        Catching on, Ilya's voice gains a bit of brash irreverence as he coos, "My baby."

        "Shut up," Shane huffs, so focused on that tone, trying to hear it objectively, as if he's overhearing a hotel neighbor say it. Thankfully, Ilya does manage to strike closer to cajoling trick speaking to a nervous streetwalker, than doting husband to beloved partner. Shane can't say for sure, but he suspects the English helps. Creating a delay so that Ilya has to take a second rather than saying the first thing that comes to mind.

        As Shane's pondering whether Ilya makes a convincing mafioso when he's communicating in Russian, Ilya finishes drying him and reaches for the end of the bathroom counter, where he'd dumped his clothes earlier in the day.

        "What are you doing?" Shane asks, watching Ilya pull his shirt from the pile.

        "You will wear this to sleep."

        Stepping away with his arms raised in a very clear bid for space, Shane says, "No. Why would I do that?"

        "Concentrated scent," Ilya says.

        "We're going to be sleeping in the same bed, right? Cuffed together? Probably touching all night? That's plenty of scent. How much more do you need?"

        "Is different. Fabric traps scent of cologne, the cigarette I smoked this morning, sweat from running between meetings. Also, there is popular association when you wear another man's shirt and nothing else. You have seen movies and read books where omega does this. To alpha, is like you are choosing to imitate what you have seen omegas do."

        "But it's dirty," Shane whines, taking a step back. The alpha in him sits up at this. Suddenly, he's very aware that both his hands are free. Still technically in cuffs, which must have some secret release mechanism hidden into the deceptively smooth rings, but no longer leashed to anything.

        Ilya's so quick to pick up on it. Cocking his eyebrow, Ilya takes his own step back from Shane. Promising in one move that, if Shane tries to fight him, the bigger alpha won't engage.

        Having started to tense, as if to flee or fight, the alpha shifts in confusion at the lack of reciprocal challenge. Then shifts again, in distress. Shane can feel the dejected echo of rejection making his shoulders curl inward. He can't tell whether his internal alpha is disappointed at not being treated like a serious threat, or whether it's the space Ilya put between them being interpreted as him stepping away, reevaluating Shane's worth and finding him wanting. And Shane wonders why he even wants to fight over this. A shirt is better than being naked. It's not much protection and, though he might not have any modesty left to protect by this point, it's still a glimmer of a shield that he gets to have for a little while.

        For all that Shane might feel clean after the thorough shower, the bed's dirty. The floor is dirty. So, who cares if the shirt is too?

        When he closes the distance between them, Ilya doesn't flinch. He only moves when Shane tries reaching for the shirt. Shifting it out of Shane's reach, he lets the fabric uncurl and holds it open like a coat he wants to help Shane into.

        With a huff, Shane humors him, thinking it's a silly thing to insist on, but once he has his back turned, the alpha in him suddenly feels exposed and vulnerable. "You're really good at this bitching thing," Shane says, working his cuffed hands into the sleeve holes behind him with Ilya's help, voice reluctantly impressed over how Ilya can predict that these little gestures will be meaningful when Shane, whose alpha is the one reacting, never can tell until it's already happening.

        "Is called emotional intelligence, yes? Strong empathy," Ilya whispers into his ear as he leans in to pull the shirt over Shane's shoulders. 

        Shane supposes that could be true. The man is risking his life to try and help the people his brother has tricked and trapped in a cruel web.

       "Have you ever done this before?" Shane asks. Then wishes he hadn't. He doesn't actually want to know how Ilya comes by his knowledge and if any of it has been gleaned through personal experience.

        "Nyet," Ilya says. "Is just more common in Russia. Culture is very macho. Is common threat to make, even at higher levels. CEOs and government leaders make these threats a lot. Other designations are not in power so much. We have one omega in charge of finance. A few betas. Rest is all alphas. It becomes critical subject in school, in discussions with neighbors, in small talks with coworkers. Do you know, there is platonic way to bitch alpha? Sex is not required. Just lots of time, good understanding, and consistent behavior."

        "That can't be right," Shane mutters, shaking his head. "Are you sure it's not an urban legend? Have you ever seen an alpha get bitched platonically?"

        Ilya shrugs. "Is months of work. Sometimes years. So, no, I have not seen this. But it is taught. Many parents will even try to groom child into designation. Russia has many alphas as result. Probably why is so dangerous to live there. Without balance, you have disorder. Now, wait here. I will go prepare bed," Ilya says, disappearing into the other room.

        "Wait, why? What am I waiting for?" he mutters, but Ilya doesn't hear him over the sound of fabric being stripped and the door to the warehouse being opened and quickly shut. So Shane stands there, waiting like a lost boy in his father's borrowed shirt, every part of it oversized. Unbuttoned sleeves drape over his palms, their length exacerbated by the shoulder width Shane's narrower frame doesn't fill out, and the tails of the shirt fall almost to his knees. As he starts to fasten the buttons, it looks like he's wearing a dress.

        Folding the cuffs back, Shane can't help shaking his head at what Ilya's told him. He can't wrap his mind around it. A platonic bitching. What the fuck. It has to be an urban legend. Like all the beliefs on sexual position or time of the month being able to determine the primary sex of a child. "Facts" couched in pseudoscience that don't hold up to scrutiny.

        He's torn out of his thoughts by Ilya's return. The bigger alpha leans into his space, arms cradling under Shane's backside. And without any sign of strain, he just picks Shane up.

        "Wha -?"

        "You want to walk across dirty floor in bare feet?"

        "It won't matter anyway. We've already been standing on the bathroom floor in our bare feet. And the bed we're going to sleep in is dirty," Shane says, resigned to spending a few hours counting sheep and trying not to be distracted by his awareness of all the ways the bed he's sleeping in is contaminated.

        "You have sharp senses, yes? Able to focus smell and hearing, tune it for far away?"

        Shane looks up, startled. "How do you know that?"

        "Ask later," Ilya hides in a hum. "It gives you sensory issues, yes? Very aware of seams and tags. Light must be warm and not too bright. Fabric must be smooth and cool. The world feels loud when things are not right? My mother too was having sharp senses. She would not like to walk over floor with pebbles, dust, bits of dirt. Sensory issue, yes?"

        "Yes," Shane says in something close to a gasp. "An agent can't afford to get distracted by things like that. People at work think I'm exaggerating or they accuse me of bringing up an issue as a way to humble brag about my senses. Just because I've learned how to ignore it when I'm actively working, doesn't mean it's not a real issue. It takes so much concentration not to notice all those little things that I'm exhausted at the end of every day. There's even one asshole in the office who purposely wears too much cologne and walks around the office loudly chomping up bags of chips and leaving crumbs all over the place, just to annoy me."

        "Tell me his name. We will find way to get revenge, yes?" Ilya says, and though his tone is teasing, his expression looks entirely too serious as he gently places Shane on the edge of the downturned bed.

        "Top cover of bed is waterproof. Cum, piss, sweat, drool...all of it did not go through material. I take off cover and put it outside room. Rest of bed is clean sheets, changed every day. Bed is clean. You wait like this."

        He practically sprints into the bathroom and comes back just as quickly with a box of wet wipes and a hand towel.

        Ilya should look stupid as he crouches down, still naked, with Shane's feet dangling between his knees. But he just doesn't. All Shane sees is quiet dignity and care, as Ilya takes first one foot and then the other and cleans Shane's feet again, wiping away Shane's concerns about the dirt from the bathroom floor in the process.

        "So, what is his name? Your annoying coworker," Ilya asks, as he sits down next to Shane and cleans off his own feet in the same way, tossing the wipes into a nearby trash when he's done, and leaving the hand towel in a folded square on the nightstand.

        "We're not getting revenge on my coworker."

        "Don't worry. We will not burn down his house for making office messy with chips. I will watch him, see what makes him annoyed, and then we will use it to make him miserable," Ilya says, exaggerating the depth of his voice and accent so he sounds like Hollywood's interpretation of a Russian mobster. He raises his hand in a fairly recognizable bid for Shane to give him his own.

        "You're ridiculous," Shane mutters as he offers Ilya the arm closest to him.

        "No, other hand." He takes off Shane's cuff by hitting some hidden latch that Shane can't see between his long, thick-boned fingers. Then he attaches the cuff so that both of them have one on their left hands. He attaches the chain to both cuffs.

        "Is that going to work? If we lay down side by side, shouldn't our cuffs be on opposite hands so that the chain goes between us.

        "You sleep on your back?"

        "Not usually, but I should be able to fall asleep."

        "Let's try like this. If it doesn't work, we change," Ilya says, and shifts over, closer to the other side of the bed, pulling Shane's hand along in his wake. "Lay down," he says, pulling Shane into the space in front of him, so they're laying on their right sides, with Shane's back to Ilya's chest. This way, the cuffs and chain end up on top. Ilya leans over and turns off the bedside lamp. "You will tell me his name someday," Ilya predicts, as he threads his fingers through Shane's, linking their hands as he wraps his arm around Shane's waist and weaves their legs together. The handcuffs suddenly feel like overkill when Shane's wrapped up in oversized sun-bronzed limbs.

        "Good night," Shane huffs at him in feigned annoyance.

        "Have vengeful dreams," Ilya teases back. And the moment feels so comfortable and light-hearted that, despite the situation, Shane very quickly falls asleep.

                                      ꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷                                                                    

        And wakes up in the night-darkened woods.

        Although 'wake' is perhaps the wrong word for it. More like, he comes to awareness in the woods. As if he's just appeared in place.

        The terrain looks unfamiliar, with no paths, no houses, no signs of civilization in forgotten candy wrappers or chucked water bottles. All around, there are trees. Tall, imposing, and...odd smelling. Unlike his usual experience of the woods, Shane can't make out the scent of rotting leaves, rain-wet earth, fresh vegetation.

        Instead, there's something artificial in the air. Like smoke, toasted grass, a sharp note of ginger overlaid with sandalwood and cedar. For all that it doesn't belong in the woods, the smell of it feels comforting.

        He looks up, suddenly, feeling a presence ahead of him, despite not having heard an approach.

        A wolf is standing there. Not too tall. Not too broad. Dark-eyed and black-furred, with long bright teeth glinting in the moonlight. Its nose is twitching, reading the wind, its attention far from Shane.

        He considers speaking, but what would be the point? What do you say to a wolf anyway? Gosh, granny, why are your ears so big?

        Suddenly, the wolf stiffens up, hackles rising as its lips curl back to show off the sharpness of its fangs. It only growls once low in warning.

        Shane turns to see what's on the other end of its fixed stare.

        At the sight of another wolf, Shane backs up, closer to the black one that continues to take no notice of him. Unlike the flaxen gold-colored beast standing at the edge of the small clearing, its icy stare splitting focus between both Shane and the creature next to him.

        The woods are quiet. No chirps, no hoots, no buzz of insects. The situation should feel more uncanny, Shane thinks.

        After a long second, the beast stretches in a languid but obvious way, as if showing off its length, the power in its flexing haunches, the size of its tremendous paws. When it yawns, maw opening to reveal dagger-like teeth and a lolling tongue, and it shakes its large, sharply-paned head, the lack of concern for technically being outnumbered doesn't feel like theater.

        Its just not that worried.

        And maybe it's right not to be. After all, the dark wolf isn't posturing. And it's not like Shane's short-clipped nails can do any damage.  

        With a yip, the golden beast bends into a bow, swaying its tail high, as if to say, 'Come play with me'.

        Then it bounces towards them and away again. 'Come play with me.'

        Another bow. A teasing yip. An impressive bounce off a tree as it disappears into the woods.

        The dark wolf stalks closer to the edge where the golden one disappeared, sniffing the air. Still cautious.

        It startles when the other wolf pops around a tree. The dark wolf's mouth starts to settle into a warning, lips rising high. But then the golden beast darts in and licks that wet lolling tongue along its teeth and practically into its mouth. The dark wolf's resulting shocked expression looks so out of place that Shane can't help the way he automatically starts laughing.

        High and loud and unabashedly happy.

        The beast's attention shifts to him, expression practically gleeful for the wild looking thing, and it bounces near. Does a bow. A playful yip. 'Come play with me.'

        But when it pounces at Shane, those long dangerously claw-tipped limbs feel like arms hugging him close. A warm, tight embrace that promises safety.

        The beast's tongue lolls out as it noses at Shane's chest, licking in broad swathes at anything it can reach through the unbuttoned collar of Shane's...night shirt?

                                                                                                                       ꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

        His eyes blink open just in time to see Ilya undo another button. "Hard day today," he says, immediately noticing the change in Shane. "You sleep well?"

        Shane's answer gets lost in a moan as Ilya sucks one of his nipples into his mouth and squeezes the other one, fingers plucking at the hard-tipped flesh.

        "What time is it?" he asks, trying to shuffle away from the beast mauling his chest.

        "Eight hundred seventy-five."

        Annoyed, Shane looks up over his shoulder, finding the alarm clock on the nightstand. 8:45 A.M.

        "That's not how military time works. It's not a math conversion. Honestly, you act like this is an English invention, but Russia uses the 24-hour system too."

        "Da. We say eight hours, forty-five minutes. Simple. Logical. We do not treat time like coins, counting in hundreds and making forty minutes disappear between fifty-nine and next hundred."

        Shane chokes down an amused snort. No way is he going to reward this man for annoying him. "Why are you harping on this? I didn't invent military time."

        Ilya fucking pinches his cheek. Not hard, but enough to have him swatting at the man unhappily.

        "You are like angry kitten. I want to make you growl," he says, mouth turning up in a charming smirk.

        For some reason, when Shane sees it, he can't help but hear, 'Come play with me'.

 

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

🫦

        A knock on the door pulls them apart. Removing the chain from his cuff, Ilya stands up, keys in the code, and pulls the door open, fully nude. Easily visible by anyone facing this direction from the warehouse floor.

        He doesn't flinch. Doesn't try to hide his modesty. Doesn't try to use the door as shield.

       Straight-backed, dick half-hard with morning wood, he just lets whoever wants to look, look. And anyone who doesn't can apparently get fucked, because there's nothing apologetic or rushed in the way he first retrieves a fresh waterproof bedspread from a sealed laundry bag and walks it to the bed with the door still open. Then he goes back to grab a shoebox from the floor, unpacking two pairs of seemingly new house slippers in large men's sizes. And finally, he goes a third time to wheel in a little serving table laden with food and beverages.

        By the time Ilya finally kicks the door closed, automatic lock engaging, Shane knows five new things that he didn't know a few seconds ago.

        First, that the door requires a sequence of four digits to open. Since it's early morning and Ilya doesn't seem like he was thinking too hard when he opened the door, the pin shouldn't include the same number twice in a row, because the numbers were keyed in at the same pace each time, with a pause in between. Not useful, since it still leaves too many combinations possible.

        Second, there are people already milling around and starting work at the warehouse by quarter to nine on a Tuesday, if they're getting deliveries to their door. Maybe not surprising. Likely, there have been people already at work outside their door for hours.

        Third, Ilya's not body shy. Like, aggressively so.

        Fourth, no one important is out there, from either Ilya's organization or off Shane's list of known women who usually work in the locked cam rooms. Because, Shane suspects that if there were clients or higher stationed mobsters around, Ilya would either would have lingered in the doorway doing stretches as a power move, or put his clothes on. He doesn't know the man well enough to guess which. And if there were poor, unfortunate souls out there, trying to get through another day in hell, Shane is rather confident that Ilya wouldn't risk flashing them and making their day worse.

        And fifth, their theoretical audience from yesterday definitely exists and is actively listening, since Ilya seemingly communicated what he wanted brought to their door this morning through the cameras while Shane was asleep.

        None of the information really helps, but on some level, pretending he's gathering useful information that will come in handy in the future, makes Shane feel better.

        "Hungry?" Ilya asks, wheeling the little cart closer.

        Shane almost admits he's starving, until his eyes catch on the pot of coffee sitting innocently to the side. Immediately, he's reminded of yesterday. Of being made to drink to excess and then the whole bathroom situation that followed. It was bad enough, dealing with the need to relieve himself of liquids. But having to suffer a similar scenario, except this time with solids?

        No. Absolutely not.

        He'd rather go hungry, fasting for however long it takes Ilya to complete the bitching, than to...just no. Even if it takes a week or two, Shane has enough muscle for his body to cannibalize to last. Better to go hungry than to deal with what he's pretty sure would finally traumatize him.

        "Nope, I'm good," Shane says.

        "You're not hungry?" Ilya asks again, confused this time. Apparently, he hadn't really been asking.

        Huh...maybe it had been an attempt at politeness? A perfunctory, obvious question with an obvious answer that had been meant to end in Shane identifying what he wanted Ilya to serve him from the tray?

        Unfortunately, Shane isn't willing to follow the script. "Nope, I had a large breakfast yesterday."

        With a scoff, Ilya comes closer with a little cheese square squished between his fingers. Right in front of Shane's face, he flicks the cheese into the air and catches it easily with the same two fingers again, effectively wafting the smell of pepper jack straight into Shane's nostrils, and a second later his stomach loudly announces just how empty it is.

        "Your stomach is separate? Not part of you? Sounds hungry to me," Ilya says, but fuck...his tone. His tone is alarmingly flinty. Grabbing his chin, Ilya forces Shane to look up at him. The pressure of his grip tightens, his hold not yet painful, but rather uncomfortably firm. "You don't lie to me," he tells Shane, voice sharp with command. "Do you remember what I promised you yesterday? I ask. You answer truthfully. You enjoy spanking so much, you can't wait till we don't have audience? Want them to have show?"

        "N-no. Fuck, please don't," Shane begs. "I just forgot." He swallows hard, eyes scanning Ilya's face frantically, looking for a sign. Some forewarning on whether Ilya will let this go, or follow through on his threat.

        Shane knows somewhere in an office, there's maybe a man or a group of them suddenly calling out, gathering more people around a monitor, like sharks after they've smelled blood in the water.

        Fuck, what a mistake.

        He knows, just from the length of the delay, just how much of an impossible situation he's put Ilya in.

        Sure, the monkeys might not run the circus, but piss a group of them off by not delivering on a salacious promise and the consequences could be dire. If yesterday was recorded, they might go back and start looking more closely, scrutinizing every moment, noticing there's something off between the two of them.

        A lack of fear. No real animosity. Not even the awkwardness of touching someone who repels you.

        And, from what those goons know, Ilya and Shane should repel each other. They should actively hate each other.

        Because why would Ilya feel anything but hatred and contempt for the man who stole his future? Took away his chance for mating the alpha woman he'd been chasing for years? Shane's a physical manifestation of the law, present only to find enough evidence to put him and his 'friends' in prison and dismantle their avenues to wealth and power. 

        And why would Shane feel anything other than bitterness, misery, and humiliation in the vicinity of the alpha whose actively working to bitch and mate him? The reason he'll 'lose' his career, along with the chance at his own family with the suburban housewife and 2.5 kids?

        They're supposed to be enemies, forced together by Ilya's 'backfired' plan to pawn Shane off on a warehouse goon and Alexei's agreement to the sadistic union, so long as it was his brother cementing a bond to a government dog.

        Fuck...Shane's heart starts to beat double-time, breaths turning shallow and eyes starting to flood. What a stupid, tiny, too consequential mistake...

        Shaking Shane's chin, Ilya forces Shane's attention back on him. "Poor baby," he coos, heavily condescending. "You scared?"

        Struggling to answer as Shane's trying so hard to hold it together, he almost misses the meaningful squint Ilya aims at him.

        But, though he sees it, Shane has no idea what it means.

        Thankfully, Ilya's either much better at reading expressions, or Shane's just very good at making them. Tracing a thumb over Shane's freckles, nail getting a little close to his eye, Ilya asks, "You are not so pathetic that you would cry over getting bottom spanked," he scoffs. "Your ass is soft enough that it will barely hurt," he asserts, voice heavy with exaggerated lust.

        Tilting his head a bit, away from that nail, Shane's close enough to a very real panic attack that he doesn't need Ilya's help delivered with a poke in the eye to get him going. All he needs is to picture the still strange alpha in front of him, much larger and, to some degree, stronger than him, forcing him ass up, over his knee for the viewing pleasure of a crowd of people who actively hate him.

        He imagines the pain of being hit, skin turning red and staying that way for hours or days. A constant reminder of his humiliation.

        Imagines the jeers and hoots of laugher the men on the other side of the camera would make at his every flinch.

        Imagines his own reaction afterwards...for all that he might logically know Ilya had to do it, he's already seen how little logic matters in the face of raw feelings. The next time Ilya touched him, he'd flinch away. Which would mean handcuffs again. Maybe repeating all of yesterday. Backsliding.

        And the dream he woke from...the playful golden beast and the black more serious wolf, circling each other in curiosity. Maybe it was just a dream - a bit of fluff his brain made up out, inspired by all the discussion of designations - but he can see it so clearly...his breaths turn erratic, tears pouring down his face, as he pictures the black wolf rearing back in confusion and betrayal. The golden wolf curling inwards, unintentionally guilty and being rejected because of it. Would there be a bloody fight? A sundering?

        Without the trust to follow Ilya's lead, would the only path forward be a violent one? A prison yard bitching where pain and distrust force Shane to default to an omega, the most mentally resilient of the designations, because there'd be no way to stay sane as either an alpha or a beta?

        For a while, Shane's vision tunnels. He's not exactly hyperventilating, but his chest hurts, lungs wheezing as chills run down his back. His fingers first tingle, then numb.

        A knee plants itself between Shane's legs and a steadying hand cups the back of his head, pulling him against Ilya's chest. "Shhh, you are safe. Poor boy can't remember rules on first try, but I am generous. Will give you second chance so that you do not have heart attack. Come, listen to tempo. Try to match," Ilya says, with a feigned irritation that feels so distant and bizarrely out of place when the arms cradling Shane close are caressing his back and shoulders so gently, petting his hair feel with such soft, deliberate comfort.

        It takes several minutes for Shane to calm down, and in the process realize Ilya arranged him so that his head is pressed with one ear to Ilya's heartbeat, with the heel of Ilya's palm deafening his other ear. Not until he pulls away, slow and a little dizzy, does he realize that Ilya's been talking the whole time in a fast, whipped up Russian, too fast for Shane to translate but performatively annoyed.

        As soon as Shane reveals he's somewhat recovered and back to himself, Ilya's pulling off Shane's shirt with a tisk. "Covered in stress sweat is no good. Need another shower. You stink of needy alpha," Ilya says, herding him towards the bathroom, Shane's arm thrown over his shoulder with his own around Shane's waist, as if Shane needs the extra support...which, maybe he does, if the way he stumbles into the bathroom is any indication.

        They're not even fully in the shower yet, before Ilya's turning the knob for warm water. Voices disguised by the white noise of the shower, Ilya immediately hugs him and ducks his head to whisper into Shane's ear, "What happened? Is it secret food allergy that make you lie? You not want them to know something on tray can kill you?"

        For all that Ilya's frame is steady, the hug is very tight and there's a frantic edge to the way he methodically sweeps one of his hands over Shane's back. In theory, it's probably supposed to be a calming caress, but that touch jumps around, squeezing his nape, palming his lower back, running down his spine too quickly to feel like a controlled mollifying stroke.

        "No, sorry. I honestly forgot about your rule from yesterday. I probably could have just told you the truth and avoided this mess. Is it going to be a problem that you didn't punish me for it?"

        Ilya's hug tightens another notch, his breath catching. He takes a long second and then clears his throat. "Da, is problem, but maybe not same one you expect. Shane, do not lie to me. You are terrible liar. So terrible, that no one would believe that I would not see it. Alexei is too cheap for camera in bathroom. If you want to be rude and lie to me, let it be in this room. But, Shane...if you lie, I will see it. Just say you do not want to tell me, yes? Is no point," he says, lifting Shane's head with a firm guiding hand on his chin.

        Smoothing a thumb over Shane's freckled cheek, he continues, "Is unfortunate that no one who works here would forget my promise to you yesterday, because it is same promise I make to all of them. If one of men lie to me, they are punished. Sometimes demoted, sometimes sent back to Russia, and sometimes, bent over and spanked in front of crowd. Usually, is good, because they are guilty of many terrible things. For hounding the women, cornering them in rooms they think are not monitored, trying to solicit sex with threats and intimidation, so is good to question them, listen to them lie, then make example of them. Few are the times I can punish them without suspicion. To see you lie so obviously, knowing I promised to punish lying because I always do this...they will be angry but panic attack is reasonable excuse to skip first time - to give this second chance because you are to be mate. But Shane, no more lies. Second chance makes them unhappy and they will bring it up with shaking heads and insults at you and disapproving stares at me. I don't want to touch you in a way that makes you scared, but if I need to give you third chance, they will say I am soft. They will feel suspicious. You will have to panic enough to need hospital if you lie again, which is also terrible."

        He feels so stiff against Shane, gaze so serious. He doesn't seem to blink once, looking into Shane's eyes like he can impart just how important this is just by holding Shane captive with his uninterrupted stare. "Do you understand?" he asks, grazing Shane's cheek with his thumb.

        "Yes," Shane says immediately. With the profundity of a vow, he promises, "I won't lie to you again. I'm so fucking sorry for this. Fuck...this whole situation is all my fault." Sniffling, Shane tries to duck his head.

        Ilya bites his ear as if to startle him away from his sinking thoughts. "Shh...what is, is. What will be, will be. Blame is not useful. Today will be hard day, so breathe deep and focus on me. Do not let things that cannot change distract or hurt you, yes?" At this, he does actually pick up the soap and starts running it over all Shane's scent glands and the areas where his panic-sweat had pooled.

        "You still do not say why you lie to me," Ilya says, eyebrows flexing pointedly. "Last chance for answer to be private."

        For all that Shane did say he likely could have told him the truth, he doesn't know how to say it out loud. To actually have the discussion feels like it'd be mortifying. But, trapped in these two rooms for the next two days, Shane's not sure it won't come up regardless of whether he skips meals or not. He did actually eat quite a large breakfast just yesterday.

        With a shuddering breath, Shane admits, "I was afraid of what would happen if I needed the bathroom again. This time because of the food instead of the water."

        It takes a second before Ilya can translate and understand what Shane's alluding to. With a snort, Ilya's mouth twists into a strange shape. There's amusement there, but also some element of confusion. "Are all Canadians so shy?"

        "Fuck you," Shane says, reflexively, equally baffled. "Are you saying all Russians are cool with everything? Utterly unflappable?"

        Ilya shrugs. "I don't know. I did not meet all Russians. Is big country. Lots of cultures. But all Russian men are required go to military training and then one year active duty. If you are shy, they beat it out of you."

        "Oh." Maybe that explains a few things. Remembering the bold way Ilya had opened the door without any consideration for his nudity, he wonders if that's where it came from. "Canada doesn't have any military requirements. We don't have a draft or any kind of conscription. I'm not sure if that's what makes the difference between being shy or not, but I can see how it could be a factor."

        Ilya hums noncommittally. "So, that is your reason? You decide to stop eating because you worry I make you shit in front of me?"

        Gritting his teeth, Shane forces himself to say, "Yes." He tries to stop there, but a spike of irritation gets the better of him. "Yes, you asshole. It's private. Why do you think in almost every country there are stalls in men's bathrooms? Some things aren't meant to be shared."

        Ilya snorts. "Until someone is sick or has accident. Until you become nurse or work in hospital or go to war. But, fine. For this, I will let you close door. You can even turn on shower. But you will eat," he tells Shane, voice intractable. "Stress, adrenaline...you will feel it today. Knowing how shy you are, today seems like will be harder than I expect. You will need energy, so you will eat. Da?"

        "Ok."

        "Good boy," Ilya husks into his ear and starts rinsing him off. When he's done, Ilya steps out of the shower , aiming his feet into the pair of slippers Shane didn't see him bring in.

        "Do I get a pair?" Shane asks, remembering there had been two in the shoebox Ilya unpacked.

        "You do not need it now," Ilya says, drying Shane with hugs as he stands in the shower. Then, once he's relatively dry, Ilya wraps him in the huge fluffy towel and picks him up.    

        Carrying Shane into the bedroom, Ilya tucks him under the covers and moves the cart closer. Then he takes his own seat at the edge, feet stretched out in front of him, and with barely a huff of effort, he manhandles Shane, covers and all, into the space between his legs and pulls him back to idle against his chest.

        "Time for new message to alpha," Ilya announces, picking up a piece of melon with his fingers. He brings the morsel to Shane's mouth and traces it along his bottom lip. "Open," he murmurs, sucking at the tip of Shane's ear as if in reward when Shane's lips part on command. Ilya presses the small, wet slice of fruit to Shane's tongue and drags his fingers slowly out, grazing the gums and backs of Shane's teeth as he goes.

        Under Shane's skin, the alpha stiffens in complaint. There's a pang to the upset. The way Shane's teeth itch to snap in warning, it's as if the alpha wants to teach Ilya not to disregard the danger inherent in touching him so freely. It's offended at Ilya's lack of concern. But though he can feel it acutely, Shane finds the sentiment confusing.

        Shane's not a wolf. Human teeth just aren't that frightening. He has neither the bite strength or the sharpness of a true predator, so the feeling that rises up is easily swatted down, given how divorced he is from it.

        As Ilya continues to feed him, Shane's alpha is forced to acknowledge there's another providing him with sustenance and violating the sanctity of his mouth on every imparted scrap of food. After the first few bites though, Shane's easily able to ignore the discomfort of the alpha inside him. His shoulders relax as he allows himself to appreciate the moment, eventually sucking the bite sized bits from Ilya's fingers in a way that is apparently enticing enough to have Ilya shifting under him.

        Groaning into his hair, he tells Shane, "You are menace. Is it oral fixation? Or are you trying to seduce me?"

        "W-why are those the only two options?" Shane asks, but his thoughts get stuck on that phrase...oral fixation.

        As Ilya feeds him an almond, Shane tries to focus on the sensations at every step. The sensory experience of eating is awkward, Shane thinks. Now that he's paying such close attention to the textures, the dispersal of crushed food into the nooks and crannies of his mouth, the aftertaste...He has to either stop thinking about it or stop eating.

        But when Ilya pops a grape past his lips and doesn't linger, Shane feels disappointment. He practically swallows the grape whole, vacating his mouth so that Ilya will feed him again sooner. Except, as if on purpose, he does it again with a delicate raspberry. This time Shane swallows immediately and when Ilya comes back with a blueberry next, Shane leans forwards and sucks Ilya's pointer and middle finger in.

        "Don't choke," Ilya says and for a second Shane doesn't realize he's talking about the blueberry. "So eager," he murmurs, once he feels Shane swallow. "Is what you like? Having something against your tongue? Something to suckle?"

        Shane makes a noise of disagreement, even as he lathes between Ilya's fingers, stroking the pads and fitting his teeth in a gentle grip over knuckle and bone.

        When Ilya pulls his fingers out, no matter how sweet the slide, Shane still hums a complaint.

        "I don't think it's an oral fixation. It's not like my desk is full of pens with chewed up caps or anything. And, I don't think I need to seduce you. It's all going to happen regardless. But...your fingers feel nice. I'm not sure why."

        "If fingers are nice, would cock be better?" Ilya asks outright.

        Shane can feel him studying his face. "I don't know," he admits, shoulders hunching in embarrassment at his lack of experience.

        "Oral is strong message. Is ancient idea, that anal sex is domination, but blowjob is worse. Eating, vocalizing, breathing...mouth and throat are always very important. We can leave this room faster if alpha is given strong messages. But blowjob is option only if you know you will not bite."

        Shane blinks in confusion. "But, you had me in your mouth just yesterday."

        Ilya snorts. "All sex acts can be done from place of control. Just as all sex can be submission. Many men especially forget this. Easiest form of revenge for smart wife or jilted lover is slow bitching of male partner through blowjobs, fucking, feeding...Is common in TV comedies - husband goes to doctor complaining his ass is sweating, but doctor tells him he is omega now. He goes home to find wife is gone and divorce papers on table."

        Shane scoffs. "That's a comedy skit? What part of it is funny?"

        "Women laugh a lot at this. Too many Russian men forget to be good partners after wedding. If men are good, is tragic. If men are bad, is justice with laugh track. For bitching blowjob, you have no control. How deep, how fast, how long, whether swallowing or not...decisions are not yours. You want this?

        Shifting against Ilya's chest, Shane tries to envision the scenario. Yesterday and this morning, he had plenty of opportunities to see all of Ilya, and it's undeniable - the man has a beautiful cock. Longer than it needs to be, maybe. But from the color, to the shape, to the soft, silky skin he can feel against his lower back...the thought of it in his mouth has mortifying appeal.

        But ever since this started, Shane's been terrible at predicting his alpha's reactions. "Isn't there a way to do it that takes away the guesswork? Would scruffing help?" He mutters, voice practically disappearing towards the end.

       "Is a bit extreme, no? Scruffing will make you pliant. You want this? For mouth to go slack as I fuck your face? To have to fight for every ounce of control with body saying to obey?"

       Cheeks hot, Shane slowly nods. "It'll help get us out of here sooner, right?" he mutters, gaze skittering away into a corner.

        In what Shane's starting to realize is part of a pattern, Ilya catches his chin and turns his head so he's force to meet his eyes. "Biting is strong instinct. You will say you want this with enough detail, or we skip it," he says, voice strict.

        Suppressing a groan, Shane asks, "What kind of details are you looking for?" As much as a part of him wants to give up the idea, avoid the humiliation of uttering out loud his express desire to suck dick, a surprisingly significant part of him is more interested in having Ilya in his mouth. To suckle silken flesh awake, have it fill with blood and heat while he's cradling it between saliva-filled cheeks, to trace the veins along the shaft...

        Fuck, why does he want it so bad? His mouth feels so empty all of a sudden.

        "Tell me what you desire."

        "To give you a blowjob," Shane says, short and simple.

        "Da, but what kind?" At Shane's confusion, Ilya mutters in growly, subvocal Russian, "What the fuck is this? I never wanted to be a defiler of innocents." Then with a sigh, he explains in English, "Fast or slow? Shallow or deep? Swallow or spit? I say this already, da?"

        "But, I thought you were supposed to control that," Shane growls back, irritated at being called innocent. He's been to crime scenes, has witnessed grizzly tableaus of murder and violence, during and after the fact. Just because he hasn't had partnered sex doesn't mean he's 'an innocent'.

        "In the moment, yes, I will control active part. But you will control passive part. If is too much, you pinch my thigh and we stop. Is better, however, if we do not need to stop. So, is important to know - can you deep throat or will you choke? Maybe you just want to warm cock for few minutes, laying quietly and drooling on tip? You like taste of cum, or you want bowl and water afterwards?"

        "But you've already made me swallow your cum," Shane points out. "You didn't give me an option then."

        "Dick against soft palette activates gag reflex. Only if shallow or without movement do I avoid this. And if is problem, you choke on dick, but if also you hate taste of cum, then good chance you - "

        "I get the picture," Shane interrupts. "I don't want to get sick either. The problem is, I'm not sure what my limits are. I tried deep throating a dildo, out of curiosity, once but that was a long time ago, when I was still in school. And the one I used wasn't nearly your size. Just...go slow and play it by ear, yeah?"

        Ilya hums agreement, before asking, "Still hungry?"

        "No." Only for you, he doesn't say. He lets himself be directed lower, shuffling further down Ilya's body till his head is cradled in the bigger man's lap.

        "Is word for lips like yours," Ilya says, running a thumb along Shane's bottom lip, Ilya's other hand finding his nape and squeezing with gentle but insistent pressure.

        With a gasp, Shane feels his body droop, sinking into the mattress between Ilya's legs.

        "Plush," Ilya finishes the thought, as his fingers slip inside, testing the give in his jaw, first with three digits, then four. As the tops of his fingers scrape against teeth, he tells Shane, "Curl lips in, like you want to bite them. Ah, not yet. Lips are too dry." And for some reason, instead of waiting for Shane to wet them, he spits into his hand and smears warm saliva over the cracking edges of Shane's mouth. "Ok, now."

        Too shocked to do anything but follow directions, Shane does as requested and is rewarded for his efforts with Ilya feeding him the soft, mushroomed tip of his dick.

        Letting him get used to the sensation, Ilya cups the back of Shane's head, petting at his earlobes as he holds still. After a long moment, when he's felt Shane whisk the drool away with a swallow and start to explore the contours of his dick with his tongue, Ilya starts a slow rocking motion.

        "You take cock well," Ilya tells him, as he fills Shane's mouth to capacity without triggering his gag reflex. "All this is so new, but you already find ways t-to use tongue. To stroke underside and kiss when I pull out. And for someone with strong senses, is strange you enjoy this so much."

        Startled, Shane almost pulls off.

        Only then does he feel Ilya's guiding hand, and remember he's not in control. His alpha shuffles in irritation, but Shane's always been someone who follows rules. Who hates disappointing people. Who can't stand to be anything but the best. So, he continues to lick and suck, even as his thoughts snag over Ilya's observation.

        The concentrated scent of Ilya's musk, so sharp and pointed in his lungs on every inhale through his nose, doesn't repulse him. If anything, he drools harder at the way Ilya smells practically edible. Like a savory dish he wants to melt on his tongue. The weight of Ilya's cock in his mouth feels satisfying, and he has no trouble with the dripping pre-cum that coats his teeth and tongue between swallows. It's so strange to think he likes this...He never thought he would. 

        "Lovely pressure," Ilya continues to praise. "Pace is inconsistent, like good surprise. You want it deeper?" he asks, teasing his head against the back of Shane's tonsils and seemingly taking note of the way Shane swallows automatically, as if trying to drag him deeper.

        When he doesn't get a warning pinch, Ilya presses forward at his leisure, gentling his dick down Shane's throat. His groans deepen, exhales taking on a snarling edge as he rakes his fingers through Shane's hair and forces patience into each movement rather than chasing his orgasm. Even when Ilya finally does cum, knot expanding right at the entrance of his mouth, Shane can tell there's a carefully leashed quality to the release. So mindful not to plow forward, to stay...'manageable'.  Ilya also seems to ration his spend, ensuring Shane's forced to swallow some of it, while the rest floods his mouth, spilling out the corners.

        "Like kitten covered in milk," Ilya teases, ducking close without hesitation to lick his own come off, and then dipping inside, past Shane's lips.

        The kiss feels...filthy. Practically (or maybe literally) pornographic. The feel of Ilya slicking over the lengths of his canines and lapping into him in a rough, steady rhythm has Shane throbbing against the mattress. He's so close, that all it takes is a gentle thumbing at his slit and Ilya's grip closing over the base of his dick, suppressing a knot, before he erupts.

        "Such a good sweetheart," Ilya tells him. "Taking direction so well. You make me feel so good. So satisfied. Perfect omega."

       It's meant to be a provocation. A way to rile up Shane's alpha. Make it sit up and reassert itself. 

       But nothing happens.

      Shane stays pliant and Ilya's gaze goes from teasing to assessing. 

 

Chapter 7

       "Someone tell you being alpha is bad?" Ilya asks, seemingly out of the blue.

        "Um...no? Why would they? Alphas get respect everywhere they go. Who would even think to say that?"

        Ilya gathers him up, and pulls him into the space beside him on the bed.

        "Is hugging also a message for the alpha?" Shane asks, feeling awkward under Ilya's unwavering stare.

        "You joke, but it can be. Not all hugs are welcome and not all hugs are nice. Plenty can be said in a hug."

        "So, what are you saying with this hug?" Shane asks, willing to drag the moment out and fill their time with conversation as long as possible. Given how many times Ilya's alluded to this day being difficult, ideally they'd delay indefinitely.

        Ilya says something sharp and whiplike in Russian, performatively lascivious. Then at the end, he presses his smirk to Shane's ear and says, "Message is, I like you close. Breathing against me."

        "Does that mean it worked?" Shane asks. "Am I an omega now?"

        Cocking an eyebrow, Ilya stares at him in clear confusion. "You do know Russian TV example is joke, yes? Ha ha, men so oblivious, they not notice they become omega until doctor checks. But, is not real. Not possible."

        Rubbing the back of his head, Shane asks, "How can you be so sure? I mean, most people spend their whole life as one designation. Maybe the change isn't so obvious?"

        "Most? Nyet. Many betas rise to omega or alpha status when they know themselves better."

        "You're talking about late onsets? They're a minority," Shane argues.

        "Forty percent," Ilya says. "Is almost half."

        "Of betas. Which are already a minority population. Alphas hardly ever change designations and omegas never do. So, what I said was correct," Shane insists.

        Visibly reigning in his frustration, Ilya takes a breath and switches his approach. "Ok, tell me Shane, before today, how does alpha feel like to you?"

        Shaking his head, Shane doesn't know how to answer that. When he wanted to join varsity hockey during secondary school, they'd tested his blood and informed him that, according to his hormone levels, he was an alpha. He'd felt a mix of relief and added pressure over his official designation. And since then, due to his stellar control, he's rarely thought of it. Unlike other alphas, who posture and preen, who throw their weight around and make themselves obvious, skipping blockers, forgoing deodorants, and even snarling at tall strangers, Shane has always been quiet, stoic, guarded, and unobtrusive. Aloof. Unapproachable. A 'weird' alpha, Hayden once told him.

        But none of that is...feelings.

        In trying to describe how Shane feels about his alpha, the word ambivalent comes to mind.

       And as for how the alpha feels? He doesn't know. Why would he? It's a separate entity he carries around with him. That's it.

        With a shrug, he says, "I've never communicated with it before. Wouldn't even know how. Why, how does yours feel?"

        Ilya's confusion only seems to grow. "You talk like is something unconnected to you. Like pet dog. I am alpha. In me, alpha designation manifests as high energy, as watchful, concerned sentinel, as mean-speaking, snarky opponent who will exploit weaknesses when challenged. Alpha is not separate. Is never like this for you? All your life, alpha is always detached?"

        "Why do you look surprised?" Shane asks him, tone turning defensive. "Yesterday, you were the one who said changing to an omega would be difficult because of my lack of attachment to the alpha. You already knew I was like this."

        Ilya shakes his head. "Is bad if alpha is far away when you feel stress. But for you, since control is so important and alpha can be volatile, makes sense that you detach when things go wrong. That maybe you only touch or hug people you know, and with dangerous job maybe this is rare. All very understandable. But to not feel alpha at all? For designation to be so removed, like stranger?" The idea seems to distress Ilya so much that he starts purring again, deep in his chest under Shane's ear.

        "Come on, no need to be so upset. I've gone twenty-six years like this without any trouble."

        "Da. Twenty-six years you have no experience with living as designated status. So, what will you do when instinct cannot be put in box and shoved in corner? I am not designation expert. Maybe this will not be traumatic. Maybe is better you never feel alpha, so there is nothing lost in change. Or maybe is very traumatic and you cannot recognize who you are when designation is part of you. Is problem, yes? To not know which it will be. When change happens, do we need hospital or celebration party?" Ilya asks, sarcastically.

        "Hopefully, neither. I don't really do parties."

        Nuzzling under his jaw, Ilya mutters, "No jokes. This is serious."

        "It's also inevitable, right?" Shane points out. "It's not like you can stop now and just let me go."

        "But maybe there is way to be more prepared?" Ilya says, nosing into the hollow of his throat. "What comforts you? What gives you cozy feelings? Makes you nostalgic?"

        For a long second, Shane can't think of anything easy. Reminders of his parents are his first thought, but given the reason Ilya's asking, the answers aren't helpful. There's no way for Ilya to get his hands on the blanket his dad crocheted for him, or the perfume his mom wears that Shane doesn't know the name of. But as he considers warm, happy moments from his childhood, one very accessible thing comes to mind...

        "The Moomins," Shane says, slowly. It's such an old memory. Weekends sitting on the couch in the mornings with his dad helping him eat oatmeal without spilling, the TV on in the background. He can almost hear his mom singing along with the theme song from the kitchen as she prepares coffee. "It was a show that used to air on SCN. A cartoon about this...white hippo family, or something, except they were Swedish? They lived in a valley and had lots of friends. It was cute. I remember wishing I could visit Moominvalley. They have episodes up on YouTube."

        When he finally looks up from his recollection, Ilya's eyes are wide. "White hippo family...yes, they have this in Russia too. Japanese show. We have also children's books of this family. Mumi-trolli," he says in a rough voice. "I watch this with my mother when I am young. Indeed, is cute show. After designation change, we will watch this to feel better, yes?"

        "Russia had the Moomins?" Shane feels a bit blind-sided by the thought that both he and Ilya were being comforted and entertained by the same children's show despite living across the world from each other.

        "Yes. We are both products of hippo family indoctrination," he says, tracking a line of kisses up the side of Shane's face, placing the last one against his temple. "But we cannot be happy troll family until this is done," Ilya reminds him, running a hand up Shane's chest, palming a nipple and squeezing over the meat of Shane's pec. "No more stress about tits?"

        "Pecs. They're pectoral muscles. Stop calling them - "

        "Pretty, round, sweet tits with lovely red nipples that beg to be teased," Ilya elaborates, and fuck...it shouldn't work. They were just talking about a kid's show they both inexplicably grew up with thanks to the power of globalization - practically the furthest thing from sexy or enticing. And yet, a few words later, Ilya has Shane's temperature rising. He literally starts to feel hot, pushing the bed sheets off himself in an effort to cool down.

        "Come, let us fix bed, nice and neat so waterproof cover protects sheets, then we continue to next step," Ilya says, hands lingering as if reluctant to let go as they start to clamber off the mattress.

        "What's the next step?" Shane asks, hoping to mentally prepare himself.

        "Hard part," Ilya says. "Preparation. Your deep throat dildo - did you use it to fuck yourself?"

        Cheeks lighting up with a blazing heat, Shane shakes his head. "Um, no. I had a different one for that."

        "Ah, but still," Ilya says, snapping the sheets so they billow up and fall back to the bed in a neater, spread out configuration, "you try this already, yes? Taking cock into your hole?"

        "Yes," Shane grits out, grabbing the other corner of the sheets that Ilya hands him.

        As they make the bed together, Ilya continues asking questions that Shane's then forced to answer.

        "The dildo you try, how is compare? My size? Bigger? Smaller?"

        "What does it matter?" Shane grinds out.

        "No problem if bigger or same size because is mean I will fit and you can walk me through your usual prep to do it. But if dildo is smaller, then must rely less on past experience and find out like new what is needed so fucking does not hurt."

        "Do you always have to be so blunt?" Shane asks, hating the way he seems to be doomed to perpetual blushes around Ilya.

        "Yes," he says, looking legitimately confused over Shane's bashfulness. "Is enough confusion just with language and culture differences. You want I add strange metaphors and make you guess what will happen? You see, what we will do next is try to put stick of dynamite inside exhaust pipe, but if pipe is too small or stick is too big - "

        "Oh my god, fuck you! Shut up," Shane says, interrupting him mid sentence with a pillow lobbed at his head. "That's a terrible metaphor."

       "Then do not cry about blunt speech, because it can be terrible metaphor instead. So, what is answer?" he asks, pulling Shane into his arms when the last corner of the waterproof cover has been neatly tucked into place.

        "Who the fuck would buy a dildo your size?" Shane asks, looking down into the space between them, before quickly looking away again. "Totally unnecessary. Nobody needs a dick that big."

        "Is what I have," Ilya shrugs. "Can you give more detail? Is it too long? Or too wide? Or is just final knot that is problem?"

        "Oh, fuck...the knot?! There's no way it's going to fit," Shane says, swallowing hard as he meets Ilya's concerned gaze. "I wasn't planning on dating an alpha, so I've never used a knotted dildo."

        "Shhh, is no reason to panic," Ilya says, starting to purr again as he bundles Shane into his arms. In a voice too loud to be meant for Shane, and tinged with a harsh smugness, he says, "Is no reason to cry over big dick. By end of today, you will take whole fist and ask for more."

        Then, in a whisper against his ear disguised as a kiss, he says, "Remember, is only stretching until you produce slick. Will be slow, gradual. One finger at a time. And when you are slick and flexible, if is still too big, we pretend there is knot for cameras and leave it outside your body, da?"

        It's meant to be comforting, Shane knows, but for some reason, the idea of being unable to take Ilya's knot doesn't sit right with him. And the idea that Ilya would give up on trying to make it fit makes Shane feel inadequate. As if the alpha's already decided knotting Shane isn't worth the effort if it's not easy. He can't even argue against cheating, because as far as the cameras are concerned, Ilya's promised to make him take it, one way or another.

        Moving away from him, Ilya goes to the bathroom and starts audibly looking through the cabinets under the sink. "Come, then," he says. "Time to start long day, yes?"

        Following his voice, Shane stops in the doorway, concerned to see a fresh towel laid out on the floor and Ilya unboxing what looks like medical equipment at the sink.

        "What is this?" Shane asks, spine stiffening as he watches Ilya take a long piece of tubing and start filling it with air by means of a syringe.

        "Testing balloon," he says, nonchalantly.

        "That's...not a balloon. Oh, I see." In a spot higher up from the port where Ilya is infusing the air, a compartment expands into a sizable ball. "What is that?" Shane asks, still not recognizing the contraption Ilya's playing with.

        Eyes sliding in Shane's direction, Ilya cocks an eyebrow. "Still not used to walking around naked?"

        His hands jerk away from each other automatically, as if part of Shane is embarrassed at his skin shyness when there's another alpha walking around in his birthday suit unflinchingly. A second later, he lets them swing back to where they'd naturally come together to shield his dick. "Why are you so comfortable? Your men, maybe your brother, all of them are watching you through the cameras. That doesn't bother you at all?"

        Ilya shrugs. "Take everything away and we are all just organic machine. I do not put clothes on computer or try to dress car. Room is warm, so being naked is fine. Bring me long chain, please."

        "...The one for the cuffs? Why do you need it? I thought you said you wouldn't use the cuffs today?" Shane asks, eyes catching again on the medical equipment. Cataloguing it. Noting that it looks vaguely familiar. But the contents on the counter remind him of blood draws. "What do you need my blood for?"

        Stone-faced, Ilya turns to him once he's reset the balloon so that it lies flat against the tube again.

        "Chain is on nightstand," he says, face giving nothing away.

        The desire to protest rises in Shane as his feet take steps backwards and away from the alpha. Standing more firmly in the bedroom, but with Ilya's eyes still fixed on him, Shane's forced to make a choice. Slam the Murphy door shut and try to keep it that way and wait for the men on the other end of the camera to intervene or for Ilya to overpower his hold on the door, or grab the chain and bring it to Ilya. Not much of a choice, but he still stands there in indecision, waiting perhaps to see what Ilya will do as the delay stretches into awkwardness. But the bigger man does nothing.

        Doesn't issue the request again.

        Doesn't move to follow him.

        Doesn't go back to his task.

        Ilya stands and waits, something namelessly intimidating in his eyes, for whole minutes on end. Until finally, Shane can't take it anymore. Caving, he retrieves the chain and then walks it slowly back to Ilya, who's there waiting, an open hand ready to receive the chain. In a quick and practiced motion, he links one end to the cuff he's still wearing around one wrist and links the other end to Shane.

        This is both better and worse than when his hands were tied behind his back. It means his movement is still fairly unrestricted. He can push and pull and punch mostly like normal. However, he's also tied to Ilya now. Forced to inhabit a radius of space around him until the man lets him go again.

        "You need this to keep me from running away from you?" Shane asks.

        "Yes," Ilya admits freely. "You have such large problem with shyness that I will not let you off leash until is time for me to keep my promise."

        Brows scrunching in confusion, Shane doesn't know what Ilya means by promise. Maybe it's about the Moomins? If so, then Shane supposes it must mean he won't be free until it's basically time to leave.

        He reels Shane in with the chain, eliminating the distance Shane's put between them as he drifted to the end of the taunt tether. Pulling him in by the hip, he traps Shane between him and the counter. "You know what these things are?" he asks, fingers finding the divots at Shane's hips.

        "Like I said, it reminds me of blood donation," Shane says. "This the part where you tell me you're running an organ harvesting ring? Need me for a transfusion?"

        Ilya hooks his chin on Shane's shoulder as his arms wrap him in an embrace from behind. "Not very close, and you will like this less than blood donation."

        "Less?" Shane asks, incredulous. "Giving blood is uncomfortable and it never fails to make me nauseous. What exactly are you planning to do?"

        The arms tighten, as if bracing for Shane's reaction. "This next part is not deeply required. Many have sex without it. But, we are not here for sex. We are here for bitching. And for bitching, this activity is very useful. We will not do this again, probably. So, suffer it once and worst part will be done."

        Chills go down Shane's spine, his anxiety thrumming as he tries to put the pieces together ahead of the reveal Ilya's working towards. "Are you going to drug me?" he asks, noting a floppy plastic on the counter that has a passing resemblance to an IV bag. There's a tube running out of it that connects to the blue tubing Ilya was testing earlier. But he knows his guess is wrong. There are no needles on the countertop and the bag is huge. Tilting his head to read the max measurement, the bag is apparently big enough to hold half a gallon.

        "We will only do half," Ilya tells him, observing Shane's progress as he investigates the equipment.

        "Wait, so you are going to drug me?"

        "Nyet. These supplies are for high-volume enema."

        "No, they're not," Shane immediately disagrees. "Because even though you don't know me, you're not dumb enough to think I'd let you give me...No, just no. This is for something else."

        "This cannot be fight," Ilya murmurs into his ear. 

        "Well, then, put it away because we're not doing this!" Shane hisses, trying to yank out of the arms still holding him tight. "Let go," he demands, elbowing Ilya in the ribs. "I'm serious. Let go." When that gets no reaction, he steps on Ilya's toes.

        The arms around him hold tight as Shane thrashes. The bigger alpha doesn't say anything, weathering the storm of Shane's anger in silence, until Shane rears his head back, smashing his head into Ilya's mouth. With a groan, his arms slip just enough that Shane breaks loose.

        He shouldn't have brought Ilya the chain. It looks so deceptively thin and fragile. But despite Shane leaning all his weight in the opposite direction, the chain holds. Shane wears himself out trying to break it to no avail.

        And it continues to hold as Ilya yanks with enough power to upset Shane's balance, sending him tipping back into the bigger alpha's arms. In a panic, Shane lashes out, hand fisted and swinging wildly, until it finds its mark against Ilya's cheek. And despite never having been in a fist fight, Shane on reflex rears back his hand and swings again, aiming at the same spot.

        Before he can make contact, Ilya catches his fist mid-swing, stopping the motion. "Do not do this with animal panic," he says, dripping blood from a cut on his lip. "You want to hit me? I will let you. But first, take deep breath and aim."

        Shane freezes, hand falling to his side when Ilya's grip loosens enough to let him go.

        "Go ahead. Aim," Ilya says, taking a step closer so that Shane doesn't have to reach as far to do it. "I will not stop you."

        Shaking his head, Shane says, "No, this is a trap."

        "What trap? I am giving permission."

        "You'll pay me back later," Shane argues.

        "Nyet. You are angry? Want to beat me with fists? I give permission. As long as I am conscious, men will not interfere. So, go ahead," Ilya says, waving at him to proceed.

        But the fire's gone right alongside the panic. As Ilya makes no move to grab at him, standing ready to take whatever abuse Shane chooses to rain down on him without complaint, the fight disappears. "I...I'm not interested in hurting you."

        Ilya shrugs. "Then don't."

        "But I will if you try doing this," Shane waves his hand at the equipment on the counter.

        "Enema," Ilya provides. "The word is enema. Is your language. You not know this?"

        "I-I do," Shane growls.

        "Ah. More shyness. More embarrassment. Tiny, terrified alpha who flinches at every other word," Ilya taunts.

        "Shut up, asshole," Shane growls low.

        "Or what? You will make me? Go ahead. We can count, see if you can hit me enough times to shut me up before hand hurts."

        Shaking his head, Shane asks, "Wh-why are you trying to get me to hit you?"

        "Because maybe you need proof? To see that hurt will only go in one direction. That hitting me will not make me abandon you." He yanks on the chain suddenly, pulling Shane into his arms. "I will always protect you," he whispers into his ear, nuzzling at Shane's temple.

        "Th-this is all w-wrong," Shane mutters, throat tightening. "Y-you're sup-posed to b-be bitching me. Why did y-you let me hi-hit you? Why did y-you let me und-do our prog-ress?" He has to squeeze the words out, every other one coming out with a hitch to it. His eyes feel inexplicably wet. He's fucking crying and he doesn't even know why.

        With a patient, soothing hand, Ilya caresses his cheek and smooths the tears away with his thumb. "Nothing is undone."

        "It's r-ruined. I-I r-ruined it," Shane tries to breath through his panic to keep from wailing. Everything that happened yesterday, all their progress with steps and logic and careful manipulation...All of it undone. And to what extent? What if the only option that remains is the kind of violent, horrific prison yard bitching Ilya has been trying to avoid?

        Cradling him close, Ilya noses at his ear. "Shhh, you ruin nothing. Is just extinction burst. Just sweet, gentle boy throwing tantrum. Is no need to cry."

        "No," Shane whines. "It doesn't work that way," he argues. "Actions have consequences. I can't just hit you and nothing happens. I fucked it up."

        "Nyet, you feel guilty and is making you anxious. Is coming from alpha mostly, yes? Can you tell?"

        Shane stops spiraling for a moment, curious enough to look inwards. Hunting for the source of the world-ending feeling, Shane finds it in the part of him that is the alpha. "You're right."

        "Not treated like threat. Not punished like alpha. Touched like omega. Fed and bathed and coddled by alpha who does not accept same actions in return."

        "The alpha inside me feels wrong-footed and wretched," Shane confirms, feeling viscerally how the reminder of all the ways Ilya's rejected the alpha part of him burns.

        "You want yesterday to count? Then give in. Let me fill you with water. Stay with you for the twenty minutes you will need to hold it. And then everything after is easy. Alpha gets strong message, we make more progress in bitching, and you feel clean."

        "Clean..." That last part, Shane has to admit, has particular appeal. "I get to take a shower afterwards," he demands, glaring at the bigger alpha.

        "Da. You want ten showers a day, we will do it. Walk around like wrinkled potatoes if you want," Ilya teases.

        "Do you know what you're doing?" Shane asks, staring at the long tube with trepidation.

        "Tube does not go in far," Ilya tells him, picking up the end and pointing out a mark about five inches down from the tip. "First, I will fill bag halfway."

        "That's like two fucking pints. It's too much!"

        "I will not leave you here alone. If is too much or too fast, then here is slider," he shows Shane the mechanism on the bag that allows for opening or closing the valve that controls the flow of water. "I will be monitoring whole time, da?" He leans in to drop a kiss on Shane's forehead, which feels entirely too chaste and intimate, given what they're standing around discussing. "With you laying on your side, I will prepare you and tube with lubricant and insert to this line, then inflate the balloon to help keep water in. Wait 20 minutes, and is finished."

        "Wh-what will it feel like?"

        "Fullness and pressure. And probably cramping. Is not comfortable. You will not want to wait and this will make your alpha upset. If is very painful, you say immediately and we stop. Then I take out tubing, insert small plug, and leave room. You call me back in when is time for shower. And worst part will then be over."

        "What's in the enema? Like, what solution are you using?"

        "Saline and tap water. Body temperature, so is not too jarring."

        Shane stands there, racking his brain for anything he could ask, anything he should know, before agreeing to this. But for every question, Ilya has a quick, assertive answer ready. There's no hemming and hawing, no pondering...he knows the steps, the risks, the warning signs. He's forthcoming with information and doesn't promise sunshine and rainbows with the procedure. Just the promise that Shane's alpha will feel motivated to change and the end result should leave Shane feeling flushed out and cleaner on the inside.

        He tries to remind himself, it's just a medical procedure. In a different setting, this would be normal and not nearly as awkward. Sure, if he went to a doctor's office and some nurse was charged with administering this procedure, he'd likely never see him or her ever again. There would be gloves and the scent of antiseptic in the air. It wouldn't be someone who he wants to inspire lust in.

        But Ilya helps in making the whole thing feel less stressful by just...treating it like it's nothing; and giving him amused looks every time he blushes or squirms.

        He follows the procedure he laid out exactly, so that Shane knows from step to step what's coming. From being laid down on his left side with his knee raised to his chest, to slowly being filled with a steady, relentless trickle of water that goes in and extends his stomach outward.

        The way Ilya palms his lower abdomen, rubbing soothing circles into the skin, would be comforting if he wasn't stuck spending the whole time overheated because of the filthy things Ilya's saying to him.

        "You want kids?" he asks, once Shane's really starting to strain, his flat stomach curving outward. "You are lovely, but with a glow to your cheeks and with pulse of baby inside you, your scent turning milky, your breasts filling out, belly distended with life...is different kind of lovely, yes?"

        "C-can former alphas do that?" Shane asks, hugging his knee close at the picture Ilya's painting.

        "All omegas can, if there are not fertility issues. The power to give life is reason why omegas cannot change designation. Opened channel will not close again."

        "I don't know. I never thought about it. I...I never spent much time considering what life would be like with a partner because there wasn't time to play the dating game."

        Lips at his ear, Ilya promises, "We will transform hellish circumstance into paradise. Whatever you want, we will do. Kids, career, both? But we will do it together and it will be beautiful."

        And fuck...but every moment that Shane should rightly be hating is so easy with Ilya.

       The Russian fulfills every promise. Monitoring the enema so that it's not painful or stressful, leaving him alone when the twenty minute wait is done, showering afterwards... And under the spray of water, when Ilya starts stretching him, two fingers buried deep as the soap suds run down their fused torsos, Shane doesn't feel an ounce of insecurity over it because he does feel clean.

        In a world where Shane spends most of his conscious time feeling awkward, in the way, apologetic, or silly...somehow, he's met a devil in hell who turns each one of those moments on its head.

        Teasing him.

        Touching him.

        Making him laugh or scowl and keeping him expertly occupied so that he doesn't have time to get self-conscious.

        It's such a gift. His heart practically hurts with it.

        In the wake of his introspection, the alpha in him stills. Careful and assessing. Looking at Ilya from every angle, and seeing someone it could build a life with...

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Thanks for the continued support of comments. I love hearing about what stood out, or how you're interpreting things. We all wear a different lens when reading, so it's always fascinating to hear what it looks like from a different point of view.

And, would you believe, when this chapter was started, there wasn't supposed to be much plot to it? Now, it's mostly plot. Gah...this isn't going how I expected. What happened to this pwp?

        It's a bit concerning when, after the shower, Ilya doesn't immediately start into whatever is next on the list he's working from. He carries Shane - bundled again in a fresh towel after having revealed a gold mine of them hidden in the bathroom cabinets - back to the bed and removes the chain from both their cuffs.

        A curious expression on his face, he stretches his long, muscular body, letting the silence hang for a long moment as he just observes Shane.

        It's not as uncomfortable as it should be. With most strangers, Shane would either be on his phone or trying to fill the silence. With Ilya, the attention feels present and purposeful. As if the quiet between them is meant to be filled with the things they want to share, not all of them verbal. A look, a feeling, attention, or just the peace that is the silence itself.

        Perhaps that's why Ilya breaks it so reluctantly. "Is a shame we are here now, in this little public room. Is normal, yes? To be possessive of mate," he says, loud, brash and not for Shane's benefit.

        "I guess," Shane says with a shrug, wishing he knew where Ilya was going with this. On a performance level, it'd probably be weird to agree with his 'tormentor', just as it would likely be weird to disagree too boldly. And on a personal level, Shane has no idea what the answer should be.

        Too often, life has people acting counter to how they should act in a civilized society. To literally consider a mate a possession - something owned that you feel entitled to using, or destroying, or giving away - is obviously bad. But people use the word less literally, as a shorthand to describe expectations like fidelity, exclusivity, priority - not so obviously bad, and very variable amongst individuals.

        "I see this makes you think very hard," Ilya teases, having started up a naked exercise routine while Shane was pondering the ethics of possessiveness.

        At the top of a push up, he tilts his head up and meets Shane's startled eyes. "When we are gone from this place, far from people who observe through cameras, I will ask you to describe what gets you hot. Fantasies you have, porn you watch, thoughts you use for pleasure, when you close your eyes and try to orgasm. And I will expect real answer. If you cannot, I will find comprehensive sex therapist list and we will go through, line by line - yes, no, maybe. While we are waiting for your alpha to decide to be omega, perhaps consider your answer."

        And then he just goes back to doing pushups.

        Gaping at the other man, Shane shakes his head in disbelief, but Ilya doesn't see his glower. "This is a terrible place to ask that question," he says.

        "Is it?" Ilya asks, without looking up, breathing steadily with enough ease that he can just continue to have a conversation while pushing himself off the ground in a tempo you could keep time to. "Imagine I announce next thing is...shibari, for example. You feel terror? Disgust? Boredom? Elation?" Before he can reply, Ilya warns him, "Don't answer. Say nothing. Just think." 

         His message is clear. 

        Don't give them ammunition.

        Whatever future they're heading towards together, it will likely mean meeting (and hopefully arresting) the men outside the door. The less they see of Shane's true self, the better. "Point taken," Shane says, realizing Ilya might be right. Just, with one glaring caveat. "There's a problem with your idea, though," he mutters, low enough that Ilya pauses at the top of a lift again and looks up, understanding the words were meant only for him.

        Cocking an eyebrow, Ilya silently invites him to continue without drawing attention to Shane. Giving him the space to withdraw if it's not meant for prying ears.

        "Before yesterday, I would have said no to a lot of stuff, point blank." It's frankly shocking how much of what they've done together Shane would have said no to, or been squeamish about. But even if Shane were naturally adventurous with lots of experience to draw on, he's still not sure all that would help him give accurate answers now that he's spent so much time being pulled into things in pursuit of the designation change by Ilya.

        Take shibari, for example.

        Off the cuff, without Ilya in the picture, he'd say no. Potentially dangerous, a lot of work, requires expertise and training, and the end result? Shane doesn't know much about it, but it seems like suspension, decoration, bondage - a sensory nightmare that he'd hate from either vantage point. As the person responsible, he'd be stressed about circulation, one eye on the clock, mind second-guessing the whole time. And as the person tied up, he'd be paranoid about nerve damage, angry at the lack of control, and probably bored.

       But add Ilya, and suddenly the picture's different.

       Suddenly, Shane's curious.

       Because Ilya seems to only suggest things he's prepared for and knowledgeable about. So far, he's been able to give Shane explanations and answer questions about the activities he's introduced Shane to. He's come prepared with equipment and training, and has shown proper attention to concerns of hygiene and potential side effects. In this area, Ilya feels trustworthy in a way Shane can't believe he feels down to the marrow, given the circumstances that have brought them together. And oddly enough, if Ilya likes something like shibari, Shane wants to understand why. Where he encountered it, what drew him to it initially, what aspect has him coming back for more. In truth, Shane's just overall hungry to know more about this man, who's picking himself up off the floor, barely winded, after completing an even hundred, if his count can be believed. He very well might be willing to experiment with Ilya in ways he wouldn't with anyone else.

        Ilya stretches his neck and back once more, then pushes Shane flat and lays his sweat-dampened body over him. Interspersing loud kisses with whispers, Ilya says, "You have values." A kiss under his jaw. "Morals." A kiss to his cheekbone. "Things you want no part in maybe obvious." A kiss to his temple. "But maybe they point to other less obvious limits." He sucks an earlobe into his mouth and tugs. "My value, for example, is selfishness." A lick along the whorl of his ear. "I do not share." A nip to the top of his ear. "So, no threesome." A lick behind Shane's ear. "No orgy." A suck against Shane's scent gland, where the bonding bite would go. "No swapping, no cuckolding, no swinging."

        "No offense, but aren't you known for being kind of... promiscuous?"

        "Bureau is tracking this? How many people I fuck? Do they count every person I leave club with?" His tone doesn't reveal whether the thought bothers him at all. 

        Shane shrugs. "We've interviewed some of your...dates. They were very complimentary," he admits, figuring since he and other agents have been caught before, the men watching the cameras must know they're under some level of surveillance. Identifying they've kept an eye on Ilya too should only help obscure his cooperation with the Bureau.

       "Date and mate may rhyme, but is not same thing. Women from dates were complimentary because we both are having fun. No one is lied to. No one makes promises. Mating means you are my date, always. I know this is not very fair. Do you regret that I am your first and last for as long as we are mates?"

       With a huff, Shane shakes his head. "I'm not one for anonymous hookups or one-night-stands." Then another thing occurs to him. "Have the cameras been bothering you this whole time?" Shane whispers back, startled at the idea that maybe in the past two days, Ilya's been feeling violated in ways he hasn't noticed.

        "Ah, see, is different value. Russia is big on showing off. Expensive watches, fast cars, beautiful mate - is signal of importance. Like color of snake. The better you look, the more dangerous you seem, more untouchable you are treated. I am not shy. And you, I gladly show off. Want everyone to know you are my mate. If is more obvious because they are watching me fuck you? Good. So, is up to you then, where limit will be. Whether PDA is fine, or only holding hands, or only walking shoulder to shoulder. You understand?"

         With a groan, Shane asks, "Are you telling me you're an exhibitionist?"

        "Exhibition," Ilya repeats, tongue peeking out as he tries to recall the world. "Ah, like art gallery, yes?"

        Shane sighs at him. "Yeah, like putting yourself on display for public viewing. Unfortunately for you, I value privacy. Also, I don't think it's selfish to dedicate yourself to one partner."

        Shane wonders what word Ilya would choose in Russian, with a much larger, more robust vocabulary to select from compared to what he knows of English. But he doubts it'd be selfishness. The word doesn't accurately describe the man who's putting his life on the line to shut down the illegal ways his family's making money. Who stepped in to save Shane from certain death. Who's working to fulfill his brother's command in a way that won't leave Shane a jibbering mess after all's said and done. “Maybe the word you’re looking for is ‘faithful’?”

         Ilya's hand finds the golden cross hanging from his neck, fiddling with the symbol of devotion to the Russian Orthodox Church. "Is not my faith."

        "I didn't mean religious faith," Shane says.

        "Me, also," Ilya says, still playing with the Eastern cross. "When I am twelve, my faith in religion and my faith in people turns into same thing. Theater. Wear cross, kiss ring, visit grave. Is deep like puddle. I am thankful you are terrible liar. Means I do not need faith. I can just ask."

        When he finally looks up, Ilya locks eyes with him.

        Face scrunching up with confusion, Shane really doesn't know how to interpret what Ilya's told him. "Are you trying to say you don't trust anyone?" he asks in a whisper.

        "If you are me, who do you trust? Sick father? Dangerous brother? Greedy men? World is apple, rotten all the way through. Always has been. Always will be."

        "That's bleak," Shane murmurs, lifting a hand reflexively to pet Ilya's hair. As awareness floods in, his hand freezes mid-motion, stunned at the liberties he's taking.

        But Ilya leans into the caress, the intensity in his eyes mellowing to something softer. "Question everything, Shane. Take notes. Ask for proof. You do this for work, yes? Then do it in life. Lesson is not to treat everyone as enemy. Just to remember we are all selfish animals. Watch them and learn who they are. Do not take it on faith. Because only liars will ask you to believe in what you cannot see."

        He says it with such weight.

        As if he's trying to impart more than just some vague, baseless warning about 'the way of the world'. There's something specific behind it. Something he can't say. Doesn't dare, not even in a whisper? He's said so much else, trusting the cameras not to pick up little asides. So, why leave whatever he's really trying to warn Shane about unsaid?

        Afraid to ask, Shane purposely makes his tone more playful and asks, "Why shibari?"

        Ilya squints at him. "What about shibari?"

        "You brought it up. I figured, because you like it?"

        "Nyet," Ilya shrugs. "Never tried it. Is true, you would look pretty in ropes, but is because you look pretty in everything."

        "It's...a very specific example. Sorry, I thought it meant something."

        Quirking his brows high, Ilya says, slowing his English down a tick, so it drags, "Yes. Reminds me of you." His eyebrows flex meaningfully. As if to add to the hint, he says, "This rope play is not Russian."

        "No, it's...Japanese," Shane says, breath catching unwittingly.

        Another eyebrow flex from Ilya. As if to say, Notice this. On top of warnings about trusting people...

        Shivering beneath the bigger alpha, Shane struggles to keep his breathing even.

        To help him, Ilya transfers his weight to his elbows, breathing deep and loud, with exaggeration, both to mask the sound of Shane's panic and to give him an obvious pattern to match.

        Fuck...he can't ask now, not even in a whisper, but he desperately wants to. His vocal chords practically ache with the need to release a question - just one question - Is there a mole in the Bureau?

        Because, what Ilya's implying is that he knows Shane is half-Japanese. And for all that Shane doesn't look Caucasian, Ilya shouldn't be sure about his origins just by looking at him. Because he could just as easily be Korean, or Chinese, Vietnamese or even Russian, given just how diverse the population is. He could only know for sure if he'd seen Shane's file. If he'd walked into this situation with information he shouldn't have.

        The Bureau has a traitor in its ranks.

        "If you are interested in rope bondage, we can take classes," Ilya offers, mostly in jest as a way to deflect from his revelation.

        "Maybe in ten years, when we're bored of each other," Shane says carefully, measuring each word to ensure there's enough air to push it along past his teeth.

        With a snort, Ilya says, "Will be forty before there is risk of boredom. Catching up on who you are and how you came to be will take long time. And every day, you and I will be creating more experiences to share, more opinions to discuss." For all that his tone is light and teasing, his eyes look anything but. Which is why it seems odd, when he ends with, "Is dangerous, I think, that you will be omega."

        "Um...what?" The comment almost feels like a non sequitur.

        "You are already page-turner. If you are a book, I would not put you down. But alpha does not entice other alphas on hormonal level. When you change, this pull will be like magnets with opposite polarity."

        "There's probably a ceiling to it. A maximum amount of desire you can feel towards someone. An upper limit to how much of your attention can be eaten up by any one person," Shane speculates, because he can't imagine the impulses he feels getting any stronger.

        It's already difficult to look away from Ilya. He tries so hard not to let his gaze linger, not to notice, not to stare. Although he's constantly fighting the impulse to create a star chart of Ilya's moles - struggling to prevent himself from searching for constellations inked across his body by fate - Shane figures part of the draw is the newness of it. He tries to reassure himself that the desire thrumming under his skin will eventually settle down. He'll get used to Ilya's...everything; and in a very human fashion, someday if he's not careful, he might even learn to take it for granted. After all, men find ways to cheat on super models all the time.

       "Ceiling will not help if you live outside. This is saying, yes? Sky is ceiling? It feels this way, to me. That we are out in the wild with only sky above us."

        "Sky's the limit," Shane provides dutifully, then winces at the implication. "But we're just two people experiencing a volatile situation. Eventually, we'll be back in the real world, with daily routines and other people to rely on. And then, we'll be in a house like everyone else. With totally mediocre ceilings."

        Visibly unconvinced, Ilya warns, "Between us, I see ingredients for obsession or co-dependence. Will need to choose recipe wisely, no matter which ceiling we live under." Abandoning the thought, his hands begin to wander. "Is good news today. No reaction to scent marking."

        "What scent marking?" Shane asks, tilting his head. "Also, I thought we were trying to make this designation change happen sooner rather than later. Shouldn't we be...doing something besides having random conversations?"

        Eyes narrowing with a strange sort of amusement, Ilya smirks at him. "You think we are talking for what reason?"

        Tapping his fingers against the bed spread, Shane hates that there seems to be a right answer, but he doesn't know what it is. "To....bond?" he guesses. 

        Disconcertingly, Ilya's grin widens. "Bonding is important," he allows. "But is mostly to invite your alpha to imagine future. To start thinking of us, together, outside of this room. What it will be like. How it will feel. Future should be relief compared to this place, and so to imagine this future is enticing. And while you start to think of this, I scent mark you. Is a little lazy, but you do not scowl today when your scent is washed out and mine is all over you. Good sign."

        "But you didn't - " Shane's voice cuts off as he realizes what Ilya means. "The sweat...is that why you decided to exercise this morning?"

        "Is good habit. But yes, benefit here is mainly fast scent marking. I sweat on you; you smell like me."

        "Are you always this calculated?" Shane asks, startled to discover that what he thought was a leisurely start, a reprieve from what Ilya had been tasked to do, was actually just an extension of a strategy.

        "Nyet. Usually, I am not bitching someone. But with our work, it pays to calculate when you can." Then, he changes the mood with just a sharpening of his grin. "Maybe now, we calculate how many fingers you can take? You want to make prediction?"

        "I've never done more than three," Shane says, feeling his cheeks warm.

        Kissing his blush, Ilya says, "Thank you for telling me." And this time, Shane recognizes that it's not just reflexive politeness or fluffy gratitude. As if he's finally noticing the man behind the curtain, Shane can see that it's meant to motivate Shane to be more open. Or maybe to talk about sex more bluntly? Or to share more about his level of experience? Perhaps all of the above? The reason doesn't really matter, because the important part is just how immediately Ilya rewards him for behavior he likes.

        Yesterday, Ilya said that the body was a machine to be programmed. And now here he is, programming Shane.

        For a second, Shane doesn't know how to feel about this.

        But then, it occurs to him that it's probably normal - to point out a behavior you like, in the hopes that a person will do it again. He remembers the teasing between his parents, about how they trained each other. Or Hayden bragging that Jackie 'upskilled' him into proper husband material. Having always skipped out on relationships in favor of more hours at work, or longer gym sessions, Shane never thought to question what those little offhand comments meant. And he wonders now, if it's this. 

        Seeing his distraction, Ilya fixes his mouth over Shane's nipple and starts to suck like he's expecting something to come out.

        "H-hey!" Shane tries to squirm away, but Ilya's weight has him effectively pinned in place.

        With a nip, Ilya releases him and links their hands together. Tracing over Shane's fingers, he says, "In the shower, two fingers was already tight. For fit to be easy, need probably to triple this. Ideally, three fingers from each hand." Aligning the backs of his three middle fingers, he sits up enough so Shane can compare the circumference and weigh in.

        "You're going to use both hands?" With his thumb and pointer finger, Shane first fits them around the fingers Ilya holds up for him. Then, with Ilya nodding in invitation, he tests the girth of his cock. "And h-how much bigger is y-your knot?" Shane asks, swallowing hard.

        "You have seen it before. During blow job."

        Shane snorts. "I didn't see it. I felt it against my lips while I was already distracted. Come on, tell me." 

        Cocking an eyebrow, Ilya reminds him in a murmur, "Is not important."

        "Tell me anyway," Shane insists.

        With a sigh, Ilya says, "Make a fist." Then he covers Shane's hand with his own consideringly. "Is about this size."

        "No...no fucking way."

        "You have slim fingers, narrow palm."

        "That's still huge."

        Nose wrinkling in confusion, Ilya says, "Focus on fitting cock. For now, forget knot." He must read something on Shane's face, because he leans in for a very thorough kiss. And afterwards, breathing hot against his ear, he says, "Knot is just a way to keep cum in. Is many positions where knot is not useful, not necessary, and can even be dangerous. In fact, I make you promise. Whether it fits or does not fit, there will be no knotting in this place. If you really want to try, we can make attempt in my home, on my bed, near my gun. No sooner."

       Shane wonders if that means Ilya thinks the men outside might try something if they think their boss is indisposed. But realistically, Ilya's not much of a threat right now. Someone could easily appear in the doorway while they're sleeping and just shoot them. So, it's probably not fear driving Ilya's adamance that they skip knotting.

        "Hey," catching Shane's chin, Ilya says in something close to a growl, "There is no contest for best omega. No judge, no prize, no criteria. Nothing to win or lose."

        "I-I never s-said there was," Shane stutters, startled by how fierce Ilya suddenly looks.

        "So, you are not distracted by expectations you invent? No part of you is wondering if you can be good omega if you cannot fit whole dick?" he challenges, eyes sharp as an ice pick. In their narrowness, there's a clear message - don't lie to me.

        With a strange, placating whine Shane was not aware his vocal chords could produce, Shane says, "But it's true isn't it? Omegas are the life-bringers of the world. And a baby is a hell of a lot bigger than a knot. So, yeah, if the whole point of this process is for me to end up an omega, it's distracting to be confronted with the idea that on the most basic mechanical level I might already be falling short. How am I supposed to see myself in the role, to accept that I can be an omega, when I feel like I can't even fit you inside me?"

        Ilya's nostrils flare, his fair complexion flushing with real irritation as he curses in indistinguishable Russian. But, even with his hand cupping Shane's face, his bulk weighing Shane down, and the incensed flavor to his scent, Ilya doesn't read as threatening. On an instinctual level, Shane doesn't draw inwards, no part of him feeling the need to escape.

        Reinforcing the trust he's given, Ilya thumbs along Shane's freckles in a gentle caress. "I think my poor, pretty alpha did not pay much attention in school. Or Canada is not teaching correctly. Shane, you do know that just because something is common, does not mean is not dangerous, da?"

        "Yes."

        "Do you also know what it means, to be pregnant? That you can lose calcium, get diabetes, develop high blood pressure? That for so fucking many people, there are side effects and miscarriages, and still births, and tearing? Is not some easy, basic minimum to talk about having baby. There are born omegas who cannot fit dick at all - not one part of it - and it does not mean they are bad omega. Fuck, Shane, you cannot think like this, all black and white, about omegas. Is not acceptable for you to feel like failure, because there is no such thing as good omega. It is just the most flexible biology, much like alpha is most rigid."

        "I've heard that before," Shane admits. "About omegas being the most resilient. Apparently, it's one of the reasons survivors of natural disasters tend to unwittingly switch designations?"

        "Da, omegas produce more oxytocin when stressed, which helps with calm and social connection. Also, higher estrogen is helping with emotional regulation. Used to be myth that surviving tsunami or wild fire makes people omega because 'nature thinks population needs help reproducing'. Now, is known as simple survival mechanism. Less rigid, less stressed, you live longer. You can even go to doctor after trauma to prescribe chemical help for designation change."

        Shane chokes on his own spit at Ilya's last revelation. "Wait, you can get prescription drugs for this shit? Then why are we going through this the long, humiliating way around?" Shane asks, the sting of betrayal sharpening his tone. "Don't tell me you don't have a doctor on the take, because I won't believe you."

        Only now, at the suggestion of using pills or injections, does Shane discern a hint of danger in the air.

        Chest rumbling, Ilya licks his teeth in a purposely self-soothing way, keeping his teeth from grinding or his jaw from clenching too hard. The color is high on his cheeks now, red in anger in a way Shane always thought was only possible in cartoons. Seeing it in real life, with the scent of rage in the air, heavy and oppressive, there's nothing funny about it. It takes a minute for Ilya to speak, and in that time, Shane doesn't push, not knowing what to expect from the other alpha.

        But when he finally opens his mouth, his tone is impressively neutral. And unexpectedly, in what Shane reads as a good sign, he starts with, "Sorry. I am very sorry for reaction. But...I do not trust chemical designation change. Yes, it works. Just like running a train on unwilling alpha works. Does not mean is good idea." The way he says it, coupled with his smothered rage, makes it clear that there's a story behind this. Another one he's not willing to speak into the room, even at the volume of a whisper.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay. Between taxes, playing follow the leader in the woods, and completing a presentation, it's been a busy few days. Would have also worked on this more yesterday if not for the outage.

But hey, exciting things ahead, now that they're returning to the world at large.

Also, thanks so much for the comments. They've been lifesavers. It helps a great deal to know someone is reading and interested in what happens next. Sometimes, every word comes onto the page with such difficulty, so it helps to know that the awkwardness I might feel reading my own writing in an editing mode might not translate so awkwardly to a reader.

Thanks so much for giving this story your time ;)

        Shane's arms come around Ilya's broad shoulders, offering comfort as the scent of rage dilutes into something moist with melancholy. As if a fog's rolled in, carrying hidden sadness in its haze.

        "Sorry," Ilya murmurs again, kissing Shane's neck with increasingly desperate apologies. After the first few, it becomes clearer that he isn't just asking forgiveness for his display of anger. At the first dozen, Shane figures it might be in regret over the situation. But when he switches to Russian, Shane's skin starts to prickle with panic as he realizes that maybe this is very not good.

        Bordering on becoming an emergency.

        Because, in no way, shape, or form, can Ilya have a breakdown on camera. Sadness, true and heartfelt, is still considered the weakest and most pathetic emotion, despite the toll it demands physically and mentally. The courage it takes to show vulnerability to another, who could so easily twist it to their own ends, is not the kind the men out there will respect and commend.

        Shane knows he has to fix this. Somehow keep Ilya from spiraling, but what can he do? He can't offer audible comfort without making it obvious that Ilya's not doing well. He can't ask questions, since Ilya won't be able to answer them safely and honestly, thus rendering them pointless. Feeling utterly muzzled, the only path forward that Shane sees is in the physical.

        The comfort he's already providing is both not enough and too obvious. Platonic hugs and caresses over an extended period of time will read as too sentimental. And the effect he's having feels minimal given Ilya's continued struggle to surface.

        The only avenue Shane sees open to him is one he feels wrong-footed about taking. Initiating sex in a moment like this seems inappropriate. Akin to offering a man dying of thirst some alcohol.

        But what choice does he have? To try and pinch Ilya back to himself? To bring him back to an even keel with pain or whispered derision, echoing the things the men would say if they saw Ilya now?

        It's not an option.

        No way he could do that to his mate. Well...future mate, but still.

        Problem is, he doesn't really know how to start. With Ilya's weight largely holding him down and limiting both his options and his reach, Shane settles on leaning down to where Ilya has his head tucked in against his neck, and mouthing at his ear.

        He traces along its shell, first with his tongue, then with his teeth. It's not until he sucks Ilya's earlobe into his mouth that the alpha looks up, eyes dazed and far away.

        "What are you doing?" he asks, blinking slowly, as if trying to refocus.

        "Appreciating m-my alpha," Shane says. It's probably too quiet and too timid for what the moment needs, but even just that is enough to make Shane blush. Then, before Ilya can properly respond, he leans in again and boldly licks inside Ilya's easily-parted mouth.

        Letting him explore without interference, Ilya shifts to accommodate Shane's movements, turning his head to keep from bumping noses or banging teeth. It's a calculated kiss on both their ends - with Ilya making adjustments on a physical level in a coordinated dance with Shane's intentions, and with Shane taking a formulaic approach to the emotional regulation of another alpha - so why does it feel so tender? Why is there a soothing undercurrent to every brush against Ilya's lips? Why does the slide of his tongue feel like a balm? Why does sucking at the muscle rhythmically produce a groan in the other alpha? And why does Ilya reply to that suckling pressure by touching noses and licking the grooves of Shane's hard palate?

        For all that the kiss is wet and messy with need, it still manages to feel sweet. And beneath that...exhausted. The way the pace of the kiss keeps changing, slowing, turning languid and contemplative, before picking up speed again as if spurred...

        It reminds Shane of someone startling awake between passages of a book they're determined to power through. Eyes slipping unconsciously shut towards the end of every sentence.

        Shane also sees it in the way Ilya's putting his metaphorical armor back on - straightening his shoulders, squaring his frame, mouth twisting into a smirk in preparation for the performance he's about to continue. And it kind of hurts to watch.

        Not only because Ilya's not allowed to be hurt by this process while in the confines of this room.

        Not just because the actions he can and can't take are being dictated by a script of acceptable alpha behaviors, and any deviation can earn ridicule and loss of stature in the organization's hierarchy, and thus he can only play the narrow part he's been cast in.

       But also because the armor he puts on masks him so well, that Shane can't see the man from a minute ago behind it. If he were to walk into this room without context and see Ilya lounging around shamelessly naked, wearing just his devil-may-care smirk, he'd think 'this guy must be an asshole'.

        How long did it take Ilya to learn how to put on this mask so seamlessly? For how many people does he wear it? Is he ever allowed to take it off? When he's alone, does he even bother? Or is it easier to wear this facade if he just pretends its part of himself? The impetuous stoic; who can charm people and show them a good time and care for them without flagging; who can play the bad guy in other people's stories without buckling under the weight of guilt, or self-recrimination, or despondency; and who can bear the stress of being the snitch to the organization run by his family without cracking.

        As Ilya forcefully reanimates his face, remembering how to narrow his eyes and cock his brow to look lecherous, Shane interrupts the start of his performance with a loud and plaintive, "I'm so tired." Oddly enough, his throat produces a rather pathetic sounding whine to help him sell the assertion. "I know you have all these plans for today, but please, I'm begging you, could we please take a nap? Just for an hour or so..."

        It's so hard not to cringe at the end, but his expression probably can't be seen from the camera in the corner, penned in the way he is by Ilya's body.

        "How sweet of you to beg," Ilya coos at him for the benefit of the audience that can't see the way his eyes well up with gratitude. Still, he leans in for a kiss against his cheek and then whispers, "Are you sure? I do not wish to trap us here for longer. I am okay to keep going."

        "I'd rather take a break. Decompress for a moment," Shane says truthfully.

        With a nod, Ilya says, "How can I say no to such a needy request?" and flops down beside Shane, giving a good impression of a laidback alpha. It's not until he pulls Shane into his arms, this time not bothering with the cuffs, that Shane notices the way his palms seem clammy, fingers twitching minutely until he intentionally firms his grip.

        Not sure if it'll help, Shane holds onto those large hands, thumbing at the knuckles and drawing circles into his palms, feeling the tension loosen around him. Having woken up not that long ago, Shane fully expects to close his eyes and meditate until Ilya wakes up, but the sharp, needling thoughts that try to make plans and anticipate future events, turn lax and doughy as Ilya's breathing steadies and deepens against his ear.

        Like a metronome, the silent inhales and exhales blow warm air against his neck...

        Inhale...

        Exhale...

        Inhale...

        Shane loses track until at one point he opens his eyes, and instead of the room with Ilya sleeping behind him, he's in the forest. It's lighter out, closer to dawn, and the breeze that shifts the branches and ruffles his hair is warm.

        This time, he's alone in the eerie woods, where birds don't chirp and bugs don't chatter. Unnerved by the silent, rustling trees towering overhead, Shane figures it can't hurt to explore. See if maybe he can find the wolves that roamed here last.

        But as he stands from his seat on the forest floor, he finds himself rising onto four feet instead of two. "...the fuck?" Shane stares down at claw-tipped paws and long legs in a confusion that demands he pace about it. Oddly enough, his long legs stride intuitively with hardly a stumble. They carry him in his surprise, out of the clearing and into the tree line, at which point he forgets to be confused. With a yip of excitement, he works muscular legs faster, padded feet crunching through dried leaf litter on his way to parts unknown. Elation in every stride, Shane lets pure instinct drive him barreling onwards...straight into the golden beast.

        "Fuck, sorry, sorry...I didn't mean to," Shane mutters, trying to untangle his limbs from the bigger creature. Out of shock, his muscles fail him, dropping him onto the long-limbed body he's tackled.

        The low whines the somehow originate in his throat end when the creature responds. "Shame. I would have preferred if you'd jumped me on purpose," it - or, he? The voice is undoubtedly masculine, with the low, deep timber of...an alpha? - says.

        "Y-you can t-talk," Shane stutters, incredulous. But then...isn't this a dream? Suddenly he feels silly for being so surprised.

        "As can you," the golden beast grins, tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth in a friendly expression, despite the long line of knife-like teeth framing it. With an expert roll out from under Shane and a pounce from the side, suddenly their positions are reversed.

        Without conscious thought, Shane extends his neck out, away from the other wolf's maw. A second later, he realizes he's basically presenting his throat for easy chewing, but the larger animal, pinning him with his bulk, mouths at it softly before turning his head and jawing at Shane's snout.

        It's irksome to know instinctually that the gesture isn't a threat, even as the inhuman unfamiliarity of it causes Shane to flinch.

        "Shh, don't be frightened. I may be the scariest thing you find in these woods, but I promise I won't harm you."

        "So says the big, bad wolf," Shane scoffs.

        "To pigs and little girls and huntsmen, maybe. But we are two of a kind, you and I. A matched pair."

        "Says who?"

        Snickering through his teeth, the golden wolf pops to his feet. "You think I've lost my senses?" Nostrils flaring, his great head dips down to sniff under Shane's tail.

        "Hey!" Shane springs up with a growl of indignation and dances away from the jaws that snap playfully in his direction.

        "First you jump me, then you deny me?" the golden beast jokes. But his posture lowers into a slink, and he paces near, closer to Shane. "Or are you just too shy to ask for a chase?" he asks, licking his teeth.

        Shaking his head, Shane doesn't take his eyes off the alpha even as his feet carry him away, maintaining distance.

        "Ok, a chase it will be."

        "No! There will be no chasing! Leave me alone!"

        But the way the beast's hind legs bunch with energy, gaze sharpening with intent, has Shane doing the one thing he knows better than to do when facing down a predator.

        He runs.

        Immediately, it feels like a mistake.

       He can feel the larger wolf in hot pursuit. A panting breath close behind him, then a brush against his side, a snapping jaw as the creature bounds ahead and turns Shane's direction. But at no point does he feel the anticipated weight of a body slamming into him. They just continue to run, pell-mell through the woods until every breath feels like shrapnel in Shane's lungs, sawing in and out so quickly that he feels the need to cough.

        His strides shorten and slow, and the anticipation of being attacked rises.

        At one point, he feels so tired that he stops in his tracks, wondering if he could win a fight against the larger wolf, but the snap of jaws near his hind legs is enough to spur Shane forward. Straight into a clearing.

        The snout bumping against his shoulder convinces Shane to exchange the protection of the trees for the openness of the wild flower strewn field. But even with them both pulling in gusts of air in an attempt to regain their stamina, the golden beast continues to bump him along, nosing near his tail when Shane tries to stop. Herding him, Shane suddenly realizes, towards the narrow, sideways opening to a cave, the entrance to which is disguised by hanging ivy.

        Shane tries to resist going through the narrow passage, but with the other wolf nosing at his hind quarters, the only way to escape the invasion of privacy is by continuing forwards.

        The inside of the cave is lovely in a way it could only be in a dream. Warm light, tinted a soft violet, is streaming in from who knows where. There are plants and colorful patches of mushrooms growing between crystal protrusions. A pile of decadent furs rests in a spotless corner. There isn't any dust, or cobwebs, or loose rocks. And at the far end, a waterfall plays a pinging music against a stone wall on its way down to a pool of water that Shane just knows will never flood.

        "Welcome home," the wolf says, golden fur sliding along Shane's flank as he sidles up beside him.

        "I don't live here," Shane says.

        "Not yet. But soon, what is mine will be yours too."

        "I don't want that."

        "Then what do you want?" the wolf asks, tugging one of Shane's ears softly with his mouth.

        "I..." Shane trails off in confusion. "Does it matter?"

        "Of course it matters," the wolf scolds, nipping gently at Shane's muzzle. Drifting away from Shane, the beast throws himself into his nest of furs, rolling his scent over the pile. "There are choices to be made. Some things are, unfortunately, inevitable. But the way forward is entirely dependent on how you feel."

        "What about how you feel?" Shane asks. "Seems to me, we don't know each other. So, why open your home to me?"

        Thumping the bed with his tail, the beast says, "Come closer."

        Scenting the air and finding no hint of threat or deceit, Shane tentatively steps forward.

        "Sit with me a while. Take a few liberties Then, tell me what you think."

        "But what about you?" Shane insists, sitting himself just outside the creature's reach, on the stone floor of the cave.

        "There's potential here for something great," the wolf says easily. "But I can't be the only one to believe in it. The effort must come from both of us willingly."

        Ears pricking up at the word 'willingly', Shane asks, "What happens if I disagree with you? If I think we don't have potential?"

        Laying his great head over his paws, he tells Shane, "Then, we will do what must be done and no more. And when it is safe, we will come apart and separate - two strangers once again."

        Unwittingly, Shane whines at the thought, high and mourning. His fur puffs up, standing on end as his ears go flat in upset.

        "Ah...so you do see it? Then, what's keeping you from coming closer?"

        "I'm...afraid," Shane admits. "This feels dangerous. Like the end of something."

        "And the beginning," the golden beast says, thumping his tail on the bed of furs again. "Come here. Rest a while. Let me groom your coat. See if you enjoy our closeness, or if you feel repelled by it."

        "And if I don't want what you're offering, you'll let me go?"

        "I won't hurt you," the wolf says in what isn't an answer to the question Shane asked. 

        But the promise feels sincere, and Shane intuitively knows it's meant as more than just a reassurance that he won't be maimed during the proceedings. The scent in the air calls to him, pledging safety and care. It entices Shane close enough to grab, but the golden wolf waits with nary a twitch for Shane to step forward of his own accord.

        "Thank you, sweetheart," the wolf says as Shane tentatively enters the nest and settles in beside him. He starts off slow, nosing at Shane's ears and nibbling at his fur to remove nonexistent dirt. Graduating to licks, he runs his tongue over Shane's nose, under his lip to brush against a long line of pointed teeth and into the sensitive dips in front of Shane's twitching ears.

        And as Shane relaxes, letting the tension in his body release, the golden wolf rewards him with a delighted noise, nuzzling against him, pressing in from the side, bumping him until they're play-fighting on the nest of furs, sparring with open jaws in a way that feels so juvenile, but there's no one around to scold Shane for it. No one to scoff at him for being less serious.

        They tussle and roll, pushing away with soft, carefully placed paws and pulling closer with gentle bite-and-tugs. And the little bubble of overexcited exuberance lasts so long that they're left panting against each other, breathless from exertion, but also from the cackling and chuffing of wolf-like laughter.

        "This should be awkward," Shane says, staring into ice blue eyes in something regrettably close to awe. "How can this be so fun when I don't know you at all?"

        With a thoughtful quirk of his great head, the beast says, "I speak to you honestly, so you are not left to guess. I watch and I listen, so I hear both what you say and what you leave unsaid. I wonder if maybe you sense that I can keep you safe without coddling you. If maybe you recognize that the energy you use to engage with me, or remember the things I tell you, will be reciprocated?"

        "But it's too soon," Shane says, running his tongue over dry lips, overheated and parched. "I can't know any of that is true."

        "Yes, only time will tell. So, keep your eyes open. Keep looking at me. I will not disappoint you."

        Shane doesn't say it, but he hopes the golden wolf is right. It's funny how, looking back at his life, Shane has never felt like something was missing. Maybe because early on, in primary school, he skipped a grade, and then a few years later, he skipped one more. By the time he was in secondary school, everyone in his class was two years older than him. And still, he'd felt the pressure at the top of his class. It had earned him scorn and dirty looks from the other students, who maybe resented being upstaged by someone who should be two grades below them. Or maybe they just assumed they wouldn't share any common interests. In any case, his academic achievements had isolated Shane. Not only because his classmates didn't invite him to things, but also because he was always buried in homework, stuck on the never-ending hamster wheel his perfectionism put him on. Even when he was tapped by the Bureau and pulled into an organization that required team work, and he got to know some of his coworkers on a more personal level, like with Hayden, he hadn't felt like spending time with the Pikes was filling a hole in him. There was still some element of awkwardness, of overthinking, of showing up because it's what people do, rather than something he actively looked forward to.

        So, why does this feel so different?

        As he stands and stretches, the beast beside him licks at his legs where his fur thins out, and the feeling of his tongue wetting the sensitive skin at the backs of his legs sends a zing through Shane . With a growl of feigned annoyance, he hops away, out of the nest and towards the pool in the cave's corner. The peaceful trickling of water teases at his need for something to drink.

        "It's not really there," the beast calls out in warning as Shane dips his head over the lip of the pool.

        And freezes, mouth already parted, to stare at his own reflection. Dark eyes, black fur...it's the wolf from his first dream. The one he'd thought was missing this time around.

        The wolf is him.

        Heart pounding, he turns in his distress, reflexively seeking comfort in his companion. But when he turns around, there's nobody there.

        The yawning feeling of loneliness coupled with the shock of his own reflection startles Shane awake.

        Even though the nap had been primarily for his benefit, Ilya's already awake, eyes the color of a daylit sky narrowed in focus, taking in Shane's likely upset expression. "Are you okay?"

        "Yeah, of course," Shane scoffs, taking in a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth. The scent in the room, oddly enough, catches his attention in such an arresting way that the panic of his dream dissipates in the wake of his confusion. Inhaling deeper, he asks, "What is that?"

        Squinting at him, Ilya asks, "Does something smell different to you?"

        Shane snorts. "Yeah, like somebody opened a window."

        Cocking an eyebrow, Ilya says, "There are no windows in here."

        "Did someone open the door while we were asleep?" Shane lifts up on an elbow, heart picking up speed as he scans the entrance, looking for any sign that someone had been through it while they were unconscious.

        "Nyet. We would have heard. The doors are heavy and the hinges make too much noise to sleep through. What exactly does it smell like? Mud? Concrete? The warehouse?"

        Shane scrunches his nose at the suggestions. "No, it's more like...winter. Sharp, like cold air in your lungs, and ice freshly frozen over."

        With an unhappy rumble from the back of his throat, Ilya runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "So, is a bad scent," he summarizes.

        Eyebrows lifting in confusion, Shane asks, "Don't you like winter? You're Russian."

        Ilya shrugs. "Is scent of death, no? The world gone to sleep? The long wait for life to come back? A barren thing to outlast."

        "Speak for yourself," Shane snorts. "Winter's my favorite season. To me, it smells clean. Like renewal. All the best holidays happen in winter. And nothing beats a snowy winter's sunrise, when the first rays of light reach over the horizon to touch an empty field blanketed by pure, untouched snow. Or standing on a hilltop and seeing the diamond-shine of fractured rainbows turn a valley into a kaleidoscope. All my favorite memories are from winter. Like when the Lehman twins would flood the clearing in the woods and everyone from the neighborhood would show up to skate the makeshift ice rink. We used to play games, like tag, or hockey, or really dangerous rounds of ice volley ball during winter break, even though we didn't really know each other or hang out much. But winter would bring us together, despite which grade we were in during the school year. Even the winter vacations - going to a ski lodge with my parents, and drinking hot chocolate on the patio next to a bonfire with snow falling around us, or grilling sausages in a gazebo with the Polish family who lived across the street... Do you really not like winter?"

        With a lopsided grin, Ilya says, "Is not a problem for me, if is not a problem for you. In Russia, New Year's is the most important holiday of year. During this time, we eat many things that were canned, preserved, kept safe in root cellars. Cold salads and smoked and dried meats, frozen fish and caviar...In Russia, we have harsh winters, particularly in places like Siberia or Yakutsk. Is point of pride, to thrive in harsh climates. Some of our favorite history lessons in school are about wars where our winters killed invaders, while our people moved further East. As long as smell is not warning for you, does not scare you, is no problem."

        "A warning?" Shane asks. It takes a long moment for him to realize... "That scent - it's you?!"

        Ilya shrugs. "There are no windows and door was not opened."

        Tentatively leaning in, eyes fixed on Ilya's face in case he considers it rude or offensive, Shane slowly noses into the hollow of his throat and takes a deep breath in. Paradoxically, the sharp scent of winter hits him hard. So much so, that he can almost feel the phantom pain in his lungs from breathing in freezing air. "But you didn't smell anything like this before," Shane says, baffled at the world of difference.

        "When I read about orientation change, Russian biologist describes this like how broad you can sense and how deep. Your senses are already able to sense deeply. But omega instincts open up how broad you can sense. Parts of the mind and body open up and expand."

        "D-does that mean I'm an omega now?" Shane asks in a hush.

        "If not, then is close. I'm...afraid to check."

        "What? Why? That's the whole point of this. We could finally get out of this room."

        "Is also mean completing the process. I will need to stretch you, check that you are producing slick, and then bite you. After that, I do not know what to expect. Fucking will follow because instinct will require it. But mating is private. Books in Russia do not describe this in much detail for people who do not study to be doctors. Are you ready for this? Is a lot to process together. New designation, new mate, and losing virginity... I do not like this for you. Seems too much."

        Swallowing hard, Shane can admit he has his own concerns, but in this moment, both of them are powerless to do anything but follow the script Alexei Rozanov wrote for them. There's no one coming to the rescue. "We don't have a choice."

        Licking a stripe over Shane's cheek that ends at his ear, Ilya whispers, "We can delay, if you wish. I pretend you are not wet. We drag it out until you are ready for bite. Maybe bite is not even that serious? Religion could be reason our textbooks do not say what bite is like. Maybe there will be space to delay sex, also?"

        Shane lets himself consider it, but with the onset of his change, suddenly this room, their audience, the unfamiliar furniture - it all feels wrong. Grating on his nerves, this situation is suddenly less tolerable. And rather than the fear from before, he's actually kind of pissed. Forced to parade around naked while some room full of cowardly alphas gets their rocks off watching him be maneuvered this way and that?

        No fucking way.

        "I want this over with, Ilya," he says seriously. "Yeah, it's a lot all at once, but sometimes it's better to rip the bandaid off."

        And like a good alpha, Ilya notices his conviction and takes him at his word. Trusting that he can take the stress of so much newness all at once, and that he won't break in the process. "Then let us see how much control remains, now that we are two magnets," he jokes, kissing Shane. The first soft, chaste press devolves almost immediately as their proximity fills their lungs with the taste of each other across multiple senses.

        With a surprised stutter of a growl, Ilya licks into his mouth and can't seem to pull away for more than the second it takes to gather a desperate breath.

        Shane lets himself be plundered, too focused on trying to suck the tongue fucking into his mouth, flickering over the edges of his teeth, or running over the ribs of his hard palate, to notice the stream of drool dribbling out the corner of his reddening mouth until Ilya redirects to lick the line of saliva up. It must taste like something, because he swishes it through his teeth, letting it slide along his tongue, before spitting it back into Shane's mouth with his own froth of saliva added to it.

        Before he does it, as soon as Shane realizes his intentions, he makes to cringe away, but Ilya's hand finds his jaw and pulls his mouth open. And the worst part is - in an absolute betrayal to his usual fastidiousness - the warm, viscous mix of the two of them does taste like something. It's diluted and hard to define... Maybe something like snow after it's melted in your mouth, a hint of the world's water cycle present in every drop. The taste of it is so good, that Shane tips his head back, wanting it in the back of his throat.

        With his neck enticingly on display, Ilya can't help himself. He runs his open mouth along the rounded edge of Shane's protruding jugular, teeth scratching at the skin as his tongue traces the path of the vein. With an almost wounded whine as his path crosses over the scent gland, Ilya wrenches his head away, panting with the need to bite.

        "Y-you okay?" Shane murmurs, running his fingers through Ilya's shining golden locks.

        Cursing in Russian, Ilya nods frantically before latching onto Shane's closest nipple and meting out his frustration on the taut peak.

        "Oh fuck, d-don't," Shane whines, nails digging into Ilya's shoulders.

        Even with his pupils blown and instinct running high, Ilya's eyes find his as his suckling mouth releases it's ounce of flesh. "Tits hurt?" he asks, shortly, a hand coming up to trace over Shane's neglected areola, palming his pec, hefting and squeezing it in a gentle massage as if it really were a tit.

        "My pectorals are fine, thanks," Shane mutters, arching away from the questing fingers plying both sides of his chest now.

        "Some day, I will teach you how much a gift it is to have such sensitive tits." He kisses down Shane's chest, laving his tongue between the bulges of different muscle groups. "But first, I think we work on making your blushes joyful instead of heavy with shame."

        "I'm not ashamed," Shane argues.

        "Your embarrassment is more sour than sweet. As if you expect me to laugh at you."

        "We have an audience. And they are laughing," Shane mutters, wondering how much of their conversation, spoken low and intimate, is or isn't making it to the speakers in the corner of the room.

        Sharp eyes pinning Shane and seeing right through him, Ilya says, "I look forward to seeing the difference when there is no audience."

        Swallowing hard, Shane wonders if he can actually prove Ilya wrong. He'd like to. The last thing he wants is to be the dumb, inexperienced vanilla lover that Ilya has to coach through, not just the mechanics of different flavors of sex, but also the psychological nonjudgmental self-acceptance that his other lovers probably already had from years of experimenting and expanding horizons.

        Nibbling down his thighs, Ilya says, "Let's see if prostate is sensitive too. Maybe then I pull you out of heavy thoughts." He sits up and makes a noise of regret. "Stretching will be better on your knees, with ass high."

        The way Shane's cheeks blaze at that blunt assessment has him wondering if it's even possible to get to the stage where Ilya can say such things without turning him into a tomato. But, as much as the position feels uniquely vulnerable, Shane flips over and pulls his knees under him, raising his backside without pulling his head away from the pillow. At least it gives him the one relief of having his head tucked away from easy view.

        There's an unhappy huff behind him. "Don't hide," he murmurs, running his fingers through Shane's hair until he lifts his head.

        "They're seeing this," Shane complains. Because it's true, and it's an excuse he can get away with. What's also true, is how little he wants Ilya to see of his reactions to what he's going to do to him. Shane, of course, can't be sure, but he rather suspects that Ilya's skills in the bedroom will leave him a panting, desperate mess.

        Kissing over Shane's back and reaching under him to massage his tits, Ilya says, "Is our first time. Forget camera. Focus your senses on me. Let me be the only one in your mind."

        "Easy to say, harder to do," Shane grumbles, pressing his forehead harder into the pillow in frustration. Ilya has a point. It's their first time together, and Shane's overall. The memories he makes now won't be easy to shake off. The better his headspace, the better the chances that the memories of this room won't be able to hurt him.

        Licking along the length of his spine, Ilya says, "Fill yourself with me. Let me inside you on every front, and know that I am filling myself with you in return."

        "Do Russians take a mandatory class on romance, or are you just special," Shane mutters, but he does as requested, lifting up enough to breathe in the scent of winter, allowing his attention to follow the lines of Ilya's fingers as they pet his skin, basking in the feel of Ilya's lips pressing kisses to his ribs, and along his tailbone.

        He's paying such careful attention, that he definitely notices the long, calloused fingers digging into the tops of his thighs, the thumbs rubbing little circles into his skin on their way to hooking Shane's cheeks and spreading them. Somehow, the implications of all that Ilya's making him experience is lost on him.

        So, he bucks at the first graze of Ilya's mouth against his asshole. "Not there!"

        "Shh, this will not hurt. Let me taste you."

        Squirming with insecurity, Shane tries to pull away from the tight hold Ilya has on him.

        Somehow, the reason for his anxiety must be obvious enough that Ilya pauses for a moment to remind him, "Relax, you are clean. Spotless after enema and shower and soapy fingering." Licking along the rim, he says, "Is like skin with the faintest trace of salt." He actually does wait for Shane to relax into his grip, before lapping against the opening, changing the shape of his tongue into a tighter cone when he has Shane wet enough to try spearing into him.

        With a groan, Shane can feel himself opening up against that gentle, persistent pressure, allowing the slick muscle into his hole. His body shudders as Ilya starts to tongue-fuck him, but his cock jumps worryingly when Ilya seals his lips over his hole and starts to suck in an intermittent pattern, creating a strange vacuuming pressure that Shane doesn't know how to deal with.

        "I-i-it'ss too mu-uch," Shane moans, trying to pull in enough air between gasps, as pleasure rockets along his nerve endings.

        Pulling off, Ilya kneels between Shane's spread legs and makes a noise that sounds fairly devastated. He drops a wad of spit on Shane's hole and uses the lubrication to smooth over Shane's rim. Once he deems him wet enough, he pushes his middle finger into Shane, working it in with a slow, steady twist for a few rounds before pulling it back out again and immediately sucking it into his own mouth. With a groan, he announces, "You're wet."

        "W-wet?"

        "Producing slick." With a curse that sounds like a complaint, he mutters, "You taste so fucking good - like sweet citrus alcohol. How am I supposed to live knowing this? Any time I will see a table now, I will want to bend you over it and drink you like a liqueur at every meal."

        Shane scoffs, "You don't need to glaze me."

        "Glaze...like donut?"

        "No, like when you pay someone overexaggerated complements. My ego doesn't need - "

        Ilya cuts him off by shoving a freshly wetted finger into Shane's mouth. "Suck."

        It's too late to pull away, so Shane does as requested.

        "What is taste for you?" Ilya asks.

        Turning a flaming red again, Shane has to admit it's not the worst. Certainly better than what he expected. No way would he want to try it again, but maybe to an alpha, the sour-sweet taste overlaying a very specific kind of musk tastes better? "It's fine, I guess." 

        "Ahh," Ilya mutters another Russian curse. "You have no comparison. And this taste does not have same appeal  to you that it might have yesterday. But I regret to tell you, what I say is true. Will be hard to resist licking you open at every opportunity. The smell was hard enough, but knowing what that scent tastes like? Will want to make you gush. Is no good, Shane. Cannot spend all day between your legs, playing with your dripping hole."

        "Why can't you ever just say normal things? You could have left it at a simple 'I like the way you taste'," Shane says, bright red again.

        "Normal is not in cards. You want normal, should have become dentist or architect or model. Instead, you choose to be pretty agent and now we are here, with me becoming addict."

        "Shut up, asshole."

        As if it were an order, Ilya leans down and fixes his mouth to Shane's hole, except now with added fingers that turn sloppy with slick and saliva, sliding them in one at a time in a slow, persistent march towards progress, until he finally pulls his tongue out of Shane's drooling hole, leaving the six fingers he managed to stretch him into taking.

        "You're so lovely back here, sweetheart. Your hole has become softer, needier. It begs so prettily for something thick to yield to, winking around so many fingers, suckling at them like a mouth, but still with room for more. All that worry about fitting knot, because you underestimate how well your ass will take cock. Can you see now, is no problem?"

        Shane doesn't know whether to be mad at Ilya for spouting that kind of filth with a straight face and managing to sound hot instead of idiotic while doing it; or mad at himself, for reacting like a puritan, head falling forward into the pillow in embarrassment.

        With a bite to one cheek, Ilya abruptly pulls his fingers out.

        Immediately, without Shane's permission, a high whine comes out of his throat at the loss of that satisfying thickness that had barely begun to scratch the itch arching Shane's back into a pose of presentation.

        "Shh, I won't leave you empty long. But I need you on your back now, Shane. Flip for me, sweetheart."

        "Stop calling me that," Shane groans, practically falling sideways as his shivering limbs give up on holding his weight.

        Helping Shane turn with careful hands, Ilya puts him on his back, a pillow under his ass, and shoulders Shane's knees wider.

        "You prefer baby? Darling? Lover?"

        "Fuck no. Maybe you should just stop using pet names? It's making me cringe."

        Looming over Shane, Ilya leans in to whisper, "How about moya nevesta?" before settling himself carefully over Shane.

        "I'm unfamiliar with that phrase," Shane says, wondering what it could mean, since it wasn't in the categories of words he'd been tasked with learning to get up to speed with Russian in a compressed time frame.

        "Is what you will be when our vows are made," Ilya says, kissing his cheek.

        "Vows?"

        With a long, indrawn breath, Ilya says, "I prepare you for mating. So, unless you want delay, now would be time to mate."

        "Well, sure, I figured. But what does that have to do with vows?"

        "Mating in Canada does not come with any promises?"

        "Oh...sure. I just didn't expect - "

        "I do not mean now," Ilya says, heading off Shane's panic spiral. "But if mating for life, there will also be paperwork and vows."

        Shane catches the clever phrasing, that does not promise there will be permanence in their future, since they don't really know each other, but also doesn't indicate that mating for life will be a choice Shane gets to weigh in on, rather than a guaranteed outcome. With just a general, factual statement about mating, both Shane and the people watching on camera are free to interpret the statement based on their own expectations. Shane just hopes that his expectations match Ilya's.

        "For now, is just bite. Are you ready for it? Any thing you need first?"

        Breathless with anxiety, Shane shakes his head. It takes a lot of effort to say, "Go ahead," loud enough so that it's audible, even to Ilya.

        Studying his expression, Ilya takes a moment to read what he can from Shane. After a long moment, he says, "Put your arms around my waist and squeeze."

        The instruction at first seems odd, but as Shane does as requested, he's struck by how satisfying the position is. With his own arms tucked close to his ribs, it feels like his sides are protected, and there's a modicum of control at having his arms tight around the large alpha. If he squeezes hard enough, he can vacate the air in Ilya's lungs, which should force the alpha to pull off him.

        Nosing against Shane's ear, Ilya sucks his earlobe and whispers, "When we are gone from this place, if you decide you want me for always, you will bite me back."

        "Can't," Shane whispers back. "Even without your family business, if you're working with Russians, you can't have a bite mark from an omega. You're country isn't progressive enough for that."

        "Is more than one scent gland. Bonding will work with any of them."

        "Most of them are visible."

        Rubbing a coin high on the inside of Shane's thigh pointedly, Ilya says, "Not all of them."

        "But that will hurt."

        Kissing down Shane's neck, he says, "This too will hurt. But I will see if maybe I can make less painful." He lifts up on an elbow, hand cupping Shane's cheek, while the other one trails down Shane's body.

        He's so wet and well-stretched, that Ilya easily pushes two fingers into him and quickly finds his prostate.  Licking to dampen the skin along Shane's neck and sucking over the gland to pull blood to the surface, Ilya teases him as he waits an endless minute as his targeted fingering gets Shane to a place where he's whimpering shamelessly, silently asking for more. Only then does he fit his teeth over the gland and bite down, jaw closing in a powerful snap and holding tight as a very real bond forms between them. 

        A prolonged growl rolls through Ilya, vibrating through his whole frame.

       Shane notices it on some level, but it's hard to concentrate on anything as his awareness of Ilya deepens. The feeling is strange, but it's almost as if some new part of Shane is coming online. Suddenly, he has an awareness of the alpha he didn't have a second ago. He doesn't have to look at Ilya's body language, or notice twitches of revealing movement, or interpret pheromones and the levels at which they're being released. He can just tell now, that Ilya's feeling a mixture of guilt and elation for this moment, and anticipation for the future. He wonders if this is what people who say they can feel or read auras mean. Like, maybe part of the population doesn't need a bonding in order to open up neural pathways that make reading people easier? In fact, maybe Ilya's heightened perceptiveness is just his mind making people transparent in this way? Curious, Shane asks, "Did anything change for you?"  His voice comes out rough, a strangled quality to it.

        When Ilya replies, his is comparatively deep, still rolling with a growl. "I feel close to you and is like looking at you is more sharp. Easier to see details I miss before." He makes a noise then, ducking his head and hissing through his teeth.

        Against his thigh, Shane can feel Ilya's dick throbbing, and realizes with a shudder just how empty he feels inside. As if there's a yawning chasm that only Ilya can fill. The feeling is so strong that he thinks nothing of saying, "I need you inside me. Please, Ilya, fuck...need you in me now."

        From there, the sex is nothing like what they've been doing before. Wild, bestial, impatient - there's no talking, no banter, and little thought to it.

        Ilya thrusts into him with a harsh sweep of his hips and Shane has just enough conscious thought left in him to be grateful that the man had so thoroughly prepared him ahead of time, rather than banking on post-bite clarity.

        It's a brutal fucking, quick and mindless, all friction and surging need for completion. Ilya's dick is a jackhammer inside him, punching against Shane's prostate with a ferocity that makes it impossible to keep quiet. It's a storm not meant to be weathered. They crash together like waves seeking to merge into something greater, more powerful. And whatever the bond really is, under its influence, they crest together, higher and higher, reaching their peak at the same time.

         And at the last second, Ilya seemingly finds it in himself to pull out, when every instinct should be calling him forward.

        "No!" Shane cries out, tears forming in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks even though he's not sure why he feels a heavy swell of loss... Not until he catches his breath does he realize it's because he still feels too empty. Incomplete and unsatisfied in the way some deep, animal part of him wants to be.

        Because Ilya didn't knot him.

        "Shhh, I'm sorry, Shane. I know. I'm sorry," Ilya murmurs into his ear, fingers gently wiping his tears.

        "No, I'm sorry," Shane mumbles back, once he's calmed down, the animal inside him submerging again, away from the surface, letting him think clearly. "We discussed this. I knew you weren't...It's okay. I'm sorry for freaking out."

        "Nyet. Nothing to apologize for. Maybe was wrong to promise this. Did not know it would feel like this." The kiss he presses to Shane's mouth is one part apology, one part bid for closeness.

        Shane kisses back and doesn't stop until their lips feel swollen and bruised and the knot Ilya's pretending is keeping them tied together goes down. And still, they separate slowly, reluctantly. Every inch between them feeling like too great a distance to have between them.

        But the deed's done.

        The task Alexei set to Ilya is complete.

        They don't delay beyond a brief cleaning up of bodily fluids with just some water and towel.

        And then they're dressed and standing at the door, a whole world of unknowns before them. 

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

It's amazing the glaring difference it makes to see comments come in and to hear people's thoughts. What impressions they had , where they think the story's going, what feelings something managed to evoke.

This story has grown much longer than I expected. I'm technically quite slow at writing, so the only reason there are sometimes faster updates are because the comments inspired sustained writing after work. Thank you guys so much!

That said, this isn't the most representative peak into life outside of the room. Expect a number of call backs from this chapter onward now that conversations aren't being monitored, and feel free to mention any in case you're worried they won't come up again. I have a list put together from a re-read of the past chapters, but this story doesn't have a beta. Safer to assume I might miss it. 0_0

      Ilya shifts to fill the doorway with his large frame before punching in the code for the door lock, effectively hiding Shane from immediate view. Good thing, given the way Shane startles at the resounding noise that greets them. Hoots and hollers rise over a deafening applause, amplified by the cavernous warehouse that bounces the crack of hands coming together to cheer for Shane's bitching around the room.

        Shane's just tall enough to peek over Ilya's shoulder at the crowd of men scattered across the warehouse, migrating closer to see them emerge. It feels creepy to see them wandering in from back rooms, as if filing in for a show, but worse maybe are the people who were already there, as if they'd been waiting there the whole time. Nothing better to do than be witness to one of their leaders dominating someone who they consider the living embodiment of the Bureau. Someone to work their frustrations out on...

        Swallowing hard, he instinctually tucks in closer to Ilya, plastering himself to his broad back and dropping his head so he doesn't have to look at all those jeering faces. It strikes him a second later as a funny thing to do - hiding behind the man who changed him - when he could duck into the bathroom or even just step to the side of the doorway, out of view.

        The warehouse quiets down as footsteps echo on the metal staircase leading down from the offices. There's only person who could change the energy of the room so thoroughly...

        With measured slowness, Alexei makes his way closer and closer, each subsequent footfall increasing Shane's sense of dread. "Congratulations, brother," Alexei says, but there's a hint of suspicion to his voice as he compliments, "That was quick."

        With a convincing approximation of a lazy shrug, Ilya says, "Canadians aren't built like Russians."

        A cheer rises up from the crowd and a few of the men laugh in agreement.

        The difference between how the crowd responds to Ilya in comparison must irritate Alexei, because he scoffs under his breath as he finally arrives in front of his younger brother. "Well then, let's see the product of your labor. Show us what a bitched Canadian omega looks like."

        Another cheer from the crowd, rabid with excitement.

        "The look of him is the same. Lucky me, he was a pretty alpha. Almost like this was always meant to happen to him," he says, voice loud enough to carry, a hint of the showman he knows how to be, turning the phrase into an invite to laugh along and be amused...at Shane's misfortune.

        He clutches at the back of Ilya's shirt, logically understanding that the Russian isn't meant for him. Even the speed with which he talks is too quick to sound quite natural, as if trying to outpace Shane's ability to keep up. But the omega in him expects more, disappointed with the pandering despite their lives being on the line, wholly dependent on Ilya's ability to charm this crowd.

        "Pretty and wet between the legs - a delicious combination. Surely, you'll let us sample the bitch, now that he's built for a marathon of cock-taking?" Alexei suggests, slyly.

        A frenzied cheer. More excited whoops. Shane can hear the sudden shifting of fabric with his keen senses as men palm their throbbing dicks, their arousal cloying the air.

        "No," Ilya says, sharp and definitive, lending the denial the power of a command. "You want to fuck a sopping Bureau agent, you'll have to bitch one yourself. Or take the easy route and target one of their omegas," he suggests, the insulting implication that maybe Alexei couldn't manage a bitching left unspoken, but certainly understood, as the room quiets down, eager to catch every dramatic word.

        With a kettle-like hiss, Alexei seems to struggle not to snarl. "It can't be that hard. It took you less than two days. Unless you didn't actually manage it...Perhaps it was sweat rather than slick you were lapping up so eagerly?" This insult isn't subtle at all.

        The scent in the air takes on an edge, some of the men silently offended on Ilya's behalf. Shane wonders if it was intentional or if Alexei simply doesn't have the skill to strike the balance.

        "What, is your nose broken? Can't you recognize the smell of ripe omega from so close?" Ilya asks, smirk obvious in his voice.

        "How can we be sure if you don't give us a taste?" Alexei pushes, still seemingly angling for Ilya to hand Shane over to the whims of the group and the sick fantasies that fuel them in their line of work.

        "You told me to mate him, and I did. He's mine now. If you want to taste him so bad, I can scoop out some of his slick and let you suck it off my fingers, but that's as close as the alpha in me will ever let you come to tasting him."

        Oddly enough, this idea seems to appeal to some of the men. A few notes of embarrassed arousal enter the scent cloud.

        But Alexei is not amused. With a bit off growl, he turns on his heel and he must make some gesture indicating that Ilya move, because Shane suddenly feels his arm reach back, large hand splaying against Shane for a moment, offering a last bit of comfort before he steps into the warehouse, revealing Shane to a crowd of lust-drunk onlookers.

        "Yes, if you'll recall, I told you to bitch him, brand him, and mate him. Seems like you've completed two of the three things I tasked you with. Just one more left," he says, grinning with mean amusement as he tosses a heavy, flat-faced signet ring at Ilya - the same one he uses on the performative wax seals in some of their more dramatic correspondence with victims and clients alike.

        Fuck...how had Shane forgotten?

        Why had he ever thought Alexei didn't actually mean for Ilya to brand him?

        He should have known he'd end up here, stuck in this moment, forced to perform one last act of humiliating submission.

        The roar of the crowd coupled with the bloodlust in the air is indicator enough that Ilya won't be able to skip this part, or even make it private. They want a show, and to deny them again would mean courting their short-sighted potential for violence. And egged on by Alexei, there's no telling what they could be whipped into doing.

        With a shiver, Shane ducks his head and comes easily when Ilya grabs him by the bicep and pulls him into the bright center of the warehouse. There's a conveniently placed oil drum already waiting for them under the harsh florescent spotlight.

        Shane waits in anxious anticipation for Ilya to push him towards it, but the alpha beside him pauses, looking closer at the ring in his hand.

        With a snort, he suddenly tosses it back to his brother. "This is yours."

        Eyelid twitching involuntarily, Alexei strokes his beard and looks down at the ring he nearly fumbled. "Ah, indeed. My mistake." Then begrudgingly pulls out a second ring from his jacket pocket and practically chucks it at Ilya. "Here is yours."

        Catching it easily, Ilya checks the face of the ring. It must be the correct one because he walks Shane slowly to the oil drum like a scruffed dog being paraded around for 'Best In Show'.

        Fuck...Shane can't help the way his limbs shiver, adrenaline flooding his system as he starts to panic. His breathing shallows and quickens as his thoughts spin out, hating that this is what it's come to. All Ilya's careful work to make the bitching tolerable, to ensure that there'd be enough good woven into the memories of being caught, locked into a room, and forced to change - only for it all to be overshadowed by this moment. In this circle of jeering, monstrous men, Shane will have to endure fear and pain.

        And inevitably, nightmares will follow.

        Maybe trauma, too. 

        With a rough, excited growl, Ilya bends him over the oil drum, but before stepping away, he fists Shane's hair in what feels like should be a brutal grip, but doesn't actually pull at his hair follicles and yanks his head up. Then, in a low, quiet whisper, as quickly as he can manage in English, he orders Shane to, "Take deep breaths through mouth. Do not inhale through nose at all. Do not let scent come through, even after I let you up again. Focus on work. See if you can find anything useful. Cast senses as far as you can. Notice sound outside the warehouse. How far is road? How much traffic travels on it? For touch, focus on this barrel. The metal type, the solidness of it, the size. And for sight, count the shoes. How many men stand in room? Look at shoe quality and notice which are boldest, stepping closer, edging near. Fill your focus with everything else. Do not be here for the pain. "

        Shane audibly gasps, tears springing to his eyes in a way that's helpful in selling the show to the crowd of men watching. There are chuckles as they notice the sheen beneath his trembling eye lids. It's almost hilarious how far off the mark their expectations probably are. Because who of them would guess that Shane feels cut through by just how much Ilya's words mean to him. In a room full of chaos, with a performance to put on, Ilya still carved out a moment to problem-solve on Shane's behalf... And how does he know that Shane's best distraction is making himself useful, particularly for work?

       Bent over a barrel, about to be branded in front of a warehouse full of people who hate him, and Shane's crying over how seen he feels by the alpha who's going to do it. 

        How is this his life? 

        "What, your bitch needs to be threatened to stay in place?" Alexei asks, eyes narrowed at the delay.

        Standing upright, Ilya kicks the oil drum so that it vibrates against Shane, the sound of metal ringing in his ears, as if already trying to get Shane to engage his senses on other things. "Poor thing is so sensitive. I'm simply reminding him that if he turns into a weeping bitch here in front of my friends, it will reflect poorly on me. Let's see if there's some resilience left in him, or if I'll be taking home a basket case."

        Ilya kicks the oil drum again, and this time Shane just knows it's meant to be his signal to focus his senses away from what's happening. It's punctuated by the flick of a lighter and the whistle of escaping gas catching fire.

        Shane stops breathing through his nose, keen not to have the smell of burning flesh to remember this moment by, but when it comes time to pick a sound to focus on, he doesn't try to pick up the vague noises outside the warehouse doors. Instead, he chooses to target something much closer and much more meaningful - the sound of Ilya's heartbeat just behind him.

        When Ilya pulls Shane's belt-less pants down just far enough to reveal the meat of his ass to the chill of the wide room, Shane hears that heart stutter and pick up into a strained, laborious tempo. Shane splits his time counting beats with counting shoes. Sixteen pairs stand in the inner circle just ahead of them. Alexei and the men around him are too far to see, but of the sixteen, twelve stand in workmen's shoes, scuffed and ragged. Nine of these are also mud-licked, likely from doing rounds of work outside. But there are four among these men who stand with greater aplomb, in leather office shoes that likely never cross the warehouse floor in anything more than passing. 

         The dude in Wing Tips and the guy wearing the Monk Straps squirm as Ilya's heartbeat thuds faster in his wide chest. 

         The man in the Penny-Loafers, with an actual bit of shiny Russian coin fitted into the brown strap, leans with uneven weight on his right foot. 

         Meanwhile, the one in lace-up Oxfords shifts in excitement, transferring weight from foot to foot in a way that can't be mistaken for anxiety, tapping with pent-up energy as Ilya finally presses his signet ring down against Shane's flank. His focus fractures at the audible sizzle of burning skin, and it's utterly swept away the next moment by the thunderous applause that follows. As if Ilya's accomplished some great feat. Returned from a field of conquest, victorious.

        The pain of the burn is extraordinary. Wickedly biting, even after the ring is gone. There's a slosh as bottles are passed around, clinks of shot glasses as they're pulled from a bucket and filled. And then, as if this is a ritual they've performed quite frequently, with everyone knowing just what to expect, a bottle is passed to Ilya. A chant rises, out-of-sync and too messy and unpronounced on the syllables to understand, but it builds and builds and builds, until it culminates with Ilya pouring the bottle's contents over the new wound.

        Teeth grinding together, Shane barely keeps in the keening sound trying to escape his vocal chords as vodka sharpens the burn. He flinches as the bottle sloshes again, but he's not doused a second time.

        As if to complete the ritual, Ilya's drinking straight from the bottle. Three pulls to match the count his men are chanting, this time with better synchronicity. And then the mob compresses, squeezing closer as the men clap Ilya's shoulder, some of the old timers with higher standing going so far as to ruffle his hair, as if he's still the child they saw playing in the background of their dealings with their boss.

        And then it's over.

        The crowd disperses. Alexei and Ilya exchange final words that get lost in the shuffle of the crowd. Then, Shane's being pulled to his feet, Ilya catching his pants and boxers and pulling them up cautiously, so that they don't brush the wound on their way up.

        But for all his care, there's no way to prevent the scrape of fabric on each step as they leave the warehouse. Ilya bundles them into the back of a waiting Lincoln Limo. Immediately, he lays Shane out on the back seat and kneels in the expanded footwell. With the press of a button, the car starts to drive.

        "Is this self-driving?!" Shane asks, trying to sit up. "Is that safe?"

         "Is simple route," Ilya tells him. "Goes through town at max speed 35 miles per hour. Is not even long drive. Is safe. Now, forget the car. I have first-aid kit here. Fuck, I'm so sorry for this," Ilya mutters, blue eyes turning liquid as he stares down at Shane in regret.

        "It's okay. Not like you had any choice. There was no way out of the warehouse without this happening. I know that," Shane mumbles, letting himself be pet and cajoled back onto his side, tired all over again despite how much he's slept today.

        "Is my brother. And men who serve under me. One-on-one against me, they have nothing to say. Would not dare to presume, telling me do this or that. But together, they are mob." The scent of alpha aggression fills the car, and it should be off-putting.

        But Shane's not an alpha anymore, so his hackles don't rise.

        And the omega he's become doesn't read the rage as something directed at him. As if able to parse some note of protection beneath the smoky scent pouring off Ilya, like a bonfire in winter.

        As he's working Shane's pants and boxers back down, a sizeable box of first-aid materials open at his feet, Ilya suddenly snorts, "My brother is idiot. Imagine how much worse this is, if he makes me brand you before we are mates, when you are still alpha. Would be hard then, building trust. And with injury, every moment in room is painful. If any of this can be called lucky, is that Alexei does not think ahead too far."

        Shane shivers more at the thought of going through yesterday and this morning ,after the scene that played out in the warehouse, than he does at the gentle way Ilya uses cotton swabs to disinfect the wound. First with hydrogen peroxide, then antiseptic cream, and lidocaine at the end to numb the pain. By the time he's putting a plaster over the imprint of his wax seal, Shane's managed to wrench his thoughts away from the warehouse.

        His first thought is to wonder, "What does the mark look like? I don't think I've ever seen one of your letters with the seal still in tact."

        With a grimace, Ilya passes Shane the ring.

        "It's heavy," Shane says, surprised at the substantial weight in something that fits in the cradle of his palm. The face of the signet is significant - about the size of a Loonie - carved to shape wax into the head of a roaring bear with the stereotypical communist hammer and sickle rearranged in the bottom left to resemble the Cyrillic letter И, presumably to stand for the first letter in Ilya's name.

        "Our father had us choose the symbols on these rings when we turned fourteen. Is age of criminal responsibility in Russia for serious crimes. So, is a bit...young?"

        "Juvenile, you mean?" Shane offers, running his thumb over the signet. "I'm glad you noticed Alexei gave you the wrong ring. Being branded is..." he swallows hard and lets the thought go unfinished, "but it'd be a hundred times worse to know the mark belongs to him."

        Ilya kisses his forehead in apology and hands him a water bottle from the minibar built into the side of the car. "You are thirsty, yes?"

        With a grin, Shane takes the water and chugs down half of it in just a few gulps. It feels like the first step towards normalcy. A signal his body takes to heart, stomach grumbling soon after to remind Shane it's been a while since he last ate.

        Rubbing a wide palm over Shane's lower abdomen, Ilya asks, "What you want to eat?"

        "Do we have time for food right now? You didn't say where we're going."

        "To my apartment. I can make tuna melt, if you like?"

        "The Bureau's going to be looking for me," Shane says, worrying his lip.

        "You can send message to most trusted agent you know to say you are alive, but this is not time for Bureau. Right now, adrenaline is still moderately high so you feel okay. But not long now, crash will follow. Need you fed, showered of warehouse, and buried in warm blankets with Mumi-troll playing on the TV, before it sets in. Crash can last as long as week, but maybe we manage it so is not so harsh."

        "You seem concerned," Shane notes, not needing to see the way Ilya's hands are clenching, as the bond makes his alpha's distress obvious.

        "Crash is different depending on person. Before, surroundings were not safe. Body keeps vigilant, even in rest. I do not know what to expect now that is over. And, even if you have adrenaline crash in past during job, reasons now are more dramatic. Life was at risk, safety depends on unknown alpha, designation changed, and now you have mate? Is a lot. I worry comedown will also be dramatic, like depression. You need rest. Bureau will wait."

        It's a sweet sentiment that speaks well of the alpha, but this is not Shane's first rodeo. He's been in bad situations before as an alpha, has taken back alley beatings on assignment and dealt with the aftermath alone. With Ilya coddling him and his new omega resilience bolstering his recovery, Shane doesn't expect it to be as bad as whatever Ilya's imagining. But he's willing to wait the week, if that's what the alpha wants.

        Especially since the number of things on his to-do list feels overwhelming.

        He's not an alpha anymore.

        He's not single anymore.

        Outside of the cam room in the warehouse, the real world is full of everyday concerns like, what will they do for holidays? His parents are going to expect him to show up. Hell, even before that, they're going to expect him to come to dinner when he's free, and they'll scent the difference in him, see the mark on his neck...

        Fuck, he's going to have to introduce them to Ilya. Permanent or not, their bond is going to make it impossible for Shane to see his or Hayden's family without the designation change being obvious.

        He's also an omega now. Does that mean he's going to need birth control? He's forgotten so much of what he learned about the biological differences between designations and all of a sudden he really needs to know what to expect. Fuck, life had been so much simpler as a single alpha than a mated omega.

        Or...does Ilya consider them mated?

        Are they...going to have sex again? Be a real couple? Or are they just going to be undercover agents, sharing a space to keep up the lie of being a mated pair, but never touching again? In the warehouse, with an audience listening to most everything they said, Ilya had made references to permanence. Talking about them and their future like it would be spent together. Something real that needed discussion and negotiation and mutual learning. But he's such a good actor. And accomplished liar. A career criminal. And they've only known each other like this, in-person, for a length of time that could be measured in hours... 

        "Shh, what is wrong? Where do your thoughts go?" Ilya asks, pressing kisses against his face and petting his hair, trying to soothe him in whatever way he can. "Does brand hurt? Or crashing already?"

        "No, no I'm fine."

        "Fine is banned. No more 'fine'. We do not use this undescriptive, means-nothing word. Especially not when I can taste your upset."

        Shane's at a loss for what to say, explanations sticking to the roof of his mouth, but he's saved from having to answer as the car dips into an underground garage and finally stops, engine turning off. "We're here," he announces, unnecessarily.

        Ilya gives him a look, but his worry over getting Shane settled before whatever effects he's expecting in the comedown appear, drives him to prioritize getting them out of the car, into an elevator, and up to a penthouse.

        A very sterile, minimalist penthouse.

        "Oh, you live here? It's...very modern," Shane says, letting Ilya guide him further into the space.

        With a snort, Ilya asks, "You like this?"

        Shane hums, noncommittally, bobbing his head in an approximation of a nod. "It seems very dedicated to a particular aesthetic."

        "Don't lie to me, Shane. Just say you hate it. I knew before. I know much better now," Ilya says, but if it's meant to be scolding, he misses by a mile, too much fondness in his voice. "Come look," he pulls Shane to him, arm hooking around his waist as he walks him into the kitchen, around the corner from the entrance. Walking him to the wide island, he points out a latch under the lip of the tabletop's overhang. Taking Shane's hand, he shows him how to toggle it.

        "What did that do?" Shane asks, when nothing happens.

        "Track is cleared. Now you can push lid," Ilya says, placing Shane's hands on the counter and helping him shift the lid forward. Revealing a staircase beneath the partially-opened lid.

        "Are you kidding?" Shane laughs, endlessly amused and kind of miffed over all the secrets he's learning the Russians are hiding behind ridiculous architecture. "Are we going down there?"

        "Yes, here is latch," he points out a hook on the inside, keeping the side of the table in place. When it's unhooked, Ilya pushes the secret hip-high door inwards and gestures Shane to make his way down. "Pull string for light," Ilya tells him, once he's about halfway down a steep set of stairs.

        Above him, he watches Ilya push and relatch the door closed. Then he pulls the lid shut using a convenient hand hold. The only part that doesn't close back up is the latch that had kept the lid from moving along the track.

        "Neat," Shane says, hating how impressed he is with the setup, immediately feeling so much safer in the little library at the bottom of the stairs. There's an armchair in the corner and the walls are filled floor-to-ceiling with books. "It looks very homey, but...I thought we were going to eat something?"

        Sitting on one of the narrow, wooden steps, Ilya points behind Shane. "Is exit."

        "Another Murphy door?" Shane asks, swallowing hard, stomach dropping at the thrill of secrets inside secrets. "How do you open it?"

        "Unlatch here, behind books, then push."

        The shelf wings inward silently, into a hallway with windows on either end. "Is this the second floor?"

        "Yes. I cover entrances to this floor from stairwell with cement. I own building so no one lives here. Sometimes, closest friends sleep on this floor if they are drunk. But I live downstairs. First floor. Easiest to escape from," Ilya said, tugging the chain to turn off the light.

        "Go left," he says. At the end of the hall, he directs Shane into a bedroom.

         Immediately, Shane's eyes are fixed to the ground, looking for something that could be moved or slid open to reveal the next set of stairs.

         Grinning at him, Ilya pulls at the frame of a mural, that looks too narrow and too tall to be be a door, and yet it swings into the room on silent hinges, revealing a room with no obvious exits. With the heel of his foot, Ilya pushes what looks like a carpet, into the room. Stiff as a board despite looking anything but, it slides inwards to the end of a hidden track, revealing another staircase. "Down you go," Ilya says with a wink, enjoying Shane's callow excitement over his absurd apartment building.

        Shane goes on ahead, listening to Ilya pull the painting closed, the catch of magnets revealing how the painting remains adherent to the wall. The carpet gets rolled back with another hand hold under it's frame. And then they're standing in the dark at the bottom of another steep staircase. Ilya presses a kiss to the back of Shane's neck and takes his hand. Together, fingers linked, he has them reach out to depress what had looked like decoration but was instead a handle. When the door finally opens, it's to a more lived-in apartment.

        It's smaller than what Shane expected a rich Russian son of an oligarch to live in, but lovely all the same, floors a natural looking teak, with mahogany panels artfully decorating the richly painted walls that seemingly compliment the scent of leather and incense that hangs in the air. The kitchen has a narrow island, with several bar stools arranged on one side. The appliances are all black with sharp corners, set against blood-burgundy walls and dark cabinets. The open floor plan provides the space for a cozy, plant-strewn living room, with spidery plant lights clipped to the shelves, already glowing purple with a timer keeping them active, and watering bulbs, four to a plant, half-filled with water - the lonely man's method for keeping plants alive, despite long trips. The couch and loveseat are large, camel-colored, with deep seats and soft-looking cushions, arranged to face each other, framing a tall electric fireplace set into a wide brick frame. 

       It's very homey, but it's still only a single room with multiple functions.

       "Are the couches Murphy beds, or do you have more secre - " Shane's voice cuts off as the back of the fireplace shifts and a woman walks through, stepping carefully over the tripping-hazard.

        "Ilyusha!" she calls out, striding across the living room to throw her arms around the alpha. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs wetly, burying her head in his chest as she pulls him into an embrace. "I should have just said yes. You kept saying we were courting disaster. I just didn't expect he'd push you into something like this."

        Holding her close, Ilya runs a hand over her tightly curled auburn hair, "No, Sveta, listen. Don't do this to yourself. There's no point wondering at What-Ifs. Everything's already done and over with. Don't despair over it now."

        She pulls away from him, tears streaming down her face, creating tracks in her foundation. "There must be a way to fix this. Nothing in this world is permanent."

        Ilya scoffs. "Plenty of things are permanent. People find out every day, by going blind, or getting sick, or dying."

        "Being mated isn't' the same thing as being dead," Svetlana says, raising a hand to trace the tips of her fingers over the cut on Ilya's lip.

        The cut Shane put there, when he hit him in the bathroom. When he was going to hit him again.

        "Look, Sveta, there's nothing to fix. We are together now, and will be for many years to come. Taking down my brother isn't going to be easy or quick. Besides, right now we are strangers, but already it doesn't feel that way. This long, winding road will take us who-knows where, and bring us who-knows how much closer. I enjoyed the time we had together; and I hope you find someone to love, who loves you deeply in return. But it can't be me. I hope you'll accept me as your friend, but only if you can truly put aside any romantic feelings you have for me."

        Shane stands frozen, deeply uncomfortable, and regretting he didn't leave at the start of this conversation. He's right on the edge of their peripheral vision, aware that any move he makes, even the slightest twitch, will likely pull their attention to himself. These words, these sentiments, are private.

        Not meant for his ears.

        But leaving now would definitely send the wrong message. Making him look petty. Maybe even forcing Ilya to go chasing after him, worried about his reaction to seeing his alpha with a former...

        Fiancée?

        Girlfriend?

        Who even is Svetlana?

        The Bureau only knows her as the alpha who Ilya's been pursuing. There's camera rolls out there, from the days when Ilya was not an informant. Of him attempting to charm this woman and seemingly striking out each time, leaving her laughing only a little bit meanly in his wake. She's never been in for an interview, and likely wouldn't have agreed to one in the first place.

        Seeing her now, up close, Shane's less surprised at the Bureau's lack of information. From scent alone, Shane can tell she's a hard-headed, stubborn alpha, used to getting her way and ensuring defeat to anyone who opposes her. Which is why he's not sure if he believes her when she caresses Ilya's brow and says, "Ok. Friends." Standing on her toes, she kisses Ilya's cheek in an old-fashioned Russian farewell.

        Then, turning on her heel, she levels dark eyes at Shane and says, "You're lucky to be alive. Try not to make any more life-ruining mistakes." She marches past him in boots that click at each step, pausing only one last time, to throw a yellow flash drive over her shoulder for Ilya to catch.

        No explanation.

        And then, she's gone. Out some other secret exit, through a mirror.

        Swallowing hard, Shane turns to Ilya with eyes too wide.

        Narrowing an ice-sharp glare at him, Ilya says, "Whatever you say next better not be an apology."

        With an unhappy grunt, Shane snaps his mouth shut with a click of teeth.

        "Food, bath, Mumi-troll. That is plan. Until all three is done and we are well-rested, there will be no serious discussions. Yes?"

        He waits for Shane's begrudging acceptance before he turns on his heel, in a move no less dramatic than his former girlfriend's, and goes to make the promised tuna melts.

Chapter 11: Ilya's Idea of a Panic Spiral , or Apartments, by Ilya Rozanov

Chapter Summary

I'm so sorry. This is not a real update.
I'm at the part in Chapter 11 where the discussion came up on the apartment. It's probably easiest to refer to a particular chapter for a map.

Also, I promised a list of threads I plan to follow up on. See chapter notes on the details.

Chapter Notes

To read this map, consider each level to be a top down view.
Also, sorry about the hand-writing. If something is very illegible, let me know and I can maybe fix it.

I mentioned Chapter 11 would include threads that I plan to follow up on as scenes. To see these, they will be under the map, in a section that should be automatically hidden. Click the carrot to expand. I wasn't sure if it could be considered spoilers, so figured I'd give you the informed choice of whether or not to ignore them. They are phrased more as reminders to things that were said in the fic that I plan to answer or expand on in a scene.

Let me know if you think something is missing. I'll probably update the list in this chapter if I see a comment with something the list doesn't cover. I'm still not sure about Ilya's POV, but will keep ruminating over it.

Dangling Plot Threads in Need of Completion

• Chekhov's Gun...No, wait. Chekhov's Map
• What was Ilya's relationship with Svetlana?
• Are they staying together? Taking vows?
• Shane mentioned he thought 'dripping slick' was not real. Ilya gave him a look.
• Shane was asked to think about what X things he likes, because Ilya was going to demand a list. Otherwise, they'd be going through an official one and deciding Yes, No, Maybe
• Ilya mentioned it was dangerous, kissing Shane. That being an omega would make it worse. Like two magnets.
• Obviously, we need to talk to Hayden. Maybe the Pikes.
• Will Alexei and his human-trafficking business get taken down? Or do the bad guys win?
• Menses part of the cycle
• Shane in Ilya's world
• Ilya promised to work on Shane's embarrassment. Likely eliminating it is a tall order for his polite, shy Canadian boy, but to make it better. Also, nipples.

Additional Suggestions

• Heats and Ruts
• Shane in Ilya's org, doors opening to him particularly when it comes to parties the Bureau had to ask girls about
• Someone criminal trying it on with Shane and the consequences
• Include Rose in the club sequence

DONE

• What's the deal with the wolf dreams?
• Knotting
• Discussing kids
• Why does Ilya dislike chemical designation changes ?
• Shane said he was going to tell the Bureau to watch out for trap doors and funny architecture
• Ilya has revenge to exact on a chip-munching messy coworker of Shane's who wears too much cologne
• Obviously, we need to talk to the Hollanders. Shane needs an excuse to explain Ilya.
• Airing out apartment? If , of course, Shane decides to move in.
• Did Ilya know Shane? After all, he hinted with the shibari drop that he knew he was Japanese? Does that mean there's a mole in the Bureau?
• Bite returend
• Shane's research and a visit to the omega clinic

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

############ TRIGGER WARNING ############

-- there's a disturbing description in the dream sequence --
It starts with these words:
No, no, we could do it. Pretty face like that?

If you're not feeling up to it, skip to the next "paragraph" that starts with :
There's ponderous hums around him as eyes meet, start to agree.

############ TRIGGER WARNING ############

       As Ilya prepares the tuna melts, he peppers Shane with questions about food. Things he likes to eat and drink, styles of cuisine he enjoys, about food allergies and diet preferences and whether he drinks alcohol. And while they chat, about the dishes they remember from childhood and how their tastes have changed over time, Shane never gets the impression that any of it is small talk.

        On some level, he can tell Ilya's squirreling it all away, tucking it into the corners of the steel trap that seems to be his memory, to deploy one day to sentimental effect. And seeing his effort, the way his eyes unfocus as he pulls each tidbit into long-term storage, Shane tries to do the same with Ilya's answers.

        The food, for all that it's simple in composition and easy to make, tastes better than it should. Maybe it's the ingredients, or some magic of proportions or timing, but Shane's eyes close at first-bite, savoring the crunch of the toasted bread and the warm, rich, sticky softness of the melted cheese over tuna salad.

        "Is good?"

        "Too good. I'm going to need to see you make this from the first step, starting with where you buy the groceries, because I don't think I've ever tried a tuna melt that's tasted even half as good."

        Ilya laughs. "Is because you are hungry."

        Shane doesn't argue, but he can't help thinking that this isn't the type of bread he would have used if he'd been told to make a tuna melt. His cheese would have been a standard sharp cheddar. And he doesn't remember tuna salad tasting anything like the one Ilya's presented him with.

        After they eat, Shane insists on doing the dishes, which Ilya accepts with a grumble, but only because he disappears into a wall - or rather, around a corner that, from further away, looks like the end of the room, but is instead the start of a hallway. For the effect to work, the passage has to be too narrow to meet standard safety requirements. No way is it up to code. 

        When Ilya returns, it's with a bundle in his arms. "Come, take this. Leave the pan. I will wash it."

        "I was almost done," Shane huffs, but dries his hands and rounds the island.

        "I show you master bathroom, so you can take shower," Ilya says, handing him a fluffy towel, an oversized T-shirt, clean boxers and a pair of fuzzy slippers with stars stitched along the sides, to swap out the sunny ones he's already wearing.

        It's such a small detail - day and night slippers. A soft, fluffy set for when he feels clean and ready for bed, and a sunny-yellow rubber pair for everyday use that can be cleaned with a wipe and worn with socks or sweaty feet. Because Ilya apparently noticed Shane's awkward traversal of the cam room, extrapolated his preference for slippers, and realized Shane's fastidiousness would make a single set an imperfect solution.

        For once, Shane realizes the feeling rising in his chest is the omega part of him. He can tell now what Ilya meant, when he said the alpha wasn't something separate, but rather a piece of his authentic self. The separation Shane's used to, isn't there. And as a result, the touched and vaguely impressed reaction of the omega at being understood and cared for, makes Shane tear up.

        Over slippers.

        With a confused hiss, Ilya pulls him into his arms, frame rumbling with a purr as he tries to comfort Shane. "Do house shoes remind you of the room?" he asks, tentatively. The way his eyes narrow on the footwear, as if trying to recall how similar they look to the ones Shane barely got to use in the cam room, has Shane's joy beating out the soppiness.

        His bright laugh further confuses Ilya. "Yes, they remind me of the slippers in the cam room," he admits.

        Immediately, Ilya reaches for them, ready to go hunt down a replacement. As if the shape or the color might be the problem.

        Hiding the set behind his back to keep Ilya from taking them, Shane continues, "Because in the cam room, despite everything we were dealing with, and all the other things you had to prioritize, you still noticed that I didn't like walking around barefoot. I..." Swallowing hard, Shane's eyes fill again with tears. "Just, thank you. For noticing. For doing something about it. Your ability to see so much is amazing. I really have to concentrate, to force myself to question things, rather than taking them as a given. It's like, I can do it for work, but I need to learn how to do it day-to-day. For however long this bond between us lasts, you deserve a good partner that matches your energy. I'm going to try to -"

        "Nyet," Ilya interrupts, surprisingly. "We are different people with different needs, Shane. When I want something, I will tell you. I will be blunt and very obvious, because I learned young that if I am quiet, I am ignored. If you set standard that you should predict what I want before I say, you will feel like failure, because I do not often wait to ask for what I want. Maybe sometimes there is delay for the sake of time and place, but otherwise, I will ask immediately. Is because you do not do this - because you try not to ask, in case is too much; try not to be problem; try not to make pickiness or preferences a task for others - that I am not willing to see if maybe you speak up and ask eventually. Better to give you more than you want, than to feel like failed alpha who could not keep mate happy."

        "Omegas want to keep their mates happy too," Shane argues.

        "Yes, and you do this. You are free. No more cam room. Money still in bank account. Friends and family available to contact. To take car service and drive to. Or you have apartment. Your own car. A world of options, and yet you come home with me. You accept to stay here. To wait. To rest. To follow outline I give you. There is no chain anymore. No threat to force you to listen. And yet, here you are, giving me what I ask for."

        "But everything you've asked for has been for my benefit," Shane mutters, shoulders coming up awkwardly. "To avoid an adrenaline crash."

        The amused look Ilya gives him silently says You're hopeless with poignant fondness. Clearing the humor from his throat, Ilya says with measured seriousness, "When you are alpha, you are different than me. Is gift that you listen and trust in me. That you see me as safe. That you let me touch you freely, eat the food I put in front of you, sleep beside me. You feel happy because I notice you like house shoes. Most of my life, I do not make people happy outside of sex. They find their pleasure and leave because I am too dangerous, too involved in bad things. They assume more is impossible. That I will cheat and I will lie, even though I always tell people plainly, when a fuck is just for a night, or just for a season. When I notice things and act on them, they call me stalker, say is creepy. Omegas do not even come close. Knowing this, do you see, maybe, why this is special for me? Do you see more clearly that, when you appreciate what I notice and how I act on it, makes me feel...Formidable? Worthy? Happy?"

        With a surprised inhale, Shane admits, "You're right, I don't think being an alpha was ever like that for me. But then again, a lot of people generally trust law enforcement. Sure, it's not every community, but I generally didn't have to struggle to get people to trust me, and I think the badge was part of it."

        The other part, Shane thinks but doesn't say, probably also has to do with his appearance. Wearing an ill-fitted suit, glasses perched on his nose when he's taking down witness statements or reading back his notes, his hair usually cut shorter than what he's grown it out to, for his stint undercover, Shane's used to hearing people express their surprise at his age, expecting him to be even younger. Coupled with his very average height,  less boisterous demeanor, and society's stereotypes about Asians, he's never come across very threatening, despite his muscular physique.

        Ilya Rozanov, on the other hand, is just inescapably intimidating. His golden curls and bright blue eyes do nothing to soften the sharp angles of his face. Standing a head taller than most people, with a voice that catches attention for being soul deep, the low notes standing out in a world full of altos, and with most of his grins coming out crooked, showing too much canine, he likely inspires hesitation in people. Add wide shoulders, thick biceps, a Russian accent straight out of a mob movie, and a propensity for prolonged, unwavering focus (i.e. staring), and suddenly people are skirting around the man, trying to avoid his notice, without ever even knowing about his criminal ties.

        "Is rare that I can feel like normal alpha. So, rely on me. Let me be here for you. This, for me, will be same kind of reward as house shoes are for you." Leaning in, Ilya kisses his forehead and says, "Now, go wash."

        With a scoff, Shane lets himself be maneuvered through the electric fireplace. Then shepherded around the corner of a weird break in the room's wall, behind which is a hallway threading back, behind the bed's headboard. And without any overhead lights, it's only with Ilya's guidance that Shane finds the door to a huge bathroom along the hallway wall. Inside is a gigantic hot-tub style bath, a walk-in waterfall shower, and a full-body mirror hanging separate from the usual one over the counter.

        Immediately suspicious, Shane guesses, "Another doorway?" 

        Pulling it open, Ilya reveals a bidet, surrounded on three sides by pretty, artistic looking ladders. Shane also notices he can see through the opened mirror, just like the ones they have in interrogation rooms.

        "What the fuck?"

        Pointing out the ladder on the left, Ilya says, "This one leads to second floor. You can switch to one in middle to reach penthouse. Last one leads nowhere. Just ends."

        Gaping at him, Shane asks, "Who built this place?"

        "I did. Slowly, with lots of tutorials and help from some builder clients, who I told about small pieces of overall plan."

        "And the city gave you permits to make all these changes?"

        Ilya laughs as if Shane's told a joke. "You think I give city blueprints for any fuck to look up? So many different kinds of doors, trying not to look obvious, disguised into furniture, or decoration, or appliances - is from panic spirals. First I buy building and live in penthouse. Get sniped from opposite rooftop one night, and hire cleaning service, when I am in hospital. A camera I have in penthouse captures cleaning service arrive and place microphones, courtesy of my brother. Now, I still hire cleaner to wipe dust, but I do not live in penthouse, and my brother listens to girls giggling, lots of moaning, sports channels and news on random timer that only turns on when table is unlatched, meaning I am in building and pretending to have come home to my apartment. When companies start selling robots with human shape, I buy one to move around, wearing my clothes and a wig. I try living on second floor, but realize jumping out window is dangerous there, so I make adjustments, do some building, move again down here. I pay off inspectors when they do rounds, and if they resist, I resort to blackmail. But don't worry, is quite safe. I show you exits and special windows, so if something happens when I am not here, you have lots of options."

        Shane's speechless.

        There's a brief moment where he considers asking if Ilya's ever seen a therapist. And then is very glad he'd kept the question to himself. He'd used the phrase panic spiral. As if he'd started building hidden passages and didn't stop until he felt safe.

        Or at least moderately safe.

        But the reality is, someone attacked him in his home. And then, while Ilya was in recovery, his own brother used the opportunity to line his walls with audio surveillance equipment.

        If anything, Shane wonders if his own apartment isn't too full of security holes. There's a doorman, who checks IDs; a few locks and a deadbolt on the door; an alarm system and cameras facing points of egress that Shane can look at on his phone. It had felt like enough, but his job is not much safer than Ilya's, with a similar potential for making enemies.

        "Maybe I should also install some Murphy doors in my apartment," Shane says, only partially joking.

        "Maybe you should move in with me," Ilya counters, no joking to be found.

        "I - But - We - Um...What?"

        "We are mates. This is like marriage in Canada, yes? I am not saying give something up. Keep apartment. Rent it, do short-term leases to students, start pet-sitting business, or leave it as place to run to, if you are not happy here. But if we are mates, let us...commit to bit?" He frowns at the phrase, as if he's repeating something he knows how to use in context, but not how the individual words create the meaning he's looking for. He turns to Shane, eyes flickering, as if going down a checklist, touching on the lay lines of the face, hunting for twisted corners and tensed muscles, noting pupil size or changes in breathing, looking for signs of sweat or unconscious twitches further down, in the extremities. As if he really is reading a book.

         And this scary, beautiful man, carrying the scent of winter on his skin, is asking Shane to move in with him.

        But his thoughts are hooked elsewhere, so Shane starts with, "Mating is not quite marriage. They still expect you to sign legal documents, but judges have sometimes treated a mating bite like a marriage. There's precedent. But I don't think they'd apply it, in our case. But don't worry, I won't ask anything of you, if we end up getting divorced."

        Ilya makes a tisking noise, sucking air between his teeth. "I suppose is good you say 'if' when speaking of divorce, so you leave room for future where we stay together. Still, you are missing point. If you take everything I have that government knows about in divorce, is only small fraction. Most business is still in Eastern Europe. Some on other continents. Every last Loon in official Canadian accounts is already yours as payment for warehouse. Just needs a visit to bank and some signatures."

        "No, absolutely not." Shane wants so much to cross his arms, but instead he's clutching onto a bundle of fabric, fingers hooked into slipper tops.

        "Why?" Ilya asks, looking legitimately confused.

        "I don't want your money."

        "Because you want me in jail?"

        "No."

        "What I did is illegal. There are two kinds of trials, yes? One for jail time, and one for money. If you do not want me in jail, then you should accept money." 

        Shane growls, frustration mounting. "Fuck, you're throwing too much at me all at once. We weren't even done arguing about moving in, then you bring up marriage and split assets, and it's just...too much."

        It shouldn't help, but when Ilya pulls him into his arms, Shane's shoulders relax.

        "I'm sorry," Ilya says, lips pressing against the top of his ear as his voice gentles, "I know this is too much. But this feeling of being under avalanche, just waiting for it to fall, will grow. For me, is already slipping. A mountain of problems and the snow is still falling, adding to it. You do not like when there is no plan, yes? I do not need plan, but...I need to know if you are guest, or if you are partner. If it is safe to create memories of you in the heart of my house, or if I should stay upstairs."

       "Don't," Shane says immediately, voice practically a bark of command.

        With a sigh, Ilya mutters, "I made promise, no serious discussions. I'm sorry, is not good time to ask about moving in. Bond is new. Thinking about separating is making me feel shards in chest. Sharp and pointed and wanting to demand answers that are unfair to ask, when you have same problem. Go. Wash. If you finish before me, do what you want with bed. We will sleep together tonight, and tomorrow you can decide again if rest changes anything."

        Before he leaves, he pulls a roll of gauze, scissors and medical tape out of a drawer of what looks like first-aid supplies. "The soap in shower is safe, fragrance free. Let bite and brand air dry. For brand, apply aloe vera. Then bandage. Tape must not go near brand. For bite, use antiseptic and cover same way. If is problem, call me." And then, as if he can't help himself, he kisses Shane's forehead and leaves, closing the door behind him.

        Then he's gone. 

        And every protest Shane made feels so dumb in hindsight.

        At least the omega that Shane is, has enough dignity to wait until he's under the thundering spray of pressurized water, well-masked and out of Ilya's earshot, before keening in upset.

        Because after a lifetime of taking showers alone, suddenly he feels lonely under one. With hands too empty, and arms with nothing to hold. 

        Half a decade living alone, and Shane suddenly can't understand why he was surprised by Ilya's offer to move in. He'd already been expecting to be, in some capacity, living with Ilya, to keep up the ruse of him being under the alpha's thumb. Just because Ilya's the one proposing it, rather than it being the Bureau, with a team to assign them rooms, set expectations, draw professional boundaries, shouldn't change his willingness to agree. What a stupid argument. Of course he needs to live with Ilya. 

        Maybe it is the fresh bond, but just the thought of being half-a-city away from his alpha has Shane crying into his palms, while simultaneously trying so hard not to. Aware that Ilya's sharp eyes will notice the swollen blood vessels. He'll realize that as soon as he left, Shane fell apart.

        So fucking stupid. 

        Even if they didn't have a job to do, who cares about moving in together, if he gets to keep his own place? At worst, Shane leaves because he wants to. And if he doesn't want to, Ilya's warren of interconnected secret rooms will make it hard for him to forcibly evict Shane. 

        And who cares about money in a bank account? If they're together, then the name it's under is practically irrelevant, as long as the money in it is clean. And as an agent, there are ways to check. So what, if they separate?  Either they'll hate each other and having a big chunk of Ilya's money will feel satisfying; or Ilya will be gifting it to him out of guilt, after having decided to move on from Shane to someone better suited, like Svetlana. 

        Beautiful Svetlana. Who's known Ilya longer. Comes from the same culture and has the same touchpoints. An alpha he's seemingly pursued of his own volition, without guilt or a sense of responsibility forcing him to choose her. Who didn't commit to him...just like Shane.

        Fuck, Shane hates that he pushed back. Hates that they're ending the day on an argument and so many unknowns. He feels like shit, and it makes him wonder if maybe Ilya's standing in his own shower, also falling apart. Getting eaten alive by thoughts of a week from now.

        A month.

        A year. 

        Unable to count on or predict what his own life will look like, but fearing, down to the marrow, that it will be like this moment. 

        Empty. 

        A yawning whole that aches for something undefinable. 

        And the thought of that pulls Shane lower. Kneeling in the drain, he wraps his arms around himself, shivering despite the water's heat all around him, a suffocating cloud of moist air that can't penetrate his skin. 

        Bereft... 

        He feels bereft.

        Can a few days really make a dent in this feeling? Sick with grief over the thought of going home, Shane still can't tug his mind away from the image of walking through his front door, no one at his side. To stay in a house that's not a home. To dinners made for one, lonely showers, an empty bed. And probably his own stale alpha scent on his clothes and furniture, clinging to every surface in his unaired apartment.

        A mind fuck waiting to be confronted.

        But no...his mind spins, reminding him he has lies to tell, a cover to hide...no, to hide under cover. Ilya's his cover. The bed cover? He was supposed to do something with the bed cover? Fuck, he's so fucking tired. His eyes burn, and it's not clear whether it's tears or water or exhaustion causing it. 

        The only reason Shane finally gets up is because he can't stand the idea of Ilya finding him like this and needing to take care of him again. But it really is the only thing driving him forward. He doesn't remember scrubbing his skin raw, or washing his hair, or dressing his wounds, or putting on the clothes that smell like winter. He walks out in the right set of slippers and sighs in relief to see them on his feet. The bed is untouched, because Ilya's still gone. In the cam room, he'd been quick in the shower, efficient in his movements. 

        Why isn't he here? 

        Did he go upstairs? 

        Shane stands in front of the bed for an indeterminate amount of time, just staring at the bedspread, until a voice asks him, "Something wrong with bed?" 

        Flinching hard, Shane does an about face, eyes searching blindly for the source, but no one's there. He's staring at a corner.

        "Shane," Ilya growls, fear rumbling his voice. It comes from behind him. The direction Shane had just been facing. 

          Sheepish, he turns around to watch the methodically calm approach of his alpha. But is he really his?  The way he pulls Shane under his chin and tucks him close, implies he is. The way his hands squeeze and press and pet, trying to soothe the parts of Shane that feel bent out of shape, as if he can mold them back into place with the right touch, adds to the implication. The way he musses the covers and fluffs the pillows and tucks Shane in under a cool duvet makes him feel like Shane's alpha. 

        Suddenly, there's a phone in Shane's hand. "What's this?" he mumbles. 

        "You have been gone two days. Is anyone you trust to text from Bureau? They will be looking for you, yes?" 

        "Hayden," Shane mutters, tapping in his best friend's number and typing, This is Shane. I'm alive. Call off the search party, if there is one. Will try to contact you tomorrow.

        "You have many numbers memorized?" Ilya asks, grinning.

        "A few."

        "Have room for one more?" Ilya asks, as the phone rings. Hayden's number flashes on the screen. 

        Shane groans. He should have predicted this. Waiting was a bad idea. He should have texted earlier, from the car. Now, when Shane picks up, it's with real annoyance that he says, "I'm fine, Hayden. But also exhausted. I'll call you tomorrow." He hears Hayden breathe in sharply - the wind up before he lets loose - and Shane disconnects the call. "Any chance you could put this on Do Not Disturb?" 

        "Do not use 'fine', Shane," Ilya reminds him with a nudge, as he settles in beside him under the covers. "Maybe he would not call so many times if you gave him more than fine."  Then he takes his phone, changes the settings, and tries to hand it back to Shane.

        "Oh, I don't need it."

        "What about parents? Or any friends to call?"

        "The Bureau would have waited to call my parents until they had definitive news to share with them. I normally call my mom on Fridays to check-in and make plans for the weekend. We switch off. I drive down to Ottawa, or they drive up to Montreal. So, they don't know I was 'missing' and...I don't want them to ."

        Ilya hums. "Is very stable schedule. You never have work disrupt this?"

        "Sure, I get busy. But in that case, they usually drive up and entertain themselves while I'm working. It's...nice to have someone around, even if we're in separate rooms."

        "So, they are expecting to see you in three days?"

        Taking a deep breath, Shane says, "Yes."

        "Will you make excuse and skip?"

        "I...don't know. Skipping a week doesn't help. I'd have to avoid seeing them in-person for six months for any of this to make sense. Fuck, even if I didn't see them for a  , it'd be weird to suddenly show up mated with a different orientation. And that's a long time not to see them."

        "Shh," Ilya murmurs, wiping the tears Shane wasn't aware he was dripping, off his cheek. "We will think of something to tell them." Thumbing over Shane's freckles, Ilya asks, "What about friends?"

        "I already texted Hayden. Besides him, I don't really hang out with anyone. Work takes up a lot of time. And then I have a routine. Meal prep, chores, exercise, studying cold cases, reading...When I have spare time, I hang out with my parents or with Hayden's family. There's not much time for anything else."

        Ilya hums again, Acknowledging without judgement. "Is sad, how little time there is for living."

        "To be fair, if I had more, I'd probably just burn out on cases. It feels irresponsible, to spend time relaxing when there's people living in the shadows of monsters, who I could be helping instead."

        "Seems I need to help you defeat biggest monsters. When there are less of them, then maybe will be easier to relax," Ilya says, putting his phone away in the top drawer of his nightstand, on the other side of a gun.

        Noticing the direction of Shane's gaze, Ilya tells him, "Your side table also has gun. Is loaded and cleaned regularly. Should fire, no problem."

        "What about the national freeze?"

        "I have lived here before 2022. These handguns are legal."

        "So, they still have serial numbers?" Shane asks, suspicious.

        With a wide grin, Ilya asks, "What is this - cereal numbers? Is like Red River - hot cereal for breakfast? Or more like Farm Girl - low-carb, keto-friendly?"

        "Shut up, asshole," Shane mutters, grinning despite the way he nestles deeper under the duvet, shivering with a chill the covers can't reach. "I should warn the Bureau."

        "About gun on your side of bed?" He grins, unrepentant. "Is for protection. We will not be burglars."

        Shifting incrementally, Shane wonders if it'd be rude to slide closer, the need rising in him to feel the heat Ilya naturally seems to radiate, like an engine. "You'd m-make a t-terrible burglar," Shane stutters through a yawn. "C-could pick you out of a line-up so easy. Not many people are shaped like you."

        "Never underestimate career criminal," Ilya winks, with a false humor that doesn't reach his eyes. "Now, come, you are tired. Only question left is, do you want...story for sleeping?"

        "You mean a bedtime story?"

        "Da. You want, I find Mumi-troll," he says, waving at the large TV he has hanging in front of the bed, just to the side of the fireplace entrance.

        "Sure, why not. Maybe it'll help," Shane mumbles, sinking into the pillows around him as his fingers dig into the space under his arms, seeking warmth.

        "Which language? Apparently, is many options. English? Japanese? French? Russian?" 

        "Russian, please," Shane requests. 

        "Is dub," Ilya warns him. "They talk over original English. There's two sets of audio whole time. You sure you want this?"        

        "I'm sure," Shane says, already feeling a little less wound tight as the theme song starts to play. He can almost hear his mom's voice singing along. 

        Regrettably, he doesn't remember the show, so when the first episode starts, he's not prepared. And he absolutely knows - even as his chest starts constricting, as his breaths turn shallow, as the tears start to trickle - that his reaction is both illogical and unhinged. But he can't help it.

        He really, really can't.

        Because in the very first episode, after the theme song finishes playing, and the characters are introduced in their beds, the episode stars out with a celebration - for the end of Winter.

        And Shane is in near hysterics over it. "I don't want it to be Spring!" he yells at the TV, like a lunatic.

        Ilya, who's been dialed in, listening to the dub, a skeptical look on his face as the Russian overlays the English at varying volumes, startles next to him.

        In any other moment, his shocked expression, mouth dropped open and eyes huge, so completely taken aback, would probably be funny. But Shane's not in the frame of mind to find it amusing. Instead, he begins to sob as the characters cheer and run outside to celebrate Winter being gone. After all his thoughts circling around the future and separating from Ilya, the concerns over their argument, with scenes playing out in his head of going home alone - to hear the characters in his favorite childhood show shouting about how great it is, now that winter's over -

        It feels like a kick in the chest.

        Utterly bewildered, Ilya throws his arms around Shane, easily scoops him into his lap, and starts rocking him. Hushing and cooing at him, he asks questions softly into Shane's ear, trying to understand what's triggering him. And as he starts to get the picture, he doesn't minimize it, or let go of him, or start to laugh. Instead, he follows Shane down to the level he's at, down to the source of his absurd problem, and starts explaining, "But spring is good, da? See, hippo family hibernates when valley is cold and snowy; and now, when is time to wake, Mumi-troll's friend is back after...camping all winter."

        The look of panic on Ilya's face as Shane only sobs harder will probably stick with Shane for years to come. But in the moment, he complains wetly, "I don't want to be alone all winter," in between heaving, plaintive cries.

        "No, no, shhh, you will not be alone. No, see, green boy is like your friend, who you text to say winter is good. And you and I are like hippo family, tucked away in great, big house. Hibernating. Or maybe just sleeping longer, in between sessions of playing winter sports. Who knows? Is one scene." Ilya gestures at the screen. "Narrator is not there every day. He only comes back after camping with green boy. Has no idea that hippos play hockey on frozen lake or go sledding at sunrise. You want, maybe we write letter of complaint that narrator is bad at job. We can seal it with my ring and send it to Sweden."

        The longer Shane listens, the more his breaths even out, mouth turning up at the corners in an unwitting grin. And fuck, but the way Ilya's worry disappears, the way he visibly lights up when he gets Shane to actually laugh out loud, still hiccupping with the last dregs of his latest upset...

        All of a sudden, rude or not, inappropriate or not, Shane doesn't care. He tugs Ilya closer, burying his head in the hollow of his throat, taking deep pulls through his nose till his lungs ache with the sharp, phantom bite of winter instead of the spasms of a moment ago.

        Ilya's arms tighten, as if equally unwilling to give up even an inch of space now that the distance between them has been breached. He waits a minute, till he's sure Shane's feeling better, before he asks, "Want me to turn it off?"

        It takes Shane less than a second to decide, because the plot's moved on to something about hats and waste baskets - nothing that can hurt him. So, he's left with cheerful music and lilting Russian voices that sound poetic even when he's too tired to translate. "Leave it on," he requests.

        After thoughtfully lowering the volume and the brightness on the TV, Ilya then rearranges them so that they're laying chest-to-chest on their sides, arms still wrapped around each other. "Sleep. Rest. Tomorrow will be easier. No cam room. No Alexei. Only healing," Ilya says.

        And even though Shane's not sure if it will be much easier, given the plans still left to make and the conversations to be had, he closes his eyes and lets the Russian breaths, Russian warmth, and Russian words lull him to sleep.

        But all that comfort doesn't follow Shane down into the shadows of his dreams.

       He's back in the warehouse, shoulders hunched, body curled forward, kneeling on the dirty floor. There's a distinct pain on his right flank and on the left side of his neck. Bleary-eyed, he tries to take in the details of the room, but his senses feel murky. Slippery and foggy in a way he's never felt them before.

        Surrounded by a circle of men, one in particular catches his eye. There's a cigar in his mouth and he's wearing excited lace-up Oxfords that tap, tap, tap, waiting for the go ahead...

        But the go ahead to what? What more does he want to do to Shane? Because, as he kneels in grime and dust, Shane's certain that the burnt skin on his side is this man's fault. He'd taken the tip of that oversized cigar and sunk it into the meat of Shane's ass for the pleasure of his sick, pathetic audience.

        An audience of faceless men who speak in a 'Russian' that sounds English, as they debate how best to kill him.

        "Maybe we boil him? Like a frog in a pot?"

        "Maybe we skin him? Like meat for the stove?"

        "Maybe we maim him? Like a soldier who's lost?"

        "Maybe we stab him? Like a pig for a roast?"

        "Maybe we drown him? Like a cat in a barrel?"

        "Maybe we bitch him? A prostitute, he could make?"

        "Too dangerous," a whiny voice interrupts, his face clearer than the rest. "He'd know too much. See too much."

        "No, no, we could do it. Pretty face like that? Replace his eyes with marbles, remove his tongue and teeth, lop off the first knuckle of each finger, puncture his eardrums and saw away his feet. Men will still pay to have him, but he'll never know what's going on."

        There's ponderous hums around him as eyes meet, start to agree.

        The Bureau won't rescue him in time. They don't even know he's been caught.

        As implements of torture are pulled out of pockets, Shane wails into his lap, curling till he's as small as he can make himself, already wishing he were dead.

        Can't. I can't. I can't do it. I can't live like that. Please, just fill my lungs with cement and throw me in the river. Because I can't, can't, can't, can't, can't, can't, can't...

        A whistle cuts through the indistinct murmuring of the men around him.

        A jaunty, happy tune, full of energy and joie de vivre. It takes Shane a second, but he recognizes the notes, in that order, at that speed. Someone is whistling the cancan.

        No, not someone.

        A wolf has wandered in.

        A giant golden beast, with eyes like ice shards, paws like dinner plates, claws sharp enough to shred skin like paper, and a maw of razor blade teeth to match.

        The men, all so straight-backed and self-important, so confident just a moment ago, throw themselves at the doors, scrabbling for the exits.

         The wolf ignores them. Doesn't even seem to see them. It's focus is entirely fixed on Shane. With a tilt of its great head and a long drawn breath, the golden beast circles him twice, before sitting behind Shane, underbelly covering Shane's back with a blanket of fur and the kind of heat that permeates the ice Shane didn't notice coating his bones, making them rattle.

        "What's wrong, solnyshko?" the creature murmurs, licking away the tears Shane's shed.

        "There were bad men here and they wanted to hurt me!"

        "Bad men here?" The wolf turns his head, first right, then left. "I see only trees. Quiet, quiet trees. Not a living thing in sight. Just you. Just me."

        Sniffling through a stuffy nose, Shane looks around at the woods. "Right. Just trees," he says in confusion, wondering why he'd been so scared.

        Embarrassed at his behavior, Shane stands, his own sizeable paws lifting his own black, sleek-furred body onto all fours.

        The golden beast huffs in annoyance. "You should let me cuddle you. You still smell sad."

        "Yeah, but for a dumb reason. Because I was scared of some trees. That looked like men. I think."

        "Who cares about reason? If you are sad, let me cuddle you. I promise I give good cuddles. You will not be disappointed."

        Shane studies the wolf before him. So big, so familiar, so quick to reach out and touch. He's seen this wolf before. Been in his home, he's pretty sure. But this is the first time he notices the wolf has an accent and a strange style of speech.

        A golden beast, but not gold like a Russian Orthodox cross, and not blonde like hair, but somewhere in between. And a name rises to Shane's lips. One that's come to mean something to him...

        "Ilya?" He asks, feeling very sure that he'll get a happy yip in reply.

        But the wolf tilts his head, sniffing the air, eyes far away. "Nyet," he says, and Shane's heart drops, "but also, da."

        "Well, which one is it?" Shane huffs, sitting down. And here, nose to nose, he's annoyed at the difference between them. he both likes and dislikes how the wolf is taller, broader, sharper-shaped than him. It's an odd feeling, to appreciate the difference, find comfort in it, and envy it, all at the same time. Without the certainty that its his by proxy, the desire still lives in him to want it for himself.

        "If you are asking if we are speaking right now, then no. I am not an Ilya you can speak to. But we are close together, sharing body heat. You can smell me. I can smell you. And chemical signals, the scents we don't rely on nearly as much when we are awake, say more than we'd expect. Is feedback loop. Once upon a time, when people lived in packs, all in one room, they would tell stories of dreamscapes, where their loved ones roamed, frolicked, and rested together in the night. This is a dreamscape and I am your interpretation of the chemistry you can smell, the body you can feel touching yours."

        As soon as the wolf says it, Shane realizes he knew that already. Some faraway lesson he learned in primary school that he can only just recall.

        Fuck...Ilya's not really here. He's alone. Always so fucking alone. Tears drip along his snout, tracing down his teeth until Ilya licks them away.

        "Shhh," Ilya rumbles, frame shuddering as he starts to purr, trying to comfort Shane by smothering him with warmth and vibration. "You can only see me, because I am here. Because I am close and trying to get closer. You can feel sad, but please don't feel lonely. Wallow and cry, be intensely upset, wring out your emotions and dry them in my fur. But don't feel lonely, because, I promise, I am here." And as the wolf circles him again, draping over Shane, there's a very real feeling of arms tightening around him, a wide palm cradling his hair, lips pressed against his brow.

        Rumbling, vibration, and engine-warmth suffuse him as, on the other side of consciousness, Ilya hears everything Shane's saying without words, and responds with physical comfort. A message that promises that Shane is not alone.

 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for providing feedback.

I'll be continuing to add to chapter 11 and will also move things from that list that have been "completed" into a DONE list. Feel free to keep making suggestions and checking in after Chapter drops on that list, because I realized...new chapters might very well result in new things needing to be followed up on. I'll update it later today after I post this.

Thanks so much for engaging with this fic. I know it takes extra time and effort to do it and it's much more common to just read through silently. I appreciate it to the moon and back ;)

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Dang. Work is busy and , even though reading this back, the chapter doesn't seem too bad, I didn't really like writing it. I'm not a fan of writing about moving through physical spaces. The man should be helpful, since I tried to reference actual labels, and so maybe there's a little less guess work on trying to determine where Shane is in the building.

Sorry for the delay. Will see how it goes, because work will continue to be a problem until late March, but fingers crossed.

        Without opening his eyes, Shane can almost feel how early it is when he wakes the next morning. He's not exactly well-rested, but maybe that was too high a bar to aim for, given the past three days.

        For the first time, when he does finally open his eyes, Ilya isn't awake yet. Slowly, he lets his gaze wander over Ilya's face, conflicted over how serious he looks, even with his facial muscles slack with sleep. It should be, at least, a neutral expression. His brows don't look tense, but they're prominent, much like his chin, cheekbones, and jaw. Just lying here, breathing as steadily as a metronome, doing nothing that could be construed as frightening, he still looks like someone you should sneak past rather than sidle up to.

        And yet, Shane's fingers twitch with the desire to trace the path his eyes took, smoothing along high cheekbones, pacing across the bridge of Ilya's nose, sliding the pads in a gentle caress over the dramatic line of Ilya's lips, to press his thumb over his distracting mole and measure its exact placement, till he can kiss it in the dark without looking. He wants to thread his fingers into Ilya's golden hair, test the spring of his locks, and memorize the texture.

        The man is beautiful.

        And Shane wonders at that.  At his own reaction to such masculine features...

       Growing up, he hadn't felt much of a draw to people. Most of the boys were awkward, gangly, squeaky-voiced and acne-ridden. Shane had personally fared a bit better, but it had been a weird time, with puberty hitting his agemates at different periods on their educational journey. But given that Shane had been two years younger, he felt delayed and small in comparison to many of the boys in his class.

        It had been difficult getting onto the Varsity hockey team, but his small stature had made him quick, able to outmaneuver most kids he played against. Given it was practically expected, no matter his age, he took girls he shared classes with to school dances, who kissed him tentatively for photos but considered him too young to date. Not that he had wanted to; they hadn't inspired much of a reaction in him, but he figured it was tied to the age gap.

        And then, after he graduated, he was recruited by the Bureau, put into a fast-track training program with some younger men, at whom he maybe stared too long when they were running on the track or sparring in the gym. But his eyes lingered on their muscles, admiring their physiques, looking for hints on how they'd achieved their results, rather than looking too closely at their faces. And that made it okay. It wasn't weird. It was just another thing to compete over.

        When he finally became an agent, assigned to a team, he no longer had people to look at.

       Hayden, he supposes, is relatively good-looking, but knowing he's a straight, mated beta immediately neutered the man in Shane's eyes. When he looks at him, it's through the same platonic lenses he sees his parents. The way Drapeau tries so hard to annoy him, with the loud, messy eating and the stench of his cologne permeating the office, despite Shane begging him to wear less, ensures his irksome nature overshadows his looks. As for the rest of his coworkers in the office, they're generally older, closer to his parents' age, or women, who are certainly pretty and put together, but also don't attract his attention. 

        He'd never spent much time pondering over his sexuality. It hadn't seemed important when there wasn't time to date and his job was both dangerous and poorly-compensated. So, in the end, he'd just had a bare bones list of things he knew were true: that his prostate was sensitive, he didn't like kissing glossy lips, he wanted to learn how to deep throat a cock and had no reciprocal desire to learn how to eat pussy. When he tried to get himself off, he usually pictured straight sex, because it was familiar, ubiquitous, and expected; but in his head, a lot more focus went to picturing the sheen of sweat along abdominal muscles, of straining biceps as big hands held up the ankles of some faceless...woman? How often did Shane even bother picturing the other party? 

        For a long time, it hadn't mattered because he wasn't planning to date anytime soon. He had a career to build, people to save. He spent his ruts alone without much problem and took himself in-hand maybe once a week, if it fit his schedule on the Friday nights before he visited with his parents. Such a large chunk of his work entailed cleaning up messes made by human greed and selfishness that, most of the time, it was a relief that people didn't really attract him. For all that he might stare at a well-defined chest and maybe picture it again a few weeks later when touching himself, he didn't feel any desire to actually approach the man sporting the muscles.  

        So his level of attraction to Ilya feels...strange. Almost, unendurable. He's not used to wanting a real person. It's not even about the body parts or the face. Shane's not used to feeling his pulse run wild at the thought of what another man might say - unpredictable, blunt, pornographic things; sweet, touching, tender things; playful, ridiculous, absurd things...

        He wants to hear the man's opinions. To learn how he thinks. To know his shape so well, he'd recognize his shadow. His movement so well, he could pick out his footsteps. The well of his want feels bottomless.

        Do other people really feel this way? Do they experience this kind of desire on a regular basis? Because it seems preposterous. How would they ever get stuff done?

        But looking at Ilya, he also can't understand who wouldn't feel like this about the man...

        The man who has his eyes open and is staring at Shane in open amusement.

        "Ah!" Shane flinches in surprise. "Good morning," he says, hoping he looks less startled than he feels.

        "Da, is quite good. Love to start day with so much of your attention," Ilya says, grinning. The corners of his eyes crinkle, his expression brightening for a second and then turning serious again as he asks, "How was sleep?"

        "At one point, I was having a nightmare, but...I think you pulled me out of it. Maybe not consciously, but I think I felt you comforting me, or sending me good vibes with your scent, I don't know."

        "Ah, you are speaking of peyzazhe mechty?"

        Shane recognizes that it must be Russian, but it's also unfamiliar. It hadn't shown up in his training, so Shane can't translate it. Which means it must not be something that would come up in gangster conversations. With a disappointed sigh, he admits, "Sorry, I don't know that word. Or is it a phrase?"

        With a wince, Ilya's eyes unfocus as he tries to think of the English equivalent. He finally offers, "Dream land?"

        "I thought the word for land was zemlya?" Shane says, frowning.

        "Same idea," Ilya says with a shrug. "There are more names for it, depending on how you get there, but is shared space of union. Very common, in old religions, to meditate entry to space. People meet in special hut or cave with blocked entrance, to keep scents in and make noise bounce. Now, new generation interested in wellness is trying. They bring yoga mats and sometimes weed. One of my clubs likes to have events like this."

        Shane snorts, "Brave of them. It felt kind of intimate. Like having you in my head, even though you weren't there. In fact, it's a bit creepy to think about a stranger scenting you at some club event and then picturing things about you, having conversations with a manifestation of you, and coming up with who-knows what kind of fucked up scenarios featuring you without permission... Seems like there'd be a risk of psychosis associated with participating in something like that."

        Ilya's smile spreads wider and he looks like he's trying really hard not to laugh. "Shane, people do this anyways. You meet someone in coffee shop standing in line and they smell you, like your scent, and next time they take shower, they picture fucking you while jerking off. But maybe is not surprising that agent wants to be Thought Police," he teases.

        Shaking his head, Shane doesn't admit Ilya might have a point. "How about you? How did you sleep?"

        His grin gentling, he says, "Good. I dream of you, so is good." His hand comes up then, and hesitates over Shane's cheek. With a flick of his eyes and a cocked eyebrow, Ilya silently asks if it'd be alright to touch him.

        After all they've been through, it feels like a stupid question. Hating Ilya's exaggerated caution, Shane raises his head and nuzzles into that wide palm while making what he hopes is meaningful eye contact. Hoping he hears the silent permission to touch, to hold, to kiss, to push for more. 

        Ilya swallows hard, caressing the line of Shane's freckles gently, fingers curling to cup the side of his head for a long moment.

        The silence feels so charged that Shane honestly expects him to lean in and kiss him. After seeing how bold Ilya could be for two days straight, he's anticipating escalation.

        Swallowing harder the second time, Ilya lets his hand drop and asks, "Hungry?"

        Licking his lips, eyes flickering away from Ilya's bright blue eyes, Shane softly admits, "Yeah, I am," thinking he's responding to an innuendo.

        "Lox sandwiches okay?"

        "Um...what?"

        "Is not right name? Lox, like smoked salmon, capers, chive cream cheese, tomato, and cucumber. Maybe with coffee? You say yesterday you drink it black, yes? Or do you prefer tea with breakfast?"

        "Uh, wha-whatever you're having is fine," Shane stutters through his surprise.

        "Remember 'fine' is banned," Ilya scolds, even as he leans in and kisses Shane...on the forehead.

        Then Ilya's gone, with a stern, "Stay here. Rest. I will bring food," in parting.

        It's not a long wait.

        In fact, given he comes back with hot black tea and lox sandwiches on freshly toasted bread, it's weird how quickly he returns.

        "That was incredibly fast," Shane says, baffled as a tray table is placed over his legs.

        "Bread toasted quickly. Tea was pre-made in thermos, and all ingredients I prepare yesterday, when you are in shower."

        Remembering how he'd been surprised at Ilya's absence after he'd finished in the bathroom, Shane realizes now that the man had spent that extra time cleaning the rest of the dinner dishes Shane hadn't gotten to, and then moved on to planning and preparing breakfast in bed.

        "You didn't have to do that," Shane mumbles, ducking his chin in embarrassment over how warmed he feels by Ilya's forethought. Doted on and taken care of, in an alien way. No one's ever treated him like this. Not even his parents. On some level, it actually makes him feel kind of lazy. And selfish. 

        "Is early still. Bond is settling as much as it can, when only half-complete. Better to slowly increase distance as day goes on. Not go from touching for eight hours, to immediately separated for fifteen minutes."

        "I could have joined you in the kitchen, helped you make breakfast," Shane points out.

        Ilya blows a raspberry at that. "Nyet. So much stress and change...store energy for when you will fulfill promise to agent friend."

        "Oh, god...Hayden," taking a sip of tea absentmindedly, Shane cringes at how he'd dismissed him. To be fair, Shane hadn't been in the right mindset last night to deal with an interrogation, but he could have handled it better. "I'll...call him after breakfast." But to call him, he needs a phone. Sure, he can use Ilya's. Just like he can probably borrow some clothes to change into rather than donning his dirty warehouse suit again. It serves as a reminder, though. Of the practicalities of life. And one of the biggest is where to live. 

        Biting into his sandwich with a groan of appreciation, Shane says, "This tastes really good. And kind of fancy. You eat these for breakfast often?"

        "Nyet. Usually, tomato and cumber are for salads, capers are for pasta, cream cheese is for crackers, and salmon is protein to add to meals. Having all ingredients was lucky, but not common."

        They chat all through breakfast about food again, sharing anecdotes and opinions until they're finished eating.

        Only then, while he's draining the last of his tea, does Shane finally broach the subject. "I was thinking about your offer last night. Did you mean it? Do you really want me to move in?"

        Ilya's eyes flicker, touching down on different parts of his face, reading him again. But if his inspection tells him anything, his voice doesn't give it away as he answers with a simple, "Da."

        "Then, um, I'd like to accept."

        "Nyet." Before Shane can fully stiffen up with rejection, Ilya rushes on, explaining, "Do not give answer until you have explored this place. If you do not like it, we can make your apartment more safe and then you can decide if you want me with you or not; or we can search for whole new place and make decisions together from start. Yesterday, I ask too soon and in wrong way. I like this building, but is just a place. With good security, I can live anywhere. Especially if anywhere is place you are also staying," he says, with a cheeky wink and a grin. Then he reaches into one of the lower drawers of his nightstand and pulls out pen and paper. "I want you to look at it without me next to you. Explore, be honest with yourself, make faces without worrying what I am seeing in them. But to help you not get lost, I will make you map." It takes him a good few minutes to sketch out three floors and the garage. When he's done, he hands it to Shane and says, "There, now you have the only somewhat accurate blueprint of my home. Come find me in office when you are done and we can discuss your decision. Or if you want to stay, we instead discuss what changes you might like. Okey?"

        "Will you let me do the dishes first?" Shane asks.

        With a heavy frown, Ilya says, "Nyet. You have busy morning ahead." As if to get him started, Ilya hands him the phone from his nightstand.

        For a long second, Shane holds the smartphone in the palm of his hand while the omega in him is once again touched - that Ilya remembered he was planning to call Hayden after breakfast, that he's already prepared to meet Shane's needs without him asking. Such small, little things, and yet...does he know anyone who tracks the needs of other people like this? Maybe personal assistants, paid to think ahead, planning schedules, considering logistics. The combination of strategic thinking, foresight, perception, and consideration for others has Shane's heart beating double-time. It's actually kind of unfair for such a beautiful man to have so many other attractive qualities. If this isn't a front, if this is an actual representation of who Ilya is on the inside, then Shane is pretty sure he's fucked. He's going to fall in love. It's just inevitable.

        "If you forget number, is in call history," Ilya says, his expression confused at Shane's delay, as he stands to take the tray table back into the kitchen.

        "R-right." Switching gears, Shane doesn't let himself think about what he's going to say to Hayden before pressing the call button, knowing better than to waste time worrying and overthinking the conversation he'll only partially have control of.

        The line picks up on the second ring, Hayden's voice coming through with a frantic, "Shane?!"

        "Morning, Hayd. How've you been?" Too casual. He winces internally, wishing he was better with people. Less awkward. More capable of dealing with emotions and mitigating reactions. In the Bureau, everyone knows not to let Shane do the comforting of families when things go wrong. They bring him along sometimes to give detailed explanations or to perform in front of cameras in case they get stopped for an interview. Apparently, the omega stereotype of being more nurturing really isn't some universal truth. Shane's no better at this than he was a few days ago.

        "Dude, seriously?! You miss check-in, disappear for a day and a half, no contact, and that's all you have to say to me? What the fuck, Shane?! The whole team has been looking for you. We roped in people from other departments to help. Our best long-distance scent-trackers got as close to the warehouse as they could, trying to determine if you'd been smuggled off the property or if you were still there. It's been fucking harrowing, picturing all the things that could have happened since those Russian guys came back early. Even after you called yesterday, our team lead didn't know what to do about your call, because what if it was a deep fake? What if this is still a deep fake? I need to see you. Today, Shane. Otherwise, we have to keep looking. We took a break for the night because we weren't getting anywhere, but we're reconvening in an hour to plan our next moves. And unless I know you're actually okay, then the search will resume."

        "Shit, Hayden, I'm sorry. You're right, I should have handled it better," Shane says, feeling guiltier at the hair-raising panicked quality to Hayden's speech. He tries his best to explain. "Truth is, things went...really wrong in the warehouse. I got saved, but it was still...a lot. We're trying to recover, but it's going to take a bit. We've been through a lot and it's fucked us up in ways I don't think we really appreciate yet."

        "We?" Hayden asks, suspicion in his tone.

        Even though they're not in the cam room and Ilya's paranoid enough that there shouldn't be any listening devices this far down or attached to his personal phone, Shane's own paranoia rears up and he says, "I'll tell you when I see you."

        "Where and what time today?" Hayden demands.

        "Um...give me a sec." Slipping his feet into his sunny day-slippers, Shane pads into the kitchen where Ilya's seemingly doing meal prep.

        He looks up with a quirked eyebrow.

        "Hayden's insisting I meet him today. He's worried I'm a deep fake, so it's going to need to be face-to-face."

        "Tell him this afternoon. Fourteen o'clock. At your apartment," Ilya says, decisively.

        "What if I want to move into your place?" Shane protests.

        "Then, we will pick up things you want to bring here. Favorite mugs, clothes, skin care products, books," he shrugs. "Electronics maybe we buy new. Safer for now, since Alexei could have sent someone to your apartment."

        "The ID I had on me was a fake, and the phone was just a burner from the Bureau. How would he know where I live?"

        "Bureau will debrief us, yes? Is not important now. Just tell agent friend to suspend any undercover work till debrief."

        With a grumble of annoyance at being put off, Shane passes along the message to Hayden and tells him, "We'll see you at my apartment at fourteen hundred hours," he emphasizes.

        "Okay, weirdo," Hayden mutters, but Shane's too distracted by Ilya's wide grin and scrunched, happy eyes to care about being insulted. He's dragged back into the moment when Hayden ends with, "I'm so glad you're okay, buddy. You had us worried."

        "You're a good friend, Hayden. Sorry for worrying you, and see you soon," Shane says, gently, hoping his friend hears how much he means it.

        He tries to hand Ilya the phone afterwards but is waved off.

        "Keep it till you have your own. I will use burner."

         With a shrug of acceptance, Shane asks, "What are you up to?"

        "Dinner prep, so is quick to make later. You going exploring now, or back to bed?"

        Shane looks down at his night clothes. He doesn't even have to say anything before Ilya's washing his hands. "Come, let us find you some clothes. Also, sock shoes for wandering. If you go up to penthouse, do not speak. I play sad classical music my brother hates, and breathing noises, shuffling noises, things like this for two people who are not speaking. Try not to flinch at robot. Second one is already ordered so we can dress him up in clothes and wig to look like you from far away." Leading Shane around the weird corner he'd disappeared around yesterday, Ilya shows him through a door into a closet. "Pick whatever you want."

        Ilya's closet is well organized into sections by occasion, then length, then color, with tops, bottoms, jackets, coats, and ties all on hangers for easy viewing, so Shane turns to the athletic wear section and picks out a tank top, sweatpants and sweatshirt in navy with Russian printed on the sleeves.

        Ilya tisks. "Boring." He pulls a set of fresh boxers out of a drawer, along with a strange set of shoes, made mostly of flexible, light-weight material, like a stronger sock, but with a rubber sole. Pointing at a section thick with silky button-ups, he says, "Bathroom is through there, if you want to change now."

        Clenching the clothes tight, Shane considers just disrobing where he stands. He's undressed in locker rooms before and, more relevantly, they spent part of yesterday and the day before naked in front of each other, as well as their unseen audience. It feels silly to go into a separate room just to change, but Ilya had phrased it like he wanted Shane to use the bathroom. In which case, he doesn't want to subject the man to his nudity against his wishes. Trying not to sigh, he sets his sights on the section Ilya pointed out.

        "Does this one also have a secret toilet?" Shane asks, hunting for the lever to the latest Murphy door. Finding the hidden toggle, he pulls the door forward. This time, he's standing in a much smaller room with a clawfoot bathtub with a hand shower on a long hose, a one-person counter with a mirror, and another door at the end, behind which is, indeed, a toilet. "This one isn't even a secret. Why did you give all your toilets their own rooms?"

        "Is strange, seeing toilets out in open. I know this is popular, but before Grigori is given more important job, for most of childhood, we live in apartment of Khrushchevka - block housing from Soviet times. Is very small. Kitchen, washing room, toilet, and two rooms to make into what you need. Some poorer families, adult kids marry and move into one room, and parents and younger kids have other room. Smaller families, maybe give kids one room to share and take the other. Occasionally, families that like to host parties, and have few kids, put all beds in one room and make a living room, with TV, storage, a table. And because this is a block surrounded by other similar blocks, all my friends have same apartment style. So everywhere, I see sink and tub in one room, toilet in another. Is easier to share apartment with many people when one person can be taking shit, while other is giving children baths, one after another, in same bathwater."

        Shane hums for lack of anything useful to say, but his eyes catch on Ilya's tall frame, leaning against the doorway, and tries to picture a younger version of him growing up in such close quarters with his mother, brother, and father - a man he calls by his name, as if their familial tie has degraded to the point of nonexistence. It's an upbringing so far from Shane's, who grew up in a spacious house with multiple full bathrooms, where his mom and dad had separate offices, and there was both a living room and a dining room. They're practically the same age, grew up watching the same show about a hippo, and yet their lives have been so different...

        "Where would you recommend I start?" Shane asks, once he's dressed.

        "Ladders maybe? Will lead you to parts you did not see yesterday."

        "Do you ever worry what would happen, if you fell from one of those ladders? Like, if you call for an ambulance, how are they supposed to find you?"

        "Ambulance? Nyet, I call Svetlana. She calls ambulance. Meets them at door and leads them to me. If not her, then Cliff Marlow, a friend from gym. We play racquetball against each other. Sometimes, we are partners for doubles in tennis or pickle ball. He is good friend. I show him mirror entrance to this part of building. Penthouse is easy access, just lots of stairs. If is problem there, I can call and people can come, but if is headshot, then who cares. I am probably dead. And if is not headshot, I can try walking down. When I was shot first time, I walk to bottom of stairwell before calling. And now...maybe I call you? Man with blueprint," he jokes.

        It occurs to Shane, then - just how much trust Ilya's putting in him. A man he barely knows. "Guess that means I should learn how to maneuver through this place easily, so that if anything happens, I can lead emergency services to your location just as well as you could lead them to mine."

        With a snort, Ilya points at his chest and tells him, "Nothing is allowed to happen to you. Tell me now, if you are clumsy or too weak to climb ladders, and I will remove more dangerous parts from map."

        "Fuck you, I'm fit enough for whatever you've built," Shane says, walking past Ilya to go start his journey. "See you in a bit."

        There's a charged moment, when he looks back, where Shane can see desire rise up in the other man. It's almost written there, plain on his face. The desire to tug Shane back and...what? Hug him? Kiss him? More?

        But he doesn't do anything, so Shane puts the map in his pocket, finds his way back to the other bathroom, and starts climbing the ladder to the second floor.

        He doesn't get very far up before he notices a large, strange wooden square on hinges, latched to the front-facing wall. Out of curiosity, Shane loops an elbow through a ladder rung and reaches out to release the latch. The wooden square slowly descends on a hydraulic hinge. Looking down at the square suddenly filling the space below him like a floor, with special cutouts to allow the ladders to pass through, Shane tries to imagine its purpose. It comes to him slowly. A false ceiling, easily deployed, and in a quiet enough manner that it would largely be inaudible. Someone finding the special toilet-room behind the mirror might be fooled to think there's nothing more to the alcove, but even if they did know, the square would prevent a gunman from accurately shooting someone traversing the ladder from below, and provide a barrier in a pursuit. It's clever. Just another example of Ilya manifested - his paranoia, his strategic thinking, his foresight...a good mate, comes the intrusive thought.

        Groaning over how stupid that sounds, Shane spends the climb to the second floor reminding himself that he does not know Ilya Rozanov.

        Too soon, too soon, too soon, too soon...

        But the further away he gets from the square panel he dropped, the more he regrets doing it, as the light in the ladder shaft disappears and Shane's left climbing in darkness.

        At the top of the ladder, the one to Shane's right probably continues upwards through a narrower shaft to the third floor, whereas the one he's standing on seems to just end abruptly. Shane reaches a hand up, waving it over his head where he finds just empty space. Waving his hand further sideways, his fingers hit the lip of a corner.

        Fuck, it's so dark. He considers pulling out the phone he slipped into his pocket, but his hands are so sweaty, he's afraid he'll drop it. Though Ilya seems to prefer keeping the temperature in the building low, Shane realizes he should have left the sweatshirt behind. He's starting to feel rather unnerved. The climb wasn't short. If he's reached the second floor, it must be about two flights of stairs of empty space between him and the false ceiling and the toilet that will break his fall if his sweaty fingers slip.

         Tracing along the edge, Shane's hand sketches out a rectangle above his head, just wide enough and long enough to allow a grown man to pass through. Stretching his hand upwards, Shane's surprised to feel a different material...a thinner wood, like the kind you'd find in a closet. He pushes on the side farthest from him and a set of doors swing open to daylight and a little room full of shelves with fresh linen and towels.

        If there's a smooth way to crawl out of the ladder shaft, Shane's not aware of it as he scrabbles over the lip of the floor like a mouse. It's not until he's all the way through that he can finally see what the fuck he just came out of. He almost can't tell until he pushes the wood closed again, hiding the hole in the floor from view. Only then does he realize that Ilya built what appears to be a wooden cabinet around the hole in the floor. It only "appears to be" a cabinet, because the drawers are just carved grooves with decorative knobs attacked, but pulling on them just opens the front facade of the "cabinet" There's maybe the slightest sliver of space between the bottom of the door and the floor. Not really enough to let light through, but enough to avoid the scrape of friction on opening and closing. Shane wonders if that's true all year round, given how heat and moisture can affect wood, but he makes a mental note and continues on with his traversal of Ilya's building.

        To the man's credit, without him present to point out door releases, Shane still struggles to find the right section of closet shelves to let him out into...ah, "Storage" was a generous label to put on the long room Shane walks into. Unlike every other part of the building Shane's seen, this appears to be kind a disorganized hoard.

        There's piles of building material, lumber, construction equipment, and empty boxes that Shane practically has to push out of the way and rearrange just to get to the fire escape. No, just no. This room can't stay like this, Shane decides, making another mental note to tell Ilya to do something about the hoard. And given the difficulty of reaching the windows and what, for once, is an easy-to-spot door, Shane starts keeping a lookout for smoke detectors and fire extinguishers.

        Attempting to exit, he tries the handle, but it spins in his hand, the door rattling in its frame a bit as Shane tries to piece together a fix to get the door to open. Eventually, he gives up and heads toward the far end, picking his way through garbage bags full of insulation and panes of glass, until he gets to a sizeable vent at the bottom of the wall... The vent panes are permanently tilted downwards, the adjuster on the side either decorative or frozen in place.

        At first he's not sure what to do with it, and almost decides to resort to going down the fire escape to get out of the room, but pulling on the vent screen just...pops it out of wall. For a moment he wonders if he's broken it, but the hole in the wall is framed, as if the vent is meant to come out of its setting like this. With a groan of disbelief, Shane crawls through the tight space, pops out the vent on the other side of the wall with an easy push, and then spends five minutes awkwardly trying to get the vent he popped out in the storage room back into place, not wanting to leave Ilya with the job or resetting shit like vents or doors. But as he's lying on his back, trying to fit the grate into place, Shane wonders when Ilya built this section. For Shane, the space already feels tight enough to be claustrophobic, but with Ilya's current muscle mass making his shoulders broader, Shane wonders how he manages to fit through.

        Once he's finally done setting the vents to rights, Shane looks over the bedroom he finds himself in with a critical eye. There's something very feminine-chic to the choice of artwork, the sheets on the bed, the drapes decoratively pulled back to let the light in from the window. With the scent of stale perfume in the air and the first sign of decorative pillows Shane's seen in the building, he can't help but wonder if maybe this is unofficially Svetlana's room.

        Studiously avoiding the wardrobe in the corner, afraid he'll find a stockpile of classy, feminine outfits if he goes looking, Shane notes the smoke detector and exits out the first normal working door he's encountered, into the hallway he remembers from the day before. This time, he follows it to the end and around the corner, down another hallway that, on one side, displays artwork that somehow reminds Shane of Russian historical events, while, on the other side, is a stretch of large floor-to-ceiling windows that face a quaint city street, somewhere in Montreal.

        Even though the map clearly tells Shane to expect a gym, he's still not prepared for the space to look like a literal paid gym, full of machines, weight lifting benches, plates and free weights, resistance bands, and even a hanging boxing bag in the corner with a jump rope unspooled underneath it. Considering the kinds of exercises Shane prefers, the only equipment missing is yoga mats. Once again, he spots the smoke detector, and then checks the map, just to ensure he's not misreading it. There should be a door to storage, but...he doesn't see one. With a groan, he realizes one of the padded panels lining the wall must lead to the storage room, but there's so many to check. At least it only takes five tries before the panel swings outwards and reveals...a pile of boxes. No wonder Shane hadn't been able to find the exit. The door he'd been trying to open must have been a fake. 

        Closing the padded door, Shane debates where to go next. Studying the map, he decides to ignore the third floor, hating the idea of running into a walking robot shuffling around to sad classical music. Retracing the path Ilya showed him the day before, he ends up in the hallway behind the kitchen. Since Svetlana apparently used the mirror to exit the building yesterday, he takes a right instead of going through it and winds up in...a lounge? But the label on the map says "armory & second gym".

        Confused, Shane takes a seat on one of the three couches facing a huge TV screen, intending to sit and observe the room in silence. He lasts less than a minute before he's switching to one of the other couches. And then switching again. All of them are shit. The cushions are so thin, that he may as well be sitting on the floor for all the support he gets.

        On a whim, Shane crouches down and tries to lift a cushion and finds that he can't. It's glued to a wooden plank that lifts up when Shane fits his fingers under it, revealing part of what must be the "armory". Sleek handguns with silencer attachments, a semi-automatic rifle and bump stock, knives, throwing stars, chemical pellets clearly labeled with expiration dates arranged in neat stacks next to pellet launchers, and then a more concerning set of tools - a hand saw, a crank drill, pliers, tweezers, a strange device that unspools a wire between two metal handles when pulled. He wonders how many items are impulse purchases part of Ilya's panic spiral, and how many he's actually used day to day.

        Not too sure how to feel about the illegal arsenal he's found, Shane closes the couch-lids and looks around, wondering why Ilya labeled the space a second gym.

        The rest of the room features two armchairs that have better cushions - if they hide more weapons, Shane's not sure how to access them; a strange, gigantic wooden spokeless wheel, taller than Shane by a sizeable foot and a half, standing on a matching wooden stand to keep it in place in front of the strangely dim windows; a little wooden bench in the same color beside it, waiting for someone to sit down and watch the world wandering past, right at street level. Which doesn't seem strange until someone walks past Shane.

        All of a sudden the dim windows make sense. It must be another one-way mirror. The girl popping a huge bubble of gum stops to fix her makeup at the tail end of the room, staring straight into Ilya's house without seeing it, which Shane confirms by standing in her eyeline and waving at her. Then testing a theory, he says, "Hello?" at different volumes to no effect. She's not wearing earbuds, so once he's practically yelling a greeting at her, he gives up, satisfied that there must be soundproofing as well.

        Although, he should have guessed, given how quiet the building is, none of the sounds of busy city traffic penetrating the silence on any of the floors. Noting the two smoke detectors and, again, the lack of a visible fire extinguisher, Shane decides he's seen enough for the time being. Wandering back past the divider and into the kitchen, then through the fireplace, Shane finds Ilya in his office.

        Having heard his approach, Ilya's already grinning when he looks up from his laptop and says in a raised voice, "HELLO."

        "Shut up," Shane mutters, "I was testing your soundproofing."

        "Ah. Yes, is very effective. To live in the heart of a city but never hear it, is luxury."

        "Good word for it. What are you up to?" Shane asks, noticing the bright yellow flash drive sticking out the side of Ilya's laptop.

        "Reviewing what Sveta took," Ilya says, smile slipping. The difference is stark. All the way down to his scent, Ilya's mood seems to drop as he looks back down at screen and sighs heavily.

        Feeling goosebumps break out on his skin, Shane asks, "What did she bring you?"

        With a flinch and a grimace, he says, "I will show you later. How was house tour?"

        It's a very obvious redirect that Shane's considering calling out, but he can tell Ilya's not just asking to pull his attention away from the flash drive. "I tried to put everything back the way I found it, but I wasn't sure how to reset the false ceiling in the bathroom after I dropped it. Also, I think the ladders were, maybe, not the best starting point. It's really dark the further up you climb. Once I got to the top of the second ladder, I had a hard time figuring out what to do next."

        "Y-you climb this in darkness?" Ilya asks, wide-eyed. Shit, he looks even more upset now.

        "I mean, I didn't have a flashlight."

        "You have phone," Ilya reminds him. "Smart phone with flashlight."

        "I didn't want to drop it down the ladder shaft."

        Cursing in Russian, Ilya shakes his head.

        "Look, I figured it out in the end, so no harm, no foul."

        "Dangerous," Ilya mutters, looking pained. "And yes, terrible idea to try first if you refuse to use flashlight. How was rest of house? You are back quick for someone who spends most time in dark shaft trying not to fall."

        "It wasn't that bad," Shane argues, ignoring how much he'd hated the ladders. "I did skip over the third floor and the garage. Figured I'd let you show me those yourself."

        "So, you did half," Ilya teases, but his concern seems to grow.

        "I did the most important half," Shane amends. "I'm betting you don't spend much time in the penthouse or the garage."

        Ilya shrugs. "Workshop is on garage level. Depends on how much time I have to play with projects."

        "What kinds of projects?"

        Another shrug. "Carpentry - usually new furniture or fixes for this place. Mechanics, sometimes too. I have car-build project. Am trying to follow instructions and user manuals. Is time-consuming and hard to find all parts."

        "Even more reason for me not to go snooping through your equipment. Please tell me it's better organized than the storage room on the second floor."

        "Ah," Ilya makes a face. "Maybe you have idea what to do with storage room. Currently, is dumping ground."

        "Oh definitely. I have a few recommendations for your building, actually, if you're open to feedback?"

        Intrigued, Ilya digs out pen and paper again, apparently always prepared to go old school. "Please, tell me."

        "If you don't change anything else, at the very least, I really need you to get some fire extinguishers. Preferably, a few on every floor, in obvious places. And hey, they're good in a pinch as a makeshift weapon, so it should be worthwhile to have them around, even if there's never a fire."

        "Good thought," Ilya praises, grinning. "Will order immediately and put in every room."

        Shane bites back the 'that's excessive' since he just got done saying the opposite, and lets it go.

        "Besides fire cream cans, what else?" Ilya prompts.

        "Well, I had a question about the vent passages. When was the last time you used them?"

        Quirking a brow, Ilya admits, "Is not very convenient. Has been a few years."

        "Have you gained muscle mass since you put it in? Because it felt kind of tight to me and you're...well, bigger."

        Cursing again, Ilya says, "I will check. Good you notice this."

        "I also think, if you put a design on the walls in the storage room and the bedroom, you should be able to put the vents on a track so that you can pop both sides out on a button-press, and then raise them up the track at the same time. The way it is now, the vents are hard to reset and no one would miss the fact you'd gone through it if it weren't for the junk pilled up in the storage room. Which, probably also means you never spend any time in there and all that space is being wasted."

        "It...stores things," Ilya offers with a grimace.

        "When we came here from the warehouse and got out of the car, I wasn't really in the headspace to notice the particulars of your garage, but I got the feeling there was still quite a bit of space down there to put stuff. And wouldn't the lumber be more convenient to have near your workshop?"

        "Da. I will move it. Vents will take some work. Will need to call up some friends from when I take classes on plumbing and carpentry."

        "You were planning to go into the trades?" Shane asks, surprised.

        "Nyet. Needed to network. Find people to trust with jobs in this building that I cannot do alone. Electrician, plumber, HVAC. I take intro classes and learn some basics, get some numbers, then follow-up with young, naive classmates and help them start businesses or find apprenticeships as they complete programs. I invite whole group to lunches and dinners and it becomes little network. Then, when is problem, I can reach out to them. None of them knows whole layout, and many times is enough to show them video or ask question and fix something myself. But, still useful."

        Breath catching, Shane is once again impressed at how far ahead Ilya seems to plan. Already having foreseen the need for skilled labor in maintaining the building he's shaped, he created a mini-network of loyal professionals?

        Hopefully, Alexei is not nearly as competent as his brother, because that would be a problem.

        "You have more?" Ilya asks.

        "Oh, yeah. Um, your couches in the armory suck. It's like you built a place to store weapons and glued some cheap cushions on top. It'd be better if they were more functional, like the armchairs. Also, if you actually needed a weapon while sitting there, the way those couches open feels slow and unwieldy. If they had end tables next to them on both sides, you could unlatch the cushions where they meet in the middle and slide them sideways on a track. It shouldn't overbalance the couch, because the weight would get transferred to the end tables, which would need to be a little short to stand at the right height, but you'll still be able to put a coffee cup down on them, so it shouldn't be too odd-looking."

        Listening to Shane's explanation, Ilya starts to sketch something on the page. "Like this?" he asks.

        Coming over to his side of the desk, Shane looks over his drawing and nods. "Yeah, actually. That's what I was picturing. Also, are the backs of the couches bulletproof?"

        Grin turning manic at the edges, Ilya says, "These were not. New ones can be." He adds a note in Cyrillic to the drawing.

        "By the way, why did you label that room a second gym? I didn't see any gym equipment."

        "Good. Is supposed to be space for guests so tried not to make obvious. I will show you how to unfold armchairs and bench into gym equipment. There is also stair climber that pulls out of wall. And, of course, giant hamster wheel for walking or running carefully."

        "No fucking way! That's what the wheel's for? Have you tested it? Does it actually work?"

        "Yes, it works. I will show you after we are done with list. Are we done with list?"

        "Almost. Do you have cameras in the building?"

        "Yes, on entry points. When you have secure phone, I give you app."

        "What about if the power goes out?"

        "Generator on roof."

        Shane continues to volley security-related questions as disaster scenarios come to mind and Ilya indulges him, describing without hesitation how the garage drains in heavy rains, what the nearest sewer access is, where he keeps a map of the sewer system in case he needs to exit the building from under the street. They talk about earth quakes and shoot out scenarios and building insulation for when the freezing temperatures outside wreak havoc on water pipes. They talk for going-on two hours, with Ilya's list expanding to a second piece of paper, both sides filled with notes and sketches.

        And when they finally run out of steam, Ilya looks at the list and starts laughing.

        Startled, Shane shifts his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he should be laughing along at the absurdity of some of the unlikely scenarios they came up with, or comforting the man, given the worryingly wild edge to the otherwise delighted laugh that goes on long enough to sound unhinged.

        "You okay?" Shane asks, when Ilya starts gaining his breath back after the onslaught of amusement.

        As if forgetting himself, Ilya replies in Russian. "I didn't expect you to focus on stuff like this. When I said you should tell me what you want changed, I thought you'd come back with a request for your own office, or complaints about the style or layout of the place, maybe a list of appliances you noticed were missing. But the first thing you came back with was a list of thoughtful security features and improvements on things I implemented..." His voice trails off on a hard swallow. Blue eyes practically glowing, Ilya draws in large lungfuls of air, as if trying to leash something inside of him.

        Fuck. Shane wishes he'd let go. Before he can figure out how to get the man to actually do that, Ilya's smoothing his hair back and leaning further into his chair.

        Switching back to English, he asks Shane, "So, do you have any requests for more material things?"

        Shane's about to say no, when he remembers, "Yoga matts. I didn't see any in either gym, but I have some spares at home that we can take with us when we go pick up my stuff later today."

        "Because you are moving in," Ilya says, in a voice that is both a question and not. Given the hint of uncertainty in his otherwise calm, collected gaze, it's almost like he can't stand to phrase it like a question, even though it still is one.

        With a scoff, Shane asks, "Why do you think I've been standing here for so long, talking about your building? Of course, I'm moving in."

        Ilya's relief is beautiful to witness. Shane wants to lean in and taste his reassured grin, but once again, he holds back. Afraid to cross the line he feels between them, even if he's not sure how it appeared in the first place.

 

 

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

Had some major late nights to work through. I am hoping to have more free time later this week. This also took a little longer because I started writing what should technically be the next chapter as part of this one and realized...ah, this won't fit in here. Expect a spicier chapter next time XD

        "You're a menace," Shane grumbles, climbing out of Ilya's ridiculous, bright yellow sports car.

        "My driving is very reasonable. We are just unlucky. Buses, new drivers, seniors, minivans with baby on board sticker, and funeral procession all in one trip? They drive slow, so I drive around."

        "What's the rush? We told Hayden 2 PM."

        "I bring radio frequency detector. Must sweep for listening devices, cameras, tracking devices, bugs like this; and is better if is done before your agent friend arrives. Is your apartment big?"

       "On my salary? No. One bed room with a pull-out couch in the living room for when my parents stay over," Shane says, leading Ilya into a quaint lobby.

       "Bon après-midi, Monsieur Hollander," the door man greets Shane from the desk, at first, with a smile.  But as Shane approaches with Ilya looming over his shoulder, the man's expression shifts, smile dropping abruptly.

       "Bonjour, Laurent," Shane returns, before switching to English for Ilya's sake. "This is my..."

       "Mate," Ilya fills in helpfully, offering Laurent his name and a handshake, which the man returns tentatively.

       "He's unlikely to show up here without me, but in case he ever needs to, could you put him on my list of people to let through?" Shane requests. 

       Dour-faced with worry, Laurent says, "Of course, Mr. Hollander."

       "Merci, Laurent," Shane says, and heads to the bank of elevators.

       "He remembers you are supposed to be unmated alpha," Ilya points out unnecessarily. 

        "Yup," Shane says, trying to pretend he didn't just realize how many random people in his life will be giving him confused looks when next they cross paths, their faces asking the nosy questions their lips won't speak aloud, out of "Canadian politeness" as Ilya likes to tease. He wonders how many of them will feel owed an explanation.

        "If strangers ask, what will we tell them?" Ilya asks, bumping their shoulders together, as if to remind Shane of their solidarity. That it's not something he has to face alone if he doesn't want to,

        "It's none of their business." Hoping to change the subject, he comments, "l can't believe you've been living here for a few years and you still don't know French."

        "I pick up a bit. Can understand menu or shop signs - simple things. I did not expect to stay in Canada so long. But first, I catch agent snooping, then I make Bureau offer - immunity in exchange for information to help end Alexei's human trafficking -  and now I have Canadian mate, who speaks French. Seems I will need to officially learn." 

        Heart lurching in his chest, an unsteady frantic beat, Shane processes this new bit of information as a ding announces the arrival of an elevator. They get on and Shane presses the button for the nineth floor.

        "Why are you so upset?" Ilya asks suddenly, head tilted downwards and to the side, a look of concentration on his face. As if...he can hear the way Shane's heart's thudding.

        "Seems like your own senses are also pretty strong," Shane says, eyebrows raised in askance.

        "Not like you or my mother, I do not think, but a bit better than average, maybe." Ilya shrugs. "By the way, you can tell me to fuck off, so no need for changing topics to avoid answering questions. Just say 'not my business', like you want to say to others, but are probably too polite to say so bluntly," Ilya tells him, as the elevator jerks to a halt, and lets them off on the right floor.

        With a heavy sigh, Shane hesitates over every word as he does finally answer. "You've been here for quite a long time. I just...didn't know Canada was temporary for you."

        "Was, "Ilya emphasizes "Isn't anymore."

        "W-were you planning to return to R-Russia?"  Shane tacks on, "Originally?" but he wonders if perhaps it's still on the table. Having money and businesses to run internationally, there's nothing keeping Ilya here, except his feeling of responsibility over the reprehensible actions of his brother. And, now, Shane. Is that really enough to keep him here?

        Shane's never been to Russia, so he's not sure how Canada compares. But even if, judging by whatever metrics are important to Ilya, Russia was somehow worse, it would still be his homeland. Shane doubts it'd be easy to give that up. The place where you made all your formative memories; where people speak your language, celebrate the same holidays, have the same background and cultural history. And what about other family? Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews? Shane bites his lip, hoping the pain will help him keep the tears in, as more and more reasons come to mind. Canada's lovely, but it's very different from Europe and Asia. 

        His poker face must need some work, because Ilya slings an arm around Shane, pulling him close and holding tight, hand squeezing his shoulder in a comforting gesture that's trying to be as casual as Shane's upset. "Who cares about original plans? They are not relevant anymore."

        "Of course they're relevant," Shane argues. "I don't want to be the reason you don't get to have the future you wanted."

        "Is saying, yes? About plans making god laugh. The future is not predictable. Especially in Russia. Is country of many upheavals. Do not worry about the plans I make when I am single alpha, because he does not exist anymore. Even if you decide we should break bond, I will be divorced, failed mate; not single. A new future already takes place of old plans. Besides, your job, my job - is dangerous. Let us live in this moment, because it is only one we know we have, and let our plans be flexible, because who knows what will come to try to fuck them up?" Then he gestures at the hallway in both directions with his free hand. "Now, which way? Or do we stay here arguing, until police come for noise complaint?"

        "I'm in 904," Shane says, nudging Ilya left.

        When they reach the correct door, Ilya laughs, looking at the number. "You live in god."

        "What? No I don't."

        "Did they run out of numbers that they put triangle on door?"

        "That's a four," Shane mutters, irritated because he'd asked maintenance to fix the wonky numbers on his door when he moved in. Three years ago.

        "Packages get delivered correctly? Or do you need to put symbol when typing in address for online orders?"

        "People know how to count. Four obviously goes on the even side of the hallway, between 902 and 906," Shane says, slipping his key into the lock and opening the door. When it swings inwards, the smell that wafts out of the apartment chokes him.

        Noticing his distress, Ilya immediately pulls Shane closer, cupping his head and pulling it into his neck, right up against his scent gland. "Take deep breaths." They stand like that for a second, before Ilya's extracting himself and taking off his jacket. "Breathe this in. I will go open windows."

        Hating the whine that tries to reach his vocal chords, Shane takes the bundle, folds it into a neat square, and buries his nose in the material.

        Ilya waits to see if it's working before rushing off to complete his task. And he does seemingly rush, because he's back in front of Shane in less time that it takes to microwave a frozen dinner. Immediately, he pulls Shane back in, hugging him close and giving him the time to calm down.

        Abandoning the jacket in favor of the clean smell of winter coming from the alpha, Shane nuzzles into the hollow of Ilya's throat and stands there for a good ten minutes. Even though he knows he's eating into Ilya's bug-sweeping time, he can't help clinging, even at just the memory of that scent. "I'm not sure why I'm reacting so strongly. It's not even that different from the way I smell now," he mutters, embarrassed.

        "It smells wrong to you?" Ilya asks.

        "Yeah, it's like...scenting a doppelganger."

        "Doppelganger...like German folk story?"

        "What? No. Or actually...that might be right. It's as if I can smell a different version of me, who's been living in my space. Logically, I know that's just what I smelled like a week ago. But right now, it's freaking me out. As if there's some duplicate walking around out there, wearing my skin, living my life, carrying this strange, slightly-off scent on him. And I'm just waiting to run into him. It's...actually really creepy. Do you think that's why Laurent downstairs looked-"

        "Nyet," Ilya cuts off, immediately. "He is worried for you. One day, you walk out of apartment for work, then you come back some days later with different designation and Russian foreigner claiming to be your mate. He thinks you are in trouble, not that you are creepy."

        "If you're sure..."

        Ilya kisses his forehead again, and they wait for the scent in the air to dilute. "Is it better now?" Ilya asks after a few minutes.

        Raising his head, Shane takes a tentative sniff. His nose wrinkles but the feeling he had before is gone. "I'm good."

        Ilya pinches him. "You know English, so why you pick these simple, means-nothing words - good, fine, ok - to describe how you are? You know what, I will custom order keychain with wheel of emotions, so you have in your pocket, easy to find and pick, da?"

        Shane snorts. But he realizes something. A pattern of behavior that he should have picked up on earlier. "Have...you been to therapy?" Shane asks.

        "Da. They cannot fix everything, but I did not like my life and so I hire someone to figure out where is problem. Result is, I do not need roller coaster of uppers, downers, highs, and lows anymore. Less drinking, sex, and high-octane loser behavior. It is why I start looking through business, notice all Alexei is doing; also notice we are on government radar. Before therapy, I would have made mistake to choose family over what I believe in. Because what I believe in was numb. Not as important as fucking around and making money, which left me so empty that I drink more. Becomes cycle. Becomes so bad that Sveta says she does not need to know more disgusting Russian men, and to leave her alone if I am becoming one. Instead, I fix my life. Now, I drink on special occasions and only to a point. Cycle is broken and all things slowly fall into place. Is good we did not meet when I was younger. You would have been disappointed," he says seriously, pushing his fingers through Shane's hair in a soothing gesture.

        Holding Ilya tighter, Shane says, "That's incredibly brave. Most people involved in the kinds of work you're in can't stand to admit they're wrong. Instead of changing themselves, they look for ways to justify their own behaviors."

        With a snort, Ilya mutters, "Is a bit like being congratulated for bare minimum, but I will take it. You want to praise me for gaining back some humanity, then I will bask in the brightness of your regard, solnyshko."

        "Wow, what a line," Shane shakes his head, laughing. "Is that one of the classes they teach on seduction in Russia? How to be a Casanova 101?"

        "Casanova is Italian. For us, is 'How to be Pushkin 101'," Ilya jokes, laughing along despite the sheepishness in his visage. "Worst part is how much I mean it. Why you do this, huh? Make me feel corny things," he complains, bussing a series of kisses on Shane's cheek, making him laugh harder. "So, let us try this again," Ilya says, finally, once they've calmed down. "How are you in this moment?"

        Kind of wishing he actually had that chart of emotions to pick from, Shane says, "The apartment is still unnerving. I wasn't sure how I'd feel, seeing it again, but now I'm glad I'm not staying here. We could have maybe skipped the whole discussion about moving in if we'd come here first, because right now I'm wondering how much of my own stuff is going to bother me. Will one wash be enough? Or will I need to spend a month cycling laundry? O will I need to donate all of it and buy a whole new wardrobe? It's just a lot. Add the Laurents of the world, Hayden coming over, my parents who I'll need to call tomorrow...I'm overwhelmed."

        Another kiss to his forehead is his reward as Ilya summarizes, "You are very far from good, then, da? We will try to make this visit short. Sweep, pack, meet agent, and leave. Simple."

        Shane sighs. "I wish."

        They walk in together, but Ilya stops in the doorway, RF reader already in-hand. "Look for anything out of place. I try not to move anything when I open windows. RF reader will find devices that are transmitting, but is possible they put in something that only stores to memory card. They sell some now with terabytes on a micro SD card that tiny cameras can use." Pulling a wand out of his back pocket, he hands Shane a handheld metal detector. "You can use this, if nothing looks out-of-place, to help you search."

        Rubbing the back of his head, Shane takes the wand and starts on the opposite side of the apartment to avoid getting in Ilya's way, all the while, wondering just how impossible dismantling the human-trafficking ring would be if Ilya and all his paranoia were on the opposite side.

        But then, would he be the same Ilya? Or would he be so caught up chasing highs, drinking vodka, going to clubs and sleeping with women that he'd no longer be as clear-headed? As effective? Is Ilya what Alexei could have been? It would explain some of the resentment. There's something particularly devastating about seeing someone who's been sitting beside you, in the same boat, suddenly start making better choices. From everything he's read on motives and psychological roots for criminal and antisocial behavior, Shane's pretty sure Alexei must have felt doubly rejected. Seeing Ilya pull himself out of a destructive, mind-numbing cycle; seeing him probably inspire young, impressionable men in his part of the business to do the same; getting praise over his new choices from women, who are generally more risk averse and attracted to the kind of confidence a man needs to stand his ground on things he values, principles he holds, behaviors he won't tolerate. And apparently, the changes had paid off for Ilya, sobriety allowing him to branch out into new avenues when expanding the business, finding legitimate ways to make bank, despite his relative youth. It must burn, to see the gap between them widening.

        But for all that Alexei might be looking for ways to hurt Ilya or, at least, outmaneuver him, apparently bugging Shane's apartment isn't on his list of things to try. Or, he hasn't gotten to it yet. Shane and Ilya work their way through the space efficiently, both of them familiar with doing these kinds of sweeps, stopping only occasionally to look closer at false positives.

        "He is losing edge? Strange that there is nothing here. Maybe expectation is you will take electronics with you? But since we find nothing, be extra careful as you pack items to take. Where are suitcases?"

        Walking Ilya over to a closet, Shane pulls out two of his large travel suit cases and a duffel bag. Without having to talk about it, they start scanning.

        Again, only false positives.

        "You go through clothes, da? What you want me to pack from kitchen and living room?"

        Shane lists out the items, skeptical Ilya will remember which cups and throw blankets to pack, but he seems confident that he doesn't need to be taking notes. As they separate to complete their respective tasks, Shane says, "The cooler is under the counter. Just take whatever's in the fridge that isn't a condiment and hasn't expired. The rest, we need to throw out. There's a garbage shoot in the hall and garbage bags under the sink."

        "Da, no problem," Ilya says, and it really doesn't seem to be.

        When Shane wanders out of his room with the packed suitcase, he finds Ilya's already finished filling up the cooler, and has the trash ready to be taken out, arranged in several bags small enough to fit into the garbage chute. He finds the suitcase on its side, two lumpy throw blankets packed, with cups likely nestled in their folds, to keep them from breaking. He's about to praise him for how well he takes direction, when there's a knock on the door.

        As if on reflex, autonomously completing another task that's been set before him, Ilya, who happens to be closer, opens the door before Shane can warn him not to.

       They hadn't explicitly talked about it, because it had seemed obvious to Shane, how the meeting with Hayden was supposed to play out. Shane was supposed to open the door, with Ilya chilling in the bedroom, in-earshot in case Hayden passed out from shock, or something, but otherwise out of the way and not immediately identifiable as the cause of Shane's changes. And Shane would get a chance to explain, to calm Hayden down, to reassure him. 

        People make plans and god laughs, Ilya had said. Shane had been so busy worrying about the future that he'd neglected talking Ilya through his gameplan for dealing with Hayden and his inevitably negative reaction.

        So, he gets to stand there and watch as Ilya swings the door open, his expression a cold, polite mask - the kind he'd wear for a stranger interrupting his day, rather than a friend of Shane's he's trying to impress. Distracted by the rhythm of doing chores, he apparently forgot that Hayden would be knocking around this time. The man might have a good poker face, but his countenance does change subtly, when it finally registers who's knocked on their door, eyebrows going high as the harsh edges in his face soften.

        Hayden, on the other hand, actually jumps back a step, shocked to suddenly find himself face-to-face with the man they used to chase. He'd been pissed when the director informed their team that Ilya Rozanov was being given immunity in exchange for information. It had felt like a kick in the teeth, having all their effort suddenly mean nothing. All those interviews, stalking socials, trying to piece together a graph of who meant what to whom. All of a sudden, they were being given the answers from the guy they had, at the time, hated.

        Shane remembers how he'd regretted being known for his talent with languages, since it meant he'd be communicating with Rozanov frequently, acting as his main contact into the Bureau. Hayden had been spared, his own work focusing on following up on the leads Ilya gave them.

        Funny how that one thing - who could pick up languages faster - had changed so much. What would have happened, if Hayden had been in the warehouse? Would Ilya have found a way to save him? Or would he have ended up in the river, stomach full of cement?

        But Hayden wasn't given assignments that entailed communicating with Ilya. He only knows some key words and phrases in Russian, can recognize Cyrillic letters but doesn't know what phonetics correspond to a given symbol, and he's never spent evenings reviewing clever texts - with jokes interspersing dry accounts of meetings, shipment schedules, logistics Ilya's pieced together from conversations and drunk secondary accounts. He doesn't know the man standing in front of him, barring his entry into his best friend's home. To him, Ilya's just the guy whose sexual exploits he had to hear about from countless women in interview rooms. The guy who had made meaningless a good chunk of their time and investigatory effort . The guy he sees as just another pathetic criminal, who should be in jail, and instead, he's been granted immunity. If Hayden were a bull, Ilya would be the proverbial red cape.

        But he's still an agent. He knows how to control himself. Or that would usually be true...

        Recovering from the shock of seeing Ilya in-person, for the first time, in the last place he'd been expecting to run into him, Hayden looks around the apartment and finds Shane. Unfortunately, even though Hayden doesn't have sharp senses, he doesn't need them to notice the very obvious mark on Shane's neck. It takes him a moment to process what he's seeing. To make the connection. 

        "Hey Hayden, thanks for coming," Shane rushes to say, starting to move forward, aiming for the space between the two men, hoping to be a living barrier in any attempts at escalation. 

        "Hi, Shane," Hayden greets, eyes glued to his neck, still blinking through the realization. 

         For a second, Shane thinks it's maybe going to all work out. He'll get Hayden to sit down, hold his hand, walk him through his feelings at seeing Shane so irrevocably changed by one of the people he likes least in this world. And they'll move on to discussing work.

        Instead, Shane's approach displaces the air enough for the breeze to catch his scent and carry it through the room, out the open door, and into the hallway Hayden's standing in.

       The beta's nostrils flare as the last piece of the puzzle slams into place. Understanding narrows his eyes into thin slits as his head snaps in Ilya's direction. "You motherfucking son of a bitch!" he roars, launching forward, carried by the momentum of the fist he has aimed at Ilya's face.

        Hayden's a great agent, but what makes him one is being able to grind through countless hours of boring videos, slowly going frame by frame, looking for the singular second where a given make and model car will pass through an intersection, identifying from which direction to pull the next camera feeds from. He's good at looking through a room full of receipts for the one with the singular line item that will prove what time a specific customer closed their tab at the bar. He's tireless and detail-oriented. A man without ego, who will come up with a thousand plausible theories and then spend days or weeks or months eliminating them. He's a great agent, but what makes him one is definitely not sparring. 

        He doesn't get a single hit in.

        Much like he'd done to Shane in the bathroom, Ilya catches Hayden's fist before it can make contact.

        Then, he just holds it there, preventing Hayden from both pulling back or driving forward. And the fucker makes it look so easy. No wonder Hayden's face turns red, teeth grinding in indignation. "Let me go, you stupid, fucking rapist piece of shit!" he spits out, finally managing to yank his hand out of Ilya's loosened grip.

        "Hey!" Shane barks, blowing past the two men to grab the still open door, pulling it closed. "Inside voices.  Honestly, Hayden, that's like ten bucks in the swear jar. You're going to get me noise complaints. And that's not how we talk to people we're meeting for the first time. And no hitting! Where are your manners?" Shane asks, crossing his arms in outrage, and then having to resist dropping them back down again, as he starts to feel like a schoolmarm, scolding a truculent student.

        At least the reaction of the two men makes him feel better about it. Ilya's posture straightens up, shoulders pulling back, as if unconsciously trying to position himself as the 'good student', whereas Hayden's shoulders pull inwards, looking properly cowed.

        Raking both hands through his hair in agitation, Hayden runs his eyes over Shane, taking him in from top to bottom, looking for...what? Signs of abuse?

        "I think you recognize Ilya, right?," Shane asks, breaching the awkward silence that's descended over them.

        Stepping forward, Ilya reluctantly offers his hand, apparently already anticipating the way Hayden crosses his arms in response, refusing to take it. He lets his arm drop without comment, but his mouth twists into a smirk, eyebrow lifting as if to say, Really?

        "Don't be immature, Hayd."

        "Imm-immature?!" Hayden chokes out. "Dude, Shane, what the fuck? What do you expect me to do here? Play nice with the guy who raped my best friend?"

        Ilya's expression grows colder, more remote, but he doesn't flinch. All of this is still, apparently, unsurprising to him. As if he'd known Hayden would react this way, just from a few seconds of interaction. Like he already understands the make of the man before him.

        "He saved my life, Hayd," Shane says, with studied calm, carefully keeping his tone firm and intractable, knowing better than to sound defensive. Aware just how many times Hayden will have seen impassioned, angry speeches given by victims defending their abusers. He has no interest in making Hayden draw a comparison between him and the people trapped in cycles of abuse with...well, usually, it's charismatic alphas - particularly young, handsome ones. Like Ilya.

        With a sardonic laugh, Hayden asks, "Was this really the only way to save your life? You actually think there wasn't an alternative? Honestly, Shane? In what world, was the only option to rape you, bitch you, and make you a bondslave?! So, what, if it had been me in your shoes, I'd have been a goner? Is that why he never saved any of the other agents that got caught?" It's clear who the questions are for, given that his attention suddenly turns to Ilya. He glares at the alpha, demanding answers.

        Pulling in a breath, Shane's not planning to indulge Hayden's what-ifs. Life is a Rube Goldberg machine, where any dropped domino can set off a different cascade of actions and consequences. But he feels a brush of fingers at the small of his back. Looking up, he finds Ilya's eyebrow raised, acknowledging that this is Shane's show, but silently requesting permission to interject with an answer.

        Letting the breath back out in a heavy sigh, he nods.

        Watching the exchange, Hayden's knuckles tighten, his hands still fisted from the time since he walked through the door.

        "I was not aware of your agents and their activities." Ilya explains, "Your director made clear that I would be kept out of loop. There will be debrief officially in office, da? I will tell you then, how I know about Shane in time to help him. For now, please inform director to suspend all undercover activity. As for method I use to save Shane - I am sorry for this. Process is indeed stressful and has many after-effects to deal with. Keep this in mind, today, da? We are newly mated, Shane is newly omega, and all this happens in dirty, sordid warehouse."

        If there's more he wanted to say, he doesn't get a chance. Seething, Hayden cuts in, "Why did you do it? You knew it was wrong. No, really, I don't understand; how does this benefit you? Were you worried about the immunity deal? Figured having an agent for a mate would strengthen your chances of getting off scot-free, despite all the dirty deals you've overseen? All the blood money you've used?"

        Ilya's poker face continues to be immaculate. Cold, remote, calm like snow that's hardened and crystalized, no longer affected by wind, no matter how it howls over a vast icy field. "I did not step in for benefit, but you are free to mistrust this and speculate. Is true, however, that for random agent, I would not drive like maniac through city, trying to reach warehouse on vague hope that I am not too late. Because I recognize his name on server's secret group chat as they discuss victory party over finding latest snitch, I rush to warehouse. I put my own position on the line, deciding to risk exposure by walking tightrope of brother's changeable mood, carefully goading him to give me Shane. Was there different option? Maybe.

        "Maybe I convince one of braver men , who work under me, to suggest to my brother that Shane be left alive or be given to him. But maybe Alexei kills man for audacity, and two people die? Also, none of my men have reason to be in warehouse. Is suspicious. Some of Alexei's men, or men from different branches are partial to me, might listen. But to them, Shane would be meat. A sex toy. Many recruits are men who expect to be alone whole life, mateless. Now, they have unwanted mate. Why divorce when they can have actual bondslave? To help Shane escape, would you kill his new mate? Would Shane even let you, when hormones are so powerful in bonding? And also, it would still be suspicious. Why would I ask such a thing? Suddenly, everyone is looking, wondering why I would try to save random agent. And you think there is different solution to what happened? Tell me what. And would it come to you in time? I have travel time to come up with plan, but also, to cross city in a sports car very likely to attract police attention. One ear listening to scanner warning of police radar, eyes glancing between road and clock, trying to remember way to warehouse when is not where I conduct business, running red lights and avoiding pedestrians in crosswalk. I arrive at warehouse with no real plan. I sneak into building, come down stairs, try not to sound out of breath, pulling a reason out of my ass to speak immediately with Alexei, only to find him already deciding what to do with agent. Shane is kneeling on floor, surrounded on all sides, in middle of bright warehouse, skylights shifted into day position, letting in sun from outside. So, in this circumstance, what is your solution? What keeps everyone alive and mostly unharmed, both mentally and physically? What magical solution?"

        "You say you only had a few minutes to decide on a plan?" Hayden snorts. "Then where were you for two days? What, you bitched him in ten minutes, and then hung around for a bond wedding?"

        "Hayden, what do you want?" Shane asks, frustrated. "The gory details? We were locked in a room together, on camera 24x7. Unless there was a secret exit to the cam room, I don't see what else we could have done, but go through with it..." He looks to Ilya, eyebrows raised in question, to make it clear he does expect an answer.

        With a smirk, Ilya says, "Cam rooms are not my design. Yes, I put in door between bathroom and bed because girls say they are not happy with men's sick ideas, when they see there is med kit, running water, and towels to work with. Worst clients are sadists; that part of business has learned it is better to force them to use official sex clubs in-public, because they are dangerous to the girls one-on-one. Alexei does not like to lose 'merchandise' because sick perverts decide to play makeshift torture games in cam rooms."

        With a hum of acknowledgement, Shane turns to Hayden with a shrug. "Even if there had been another way out, we had no way of knowing if someone was watching the cameras."

        "Bullshit," Hayden shakes his head, belligerently. "I refuse to accept there was nothing he could have done. Was he locked in with you? Were you bitched by nightfall on the first day? If not, then, he could have gotten up in the middle of the night, went to go check the cameras, convinced the guys to leave if they were still there watching. And if the doors were code-locked like other parts of the compound, all he had to do was whisper the password in your ear. Fuck, he could have even been your distraction, chatting up the guards, while you run away. After a while of chatting, he could have gone back downstairs, 'discovered' you were gone, raised the alarm. And, since you'd missed check-in, we were right outside and could have pulled you out of there."

        Ilya stiffens, eyes far away and flickering, as if trying to work out the feasibility of the scenario. Something new appears on his face. Unfamiliar. It's not very distinct, not easy to pin-point, but there's a shadow there, all of a sudden. And the clear scent of winter starts to turn sour in the strangest way. Hayden doesn't notice, but there's suddenly the slightest hint of unease in the air, and it smells a lot like gasoline. The sound is so low, that even with his sharp senses, Shane can barely make out the change in his breathing, but it's there - deeper pulls, greater expansion in the chest, slower releases. As if Ilya's fighting panicked breaths, because stuck in that room, feeling watched, trying to manage Shane's emotions, twisted inside-out over his own actions, he hadn't thought of some longshot plan that would have relied on Shane sneaking past the security Alexei probably had in other parts of the building, in a suit that stank to high heaven of sex and fear and desperation. 

        Shane wants to flick him in the ear for indulging in second-guessing the past, when just a while ago he'd been so eager to live in the moment. At the same time, he wants to reach out, pull Ilya into a hug, but again he hesitates. Uncertain whether Ilya will accept the touch, or if it'll spook him in this moment, when he's already seemingly drowning in self-recrimination. So, he does neither. 

        Trying to give Hayden grace, given that the anger he's wielding is primarily born of concern for Shane and the new shape his life has taken, Shane keeps his tone light, even as he says, "Look, Hayd, you're not helping. It already happened. There's no do-over to this. Maybe that plan could have worked. Or maybe it would have gotten one or both of us killed. It definitely would have made Ilya look either suspicious, incompetent, or both. I got out of there alive. Isn't that the most important bit? And now, I have a reason to hang around Ilya. I can gather the kind of intel we need, since I'm more familiar with our legal system and the kind of evidence we need to put Alexei away, and kill his seedy 'business' dealings."

        Hayden makes a plaintive noise in the back of his throat, eyes glowing with unshed tears. "You're my best friend, Shane. It's not fair this happened to you. And all because this degenerate loser was too busy thinking with his dick instead of thinking of solutions!"

        This time, Ilya visibly flinches, his body shifting - ostensibly to lean against the table, but it's not lost on Shane that it's the kind of move that positions him sideways to Hayden, as if he's subconsciously making himself a smaller target.

        "That's not fair, Hayden," Shane says, sharply, starting to get pissed. "You weren't there. It wasn't you trying to think straight, with so much on the line, so much already happening. You want to blame Ilya, but I think what really has you so pissed is your team's unwillingness to storm the warehouse. Because it'd be against protocol, and illegal besides. Because it would endanger our larger goals in trying to end human-trafficking in Montreal. You're pissed because I was deemed expendable and there was nothing you could do about it."

        It's as if Hayden didn't even hear most of what Shane said, rebutting with, "You're going to defend him? Newsflash, Shane! He was capable of fucking you, when you weren't into it. He got hard, maintained his erection, and orgasmed, even with you screaming and crying under him. That's not fucking normal!"

        "That's not what fucking happened!" Shane growls, body vibrating with his own sudden fury, eyes tearing up in outrage. His hands are fisted and he can't believe how strong the urge to hit Hayden is.

        With his own growl, Ilya mutters to the beta, "I warn you, yes? Hormones are volatile today. So, watch it." and turns his back to Hayden, putting his body between them as he pulls Shane into his arms. Running a soothing hand down his back, Ilya doesn't issue a single complaint as Shane's fingers dig into his back, in an aggressively-returned embrace.

        "What do you mean, that's not what happened?" Hayden asks, pushing despite Ilya's warning.

        Shane doesn't want to answer. Doesn't want to explain the cam room. Doesn't want his friend having mental pictures of what went on behind closed doors. But apparently he already does. And, unsurprisingly, it's probably feeding his guilt. For not coming in to save him. For choosing his own life, and the future of his wife and kids, over saving Shane. It had probably hurt, knowing Shane was probably still in the warehouse. Close enough to maybe see through a window with binoculars. Maybe still alive, in need of help. A help that wouldn't come.

        To soothe that hurt, to get his best friend to maybe stop blaming the Russian alpha for not finding some magical alternative solution, Shane decides he needs to make an admission.

        Tugging on a lock of Ilya's hair, Shane pulls away and asks the alpha, "Do you mind taking out the trash and loading the packed bags into the car? You can leave the half-filled one open. I've got some books and toiletries to put in there, but after that, I think we should be good to go."

        With an understanding nod, Ilya pulls away. But first, he digs into Shane's back pocket and pulls out the borrowed phone. Opening the address book, he adds a number under the name Medved to the favorites section. "I will be back in ten minutes, but if you need me sooner, this number will reach the phone I have on me." And despite their hostile audience, almost as if he can't help himself, he noses into Shane's hair, and kisses his temple before pulling away. He takes the trash bags into the hallway, before grabbing the suitcase, cooler, and duffel bag, strapped across his torso, all in one go.

        "Showoff," Shane mutters, opening the door for him. Once it closes behind him, Shane's feeling of unease returns. The room feels cold with all the windows open, the actual scent of winter filtering in, but it's not the same. And with his own, old scent clinging to furniture, he's anxious again.

        "Now that he's gone, what did you want to tell me?" Hayden asks, eagerly, closing the distance between them. "Also, can I hug you?" he asks, voice breaking, as if Ilya's departure has newly reminded him that the Bureau wrote Shane off, predicting him dead likely since the first day, after the check-in he'd missed.

        Opening his arms, he lets Hayden pull him into a slightly closer version of their bro-hug, but they come apart quickly. On Shane's end, because he's still not settled enough in his skin to tolerate other people's scents getting on him.

        And on Hayden's, apparently, because, "You smell so wrong, now, dude. Maybe outside, it wouldn't be so bad, but in this apartment? It's so trippy. Guess I'm going to have to get used to the difference."

        "It's trippy for me, too," Shane admits. And then swallows hard and bites the bullet. "Look, Hayden," with his face slowly heating and turning red, Shane says, "In the cam room, I wasn't screaming or crying. I'm an agent, just like you. I knew the risks and I was prepared for the consequences. If you're imagining some violent, brutal thing went down between Ilya and me, then you're wrong. I'm lucky that he found a way to make what should have been horrible, into something that won't give me nightmares. I'm never going to lose sleep over the way he treated me during what went down in the warehouse. And I'm grateful that he found a way to keep me alive, even though it cost him. Remember us watching him pursue Svetlana Vetrova for a mate? We were speculating back then, but having gotten to know him better these past few days, and having met Svetlana face-to-face, I think they were eventually planning to get married. I don't know the specifics, but admittedly, his life would be easier with a Russian alpha woman than with a Canadian omega man."

        Hayden's shaking his head, looking angry again. "What it cost him? Fuck, Shane, I don't care if his not-a-girlfriend-because-he-was-definitely-still-sleeping-around won't be his mate now. He's a deplorable, felonious asshole who deserves to be in jail. All I care about is what you had to give up!"

        "And what did I give up, Hayd? Alpha status? I never cared about that. The choice of mate? Except, I wasn't planning on looking for one, too worried about work. A bit of skin? I..." Shane trails off, immediately regretting he'd let himself get on a roll.

        From this close up, even Hayden can smell the 'oh, shit' in his scent. "What do you mean, a bit of skin?"

        "It's nothing."

        But they've been working on investigating the same organization for years now. They're both familiar with their practices. Enough for Hayden to hiss, "Did that motherfucker brand you?!"

        "His brother caught us at the door before we could leave. It was his idea. And again, Ilya tried his best to help me in whatever way he could. I'm also lucky he realized Alexei gave him the wrong signet ring, or I'd have his brother's brand on me instead."

        "You keep saying 'lucky'," Hayden shakes his head. "I don't think it means what you think means." And then his face goes wonky with a wince as he realizes he's just quoted 'The Princess Bride' while talking about branding. As if they're at his house, circled around the barbeque, shooting the shit after work, while his kids play in the yard.

        Shane dives for that spark of unwitting humor. "Inconceivable! I know good luck when I see it." Then in a softer voice, he adds, "And I see it when I look at him."

        The grin that had been starting to emerge on Hayden's face, turns brittle. "I don't like this, Shane. You're right, I wasn't there. If you're standing here, defending him, then I'm guessing he must have treated you alright. I don't know how, given all the shit I know he had to do to get you like this, but fine. Moving past all that heinous shit, how are you so sure this wasn't planned? That maybe Rozanov's been waiting to find an agent to honey trap. Someone to give him tidbits about what's going on, on our end. Why do you think the director avoids telling him shit? He could be a double agent."

        Shane snorts. "First of all, I'm more strict about following protocols than you are. I'm known for being by-the-book. It'd be so dumb to target me. Besides, I don't think the Russians are looking for another source of information. Ilya's waiting for the official debrief, but the reason he wants you to stop all undercover work is because he either knows or suspects...a mole maybe? Someone snitching for money? Or a hack?"

        "Are you fucking kidding? Then why are we here right now? You should have come into the office. We could have done the debrief today. We can still do the debrief today." He looks at Shane expectantly.

        "Um...Ilya should be back in a second. Then we can discuss when to do the debrief."

        "You defer to him now?" Hayden asks, mouth twisting with upset.

        "No, but I'm not the one with the information."

        "So, what, if you told him to do the debrief today, he wouldn't listen to you, even though he's technically still an informant under your supervision?"

        The door opens and Ilya saunters in, phone out, as if he'd been timing it for exactly ten minutes. Hayden seems to notice as well, eyes narrowing in judgement, probably forgetting again about their mutually unstable hormones and bond attachment; just summarily concluding the behavior is creepy.

        To stave off any comments, Shane immediately jumps in with, "How do you feel about doing the debrief today?"

        "Nyet. I am waiting on confirmation for something. Why debrief two times, when once is enough."

        "Ok, then how long is that going to take?" Hayden asks from between clenched teeth.

        "Till Wednesday," Ilya tries, but his head tilts in Shane's direction meaningfully. A reminder that they'd said they'd give it a week before going back to 'work', even though Shane's role will inevitably be different now. But still, Wednesday feels so far away. If there's an information leak, Shane wants it plugged as soon as possible.

        With a frown, Shane tisks.

        "Monday, at the soonest," Ilya grumbles.

        Hayden looks between them, something sad and disappointed in his face. "You ever wonder if maybe he's not playing you? Even if it's not a honey trap, a fresh bonding through the eyes of a newly-designated omega intensifies the halo effect for the mate. Your attachment to him will grow stronger, you'll judge him more leniently, empathize with him to your own detriment. Intentional or not, it's an emotional trap that gets tighter every time your intimate. When I got married, for months, it felt like I was crazy. I thought I was going to get fired, because all I could think about was Jackie. Who knows, if not for you picking up my slack, maybe I would have gotten dropped from the team? And that kind of power over someone, in the hands of a career criminal? Just food for thought," Hayden says, glaring at Ilya as he pulls Shane into a goodbye hug. "See you, Monday, Shane."

        "Bye, Hayden," Shane sighs, shaking his head in annoyance.

        And then he's left alone with Ilya, who still smells faintly of gasoline beneath the ice, with an expression that gives nothing away.

        "How was visit?" Ilya asks, as if he hadn't seen most of it. And, notably, doing nothing to close the distance between them.

        With a frustrated sigh, Shane slowly walks over, his steps purposeful but wary of spooking the larger man, something about the way he's casually leaning into the counter still giving away a fierce desire to bolt. "The guy feels guilty. Angry with himself. And I think that's making him angry at you. I hope you know better than to listen to his opinion over mine, by the way. If I tell you there's nothing to feel guilty about, I expect you to take my word as gospel."

        When he's a foot away, Shane pauses, almost overthinking again, but he forces himself to take the last two steps, till they're chest-to-chest. Raising his arms, he asks in the way Ilya did that morning.

        Answering the silent question with acceptance, Ilya steps into his open arms and pulls Shane close. "He is not wrong about mixed up emotions. We are under influence of hormonal cocktail. But someday we will be sober again. Someday, you will see me clearly. On that day, you may be disappointed with who I am."

        "This is why you haven't been touching me? Why you've left me to feel rejected by you? Unwanted by you?" Shane asks, like they're real questions, but he suddenly understands - it's exactly what Ilya's been doing - trying to avoid tightening the proverbial noose around Shane's throat. He hadn't asked before doing it, never talked it over with Shane to see if he agreed with his conclusion. And for that, Shane doesn't feel bad then, that the way he's phrased the questions is manipulative.

        With an apologetic whine, Ilya nuzzles into Shane's throat. "I am sorry. Is not meant to be rejection. But I am afraid, when you look back to this time, to when you are vulnerable and under mental strain, you will remember every time I touched you and cringe over it. Feel unclean over it. Feel hurt by it. Victimized by it. Is it not better to wait? To be more sure of who I am, instead of being blinded by desire?"

        Having thought about this before, in the pockets of time as he's been wondering how much he means to the alpha, Shane can definitively say, "I don't think it's better to wait. Desire doesn't live in some separate box, and I'm never going to see you clearly, if you don't let me see what you're like in that context. I can promise you two things. First, even if we break up and fall apart, I can work with you like a professional on ending your brother's human-trafficking. And second, I'm familiar enough with abuse cycles and have enough of a support network, that leaving you won't be a problem if this relationship proves to be abusive or problematic in a way I won't tolerate. If you can promise the same, then I'd prefer to see what you're like outside the confines of the cam room. In fact, I'd really like to know what sex with you is like, out in the real world. What do you say to that?"

        "Da, I can promise these things," Ilya says. "If you are sure..."

        "I'm sure," Shane says, trailing his lips up the line of Ilya's throat. "Grab my books and I'll get the stuff in the bathroom. Then we can go home. And, like, immediately take a shower and start the washing machine up. I need my old alpha scent gone. Out of my clothes and off our bodies." 

        "Da, solnyshko. As you command," he says, eyes practically turning molten with heat. 

        They're done and out the door again, in less than five minutes. It's as Shane's pulling the door closed behind him that he sees the legs Ilya's apparently drawn under the triangle of the four on his door, changing the number that looked like a symbol into what now looks like the Cyrillic letter 'd'. "If I get fined for this, I'm kicking your ass," Shane mutters, but regrettably he rewards the bad behavior with a laugh that makes Ilya light up. 

        "Now you can tell people, once upon a time, you live in god. But is so boring that you move into crazy atheist's apartment building instead."

        "Asshole," Shane tries to sound like he means it, not wanting to encourage defacing other people's property, but he probably fails given that Ilya's still grinning as he slings an arm around his shoulders to take him home. 

 

 

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

Thank you guys again for leaving comments. They help so much. When things start to get busy and life things get in the way, knowing there's people out there reading and enjoying this makes it so much easier to come back.

There's so much talking in this one, so hope you like dialog.

        "I still don't think I need all this tech," Shane mutters, staring in horror at the bags his feet are buried under in the foot well of Ilya's sports car.

        "Is basic office supplies," Ilya argues, parking the car in his garage, below street level, the sound of the hydraulic door closer coming down over the garage entryway, deafening in the wide, mostly empty space.

        "I seriously doubt some of the stuff you had me buy was ever at risk of being bugged. Like, I don't think we needed to replace my headphones."

        "The ones you steal from Air Canada?"

        "It wasn’t theft! They hand them out for free, without any expectation of getting them back. I didn't steal them."

        "There is no microphone on those. How do you use them for meetings?"

        "My computer had a built-in microphone," Shane says, frustrated. "I'm pretty sure all laptops do these days. The zenbook you had me buy definitely does. Fuck, I can't believe I just bought a computer for 2k. It's absurd."

        "Want to see absurd? Look up price in Rubles," Ilya jokes, getting out of the car. When Shane moves to do the same, Ilya touches his shoulder and says, "You have much to carry. I will get door."

        "I'd have less, if you hadn't insisted that using a zenbook without a roller ball mouse was sacrilege. And then spent twenty minutes complaining about the notebook and pen I use. Seriously, Ilya, I didn't need an electronic notetaking device. Just because it's neat that it syncs to a cloud, does not mean the pros outweigh the cons. Now, god forbid, I lose the pen that came with the tablet. Or if I drop the tablet. Or if it rains. Or if -"

        "No one says you must use it always," Ilya argues. And then closes the car door, comes around the front, and pulls Shane's door open before resuming with, "It is nice feature, though, if you say your agent friend, Hay, cannot read handwriting. It will transcribe into text and you can send to him Times New Roman."

        "Holy shit, how did I not know you were a troll? I feel like I should have noticed this sooner. His name is Hayden. Hayden Pike. And it's not like he can't read handwriting. Mine just happens to be messy," Shane says, trying to keep a straight face, but somewhat failing at it, as Ilya helps him and the plethora of bags hanging off his arms, out of the car.

        "How you know this? You ask others if Hay can read their writing? Maybe just me, but this seems quite bad, if criminals do not need ciphers or coded language to get away with crimes. They just need to write by hand."

        "I hate you," Shane complains, helpless against the impulse to grin wide at Ilya's teasing.

        "Da? This is what your hate looks like?" Ilya asks, mouth entirely too close to Shane's ear. "Then, hate me more," he whispers, licking along the helix of Shane's ear.

        "An hour ago, you refused to touch me. Now, you can't stop long enough to get us inside?"

        Licking his lips, Ilya grins like a predator, before sobering notably. "We're not going inside, yet." Pulling Shane's suitcases, cooler, and duffel from the surprisingly spacious trunk, he crosses the garage, Shane following, in his wake, perplexed at why they’re approaching…

        “Oh, is this where you do laundry?!” Shane asks, staring in horror at the three industrial-sized box-shaped machines with porthole-looking windows set into pull-out doors. “Are these all washing machines?”

        “Washer,” Ilya says, pointing to the first machine. “Dryer,” he points to the third machine. “Exit,” he says, pointing to the identical looking box in-between the other two. Opening the door, he shows Shane the latch on the inside of the machine. “Release, and slide sideways,” he says, demonstrating. The back panel  silently glides into the space covered from sight by the washer, revealing a hole in the cement  to crawl through to the other side.  The short tunnel seems to have a glaze over it or something, forcing the cement smooth for easy traversal. 

        “Where does it lead?” 

        “Alley, other end from dumpsters. On other side, through short tunnel, is door that looks like part of wooden facade. To open from outside, you need passcode knock. Wooden panels are not real. Made to open based on placement of knocks.”

        Even though it seems excessive and over-engineered, not to mention space-consuming, since a whole man-sized washer/dryer lookalike acts as the entrance, Shane doesn’t comment. All he asks is, “Can you fit through it? Or is this another thing you haven’t checked in a while.”

       “I fit. Now is just a little tighter.” Ilya says, closing the door and reaching for the suitcases. “These are all clean, yes? Only scent is problem?” At Shane’s nod, he starts dumping Shane’s clothes into the washer.

        “Hey! Those need to be separated!”

        "Separated for what reason? Socks and shirts do not get along? Is all same color and mostly same material. Is all black athletic wear."

        "You're the one who told me not to bring any suits," Shane reminds him.

        "Yes, because your suits are too boring. Easy to spot you work for government. Is it a requirement that suits must be sad, lonely, black and baggy?”

        “My suits were not baggy.” 

        “What, were you going to bulk into them? You are like hanger for the one you wear to warehouse, and you are pretending to be client? Should have sent a photo to me first. Even without a mole, you could be caught because clothes are suspicious. Criminal world is a lot like Russia. You must look expensive enough that people expect killing you will hurt them too,” Ilya says, finished with the suitcase and moving on to the duffel. 

        Pulling out more black clothes, he tisks. “Honestly, you must tell me, Shane. Is it allergy? You are allergic to color? Does it make you deathly ill?" he asks, with a straight face. 

        Given the articles he’s read about problematic materials being found in clothing supply chains and the distinct possibility of someone having sensitivities to certain dyes, Shane’s not sure if Ilya’s trolling him or not. Feeling like he’s being entirely too earnest with his answer, Shane admits, “I’m not allergic. I just don’t understand what goes together. And not everything is black. I have white button downs to go with suits, and some stuff in grey. I just didn’t grab that.” 

        “So, you never experiment?” Ilya asks, pulling a nearby cart full of cleaning supplies, bottles of chemicals, powders, and dryer sheets closer. He holds out a neutral laundry detergent for Shane to inspect, and on his go-ahead, pours in enough for the load into a tray that pops out of the machine. 

        “I mean, I’ve been to a store and tried putting stuff together. But then I’d look in the mirror and…I just couldn’t tell if it looked alright.”

        “Your friend, Strawden, did not help?”

        Elbowing an “oof” out of the Russian, Shane doesn’t bother correcting him a second time. “Shopping isn’t really a straight guy activity. I sent him a few photos and he just said they looked fine. So, I texted his wife and she sent back laughing emojis followed by some advice, but -” Shane pauses with a grimace, not wanting to say more. 

        Even though Ilya’s busy carefully unraveling the cups in the last suitcase and moving everything but the blankets into the tech bags Shane set down, he still notices the hesitation. “I am still listening,” he assures, but then he looks up and notices the face Shane’s trying not to make.  He tilts his head, standing slowly. “Finish what you were going to say,” he prompts, attention fully diverted from his task. 

        Shane considers trying to deflect, but the moment for it is gone. If he tells Ilya to let it go, the man probably will. But he can already tell Ilya’s not one to forget. A throwaway conversation about Shane’s failed experiments in some dressing room at the mall will suddenly gain a significance it definitely doesn’t deserve. Maybe already has, for Shane’s double hesitation. “It’s stupid,” he prefaces, trying to get back to the moment from before his dumb anecdote attracted Ilya’s undivided attention. 

        Of course, it doesn’t work. 

        Chest rumbling with a vibration meant to comfort, Ilya leans closer, not crowding him, but trying to put him at ease. “Cannot be stupid, if it makes you feel like this.”

        “I’m not feeling anything,,” Shane says, ducking his head only for Ilya to catch his chin and make him look up again. “Really, it’s nothing. I didn’t mean to put any emphasis on this story. There’s not even anything left to say.  I just…felt kind of silly, standing there, trying to branch out sartorially. And for what? It’s not like I go places. I’m at work, or I’m with my parents, or I’m at home. Suddenly, I didn’t know what I was doing there, so I left without buying anything. The end. See, not much to it.” 

        “You are good at your job, yes?” Ilya asks, unnecessarily.

        “Yes,” Shane mutters, since apparently Ilya’s waiting for an answer.  

        “When someone says, ‘This is not important. Don’t look over here. There is nothing to see’, do you listen?” 

        “This is different,” Shane says, honestly. “I really do mean there isn’t anything to it.”

        Looking at him carefully, Ilya says, “I see you mean this. You believe it, because you do not understand why there is hesitation. You avoid looking in this direction, I think. But you did not leave store empty-handed for no reason. What was feeling in dressing room?” 

        Shoulders hunching inward, Shane explains, “I just realized it was ridiculous to be out buying clothes I had no use case for.” 

        “Silly, stupid, ridiculous…all very negative words, yes? Experimenting felt unsafe? No right answer, no perfect combination, no rubric, so is too far from comfort zone?” 

        Wide-eyed, Shane stares at Ilya. “Th-that…sounds accurate.”

        “Style, taste, preference - there are no right answers for this, Shane. Famous woman wears dress and people call her beautiful, chic, trend-setter at same time as others call her cheap, tacky, cliche. Opinion is reflection of the people looking. Is mistake to ask Grassden’s wife for what she thinks, because you do not wear clothes to please her. Next time, look in mirror and ask your own opinion. Or call me and I will tell you my very subjective opinion,” Ilya says, seamlessly transitioning from an authoritative tone to something teasing, on the cusp of lecherous. 

        Shane licks his lips, and immediately, Ilya’s back to moving cups and Shane’s tooth-cleaning supplies into the bags. “What are you doing?”

        “Organizing,” Ilya says, shortly. Transferring the last of the items, he picks up the throw blankets. After checking the instructions on the blankets, he throws them in with the clothes and starts the washer, then takes both cases, the duffel, and the cooler towards the other end of the garage, where two more large, humming metal box-shaped machines stand. 

        It’s not until Ilya grabs a handle, pulling a door open, that Shane realizes they’re both walk-in refrigerators. “Any of this food you want to eat soon?”

        “No. You’re leaving it here?” 

        “Da.” He points to a thermostat on the wall. “Here is control. In back of room, there is a switch near second shelf that turns off cooling component and starts to pull in air from outside. Thermostat controls how cold is fridge. Door does not lock, so is safe to hide in here. Can also survive in here because is food, air flow, and temperature control if you are locked in because someone parks car in front of fridge, for example.” 

        “Has…that happened to you before?” 

        “Only once,” Ilya says, unpacking the contents of the cooler onto an empty shelf. “I make Sveta very angry. Stupid argument about when Russia turns off internet for country. Is usually safe to disagree with her, but not when we are so drunk.” 

        Leading Shane to the freezer next, he takes the cases, the duffel, and the cooler and drops them into a huge container on the other side of the room. He picks up a giant 20 kilogram bag of white powder and pours it into the opened cases.

        “No, what, don’t do that! What are you - “ 

        “Is scent-neutralizer. Crystals will absorb scent and I vacuum and clean cases later. I promise cases will be fine.” 

        “Oh. You don’t have to do that. Just tell me what to do and I’ll clean them,” Shane says.

        “You have domestic fetish?” Ilya asks, tapping a finger on the thermostat, and flicking his gaze into the corner, wordlessly letting Shane know the freezer has the same features as the fridge. 

         Shane nods in silent acknowledgement to let Ilya know he’s understood, but the fucker grins wide. 

        “If you want to indulge your fetish, I prefer you do it in kitchen, where I can stand behind you, grinding my cock against your ass. Much more enticing than trying to shout sexy things over sound of vacuum.” 

        “Fuck you. You know that’s not what I meant,” Shane says, shaking his head as his cheeks grow warm and his lips tip into a charmed smile for no reason. Because Ilya’s being irritating, not charming. 

        Not charming at all. 

        “What, is normal to wonder, since you are always offering, da? Clean dishes, make food, vacuum cases. Even if these are your favorite things to do, I prefer you focus for now on getting equilibrium after so many changes,” Ilya says, picking up more than half the tech shopping bags, filled to the brim now with odds and ends, and leading the way to the workshop. 

        Shane follows with the shopping, expecting to go straight upstairs, but Ilya stops him in front of one of the cleaner work benches. “Put down bags,” he orders, before encroaching on Shane’s personal space wielding a tape measure. 

         “You should start telling me what you’re planning before doing stuff, because I’m getting tired of asking ‘what are you doing’ so frequently,” Shane comments, letting Ilya move his limbs into different positions as he takes measurements, twisting after each one to add a number onto a rough sketch of a human body. “It’s kind of early to be ordering me a coffin.”

        With an affronted huff, Ilya flicks him in the nipple. 

        “Hey!” 

        “No dark humor about your premature death, please. I do not find this amusing,” he says, kneeling to pull the tape measure around Shane’s thighs, then higher to get the inseams. 

        Swallowing hard and trying not to shuffle his feet, Shane asks, “Are you also a tailor in your spare time?” Eying the blow torch, electric saw, hammers, nails, wrenches, and other tools of a similar ilk. None of them look like they could be used for creating garments. 

         “Nyet,” Ilya says, finishing the last of the measurements and folding the completed page describing the shape of Shane’s body into a pocket. Then he picks up the tech bags and heads for the stairs. 

          Shane follows, wondering again if they’re on different pages when it comes to physical intimacy. He doesn’t want to pressure the alpha into doing something he’s uncomfortable with. And it seems  like he must be uncomfortable, since he hadn’t lingered when running the tape measure around Shane’s neck, waist, biceps, glutes, and thighs - all areas where he could have slowed down, added a hint of suggestiveness into the touch. Instead, he’d hardly let his fingers brush Shane’s skin. 

        And yet, he’d also licked his ear in the garage. 

        Confused, Shane enters the kitchen to find the paper with the measurements on the table and Ilya already washing the cups they’d brought from Shane’s apartment. “Wow, is there a fire you’re trying to get to? If you’re late for a meeting or something, leave the chores. It’s not like there’s much left to do anyways,” Shane says. 

        “Are there more cups?” Ilya asks, not looking up from his task. 

        “A few,” Shane admits.

        “Give,” Ilya says, still not looking up. 

        It feels strange to have Ilya avoiding eye contact. It seems so very unlike him.  The alpha doesn’t smell angry, but his scent does seem heavy. Thick in Shane’s lungs in a way that reminds him of snowfall, but before he can analyze it, he catches a whiff of his old alpha scent and immediately switches to just breathing through his mouth. 

        Biting his lip, Shane digs through the bags and finds the last of the cups, passing them to Ilya. Who still doesn’t look up. “A-are you okay?” he asks, wondering if he should try to bridge the gap between them. His hand comes up hesitantly, not yet touching, but close.

        “Anything in those bags you feel needs to be done right now?” Ilya asks, nodding at the bags clustered in the middle of the room. 

        “Right. Sorry, I’ll go put everything away,” Shane says quietly, dropping his hand.

        Only for Ilya to catch it, his wet fingers fitted firmly around Shane’s wrist. Placing the last cup into the drying rack and turning off the water, Ilya finally looks up. The look in his glowing blue eyes makes Shane’s breath catch. 

        “I am not asking you to put it away,” he says, every word coming out measured, at the same pace as his deep breaths. “I am asking, will it distract you? Will bags in kitchen, waiting to be unpacked, drag your attention away, or can you ignore?” 

        “I won’t be distracted,” Shane promises, even as his eyes stray to Ilya’s lips, already distracted by something else. Forgetting himself, he inhales deeply to pull Ilya’s scent inside him only for his nose to wrinkle. 

        With a huff of amusement, Ilya says without inflection, “Come, take bath with me,” nipping the tip of Shane’s nose. But despite the phrasing, there’s a questioning tilt to his eyebrows. 

        “Yes, please,” Shane says, irritated enough by the way his senses are being assaulted by his dual scents, that he doesn’t really consider what he’s agreeing to. 

        Sliding his fingers down Shane’s palm and weaving their fingers together, Ilya tugs him gently through the fireplace and to the bathroom with the huge hot tub-style bath.

        “You’re bathroom has mood lighting?” Shane asks, amused at the ways the lights go from cool-toned to warm halcyon, switching from directly overhead to less obvious bulbs, lining the walls artfully, the glow getting picked up and reflected back by the mirrors and shining tiles of the room. 

        “Occasionally, was in fights. Usually for money, as part of bet, in underground ring. Coming back, need to wash split skin, but light was too harsh. So, I fix so I can soak in peace. But look is also romantic, da?” Ilya says, running the bath. 

        “Do you still participate in…” Shane’s not sure what to call it. Blood sport? Illegal fight club? Wanton violence? He wonders where in the city the Russians would be organizing such a thing. Maybe in a boxing gym after hours? 

        “Nyet, not anymore. I stop playing ‘who is biggest dick’ when I stop drinking to excess. All these things are tied to same problem with alphas. Show that you are more powerful, can get most female omegas but without caring about them, can drink most vodka and punch hardest and be cruelest. I am glad I did not waste all youth mistaking being degenerate with being alpha. Now, looking back, is strange why anyone falls for this. Bad behavior makes you weak. Drunk, injured, siring children to omegas who will need financial help, maybe even getting sick because alpha is too good for condom - every part is encouraged and every part is destructive. Once you see this, it makes no sense why anyone wants this version of alpha. Maybe government wants, because these alphas are easier to control. Easier also to jail and use for free labor.”

        Shane snorts. “I didn’t become an agent because I wanted to trap people and see their lives ruined. Ideally, there’d be no crime, and I’d spend my days getting a pay check for following up on bad leads and false alarms. Maybe it’s companies? They get to use  the free labor. They also own the major news outlets and media, so if I had to guess, maybe it’s a few people at the very top creating and marketing the degenerate alpha narrative for young men to buy into. All it takes is one really bad crime and they’ve got a lifer doing menial labor for them, putting together products that they can ship and sell to other countries.”

        “You are speculating, or saying this happens?” Ilya asks, curious.

        Shane shrugs. “You’ve seen what gets platformed and what they put money behind. It’s not illegal, so we’re not investigating it. But, calculated or not, there’s definitely a correlation.”

        “Core elation? I know this feeling too. Not just rich business owners can feel core elation,” Ilya says, suggestively, pulling his shirt off as the water hits the half-way point in the tub. 

        Eyes trailing over dips and valleys, hard plains and raised peaks, Shane tries and fails to tear his eyes away from the landscape of revealed skin, but at least he has the presence of mind to reply with, “A correlation isn’t a feeling. Also, you’re a rich business owner. Do you feel like you’re in a different category from CEOs?” 

        “True. They are also criminals. Maybe we should fill out corporation paperwork? Then is business, not person, committing crime, so pay fee, and get no jail time. Also, we can make lobby and buy politicians." Ilya removes his pants next, his muscles shifting, flexing, tensing and releasing under his skin with every movement. 

        “Odd choice, then, settling down in Canada. You’d probably be more successful a little further s-south,” Shane mouth floods with saliva as Ilya drops his boxers and sits on the lip of the tub with his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle.

        “Come,” he says, a hand raised in invitation, encouraging him closer, pulling him near so that Shane’s legs end up spread, one on either side of Ilya’s thick, muscular thighs. Fingers slip under the hem of Shane’s borrowed shirt, dragging upward beneath the material, tracing the skin of his abdomen with firm pressure. “Ok?” 

        In response, Shane picks up the raised hem and pulls it up the rest of the way, over his head. Immediately, his hands start to fold the material, forming a neat square.

        Ilya watches, silently, head tilted in careful observation. Then he leans to the side, picks up his boxers, pants, and shirt and starts folding them into squares.

        Shane's mouth pops open in surprise, his first instinct to say the kinds of things he'd say to a guest or a stranger.

        You don't have to.

        Sorry, I just have this habit, but I don't mean to impose it on you.

        Here, let me.

        But he stands there, frozen, some part of him, deep beneath his skin, watching and assessing Ilya. Too busy judging him as a mate to worry about being polite.

        When Ilya's done folding his clothes, he takes the square from Shane's hands and adds it to his pile, then reaches behind himself to close the tap.

        "Take off your clothes," he says. And as Shane disrobes, hesitant and awkward to be undressing with an openly staring audience, Ilya plucks the clothes away, folding them neatly and adding them to the pile, until they're both naked. Then he pulls a plastic bag from the cabinet under the sink, shoves the clothes in, trapping Shane's alpha scent in the confines, and throws the bag into the laundry hamper.

        The omega in Shane hums in approval, more impressed by the alpha's thoughtfulness, than by the artful way Ilya's muscles bunch and shift with each movement. By the time Ilya's done showing off just how well he can decode Shane's needs just by paying attention, Shane's already half-hard behind his reflexively linked hands.

        Taking him in with a narrowed, devouring gaze, Ilya grins wolfishly, canines on display. "No cameras here. No one to see you but me. There is new word I learn on social media - demure. Describes you very well, yes?"

        Gritting his teeth, Shane tries to drop his hands, but at the last moment, he catches sight of his own reflection in the mirror, and he just can't do it. Reddening, he feels his posture closing further, shrinking in the face of his complete nudity.

        Concerningly, Ilya's nostrils flare, in irritation. "How can you, of all people, cringe when facing your reflection?" Closing the distance between them, Ilya grabs his shoulders and spins him towards the full-length mirror.

        When his eyes automatically skitter to the side, Ilya catches his chin and forces him to look straight on.

        "Don't look away," Ilya says, in his ear. "What are you so afraid to see?"

        "I don't know. It's weird looking at myself when you’re here," Shane mutters.

        Clearly, Ilya doesn't understand this at all. Shaking his head, he says, "To hide from someone else, fine. You are shy. You fear judgment. Maybe is some unpleasant memories from when you are child in very white Canada adding to your hesitation. Then, ok, understandable. But from yourself? This is strange, to me. What has you so uncomfortable?" he asks, hands sliding down Shane's forearms to rest over his wrists, thumbs caressing the skin there.

        "I don't have a problem with looking at myself when I'm alone in front of a mirror," Shane explains, letting himself sway back onto his heels, leaning some of his weight against the bigger man behind him. "I'm half-Japanese on my mother's side. So, growing up, I used to look at myself a lot in the mirror, trying to find traces of my dad, but all I could really see were differences. 

        “And everyone around me reinforced it. Like, one time, a kid I was meeting for the first time asked his mom why I didn’t look like my dad, and she started explaining what adoption was. I spent a whole week thinking maybe I’d been adopted, until I finally gathered up enough courage to ask my parents. 

        “Another time, an officer stopped Dad from leaving the park with me, worried that I was being kidnapped, because all the other kids at the playground were there with their moms, and my dad didn't look like me. I think he started carrying a copy of my birth certificate after that. For a while, it really hurt that random kids in my class looked more related to my dad than I did. 

        “And it only got worse as I got older. Since I was two grades ahead, the guys in my class hit puberty faster, and a portion of them got interested in anime, hentai, then porn. They started fetishizing Asian culture. And since I was younger, smaller, still kind of thin and coltish, they started calling me ladyboy, putting fox ear headbands on my head and taking photos that they’d tape above the lockers, too high for me to tear down.

        “It didn’t stop until the summer before secondary school, when I decided I wanted to make the Varsity hockey team. I took it seriously, got on a strict diet with lots of proteins, started bulking and lifting weights. And once I finally presented as an alpha, it stopped being a problem at school. At least, outwardly, they no longer tried saying that shit to my face. If there were still comments being traded behind my back, at least I didn't have to hear them anymore. But it stuck with me. The comparison. All the ways in which I don't fit.”

         "Sravneniye - vor radosti," Ilya says, kissing Shane's neck as his eyes meet Shane's in the mirror. "You know this saying?"

        It takes Shane a second to translate, but he finally says, "Comparison is the thief of joy." And then sighs. "Sure, all I needed was the right platitude growing up."

        "Past is past," Ilya murmurs, pulling Shane’s earlobe into his mouth. "It is today that you are still avoiding mirrors because comparison still hurts you, yes?"

        With a shrug, Shane mutters, "I guess."

       “Maybe I too should be sad. Alphas should have dark eyes, like yours. Instead, I have blue. There is no lighter color than blue. Dark hair is also better for alpha and yours is so sleek - luxurious, naturally neat, put together.” Running his fingers through Shane’s hair, he pulls and tugs, making Shane’s breath catch as his scalp grows more sensitive, back arching till he’s fully leaning on the alpha, his hands coming apart from their protective shield over his dick, to catch at the back of Ilya’s neck and hip, closing the distance between them further. “Blonde curls look perfect on little girl. Would be better if I have hair like yours. Expensive-looking, not easily mussed by pillows, shiny without gels, and dark  - is more intimidating.”

        “O-ok, I g-get your point. You don’t h-h-have to - “ Shane can’t swallow the moan before it escapes past his teeth as Ilya sucks hard against the mating bite over his scent gland. Blood rushes down, filling his cock so quickly, that he practically falls against Ilya, suddenly dizzy.

        Fingers skim down Shane’s cheek, while Ilya’s other hand splays over his abdomen, warming  the skin there, gentle friction granted with a literal belly rub, seemingly finding Shane’s weight negligible. “Your complexion is also better. Lightly bronze despite the long winter, without even trying. Light injuries are less obvious, can hide them more easily. Blushes would also be less obvious, if you were not so embarrassed over many things.”

        “I think you t-try to embarrass me o-on purpose,” Shane says, words tripping out quickly as he squirms under that hand, confused by his own euphoria at the spread of heat in such an innocuous area of his body. 

       “Sex is conversation, and I am always obvious. Vocal. I leave room for exits, for resolving misunderstandings, for setting expectations. But obvious sex makes you embarrassed. This is problem if you feel shame or guilt or disgust flavors of embarrassed, but instead, to me, looks like shy flavor. Probably very much because of no experience. Maybe we test this, da? See if I can fuck embarrassment out of you?” He punctuates it with another bite over the bondmark.

       “W-we were supposed to be taking a b-bath,” Shane gasps, pulling away abruptly. “The water’s probably cold by now.” 

       “Nyet. Tub is heated. Thermostat is on wall,” he points out a control box near the light switches. “You do not need more examples?”

        “No, please no more. As much as I love hearing someone wax poetic over all my features - ”

        “Nyet, I know you hate this. But I also think you miss point.”

         Shane snorts. “How could I miss the point? That comparison is dumb. The grass is always greener on the other side. And all that jazz.” 

        “Jazz…like music?” 

        “It’s just a phrase.”

         Apparently still not convinced Shane understands what he was trying to demonstrate, Ilya asks, “Do you think I am bad alpha?” 

        The question seems odd. Out of place. But Shane immediately says, “No, you’re a great alpha. Better than most.”

        As if to demonstrate how bronze skin could be a boon, Ilya actually does turn a bit pink, his pale skin lighting up with a blush that makes Shane grin wider. 

        “Generous words. Do you think others would agree? Would Weedden agree I am good alpha?” 

        It takes Shane a long second to realize he’s talking about Hayden. Shaking his head, Shane says, “Soon, you’re going to run out of ways to say his name wrong and I’m not going to know who you’re talking about anymore. But, I think if he got to know you, then he’d agree with me.”

        “And others? Clients? Club girls? Random person on street? Would they see blonde curls, blue eyes, and mistake me for beta or omega? Do I fit designation enough to be recognizable?”

       Utterly confused, Shane raises his eyebrows, unclear where the discussion is leading now. “Can they still smell you?” At Ilya’s nod, he says, “You’re the one who said omega’s avoid you because you smell like a warning. If you're asking if your features detract from your alpha status, then no. Besides, you’ve still got height, a deep voice, a strong build…all very stereotypical alpha features.” 

        “Is that what makes me good alpha? Being tall? Deep voice? Muscles I build in same gyms as omegas and betas?”

        “Ah,” Shane rubs the back of his head, starting to get a clearer picture. Mouth quirking up, he pictures a younger Ilya, maybe thirteen, with a wiry frame, youthful voice, a fraction of his height, and the same pale features, but still an alpha. If he’d never changed, but just grew older, he’d still be clever and thoughtful and willing to put himself on the line for his values. And he’d still be the gregarious asshole, asking pointed questions, confronting people. Inflexible, intractable, unwilling to bend into something he’s not, even if it costs him. He could have joined his brother and been rich. Could have blended himself into the fabric of organized crime, deferring to Alexei, and, in return, he’d have familial bonds, safety from his brother’s jealousy, and more riches for having participated in lucrative ventures that cost other people their freedom. But an alpha is, by definition, not flexible. “You’re right. It’s not the voice or the height that makes you an alpha.” 

        “Just like your looks do not make you your father’s son.”

        “Oh,” Shane hums, surprised that the conversation’s circled back. So surprised that his eyes prickle with tears.

        “Your lineage is woven into the base notes of your scent. But also, your family is reflected in who you are, how you act, your habits. Maybe is not obvious in a glance, but if someone sits in and watches you together, my guess is that they would see it.” 

        With a wet laugh, Shane admits, “I think you might be right.” 

        Hand finding Shane’s nape, Ilya pulls him in, kissing his cheek and nosing at his ear. “Come, bath is calling.”

        The water's warm enough to send a thrill up Shane's spine when they finally climb in, the chill of Ilya's unheated ground floor apartment being eased away with every inch of submerged skin. Instead of sitting on the raised seat in the round, deep, jetted bathtub, Ilya pulls Shane into the center. He sits down on the tub floor and gently tugs Shane with deliberate slowness into his lap.

        Shane's a bit impressed how effectively Ilya seems to ask questions with pace and movement. For all that he may be obvious with words, his body seems to speak just as clearly, asking Shane 'Is this okay?' in a dozen little ways before he ever gets around to a final verbal check-in.

        Wondering if the additional check-ins mean the moratorium on sex is about to get lifted, Shane leans his side into Ilya's chest and...he doesn't know how to ask without being awkward about it. A few different questions filter through his head, getting edited and reconfigured until he ultimately discards them.

        Before he can get a word out, Ilya pulls his chin up, catching his gaze. "When you overthink like this, is it because you worry about my reaction? Do you fear rejection? Or judgement? Or do you not know what you want, and so do not know what to ask?"

        "I," Shane hesitates in his answer, opposed to airing his insecurities out loud. Deciding to let Ilya figure it out by process of elimination, he starts again and says, "I know what I want."

        "Do you?" Ilya asks, grin again turning wolfish in his amusement, teeth prominent. "Specifically? Or just in general."

        "In general," Shane has to concede, quite sure that he doesn't have enough information or experience in the...sex arena...to verbalize specific desires.

        "Ok, I can help with this," Ilya says, amused. Quickly, though, his tone sobers. "Before this, do you want proof?"

        "Proof of what?" Shane asks, letting his fingers trail over Ilya's skin below the waterline, growing bolder when he feels Ilya lean into the touch.

        "Last tests," Ilya says eyebrows high. "STI, STD, other panels. I also have paperwork from vasectomy. You are only partner since last test results, but if you want to see proof, I can show. Is in office."

        "Oh," Shane feels his cheeks go red. Fuck, he's so bad at this. Despite knowing his status has changed, despite having looked up some cursory information, in the brief moments between the flood of tasks him and Ilya have been busy with, and having learned a bitched alpha can, in fact, get pregnant, and despite his perfect awareness that Ilya's had a lot of partners, it never occurred to him to do any more work than he would have, when sitting down to get himself off with a sex toy. "I haven't taken any tests," Shane says, feeling guilty and wondering if he should put some distance between them. Even starting to shift away, before Ilya's arm weaves around his waist and pulls him in closer.

        "You are worried you catch from someone's blood or spit? Working at Bureau puts you in many fights?”

        Shane shrugs. "No, most of my work is from behind a desk, or at a distance. The warehouse was one of my first forays into the field. I guess I should have told you in the cam room that I hadn’t been tested. Fuck, we've already had unprotected sex. If I have anything, you might already have caught it."

        Ilya snorts. "Your scent is healthy. But Bureau does not screen for these illnesses? No mandatory health checks?"

        With a groan, Shane ducks his head into the hollow of Ilya's throat. "Of course they do. Fuck, I'm forgetting everything today."

        "Da," Ilya murmurs, licking up the side of Shane's neck. "Is expected. You are not so obviously affected like some bitched omegas or new mates, but effect is still there. Thoughts are slower, more on one-track. Your friend, Barleyden, warns you of his own mating, says he cannot concentrate for months, but also pushes for you to come, work, debrief - now, now, now. This is why I ask for time. You do not feel so affected, but when performing tasks, your mind skips over parts, ignoring things it should not. Is not something to feel bad about. My point is this - when you look back at these moments when you are more yourself, know that this was safe. Not something to regret or worry over, because we are being responsible."

        "Responsible," Shane echoes, lifting his head. "I can't believe you got a vasectomy. Isn't that the ultimate ego hit for a Russian alpha? To be infertile?"

        "Is reversible, da? But also, looking around, I see many problems in world today. Knowing Russian history and how long these problems last, I do not want to explain to child that I help make them so that they can entertain me. For legacy, for bloodline. So that there is someone to visit me if I am in prison, or to leave flowers on my grave. Why, are you wishing for children?"

        The heart beneath Shane's wandering hand ticks up a notch. "I haven't spent much time thinking about the future. I think a part of me always figured I had time. That maybe I'd have a relationship with someone eventually, and if I did, then kids would probably follow, because that's what people do. On autopilot. Like, it's not a life worth living unless you've checked all the boxes. But I assumed, in that autopilot life, that I wouldn't be the one having the kid. Deciding how much of my work life to sacrifice on the altar of parenthood. Deciding if I want to risk miscarriages and medical problems and hospital stays to have a kid. And, I have similar concerns to yours. Maybe not prison, but agents sometimes get targeted by the people they put away. We get shot at, and stalked, and our families can get caught up in the crossfire. 

        “Do you know, Hayden has two kids already? He's constantly checking up on his family, calling and wondering and worrying, because the kids are vulnerable in ways a spouse isn't. I've never envied him his life. And, quite a few times, I've felt actual relief that I'm not in his shoes. For all that I like his kids - they're sweet and relatively well-behaved - I'm only a visitor, seeing them at their best. I get to skip the tantrums, the screaming, the crying, the fevers, the mess, the worries about what kind of jobs they’ll get, if they’ll live close by, if they’ll find good, loving partners…Maybe some day, all that won’t seem so daunting, but right now, I feel like I barely get to live my own life. And I get the feeling, once you have kids, you start living for them more than for yourself.” 

        Ilya's chest expands with a sigh of relief, and it occurs to Shane that the alpha had been worried. Much like Shane had been holding his breath, wondering if Ilya saw his future playing out in Russia, on the streets of Moscow, where Shane probably wouldn't follow; in the same way, Ilya had been stressing over this other fundamental aspect of life, worried their desired futures would be too much of a mismatch. That someone would need to bend in a direction they weren't inclined to, or risk breaking this new, fragile bond’s potential.

        "Any other major discussions we need to have?" Shane asks, wondering now if there are other areas that would also make them spiral.

        "I am sure there are plenty, still. But these things can come later, as we discover them. Right now, I would prefer to discover you, and all the non-specific things that you want."

Shifting in Ilya's lap self-consciously, he's forced to keep eye contact as Ilya holds his chin pre-emptively. "Shh, don’t panic. This is not going to be the discussion, about things you like sexually or want to try. That will not be out loud, in bathroom, naked and on the spot. Instead, we will schedule a time and use website, where two people go through list of categories separately and then website shows, as result, only parts you have in common. So, if you are too shy and worry too much about judgement, website will protect your answers."

         Immediately, Shane realizes the loophole. "Not if you lie and mark down everything. Then you'll automatically see my answers because you'll match all of mine."

        Ilya bites the top of his ear. "List is very comprehensive. Even includes specific kinds of roleplay. Before you complain that I cheat, you should know is good chance I will match your list. I take sexual compatibility quiz before. Only Group Category - about swinging, cuckholding, threesomes - was complete no for me. Most other things, I am open to at some level."

        Relaxing a little, Shane admits, "That actually sounds like a great format. I wonder if Hayden and Jackie ever took a quiz like that."

         Ilya's nose wrinkles in disgust. "Maybe we stop discussing Chaffden when your thigh is warming my cock?"

         "Does this count as cock warming?" Shane asks, shifting teasingly just enough that Ilya's cock brushes up against his inner thigh.

         "You know this phrase?” Ilya asks, lighting up with a wicked smile.

         "Lack of practical experience doesn't mean I was born yesterday."

         "And how do you feel about this - cock warming? Do you like idea of sitting in my lap, ass speared on my cock? Maybe, when you are thirsty, standing up to get glass of water, or to go find book, then coming back and sitting down again, one inch at a time? Or if you are loose enough, all nine in one go? Or do you like it better with my arms holding you close, keeping you on my dick, and if you need something in another room, I pick you up and hold your thighs spread open, plowing against your prostate with each step as you direct me for water glass or book?"

        Beet red, Shane flicks the alpha on the nose. "You're doing it on purpose, aren't you? All that talking just to - I don't know. Shock me. Make my ears burn."

        Licking his lips, Ilya says, "I love to see your reactions, but is also proposition. I do not tease about sex things I would not do."

        "So, you want me to...warm your cock?" Shane asks, shifting in place restlessly, his own dick bobbing against the arm he's holding over his hard-on.

        Ilya's fingers steal down, to trace over the firm organ, pausing to rub against the slit of Shane's cockhead before cradling the shaft  in his hand, thumb against the larger vein, as if he's keeping track of the pulse. "If you find it hot, then, da. I would not mind the torture of being stationary inside you, so close to fucking, but having to wait. Or to have your mouth around me when I am soft after cumming inside you or down your throat. Do you know, is possible to keep knot inflated with device similar to cock ring? Could keep you plugged all night, stretched wide, so next day you will be loose. Can just bend you over and slip inside."

         With a whine, Shane's hips move thoughtlessly, trying to find friction against Ilya's cupped palm.

         "That's it. Good boy. Get your cock dribbling for me. I want you wet from both ends."

         Again, Shane feels the prickling heat of embarrassment, but he can't curb the need for contact. It gets so overwhelming that he shifts to face Ilya on his knees, seeking the alpha's mouth with his own.

         Ilya groans into the kiss, tongue slipping between Shane's lips. Large hands palm the globes of Shane's ass and drag him closer, till they're chest-to-chest, Ilya's cock grinding against Shane's perineum.

        Suddenly, with a hiss, Ilya rips his mouth away, teeth digging into his bottom lip as a growl rolls through him.

        "A-are you okay?" Shane asks panting, fingers petting through Ilya's hair.

        "Da. Is stupid word for this - when something makes you overexcited so you need to discharge energy. I can feel it most in my teeth. A bite instinct."

        The description doesn't ring any bells for Shane. "What's the word for it?" he asks, curious.

        "Cuteness aggression."

        Shane snorts. "That doesn't sound right. Cuteness aggression is for, like, pandas and kittens and shit. You know, cute things, that you want to squeeze, or I mean, hold, or cuddle." His nose wrinkles at his own description, trying to think of a verb that would enforce the strictly platonic nature of cuteness aggression.

        Teeth squeezing over the mating bite, Ilya says "I say before, yes? That you are like kitten when angry. Mostly because you look so innocently earnest when you are frustrated with me." He licks over the teeth marks as his fingers dip between Shane's cheeks, grazing over his hole.

        "Cuteness aggression is platonic," Shane hisses, shying away from the fingers circling his rim, as a thought occurs to him. "Do you dislike kissing? Or am I bad at it?"

        Ilya's breath catches, chest stilling for a long second as his grip on Shane's ass cheeks tightens. Cursing in Russian under his breath, Ilya takes a moment before finding his ear, breath hot as he says, "Do you forget already? I tell you, also before, that kissing you is dangerous. Is worse now, so close after mating, with no return bite. It makes me want to devour you. To fill you up everywhere - mouth, cock, ass. To slip into you any way I can. Shane," he growls, his massive frame straining upwards, as if trying to fuse them together, "if I avoid kissing you, is because my control is tenuous. I do not want to make you actually angry; to push, out of thoughtless desire, for things you are not enthusiastic about. One day, when is more stable, then feeling your soft lips, tasting you from the inside, should become safer, But for now, it comes with desire to reinforce bond with sex. And I do not think you want me to fuck you in garage or workshop."

        With a hum of understanding, Shane nods along, "Ok, but we're not exactly busy right now. If any moment's going to be a good one to 'reinforce the bond', wouldn't it be this one?"

        Taking another deep, calming breath, Ilya says," Do not be afraid to hurt me  if you want me to stop. Just dig nails in," he manages to say, waiting for Shane's nod of acknowledgement, before diving in.

        Fuck, kissing Ilya really does feel dangerous. An energy seems to build between them, wanton and needy and desperate to be fulfilled. On some level, it feels like he's already getting fucked, mouth full of Ilya's tongue, suckling at the muscle, swallowing with a bizarre greed, some undefinable taste pinging across his receptors that reminds him distinctly of Ilya.

        He doesn't even know when the fingers that have been teasing at his rim slip inside. He just suddenly becomes aware of the stretch as another finger breaches him, bordering on too much.

        Seeing his startled expression, Ilya licks over his lips once, twice, before pulling away. "You stretch so easily now. Take my fingers so well. Three from each hand without complaint. Look at you, rocking down on them, so eager to take them deeper. But is not enough, is it? Not enough to stuff you full anymore. My guess is, you leave dildo in your alpha apartment, because it is not enough to satisfy you now. Do you know why alpha cocks tend to be longer than betas? Is just theory, but claim being speculated in research studies is that longer cock is for male omegas, to reach channel - same one that opens up when alpha is bitched. What was too long for you as alpha,is now correct size to satisfy you."

        "But I don't want kids and you can't have them," Shane mutters, a part of him feeling resentful over the fact that Ilya might actually be right about his old dildo no longer being enough to satisfy him. On some level, he finds it concerning that he can't keep his hips still, the constant pressure on his prostate somehow not enough, no matter how firmly Ilya strokes his passage.

        "Body and mind are two separate machines on same network, communicating but not in same way. New parts of you come online, join network, and signal new conditions needed for satisfaction. You will need new dildo if you want to keep using one. One with knot. Some omegas also need cum substitute to fill space inside. Apparently, is similar to ghrelin - stomach hormone that says to stop eating when you are full."

        "No," Shane shakes his head. "You made that up! No fucking way is there a hormone that makes you feel hungry for cum in your…womb,” Shane finishes quietly, unnerved at the thought that he has one now. But, despite his confident proclamation, he whines, plaintive when Ilya pulls his fingers out abruptly to gather him close, rubbing his back in broad strokes.

        "Shh... is just hormone. Nothing to be angry over. Maybe would be good idea to make appointment to omega clinic? Discuss with professional who speaks English? No speculation and half-remembered lessons. Just facts."

Shane's stomach drops, horrified at the thought of showing up to a clinic as a naive, bitched alpha. But at the same time, his need to know rises up again. "I'll see if I can get a walk-in appointment tomorrow," Shane says, finally, freaked out over the way he practically mewls at Ilya, hole grinding against the hard cock still angled too far down to push into him.

        "You want my cock, sweetheart? You feel too empty?" Ilya asks, tone serious. Like there's any doubt.

        "Please, Ilya. Fuck me. Fill me up," he pants against the alpha’s ear, mouth finding his ear lobe and sucking on it, that empty feeling no longer localized to just his hole.

        Although it's not obvious, submerged as they are in warm water, Shane's ass must be slicked up pretty well with his own natural lubricant, because Ilya doesn't have to do much to slip into him. The stretch feels tightly satisfying, like a well-worked muscle, but as Ilya fully seats himself, Shane's back arches, an electric zing ricocheting through him, making him shudder.

        His mouth ships open in a pant, catching Ilya's attention.

        "Are you lonely here too?" he asks, slipping his thumb into Shane's open mouth and pressing on his tongue.

        Hating that he's right, Shane blushes hard, even as his mouth starts sucking. He's even more embarrassed by the note of betrayal in his moan when Ilya pulls his thumb all the way out.

        "Shh, s' okay. But thumb does not reach far enough, da?" When he pushes in with his ring and middle fingers, Shane suddenly realizes what he means. It's so much better like this. Thinking back to his deep-throating attempts, Shane's pretty sure he couldn't do this before, his gag reflex making it hard to swallow down the head of his practice dildo. And it certainly hadn't felt this good to be filled. 

        He's not sure he likes having all these new needs. It used to be so easy to get off. If he didn't edge himself, he could be done in less than five minutes, with just his hand on his cock. 

        Now, Shane wonders if that's still true. He hadn't thought something like that could change, but here in this moment, getting fucked in Ilya's lap, mouth suckling at long, thick fingers, the thought of just sitting down and rubbing his dick sounds unappealing.

        And then Ilya takes the hand he'd been using to rub soothing circles against Shane's tailbone, and moves it to Shane's chest. Adding a whole new element into the equation. 

        "Does it feel good to have your tits squeezed?" He pinches Shane's nipple gently and starts to tug.

        Shane's spine curves, pushing into the touch as his dick throbs at the same time as his nipple buzzes with a strange shock of feeling, as if there's a direct line of connection between the two,

        "Wish I had more hands," Ilya mutters in Russian, "So hard to choose." The hand on his nipple tugs a little harder pulling a gasp out of Shane, before dropping down to rub a thumb directly over Shane's slit, while his other fingers slip into the crease beneath the head.

        Shane whimpers around the fingers in his mouth.

        "Can you feel the way your hole is milking me?" Ilya asks, hips setting a rapid tempo, not bothering to pull out much at all.

        Concentrating on the feeling in his ass, Shane wonders if it's just his imagination or if he can really feel Ilya's pulse inside him, in the dick grinding over his prostate, head kissing over some new spot, deeper inside him.

        It's too much.

        It's all too much

        Moaning around Ilya's fingers, Shane tenses suddenly. He issues a short complaint as the digits pull out, but a second later, those same fingers grip his hair, tilting his head and fuck...Ilya's mouth is so much more satisfying. 

        The alpha’s tongue thrusts against the ribbing of Shane's palate at the same time as his pace speeds up, his cockhead jackhammering against that new opening, until his body tenses, hips driving up as his hands pull Shane down, seating the rapidly inflating knot on the inside, just past the rim.

        Liquid heat, scalding against Shane's oversensitive rectum walls, jets into him in a few pulses, before it becomes more of a trickle. They sit there in the come down, technically waiting for Ilya's knot to deflate, but in reality, it still on some level feels like they're having sex.

        It's a gentler, more relaxed coupling, all those new, needy signals quiet once more, But Ilya's hands continue working Shane over. Massaging skin, rubbing and teasing and pinching at his nipples, all the while kissing him both like it's the last one they'll share, but also like he has all the time in the world, the pace slow, the drag of his tongue thorough and exploratory.

        By the time Ilya's knot has finally gone down, the alpha's too busy licking Shane's second release off his hand to notice. "Can you smell your alpha scent anymore?” Ilya asks, swallowing down the last of the spend.

        Head buried in the crook of Ilya's neck, a blush high on his cheeks, Shane mutters, "Shut up." Aware of just how thoroughly he's been scented, by the smell of winter clinging to his skin, and the thick coating of cum slipping out of him beneath the waterline.

       

        

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay. My schedule got busy, but also this chapter got long. Enough that it didn't make sense to cut up.

Thank you again for helping bolster my motivation with comments. But even when things are written and complete, it's so interesting to hear what people walked away with. What left them with this or that impression. Whether things shaped up the way they expected.

This fic is still relatively in flux. I know scenes, in a vague sense, that need to be included or that I want to have in place, but when they'll come, how they'll shape up, is still a bit loose. The bonding, for instance, wasn't going to be here, but given the doctor's office, it followed as a natural conclusion, particularly with Shane's parents coming up in the next chapter.

Anyways, thanks for being here! I appreciate you for reading and giving this story a chance ^_^

        Sitting in a plastic chair, leg bouncing faster than his heartrate, Shane sits in the waiting room of the omega clinic, not two blocks from Ilya's apartment building, anxiously listening for his name to get called. It's not clear whether the looks he's getting, from the other omegas awaiting their turn, are for his behavior or for the way he physically stands out.

        Sure, not all omegas fit the waifish stereotype propagated by the media, but at least in this room, Shane looks very out of place. Without Ilya at his side, looming a head taller, with wider shoulders and bigger arms, Shane feels awkward sitting there next to an older woman half his size, smelling so neutral compared to the cloying sweetness of her scent, enhanced most likely by an omega perfume. And the giggling teenage boys goofing off in the corner, dressed in bright neon colors and skinny jeans, only serve to highlight how far he is from what's considered ideal for male omegas. He's too big, too bulky, too dour, too straight-laced.

        It leaves him wondering if maybe everyone in the room can tell, on some level, what happened to him. Maybe it's the first assumption people come to, when seeing an omega who falls so far outside what's considered normal. All of a sudden, he wishes he hadn't brushed off Ilya's offer to come with him. Even if it probably wouldn't have spared him any awkwardness, he doesn't doubt he'd be more at ease, comforted by the scent of winter, entertained by Ilya's jokes and teasing, or at least distracted by anecdotes or mundane conversation.

        Fuck...pulling the narrow, thin tablet Ilya forced him to buy out of his pocket, Shane pencils in another question: Is it normal to miss your mated alpha after less than an hour's separation?

        "Hollander?" A nurse calls from the doorway, gaze stuck to his clipboard until Shane stands up. He catches the moment the nurse's eyes widen in surprise, but the man doesn't comment. Holding the door open for Shane, he lets him into the medical section of the clinic. "First door on your right," he directs.

        Inside the examination room, the nurse introduces himself as Julien and then spends a few minutes taking Shane's vitals. Weight, blood pressure, pupil dilation - a bunch of standard checks Shane's familiar with. There's no deviation from what Shane's used to as an alpha, up until they're nearing the end of the checklist the nurse is working through.

        "And when was the date of your last cycle?" Julien asks.

        Chewing his lower lip, Shane's not really sure what a 'cycle' entails, but he's fairly confident in answering, "I haven't had one yet."

        Julien blinks at him. "Excuse me?"

        Clearing his throat, Shane says, "I don't think I've had a cycle yet. I was only recently... bitched."

        His eyes widen again, but all he does is make a note on his chart. "Ok, the doctor will be right with you."

        And then he's gone, leaving Shane to stew over his reaction, replaying it in his head, trying to make sense of the inflection, tone, word choice, and abruptness of departure, as he attempts to distill it into meaningful information.

        Before he can reach a conclusion, the door's opening and a woman in a white coat steps through, looking nearly as dour as him. "Hello, Mr. Hollander. My name is Dr. Beaumont. You listed on your intake form that you're here for 'medical advice'," she reads off. "Are you experiencing concerning symptoms or unexpected side-effects post-transition? Also, can I get a date for when your transition occurred?"

        Digging his nails into the tops of his thighs, Shane admits, "My transition was about two days ago, give or take a few hours."

        Dr. Beaumont takes a seat, hands folded over the clipboard. "Was your transition consensual?"

        Rubbing the back of his head, Shane shrugs. "Sure."

        The doctor's voice softens as she explains, "It's not too late to do a rape kit, Mr. Hollander."

        Given everything he knows about the legal system and rates of success in this domain, Shane snorts. "You guys actually suggest people take that test this far out from the incident? It's invasive, unpleasant, and the labs are years behind on processing tests. Besides, I've obviously showered and I'm not injured. You should ask people if they're experiencing any pain or bleeding before jumping in to suggest a rape kit. And, like I said, my transition was consensual."

        Her brows bunch up with concern, but she doesn't argue with him. Pulling in a deep breath, she just asks, "How can I help you today?"

        Running sweaty palms over the top of his sweats, Shane's eyes drop to his lap as he admits, "I know this is going to sound unforgivably ignorant, but I actually don't know what it means to be a transitioned omega. Originally, I was going to look it up online, but my...mate suggested I go to a professional for medical advice, rather than relying on scattered information across random websites. Can you help me with that?"

        When he finally looks up, he notices Dr. Beaumont's eyes fixed to his neck. "Is it...your 'mate' who helped with this transition?" she asks.

        Trying not to growl at the skeptical way she said the word mate, Shane asks, "Is that important?"

        "It can be. Environmental stressors can cause a wide range of side effects in the alpha-to-omega transition process."

        With a grimace, Shane says, "My job is in law enforcement. Is that going to cause problems?"

        Her frown deepens. "It can be a factor. But usually, it's a secondary concern compared to, well...are you and your 'mate' on good terms?"

        Teeth clenched tight, Shane breathes out a short, "Yes." He doesn't want to be impolite, but he hates the judgement in her eyes. And he wonders, would it have been better if Ilya had come with him? What would Dr. Beaumont see, looking at the imposing Russian alpha?

        Nothing good, probably.

        More assumptions.

        That Ilya had insisted on coming with him to the appointment, rather than being there on Shane's request.

        He can almost imagine Dr. Beaumont switching to French to ask him if he's safe. If he needs help. Maybe she'd say, 'Blink twice if he's holding you hostage.' She wouldn't even be wrong to do so. It's common for a handler to go with a trafficking victim to medical appointments. But still, it rankles. 

        "How is your mate supporting your transition?" Dr. Beaumont asks, expression retreating behind a mask of neutrality, having sensed Shane's aggravation.

        Shane shrugs. "What does supporting a transition mean? I'm not sure what you're asking."

        "The mental and physical toll of an...unexpected transition can significantly affect your health," Dr. Beaumont says, hesitantly. "There's an increased risk of depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, high blood pressure and stroke, to name a few of the more concerning conditions that you may encounter. So, support would mean decreasing your workload, reducing stress, taking things off your plate - anything that would contribute to a peaceful atmosphere."

        "Ok, then, yeah, he does all that. The guy basically won't let me help with anything. He keeps insisting that I forgo any and all chores until things 'stabilize', whatever that means. I should probably ask him how he's going to know things are 'stabilized' enough, because technically he could drag this out. I don't want to feel like a guest after moving into his place," Shane mutters, realizing as he thinks through it that Ilya might be coddling him.

        Dr. Beaumont hums with careful neutrality. "Have you been experiencing any post-transition symptoms? Trouble sleeping? Loss of appetite? Changes in your ability to concentrate? Decreased sex drive?"

        "How about an...increased sex drive? Is that normal?" Shane asks, cheeks warming.

        Dr. Beaumont clears her throat before saying, "It's not typically a symptom associated with forced transition, but it can be a result of a one-sided bond. Is your bond reciprocal?"

       "Not yet," Shane says, then grimaces at his latest revealingly know-nothing question. "What exactly is a bond? Are there different types? I've heard words like bondslave or bondmate, but I guess I've been assuming stuff based on context. Does it mean something medically?"

        Dr. Beaumont's lips move sideways as her brows bunch up. More concern. Her hands come together, fingers interlocking as she straightens in her seat, again projecting neutrality. "Bonding is the colloquial term for a process that generally occurs when a scent gland is pierced and there is a concentrated delivery of primary ligands and signature peptides to the vascular system. Saliva contains signature peptides that encode a person's unique chemosensory identity, which is the information needed for the lock-and-key bias that results in the tuning of a receiving gland towards the person with that chemosensory identity. Saliva also contains the primary peptides that drive attachment and reward.

        "Bonding is ideally bidirectional. That way, both parties experience a strong activation of the amygdala and nucleus accumbens, thus both parties react the same way when exposed to each other's chemical signatures. The response to other chemical signatures becomes muted, so people who have received a concentrated dose are less inclined to engage with others sexually. The reward and safety centers in the brain are activated by the presence of the chemical signature, be it through scent, touch, or exposure to bodily fluids like sweat, saliva, semen, blood and urine. Bonds are not permanent. You can return to baseline by avoiding exposure to the chemical signature in question, although there will remain a preference for that chemical signature, since there are cells responsible for remembering and activating when exposed to a chemical signature, much like how T-cells will remember viruses after an initial infection and activate stronger immune responses upon re-exposure to those remembered viruses. 

        “When it comes to bond-enslavement, it's not a technical term but it's usually used to refer to the process by which someone delivers those peptides and ligands to a vascular system repeatedly without reciprocity. The compounds shift the receiver's baseline, elevating the bonding-hormone set point when the chemosensory markers are present and creating a stress response when those markers are absent. The receptors overexpress and there's a stronger inhibition of alternatives. In extreme cases, the need for the chemosensory markers can become entrenched, creating an addiction-like fixation that generally requires medical intervention to correct."

        Shane mulls over the information, trying to arrange the medical jargon into something simpler. "So, what you're saying is that bonding creates loyalty, attachment, preference in the person receiving the bite to the person performing the bite. Although, the way you phrase it, sounds like you could cut a wound into a scent gland and pour saliva over it and you'd still end up with a bond."

        "Indeed," Dr. Beaumont says, straightening her cuffs in a sharp gesture. "It was common practice in the middle ages, particularly amongst nobility. Arranged marriages relied on this system to ensure that brides were primed for their...'mates'."

        "Were they creating bondslaves? It sounds like you'd get addicted through repeated exposure. And can this happen to anyone?" Shane asks, thinking about the way alphas commonly seem attracted to scent glands, repeatedly worrying at them with teeth, and creating hickeys over them.

        "Yes, it used to be common practice. Hence why bonding these days is bidirectional. It creates less dysregulation. Scent glands secrete pheromones that help stabilize the bonding process because the chemical message being emitted will read as reassurance."

        "An 'I'm still yours' message?" Shane asks.

        Dr. Beaumont's nose twitches with the faintest disgust for a second, but she nods in confirmation.

        "Am...I dysregulated, then? Fuck, is that why I miss him? Even when we've only been apart for a little while?" Shane asks, hands fisting over his knees.

        "You can alleviate the symptoms by carrying around something drenched in chemical markers. It was common during war times that soldiers would create one-sided bonds with their intended mates who were not joining them on the front lines. They'd carry around handkerchiefs marked with the scent of their bonded mates, sometimes encased in glass jars to preserve the scent for longer. Then, if they returned, they'd complete the bond. And if they didn't, their one-sided mates would be spared the withdrawal-like symptoms and cellular memory."

        Shane narrows his eyes, realizing suddenly that there's no good reason for them not to be bidirectionally bonded. Ilya's life isn't any safer than his own. He could die tomorrow and Ilya would be just fine to go on and bond with the next person he sees. Maybe Svetlana. In the opposite direction, if something happened to Ilya, he'd be devastated. The unfairness of it is vexing.

        "Is there any reason a bidirectional bond would be a bad idea if we're already in a one-sided bond?"

        "Bonds generally work as positive feedback loops for both parties. If you can count on loyalty and mutual desire, then I'd recommend it. In any case, you're already at a disadvantage. Bonding fully would rectify the lopsided effects and alleviate your symptoms."

        Loyalty and mutual desire.

        That's the question, isn't it? Can he count on Ilya to put himself in the same trap Shane's in? And what would it mean, if he says no? Shane's known Hayden long enough to have been there when he met Jackie. With his increased senses, he'd detected the difference in Hayden's scent profile. Mated and unmated smell different. Different enough that his parents would likely be able to tell that Ilya's still "on the market".

        As Shane sits there for a long moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, Dr. Beaumont adds, "One-sided bonds have the ability to affect an omega's cycle, making them shorter and less predictable. Instead of experiencing a regular seasonal cycle like other male omegas, you're likely to have one every month instead of every three."

        Shane's head snaps up at the word 'cycle' - another thing he doesn't know about. "What exactly does a cycle entail?" Shane asks, because it can't be a heat cycle. No way are people hitting a heat every thirty days.

        Dr. Beaumont looks very unimpressed with him beneath the neutral mask. It's there in subtle flashes of emotion that he can barely spot and finds hard to interpret, but her scent turns standoffish.

        Ducking his head, Shane wonders if he should apologize.

        "An omega cycle refers to a cyclical hormonal pattern that starts with the preparation of the internal uterine lining as it thickens for potential implantation. If no pregnancy occurs, then hormone levels drop, triggering the shedding of this lining. Because omega males lack a cervix and vaginal canal, the discharge is expelled through the rectum that, in your case, has gained elasticity during transition. This discharge will be composed of blood, tissue, and mucus. During the shed part of the cycle, you may experience abdominal cramping due to muscular contractions of the internal organ, fatigue, inflammation, heightened sensitivity to pheromones and mood fluctuation tied to endocrine shifts. At about the half-way point in this cycle, when you are at peak fertility, you'll experience a heat. 

        “In a bidirectional bond, the heat should be mild enough to work through without disruption to your schedule. In a one-sided or unbonded state, heats have more variability, based on a person's hypothalamus, which drives motivation, the limbic system, which attaches urgency and emotional weight to mating, and reward circuits that anticipate the release of dopamine. There is a feedback-dependent shutoff to heats, wherein seminal fluid containing binding proteins and peptide inhibitors interact with luteoghrelin pathways that will suppress further hormone release and reduce receptor sensitivity. If you have access to semen, this should act as a completion signal and result in a shift towards satiety and calm."

        Frozen in his seat, Shane wonders if he looks as much like a prey animal as he feels. Shock and horror have him leaning away from Dr. Beaumont, with both likely plain to see in the expression on his face. Despite how little he knows about biology, he remembers the bit about shedding uterine linings.

        "I th-thought only fe-females experience..." he can't say it. The words just won't come out.

        Raising an even more unimpressed eyebrow, Dr. Beaumont asks in that perfectly neutral voice, "Menses? Heat? Pregnancy?"

        "Th-the first one," Shane admits.

        "The uterus, once functional, will perform all the same functions," Dr. Beaumont says, simply.

        "Yeah, but..." Shane rubs a hand over his hair, fingers tugging at the strands in agitation. It doesn't matter what he thinks. There's no way the doctor is wrong or lying to him. So he asks, "What do I do? I don't want to have kids, so I don't need any of those things. How do I get rid of heats and menses? Is it the same suppressants as the ones alphas use?"

        There's a bitter curl to Dr. Beaumont's mouth as she tells him, "The medical industry does not provide the same level of funding for research on omega-specific conditions. I can give you a script for heat suppressants, but it comes with a long list of side effects. As for menstruation, unless you get a hysterectomy, it's more pills with more side effects, especially if you combine them with heat suppressants. The effects can be devastating, so I do recommend you choose one or the other, rather than both. And you'll need to experience a full cycle before I can give you a prescription for either. But on the plus side, whichever you happen to choose, they both function as effective birth control, provided you take them everyday at the same time."

        Shane snorts, thinking about being a slave to such a rigid schedule with his job. "So, a hysterectomy - " he starts.

        "Is a major surgery," Dr. Beaumont interrupts. "Most doctors won't offer you the option until you're well into your thirties. I've tried finding hospitals that will agree to take some of my older patients, but we receive push back at every turn. I can put you on the list, but you're not likely to get an acceptance for the next decade."

        Same neutral tone, but Dr. Beaumont's scent turns sharp with fury.

        Swallowing hard, Shane's eyes start to tear up as a feeling of hopelessness rises. What is he supposed to do? Thank fuck that Ilya's vasectomy means he doesn't need a pill for birth control, but the thought of an omega cycle has him curling inward, wounded over his lack of options and the unfairness of everything that comes with this new designation. How fucking naive he'd been in the warehouse, thinking a designation change wouldn't change much for him.

        Swallowing hard, Shane takes a moment, blinking away the tears with his head tipped up in what he hopes isn't too obvious a way. Then, he asks, "Is there anything else you think I need to know about alpha-to-omega transitions?"

        With a quirked eyebrow, Dr. Beaumont says, "As a member of law enforcement, I'm sure you're more aware of the societal implications of being a transitioned omega than I am, so I'd caution you to remember your new designation when making choices about where to be, at what time, and safe ways to travel. But medically speaking, nothing comes to mind. If you have additional questions, feel free to call my office and we can schedule an appointment, be it remotely or in-person."

        As he makes his way home, Shane's stuck on Dr. Beaumont's warning. Societal implications. He knows what she means. Worrying about who's picking you up via car service late at night, keeping a hand over the top of a drink at a bar, crossing the street rather than walking past a crowd of alphas, parking under streetlights...To some degree, as an agent, he's familiar with this pattern of careful behavior already, aware that people might target him.

        But he understands Dr. Beaumont's frustration. The pamphlet he'd picked up on his way out about menstruation has a handy chart on the back that shows how different gender-designation combinations experience hormone cycles.

        Beta men have it easiest, with a psuedo-rut cycle once a year. They're strictly semen contributors and have relatively high fertility rates, provided their testosterone is above a certain threshold.

        Alpha men are next on the list. Very fertile, strictly semen contributors, with a seasonal rut cycle.

        Beta women have the next easiest cycle. Strictly egg contributors with a yearly heat and one round of menstruation. They struggle with fertility when paired with betas and timing is critical, since they have a long fertility window, but it only happens once a year.

        Alpha women are dual contributors. They have a seasonal rut, where their semen is most potent, and a yearly heat, during which they can only contribute eggs. The fertility window is shorter than a beta woman's, but they tend to dislike acting as birthing parents regardless.

        Omega men have to go through seasonal heats and tend to struggle in pregnancy. They are highly fertile during their windows, but preparation for birth has to start months in advance, with required stretching exercises for natural births. In this day and age, most of them choose C-section deliveries.

        And omega women have it worst, with monthly cycles that include pseudo three–day heats on a monthly basis, monthly menstruation, and seasonal heats that can last over a week. The most prolific, the most likely to have and want kids, socialized to be the most caring, generous and empathic. And, in return, treated by societies across the world like servants, blamed for decreasing fertility rates, preyed upon by other genders and designations.

        Shane had known, on some level, just how shitty it was to be an omega in a society that favored other designations, but he's been a poor ally. His main contribution has been rescuing them, as part of his job, from human-trafficking rings. But in everyday life, he’d never had to care about the omega experience. Had never expected to personally be affected by it.

        He feels so fucking selfish now as his thoughts spiral. 

         Bleeding four times a year. 

        Cramping four times a year. 

        Slicking four times a year. 

        Aching with a need like hunger for a cock to spill inside him and fill him up four times a year. For the next...shit, how long? Thirty years? 

        Fucking ruinous. The whole thing is ruinous. 

        He should have asked about what happens after. Then again, maybe Dr. Beaumont doesn’t have the answers. If research is so poor regarding fertile omegas, then the research on omegas past their prime is likely even thinner, if not nonexistent.

        Guilt eating at him, Shane unlocks a utility door on the side of Ilya's building, climbs through the janitorial shelved Murphy door into a shoe room, swaps out his sneakers for sunny house shoes and climbs through the mirror. 

        The first inhale feels like coming home. He can almost feel himself flooding with oxytocin as the fresh scent of winter hits his lungs.

        He takes a deep breath and follows the scent to its living origin.

        Ilya's sitting in his office, expression dark and foreboding as he stares at his laptop, the bright flash drive from Svetlana plugged into the side.

        "What's wrong?" Shane asks, quietly, worried he'll startle the alpha.

        Ilya's eyes come up slowly, their focus distant. They sweep past Shane as if he's not there.

        "Ilya?" he calls, coming closer, fingers twitching with confusion.

        Taking in a long inhale, Ilya says, "Sorry, I am watching footage. Cam room in warehouse, security camera for control center where men are watching cam room feeds, warehouse floor. From time you are caught to after the branding. Svetlana deletes footage from all cameras for both days, so is not obvious, and now Alexei has no leverage. He cannot ask man to submit footage to Bureau."

        Shane's breath catches. "Why would he do that?" He thinks of his coworkers sitting down to watch an anonymous tape, submitted by someone from the warehouse. Imagines his coworkers seeing all the things Ilya did to bitch him in a high-fidelity video. Imagines Hayden seeing him at his most vulnerable. His skin crawls. "Svetlana's sure there aren't copies? There's no chance he already sent it?"

        "No copies. She is sure. Security team from warehouse lose jobs over this, so Alexei's plans did not happen."

        "What was the plan? To humiliate me? How does that help him at all?" Shane asks, arms crossing over his torso, a shiver running up his spine.

        "Nyet, you are collateral. If he submits video, I go to jail. Am out of way. Simple."

        Shane snorts. "Why would you go to jail?"

        Quirking a confused eyebrow, Ilya tilts his head. "Because is illegal to bitch or stud someone without consent. Bureau must put me in jail. If they do not arrest me, is obvious I am working for Bureau. Then Alexei has reason to murder me. Is check mate, either way."

        Shaking his head, Shane says, "Unless he wants to show off the part where he tells you to do it and goes to jail himself, then the footage is worthless. I'm the one who got bitched. If I say it was role play, or whatever, then who's going to convict you?"

        Ilya frowns at him. "If Bureau gets tape, there is arrest and then trial. Where they will ask questions like, 'why you do this role play far from home in actual warehouse that is under investigation and on radar for criminal activity?' and 'so, you ask, before role play starts, for partner to piss in you? Surprise was not real?' and many more questions that will embarrass you. You think people will believe you wish for this? For it to be on tape? For bitching to be spur of moment with stranger? Besides, is suspicious in other direction if you protect me so much. Maybe Alexei believes I threaten you enough, but you are agent so is still surprising."

        Shane rubs the back of his head. "Look, I'm not saying you should give Alexei the tape. I'm glad they don't have a copy to use against us. But if the worst case scenario had happened, I also think that the two of us would have found a way around it. And we weren't exactly strangers. With the amount of info you've fed the Bureau, I was constantly in contact with you. Sure, it was more of a pen pal/voice message situation, but still. More than nothing. People have arranged marriages, so why can't I ask a beautiful pen pal to fuck me into another designation?"

        Ilya's gloomy expression lightens just a bit, mouth quirking up in a tired half-smile. "Dangerous, I think. Calling me beautiful when you are living art that makes mouths water."

        "I'm starting to think you don't know what dangerous means," Shane says with a scoff, all too aware of the times he's still left wondering if Ilya really does find him attractive. For a man who claims to be so tempted, Ilya doesn’t seem to show many signs of being overburdened by lust. So, Shane doesn’t know if that attraction extends far enough for Ilya to agree to complete the bond, make Shane feel more stable, put them on even footing. 

        The only thing that makes Shane feel better is Ilya's genuine confusion. The comment, to him, seems to read as out-of-pocket. A strange non sequitur rather than a thinly veiled accusation that the compliments are hollow and without substance. No real desire behind them. Akin to an aunt squeezing her nephew's cheek and calling him her handsome boy.

        Brow furrowed, Ilya translates, "Dangerous means opasnyy."

        "Right, yup. Good. I'm going to get my computer while you transfer the video file from the cam room to a second flash drive. I'll let you handle the security room with the TVs and we can go over the inner warehouse from the branding together, since we should finish at about the same time. It'll take a few days to get through it all, but - "

        Ilya's growl interrupts him. "I do not want you near this," his voice rumbles like thunder. "Is not worth re-trauma."

        "I'll decide what's traumatizing," Shane says, squaring his shoulders.

        Ilya leans back in the chair, looking distinctly unhappy. His nostrils flare, pissed, but his hand goes into his desk, pulling out a sleek, black flash drive. "Ok," he says, shortly.

        When Shane comes back, there's a second computer chair, rolled over from the desk he put in the office for Shane to use, beside him. Sitting down next to the alpha, Shane leans sideways, into the alpha's space, resting his head against the other man's shoulder in an attempt to soothe the anxiety being broadcast through Ilya's scent glands - a sharper winter, a hint of gasoline.

        "Are you alright?" Shane asks, as he plugs the flash drive into his new laptop.

        "The Russian - the comments - ignore them. When I speak Russian in footage, is not for you."

        "I know. It sounded like you were speeding up and slurring words so that I wouldn't understand them. I figured they were for our audience. Mean things?"

        "Da, just filth."

        "I did wonder, though. Why do it? Wouldn't it seem weird to them that you were speaking to me in Russian?"

        "Nyet, they know I speak to them. Is like play-by-play addressing them. Alpha posturing. 'Look at me, I am so lucky, bet you wish you had this' type bullshit. Ignore it, please. I do not mean any of this."

        Shane hums, noncommittally, starting up the player and putting in a pair of headphones. Watches Ilya do the same. And then proceeds to watch the events that reshaped his whole future into something he never would have predicted.

        Thankfully, most of their private conversations didn't make it through. His sensitive hearing catches hints of a whisper here and there, beneath the rustle of bed sheets and loud friction of bodies. But part of it is that he knows to listen for it, remembers when the conversations had occurred. So much so that he's able to get through a hefty chunk of the first day, skipping past at higher speeds.

        The angle feels so strange. As if he's a god, looking down on two creatures in a vulnerable, private moment. A god with the power to stop time, slow it down, listen in at a higher volume than the usual max. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but humanity always treats the laws of nature like they don't apply to them. 

        At first, Shane does intend to do as Ilya asked. But after the first few skips of Ilya's Russian sections, Shane pauses, slows down the feed, cranks up the volume, and strains his ears to make sense of the messy, native speech. Despite all the modifications to the video, Shane only catches a few lines.

        "He has such a wide, pretty mouth. Lips as pink as his pussy."

        "If only every whore knew how to suck like this one."

        "Bet you wish you could feel this suckling mouth."

        Before Ilya can notice him playing with the controls, he moves on, wishing that he had listened. Because now he's concerned about something he's not sure he can ask about.

        With the audio slowed down, even in the parts Shane can't translate, one thing is clear - a lot of the language Ilya used when talking about him to a third party had been feminized. In Russian, gender reshapes sentences, changing endings of verbs and adjectives. And Ilya had used the feminine versions when talking about Shane to the men he knew were watching.

        Normally, Shane would probably overlook it. Ignoring the information under the assumption that it was to further humiliate Shane in the eyes of men who'd be expecting it. Who'd want to see an agent of the Bureau, not just bitched, but also misgendered in a way that matches the chauvinistic inclinations still embedded in male-centered Russian culture.

        But Ilya's not gay. At best, he's bisexual, but not obviously so. Not as frequently. Not as openly. The Bureau's never interviewed a male conquest because their identities have been nonobvious and unconfirmed.

        Although he still listens for anything they might have given away in whispers, Shane spends a lot more time watching what he can of Ilya's expressions. Focusing on the man's eyes. Looking for the heat of desire, the spark of interest. Hunting for moments when Ilya’s eyes are closed, wondering if he's not fantasizing about someone else to keep his own body responding to Shane.

        Ilya's hand darts in front of his view and hits the space bar, pausing the video. Looking up, Shane asks, "You want to take a break?"

        Cocking an eyebrow, Ilya says, unequivocally, "Something is wrong."

        Shane sits up sharply, eyes scanning the room, then looking over at Ilya's laptop. "Did you find something?"

        "Nyet, I mean, you are upset. Watching is hurting you."

        With a snort, Shane reaches for the space bar, "I'm fine."

        He realizes it's the wrong word to use in the same second as Ilya's fingers close around his wrist, stopping him mid-motion.

        With his free hand, Ilya reaches into his desk, pulls out a keychain - an actual wheel of fucking emotions - and hands it to Shane. "Fine is banned. Pick something more descriptive," he orders, taking the hand Shane was going to use to press play and pulling it into the cradle of the oven mitts that are his stupidly big hands.

        "You're coddling me," Shane complains with a huff. "Also, I can't read this without my glasses."

        Ilya's breath catches, chest stilling for a long second before he asks, "You wear glasses?"

        "Depends on what I'm reading and how much eye strain I've had during the day. But yeah. Why?"

        "Where are they? I bring," Ilya says, oddly enthusiastic.

        "I put them in the nightstand, since we're not back at work yet. Top drawer"

        "So you say. And yet, this is like work. You say I coddle? Bet your Alfalfaden would say I not coddle enough," Ilya mutters, as he leaves the room, long strides carrying him out the door so fucking quickly.

        It takes Shane a long second to realize Ilya's worked in another dig at Hayden, but as he's trying to decide whether he should nip the name-calling - or is it misnaming? - in the bud, Ilya returns, a case in-hand.

        With his lip caught between his teeth, Ilya pulls the glasses out and gently slides them into place, perching the nose-bridge high. Then, he points to the wheel and says, "Pick."

        When he's finally able to read it, Shane winces at the color coding. It's a rainbow of emotions, and of course, Shane just has to be in the red-fear category. And based on the granularity breakdown, he falls into the insecure section of fear, under the sub-category of unsure with some borrowed elements from the fear-anxious-worried section. From between gritted teeth, he reports his emotional state to Ilya.

        "What makes you feel unsure and worried?" Ilya asks, retaking his seat so he's not looming over Shane. Unfortunately, he also gathers Shane's hands into his own. One hand curls so that two fingers find the pulse in Shane's wrist, while the other hand massages the muscles of Shane's well-developed palm.

        Taking his headphones off and leaning back in his chair, Shane says quietly, "I found out how bonding works at the omega clinic today."

        When he stutters to a stop, Ilya asks, "Did you learn something is wrong? Infected bond bite? Incompatibility?"

        "Fuck, I should have asked you to be there. I didn't think to ask about that. I just went to fill in some of my personal knowledge gaps."

        "We can go again, whenever you want," Ilya offers. "But, so, general information makes you anxious?"

        "Um...so, apparently, bonding is a bit overblown. I mean, sure, it can be misused and turn into addiction, but it's just a bunch of chemical marker stuff. Nothing permanent. So, technically, bonding the rest of the way would be beneficial. It would help stabilize me and I was planning to ask about it, but then…Watching the videos, I noticed that in the Russian sections, you use feminine endings a lot. I assume it's when you're talking about me. Which, whatever. I don't care that you misgendered me. But I'm kind of concerned that maybe I have a one-sided bond - this thing, that's at risk of causing emotional dysregulation - with someone who will never want to complete the bond."

        "What about video makes you think this?" Ilya asks, mirroring Shane's level of concern.

        "It's not just the video. As one of the people tasked to watch you at the Bureau, I paid closer attention than most, and still, I never saw you chatting up a male of any designation. With everything I learned about bonds today, it seems like there's no reason not to make it equal. I'd have more control over my emotions. Since it's not actually permanent, we'd still have the option of walking away with just a few withdrawal symptoms if it turns out this bond was a bad idea. Also, if we meet my parents, a completed bonding will look less problematic than something one-sided. But, if you're not interested in men, then proposing we bond is dumb. Why would you want to deal with symptoms and shit, when you can be free of it? Look, I won't be angry if this is something you already know will always be one-sided. I don't actually need coddling. I'm not going to fall apart if you tell me now you were just going along with what you had to do to save my life. But, please, just tell me. Because then I need to - "

        Shane cuts off, startled as Ilya stands up and takes off his jeans, folding them neatly before putting them down.

        "Um...what are you doing?" Shane asks, head tipping back as Ilya comes to stand at the side of Shane's chair in just his shirt and black briefs.

        "Plausible deniability is phrase, da? Bond bite needs to be scent gland where I can say you bite me when I am distracted. If someone asks me, I can say we have sex and you turn your head and bite inner thigh. Benefit is also that men will now be paranoid their wives will do this. Can already picture them wearing thigh protection when demanding blow jobs," Ilya sniggers.

        Shane blinks up at him, speechless.

        Ilya gestures at his thighs. "Which side you want? You pick."

        "A-are you sure you're okay with this? What about the whole bi-thing?"

        "Shane, if me fucking you is not enough proof that I like men, I cannot help you. But even if I never fuck a man whole life, I can still be bisexual. Just like you can be virgin and still be gay, da?"

        "R-right. Sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you into offering a completed bond. But you asked me not to lie and - "

        This time, when Shane cuts off, it's because there's a pushy tongue in his mouth, nudging against his own. Sliding along the length and curling under, stroking and lapping, before abruptly pulling away. With a quick, chaste kiss like punctuation, Ilya says, "You are very good boy for telling me your worries. I appreciate this greatly." His wide palm cups the side of Shane's head, thumb petting against his ear as he finishes with, "Now, pick a side."

        "Shouldn't we talk about this? I mean, you wanted to wait."

        "Because I forget details. You say this will not trap you more? That completed bond helps symptoms? Then we do it. I want to wait only if completed bond makes situation harder for you."

        "Does bonding mean something else in Russia? You mentioned vows," Shane recalls.

        "We can refresh bond bites and exchange vows when you are sure you want to be registered mates. Usually, bonds are not so quick, but our situation is not normal, so meaning is irrelevant. Only important part is mental health." His fingers tug at Shane’s hair, trying to entice him closer.

        "What about your mental health? Right now, you're not impacted like I am. You don't have an increased attachment. Are you sure you want to reciprocate the bite?"

        This does make Ilya pause. "Increased attachment," Ilya repeats, pursing his lips in consideration. "So I will want to cling and hover more...if my control slips, will this be problem for you?"

        Shane snorts. "I wish your control was weaker. Maybe I wouldn't spend so much time wondering if you actually want me, if your interest was more obvious."

        Blue eyes flash as Ilya's hand slides lower, lifting his chin, forcing eye contact. "Do you know what you are asking? You do not see, because I do have relatively good control. I am trying not to scare you. But fully bonded? I do not know what this looks like. If it means struggling with impulses, giving into them out of reflex, you may find this quickly irritating." Swallowing hard, Ilya admits, "Holding your hand, putting arms around you, dragging you into my lap - these desires are constant. If today I insist to go with you to appointment, if I tuck you under my arm as we walk down street, if I make you watch videos while sitting in my lap - is this good day? Aggravating day? Intolerable day?"

        Without even having to think about it, Shane says, "I'm already there, Ilya. I'm already sitting in a headspace where it hurts that you don't do those things. That you hold back. And it's driving me crazy, because I know it's a lot. Logically, I understand your explanations, your reasons. But all the logic in the world doesn't help the way I feel about it. I can't tell peptides and hormones that they should react positively when you avoid crowding me. I just...can't help wanting you to cling at this point in time. Sorry."

        "No apologies. If you are sure, then bite me," Ilya says, petting Shane's hair back.

        "It will hurt," Shane reminds the alpha, petting over the section of Ilya's left thigh where his teeth will go.

        "Make it hurt," Ilya says with a shrug. "Sink your teeth as far as they will go and hold tight. The pain will make this moment memorable."

        An unhappy whine rises in the back of Shane's throat at the thought of hurting his mate. "Before you bit me, you spent time distracting me, bringing me to a point of arousal. Wouldn't you rather I do that? It'd make the story you proposed telling people in your organization truer. I could suck you close to an orgasm before the bite," Shane says, sweetening his tone to something cajoling. It feels weird. It's not a strategy he'd usually employ, but it does seem to work. Shaking some of the resolve out of the hard set of Ilya's jaw.

        "Is not needed," the alpha protests, but his sharp blue eyes are fixed on Shane's lips, nostrils flaring as he pulls in a calming breath.

        "You want me to bite you? I get to decide how," Shane says, confidence bolstering at the open want in Ilya's eyes, and in his scent profile. Leaning in, Shane noses into Ilya's lap, dragging his open mouth over the fabric along the length of Ilya's cock beneath the material, the rapidly swelling hardness claiming more and more space between Shane's lightly tracing teeth.

        When he encounters no resistance, no protest, he follows the line of Ilya's dick down to where his balls protrude, seals his mouth against the fabric, and blows all the air in his lungs out, heating the area.

        Ilya's strained, cut off shout makes Shane smile. He looks up at the bowed, panting alpha with a mischievous grin. "You alright? Need me to pass you the Wheel of Emotions so we can figure out if you're really prepared for this?" His tone is playfully teasing, so he's surprised at the way Ilya's eyes widen, chest heaving as he looks down at him.

        Nails cutting into the underside of his desk, Ilya says, in breathless Russian, "Seeing you like this, bright with a smile that makes sunny days look pallid in comparison, is just too much. I can barely stand to look, just like I cannot bear to turn away. I want to tuck you into the space behind my ribs and carry you with me, always. But then I would not see your smile. It is a terrible conundrum."

        "So, in other words, you're feeling overwhelmed?" Shane asks, catching the top of Ilya's briefs between his teeth and slowly pulling downwards until he gets far enough that gravity does the rest, and Ilya's briefs drop to the floor.

        Unveiled from its cotton confines, Ilya's cock is already standing at attention, head shiny with smeared pre-cum. Hands coming up to cradle Ilya's hips, Shane licks the moisture away from the slit, and beneath his palms he feels the alpha's muscles tighten, locking in place, so as not to thrust.

        With evidence of the strain on Ilya's control beneath his palms, Shane gets to work on dismantling it. Experimenting to see what, if anything, he can provoke. He kisses the mushroom head slowly, squeezing the sensitive flesh gently between the ribbed palate at the top of his mouth, and his tongue. The muscles beneath his hands continue to tense and release, Ilya’s weight shifting as his breaths turn uneven and his chest starts to vibrate as Shane suckles and kisses and licks along the shaft without rhyme or reason. Picking places to exert suction, spread moisture, apply heat. 

        And when Ilya looks most distracted, arms straining in an attempt to let Shane experiment without direction, without pressure or demand, he turns his head into the junction where thigh becomes groin, where the scent of winter is strongest, trapped as it usually is under clothes and body heat, and bites down. There's a growl above him, increased vibration in the frame beneath Shane's mouth, but he barely notices with the way his own body responds to the completion of the bond.

        As blood seeps through the gaps between his teeth, Shane feels himself tuning like an instrument, recalibrating, his sensitivity to Ilya rising. Particularly with Shane's heightened senses, it's as if he can pick out the base notes that differentiate Ilya's sweat and blood from others. As if he could walk into a room and know if Ilya had been there by the scent in the air, however stale. As if he could put a fork in his mouth and know Ilya had used it, even if it had been washed with soap and water and left on the drying rack to absorb the scents of a kitchen.

        It's not as simple and inconsequential as he thought it'd be.

        Dr. Beaumont had failed to mention he'd be able to track and hunt Ilya, find signs of him, however aged, however weathered. Maybe he should have told her that he was outside of normal range for sense reception, because it feels kind of unholy, that he can detect Ilya on every square inch of the room. The marks the oils on his fingers have left on items moved, cleaned, used, replaced. He feels surrounded and inundated in the best way. Like being embraced by warmth and comfort.

        Arms thread under Shane's, pulling him, and all his weight, up and into Ilya's lap as the man finds an empty space, between the two laptops on his long wooden desk, to sit.

        Ilya's mouth descends, and they're lost for who knows how many minutes. The taste of Ilya seems…addictive. It's tricky to define the taste, particularly since it changes based on where he slips his tongue. But he can tell the difference across his taste buds between gums and teeth and plush cheek. The top of Ilya's tongue tastes different from the bottom, the tip, different from the end, closest to his throat. It's like a full coarse meal of his favorite foods, and yet nothing like food in the first place. But it leaves him salivating nevertheless.

        In the moments Shane pulls away to draw in deeper breaths, Ilya chases, pressing their mouths together like the distance is too much for him, and they pant in unison, catching whisps of free air threaded with lungfuls of the recycled breaths exchanged between starved lungs.

        When Shane can't go without air any longer, he turns his head, exposing his neck in the process. And within a second, there's a mouth clamped over the marked gland, suckling the flesh pink, then red, teeth worrying the ounce of flesh between two rows. "Need you. Please. Let me. Want to plant myself in you. Suffuse you in liquid heat and concentrated scent. Let me fuck you. Please," Ilya murmurs, Russian slurring to the point that Shane can't make out the desperate strings of words pressed between kisses into his sternum.

        Pulling Ilya’s shirt off and kissing any part of the alpha he can reach, Shane whispers his acceptance. His agreement. His enthusiasm. Letting his shirt get peeled off. Letting himself be lifted so that Ilya can tug his sweats and boxers down. The clothes drop to the floor, on top of Ilya's briefs, and his alpha murmurs apologies over it, as if expecting Shane to somehow have the capacity to care in this moment about unfolded fabric.

        Thrumming with chemical reactions, Ilya forgets himself again, weaving Russian into sentences that sound like poetry to Shane's untrained ear. "You are so wet. Some day, I will kneel between your legs and lick it out of you. Anoint myself with it. Worship at your thighs as before a god, whispering confessions into your lap while my fingers work you over, till you are shivering in my arms, begging to be filled by me. And no one else. I will keep you so satisfied, you will forget you did not choose me. I will prove I am better than any other choice you could have made. For all my faults, lack of devotion is not one of them."

        Shane is so captivated by that poetry, so focused on catching each word, that his mind disconnects from his aching body, unaware of the fingers filling him, stretching him from the inside on six digits once again. It's only when the first thrust of Ilya's cock breaches him that he realizes they're... fucking.

        Is that really the word for this? Sex, copulation, intercourse, fucking, making love - none of it really captures the essence of the moment. It feels like a fusing of two souls. He feels completed, despite never having known there was a piece missing. And yet, he's also dying of thirst, hollowed with hunger, cored out and set ablaze.

        To feel so overfilled and, at the same time, in need of filling. It's impossible. Tears stream down his cheeks, mingling with the ones he finds on Ilya's as their temples press together.

        His body is on autopilot, feeling and responding to the thrusts against his prostate, to the fingers plying at his nipples, the thumb caressing at his slit. Without conscious thought, his nails score Ilya's shoulder blades, clutching at curls, caressing the fresh, bleeding bite mark, trailing a path of red fingerprints into the hills and valleys of Ilya's muscular abdomen. He has little control over what his limbs do, the positions they take.

     His mind is too busy capturing sense memory. Too lost in learning the length of Ilya's breaths, the taste of his sweat in the dale of his throat, the scent of his hair beneath the perfume of shampoo. He'd know instantly, in an alley halfway across the world, or floating along the ocean, a hair of Ilya's by sight, scent, color, texture. He'd recognize it out of context. Know it, like he'd know a drop of blood, a cut fingernail, a spray of sweat...

        What the fuck was Dr. Beaumont thinking? Describing this experience - this level of knowledge, this bottomless well of obsession, this towering cliff of desire - so clinically.

        "I'm sorry," he whimpers, on the cusp of orgasm. "I didn't know."

        Ilya thrusts up once, twice, and locks inside of him, triggering Shane's orgasm, if it can be called that. He comes with a wail, sobbing into the shoulder his head's nuzzled into. Soothing hands pet at his back, running fingers in a graze down his spine. "Shh," Ilya murmurs against his ear. "All is well. It will get easier, now. Da?" Ilya says, without conviction, his own voice sounding awed. Shocked.

        "I-I r-really di-didn't kno-know," Shane hiccups. He can't stop crying. It's not a choice. Not a feeling. His body is still in charge of every action. Shane can only control the words coming out.

        "Do not apologize to me. Trap is yours, not mine. If you feel this is mistake, receipt will not come to me until after you have left. And what happens then, will not be your concern," Ilya says, deep breaths clearing all evidence of his own tears from his voice.

        "People can leave? After feeling like this?" Shane asks, dumbstruck at the thought. "Fuck...I should have checked. Should have looked at her gland. There's no way that Dr. Beaumont has ever taken a bond, or she wouldn't have been so cavalier about it. This...feels fucking permanent. If you ever left me, I'm pretty sure I could hunt you down across continents. With my senses, it would take weeks of scrubbing with heavy cleaners to wipe away every trace of you."

        The chest beneath him rumbles, and as a consequence, so does the dick buried in Shane's ass, vibrating against his prostate, making him whimper.

        "Hunt me," Ilya growls. "Follow me. Stalk me. Make me the center of your attention, as you are mine."

        Shane wants to respond logically. Say that's a bad idea. Remind them both, out loud, that there's no way the intensity of these feelings will last. It's a bit concerning that Hayden had mentioned months of feeling useless at his job, but months is not forever. Unfortunately, logic isn't in the building with them in this moment.

        "You're mine, Ilya. I'll find you anywhere. No one can take you from me. I won't let them," Shane growls, catching the top of Ilya's ear at the same time as his muscles contract, pulling more of Ilya's release into him.

        He feels the shape of a wicked smile against his throat. "Never to be parted," Ilya snarls, teeth grazing the bite that's still healing. "Be mine, Shane. Please, be mine."

        There's only enough self-control left in Shane to forgo answering in favor of licking into the alpha's mouth, tonguing at sharp, bite-ready teeth. Because it's too early for promises of forever. Maybe Ilya doesn't mean to imply it. 'Be mine' is, after all, printed on chalk-flavored candy hearts every Valentine's Day. Two words that can run the spectrum from a request to fuck, to a vow of loyalty. But it's the latter that Shane hears in Ilya's earnest, accented voice. So, he licks away the question. Distracts with soul-eating kisses till his lips hurt and Ilya's knot deflates.

        "What are you doing?" Shane asks, as Ilya plucks Shane’s glasses off, setting them on the table, and pulls Shane up, cock slipping out of his hole. A hand covered by a tissue catches the spill of gravity-extracted semen, and it gets thrown away in the corner-garbage that Ilya walks over to, with Shane still in his arms.

        "We experience much for half day. I am taking nap. And you are coming with me," Ilya says, carrying Shane to the bedroom, Shane's daytime house shoes hooked on two fingers so that Shane won't be stranded in the bed or forced to go barefoot on cold, wooden floors and bathroom tiles.

        Nodding at the shoes, Shane murmurs against Ilya's ear, "You're so thoughtful."

        With a hum of agreement, Ilya says, "Da, thought full of you. Moreso now."

        "Sorry," Shane whispers, as he's gently set down on the bed that they quickly unmake, tugging neat corners out of folds.

        "No sorry. This is what I want. My job is half now. No longer need to convince you to bond. Just need to convince you to keep it. If anyone needs apology, is you from whoever convinces you this is easier that being one-sided," Ilya says, stretching out next to him and carefully, with every move telegraphed so that Shane has time to lean away if he wants, Ilya pulls Shane into his arms, head tucked under the alpha's chin.

        "It is easier. I think. Just in a different way. It's not what I expected," Shane mutters, eyes flickering closed as he tucks himself into the bigger body emanating heat beside him - like a lodge in winter, Shane thinks, missing Ilya's response, if there even is one. Maybe a 'what did you expect?' said with genuine curiosity. But if it's real or imagined, Shane's not sure.

        He should not be so exhausted half-way through the day. He still has to call his parents. Make plans. Tell them something that will sound plausible. That won't give them the wrong impression about his mate, who they'll have to meet.

        His anxiety apparently needs a shape. And the shape his dream provides him is a burning island, in the middle of a toxic lake. Before him is a bridge made of stone. A bit broken, crumbled away in places, but solid.

        Since there's no sense standing so close to the suffocating flames, Shane calmly makes his four-pawed way towards the one safe exit off the island.

        "No, I can fix this. You do not need to cross the bridge," he hears on the wind, before a golden beast sprints past him like a falling comet, large, heavy logs rattling together from their position strapped to his back.

        "Fix what? The fire? It's engulfed the whole island. The smoke is so heavy that there won't be air to breathe in another minute. I don't think there's much we can do about it at this point," Shane says, trotting along to catch up.

        The wolf is perched in the sand, putting together a raft with teeth and paws. There's not enough rope. Not enough logs. Maybe it can save one of them. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

        "I can get us across a different way," the wolf promises, fur curling in the heat of the blaze behind them, eating its way closer through timber and underbrush.

        "But we don't need another way," Shane says. "We can use the bridge. It's right there. An obvious solution."

        The golden wolf takes off for more wood. More rope. Coming back singed for his efforts. "There must be another solution. More choices. More options," the wolf mutters, pushing logs together with frantic paws.

        "There's no time!" Shane howls, over the roar of the flames that lick the sand, rolling across the dunes despite the lack of kindling. "Come with me," he demands, teeth finding purchase on the bigger beast's leg.

        "I can save us some other way," the creature says, but he too lacks conviction.

        With a snap of his jaws, Shane says, "I'm going," even as he tries his damnedest to get his scent to say 'chase me'.

        The golden wolf stands in terror, watching Shane fly pell-mell towards the bridge and salvation. He takes off after him, long strides closing the distance. Neck straining as if he really does intend to catch Shane and stop him from finding rescue.

        But for all his speed, Shane is faster. A streak of black, followed by a streak of gold - they cross the bridge and escape the fire. On the other side of the bridge, Shane's not quite the same as he was on the island. His coat feels sleeker. A heat in his abdomen. A wetness between his hindlegs. But otherwise, he's no worse for wear.

        "Why didn't you want to cross the bridge?" he asks, turning his head to find the great, golden beast collapsed at the foot of the stonework that saved their lives.

        The titan of a wolf doesn't answer. Shaking his head, he stays prostrate, muttering, "Should have been smarter. Should have looked harder. Clever, they call me, but it's clear that I'm not. To take the easiest way out, despite the cost...Shame. I'm ashamed. You deserve so much better."

        "What cost?" Shane asks, confused. "Besides, you saved me. Isn't being alive better than whatever the consequences are?" But then he pauses, confused. Because the wolf didn't save him.

        Licking his teeth and finding them blunt and close together, like a crowded cemetery, Shane shakes his head. "This is an imperfect metaphor. Like dynamite in an exhaust pipe," he says to the wolf curled at his feet. He leans down to pet golden fur and wakes to find his hand tangled in golden curls.

        Ilya's expression is serious, as always, but around the edges, there seems to be something just a little bit broken about it. The scent of winter carries with it a cloying, humid guilt.

        Although Shane's aware that the dreams aren't real - not shared spaces between them, not actual conversations they're having - there's still substance there. Clues and hints he's collected over hours or days coming together more coherently into a narrative he had not noticed. But he should have picked up on it sooner.

        Hayden's accusation. His assertion that there must have been another way out.

        Ilya, absorbing that blame. Doubting what already was a clever solution. One that exploited his knowledge of his older brother and the things he would and wouldn't agree to.

        The exacerbation from watching the videos. It must have been worse for Ilya, to hear the men jeering and telling lewd jokes as they watch an agent get bitched.

        Shane hates that the guilt lives in Ilya's chest, rooted in place despite Shane's forgiveness, acceptance, and gratitude. For all that he's not happy about what awaits him with omega cycles, it's still better than being dead. The scales would already favor the actions Ilya took, if Shane had just walked out of it with a one-sided bond to break and omega cycles to deal with. But he walked out with his life and a connection to an incredible alpha. To someone who alleviates the loneliness he had learned how to live with. Knowing Ilya on a personal level - not as a confidential informant in witty text exchanges - seems to be something of a gift. 

        It's still early, only a few days, so Shane tries to temper his enthusiasm. But, if everything holds steady, and Ilya really turns out to be the man he appears to be, then maybe the best thing that could have happened in the warehouse was Shane failing his mission and Ilya saving him the way he did.

        As he tries to soothe Ilya, running fingers through his hair, massaging away furrows in his brow, caressing tension out of a clenched jaw, Shane can't help hoping that time will help. That days, that turn into weeks, that turn into months, of cohabitation, collaboration, and, well...copulation, will help ease the unnecessary guilt Shane's words couldn't touch.

        With a sigh, Shane resolves himself to waiting for time to fog away the sharpness of the memories, plotting at ways he might be able to speed the process along so that Ilya has real, tangible evidence - of happy moments, improved well-being, mutual joy - to counter his guilt, render it moot.

        Blue eyes slide open, sharp from the first look. Ilya’s breathing doesn't change, and it has Shane wondering, "How long have you been awake?"

        "I have dream with you in it. Peyzazhe mechty. We talk about this yes? Dreamscape? When you start to smell sad in dream, I wake. And now, I remember you did not say, how was appointment?"

        "I told you about what the doctor suggested. We talked about bonds and cycles and apparently I forgot to ask her a whole host of questions. But I think I can find the info on the internet, for the most part. I don't think there's any issue with the bond mark, although we really should disinfect yours. You're covered in bloody fingerprints. I should have - "

        "Shh," Ilya interrupts him, pulling Shane close. "Blood is dry. A few minutes will not change much. Relax." Then he nudges under Shane's chin, licking over the healing bite on Shane's neck. "You do not have to tell me about appointment, but you should know - I can tell is not whole story."

        Swallowing hard, Shane admits, "I didn't realize omegas had it so different. Honestly, beta and alpha males have it easiest, and I don't think I appreciated that fact until now. Knowing even just the bare bones of what awaits in an omega cycle...I can't believe we're all walking around, interacting with each other every day, complaining about the weather or food in the cafeteria, and some people in the room might be actively bleeding beneath their clothes. Fuck...I don't even know what it means to deal with that. What are the options? Do I need to walk around with supplies?"

        As his words pick up speed, Shane's mouth putting voice behind his stream of consciousness, Ilya kisses him soundly, driving all that energy, all those questions, out of his head.

        "I know some of this," Ilya tells him. "Alpha female cycles are once a year, but Sveta makes sure I know what I am missing out on. What we do not know together, we will find out. You are not alone, Shane."

        "Does that extend to facing my parents?" Shane jokes. "I still have to call them."

        Reaching out a ridiculously long arm, Ilya finds Shane's cell phone on the nightstand and hands it to him. "Da, we will face them together. Call."

        "But how are we going to explain this?" Shane asks, worrying his lip.

        "In person. For now, just say you have someone for them to meet. We will drive down to Ottawa and, if goes well, we stay overnight like you usually do. If not so well, I can drive back alone and you can take train next day, or we can come back early, or I can stay in hotel. We will play it by ear, but come what may, we will have each other to rely on."

        Ilya's confidence is infectious. And even though he shouldn't let it, even though it's still too early, Shane can't help the same stupid feeling of bright gratitude at the support. He'd never expected to have someone he could rely on. Never thought he'd meet someone like Ilya.

        As he pulls up his mother's phone number in the contacts of his new phone, he wonders if it's too good to be true. People caution about moving too fast for a reason, and they're making moves at a lightning pace.

        The worst part is, he doesn't want to slow down. His closest friends, Caution and Logic, are silent observers as Shane hits the button to dial.

Chapter 17

Chapter Summary

Meet the Parents , part 1

Chapter Notes

Thank you guys for recommending this fic and continuing to comment. It means the world to me (*ฅ́ ˘ฅ̀*)♡

Also, sorry to be splitting this into two parts, but we have some important conversations to get to and they differ thematically from the focus of this chapter, I think? Anyways, I'll do my best not to make you wait to long for more.

        They sit in silence, parked just around the corner from the house Shane grew up in.

        Ilya doesn't push, doesn't cajole or convince. Doesn't tell Shane everything will be fine. Content to just hold Shane in his arms, the two of them spread sideways across the front seats of Shane's "boring" land rover. Minutes tick by and still, Shane can't bring himself to take them the rest of the way down the street. Hands shaking, he clutches at his phone, wondering if he should call the whole thing off.

        "Is it prejudice? Your parents do not like omegas?" Ilya asks, with honest confusion.

        "No, it's not that," Shane says, leaning back, nosing into Ilya's neck and inhaling deeply. "I know they'll accept me. It's just, the whole thing reeks of bad decisions. They're going to be so disappointed..."

        "Is still time to change story," Ilya offers. "We can tell them something else."

        Shane snorts. "Like what?"

        "That I am Russian mail order bride?"

        Shane bursts into laughter, the loud guffawing kind as his imagination picks up the thread and runs with it. Picturing Ilya's massive frame coming through the sliding doors in the Arrivals section of the airport, dressed in a white lacy gown, its delicate hem brushing over the tops of the alpha's preferred oxblood combat boots. With a wide smile and a jaunty wave, offering to carry Shane out of the airport bridal-style, despite Shane being the one in a Tux.

        "Oh, great idea," he laughs. "A Bureau agent, who specializes in human-trafficking, unironically supporting Russia's known-to-be-crooked mail order bride industry. I'm sure my parents would have no questions. And how does that lead to me being bitched exactly?"

        "Pure enthusiasm," Ilya says directly against his ear, voice deepened to a ridiculous base that thrums into Shane and leaves him shuddering. 

        "Holy shit, don't do that! If you give me a hard-on, I'm turning this car around and blaming our absence on you, my 'unruly guest'."

        Ilya sniggers, unrepentantly, blue eyes rapt and glistening. So focused, it's almost a little scary. Then he offers his next unhinged idea. "Is better if you are hero in story, then? Can change. You rescue me, mail order bride, form evil groom with pot belly, no hair, and little money. He does not pay buy-now-pay-later installment for bride service on time and Russian debt collectors show up at his door, threatening to chop off piece of me for every day he is late. Ten men are holding me down in chair, while boss has machete raised over my arm, when you burst through door and start shooting. Almost mistake me for bad guys, but decide is impossible. I am too handsome for this. So, you take me home, because I have no money, no place to stay, and lazy groom is gone, no one knows where - "

        "Oh my god, stop. I don't want to know where this story is going," Shane manages to say between helpless swallowed chuckles that he refuses to put sound behind. "You're a menace. What are these ideas? I can't tell my parents any of that."

        Nosing at the side of his head, Ilya lays out his options simply. "The story we already choose is close to truth. Easy to remember. Less likely to smell like lie. But this makes you nervous and unhappy. Fiction story will smell like lie and, since you say parents are good, lying will make you and them sad and unhappy. You can avoid parents. Say you are sick or away on business trip, training in America or in Canadian wilderness. Speak only through cameras remotely and tell them you are falling in love with alpha, that you want children and will be turning omega, and then later say I am infertile. Lies on lies on lies that will be easy to spot and make you all sad and unhappy. Or, you tell them truth - "

        "No," Shane says, immediately. The truth isn't an option. For all that he hates how irresponsible the story he plans to give his parents will paint him, all the alternatives suck. But nothing more so than the truth.

        He doesn't want his parents looking at him like he's a victim, crying tears over an incident that, laid out in words, will sound darker and harsher and more traumatic than the reality had been. The way it would have been with probably anyone else, besides Ilya. And he doesn't need them transferring any of their upset, or rage over the unfairness of what happened, onto Ilya, who's already struggling with the doubts Hayden woke in him and the unnecessary guilt he seems to feel for saving Shane in the only way he'd known how.

        "I guess since there's only one real option, then there's no point waiting. Best get it over with as soon as possible," Shane says, climbing out of Ilya's lap and starting the car.

        In two seconds, they're around the corner, parked once more. Shane doesn't let himself think. Just gets out of the car, leaving their duffel bags behind in case things go south and he decides they're not staying the night. Although Ilya may try to argue with him, Shane has no intention of staying at his parents' house alone.

        "I will come back for these, when is clear we are staying. Maybe best not to introduce heavy, glass bottle of flammable liquid to volatile situation," Ilya says, hesitating over the gifts he'd brought for Shane's parents.

        "You really didn't have to. They aren't going to be expecting presents. Also, I don't think they'd hit you over the head with a bottle of vodka," Shane says, trying to sound confident, even though his imagination is quick to conjure an image of his mom doing just that.

        Ilya squints at him. "You do not sound very sure. And, when meeting parents, you bring gifts. Or is it in-laws? If you live at one address and share full bond, is this common-law marriage?"

        "Not in Montreal, thankfully. Unlike in Ottawa, where the bond would instantly make us common-law spouses, the time spent living together irrelevant. I think the lack of marriage should make my parents feel at least a little bit better. Bad enough to show up with a new designation and a bond. A marriage, on top of that, would probably be a step too far."

        "You are sure is not worse? Russian parents would prefer marriage. Would make rest less - " Ilya waves a hand, the word escaping him.

        "Exploitative?"

        "Da, that is good word. Marriage means partner is not cheap and easy to discard. Means there is some loyalty and protection included."

        "Don't worry, Ilya. I don't think you're cheap and easy," Shane teases.

        "But I am cheap and easy," Ilya says, following Shane to the front door. "I will cost you nothing and ask only for what you will freely give."

        Pressing the doorbell with the same automatic "don't think about it" attitude, Shane says, "I'd freely give you time and effort towards chores, if you'd just let me help with them."

        "Is not even a week yet. I did not know dishes could be favorite hobby, but since you like so much, then I need some time to see what makes washing them so fun. You will have to wait."

        "But the bond is stable now, right? Wasn't that what we were waiting for?" Shane asks, pressing the doorbell again, confused at the missing sound of approaching footsteps from behind the door.

        Ilya snorts. "I will not make you wait for your beloved dishes the months it will take to reach equilibrium. But I ask for three weeks minimum."

        "Why three weeks?" Shane asks, ringing the bell a third time.

        "Because I am weak. Three weeks is probable max of how long I can keep telling you nyet to same question. Your parents - do they go out, thinking you will use key?"

        Shane's already reaching into his pocket when the wind suddenly shifts and he catches the scent of his parents. "Oh...they're out in the yard. Dad must be gardening again and my mom usually keeps him company." Walking the perimeter of the house and into the sprawling back yard with Ilya dogging his footsteps, Shane tries to keep his mind empty. Determined not to spiral into doomsday scenarios, when he should be ripping the bandaid off and letting whatever's going to happen, happen.

        Ilya whistles low, impressed at the size of the expansive yard, the end of which butts up against a forest's edge. "Ah, this is why no one answers bell. Your father is planting flowers in another country."

        Shane chokes on a laugh. "Come on, it's not that big," Shane says, linking his hand with Ilya's and tugging him across the lawn. It’s wild just how necessary the gesture and the contact feels. Since this ‘stable bond’ was completed, Shane’s hand frequently feels empty without Ilya’s. It’s ridiculous. 

        Breath audibly catching at first contact, Ilya's hand immediately contracts into a firm hold. "Lucky day," he mumbles under his breath in Russian. "Since they are upwind of us, you will probably get a chance to say something before they realize you are not an unbonded alpha anymore."

        Shane doesn't chance a response - not even in Russian - as they reach the point where he can just make out the words his parents are exchanging in their own little bubble, largely unaware of the world around them as his dad kneels in the grass, working at a spot of freshly tilled earth in a garden bed. Mom sits on one of the cinder blocks of the raised bed, above the one Dad's working in, sipping at a half-filled wine glass as she entertains him while he’s toiling at his favorite labor. Watching them together, he notices the way they still seem to lean in each other's direction, as if pulled by a low-grade magnet. Their love, still a force of mental, physical, and emotional attraction between them, despite the decades of marriage.

        Shane's seen them like this since birth and used to think nothing of it. But now, he takes in the scene and feels his eyes tear up. Because he wants this - scenes of domesticity, camaraderie, companionship - with Ilya. Or maybe with the alpha integrated into his broader family. He wants him to fit here, easy and seamless. Accepted. Lov -

        Fuck.

        It hasn't been long enough for love.

        Not to have it.

        Not to know it.

        Not to want it.

        Maybe he really should have waited to bond with Ilya. What had seemed so logical yesterday is starting to feel like a trick he's played on himself. 

        For all that Shane might feel more stable - less worried about Ilya wanting freedom or someone else; less agonized over the thought of not being enough - he now has a new problem. Wanting to be physically close to Ilya is one thing. But he wants to hear Ilya speak. To listen to the absurd jokes that catch him off-guard; to the smooth Russian that sounds like poetry even when it's just a simple accounting of the man's day; to the anecdotes that fall so far outside Shane's lived experience, they feel like fairytales of an underworld he's only ever seen from the point-of-view of a busybody with an eye to the keyhole...

        It's concerning to be only a few days in and already struggling to picture his own life without this. Some greedy thing beneath his skin just wants more, more, more. The demand, as constant as his pulse.

        When they're close enough for his mom to catch their presence in her peripheral vision, she looks up, eyes going warm as she spots Shane. "Hi, honey!" she calls out, slipping her feet deeper into the tennis shoes she'd popped off her heels as she stands, the color high in her cheeks from the embrace of her marino wool sweater and the alcohol.

        "Oh, Shane!" Dad stands up, dusting off his jeans despite the pad he'd been kneeling on, eyes crinkling with delight as he takes both Shane and Ilya in, pleased to be hosting a guest given how rarely Yuna feels sociable enough to allow it.

        "Mom. Dad," Shane calls back in acknowledgement, forcing his feet forward even though they'd rather stick in place.

        Yuna closes the distance between them entirely too quickly. Shane doesn't even get a word in before she can smell him, no matter which way the wind's blowing. Her stride hitches, but the rigidity of her alpha designation doesn't let the first warning sign that something might be off delay her. She pushes forward until she's standing in front of her no-longer-alpha son. "Oh," she croaks out, fingers spasming outward like a cat flexing its paw, preparing for the pounce. Unfortunately, she's brought the wine glass with her and it falls from her suddenly nonexistent grip...

        ...straight into the waiting bowl of Ilya's free hand. As if he'd known seeing Shane would, for some reason, trigger the learned alpha-typical response. But, being half-full, the wine sloshes out of the glass. Sticky, red-staining, and pungent, the alcohol swashes over the lip, drenching the cuff of Ilya's black button down, and spilling over his wrist and into his palm.

        Mom barely notices that she just dropped her glass. Hand shaking, she lifts it to Shane’s cheek, tracing over the lines of his face like it’s the first time she’s seeing him. Eyes glowing wet, she shifts closer, until she can get her arms around him, and squeezes tight around his middle. Little, hurt noises come out of her throat that he tries to soothe away with the strength of his own hug, but there’s nothing he can do to change his suddenly-omega scent profile.

        "Oh, dear,” David says, jumping in to alleviate the awkwardness starting to build up around the moment. “Let me help you get cleaned up. Nice catch, by the way," he says, wearing a mask of gentle hospitality, even as his nostrils flare and he gathers the gist of the situation, realizing what has his wife so devastated. He takes Ilya away with a firm hand on the alpha's elbow, further into the yard, where the hose and water spout reside. Efficiently giving Shane and Yuna space, without any of the social clumsiness that would be present if the task were left up to either mother or son.

        As if by mutual agreement, they wait until the sound of water, cranking through pipes and draining into a bucket, is loud enough to drown out their conversation.

        But the reprieve officially ends there.

        "What. Happened?" Yuna asks, rigid control keeping her voice low, but taut with strain. Her eyes narrow in on the suspicious square, adhesive-lined bandage covering Shane's scent gland.

        "Something happened at work," Shane says. "There's no sense telling the story twice and I think Dad deserves to hear it from me. I thought maybe we could...sit down. Have tea. Talk about it."

        Mouth pursed with unhappy agreement, Mom turns on her heel to observe Ilya as he squats in front of the bucket, thighs spread wide, looking perfectly at ease, as he chats Dad up. Likely peppering the man with questions about his garden. Absorbing tidbits about a hobby he cares little about, but will likely remember, for future deployment in conversation-starters and catch-up sessions with Dad.

        Shane faintly suspects that the electronic notebook the man keeps in one of his deep jeans pockets, and looks at more regularly than his phone, must be full of notes about different acquaintances, business partners, and friends. Or else his mind is a steel trap. He always seems to remember the oddest little details.

        "Who's the boy?" Mom asks, sharp eyes scanning over the foreign alpha, lingering over shoulders and arms, as if already calculating whether she can take him down in a fight, or if she'll need to employ more underhanded tactics if necessary.

        It's not too surprising that she'd immediately land on the conclusion that she might need to. It's her overcautious nature that Shane inherited, after all. And the biggest reason he'd chosen to become an agent in the Bureau.

        And if ever a résumé could function as a red flag, Ilya's would. Shane tries to absorb some of her caution, reminding himself that he doesn't know the alpha well enough to vouch too stridently for him. But, still, the need to defend Ilya is almost reflexive. He swallows down much of his initial defensiveness, and says only the part he needs her to understand.

        "Ilya's not a boy. We're not children, Mom. I'm well aware that much of what I have to tell you guys is going to sound reckless. Trust me, we're both very familiar with all the ways this situation isn't ideal, having grappled with how it all played out for days on end. But I hope you'll listen to us. Well, mostly me, because you're my parents and this is my show to run."

        He hears the rumble in Mom's chest as her eyes track Ilya's (and David's) return.

        "Ok, Shane. We'll hear you out. No interruptions," she says, but her eyes are stuck to Ilya. More specifically, to his unmarked neck. The confusion of seeing him unmarked, when he clearly smells bonded, appears on her face, but she doesn't ask.

        Who knows how long they'd be standing there in tense silence if it weren't for his socially graceful Dad looking around at the three of them, the placid smile of a consummate host shining as he offers, "How about we sit down for some tea in the dining room?"

        "Da - er...yes," Ilya accepts, shoulders pinned back, as he does this ridiculously formal bow, as if he's accepting the invitation from a foreign dignitary. "If you will just permit me a moment, I have something to fetch from car," Ilya says. His eyes wince slightly, ears starting to glow with rouge as he clears his throat and quietly corrects, "From the car."

        In Russian, Shane's aware, there are no articles. It intrigues him to hear Ilya using them now, in a more careful, more grammatical, and more curated English. He can almost feel the additional effort Ilya's putting in, like a pressure in the air.

        "We'll meet you at the front door," Shane tells his parents.

        Ilya's mouth opens but he doesn't speak. Just takes the hand Shane thrusts out to him and lets himself be towed to the car. "You okay?" Shane asks, voice low, even though they're far enough away not to be overheard.

        "Your father is nice. Very friendly."

        "Did you spend the whole time speaking to him so...properly?"

        With a shrug, Ilya releases a long sigh. "My English - I am lazy with it. Out of practice with past and future tenses. Relying too much on direct translation from Russian to English, with just few changes to sentences. Your parents will think I am uneducated immigrant. Not good fit for you."

        "Don't invent false narratives. My mom's parents were immigrants," Shane says, unlocking the car. "Also, I think they'll be too busy trying to recover from a sugar coma to think much of anything. Couldn't you have picked just one pastry shop instead of hitting up three of them?" Shane asks, collecting the vodka bottle from the foot well.

        "Took only hour to collect. Is no problem," Ilya says, carefully pulling the strangely artistic cooler out of the back seat.

        "Are those Gustav Klimt paintings?" Shane asks, surprised at how the composition manages to be tasteful instead of garish or too busy, given that all six sides of the sharp-cornered box are painted.

        "In the style of Klimt. Not his direct work. You know paintings?"

        Rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, Shane admits, "I only remember a few names from the time I worked on a case with the White Collar Crimes Division. We needed to delay one of the bigger fish in a crime ring, so WCC got involved. They arrested him for tax evasion and I was working at a desk nearby as they were going over his collection of paintings - some fake, some real, some stolen."

        With a snort, Ilya carefully walks the cooler to the front door, keeping the box perfectly level. "So, that is how you catch Artyom Popov? Was his arrest that makes me become confidential informant. Before this, I assume Bureau is not effective and will not keep anyone in prison."

        After ringing the doorbell, Shane clutches the gift bag with the expensive bottle of vodka to his chest, afraid that he'll drop it while he's feeling so blindsided at the coincidence. Working with the WCC had been a long shot. He'd spent weeks burning the midnight oil, pouring over intel, looking for any opportunity to shut down Popov.

        The fact that, if he had failed, they wouldn't be here today, standing as a mated pair in front of his parents' door is enough to increase his heartrate. An irrational panic over this future, the one that already exists and he’s already living, creeps in as he confronts what he might have lost if things had gone differently.

        The door opening thankfully returns some of Shane’s equilibrium. 

        "Come in," David says, bright and welcoming.

        Ilya executes another little bow as he enters, "Thank you, Mr. Hollander."

        With a chuckle, David claps him on the back and says, "No need to be so formal, Ilya. Please, call me David."

        "And stop bowing," Shane mutters, teasingly, pressing an elbow softly into Ilya's side.

        "Is - er...It. is. practically. automatic," Ilya says, thinking through each word before giving it voice as he toes off his shoes and stands in his carefully selected argyle socks waiting for Shane.

        "Does Russia have very rigid social rules, Ilya?" Dad asks, seemingly determined to use the alpha's name as often as possible.

        Having never brought anyone home before, Shane doesn't know what to make of it. He's seen his dad do the same in business meetings, to win people over, remember names, and reduce friction. To see it now, Shane doesn't know whether to take it as a positive or negative sign.

        "There are rules, but Russia is also modern. Young people will sometimes not follow...rules," Ilya answers, speech slower than usual, hesitating over where there should or shouldn't be articles. His expression turns more serious, dissatisfaction with his language skills sharpening his facial features, eyes piercing with focus.

        "I guess that's true in a lot of places, these days. Formality's fallen out of style. Granted, I don't miss it," Dad says, leading them through, to the kitchen.

        Leaning against the counter, Mom's watching the electric kettle boil, four glasses set out, but only three of them primed with tea bags.

        Clearing his throat, Ilya stands off to the side of his Mom, leaving her with the option to either face him directly or ignore him. Whatever her inclination might be, she startles as much as Shane does, when Ilya, with near flawless Japanese pronunciation, says "Tsumaranai monodesuga" - it's nothing special, but please have it - and bows again, a little deeper, presenting the fancy cooler full of pastries from three different shops in Montreal with both hands.

        Her expression twists with emotion, torn between confused, suspicious, and unwittingly charmed. "You didn't need to do that," she says, taking the cooler reluctantly.

        Ilya means to say something in response, but nothing comes out. His eyes flicker to the side, shifting side to side as if he's reading a book only he can see.

        It's the English again.

        As the scent of muted gasoline starts to overpower the winter that had hung in the air moments earlier, Shane takes over. Handing Dad the gift-bagged bottle of vodka, he says, "He got you this. I tried to convince him he didn't need to bring anything, but he insisted. You should be familiar with this, Mom. Obaa-chan and Ojii-chan always made us bring gifts anytime someone was hosting."

        "Oh, gosh, The Jewel of Russia Ultra Limited-Edition," David reads off, pulling the bottle out. He traces over the hand-painted scene of a man and woman in traditional Russian dress dancing together in the woods on the front of the decanter and follows the edge of the bottle with his thumb to the dome-shaped top. "These are quite expensive."

        When Ilya once again tries to say something and stops himself, paralyzed with the need for correctness, Shane elbows him a little harder. "Forget about grammar. Native speakers are constantly saying things incorrectly. I want to hear the things you keep swallowing, so please just say them," Shane says, feeling himself blush, hating to sound so...invested in front of his parents, but this really can't continue.

        "You were saying," Dad prompts, grin encouraging as he tries to bolster Shane's message.

        Swallowing hard, Ilya clicks his heels together like a soldier responding to a call and then winces over it. "Ah, was going to say, is no problem. Vodka is free for Russians. Every baby is born with bottle in hand."

        Shane can't help it - it's objectively such a stupid, unserious joke; maybe even an obvious one to make...but with Shane's interruption utterly having destroyed the timing where the joke might have worked, the confusion on Dad's face over whether Ilya's trying to share a real factoid with him, coupled with Ilya's serious delivery in a very authentic accent - he bursts into laughter over how all the pieces come together into an absurd little moment of awkwardness.

        And, like always when Shane laughs, Ilya's attention catches, his head turning to watch with bright, glowing blue eyes, enthralled.

        Dad chuckles along with him, sounding so convincingly amused that Shane can't tell if it's out of politeness or not.

        Shaking his head at the two of them, Ilya says to Shane, "You say your family drinks sometimes, but I think maybe is dangerous. Only your mother is sober enough to recognize not funny joke and she is only one who is drinking."

        Leaning into the alpha, Shane kisses the side of Ilya's jaw since it's all he can reach without standing on his toes, "You two, go sit at the table. I'll help Mom in the kitchen."

        "You just want to spend time with dishes," Ilya mutters in Russian, catching Shane off-guard again and making him laugh.

        "Fuck off," Shane mutters back in kind, expecting a stern, scolding echo of "Language!" from his parents, and then feeling gleeful at getting away with it, because his parents don't speak Russian and don’t recognize Russian swear words.

        "Come, David," Ilya says, finally loosening up, the easy charm returning as the stress in him abates. "We can pretend to be incompetent mates so that House Summit can occur in kitchen." In the same way he silently asks Shane for permission before touching, his arm comes up in a curve at the height of his dad's shoulders.

        An offer that's accepted as Dad steps into the space of the huge alpha.

        They settle in at the table, sitting across from each other and murmuring in quiet voices. At the same time, the kettle automatically turns off.

        Dropping a sachet of black tea into the empty cup, Shane looks up at his mom, who has been quietly watching the exchange without commentary. Now that she's processed her observations, Shane notices a lack of tension in her face, scent more approachable and less worried than it had been out in the yard.

        Clearing her throat, Yuna nods at the box on the counter. "Help me with this? I'm not sure what it is, or how to open it."

        Shoulder to shoulder, Shane points out the hidden latch and pulls off the top. "It's a cooler. Since it's a few hours from Montreal and we were running heat in the car, he decided a cooler could be both a smart transport option and a reasonable utilitarian gift."

        They stare into the box together, dumbfounded.

        "These...look like the chimney cakes from Ol'Sweet Pastry. And, aren't these the trompe-l'oeil from LiMon Patisserie?" She starts counting the fruit-lookalikes.

        "Yup, and that's a fresh Russian babka made this morning at Wawel. Or something like that. He started talking about how the store is Polish, so it's similar but not the same; that normally he'd have gotten kulich, but they didn't have it. Anyways, yeah. He hit up three bakeries in one morning."

        "They're not all that close to each other, if I remember correctly," Mom says, starting to plate the desserts on a large serving dish.

        Shane shrugs. "I get the sense that he tries to work past his anxieties. Doing things he thinks will help with whatever he's anxious about. His...apartment is kind of like that. He wanted it to be safe, so he did a lot to secure it. He wanted today to go well, so it seems like he looked up stuff about Japanese culture."

        Mom takes a breath, like she's going to ask a question, and then releases it, deciding to wait. "Go set the table," she says, pressing the serving dish into his hands as she goes to pour water into the tea cups.

        They stick to small talk as they load up on sugar. Or they try to, at least, but Shane keeps steering the conversation to general, impersonal topics like the weather and Dad's plants, Mom's hockey obsession, Ottawa and its landmarks.

        When they're finally finished eating, the plates have been placed in the dishwasher, leftover pastries have been put away, and they're all just sipping on steaming mugs of tea, Mom steeples her fingers together and looks at the two of them.

        "How did this happen?" she asks as Dad's hand finds the table edge, as if bracing for impact.

        Shane's gaze meets Ilya's. Like a final check-in before doing something dangerous. He needs this to go well and the pressure of it has him reaching for Ilya's hand under the table. It's only when he can feel a firm grip clutching back that Shane starts.

        "I probably should have introduced you sooner. I've known Ilya for a few years now, and our relationship has evolved over time. From coworkers who communicate remotely, to pen-pals sharing more than dry details about a case, to friends working in-person on a common goal. We were hesitant to act on the pull between us, but it was there, in the background. This unrealized potential for something more.

        "And when we did finally start dating, it was casual. Low stakes. No pressure. We minimized our connection because relationships between alphas tend to fizzle out. People don't treat them seriously, assuming it's just two knot-heads passing time before settling down - an easy source for companionship while still looking for someone more compatible. So, I didn't treat it seriously either. Didn't introduce him to you guys when I should have - once it was obvious that we were invested in each other."

        Dad looks convinced so far, nodding along like it all makes sense. But he was never the concern.

        Mom, on the other hand, is looking at Shane narrow-eyed. "You've never mentioned him before. Not even in passing," she says, raising her eyebrows in silent question.

        "I didn't think there was a need to. In my head, I assumed we were temporary, even when all the signs indicated we were well past that point."

        "When did you have time to date? You spent every other weekend here, and the rest we spent with you. In your apartment. Where you didn't have pictures of him. No second toothbrush. No forgotten clothes or extra phone chargers," she lists off, as if conducting an official interrogation.

        "If we were spending weekends together, I maybe would have noticed how close we'd gotten. Instead, I spent an ever-increasing number of week nights at his apartment and told myself it didn't mean anything."

        "And you were okay with this, Ilya?" Mom asks, turning her shrewd gaze on the alpha.

        "Is not my place to push. I try to point out facts to see if Shane picks up on growing attachment between us, but was not worth risk. Was not my intention to scare off Shane and, in process, lose friend and easy working relationship on top of break-up." He sounds so convincing, even though the answer has likely been made-up on the spot. 

        When Mom doesn't immediately jump in with further questions, Shane rushes to say, "I don't think I was ready to admit how much I liked Ilya. For a long time, I couldn't see a future for us. I avoided asking if he was planning to stay in Canada forever, and skipped over questions like: do you want kids, how do you picture your future, what are your career ambitions...As long as I wasn't hearing ways in which we might be incompatible, then I could pretend there wasn't an expiration date baked into what we were doing.

        "But then, this week, we were given a dangerous assignment together. I can't give you the details, but suffice it to say, the situation was dire. The stress of it really pushed me over the edge. I tried to handle it, but it was too much. The alpha in me couldn't deal, and we were still in the thick of it, making quick, poorly-thought-out, reckless decisions as we tried to pull through. Obviously, it worked out, but for a solid three days, it didn't look like we would. And the stress of it changed my designation."

        There's a sharp inhale of air as Dad clamps a hand over Mom's shoulder, eyes wide with fear and concern. Mom takes his hand and holds it in the cradle of her own without ever looking away from Shane. She looks shocked.

        Seeing their visibly worried expressions, Shane struggles to continue. Hating to be the cause of their devastation. But on the other hand, they really did almost lose their one and only son. If not for Ilya, he wouldn't be here and the grief they'd be feeling wouldn't be over a hypothetical; but rather over a real tombstone, a real casket, or a real urn.

        For all that he hates the news he's imparting and the effect on his parents, Shane reminds himself that the lies are better than the truth, which would be in no way comforting.

        With a sigh, Shane continues, "We hid in the nearest bolt hole we could find. Given the shock of changing designations, I needed more support than usual. Ilya obliged. And while we were stuck waiting for the heat of pursuit to die down, we probably should have been more cautious. In a moment of intimacy, I did something heinously stupid. Under the influence of a cocktail of hormones and flooded with biological imperatives, I bit him in the thigh."

        Mom's mouth drops and her and Dad share a confused look.

        Chewing on his lip, worried about the change in their demeanors, Shane finishes with, "The one-sided bond was straining Ilya with debilitating side effects, so by mutual decision, we decided to complete the bond yesterday."

        The end, Shane thinks, but doesn't say. Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he waits for his parents to say something. Waiting for a reaction while carefully modulating his breathing. Trying to head off any spiraling or panic attacks. The deep breaths help, with Ilya’s cold-mimicking scent helping to ice out some of his anxiety.

        It's maybe not the best sign that Mom immediately focuses on, "You bit a bonding gland without permission?"

        He feels Ilya's hand squeeze his, frustration clawing his fingers. This was the one part of the story they'd argued about.

        Ilya had insisted they build a narrative around a mutual bonding experience.

        Whereas Shane had maintained that his parents would never believe he agreed to form a permanent bond on such short notice.

        For a while, they'd brainstormed catalysts, trying to think of something reasonable to blame for bonding, but those stories quickly got convoluted and unbelievable. The simplest lie to believe was that one of them was to blame.

        Ilya had reluctantly agreed, but seeing the hints of disapproval in the look he flashes at Shane, he'd apparently thought Shane would pin the blame on him.

        Sure, his parents would more readily believe it. They also wouldn't trust the alpha any time soon, if ever again. An unacceptable end result.

        Before Shane can answer his mom, Ilya jumps in. "He has permission. When bite happens, he knows he has permission. Timing was surprise, but since our jobs are not very safe, I tell him while ago that I am open to bonding, if he ever wishes for it."

        Mom and Dad share a look, silently communicating something, but the sharpness of their scents rounds out. No longer so alarmed.

        "You wanted to bond even though you weren't sure you were compatible?" Mom asks Ilya, brows knotted together in confusion.

        "Shane thinks is chance we are not compatible. But I am willing to bond without knowing every detail. Seems worth it, even if is not permanent. If a year from now Shane wants freedom, I will still have year of closeness to remember. Should help when things inevitably get dangerous again at work. When I tell Shane I would be happy to bond if he wants this, he expresses desire to wait; so we wait. Now, wait is over, so I am happy,” Ilya says, trying to make clear the bond wasn’t imposed on him without consent.

        Which may technically be true; but, on a less dramatic, less coercive level, Shane does actually feel like he convinced the alpha into a full bond on faulty information. Unintentional it may have been, but Shane still feels guilty over it.

        As if catching on to his guilt, Mom pins him with her eyes. "I'm surprised at you, Shane. I thought you had more control than that."

        "Normally, I do," Shane says with a sign. "When I'm not under the influence of a changed biology I barely understand. I had no idea how little I knew about it untilI went to the clinic yesterday, to get information from a credited source."

        "And what did you learn?" Dad asks, concern prominent. He looks over at Mom and says, "I don't think there's been an omega on my side of the family for generations."

        "On my side, quite a few transitioned during the second World War because of what was happening politically," Mom offers, "but it was mostly distant cousins of my parents."

        Swallowing hard, Shane shrugs. "I hate to say it, but a lot of the information shouldn't have been new. I just never thought I'd need to care about omega cycles. I can't even take anything to stop heats or menses until after the first round. And, even then, I'll only have the option to realistically stop one or the other, because the side effects compound if you try to avoid both pharmacologically."

        This has Ilya sitting straight up, spine rigid and the scent of gasoline suddenly heavy in the air. All eyes turn to him.

        "What's wrong?" Shane asks, squeezing the hand he's still gripping under the table.

        Visibly struggling to relax, Ilya shakes his head. "Will tell you later. Just, news is surprising. You did not say they tell you this at clinic."

        Shane shrugs. "It's not relevant information for a while. If a male omega cycle is about a season, then there's nothing to decide for the next three months."

        Ilya makes a noise of acknowledgement, but otherwise doesn't say anything more.

        With a clap, Mom gathers their attention. "I think a break would do us all some good. David and I will get started on dinner. Shane, how about you take Ilya on a hike? Show him around the woods. We refreshed the path to the main trail as soon as the snow melted, and it hasn't rained recently, so you shouldn't have to worry about mud."

        "You do not need help with preparing food?" Ilya asks, still so very straight-backed with tension.

        "No, but thank you for offering, Ilya," Mom says, polite but still distant. Still needing to be convinced that the man has staying power.

        Swallowing a groan, Shane realizes the interrogation will continue at dinner, but with likely a deeper focus on Ilya's background and all the questions his parents would have asked if Shane hadn't spent so much time at tea ensuring the questions didn't get asked.

        They all stand up as a group, but before they can disperse, Dad comes around the table and pulls Shane into a hug. "I'm so sorry you're going through all this, son. It sounds like you've been through the wringer. The both of you have. But I'm so happy you made it out the other end."

        Mom joins in on the hug, wrapping her arms around the two of them and squeezing. "If you need any help, honey, just let us know. I can research good therapists in Montreal, see what the research says about stress-induced designation transitions, maybe find some support groups - "

        "It's okay, Mom. I'm okay. Really, this hasn't been nearly as bad as it could have been. Because of Ilya."

        As they separate, Shane steps back, and catches Ilya's hand in a fierce clutch, hoping it conveys just how much he means that.

        Mopping away each other's tears, Mom and Dad turn to look at them together, standing side by side.

        "Thank you so much for helping my son," Mom says, her trembling mouth hidden behind her hand. Dad nods once, as if to second Mom's gratitude, but he can't get any words out. Instead, he hugs Ilya, letting the strength and duration of the squeeze speak for him.

        Startled, Ilya pats Dad's back soothingly with his free hand. "Is no problem," Ilya assures them, voice deep and resonant. "I will always protect Shane. Even if we are not together."

        And he means it. It's there in his scent. In his face. In his eyes, especially. A diamond promise that will not rust or break under pressure.

        With how little time of true connection there is between them, it feels like too much, too soon. And yet, Shane feels the equal and opposite echo of that promise in himself. If Ilya were in danger, he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to stop himself from intervening.

Chapter 18

Chapter Summary

Meet the parents Part 2 of 2.

Chapter Notes

This chapter was a struggle to get through for a variety of reasons. Not least of which was a surprise visit from a college friend that stole the weekend out from under me.

Thank you for your patience and the motivating comments. It makes all the difference when I hit a roadblock with this story.

        "You are sure this is correct path? Fork is unmarked," Ilya asks, nose twitching as he tries to make sense of the smells trapped in the confines of the wider wood.

        "How did I not know you were such a city boy?" Shane laughs, watching as Ilya pulls out his note-taking device and starts sketching out a map, noting the forks they've taken. "You don't trust me to get you back home in my own backyard?"

        "If I make you angry, I have no bread crumbs to make trail. You can run into woods and then I will have to wander looking for houses made of sugar to survive. Which no one makes, because rain will wash away sugar. So I will starve."

        "You're so dramatic," Shane says, grinning. "What could you possibly do to make me angry?"

        He doesn't expect an answer to that question, but Ilya seemingly has one, if the way he winces is anything to go by. "What is it?" Shane asks, his even, quick-paced stride slowing, confused by how unhappy Ilya looks.

        The alpha bites his lip, canine digging in so viciously that the plush, sensitive skin starts to bleed.

        "Hey!" Shane pulls them to a halt, his hands holding the huge alpha’s elbows. "What's wrong?"

        "Is not my business," Ilya blurts out, his own hands finding Shane's hip bones and holding him in place. "I know this. I will not pressure you or harp on topic after this one time. But even if is one time, I think you will be offended. Is not my problem. Not thing I will be dealing with. I understand and the decision is, and always will be, yours."

        "And this vague decision you're working so hard not to name is...?" Shane asks.

        Swallowing hard, Ilya says, "When I am twelve, I walk into my mother's bedroom and find her dead."

        There's a deeper chill to the winter of Ilya's scent that has Shane pressing his lips together, determined to listen without interruption. But he can't help the way his arms pull Ilya close, trying to soothe the grief that seems to run so deep. Ilya's never smelled harsher, like air so cold, it needs to be breathed in through a layer of scarf, a little bit at a time, each breath feeling like a future sore throat.

        "Her name is Irina, and she is once a talented figure skater. People watch her dance on ice and say she will go far. They say she will become Olympian because talent is so great. But before she can do this, she meets my father. I do not know details of their relationship, but he is strict, critical, demanding alpha thirty years older than my mother. I always know marriage is not because of some great love. But at wake, house full of guests sharing food and memories and drinking shots in Irina's honor, I go looking for Grigori and overhear him yelling into landline telephone. Asking if my mother's depression, her deep sadness, is because of pills he was secretly crushing up and putting in her food. And when whatever crooked doctor friend, who is listening on other end of call, says yes, he asks, is it past chemical bitching drugs or is it current cycle controlling pills. Because she is depressed long time, but Grigori is not sure if is because secretly forced designation change, or from whatever concoction of pills he still gives her so that she will not have more children. So her blood will not come and prevent him from 'disgusting sex'  once a month. So her heat does not attract others. Doctor does not answer. Says both is possible, but who cares now? Because even doctor is naive. Thinks sixty year old man will not try again. Will not do this to another."

        The breaths Ilya is heaving against Shane's neck are angled so that the alpha's drawing in Shane's scent in great heaving inhales, straight into his lungs. “I did not know she is born alpha, because all my life she is my omega mother. I see her ashamed of her designation, ducking head when passing old friends, and I never know why. Not until she is gone.” 

        Fuck...no wonder Ilya feels so guilty over everything that happend in the warehouse. No wonder he'd considered chemical bitching to be off the table. No wonder he's coddling him, trying every which way to reduce Shane's stress. 

        "You do realize you're not him, right?" Shane asks, squeezing hard, hoping the embrace is at least somewhat grounding.

        With a scoff, Ilya says, "Situation is not the same, but is concerning, nyet? I rush to warehouse to warn you or save you, because you are smart, and clever, and very serious agent and I cannot stand if you are gone because of Rozanov family's evil. Whatever is jeopardized in cases, if I am caught as CI - this is not priority in the moment. Even though I know, on some level, that serious agent I speak to almost daily would probably prioritize mission, I am too selfish to care. There is awful similarity, between me and Grigori. Because for different agent, I would not take risk. Would call office instead. Say agent will die. Maybe they get warrant and save agent. Maybe not. But I stay away. Instead, I manipulate situation so that agent, who I find captivating, ends up bitched, bonded and branded to me. Makes me wonder if Grigori also did not force my mother to be his wife; just takes advantage of circumstances like I do. Makes me wonder if I really am exception to Rozanov evil, or if no one in this family, born to the Rozanov name, can be good.” 

        Shane’s vibrating with anger by the time Ilya’s done talking. 

        Seeing his reaction, Ilya starts to smell like gasoline again, the fear muted and overlaid by the sharp pain of refreshed painful memories.  

        "You're not evil, Ilya. I've dealt with evil. Even the boring kind that just sits back and watches, while others do the dirty work. And you don't fit my definition of it. Mine, because everyone will have their own. Because there is no universal, undisputed set of actions or characteristics that everyone would agree are evil. And you don't fit. Not because you saved my life, but because of how you did it. You had a get-out-of-jail-free card in that room. You could have done anything and convinced me it was necessary. But at no point did I get the sense you were fulfilling personal fantasies or getting off on the power you had in the situation.

        "But, more than that, it's the way you move through the world and how you interact with others...I don't know you well enough, and our time together has been so short, and I try to keep that in mind, try to be realistic, try to remind myself that you could be masking and that, over time, your personality will change. But one thing I know for sure is that I'll never be more vulnerable than I was in that warehouse, or in the days after it, or even now. This sequence of events would be your best chance to manipulate or mold me or make me dependent on you. And you haven't done that. At every turn, you've tried to protect me, preserving who I am."

        With bloodshot eyes, Ilya looks unconvinced. "Preserving who you are? Because deep inside you are omega who moves into strange alpha's apartment after two days? Open your eyes, Shane. I am selfish."

        "You saw my reaction to my own apartment," Shane reminds him patiently, trying to keep his curling hands flat against Ilya's back.

        "So, I should convince you to lean on Pike, or your parents. Should drive you to familiar places where you can be reminded of happier times, instead of bringing you to strange place to live with strange alpha."

        Starting to almost pant with the anger thrumming through his frame, Shane says, "What about your brother who's monitoring your apartment?"

        "Is robot he is monitoring with a few recorded lines to simulate monosyllabic conversations between us. This takes no time to set up."

        Gums practically throbbing with the need to bite his mate, remind him of their bond and his place in Shane's life, he says, "In what world do you think separating was an option? It still isn't one. It won't be for months, according to Hayden. If you had offered, I would have rejected the option. Fuck, Ilya, you compared us to magnets and the strength of the pull is only going to increase. Also, selfishness isn't evil. And I suspect much of what you'd call selfish is just survival instinct.

        "Look, I get that it's going to take you time to work through your issues and that it's probably going to take therapy sessions and more conversations and check-ins between us. But for now, please stop comparing our situation to your past. If we need to avoid certain topics to do that, then fine. Let me know which ones and I'll avoid them. But I can't imagine it's productive to frame any of what happened as evil or to draw parallels to the tragedy that was your parents' relationship. We're different people, in a different situation.” Then hoping to bring at least an ounce of levity to the conversation, Shane teases, “Keep talking like you have been, and you really will wish you'd brought bread crumbs to find your way back.”

        With a snort, Ilya says, "What we discuss is not even part I originally think will make you angry. Is there map of this trail I can follow, in case you stalk off, into the woods?"

        Eyebrows rising, Shane looks up at the tear-streaked face of his alpha. Biting down on a curse, Shane brushes the tracks away with his thumbs. "There's no map. You're just going to have to be evil and self-serving. Think you can manage to be selfish enough to keep me trapped at your side? Force me to show you the way back?"

        The immediate horror and distaste at the suggestion, clear in both the affronted expression and his scent, only solidifies Shane's conviction that Ilya's just being too hard on himself. As much as he'd usually take people at their word when self-reporting negative attributes, bad habits, and red flags, with Ilya he's confident the man is an unreliable narrator when professing his own ‘evilness’.

        "Go ahead. Make me angry," Shane dares him.

        With a tired sigh, Ilya shakes his head. "Bond makes you too generous."

        "Maybe. I feel like we're arriving too early to this discussion. We're still processing. But, FYI? If you want to convince me you’re evil, you're going to have to do evil things."

        At this, Ilya's head tilts, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "If I am evil, please know I am willing to be corrected. Tell me and I will change."

        "You don't see any irony in that?" Shane asks. "Do you think a truly evil person would ask a Bureau agent for advice on how to be a good person, and then follow it the way you intend to?"

        With a genuine grin, Ilya says, "You make point that everyone has definition of evil. So, I can be evil if I step on spider or drive car too fast, da?"

        Shane pushes him away lightly in faux exasperation. "How dare you use my own logic against me?"

        Grin growing cheekier, Ilya pockets his hands for balance and leans forward while his heels are leaning back to pop a kiss against Shane's forehead. "I dare, because I am evil. Keep up." But then he sobers, spine straightening. "I tell you about my mother mostly to say this: Not my body, not my business - but as you wait for first cycle to complete, please consider not just whether to take heat pill or blood-prevention pill, but also whether experience is tolerable enough to not take any pill. Because all pills for omegas have long side-effect lists and not enough research and funding to make them safe enough for decision to be made casually."

        As much as he pulls in air and does a lot of swallowing, Ilya can't hold the tears in. His voice breaks at the end in a way that frightens Shane. The words weren't spoken, but he hears it regardless.

        If you end up like my mother, I will be lost.

        The only part not clear to Shane is whether it'll be 'lost in grief' or 'lost to this world'. He doesn't know Ilya well enough to gauge the man's level of self-preservation, but given the past few days and all the risks the alpha took, Shane considers those instincts pretty weak.

        Maybe even criminally ineffective, given how he'd courted exposure for the sake of an endearing pen-pal-esque agent.

        Tugging Ilya close by the belt loops, Shane nips the man's chin with his teeth. "I'll keep an open mind," he promises, even as he wilts at the thought of decades without reprieve for both heats and menses. Even though, for most of history, the pills had not existed, Shane can't imagine dealing with his biology several times a year. 

        Ilya retains his city boy status when they finally do get back to walking the trail. He doesn't audibly complain, but he hardly needs to, when his scent is so put-upon and lightly irritated. From the branches that smack at his shoulders or face  when inattention means he doesn't duck in time, to the way his hands carve through the air as he swats at wind-scattered dry leaves or the first insects of the yearthat whizz by his face.

        "So, I take it you're not a fan of hiking?" Shane asks, as they're crossing the yard at trail's end, following the aroma of baked salmon back to the house.

        "I do not hike enough to know what experience is like usually. Mountain ranges I visit in Europe usually are very maintained. Some mountains are basically rock staircase to the top. Following trail blazes or just following paths made by foot traffic is new experience. But do I like it? With you, any experience is better. Would I do this alone? Nyet, never. Workout in gym is more effective, with options for water breaks or changing muscle group focus. No bugs, no weather, no mud...Wanting convenience is selfish, da? So, is on brand."

        "No, having preferences is not selfish. Next, you're going to tell me that being alive is selfish," Shane mutters, side-eyeing Ilya as he lets him into the house.

        First thing Ilya does is ask Shane's parents what he can do to help.

        "You're our guest," David tries, but Yuna just silently passes Ilya a stack of eight plates, four sets of two different sizes.

        With a ridiculous heel click of acknowledgement, as if he's been given marching orders, Ilya takes the plates and sets the table.

        "You're truly the embodiment of evil," Shane teases, taking a deliberate seat, hoping Ilya will recognize subconsciously that he's being an attentive alpha.

        "Careful that you do not tempt the evil out of me," Ilya mutters in Russian. "All it would take is one good kiss to get us both hard, smelling of arousal, right in front of your parents."

        Shane gapes at him. "Oh wow...maybe you are evil. Now that I think about it, you tend to think of fantastic threats. Very tailored to the people you're threatening," he says, responding in Russian even though it takes him longer to construct the response.

        "The world is made of many kinds of people. What will terrorize one, will titillate another. The more you pay attention, the better you understand who is bothered by what," Ilya says, more matter-of-fact than playful as he heads off for napkins and cutlery, then mugs filled with tea or water, and then the food starts coming out in serving dishes, his parents joining Ilya in transporting the baked salmon, side salad, and roasted vegetables.

        Shane watches the procession silently, forgetting to be polite as he considers Ilya's words and tries to assess how well he's been paying attention. What would bother Ilya? Having to drive Shane's car? He'd certainly be chagrined over that. But when Shane struggles to name more examples, he realizes just how infrequently Ilya expresses preferences for things - not verbally, or with scent, or facial expressions.

        "How do you feel?" Ilya asks, quietly, taking a seat next to him.

        "Are you okay, honey?" Mom echoes, taking a closer look at him.

        With a sigh, Shane pulls out the wheel-of-emotions keychain. Reading through the different categories, he winces at once again being in the fear-insecure section, his inadequacy in reading Ilya making him anxious. At least it's believable when he says aloud, "The idea of you guys grilling Ilya is making me anxious. And it's making me feel like you doubt my judgement."

        Ilya's expression looks skeptical, but he doesn't argue with the answer he gives in front of Shane's parents. Instead, he says, "Was not judgement that led to bonding, but circumstances. They are right to ask questions, especially those which they think you do not ask, because of assumption or politeness."

        Mom and Dad share a look that Shane recognizes well enough to know that Ilya's earned himself a point for jumping in with approval for what is probably going to resemble an interview more than a conversation. And though Shane understands why they feel the need to vet his bondmate, he can't help wondering if they still see him as a kid - in need of guidance and direction, as if he's still a teenager.

        At least Mom has the grace to wait until everyone's filled their plates with food. But as soon as everyone's eating, she jumps in immediately.

        "So, Ilya, what inspired you to join the Bureau?" she asks. A relatively benign opener.

        "In Russia, many antisocial attitudes and behaviors are treated like is normal. To come here and see society that does not tolerate these things - I am inspired to help eliminate sources of problems. Here, I feel like actions are useful and there is hope for a better tomorrow. At same time, it makes me sad to notice how much attitudes must shift for Russia to be...less corrupt and more accepting of different kinds of people."

        "What is Russian society like?" Dad asks, making an attempt to strike a more conversational tone.

        "Modern amenities. Modern technology. And regressive politics. Government is mostly all alphas, stuck in old points of view. They believe pairings should be alpha male with omega female, and beta male with beta female. There is active propaganda pushing parents to convert female alphas while they are still teenagers dependent on parents, with no rights to refuse medical treatments. Omega males are seen as aberrations and many parents will bribe doctors to change paperwork and prescribe dangerous drugs to hide reality. Those who are forcibly converted - which is common practice, especially in sports, business, and politics - also do this, pretending to be betas."

        This is news to the Hollanders, all three of them sharing a look of horror. "I didn't know it was that bad," Shane says.

        "Society run by rigid alpha designation becomes rigid as consequence," Ilya says with a sigh.

        "Does religion play a big part?" Mom asks, eyeing Ilya's shining gold cross.

        "Orthodox Christianity becomes more influential recently, but I am not tracking this. Not so many actively go to church, but they will wear things like crosses and pray when things go wrong."

        "And are you religious?" Mom asks, more pointedly.

        "Nyet - er, no. This cross belongs to my mother. I wear it in her memory."

        "We're not discussing Ilya's family," Shane jumps in before Mom can go down that road.

        "I do not mind," Ilya says, squeezing Shane's hand as if comforting him in this situation. "I am not close to my father and brother, so I am not close to my brother’s wife or my niece. My mother has grave in Moscow. Rest of family is estranged or dead."

        "I'm sorry to hear that," Mom says, voice gentling.

        "That must be hard," Dad says, sympathetically.

        Ilya shrugs. "Is common story for many . When acceptance is low, families suffer. Is hard to forgive parents, if they try to stud beta son so he has better standing as alpha, or force daughter to convert into omega. Therapy is not popular, seen as weak, so people turn to drinking to deal with childhood trauma. Is difficult to call this hard when experience is relatively normal. Everywhere you look, cousin, friend, neighbor - you will find someone with what in Canada is dysfunctional family."

        "What about Svetlana?" Shane suddenly blurts out, and winces afterwards, but Ilya doesn't seem upset, at least.

        "Svetlana is my alpha Russian friend," Ilya explains to Mom and Dad. "She gets strange looks and many babushki ask her why such pretty girl does not want to be 'correct designation'. Is dangerous for her. She must get very good at reading people because many men will try to attract her with goal to convert her, even if they do not want her for forever."

        Something must show on Shane's face for Ilya to look at him in askance, but Shane just shakes his head and shoves a forkful of green beans in his mouth, hoping the alpha will forget this moment and not ask about it later. He doesn't want to talk about the pang of guilt he feels over taking away a good option for Svetlana. He wonders if she had been skeptical of Ilya, worried he might be just as dangerous as all the other men, who probably hound her in clubs, or try stalking her home. Until, suddenly, he was mated to someone else.

   "Do you have many friends?" Mom asks, spearing a roasted potato on her fork and gesturing with it.

        "A few childhood friends. I know many people but they are business associates, colleagues, or acquaintances. Is hard to trust others when job is so dangerous."

        Mom's eyes narrow. "It's hard to trust the people who work with you for the Bureau?"

        Ilya shrugs. "Recent incident was strange. People we are trying to put in jail know our movements too well. When enemies have too much accurate information, becomes clear there is leak somewhere. If is hacked system, infiltrated building, or mole in our midst, who can tell? But until leak is patched, you look at everyone twice, wondering if agent has debt, or is being blackmailed, or is sick of terrible pay for such big risks."

        "Do you feel the same, Shane?" Dad asks, jumping in when Mom's next probing question is delayed because her mouth is full of half-chewed salmon.

        "I trust Hayden. Before the mess we found ourselves in, I would have said I trusted my team and our team lead. But given the agents we've lost in previous infiltration attempts, and given how I nearly didn't make it out...Let's just say I'm hoping it's a hacked system or a well-placed spy camera, but I won't be telling people I work with more than I need to for...a long time."

        "Lost agents? As in..."

        "We haven't found Agent Carlisle yet. But we found Monroe when a local pond got dragged for a missing child case. And D'Aboville was located in a hotel room. Cause of death was a sloppy, poorly-staged suicide, so we didn't really have to search for her."

        This finally seems to make the situation Shane was in more real to his parents. Their hands link, clutching tight for a long, quiet moment.

        But Mom isn't deterred from her goal for long. With a fortifying breath, she continues with what sounds like straight up interview questions that make Shane want to groan.

        "Where do you see yourself in ten years? Are there goals you're working towards?"

        Good sport that he is, Ilya answers seriously between bites. "I will support Bureau's efforts, but from a different vantage point. My family has businesses that  receive communication from black markets and underground organizations. Mostly, businesses are nightclubs, bars, and entertainment centers in various countries. I run these already, but with much delegation. Taking more active role should allow for more detailed information about parasitic businesses that rely on thriving night scenes in big cities. I hope also to be Canadian citizen by that time, and if our relationship continues, becomes deeper and stronger, maybe we will be officially married?" He shrugs at the end. "But who knows. My life is so different in just a week. In ten years? Is impossible to predict."

        "You don't want to stay with the Bureau?" Dad asks, the request for details implied.

        "Bureau is not for me. I do not approve of when they think is appropriate to intervene in dangerous situations. They are also constantly on the outside, trying to pry their way into where crimes happen. Once this project is over, I will start approaching problem from other side and feed information to Bureau in new way," Ilya says, believably.

        It's clever, Shane supposes, given that pretending to work for the Bureau when he's actually a night club owner wouldn't work for very long.

        The questions continue, more rapid fire, as dinner winds down.

        "What do you do for fun?" Dad asks.

        "Free time is luxury, but when I have it, I dance, work out, build things, try new hobbies."

        "How do you handle stress or busy periods?" Mom asks next.

        "Depends on source of stress. Usually, I try to tackle problem. Working on solution, even if solution is not perfect, gives me some peace. But if there is no solution, I work out."

        "How do you handle disagreements?" Mom, again.

        "With conversation. Sometimes, if is not enough to talk through problem, I ask therapist for recommendation."

        "You see a therapist?" Dad asks, impressed.

        "Da, er...yes. She helps me a lot. I see her now 'as needed', but, in past, she teaches me many useful coping mechanisms and healthy outlets."

        "What do you value most in your relationship with Shane?" Mom asks.

        Ilya's quick to take a bite out of the last of his salmon, chewing it over as he considers his answer. "‘Value most’ assumes there is hierarchy. As if there is something I value least. Spending time with Shane is a gift, no matter what we are doing. Is more a binary. I value being with Shane over being without him."

        Then Dad asks, "What do you usually do for fun together?"

        Given how busy the past few days have been, most of their fun has included getting naked. Ilya shoots Shane a look, eyebrow cocked in question, likely coming to the same realization. And since he doesn't know Shane's hobbies yet - not that he has many, given his work schedule - he hesitates over giving an answer.

        Feeling flushed, Shane jumps in with, "How about Ilya and I clean up, while you guys set up a game?"

        Not thinking much of the interruption, Dad suggests, "Monopoly?"

        "Ah, this is famous capitalist game, yes? You will need to teach me rules."

        "There's no way you don't know Monopoly," Shane complains, as he stands and starts gathering dinner and salad plates. "I know for a fact there's a Russian version of the game."

        "Ah, yes, I recall this game. Name is Co-opoly. You win if whole group meets basic standard of living and all group's needs are met?" Ilya asks, stacking water glasses and taking away the serving platters.

        "What? No, that's not a game. You just made that up," Shane says, trying to sound confident despite the authority with which Ilya describes the - definitely, absolutely made-up - game, going over rules, naming game tokens and theme details...

        "So, if I search for Co-opoly online, you're saying I'll find it available for purchase?” Shane asks, narrow-eyed and skeptical.

        "Da, but only on Russian internet. Not accessible from Canada. Run by state," Ilya says, no hint on his face or in his scent to indicate whether he's bullshitting.

        "I don't believe you," Shane mutters, typing the name into the search engine. And a game does come up, but it has nothing to do with Russia.

        Looking over his shoulder, Ilya says, "Not that one. Someday I will show you. One of my Russian friends can bring when visiting."

        Shaking his head, Shane says, "With your resources, I think you're just enough of a troll to go out and create a fake game just for a bit."

        Ilya's wickedly amused grin confirms it.

        Shane puts away leftovers while Ilya loads the dishwasher, and when they're done, they return to the dining room to find the game set up.

        The atmosphere from there finally loosens up, as Ilya works his magic, charming his parents by being a menace. In almost no time at all, he's waged anarchy, introducing new rules into the game and convincing Mom and Dad to play cooperatively to defeat Shane once he's taken the lead on buying property. He offers loans, stages prison breaks, creates an underground chance-card black market. It's the wildest game of Monopoly the Hollanders have ever played and, in the end, even though he's been thoroughly trounced by "The Collective", Shane feels like he's won something precious as he notes the genuine smiles on his parents' faces when they break for the night.

        "Did it go well enough?" Ilya asks, as if it could have gone any better than it did.

        Shane scoffs. "You were fantastic. To the point where I'm not sure it's safe to play board games with you, because then we'll never be able to have as much fun playing them without you again."

        Ilya seems genuinely relieved to hear it.

        "Couldn't you tell? You're always so good at reading people,” Shane asks, curious.

        "Sometimes, a moment can be good, but later people ruminate and start to reconsider. Jokes that make you laugh in hindsight seem rude. Noise in memory feels louder, more aggressive, than when in-person. Entertaining is reshaped into annoying after some thought. You say your parents will not think this?"

        "No," Shane says, certain at least that his parents will remember Ilya fondly, as a personable alpha who can pull people in like gravity, even if they don't ultimately work out.

        Fuck...just the thought hurts enough to have Ilya turning to him, nuzzling into his neck and asking about how he's feeling.

        "It's just the bond making my thoughts feel dramatic. Go take a shower," Shane directs.

        Sharing a bed in his old room feels weird. As the only child, doted on by both his parents, he'd had a full-sized mattress growing up, so at least space isn't tight. But maintaining an appropriate distance just proves to be impossible. Although they start on opposite ends of the bed, trying to resist the temptation of each other for propriety's sake, Shane can feel his body protest the distance, convincing him to shift and wiggle and roll closer with phantom twinges, uneven pressure on his spine, muscle stiffness, until he's in Ilya's arms, at the center of the bed, the alpha having fared no better.

        "Do you feel it too?" Shane asks, skin almost crawling with an electricity desperate for a grounding touch. The arm under his neck and around his waist aren't enough. He mouths at Ilya's chin, trying to entice it into tipping downwards.

        "Nyet, solnyshko," Ilya says, kissing his forehead. "Is not a joke when I say kissing you is dangerous. Room will smell like arousal. Whatever need you feel now will double. Mine too."

        "We'll never fall asleep like this," Shane whines, trying to sound like the omegas on TV; pouty or playful or something. The tone makes his mouth curl up in disgust, but he’s desperate for some kind of relief to the strange ache inside him.

        With a snigger, Ilya says, "You do not need to seduce me like terrible porn actor. Is your childhood home. Your parents. I worry that you will regret if kissing turns to fucking because we cannot be convinced to stop. But say you will forgive me and I will believe you. Ask me with certainty, and I will provide."

        Shane knows the right answer is to turn over on his side, close his eyes, breathe deep, and count sheep. Unfortunately, there's a wild thing in his chest writhing in a deep upset, curling his hands into claws that dig into Ilya's back, as his eyes turn liquid with tears. What the fuck is this?

        As if recognizing something in Shane's whimper of unhappiness, Ilya pulls him close, rubbing his lower spine, and says, "Is two options. You want me to fix? Or you want distance?"

        "Distance?" Shane echoes in disbelief.

        With a shrug, Ilya says, "Maybe it helps? Open window, air out room? I sleep in car and you maybe feel more normal without... accelerant? Exacerbant? You know what I mean?"

        "Sure," Shane mutters. "But that sounds awful. Sleep still isn't guaranteed and I'll miss you. Probably enough to get up in the middle of the night to join you in the car. At which point, we'll probably look around at my spacious land rover and think, 'It's big enough to fuck in'. The neighbor will capture us on their doorbell camera and either report it to the police and we'll get arrested for indecent exposure; or it'll end up posted to the internet. I'll get fired and you'll come to resent me for mooching off you, while I struggle to accept a future doing security gig work. So, if you have a way to fix it, why not do that?"

        Looking a bit shell-shocked, Ilya shakes his head. "Such a good talent for overthinking, you have. I say I can fix it, but I am not sure it is real option," Ilya admits. "There is incense in my bag. Very strong. If we burn incense, it overlays scent."

        Shane scoffs. "I don't think my main issue is your scent."

        "Scent overlay is not for us. Is for your parents. Tell me, what is it you need."

        Swallowing hard as his cheeks bloom with heat, Shane whispers, "I feel empty."

        Ilya hums, unsurprised. "If hormones and whatever chemicals are involved right now are a match - call and response - I wonder...I do not feel need to cum, but I am hard. Impulse is to push into you and stay there, feeling your muscles contracting around me. So, is it same for you? Desire is just to have heated flesh buried in you, or to be full of cum?"

        "Why do you have to phrase it that way," Shane mutters, face flaming, but after a nudge from Ilya, he admits, "The first one, I think. How does that make sense, though? Why would there be a biological impulse just to...feel you inside? And why would it be so strong?" He shifts anxiously, hating the strange sense of emptiness below the waist.

        "I am not biologist," Ilya says. "But maybe there is logic to this. In your family home, there are no chemical signals of possible rivals who could want to steal you or me away, so cum is not needed to signal unavailability. However, we are in territory steeped in scents closer to yours than mine. Maybe I smell out-of-place? Since we are mates, maybe desire is for integration? To be close enough to mark each other with part of body that generates greatest amount of strongest scent? "

        "Wouldn't ejaculate be the strongest scent?" Shane argues, irritated by the need prodding him to close every inch of distance between them.

        "I think is true if we are in location where my scent is dominant. In this situation, slick will be more full of chemical markers than your cum since consistency has changed with designation."

        "What? No it hasn't!"

        "Is more fluid. Maybe you do not notice this yet, because you have no time to experiment? Anyways, I am guessing, so is possible I am wrong. Is just interesting that we both hunger for similar experience. And for me, this desire is not typical. In past, I do not feel like this with other partners."

        "Well, I can guarantee I've never just shoved a dildo in my ass and left it there," Shane mutters, lower back rippling with discomfort as the muscles in his pelvis clamp down and meet no resistance.

        "So, to fix or not to fix? That is question," Ilya says grinning.

        With a deep breath, Shane inhales the biting cold that Ilya exudes from his pores and shivers at the want that rolls through him. "Fix it," he blurts out. "Please, just fix it. I mean, it's not fucking, right? We're just...closing a gap of space between us. It's...not that different from a..." The end of the sentence doesn't come to Shane. Because it's not something platonic. Not a handshake or a hug. For all that he wants to minimize what they're doing, the best he can offer is, "intimate embrace".

        Ilya snorts at the description, accurately recognizing the self-delusion in the statement. Pulling away despite Shane's scrabbling grip, Ilya crosses the room to his duffel bag and pulls out a packet of sealed incense sticks, an ash catcher, and a lighter.

        "What made you bring incense?" Shane asks, as it occurs to him just how odd a set of items it was to pack for a meet-the-parents weekend trip.

        "Meditation. I am training to be Buddhist monk," Ilya jokes, quirking his eyebrows at Shane. Then he sobers a bit. "We are newly bonded. Does it surprise you that we are struggling not to touch each other? Even if we are angels and nothing happens between us, I know to expect my own arousal being broadcast. Scent-dampening deodorant is fine for daytime, but is not good to clog pores for so long."

        "You really thought this through," Shane says in a tone he just knows sounds too impressed. Fuck, this situation is turning him into such a chump. It should have been something he thought of too. Another detail he didn't consider. It's enough of an oversight that he feels upstaged and slightly incompetent, even if the reason for his absent-mindedness is hormones. Ilya's practically in the same boat now, and yet he's still thinking through scenarios.

        Noting his change in mood as he slips into their nest of blankets, Ilya says, "Do not discount affects of changed designation. Also, when you go to familiar places, you expect to have same experience as always. I am stranger here. All of this is new and so I try to picture what days will be like and I know how often I am aroused by partners and can predict with you it will be ten times worse. You do not give yourself enough grace." Long arms wind around Shane as a heavy blend of sandalwood and myrrh irritates the back of his throat.

        "Did you get the strongest option, or something? I feel like it's clogging my nose."

        "Is point, da? Less than this will be unaffective."

        Shane jumps at the feeling of his sleep-designated boxers being pulled down and a cold finger tracing along the rim of his hole. "Why are you an icicle?" he mutters, burying his nose in the hollow of the alpha's neck.

        "You want, I use my mouth? Lick you open?"

        "No. Absolutely not. Kissing is too dangerous and yet your suggestion is to..." Shane can’t say it. The words stick to the back of his throat, painting too vivid a picture to say aloud.

        "Eat you out," Ilya offers, finishing the sentence as his teeth scrape the side of Shane’s neck, framed by a grin. "To think that words would make you so shy. Is funny, da? Sex is almost like different language for you, except the words aren't missing. You know them. You just need me to say them."

        Tapping his fingers on Ilya's chest, Shane wishes he could argue the point, but then he'd be lying. "I don't know why I struggle so much with it. I have a hard time saying the words, even in my head."

        "My poor little Puritan," Ilya says in Russian, sucking on his chilled fingers to get them wet.

        Before he can set them back to their original task, Shane catches the large hand and slides the spit-warmed digits into his mouth.

        Cursing in Russian between needy groans, Ilya struggles to keep his composure. "This is terrible. I have no resistance to this. No experience with blushing sex kitten who asks so sweetly for what he will not name. You cannot surprise me like this or I will have heart attack."

        Though he's joking, Shane's gratified by the way Ilya's heart is, in fact, pounding harder than it was a moment ago, the quickened thump loud in his sensitive ears. He releases Ilya's fingers slowly, drawing out the moment and regretting the delay seconds later as he realizes Ilya's probably going to insist on stretching him gradually, working his way up to the six he's decided Shane needs worked into him to feel good.

        "Do you have to be so methodical? I'm more…open now than I was as an alpha. Even the doctor said so," Shane tries to be convincing as Ilya barely dips a single finger in, and only to the first knuckle.

        "What you are asking for is like revving a cold engine. Is harmful - wears engine down and creates internal stress. Ah, but you do not rev engine because you only drive boring cars. Maybe workout is better metaphor? You do warm-up first, da? Sex is same. You warm the area, get blood flowing. If you believe in stretching before a run, you must let me stretch before we fuck, da?"

        "We not fucking, though," Shane tries.

        "I do not speak English well enough for semantics. Save such talk for Fescueden," Ilya says.

        "What the fuck is fescueden?" Shane asks, as Ilya's fingers start massaging over his perineum in a way that gets Shane clenching harder, heat starting to gather in his lower abdomen as a flush rises in his cheeks. "Oh, wait…Is this a Hayden joke again? Let me guess, fescue is another kind of grass? Y-you're going to run out eventually. A-and th-then what? You'll officially be f-fr-fuck...friends with H-Hay -"

        ”Don’t say his name,” Ilya growls low, startling him into a gasp as teeth clamp over his healing bond bite. "Is your fault. You make me play capitalist game and now I want monopoly over names you say in bed," he teases, but with an edge of seriousness flattening his tone.

        "Y-you mentioned h-him first," Shane argues, but everything else he'd intended to say falls right out of his head as a strange dampness develops between his cheeks. He doesn't feel himself dripping until the moisture's already rolling out of his entrance, coating the rim and causing Ilya's fingers to slip, friction disappearing.

        With a purr of delight, Ilya sinks a finger into him, slow but no longer hesitant. "There it is. Such a good boy for me. Was not even a long wait. You get wet so quickly." Just a nudge to the side and the softened walls of Shane's hole easily accept a second finger. Then a third. "You take me beautifully. If we were home, I would spread your legs wide and watch you take me. Would hold you open and drip spit into you, make you wetter."

        Shane's skin prickles with embarrassment, an electricity writhing under his skin. The worst part is, it's not unpleasant. For all that the explicit descriptions are blush-inducing, there's no sense of being made-fun-of or belittled. In fact, Ilya's talk is the opposite of detumescent, leaving Shane wondering if the Russian has always known that the pictures he paints with the words he chooses create sparks.

        "What the fuck are you saying?" Shane whimpers, when Ilya keeps going, talking him through each additional finger until he gets to six.

        "Does it bother you? Would you prefer a...quieter experience?" Ilya asks seriously.

        Ducking his head, Shane is forced to admit, "Quiet would probably freak me out. It's not like I have anything to compare it to, but if you stopped saying everything out loud...I get the feeling it'd be…lonelier."

        Ilya quirks an eyebrow at the admission. "Why do you feel the need to protest if you enjoy the way I speak to you? I do not mind if you want to pretend you hate this, but then safe word is required for when you actually want a change in behavior."

        Shane scoffs. "A safe word? Come on, nothing we're doing is that extreme."

        "Is not extremeness that matters. Safe words are good to have even in simple social situations. You call me and say safe word? I help you get out of situation. You say safe word at a party, we exit conversation or leave. You are too tired or feel too serious for teasing? Safe word. It can have multiple uses and apply to numerous scenarios. Hard part is choosing something quick and easy to say, but that will not stand out too much in mixed company. If needed, can have more than one, but then can be harder to remember well enough to use quickly. So?"

        "Fuck...fine, ok. I see your point."

        "Then which word do you choose?" Ilya prompts.

        "You want me to pick one out now?!" Shane's stomach clenches, clamping down on the slicked up fingers stuffed inside him.

        "Nothing immediately springs to mind?"

        Shane's eyes snag on the golden cross lying on the pillow, its golden chain wrapped around Ilya's neck, like always. The one he wears to bed, in the shower, to work, to clubs, to balls, and everywhere else, because he never takes it off. "Cross?" Shane suggests, trying it out. It's good for only being one syllable, but it's also too close to other words that he'd reasonably use. "Or maybe orthodox? I can work that into sentences, it's long enough to stand out, and I won't forget it since you're always wearing a reminder. Sorry, is that dumb? Or disrespectful?"

        "Is a little long, but ortho is unique enough first syllable for start of word that I should be able to stop immediately." With a grin and a softer light to his eyes, Ilya adds, "Is good symbolism, I think. As if my mother protects you. Only because of her is this orthodox Russian cross meaningful."

        Matching Ilya's grin, Shane agrees, "That is lovely."

        With a contemplative hum, Ilya says, "Lovely, yes. Maybe we make moment lovelier if you roll over to lay on other shoulder, so I can slip my cock into you. Think I can get it deep enough to keep you speared whole night?"

        With a scowl, Shane doesn't answer, hating that the answer is probably a yes, given the nine inch hardon pressing into his thigh.

        "Unless you change your mind?"

        Shane scoffs. "Of course I haven't. Fuck, I hate this emptiness. It feels crazy, to be so dependent on someone else. It shouldn't be like this. The desire shouldn't be this strong. My mental health should in no way be influenced by whether you want to put your dick in me, but I feel like it is. Like the level of rejection would just..." He quits there, unwilling to admit how close he is to crying over it, if he lets himself think about Ilya suddenly deciding to ignore him.

        "If it helps, you are not alone in this feeling. There is pressure clawing at me, demanding and needy. If you say 'leave me alone' now, I think I would need to leave room, find somewhere else to stay. Normally, I have much control. But here, in this moment, I do not like how unwilling I feel to accept refusal. And I am awake. What happens if I fall asleep? Is strange, nyet? You are already mate, so desperation I think should decrease. Bonding is strange."

        "Maybe it's for confirmation? We feel the need for closeness and for scent exchange so that there isn't doubt that a couple made a mistake? If two people spend half a year being distracted physically by their mates and yearning for each other, that's six months where you're probably not fighting or discussing differences in life goals. And for a lot of couples in the past, six months would probably guarantee a pregnancy in that time. Hell, who knows. Maybe bonding takes longer based on heats? Maybe it lasted six months for Hayden because that's how long it took for Jackie to reach her first heat after they bonded? I should have asked the doctor about this," Shane groans.

        Kissing his cheek, Ilya says, "Doesn't matter how long it lasts. I will meet your needs, whatever they are. Starting with this one. Roll over, solnyshko. Let me fill you up."

        Ducking his head as color again floods his cheeks, Shane finds himself nose-to-sternum, listening to Ilya's strong heartbeat from up close. He presses a kiss over the spot where the thump of that pounding muscle is loudest and finally rolls over.

        There's a whine from behind him that Ilya quickly cuts off, followed by panting and Russian curses.

        "Are you okay?" Shane asks, looking back over his shoulder.

        Teeth clamped over his bottom lip hard enough to create indents and eyes squeezed shut, Ilya nods. "On one hand, you are beautiful from every angle. The lines of your back, the shape of your neck, your plush, round ass...is hard to look at. But also, for you to give this to me is overwhelming. Need says to do it quick, quick, quick. But there is no rush. And I will not harm you for such a stupid reason."

        "H-harm me? Ilya, you already stretched me more than you needed to. You could slam into me in one push and it'd probably be fine."

        Pulling Shane into his arms, Ilya growls into his ear, a subvocal vibration rumbling his chest. "Ah, da, my favorite two words. Fine and probably. They fill me with much confidence," he mutters, and instead of slamming in, he finds his mark and gently slides in, an inch at a time.

        The delay is brutal. Tears actually do spring up in Shane's eyes as he's forced to feel himself make room for all of Ilya's length and girth, his passage accommodating all that size and still feeling unsatisfied until Ilya bottoms out. Only then do his breaths feel fuller and something in him seems to calm down. The crazy neediness in him going quiet.

        "Better?" Ilya asks, arms squeezing Shane close, as if afraid he might try to pull away.

        "So much better," he admits, eyes fluttering shut in satisfaction. "This is nuts."

        "And yet, so very enjoyable," Ilya says, nuzzling Shane's nape, licking over the bite, breathing into his hair. Lulling him to sleep.

 

        The sound of a plastic lid slamming shut wakes Shane up. Bleery-eyed, he tries to sit up, but the arm around his waist tightens, holding him still.

        "Wha - Mom?! What are you doing?" Shane asks, wide-eyed.

        "Is this all you boys have for laundry?" she asks, holding a half-filled basket perched against her hip.

        "What - I don't -" Shane starts to sit up again, only to realize why an apparently-awake-but-pretending-to-sleep Ilya is holding him in place. "Is it just me, or is it hot in here?" Shane asks, fanning his face in a vain attempt to keep his blush at bay. Because holy fucking shit, his mom is in his room, collecting their clothes for the washing machine, standing a foot away from the bed and the thick duvet, beneath which both of them are naked.

        Beneath which Shane is still speared on Ilya's half-hard cock. Doom, dread, and panic start to encroach the longer Mom stands there, staring at Shane. The rough scraping of teeth against his shoulder finally breaks him out of breathless silence. "W-we're fine, Mom. You don't have to do our laundry."

        She shrugs. "It's no big deal. You boys are staying till after lunch, right?"

        "R-right," Shane mumbles, not sure what he's agreeing with, too much of his awareness stuck on the rod of heat keeping him full.

        "Well, David's making breakfast, so if you don't want cold eggs and iced coffee, you have about fifteen minutes to get downstairs."

        "R-right." When that doesn't seem to be enough of an answer, Shane adds, "Will do. See you down there."

        Finally she leaves, blessedly closing the door behind her.

        As Shane works on catching his breath, he feels Ilya's chest shaking with suppressed laughter. "It's not funny," he hisses.

        "I know. But still, is very primitive, to be in same room as parent of my mate in this situation." He shifts slightly, the change in angle creating enough pressure against Shane's prostate to make him gasp. "Reminds me of old stories where marriage required witnesses to consummation."

        "I think we had enough witnesses back at the warehouse for ten marriages," Shane growls, trying to elbow away from Ilya's hold on him.

        "Tell me your safe word," Ilya says, arms closing tighter, legs twining with his to reduce his mobility further.

        "Why?" Shane asks, struggling harder, mostly out of disbelief at how effective the hold is. He's an agent. There's no way Ilya's half-hearted attempt to keep him trapped should be working. But then again, every shift also results in friction deep inside him.

        "To prove you remember it," Ilya says, and then informs him, "You should say quickly or this will...become strange again. You are getting wet."

        "Yes, because you won't let go, asshole," Shane hisses, as his efforts pay off in the worst way possible. Instead of making progress towards freedom, his lack of leverage just means every few inches he manages to rise up, closer to freedom, results in him sinking just as many inches down when his strength wanes.

        "Just say the word," Ilya mutters against his neck. "What you are doing is not working. You are bouncing on my cock, which is just making me harder and you more stuck."

        "I shouldn't need a safeword to get out of this," Shane says, stubbornly. "You're not that much bigger than me."

        Ilya growls against his ear. "You are effectively fucking yourself with your parents awake and expecting us downstairs in a few minutes. Solnyshko, this is not a test. If I am someone else, you would hurt me to escape and this would work. But you do not want to hurt me, and so you are trapped. Say the safe word. Or I will let go regardless."

        Panting with the expended effort and regretful over their mutually roused desires, Shane gives up and says, "Orthodox."

        "Spasibo," Ilya says, kissing the back of his neck and extracting himself quickly.

        Too quickly.

        Skin prickling with some weird impression of abandonment, Shane sits up and watches Ilya scrub at his face.

        "Fifteen minutes is not enough time," Ilya groans. Grabbing some clothes from his duffel bag, he says, "Come, we will shower. I will stroke us to completion and then we will wash very fast. This way, at breakfast, we will not smell like arousal." Before they leave the room, he opens a window and sets out another stick of incense to clear out the scent of their mutual desperation.

 

        There's a mood at breakfast that Shane recognizes immediately. His stomach drops, but he doesn't let on.

        After they're done eating and the dishes have been scraped and arranged in the dishwasher, Dad doesn't have to try too hard to convince Ilya to help him dig holes for the fruit trees he wants to plant in the yard. As much as Shane wants to offer to join them, the look Mom directs at him makes it clear he shouldn’t try to get out of whatever talk she has planned.

        She barely waits long enough for Ilya to be out of earshot and distracted by digging and conversing with Dad, before she turns to Shane and says, "I've seen you under pressure. Dealing with stress and failure and fear when you were much younger and much more vulnerable. Despite the bullying, despite being the youngest in your grade, despite the academic pressures, and the physical danger and strain of hockey,  despite Bureau training, the jabs of coworkers and the stress of trying to save people who are counting on you...none of that was enough to change your designation. But in one week, you end up a mated omega?"

        It hurts to counter justified skepticism with a guilt trip, but the truth of what happened belongs to Shane and Ilya. No one else was in that room, experiencing those moments. For better or worse, Shane knows he'll never share the details with anyone. Not even a therapist. For some reason, he feels protective over the memories and how he experienced them.

        So, aching with guilt, Shane dares to ask, "Are you disappointed in me? Do you think less of me knowing just how quickly my alpha gave up the ghost when my life was on the line? Are you embarrassed that I turned to another alpha for comfort and reassurance instead of being self-reliant?"

        "No, of course not!" Mom takes hold of his shoulders, pulling him close. "Of course not. This situation is just...strange. You've known this boy for 'a long time' and yet there's never been any trace of him? No hickeys? No scent transfers? No momentos? Because, you, the son I raised to respect all designations, felt that your dual alpha relationship wasn't serious enough to be worth mentioning? Even though you apparently liked this boy enough to mate him?"

        "He's not a boy, mom. We're grown men, who work for the Bureau. You really think I can't keep a secret from you? That I can't cover my tracks? Do you also think I'm sloppy at work too? Were you just waiting for me to end up in this scenario?" Shane asks, eyes starting to tear up as guilt puts sorrow on his face, but he does actually know how to shift his thoughts, play up a hurt so that it's there in his scent profile for his mother to notice.

        "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I'm not saying this to hurt you. It just feels out of the blue. We're so surprised. I suppose it's just an overprotective instinct." She hugs him tight, running her hands up his back and petting at his hair, so much more demonstrative than usual with him smelling like a hurt omega.

        "Mom, we've always had good instincts in this family, haven't we?" He waits for her confirmation before continuing. "Then forget about everything else. About the details we can't give you, the strange immediacy of my relationship. If you just focus on Ilya - on your first impression, on how he feels in our space, in our midst, his behaviors and his words - what do you make of him? Do you consider him a red flag? Someone to avoid? Someone you'd rather not cross paths with again?"

        He can see the gears turning as Mom thinks back to yesterday, considering carefully all those initial moments and remembering how she'd felt. So Shane believes her when she says, "He's not what he seems. All that easy confidence, the charisma, the quick way he can pull you in and create a feeling of closeness - it's real, but only to a point. That ease and boldness disappears when he cares too deeply about making a good impression. I saw a polite, very frightened young man, too used to rejection and criticism from people he should have been able to rely on. I think he might be overly accommodating - to you and to us as a family - for a very long time, too worried about fitting in, meeting standards, and gaining approval to set boundaries or authentically express disapproval. You should look out for it. Signs of annoyance or upset. Because I don't think he'll tell you."

        "He said he would," Shane mutters, thinking back to the conversations he’s had with Ilya. About the man saying he’ll make his needs obvious. Be forthright. "Do you think he lied to me?"

        Mom shrugs. "I wasn't there. I don't know what he told you, in what context, with what words. English is also his second language. But do you think he'd hold to a boundary? If you asked for something he wasn't willing to give, would he say no?"

           The question bothers Shane all through lunch, as Ilya flips through albums, looking at baby pictures and family photos with Mom and Dad narrating the stories that go along with them. Shane ponders over the question, trying to pinpoint whether Mom has the right of it.

        "Do you like him? Do you think we're a good fit?" he'd asked her, as they'd constructed sandwiches in the kitchen while Ilya and Dad took showers after their work in the garden.

        With a snort, Mom said, "Of course I like him. Man like that? He'd fit in anywhere. A skill I'm sure he learned early and for all the wrong reasons. I'm guessing that's why you didn't want us asking about his family?"

        They'd exchanged sad smiles, but Dad hadn't been there for the conversation. Maybe if he had been, they wouldn't be looking at albums full of happy family photos now. He watches Ilya's face, noting the genuine interest, seeing his eyes crinkle when he coos over 'baby Shane', aware of the moments when his gaze lingers on scenes of active parenting, Mom and Dad sharing responsibilities, teaching him different things. So far removed from the experience Shane knows he's had.

        There's no hit of jealousy or envy or resentment as he looks at the photos.

        Instead, there's longing.

        The desire to weave himself into the tapestry of their lives, maybe? A need to belong?

        And what wouldn't he do, to belong?

        When they're driving home in the afternoon, Shane considers asking, but what answer could Ilya possibly give? The man might not even be consciously aware of all he'd do to stay in Shane's life, to integrate into his family.

        Which Shane still finds baffling. For all that he's proud of his accomplishments and he likes who he is as a person, Shane's perfectly aware that he's not exciting. Certainly, not someone who'd attract the attention of a guy who likes clubbing so much he’d open a series of exclusive, fancy ones across the world. 

        A virgin with a man who’s sampled models, professional athletes, actors and actresses alike. 

        An agent of the government with a man who breaks the law. 

        A guy who drives a land rover with a man who collects exotic cars expensive enough that their engines have names. 

        Do they make sense together long term? Or is he a pit stop in the Many Adventures of Ilya Rozanov? But again, it's not something he can easily ask Ilya, knowing that whatever answer he'd give, Shane would still doubt. Would still question.

        Some things simply need time, action, and evidence.

        So instead, Shane asks, "What did you think of my parents?"

        ”They are wonderful. Loving and supportive of you. But,” Ilya says, "is more important what they think of me. Since your parents manufacture reason to separate us, I suppose impression was negative? Do they understand dissolution is not possible until after mission? That it may take quite some time?"

        "Our story didn't sit right with my Mom. Not sure about Dad," Shane admits, hesitantly. "But when I asked her to just focus on how she felt about you, what her instincts were telling her, the first thing that she said was that she was worried that you’d defer to me too much.”

       Cocking an eyebrow, Ilya asks, “Did you tell her I will not let you do dishes? This should be quite convincing proof of the opposite, da?” 

        Keeping the mood serious, Shane asks, "Are you able to say no to me? If I were to ask you for too much, would you stand your ground? Say no?"

        His confusion plain, Ilya shakes his head. "What is too much? Give me example. Because I do not think you are capable of asking even for things you need, let alone for 'too much'."

        "Sometimes, it's not about giving when someone's asked for something. You don't even know me, but you've already given up more than you should have for a stranger. A week ago, your stay in Canada was going to be temporary, you were pursuing a relationship with Svetlana, and living up to your reputation as a rich, bachelor playboy," Shane points out.

        The laugh this earns him from Ilya has a strange note to it. "There is at least two ways to look at everything in life. What you label ‘sacrifice’ is just pursuit of new desires. ‘Give up’ means losing something. Instead, I replace an empty bachelor's party life with vague ideas about possible future, for the chance at something bright, solid, stable - a life on the other side of the tunnel, instead of inside it. Like a moth, I am chasing a chance to be in the light. And like a moth, I am willing to burn for that chance."

        "I think what my mom was trying to point out is that I shouldn't let you burn," Shane says, hating that he's stuck staring at the long road ahead. There's not enough light in the car to see the reflection of Ilya's expression in the windshield, but he can smell the damp salt of tears. "What's wrong?" he asks, trying not to panic behind the wheel of a few tons of moving metal.

        Voice strained with the effort to keep from wobbling, Ilya asks, "Your mother...she cares about this?"

        "Yup," Shane answers easily, hoping irreverence will lift the mood a bit, when he's stuck with the handicap of not being able to reach out or even visually check how he's affecting his mate. "Enough to warn me to look out for signs. She thinks you'll give too much ground, concede too many boundaries."

        The salt scent increases, but at least there's no hint of gasoline in the air. "Why would I want boundaries? I would merge us, if I could. To live in your orbit, to bask in warmth and brightness when you blush, to spend weekends with your parents, learning how to plant things, twisting board games to both frustrate and amuse your family...Why would I create boundaries? To make myself next-door-neighbor to life I want to live? If you want boundaries, you will have to make them. You will have to guard them with safe words. And if you think that I have given too much, I will not point out all I have taken in return."

        "Seriously? What did you take?" Shane asks, rhetorically. "The alpha that didn't really fit me? My virginity that I wasn't keeping for any particular reason? Dominion over chores that I only want to help with out of guilt? My theoretical dating prospects that I may or may not have had, given I've never tried dating? Besides all the shit I didn't care about anyways, what did you take?"

        Ilya hums in amusement. "Perspective is key. If you see nothing taken, I will not try to change your mind." He presses a kiss to Shane's cheek, careful not to startle him and then he turns up the radio and prods Shane to sing along to pop songs, changing the mood on a dime.

Chapter 19

Chapter Summary

The Debrief - Part 1 of 2

Chapter Notes

If you've been paying attention, you might already guess at what's in Part 2.

Also, really hope this chapter doesn't come across like a crackfic. I did say it would be a bit unhinged. But we already knew that about Ilya, didn't we? Exhibit A : His domicile.

And seriously, thank you for the comments. Especially when you're able to point out what moments you liked, what came across well, what it made you feel!!! It's thanks to you guys putting in the effort to tell me that this chapter was able to come out so quick. The difference in motivation is unreal.

        "Ilya, we're going to be late!" Shane yells, without looking up from his notes. Pacing down the front hall, he's trying to memorize the outline before he's forced to burn it, not trusting the code he's used, to keep it unreadable. He knows it's overkill, has heard Ilya tell him at least ten times to keep the notes for now, and burn them later. 

        But the thought of the paper slipping out of his pocket, getting picked up by one of Alexei's men, who then deduces that Shane's hand-written notes mean Ilya's a traitor to the organization, who's letting his new omega mate feed information to the Bureau…it’s just crazy enough to be possible. And definitely enough to terrorize Shane into spiraling thoughts about their untimely deaths. Regardless of just how unlikely that sequence of imagined events happens to be, Shane still takes one of Ilya's out-of-use cigarette trays and the alpha's ornate lighter, and sets fire to his notes.

        "So unnecessary," Ilya tisks from behind him, making him jump.

        "How the fuck did you manage to sneak up on," Shane turns around and yelps the "ME?!" as his whole body jumps back, hair standing on end, goosebumps all down his arms. His back slams into the table, spilling ash and the last remnants of burning paper all over the floor. "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU AND HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?!" Shane hollers, raising his fists as his feet slip into an attack stance.

        The ruddy-faced man just stares at him wide-eyed, voice stuttering.

        "ILYA! ILYA?! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!" Shane yells, inhaling deep breaths of fading winter scent, listening for any sign of a third heartbeat nearby as he's forced to keep his eyes pinned to the massive troglodyte in front of him.

        Fuck, he's huge.

        Broad shoulders made broader with 80s style shoulder pads sharpening the edges of his suit; a wide, barrel chest that could be muscle, fat, bullet-proofed material or a mix of all three; long legs made longer with the lifts in his shoes; a nondescript, rounded face framed by russet-red hair and partially-hidden beneath a fuzzy matching beard; and a burnt toast scent that could very well blend into any kitchen or lunchroom environment - it's a set of characteristics that would likely serve a bodyguard well.

        Or an assassin.

        When Ilya doesn't respond and the man's still staring at him dumbstruck, Shane grabs him by the lapels and screams in his face, "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH - " His hands let go as another bolt of shock goes through him. "Ilya?!"

        "Da," the redheaded man responds in Ilya's voice. "You do not recognize me? This is why dressing takes so long."

        Shane shivers, his whole body quaking with it as he looks up. "Even your eyes are wrong," he whispers, staring into dark pools of color that must be contacts.

        The only right thing about Ilya is his voice and the winter fragrance of his skin from up close, where blockers and perfumes aren't enough to suffuse his natural scent entirely. "This is so fucking creepy. When you said you were coming with me to my 'Farewell Party', I didn't think you meant like this."

        With a shrug, Ilya says, "I cannot be seen in Bureau. You have excuse this time - saying goodbye to co-workers, clearing out desk, taking home picture frames and office supplies - but for you, it will be the same after today. Bureau insists on formal interview, then I must look like Stefan, my old bodyguard, who still does jobs for me on occasion."

        "How the fuck do you look so different?"

        "Prosthetic makeup. Is reason it took so long. In past, Sveta helps me experiment for long weeks until it looks real and stays in place despite running, jumping, rolling, and other escape or attack activities. Come, otherwise we will be late, and Bureau will jump to conclusions."

        "Don't pretend you were waiting on me," Shane pokes him in the side a few times, trying to get a sense of what Ilya's used to bulk up his chest beneath the suit.

        "This is how you treat bodyguards? You jab into submission?"

        With a groan, Shane realizes, "I'm going to have to treat you like..."

        "An employee, da," Ilya says, opening the door to the back of the Lincoln limo. He waits for Shane to slide in before closing the door and going around the front to sit in the driver's seat. Since the partition's open, Shane sits along the bench directly behind it, eyes glued to Ilya's unrecognizable profile.

        "This car is self-driving, right? Why are you in the front seat? Couldn't you sit in here, with me?" he asks, leg bouncing with an agitation he doesn't understand.

        "Trip is not far. And I think you need the practice. I am Stefan, remember? I do not belong in the back with my boss's mate."

        Irritated, Shane mutters, "If you wanted to role-play, I feel like I should have been consulted. Most people at work are going to think I'm in some crazy, controlling relationship, where I'm followed around by protection all the time."

        Ilya snorts, taking the wheel so that the self-driving feature turns off. "You say this like there is chance they would approve of this relationship." Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror in silent, pained acknowledgement that the people Shane works with would likely react like Hayden did.

        Still, when they walk through the office doors, Shane's surprised at the outright hostility hanging in the air, scents turning sharper as 'Stefan' follows Shane through the doors he held open, standing exactly two steps behind him and slightly to the left like any of Ilya's former bodyguards would.

        "Shane!" Hayden comes rushing out of a side hallway, where he'd apparently been pacing for the past however-many minutes.

        There's no hint of amusement in Ilya's face, but Shane can't shake the feeling that it's there, creasing his eyes beneath layers of prosthetic makeup, as he quickly steps into the space between Shane and his best friend.

        "Who is this?" Ilya asks, deepening his voice into a ridiculously low register and thickening his accent.

        Struggling not to roll his eyes, Shane plays along. "This is my friend -"

        "Ah, you are Grass-fed Pike!" Ilya announces loudly, turning whatever heads weren't yet staring at them in their direction. "I am Stefan, Shane's bodyguard. Are you armed?"

        Oh, for fuck's sake...Shane pinches the bridge of his nose, realizing just what a train wreck today is going to be.

        "Wh-what? No, I'm Hayden Pike and I'm not armed. We don't walk around with guns strapped to our belts all day."

        "Seems dangerous to be so unprotected," 'Stefan' says, lifting his chin and stroking his beard in a way that somehow manages to be obnoxious. "You do not walk around with gun, but you use secret code names at work? What is Shane's? I will need to use it so that his identity will be protected like yours."

        "S-secret code names? No, my name is Hayden."

        "Yes, very clever. Barley-House, Wheat-Home, Grass-Cave, Alfalfa-Shelter, these would be much more obvious secret names. Hay-Den is nice and short. Easy to spell. Is it reference to Tree Porosenka - ah, how you say...story about three pigs? At first, I thought it is cow food name, but fairy tale origin makes more sense. One house was made of straw, yes? But then, is bad omen, no? Better to be Brick-Den. You will have better luck."

        Shane and Hayden stare at each other, speechless, eyes meeting over the wing of one of 'Stefan's' shoulder pads. Someone in the office coughs, as if a cough could dispel the strangeness of the moment.

        "I didn't know Orthodox Russian Christians learned fables like The Three Little Pigs," Shane says, making every effort not to growl. "But I don't think Hayden's name has anything to do with the story." His auditory perception is sharp enough to notice Ilya's breath catch when he hears the safe word.

        Straightening his posture as his expression sobers, Ilya claps his hands over Hayden’s shoulders and says, "I am tasked with protecting all that Shane loves. You are very lucky to be counted in this number. Even if your name is bad omen, Hay-den, I will make sure you stay safe."

        Shane catches the wide-eyed look Hayden sends him, wondering if the beta also has inexplicable goosebumps after hearing that declaration, made in a pit-deep voice Shane would bet any movie studio would love to use for the lines of some eldritch god older than sin.

        "Thanks, I guess," Hayden says, smelling freaked out and confused as he ducks under Ilya's raised hands to get away. "How about I help you pack up your desk, Shane? You can stay here and read a magazine, Stefan."

        "Nyet. I go with Shane."

        "We'll just be over there," Hayden gestures at the cubicle farm easily visible from the office entryway.

        "Yes, we will be." Ilya insists, edging close enough to Shane that, despite the blockers, he can smell a hint of gasoline overlaying cold tundra.

        "He can hold the boxes," Shane says, with a shrug, ignoring the betrayed look Hayden shoots him.

        "Why does he have to come with? There's literally no safer place to be than this office."

        Ilya snorts outright, and Shane winces. "Just let the guy do his job, Hayd."

        "Because, what? His asshole boss will tear him a new one otherwise? I thought Rozanov was a 'great guy'. A totally trustworthy alpha who could do no wrong," Hayden says in a hissing whisper.

        "Seriously? What kind of naive dunce do you take me for? I said you weren't there, so it wasn't your place to judge us. And I do mean 'us', Hayd. We were both in that warehouse. I could have been busy brainstorming alternative solutions too, instead of...how did you phrase it? Thinking with my dick?" Shane mutters, taking the roundabout way to his desk specifically to avoid passing by the break room and the proverbial water cooler.

        "Fuck, no, that's not what I'm saying. I respect you, Shane; and there's not an agent in this place who could have done better in that situation. I...I'm just really sad and angry about this."

        Pulling out his keychain, Shane hands it to Hayden. "Which kind of sad and angry?" he asks.

        Staring at the little wheel of emotions in his hand, Hayden asks, "What the fuck is this?"

        "The shortcut to emotional intelligence?" Shane proposes, looking back, gratified to see his alpha's smirk, even if his face is unrecognizable. "Ilya gave it to me so I'd stop and answer honestly when he asks about my emotional state. Apparently fine, good, and ok aren't appropriate answers. So? What flavor of angry and sad?"

        Running his finger over the wheel, Hayden's head tilts in confusion. "He gave this to you...because he wanted to know how you were feeling?"

        "I know, wild, right? Almost like he cares."

        "He could still be playing you," Hayden warns.

        "Then he's in the wrong industry. Guy deserves a fucking Oscar if this whole thing's just a grift. But it's not your lane, Hayden. If I want your opinion, or need your help, I'll ask for it. For now, don't be designationist."

        "This has nothing to do with you being an omega," Hayden's quick to say, an edge of panic in his voice like he expects his wife to be listening in.

        "Good, then you'll trust me to handle my shit like you always have," Shane says, as they arrive at his desk, tucked away in a quiet corner of the office, right next to Hayden's. He taps the wheel. "Which ones?"

        With a grumbling sigh, Hayden looks over his options and swallows hard, pointing to the breakdown of sad-guilty-remorseful, and anger-critical-skeptical. "Think it's these, primarily," he says, handing the keychain back.

        "So, this is all just displaced aggression," Shane summarizes, pulling the set of boxes he'd stashed under his desk years ago in preparation for having to switch desks. Holding them in his arms, he wonders aloud, "Am I still going to have a career after this?"

        For all that Hayden's quick to call him naive, the guy's apparently very optimistic that his old job will definitely still be there waiting for him once his stint undercover is over. "This is just a new position. You're still on payroll and everything."

        "Sure, right," Shane mutters, unconvinced.

        A hand presses against Shane's back, just a warm pressure that lasts a few seconds as 'Stefan' reaches for the boxes. "I will hold. You will pack."

        "You really aren't needed here for this, dude," Hayden mutters, leaning against the filing cabinet attached to his neighboring desk. "Can't you go play lookout somewhere? In fact, I'm kind of shocked you're not busy making the most of your time here. Wouldn't your boss rather you spy for him? This is probably the last time you'll be seeing this office without a set of handcuffs 'round your wrists."

        "Izvinite, ya ne govoryu po-angliyski," Ilya says, deadpan.

        Shane has to choke down a startled laugh.

        "Izvinite," Hayden repeats slowly, trying to recall his Russian lessons. "That's an apology, right? Why's he apologizing to me?"

        "I don't think you're going to get much more out of him. Pretty sure announcing that you don't speak English is the polite Russian way to rage quit a conversation."

        Hayden gapes at the gigantic bodyguard. "I know you can understand me, asshole."

        "Ya ne," Ilya says, with perfect sincerity. A hint of regretful confusion coming through despite the thick, round lines of the prosthetics.

        And even Hayden can recognize the Russian words for 'I don't'. "You rotten liar," he scoffs, but his demeanor softens, irritation dissipating. Once again, even without  his pretty privilege, Ilya's charm shines through.

        As Shane packs his items into the boxes Ilya’s holding for him, the conversation turns to benign things like whether Montreal's hockey team will make it to the Stanley Cup this year and Hayden's possible vacation plans. They have a solid twenty minutes of peace before Shane suddenly goes stiff.

        And, of course, Ilya immediately notices. Before he can ask, Patrice Drapeau rounds the corner of their aisle of desks, announced first by the most obnoxious overuse of the most disgusting cologne known to man - Secretions Magnifiques by Etat Libre d'Orange. The guy smells very recognizably like a crime scene, a metallic stench tainting the air around him as he disturbs their corner of the office.

        Face stiffened by prosthetics, Ilya’s bulbous false nose can't wrinkle, but his lips certainly do curl in disgust.

        "Hey Hollzy, where've you been?" Drapeau asks, as if he could possibly be unaware of what went down in the warehouse.

        "At home, recovering," Shane says, shortly. Hoping if he keeps his answers succinct, he'll be rid of the guy sooner.

        As if in defiance to the unspoken wish, Drapeau leans against Shane's desk and pulls a bag of half-eaten chips out of his pocket. He pops a crumbling potato chip into his mouth, crumbs and salt flying from the hand he waves to encompass Shane's desk, "You back at work soon?"

        "Dude, come on, you know he's not coming back for a long while," Hayden scolds, eyes flicking between ‘Stefan’ and Shane, as if considering that maybe Ilya Rozanov would be dumb enough to send a bodyguard with Shane who doesn't know the score.

        As Drapeau dips his hand into the bag of chips again, going for another piece, Ilya interrupts with his stupidly deep voice. "How can you eat this when you smell like someone's cum rag?"

        Ah...so that's what the weird, rancid, milky scent is...an imitation of cum.

        "This is office, da? Not appropriate place to bring your kinks."

        Drapeau guffaws, turning bright red. "It's an expensive eau de parfum," he argues.

        "Is odor fetish. Why else do you use same perfume as strippers, who spray it on, late at night, so that drunk gawkers will imagine they can get lucky with beautiful women if only they pay enough. Blood part is strange addition, but I suppose sadists visit strip clubs too."

        "It's n-not - That's - You're wrong!" Drapeau insists, getting to his feet and straightening up again as he takes in Ilya's towering height. Discomfort clear on his face, he turns to Shane and jerks his thumb at Ilya. "You brought your boyfriend's muscle to the office?"

        Ilya snorts. "Do you often confuse boss and employee? I bring Mr. Hollander to office in car. Is common for you to see chauffeur drinking in the back while boss drives? Tupoy ublyudok."

        Hayden giggles as Drapeau stands there, unaware he's been called a dumb fuck.

        "What are you laughing at, Pike? That wasn't a joke. The guy just doesn't understand English. He thinks I meant he was literally brought here like a kid on a fieldtrip."

        "It is good that my information drops never happened in this office. I would not have remained a confidential informant for long if I were interacting with any amount of frequency with agents of the caliber of this chip-muncher. Please tell me he is not a detective. I would not trust him with a mop, and yet he works here?" Ilya says in Russian, making eye contact with Drapeau the whole time, as if speaking to him, despite the words being meant for Shane.

        "See?" Drapeau gestures at Ilya, raising his chin and trying to look down his nose at the mammoth alpha, but he's just not tall enough. He gives up with a huff, and mutters, "Party's in an hour. Leave your lapdog at the door, yeah?" He leaves, trailing the stench of milky metallic perfume behind him.

        "Holy shit, he's annoying. Do you really think Drapeau has an odor fetish?" Hayden asks, turning to Ilya, his irritation with the Russian 'bodyguard' apparently forgotten.

        "Is power play. Would bet anything that he tries more than once for studded beta-to-alpha transition, but it fails for him. At first, maybe scent experiments were result of consultation with studding company or doctor, for least aggressive transition options. These companies find a scent that is yours but stronger, add undertone of false alpha musk they think you might smell like if you transition to help body start to reorient. When studding fails, he starts to weaponize it and revel in the reactions, especially the negative ones. What?" he asks, noticing their looks of skepticism. "I am familiar with this pattern. Brother does all of it, except last part. He is not willing to smell disgusting just to provoke a reaction. He just makes more of false alpha scent and does his best to pretend. But is very common in Russia. I do not think it is odor fetish, unless Drapeau is hard when sniffing himself, but it is on purpose. If you do not call it out and shame him for the behavior, it will continue or it will escalate."

        Clapping Hayden on the shoulder, Shane says, "Good luck, dude. I expect this whole weaponized scent thing to be resolved by the time I'm back here."

        "What? No, that's not fair! He's a beta-hater. No way is he going to listen to me, right, Stefan?"

        "When we walked in, you were a Stefan-hater and now you're turning to him for support," Shane points out, neatly stacking his framed letters of recognition into the box Ilya’s holding for him and placing his leather portfolio on top. "I'm sure you'll figure out the right approach to use with Drapeau."

        "This is everything?" Ilya asks.

        "Yup." Shane holds his arms out, expecting Ilya to transfer one of the boxes to him.

        "Bosses do not carry boxes, Mr. Hollander," Ilya says, shaking his head. "And if you want a hug, I do not have a free hand to give you one," he adds in Russian, quick and quiet, in case Hayden might know enough to translate.

        Arms dropping, Shane tries to shake the mental image of him, standing in his place of work, office full of coworkers, while he stands there, arms raised in a childish request for a hug. His cheeks flush red with embarrassment while a traitorous part of him actually wishes he could have that hug.

        Not because he needs the comfort. Just, honestly, because it's nice. Sharing space with Ilya feels...safe.

        Restorative.

        Calming and pleasant and so warm.

        Fuck...and now there's a phantom ache in his arms that he feels all the way down the hall, following Hayden towards the service entrance with Ilya trailing diligently two steps behind.

        It's not until they're down near the industrial garage that Shane realizes Hayden's intentions.

        Pausing at the cross between two hallways, he points  to the fire door at the end of the hallway going forward, marked Exit Only, as he addresses 'Stefan'. "That door will lead you outside to the back of the building. It's probably a bit of a hike to wherever you parked your car, but it shouldn't look too suspicious if anyone's watching on your end. You're just carrying office supplies to the car, and then waiting for your charge to come out after his Farewell Party."

        "I tell you already, I am not leaving." Ilya says, predictably. "Boxes can wait. We did not pack a bomb that needs to be removed from building."

        "What, do you want to inspect the interrogation room? Your boss is going to be on the line. Shane's safe with me, okay? I won't let anything happen to him," Hayden says, slow and clear, struggling to keep his irritation in check, unaccustomed to dealing with intractable alphas, since it's not the personality type the Bureau tends to hire.

        "I. am. not. leaving," Ilya says, even slower, enunciating like you would for a foreigner who’s struggling to tell where one word ends and the next one begins.

        "Motherfucker," Hayden runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends to keep his hands to himself. "Are all Russians this irritating? Look, I promise a hundred times over, nothing will happen to Shane! He's safer with me than he is with your boss, for fuck's sake. And I'm sure Rozanov doesn't have you posted up in his bedroom, ready to step in when he takes it too far -"

        "Hayden!" Shane growls, officially pissed. There's no point having the same conversation again. If Hayden didn't hear the message the first two times, Shane's not going to repeat himself a third. "Stefan's going into the interrogation room with me, and that's final."

        "What the fuck for?" Hayden asks, with not enough remorse for Shane's liking.

        "He's my emotional support Russian. Now, get inside, both of you," Shane says, holding the interrogation room door open until they file in from the side hall.

        It's a tight room, specifically placed towards the back of the building, near the more public areas of the compound where service workers can be found milling about on the other side of badge-entry doors. Many CIs have sat in the stiff, metal chairs across the bolted-down metal table from an agent.

        Ilya puts the boxes on the floor and sits down across from Hayden. It feels so strange to sit down next to him, on the 'wrong' side of the table.

        "Are we waiting for someone?" Ilya barely gets out before the door's opening and their team leader steps inside.

        "Scott Hunter, Taskforce leader," comes the introduction, complete with heavy eye contact and a strong handshake that Ilya returns mutely. Hunter takes the last open seat across from Shane with an apologetic grin. "This must feel weird, huh?"

        When it becomes clear that Shane's words are stuck in his throat, Ilya jumps in with his stupidly effective ability to change the mood of a room. "Only because you did not bring candles and wine. This double date is poorly organized. You choose room in brutalist style, all dark, concrete and glass, which is not very inviting. Also, Pike is already married, so you make us aiding and abetting to a cheating. Mrs. Pike will murder us and it will be all your fault," he shakes his head at Hunter, who had chuckled politely at the start, and only chuckles harder at Hayden's affronted squawk.

        "I would never cheat on my wife!" Hayden says loudly, again as if he's expecting Jackie to appear in the doorway.

        "Don't worry, Hayden, we believe you," Hunter says, clapping him on the shoulder in a way that seems to sober everyone up - the unofficial start to their debrief.

        "Now, Shane, I know this is going to be hard to talk about, but you know how this works. Structured reflection over the events that transpired at the warehouse might wiggle loose bits of information that seemed trivial or unimportant at the time. I'm sure anything you can tell us about the incident will be useful information for us to work with; but take your time. If you want the staff psychologist here for this, I can go get her at any point. The important part is that you feel safe and supported throughout this process."

        Hayden scratches the back of his head, likely realizing at that moment that 'Stefan' will be allowed to stay for as long as Shane wants him there.

        Feeling his irritation rise at Hayden's continued bad attitude towards everything associated with Ilya Rozanov, Shane leans back in his chair and asks, "Would you say that any detail could be important?"

        He waits until Hunter nods his head in confirmation, but once he's acquired the cover of plausible deniability, Shane decides to do something that - out of his circle of friends, family, acquaintances and colleagues - only Ilya Rozanov would do.

        Call it revenge, or a lesson, or a humbling, but, staring straight at Hayden, Shane starts off with a shrug. "Well, one of the main things I learned was that the girls we interrogated before Ilya was a CI weren't exaggerating."

        Thoughts in a different headspace, Hayden blinks at him, at first, confused. Not yet aware of where this conversation's going.

        Hunter hums encouragingly, just as clueless, having never been subjected to those interviews.

        "Turns out, Ilya Rozanov really has incredible prowess in the bedroom. It probably has something to do with his nine-inch dick. Not that I measured it, but you can kind of tell. Proportionately, he just looks bigger than most guys.  And he’s a big guy."

        Mouth cracked open, Hayden starts to make a noise not unlike a tea kettle once the water's near boiling.

        Glancing to the side, he catches Ilya's wide, intrigued, wrong-colored eyes watching him out of the face he constructed this morning. Unsurprisingly, he's not embarrassed in the slightest. If anything, he looks genuinely impressed to see a blush-less Shane bluntly talking about sex.

        It's a rare sight he's not likely to see again, because in this moment, Shane is firmly 'at work', where the only part that matters is results. Where he's firmly stoic, sober...and maybe a bit stunted. Less human. The guy they put in front of the media to say the right things, or shove into a crime scene to notice the little, out-of-place details, but never let near a grieving family.

        Here, in this ancient interrogation room, Shane suddenly realizes that used to be him all the time. And now, there's a piece that's been cracked open. That exists freely on the outside of whatever shell Shane used to think was all of him. Because of Ilya.

        He doubles down, despite the baffled look on Hunter's face. "Unsurprisingly, he knows just how to use all that length and girth. You know, we never should have doubted them. Remember how they used to call him perceptive? It's because he's very good at reading people. Like, scary good. He got me to like things that would normally make me cringe just on mention alone. I came so many times ,and if there were ever tears in my eyes, it was because the sex was that good. I didn't think partners like that existed. Probably why we doubted all those women, huh? We had no idea how complicated and well-thought out sex could be. Meanwhile, those women were exchanging notes, past experience being used as Ilya’s resume. No wonder picking up new women was so easy for him. With the way he fucks, I bet they sought him out. IBut, you know, I'm not surprised at my own ignorance. After all, he was my first. But you, Hayden? Gosh, if you need some pointers, I'm sure Ilya wouldn't mind sharing his insights."

        About ready to combust, a red-faced Hayden drops his head into his hands. "Stop! Please, just stop! If you have any pity left, please spare my mental sanity! I can't take this!" he mutters into his arms. "I'm sorry. I promise I'm sorry! I won't bring him up again. I won’t say negative shit about the guy. Just please stop!"

        "You better mean that Hayden, “ Shane warns, “or I really will tell you all the details. I'll slip them into conversations, between innocent discussions about tire brands and grilling techniques. I swear, you'll never hear the end of it, if you push me."

        "It's officially dropped. I'll let you handle it yourself. I promise."

        With a satisfied nod, Shane finally accepts with a shorts, "Ok."

        "Um...am I missing something?" Hunter asks.

        As if they'd planned this ahead of time, Ilya jumps in with his normal accent at his normal depth of voice, "You are missing start of story. Perhaps is best to begin with how I discover Shane is in warehouse, da? Because everything that happens at warehouse depends on me finding database."

        Hunter's never heard Ilya's voice in real life so he doesn't make the connection immediately.

        Hayden, on the other hand, nearly flails out of his chair, face going white as his own set of goosebumps appear down his arm. "What the fuck?"

        "Nice to see you again, Pike," Ilya says with a wink.

        "How are you - " Hayden's mouth snaps closed and he turns to glare at Shane. "You could have told me."

        "So you could create a scene in the lobby when we came in?" Shanes asks.

        "You ask for debrief in person? We accommodate. Is simple."

        "Wait...you're Ilya Rozanov," Hunter realizes, pen slipping from between his fingers. "Very impressive." He stares at Ilya's face, as if searching for a seam. Some hint of the uncanny. "Totally unrecognizable. Where did you learn to do that?"

        "You want tips?" Ilya guesses. "I will tell you later. There is party in less than hour, da? And Shane must be there, to be guest of honor."

        "Right, of course. Please begin. You mentioned a database?" Hunter prompts.

        "Grigori Rozanov has dementia. It is not well known fact. Those who see some symptoms - the forgetting, the misremembering, the misplacing - they see only brief moments and so they are not aware how deeply affected he is. To the point where mistakes are very severe.

        "In Russia, you take care of family, even if you hate them. So, I come to visit him one day, out of obligation. He is looking right at me and he says 'Congratulations, Alexei! I have been perusing your new database and it is very comprehensive. You have collected so much information on so many agents. I am very proud of you'. This database is news to me. I have not seen it, but I play along. Ask him to show me what he finds most interesting.

        "My brother does not spend enough time with Grigori. Idiot gave him the password, set up access on his stationary computer. I take the man out for dinner and, meanwhile, Sveta comes in and gathers data so that I too have access on laptop. But question remains - what is origin of data on server?

        "Much of the information is about missions and agents. Who is assigned to what, tasks they are working on, how much is known, what evidence is available. Much of my information that I provide Bureau is missing, but only I or Shane would know this. Bigger problem is agent information. They have names, addresses, personal data, medical records, information about families gathered from insurance and health plans, bank account information.

        "Once access to server is on my laptop, I start monitoring special group chat of higher ranking members who also have access. I notice they use mission names and have coded language to talk about different agents. It takes some time to make connections. Name they use for Shane is Sakura, like Japanese flower, but sometimes they change this to Sukara - a play on words they will probably use more often now."

        Shane snorts, recognizing the Russian word for bitch in the first four letters. "Very creative."

        "Is good that coded name was obvious. They start talking mid-day a few weeks in with greater frequency. They start saying a client is actually Sakura. That you are not real business man. And then I read message 'We are two minutes out. Lock doors and do not let him leave'. There is no location provided. No extra details. I have to hunt down mission that has no date with database search. By the time I find it, has been ten minutes. When I start driving, I do not know if there is still time, or if it is already too late." Ilya's voice cuts off, eyes blinking rapidly to clear away the moisture gathering in the corners.

        Without thought, Shane automatically takes Ilya’s hand in his, running his thumb along the top of his knuckles, squeezing tight and caressing the calloused skin of Ilya’s palm. 

        He sees out of the corner of his eye as Hayden’s head tilts as he notices, but his expression gives nothing of his feelings away.

        From there, Shane jumps in, walking them through a highly redacted version of their time in the warehouse.

        "Do you know if they were recording at the time this was going down?" Hunter asks.

        "It was. Sveta deletes it," Ilya says.

        "You sure there's -"

        "There's nothing left of it,” Ilya says, finite in tone. “And, is time for party. If you have more questions, you will communicate them through private channel Shane was using, since it appears to still be secure. Same code as before. By the way? Debrief was not sooner because Sveta was hunting database origin. Messages are coming from user. Not camera. Not unstructured feed. Not one time or on infrequent schedule. Is not passive recording, not some maintenance worker uploading stolen data. Origin is a user. A user with constant access. Most likely a mole.” 

 

Chapter End Notes

Um...so. They say curiosity killed the cat. It all started with a google search - "obnoxious cologns"
From there, I learn about Secretions Magnifique that sounds unhinged, foul, rank and very mysterious.
No fucking way am I buying a bottle of disgusting perfume.
But a sample????
The Etat Libre d'Orange site does not have it included in any set I could find.
I go hunting and find a website called splitscents or something like that. It sens sample sizes of sooo many perfumes. Secretions Magnifique is one of them.
But I don't believe in paying for shipping and the limit where shipping goes to zero is high. However, I also have like zero perfumes and none I've bought for myself.
This split scents website has the wildest stories to describe these perfumes. I know it's the companies' marketing, but still. Very amusing to see a long poetic short story to describe a perfume only for a user comment under it to say "smells like onions"
Anyways, that was my unhinged perfume journey that delayed this story for about an hour.
More importantly...I'm too much of a troll to be trusted with bad perfume. I chose based on vibes. One of them was about attacking the sun like Marquis de Sade and I said "yup. Sounds unhinged. Let me try it."
If these turn out to be awful...beware a troll sitting around with tiny perfume sample spray bottles. Otherwise, your luggage just might end up smelling like onions until further notice. (I joke. I kid. I promise ;)

Chapter 20

Chapter Summary

Of Perfumes and Parties

And Ilya does a lot of...cleaning.

Chapter Notes

Wonder if this will be divisive.
I'm so very curious what y'all will think of this one.
Is it what you expected?
Is this who you saw on the other side of a perspective?

        As Ilya returns from his car, having dropped off Shane’s office supply boxes safely in the back seat, he nudges the doorstop out of the badge-protected doorway and stalks back into the federal building.

        He's not supposed to be here.

        EXIT ONLY, the sign over his head blazes.

        But it's not his face on the cameras. And if they arrest him for trespassing, they lose access. So they won't arrest him.

        Simple.

        But he's fairly certain Shane wouldn't see it that way. As he retraces the path back into the main office of Shane's division, Ilya can't help wondering if his lack of boundaries is something Shane can live with.

        What his mate doesn't understand, and what Ilya will never tell him, is that career criminals see boundaries as things to step over.

        Things to rewrite.

        To shift and move and reconfigure.

        Most of all, boundaries are meant to be crossed.

        Is it acceptable that his are not cemented in place?

        Not maintained by guilt or shame or fear of the law?

        Is it alright that the only boundary-keeping mechanism Ilya has to rely on is whether or not he can live with himself afterwards?

        And even then, it depends on the stakes. When they’re high, Ilya’s aware that he falls back on instinct and his base personality. And when they’re not, he’s guided by the klaxon in the recesses of his mind, wired to his nervous system. 

        It’s a thing that sharpens to a piercing wail when he's still for too long. Warning him that he might be getting too complacent, too comfortable.  An alarm to say you've forgotten something; don't trust this social climber; look out for thin ice. But other times, its shriek takes on the voice of his grandmother, screaming at him 'You're just like your degenerate father'. He can almost see the shape of her crooked finger pointing at the center of his chest. ‘Just another ruinous alpha!’ 

        Perhaps she’d been onto something. After all, an alpha career criminal is a dangerous thing.

        Not that Shane would know.

        Ilya's fairly certain his mate doesn't quite understand what it means to be an alpha. For all that he'd been one in name, it hadn't lain comfortably beneath his skin. Not like it does under Ilya's.

        For him, the world is simpler than it ever was for Shane. His decisions can be made in a second, operating on a rigid track, albeit a bit ironically, given the system only works for Ilya because he’s morally flexible. 

        It started young.

        Years before he presented, Ilya realized there was no such thing as a good person; and even if there was, he wouldn't be one. 'Because it wouldn't pay to be one' was his initial reasoning in those early teenage years. Every direction he looked, all he saw was 'good' people getting screwed.

        The protestors who demanded equal rights for all designations were swept off the street and into jail cells by the government, or disappeared into 'labor camps' - that was the hope, at least. The better option, given that the alternative was an unmarked grave the family would never know about.

        Hard workers who took pity and slipped coins into peddlers' cups found themselves robbed of the rest of their coins, the money funding alcohol addictions for men who worked in ad hoc gangs.

        Charitable older omegas, who spent their days laboring in service of the church would be asked to return for more and more shifts, donate more and more of their pensions, visit more and more doors, proselytizing about the church and all its good works, while the priests diddled altar-serving grandsons in the time they'd freed up in their own calendars.

        So, Ilya only served himself. And for years, that ringing klaxon, scolding him for being a degenerate, was right.

        He stole.

        He lied.

        He cheated on tests.

        He didn't listen to his elders.

        He smoked and drank.

        And when his sickly grandmother would drag him to church, invoking the power of Irina's name and the guilt that came with it, he'd dutifully recite the prayer of St. John of Kronstadt. "I, a great sinner, confess to my Lord and God and Savior Jesus Christ all the evil I have committed, uttered or thought since Baptism to the present day..."

        But youth doesn't last if you don't die young. Eventually, Ilya realized he wasn't a good person - no longer because it didn't pay to be one; but because he didn't commit, utter, or think like one.

        When the church said whores should repent, and good people shook their heads at their scantily clad bodies and called them diseased, Ilya instead offered them deals.

        "Come to my club. Rent a room from me. In return, you'll have maid service to keep the rooms clean, free condoms and lubricants, exclusive access to club clientele, a nurse to visit on staff, get testing done, and my bouncers to keep you safe. What will I get? Men lining up at my door instead of going to my competition, who will eventually go bankrupt, and I'll buy their businesses at a discount to make them into better clubs."

        When good people praised the Supreme Leader and sang nationalist anthems, Ilya expanded into other markets outside Russia's borders, hedging his bets and filling the coffers of foreign nations with his tax dollars.

        When good people tried to shut down his 'whorehouses', Ilya hired fellow degenerates to stalk, harass, or blackmail as needed.

        When good people reported his underground fight clubs, he paid off the police.

        And on and on it went.

        Good, bad, right, wrong. It didn't matter. He didn't waste time searching for laws for or against the actions he planned to take. His rigid system didn't care. Ilya didn’t care.

        He still doesn't.

        Only three questions matter to him.

        Does it hurt someone he cares about? Yes or no.

        Is there more than one solution? Yes or no.

        Is the most advantageous solution one he can live with? Yes or no.

        Three questions.

        They're not always simple to answer, but most of the time, it's all he needs.

        Did Drapeau hurt someone he cares about? The scent he'd worn was mentally scarring and Shane had been forced to smell it.

        So, yes.

        Hence, with the most important question answered, his actions are justified.

        Is there more than one solution?

        He could report Drapeau for being annoying and then listen to Straw-hut report back to Shane that nothing's changed for however many weeks or months or years the mission takes.

        He could do something completely disproportionate, which would cost him Shane's trust and misguided faith in him if he ever found out; which, being the careful, detail-oriented detective that Shane is, he would.

        Or, he could devise a punishment to match the shape and style of the affront.

        Of the three solutions, Ilya can only really live with the last one. Losing his relationship over Drapeau with the second is unacceptable. And the first is too useless and too boring to tolerate.

        The Farewell Party is in the break room. He can hear chatter, stilted laughter, a sad, woeful scent in the air. 

        Some people think this is temporary. 

        Others are convinced it's permanent. 

        But all of them believe the world Shane's stepping into will be terrible. They think he spends his days tolerating the touch of his abuser, hormones fighting to get closer, while disgust or hatred demands he get further away. They pity him, or fear for him.

        Ilya doesn't step into their midst. 

        Refreshments and food are arranged outside the small break room on a long foldable table. With a deep inhale, he selects a cup of full-sugared soda, steals a pile of napkins, and heads deeper into the office, going the long way around to avoid being seen walking past the doorway by a bungle of agents.

        Locating the desk of a man who terrorizes people with his perfume is no great feat. It takes some practice, stopping in place, wafting air from a specific direction and inhaling deep, noting the difference in concentration. It takes fifteen stop-and-wafts to find the right desk, but once he's in front of it, there's no mistaking who the cubicle belongs to. 

        The concentration of offensive perfume is strongest here, having sunk into the fabric of the office chair from prolonged contact. The carpeted floor is infused with a smaller concentration of the horrible scent, likely from reapplication; the diffuser, on whatever bottle he's using, casting a wide enough spray to spread the liquid far past its intended target. Also, there's a name plate affixed to the outer edge of the cubby.

        He works quickly, pulling out drawers until he finds what he suspected he would. In the largest compartment at the bottom of the desk, there's a pile of unopened chip-packets. He leaves the soda cup on the desk for the moment and undoes the cufflinks holding the left cuff of his button-down shirt closed. With the sharp end of the pin, he pokes the thick bolt discreetly into the folds of the chip packets, letting air into the vacuum-sealed bags. It takes longer than he'd like, since the drawer is filled to the top with snacks. At least forty little bags. And every one of them will be stale in a day or two.

        As he continues looking through drawers, he finds the objectionable bottle of perfume, name boldly framing the corner of the glass bottle, arched around a symbol that reminds Ilya of the shield from the Captain America movies. Secretions Magnifiques.

        Ilya snorts, aware of the notorious perfume for the same reasons he knows the names of designers, artists, operas, composers, and other consumables of the rich and famous. One of his more niche clubs has a scent station, with professional perfumers available to help clients design scents before entering the VIP section of the club. "Come as you are, with naked skin, and we will craft you a bespoke scent to attract the night you want" - or so the marketing goes.

        Ilya pockets the bottle temporarily and continues with the revenge he'd promised days ago in the warehouse. Fishing a pair of plastic disposable gloves out of the hidden pocket of his suite, he puts them on. Then, he dips the first napkin from his pile into the sugary soda and starts mopping it over every surface. The monitor, the keyboard, in-between keys, the top of Drapeau’s desk, the inner sides of it, the drawer fronts and their handles, the tops of the chair's arm rests, the handle that sets the chair height, the filing cabinets. Even the name plate. Napkin after napkin, dip after dip, he spreads soda in a thin layer, and as it dries, the surfaces are left sticky and tacky from the residue of highly concentrated sucrose.

        When he's finished, he stacks the used napkins on the desk and pulls the perfume out of his pocket.

        Secretions Magnifiques.

        The 50 ml bottle is relatively expensive for a government agent’s wallet. And it doesn't belong in an office environment. The fragrance is meant to mimic actual secretions - sweat, saliva, semen, and blood. With a smirk, Ilya can't help but notice it's missing a specific secretion.

        Since it's Shane's last day in the office, he won't be the one getting nasally assaulted by the scent. Not that Drapeau is likely to use it more than once, after Ilya's done modifying the scent profile.

        Pulling out his Victorinox Swiss Champ Knife, Ilya tugs the pliers free from the assortment of tools folded into the base and gets to work on dismantling the perfume. Removing the spray pump and decorative sleeve just requires a good grip. Then the crimped spray nozzle needs to be pulled off with the pliers. Using his thumb to remember how full the bottle was, Ilya pours out what he estimates to be a fifth of the foul-smelling perfume. Then he unzips his pants and replaces the missing liquid with piss.

        After reassembling the diffuser, Ilya returns the perfume to its original drawer, gathers up his trash, and ducks into the nearest bathroom. The soda and perfume mixture gets flushed down the toilet and the cup and napkins are pushed to the bottom of the trash. It's only once he's washing his hands of mayhem that the klaxon in his mind goes off.

        He has to remind himself that Drapeau's been subjecting his coworkers to foul odors for a long time. The addition of pungent alpha piss might finally be the thing that results in a reprimand and a change in behavior. And one dose of alpha piss isn't enough to bitch a beta.

        The risk of getting caught is also minimal. It's not his face on the cameras. Only three people know who Stefan really is, and only Shane would recognize his scent on its own. In a perfume, that might be harder to do.

        Having reasoned through the possible consequences of his actions and dismissed them as negligible, the alarm goes quiet. He exits the bathroom and is about to go find the party, but around the corner, who should he find, if not Patrice Drapeau leaning against the window at the far end of the hall, once again munching on chips and whinging loudly to a taller fellow in a similarly cheap suit.

        "I'm telling you man, this sucks. Even if I'm not the one directly absorbing Hollander's workload, it's going to be a trickle-down effect. Someone will take his work, then they’ll have too much, so responsibilities will be redistributed. It’s going to be a mess.”  

        With a quick shift, Ilya approaches sideways, letting the vending machine block his view of the two men and vice versa. He doesn't expect to hear anything useful, but curiosity keeps him listening, trying to get a better sense of the man he's decided to terrorize in Shane's name.

        The other man hums ponderously. "Hollander was responsible for communicating with the confidential informant, right? Do you know who's going to be assigned that work?"

        "Oh, wow, you've got a good memory! I almost forgot that Hollzy was the one talking to the CI, and I’m the one who actually works with the guy. But maybe that's why you're in the Cyber Crime division. Bet you gotta be smart for that. Memory like a computer, huh?"

        A chill races up Ilya's spine. It's only a hunch. Nothing more than a guess. But his pulse throbs hearing the interest in the unknown man's voice. To hear him using Shane's name and asking about one of the few secrets Ilya hadn't seen in Alexei's database...it's concerning.

        And also rather fitting.

        Befriend a blabbermouth with access to the information you're interested in, exploit the man's need for importance by showing interest, and maintain enough distance that you avoid attracting suspicion. Add the computer skills that come with working in Cyber Crime and you have a very effective mole.

        He listens a while longer as Drapeau thoughtlessly gives away details about case progression and agent assignments without much prompting and with every passing minute his concern grows.

        "Boiziau's putting in the wire tap next week. He's already got the van prepped and the stupid electrician's outfit. Can't believe the electrical engineering classes he took are finally going to come in handy," Drapeau says, crinkling the chip bag as he crunches down on the last chip.

        Worried it means that the two men will disperse soon and having heard enough to feel uneasy, Ilya backs out of the hallway and around the corner in the same careful way he'd come in. As soon as he's out of view, his strides lengthen, doing a lap to approach the break room from the other direction.

        He pauses in the doorway, searching for Scott Hunter in the crowd, but his eyes find Shane first, snagging in place as all thought escapes him for a long moment.

        Ilya can feel the prickle of dryness as his eyes sting from staring, but he can't blink.

        Can't look away.

        Shane's so shatteringly beautiful.

        To the point where it's a bit of a problem. The bonded alpha in him wants to sidle up to Shane from behind, work the man's belt open, and fuck him right there, surrounded by his coworkers and...is it friend, singular? 

        Has Shane been lonely in the formulaic life he's been leading? Does he have a network he can count on? Or is it just his aging parents and a beta who's already overtaxed by the responsibility he has to his own family to have much time and attention to spare?

        Selfishly, he hopes there aren't others. 

        Ilya's greedy. The less he has to share, the better. The less good people Shane can personally compare him to, the best. There's a greater chance Shane won't notice all Ilya's flaws and faults if his circle of confidants is small.

        But the hope comes with a caveat entirely dependent on how Shane feels. If the man’s lonely, or unprotected, or under-supported because of a lack of friends, Ilya will help him find more. And since they're meant to be real friends to the omega - people to rely on and share secrets with - then they'll by definition have to be better people than Ilya. Their relationship might fall apart at that point, unable to survive under close scrutiny from people with the bandwidth to pay attention.

        Ilya’s nails dig into his palms as the thought of losing Shane shakes his bulkier-than-usual frame. It's not a thought he should be entertaining at the moment. Trapped in the guise of a bodyguard, he can't seek the comfort of physical touch to remind him he's not lost anything yet.

        Because the purely imagined, self-invented thought makes it so hard to stay in place. Maintain distance. Saliva pools in his mouth, tongue heavy with the need to lick into Shane's mouth, tracing the contours of the warm, spit-wet cavern. His nailbeds ache for the tension of being pressed against the hard edges of Shane's hips. His palms feel empty without the meat of Shane's tits to squeeze, caress, hold. He wants to lie on top of his strong, muscular omega like a duvet, transferring his heat and scent to his mate. His cock is probably the most normal part of him at the moment. For all that Ilya wants to bury himself in Shane's tight hole and feel slick dribble down his length and into his lap, at least the feeling's familiar in intensity. He's not used to the rest of his body being just as needy; he almost wants to turn to the nearest agent and ask if they might handcuff his wrists together behind his back.

        It's only when he notices the tightness of his pants, dick tenting the material in a way that would be untoward if it wasn't for his buttoned suit covering him down to mid-thigh, that he wrenches his gaze away from Shane.

        As expected, Scott Hunter, as the team lead, is present, playing wall flower on the outskirts of the festivities. He doesn't seem surprised when Ilya cuts through the crowd, heading straight for him.

        "How can I help you, Stefan?" he asks.

        "You remember fake name? Is sign of good memory," Ilya says, deepening his voice and playing up his accent. "Someone else also has good memory. Works for Cyber Crimes. I hear him speaking to Drapeau in hallway about many details with great interest. Tell me, is this normal? Plans are not confidential? You share randomly with other divisions?"

        Hunter puts down the cup he'd been sipping at, brow furrowing. "No, that's not standard operating procedure. Which hallway was this in?"

        "One with vending machine."

        With a nod of acknowledgement, Hunter pulls out his phone and starts typing out a service request to the department responsible for the building's cameras.

        "You do not have personal access to cameras?"

        Hunter quirks an eyebrow. "We have checks and balances in the Bureau. To see the footage, I need someone in the tech department to approve and send along the relevant video files. The paper trail reduces the likelihood of abuse of power."

        Swallowing down a growl of frustration, Ilya asks, "How long does it take?"

        "Depends on what they're busy with, but usually it's a quick turnaround. Maybe half an hour?"

        "Very quick," Ilya snorts. "Like snail crossing road." As he's wondering whether the tech department can be bribed or pressured to go faster, he notices Drapeau appear in the doorway with a plate of chips. Jutting his chin in the direction of the door, he says, "Maybe instead of waiting, you just ask? Man likes to babble. Maybe he babbles to us?"

        Hunter's expression is skeptical, but he raises his hand and waves Drapeau over. "Hey Pat, glad to see you made it. For a moment there, I was worried you'd miss your chance to say goodbye to Shane. Were you delayed by new chatter in one of the channels you're monitoring?"

        Ilya chokes on tainted air as the beta comes close enough to smell. It's immediately clear to him that Drapeau has reapplied the perfume. Concerningly, the man shows no indication of being bothered by the sharper note in the fragrance's accords. And even more concerningly, Hunter doesn't reprimand him for wearing it, though his nostrils flare in telling irritation.

        Drapeau's gaze slides to Ilya then back to Hunter in silent question, but when Hunter doesn't change the subject, waiting in silent expectation, Drapeau doesn't challenge the alpha and insist on privacy (the way he should) before answering the question.

        "Nah, the channels have been quiet. After Hollzy's botched mission, I'm not seeing the usual coded shipping details being exchanged between ports. Either they've put the human-trafficking part of their business on hold, or they've switched to different communication channels. I got delayed chatting with Bert. Seems like he's enjoying his new role in CC."

        "Ah," the concern in Hunter's face eases in recognition of the name. "I remember how much upskilling he had to do to make the switch. It's good to hear he's satisfied with the change, given how different our departments are."

        Teeth locked together as his jaw clenches, Ilya wants to shake Hunter. This is not the moment to ease up. If anything, this 'Bert's' what-sounds-like-recent switch to a computer-based job should be given more scrutiny. Did anyone pay him to make the move? Did he reposition himself in the Bureau, in service to someone else? Had he known Drapeau would remain a well of information to tap for details?

        Before he can subtly point this out, Shane and his angry friend drift near and Ilya is all of a sudden in a hell of his own making. He draws his shoulders up as Shane's nostrils flare in proximity to Drapeau.

        "Huh...did you change your perfume?" Shane asks, "This one's a bit more..." His voice drifts off as an appropriate adjective doesn't come to him.

        "More masculine?" Fescue-shed offers.

        Worse yet, Shane swings his chin noncommittally before agreeing. "It's better than it was before," he offers, eyes narrowing in a suppressed wince.

        And Drapeau, idiot that he is, rocks on his feet, contemplatively. "It's the same perfume. I just refreshed it. Maybe I just need to wear more of it?"

        Three fucking agents, two of which will continue to share office space with this dunce, and not a single one of them tries to dissaude the notion.

        Licking his teeth to keep from gnashing them, Ilya feels the klaxon ringing in his head again.

        One spray of rank perfume tainted with alpha piss is harmless.

        Repeated reapplication while working a stressful job, where your life and the lives of others are constantly on the line? Where perps and dangerous characters try to make you feel small or threatened on a regular basis? Where a higher up is in charge of telling you what to do all day? Not so harmless.

        Checking the man's fingers for a ring reveals no sign of jewelry or suspicious tan lines. He wears no necklace, so the ring can’t be hanging from a chain. His main bonding gland is unmarked and his smell is unmated. Drapeau is likely not married. And if he's coming to work smelling like a bloodied cum dumpster, he's also likely unlucky in dating. So, there’s no relationship dynamic to tether him to a designation. 

        Not good.

        Here, now, are consequences Ilya can't live with.

        A dirty prank that results in a careless, unempathetic agent getting reamed by his peers for torturing their senses with disgusting smells eight hours a day? That's fine.

        Unintentionally causing a designation change because a careless idiot is encouraged to piss-mark himself with another alpha's 'secretions' by agents who apparently can't recognize the scent of piss when it's mixed into a perfume that 'dares' to imitate sweat, saliva, semen, and blood? Unacceptable.

        This is hell.

        A hell of his own making.

        A problem he wouldn't have if he was a better person.

        A problem he has to make right, after the whole day feels like it's gone wrong.

        "Did I hear you talking about my mission?" Shane asks, the burnt hair scent of his anxiety thick in the air. "Do you know what happened to the twenty-four people in that shipment?"

        Again, Drapeau's eyes glance at Ilya, but when Hunter doesn't step in to change the subject, he answers with a short, regretful, "Nope, sorry dude."

        Shane's wide, sad gaze meets Ilya's.

        There's nothing he can say in mixed company, but he offers a nod of acknowledgement to continue the discussion later.

        Since it's not his place as a bodyguard to participate, and given the rising tension in the room outside their bubble, Ilya excuses himself and returns to Drapeau's now-sticky desk.

        The perfume isn't there.

        With a growl, he stalks away again, pacing rounds of the main office perimeter. He's on his sixth round when Drapeau appears in the cubicle farm, ready to get back to work.

        Aware of his time to fix this running out, he stalks up to the man like a bulldozer, startling him hard enough that he jumps back. Before Drapeau can get a word out, Ilya tells him point blank, "You smell like shit. Don't you have goals? To get a promotion? To have people's respect? To find a mate? To transition to alpha?"

        On the last one, Drapeau's pupils noticeably dilate, the desire strong enough to trigger a physical response.

        Without calling it out, Ilya says, "Scent is not the greatest component to these things, but it can contribute. Sometimes significantly. So, here is deal. Give me your foul perfume right now, and when you are home, throw away all foul perfumes you have. Record pouring them out and send to this number." 

         Counting from the lapel, he reaches into one of the specialized pockets in his suit jacket, and pulls out the business card for his junkmail burner phone, handing it to Drapeau. "In return, my boss will fly you out, all expenses paid, to his club in Berlin for weekend. Club has scent counter with professional perfumers. You tell them your goals, and they will construct scent for this purpose that others will also like. Then, instead of walking away holding nostrils closed, people will lean closer and listen. And your mind and body will notice this behavior and read it as deference."

        He can see the temptation in Drapeau's face; but, however irritating, it's maybe good to see suspicion there too. After all, an agent should be suspicious.

        "Why the fuck would your boss do that?"

        "He is Mr. Hollander's mate. What makes his mate happy, makes him happy," Ilya tries.

        "Hollzy's leaving the office. Why would he care what I smell like?"

        "Mr. Hollander will no longer be assaulted by your stench, yes; but his dearest friend," teeth clenching and throat working overtime to hold back a growl, Ilya chokes out the name, "Hayden, still works here. Will call with complaints. Will return to wife with the ghost of your putrid perfume clinging to his clothes, bag, hair. Then she too will call Hollander to complain, as friends do."

         Drapeau looks skeptical over this, but he can't refute a friendship dynamic he's not part of. Licking his gums and tearing at the edge of a chapped lip with his teeth, he does appear to be wavering, at least. After a moment, he asks, "Who are you to offer something like that in your boss's name?"

        Straightening to his full height, Ilya lets his mouth curl up in a grin he knows looks predatory. Gleaming teeth on display, a cruel twist towards the end of his mouth, it's a grin that says 'I've hurt people and enjoyed it'.

        "Mr. Hollander is my charge. I am authorized to do whatever will make Mr. Hollander happy. Also, the price of this trip is negligible. After I have video proof of dumped fragrances, secretary will call you to make arrangements. First class flight to and from Berlin. Hotel stay will be comped; it is attached to club. Give your name at the door and at fragrance counter, they will see to your needs. They will formulate as many perfumes as you can fit in suitcase."

        This time, it's not phrased as a question. The only acceptable answer is yes. He holds his hand out, palm up, in expectation of being given a perfume, aware of the pressure to agree that he's inspiring in the beta.

        With noticeable reluctance and some reasonable doubt, Drapeau reaches into his suit pocket and produces the perfume bottle.

        Out of paranoia, Ilya sprays the perfume into the cap and takes a whiff. It takes every effort to keep from gagging, but it confirms that he's in possession of the bottle he tainted.

        "That's an expensive perfume," Drapeau says, unable to keep the whine out of his voice. "How do I know you're going to keep your word?"

        Cocking one eyebrow isn't very feasible with the prosthetics, but he gives Drapeau a look. "You are able to contact Mr. Hollander, yes?"

        A nod.

        "And Mr. Hollander is good agent? Honest? Likes things to be fair?"

        Another nod. Interestingly, there's no hesitation to it. Apparently, Ilya hasn't totally ruined the man's reputation just yet.

        "If you tell Mr. Hollander that I steal expensive perfume from you, trick you into destroying products, I will lose my job. And probably more, since Mr. Hollander will tell Mr. Rosanov. I have no reason to lie to you," Ilya points out, before turning on his heel and leaving the man to stew in uncertainty.

        Turning the corner, back towards the break room, Ilya is not expecting to immediately run into Shane. Maybe he should have been. This stupid tiny office just means everyone’s constantly in proximity to everyone else. No wonder Alexei decided to find a mole. Turn one good man, and suddenly you have the keys to the kingdom. He freezes mid-stride, taking in his mate's posture first. 

        Wide stance, arms crossed, shoulders straight. All hard lines, like a bulwark. It isn't until he gets to the face that all that harshness softens. Warm gaze. Teasing grin. "Big spender," Shane tsks, shaking his head. "You're seriously going to fly Drapeau all the way to Berlin for some perfume?"

        Silently cursing the smallness of the office when paired with his mate's bat-like ears, Ilya corrects, "Suitcase of specially formulated perfumes to help poor beta's crippling insecurity." But also, he notices, with not just a little wonder in his voice, "You do not doubt me? No part of you wonders if maybe I steal bottle from him? No intention of following up?"

        "No," Shane says, easily. Easier than he should. "I don’t think you’d steal the bottle, given what a drop in the bucket it’d be for you to pay for it. Also, he'd just go out and get more, so stealing one wouldn't do much."

        "Maybe I am jealous. Such good, rare perfume. Maybe I steal it to add to my collection? So I can smell like secretions."

        Shane snorts. "The only secretions you're allowed to smell of are yours. Or mine," he adds, like an afterthought, but the casual possessiveness in his voice has Ilya's teeth aching. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself of their present location, of the people nearby, of Shane's friend nearby, ready to cast judgement, of the false face sculpted around his own.

        "Consider the invitation open. Anytime you want, please, go ahead. Secrete on me," Ilya teases, expecting a disgusted wince from his fastidious mate. 

        Instead, he's shocked when Shane bobs his eyebrows and says, "Don't tempt me." As if marking Ilya could really be tempting. Something he'd need to resist.

        Mouth dry, Ilya plants his feet firmly, trying again to remember why he needs to maintain distance. In this precarious moment, even a hug feels like it would be too dangerous. What he wouldn't give to be home. Free of the stiff prosthetics covering his face. Free to fold Shane in half and see what temptations he can inspire the omega to indulge in.

        But temptation is apparently not nearly as debilitating to Shane. Curiosity and confusion prominent in his expression, he asks, "Are you really doing this for Hayden? Even if it's not going to cost you much, why would you go out of your way to improve Hayden's working conditions?"

        The prosthetics keep his face too stiff for revealing twitches. But he doesn't have a good answer for Shane. For all that it's not real animosity that he has for Hayden Pike, he recognizes and recoils from the threat he presents as Shane's true, well-informed confidante. If he's clever enough to value Shane and be wary of Ilya, then he's clever enough to find the right moment to split them apart.

        Ilya doesn't know what to do about Pike. His mate loves him like a friend, so he can't approach the threat of him like he would any other enemy.

        But, unlike Shane's underinformed parents, there's nothing he can do or say to charm Pike. The man knows better. Has seen firsthand the chaos of Ilya's lifestyle.

        One he didn't pick.

        One he can't shuck.

        One that will find him if he runs and will test him if he stays.

        The worst part is, Pike's not even wrong. In most ways, for most people, Ilya Rozanov is not a viable partner. The risks outweigh the rewards. If Shane wasn't an agent, Ilya imagines he'd eventually find it in himself to push the omega back out of the dark world he's been pulled into.

        But Shane's an agent.

        His life's already on the line.

        He's willing to sacrifice for others. Die for strangers.

        And so long as that's true, Ilya can convince himself his presence is a boon. He knows how to navigate the world Shane's been peering into for the past few years. As Shane's dipping his toe into the ocean, skin relatively unmarked, still wet behind the gills, a minnow amongst whales, Ilya can be his shadow with serrated teeth, frightening away the opportunistic predators on their journey from the shallows to the great, wide deep.

        But Pike doesn't see it that way.

        Doesn't consider that he's just as guilty. Deciding to play superhero for the sake of an abstract “community”, while creating a family of dependents for the world to target if he ever slips. One failure would be enough to cost them. 

        A mother snuffed out. The children sold. Pike, a living, open wound, oozing grief in perpetuity. The man's a hypocrite. Judging from an ivory tower that barely rises from the ground.

        So, no, making his working environment more pleasant isn't a top priority for Ilya and Shane likely knows this. At a loss, he goes for humor. "Is for blackmail. I can weaponize Drapeau. After a few weeks of working in a nice, clean office full of fresh air, will be possible to threaten so many agents. Do this thing, or I will convince Drapeau to go back to Secretions Magnifique. Think it will work?"

        It's so very human, to fill in blanks with a story that fits the world as one sees it. Shifting from foot to foot, Shane says, "You didn't have to do it for my sake. I had no expectation that you'd work your magic in this place too. You're allowed to just walk into a place and walk back out again. Be forgettable."

        Shane's staring at him wide-eyed, enamored with the princely version he's invented. "Fuck, I wish Hayden had been here to see this. Most people do good things in front of an audience, to get recognition for doing it. And here you are, doing the opposite."

        And what a lovely story it is.

        To have his nearly-devestating revenge interpreted as generosity of spirit.

         As 'magic'...

        Swallowing hard to keep an unhinged laugh at bay, Ilya shrugs. "If you believe that, I will not argue," he says, diplomatically. He won't be the one pointing out his flaws to Shane.

        "Fuck you," Shane snorts. "You didn't know I was here, listening. No matter how good an actor Hayden thinks you are, there's some things that just aren't so easy to fake. And when you walked into this hallway, I surprised you. I know I surprised you."

        Narrowing his eyes, Ilya wonders aloud, "The House of Many Grasses thinks I am a good actor?"

        Groaning, Shane asks, "Is there anything I can do to get you to just use his name? I heard you say it to Drapeau, so can’t you say it for me? Please?  I'll beg if you want."

        It takes every ounce of self-discipline to keep from caving immediately and he knows that if Shane starts begging in earnest or uses the safe word, he'll do as he's asked. But before Shane can turn to the tactics that will break him, Ilya cuts in with a proposal. "You want me to use his name? Then, in return, when it is just us, do the opposite."

        "You...want me to call him names?" Shane asks, slowly.

        The way Shane says it, Ilya can tell there's something he's missing in translation. "Nyet, does not have to be many names. Just one. Pick from the names I call him, or pick something new - I don't care. But let it be a different name you say in front of me."

        "Why?" Shane asks, brows bunching in confusion.

        Because it creates distance, however minor.

        Because some day, Shane might slip up and call Hayden by whatever prozvishche he picks; and that thought alone will bring Ilya joy even if he's not around to hear it.

        Because maybe he'll like Pike’s name better, when it's not his mate saying it. In their home, between them in their shower, whispered as part of conversation in their bed.

        But none of his reasons seem safe to say out loud. There's too much ugly truth there. Too much selfishness and greed.

        So he grins with what would be cheekiness, if his face could move more, and says, "Because I want you to feel how difficult it will be to change the way I say his name. Every time you catch yourself, every time you slip up, you will remember that I am in same boat. Maybe then, you will scold me less when I make mistakes."

        "I won't scold you," Shane scoffs.

        "Deal?" Ilya persists.

        "Fine," he sighs. "Deal. Ready to head out?"

        "Maybe you should wear party hat? Help sell delayed exit?" Ilya pushes his luck.

        "Fuck you. You can wear the party hat, if you're so keen on it."

        "Do you have some?" Ilya asks, pretending to look around.

        "Come on, you menace," Shane mutters, boldly tugging Ilya toward the exit by the lapels, but beneath the bluster, Ily can tell he's amused.

        "This is not how you treat bodyguard," Ilya reminds him, softly. Not wanting the moment to end, but aware on some level that they make a strange sight.

        The pressure of Shane's tugging hand disappears and Ilya has to suck in a breath to keep from whining at the loss. As they're walking out the door, he senses the klaxon in him rising again. Partly, because of the change in environment, but also because his mind has circled back to the question, "Why does Pike say I am good actor?"

        Shane's grimace is not a good sign. "Some of the guys who do room sweeps on the regular were at the party, so I asked them if they were keeping an eye out for secret rooms, hidden panels, Murphy doors and furniture, false paintings, and other shit that belongs in a cartoon. Which, by the way, is definitely something they had been checking for, but maybe not as thoroughly as they should have. You'd have laughed if you'd seen their bug-eyed expressions when I described just how prominent of a design element it is on Rozanov properties."

        Since he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, Ilya hums impatiently, noticing the way Shane's trying to keep the mood high.

        "When I was talking to him, Hayden was - " Ilya coughs deliberately as a reminder of their deal. His poor sweet mate makes a sour face, like he's bitten into a crabapple. But still, he honors his part. "Day-hen was with me," he starts, but Ilya's laughter cuts him off again.

        "S-sorry," Ilya apologizes between guffaws. "Is new strategy. Very cute, to make it rhyme. And so many options. May-pen, Say-when, Pay-then, Gay-wren, Lay-zen - "

        "I am going to wring your neck," Shane threatens, but he's shaking with suppressed chuckles. And he looks so bright. So joyful. Precious and fragile. 

       Breath caught in his lungs, Ilya’s gaze sticks in place. Wide-eyed and aware he's staring, he watches with dilated pupils as Shane notices his fixed attention and blushes bright red, contrasting his freckles like watermelon seeds. The visual is enough to rouse an ancient memory, of his mother, with her golden hair draped like a shawl around his shoulders, leaning close to whisper theatrically in his little ear the Russian translation of Jan Brzechwa's poems, about fruits and vegetables and market stalls, as he sits in her lap, transfixed by the colorful pages she's holding open, pointing with a manicured nail at the words as she says them.

        Arbuz...his sweet watermelon. Turning red because Ilya's just as transfixed as he was back then, when the world was new to him.

        Running a hand through his lovely dark hair, Shane says, "Well, he was with me, and he started up again, with his 'last, absolutely final warning, I promise'. Apparently, having lots of secret doors means you're hiding lots of secrets. I scolded him, obviously. Said he had to stop saying shit about my mate. He tried to argue that you're just half a bondmate, at which point I went and told him the whole story. About the clinic visit, the doctor, the bond side-effects, and convincing you to complete the bond." He hesitates then, slowing in their walk to the car.

        "He thinks I trick you," Ilya guesses. "How this time?"

        Hands fiddling with a loose thread, Shane sighs. "It's stupid. He got stuck on the detail that the clinic I went to was the one closest to your apartment building. No amount of explaining how I picked the date and made the appointment could dissuade him from jumping to conclusions. He actually thinks you set up a fake clinic, with fake patrons and office staff, and hired a fake doctor to talk me into bonding. Personally, I think he's just having a hard time accepting there might be an agent working with Alexei, and so he's looking for conspiracies that implicate you rather than the Bureau."

        Ilya scoffs, holding in the starburst of rage, but it comes out in a fit of words that trip over themselves on their way out his mouth. "Is easy to verify. Clinic is there long time. Legitimate business will have paperwork to follow. Says when business starts, when it moves in, how long and for how much is lease. Doctors are in databases where you can look up licenses and reviews. If Pike wants to waste the time he could be spending with his wife to chase business details for omega clinics, you should encourage him. It will amuse me when his marriage falls apart." 

        With a wince, Ilya wishes he could pull the words back in. They're entirely too revealing. A hint of the cruelty underneath. 

        But as the rage climbs higher instead of dispersing, the image of Shane leaving him to go sleep on Pike’s couch, of disappearing from his life because of invented crimes Ilya hasn’t committed, crystalizing, his cruel thoughts start to feel justified.

        He doesn’t care about Hayden Pike’s opinion of him, as long as he keeps those thoughts in his own head. But a steady drip of conspiracies, doubts, pointed questions can poke holes in one’s certainty about an innocent man, let alone Ilya. 

        The rage needs an outlet. 

        Skin practically vibrating with suppressed emotions, Ilya walks faster.

       Once they've made it to the car, Ilya, who is, in fact, a very good actor, opens the back door like a bodyguard should, ushering Shane in with a hand at the small of his back. While the omega's still struggling to think of a good response, he shifts from foot to foot, projecting subtle discomfort as he bites his lip. "Will be back after pit stop at rest room," Ilya assures him, closing the door with a firm snap before Shane can respond with more than a nod of acknowledgement.

        He sprints back into the building, in case Shane's looking, but leaves again out a side entrance, pushing a doorstop under the frame to keep the lock from engaging.

        A man like Hayden Pike - involved father of two - will likely drive a minivan. Something easy, fitted for the children he has, ready to help his wife at a moment's notice.

        The lot from this side only has two minivans, and only one of them has car seats. In the open air, it's much harder to track a scent from a distance. From up close, however, he can make out the yeast of plain bagels and the hint of an overwatered bergamot tea that registers in his mind as Hayden Pike. It's in the smudged, oily fingerprints on the car's door handle and front facade. It leaks from the imperfect seal of the car’s body in a trickle.

        With the last pair of disposable gloves he has on-hand in this given suit, Ilya takes the rest of the napkins he'd squirreled into his pockets and pays Pike back for trying to poison Shane against him. 

        Having witnessed the office dynamics, Ilya feels confident that his hand in this petty revenge will go unnoticed.

        Pike's too polite to formally complain about a coworker.

        And Drapeau's not stupid enough to brag about taking what would look like a bribe to someone unaware of the details. 

        So, Hayden will think Drapeau is still in possession of the perfume, but won’t raise a fuss over what he’ll consider a prank. And Drapeau will not mention that he traded said perfume to a Russian mobster’s bodyguard for an expensive weekend trip entirely out of his price range.

        Hence, Ilya feels safe enough from discovery to clean the windows and door handles of Pike’s car with formerly-Drapeau’s gag-worthy perfume. It’s a bit messy, a bit oily, but the windows quickly dry in the breeze. When he's done anointing the car with perfume, he dumps everything into the industrial-sized dumpster at the end of the building and goes back inside a final time, kicking away the doorstop and ducking into the bathroom.

        Despite the gloves he'd worn, Shane's nose is too sensitive for Ilya to risk just returning to the car. To kill the stench of perfume that clings to his hands, Ilya pulls a flask from another secret pocket and washes his hands in vodka once, before doing it again with soap and water. 

        Unfortunately, when he gets behind the wheel, the first thing he hears is Shane loudly sniffing the air. “Are you day-drinking?” he asks, sounding scandalized. 

        With a snort, Ilya says, “Kiss me and find out.”  

        He doesn’t expect Shane to climb through the divider into the front seat. “I don’t want to sit in the back,” he explains, from close enough that he can sniff more precisely. “It doesn’t smell like you drank any.” 

        “Strong hand sanitizer,” Ilya shrugs. It’s technically the truth. “Seatbelt,” he reminds, poking at Shane’s knees so his feet are neatly tucked into the well. When his mate is safely arranged in the seat, he starts the car, and immediately asks, “Who is Bert from Cyber Security?”

        “You mean Cyber Crimes?” Shane corrects, humming in thought. “Gilbert Comeau transferred to CC after he got his degree. I don’t think I know any other Berts. But then, I haven’t worked much with CC on any of my cases.”

        “When does he start this work? Is recent?” 

        “Not very. He’s been working for CC for two years. He started his degree two years before that. Why are you asking about Comeau?” 

        “Unsubstantiated suspicion,” Ilya says. Because, for now, that’s all it is. 

        Shane shifts at his side, right leg twitching every time he thinks Ilya should break. There’s more to his upset, though, than Ilya’s driving. Fidgeting with threads, thumb worrying at nail edges, hips readjusting like he can’t sit still…

        “What is it?” Ilya asks, wondering if he should pry or if this is delayed grief Shane needs time to work through on his own. There are big changes ahead. A whole new schedule, a whole new home, a whole new mate, a whole new designation…it feels like too much to deal with. Too much pressure that Ilya can’t alleviate. That no one can alleviate. They’re all just inevitable consequences to a chain reaction Ilya started in a warehouse. 

        All your fault, the klaxon shrieks. His fingers tighten over the leather of the steering wheel.

        “My mission…twenty-four people who were counting on me…I didn’t let myself think about it before now. It’s been out of my hands. Out of my control. I thought maybe someone else was working on it. I hoped. But Drapeau says there hasn’t been any news. Do you know of a way to find out what happened to them? The database - ”

        “Only has Bureau information,” Ilya says, hating to crush the still hopeful gaze Shane leverages against him. “Trafficking is not my business. That information needs to be pulled from Alexei’s office. Is not online. Paper copies only, all in coded, sloppy handwriting. In past, I take photos during parties my brother hosts in his ballroom.”

        “Your brother has a ballroom?” Shane asks, looking too impressed for Ilya’s liking. 

        “Yes, because he has bad taste. Also, he buys house with ballroom so people will not ask why fancy parties are not hosted in one of my fancier clubs. Is power play. Next party is at end of week. Celebration of new partnership with Korean alcohol company that secretly runs guns manufactured in Alexei’s cheap Russian factory to Asian markets.” 

         “Heuksa Distillery?” Shane guesses, pulling the name easily out of memory, effortlessly familiar with the dealings of the Rozanovs. 

        “Da. Deal came through last month. Party is just formal acknowledgment of partnership.”

        “And we’re going to be there?” Shane asks, inordinately excited.

        “I am going because is photo opportunity. You can meet with parents like is usual weekend.” 

        “Would me coming with you present a problem? Put you under more scrutiny?”

        It’s such a temptation to lie. To confirm it’d be a problem. But this is Shane’s job. It’s only because he’s already been courting danger that Ilya has him at all. Though it hurts to tell the truth, telling a lie would hurt more, in a different way. Would hurt Shane, if he ever found out. And he likely would. He’s too clever to be fooled for long. 

        “Nyet, it would be useful. Some people will watch you. Approach you. To threaten or to size you up. If anything, is easier to slip away when everyone is distracted by unknown element in their space.”

        “Then, I’m going with you,” Shane declares. 

         And that’s it. It’s set in stone. Shane will join him at the ball. 

        As Ilya’s pulse beats harder in his neck, the cabin starts to smell of gasoline. But he doesn’t say a word. Aware that this is his new life as well. 

        One where the person he most wants to keep safe is at his side, taking the same risks, flirting with the same perils. 

Chapter 21

Chapter Summary

The first day in Ilya's world, Part 1 of 2

Chapter Notes

This was supposed to be short. The beginning of a chapter. Nothing more. What happened? Why does it take this long?

Thank you if you're reading this and leaving comments. Even if it's in earlier chapters. The reminders of what happened so far is helpful, and I love hearing what struck a chord or was interesting. How people are interpreting scenes, because it varies so much!

Anyways...I know these come out at awkward times. Sorry it couldn't have been a day earlier.

        For the second day in a row, Shane wakes up first, about an hour too early. 

        Not because he's done sleeping. 

        Not because he isn't tired. 

        Instead, he's dragged to wakefulness by discomfort. Stress doesn't usually manifest physically for Shane. He's not one to get hives or headaches in response to a demanding schedule or bad news. And, as an omega, he should be even more resilient. Harder to bother.

        Yet, the skin beneath his nails is practically raw from unconscious scratching. And, to make matters worse, the inflamed patches of skin only feel itchier for having been disturbed.

        He doesn't mean to whine about it; but, so freshly roused, he's not firing on all cylinders yet. Still not used to sharing a bed with someone for his first concern to be about disturbing his sleeping mate. It doesn't help that he'd apparently rolled away from the alpha sometime during the night. He's practically hanging off the edge of the mattress when a long, nasal, woefully frustrated note slips out.

        Ilya snaps up like someone's electrocuted him, pupils shrunken down to pin pricks as his eyes hunt for the threat in the room. When they land on Shane, his mate echoes the whine, distressed at the damage Shane's done to his chest.

        "Come here, solnyshko. Let me see what happened," Ilya kind of asks, although his tone and the words themselves don't leave much space for refusal.

        "It's nothing. Just itchy. Sorry for waking you. If you think you can fall asleep again, there's probably still an hour before we need to get up," Shane tries.

        A ridiculously huge hand cuffs around Shane's bicep and, too easily, pulls him across the bed, into Ilya's arms.

        Shooing away Shane's hands from the damage they've caused, Ilya asks, "Why you do this?"

        "I didn't mean to," Shane mutters, suddenly realizing, as Ilya's inspecting the puckered, nail-grazed flesh, that most of his skin irritation is concentrated around his areolas. "It's just really fucking itchy."

        "Cold should help," Ilya says, twisting over to his side of the bed and opening what looks like the cabinet portion of his nightstand. Except, the little wooden-looking door is apparently just the front facade to a mini-fridge.

        Watching Ilya pull out a chilled water bottle, Shane gapes at the alpha. "Your kitchen is right there," he gestures at the fireplace, beyond which is just the wide space, where the living room and kitchen share square footage.

        "Da. And if main fridge breaks, here is backup. That it is also convenient does not mean it is wasteful," Ilya points out, thumbing the flip-cap open and taking a drink.

       “You say that like you don’t have giant fridges in your garage,” Shane mutters, watching like an idiot. Because, though he should know better, Shane assumes Ilya's just thirsty.

        When Ilya twists back to face him, leaving the water bottle on top of the nightstand, and presses Shane flat on the bed, leaning in close, he assumes the alpha just wants a better look.

        Assuming is apparently something he shouldn’t be doing this early in the morning. Maybe it’s the brain fog from being freshly woken up, but he's legitimately shocked when Ilya fastens his mouth over a tortured nipple, forming a seal, and lets the ice cold water he's been holding in his mouth soothe the inflamed skin.

        Hissing in displeasure, Shane tries to buck Ilya off him, pushing at broad, powerful shoulders that refuse to be budged. "No, stop," Shane whines, shivering as icy water tightens the skin, turning his nipples into sharp little peaks.

        Instantly, Ilya pulls off, swallowing the water in his mouth so he can ask, "What is your safe word?"

        "Oh...no, I'm not...that's not what - this isn't a safe word moment," Shane says, wringing his hands in discomfort.

        "Doesn't matter. I want to hear you say it. To know, without doubt, that you remember it."

        "Orthodox," Shane sighs, caving to the request.

        "Good," Ilya says, "You will use this if you want me to stop." And he fills his mouth with another shot of water.

        "But I'm f-f-fine," Shane protests, suffering the chill of Ilya's cold lips first, and then the shock of cold water on sensitive skin. He can't help trying to writhe away, but he doesn't verbally complain a second time.

        "Better?" Ilya asks after a few more applications to both nipples, brilliant blue eyes staring at him in concern.

        "For now. I wonder if it's an allergic reaction," Shane mutters, looking down at his wet chest. Before he can wipe the moisture away, Ilya starts blowing on it.

        "H-hey, you're going to make me hard." 

        "And this is bad result?" Ilya asks, kissing Shane's sternum when the last droplets have flattened and disappeared. He shifts, pressing his body more firmly into the cradle of Shane's hips.

        Shane feels his abdomen tighten painfully as he considers the day ahead. "It's all new to me. Your life, your schedule...I feel weird about looking behind the curtain. Seeing your world from up close."

        Ilya hums with disinterest. "Today is not so special. And my schedule is not so interesting. Most of the work is oversight. Getting updates from people in charge, reading through complaints, dropping in on clubs and checking on - " he cuts off, eyes coming back sharp from where they'd been picturing a regular day at work, assessing Shane.

        It takes a second for Shane to realize why he's hesitating. "How much of what you do is illegal?" he asks.

        "More than you would like," comes the vague answer. Ilya pushes himself up, and is off the bed in a quick movement, creating distance.

        "I...I'm not asking to get you in trouble," Shane says quietly, sitting up. "Besides, the Bureau gave you immunity. You can keep running things as you have been for as long as you're - "

        "Helping, da, I know," Ilya says, sharply. He winces right afterwards, regret in his eyes and tension in the rest of him. "And when it is done and Alexei is in prison, what then?"

        Shane shakes his head. "I don't know. Decisions like that are above my paygrade. How core is the illegal shit to your business?"

        Shifting from foot to foot, Ilya admits, "I do not look too closely at laws. They are changing all the time. I look at market. Why do people come to location? Cities have different vibes. Pull people in for different reasons. Attract specific demographics looking for given experience. I call what I own ‘clubs’, because English has two meanings for this word. But they are so popular because they create places for special interest communities to congregate."

        Rubbing the back of his head, Shane admits, "I'm mostly just familiar with the ones you have in Canada. Are the other ones very different?"

        "Da. Is why I need to send your stinky coworker to Berlin, the city of villages. There is a lot of counterculture and experimentation. Is close to France and Netherlands. People come to Berlin interested to have crafted experiences. So, good place for something experimental, artistic, bespoke. People who have money are also in Berlin, visiting business hubs and looking to do something unique. So, club is focused on scent design. There is also section for discovering best color palette, best material, best shape. In other region, club is nothing like the one in Berlin.

        "American southwest attracts people who like adventure tourism. Who want to visit canyons, to test physical boundaries, so club there is like playground for adults. Health shot bars on raised levels that you can use stairs or climb to, nets and trampolines keep people who fall or lose energy safe. There are canyon tours on offer, and kayaking nearby. We help people come together in groups, organizing small tours based on questionnaire that matches people based on interests. Most of my clubs also have hotel portion, so that clients can make it a destination. Treat it as focal point in their vacation plans. I own one of the smaller canyons there and we turn it into paintball arena. It is fun place that attracts very active people, and is nothing like clubs in Montreal."

        "None of that sounds illegal," Shane points out.

        "Da, because you are agent with connections. Ability to call up people in other Bureaus across the world. And my immunity is Canadian," Ilya says softly. “I tell you about the ones that are safe.” 

        "Ok, fair. You have no reason to trust me to keep your secrets. But, you don't have, like, a murder club somewhere, right?" Shane asks, trying to think of what outlandish concepts you could build a club around.

        Ilya huffs a laugh. "Shane, to be illegal, it does not have to be extreme. In UK, adult cannot consent to bodily harm. So, caning, hard spanking, biting enough to break skin, breathplay are all illegal. How many countries cannot decide if drugs are legal? What kinds? How much? How many places say gambling cannot happen one year, and then allow sports betting apps to absorb the money of half the population next year? How many countries cannot decide who your body belongs to? You get pregnant, government can force you to die to keep theoretical life in tact. But you cross border and suddenly death penalty for removing a fetal parasite is gone and you can get simple appointment to remove. You can fuck who you want, but only for free. You try to sell it because family is poor, starving, and government will not give you support? Now you go to prison and they give your children to pedophiles who say they will be foster parents. The world is not fair, or just, or protective. So, I do not look at laws when I decide what I will do for club. I just make sure there is enough degrees of separation, enough plausible deniability, enough background checks on clients, so wrong person does not get enough information to shut me down or find me out."

        "So, no murder clubs?" Shane asks, voice light, but Ilya's nostrils flare pointedly. A silent reminder that he can smell how conflicted Shane feels.

        "Since we are having this discussion, be honest. Tell me how you feel about this," Ilya insists.

        "I...Is that productive? Today's important. And I...I don't think I'm at the stage yet where this lonely, abandoned headspace is doing me any favors. I get that you want space, but - "

        A deep whine of protest and suddenly Ilya has scooped him up and taken his space on the bed, with Shane in his lap. "Distance is not for me," Ilya says, urgently. "You want me close? You have me."

        Immediately, Shane feels better, the knot that had been growing in the pit of his stomach releasing tension. It still feels tight and painful, but nothing like it was without Ilya beside him.

        Leaning into the arms that cradle him, Shane asks into Ilya's collarbone, "You want the truth?"

        Ilya stiffens, but his brave alpha says, "Da," regardless. Ready to face their differences head on.

        "If I was someone in charge of a place where the people who lived there agreed their community should be quiet, and wholesome, and peaceful; where they didn't want alcohol being sold after a certain time, where they didn't want to support addictive habits, where they didn't want food being sold with certain additives or preservatives, where they wanted to respect nature, where they honestly believed that a god exists and that god demands certain things of them and that violating those demands would lead to eternal damnation...I think that I should cater to the community, and create laws, checks and balances, to make that vision of the world a reality. And if some club showed up and thumbed its nose at everything the people living there believed in, I'd want to shut it down."

        Shane feels a tug at his hair. A silent request for eye contact. Blushing for who knows what fucking reason, Shane lets Ilya pull his chin up.

        "If I have club in some strange little cult community, it would run Bible study groups, have nature meditation, only serve clean food. Would not even give them seasonings."

        Shane huffs a laugh, once again impressed by how Ilya can change the mood so easily, his own growing tension once again abating.

        "I make things for people. Not for laws and governments. I would not judge this backwards little place. Would not point out that they can be clean and peaceful because they drive their trash and plastics to other poorer communities and they exist without chaos because they have financial stability. No poverty to attract drugs, sex work, or crime. Instead, if I wanted their money, I would give them what they ask for. Simple. And if ever government changes and some crazy atheist creates law that says religions are not allowed, I would set up secret Bible studies and invite priests to live in underground tunnel system that looks like this apartment building."

        Shane laughs, picturing a tiny mole city of priests living underneath a quaint, picturesque community of secret religious zealots, with Ilya doing drop-ins, overseeing plans for new tunnels, hosting interviews for men of the cloth, running through a checklist to judge how well they shepherd 'flocks' of devotees.

        And when he looks up again, it's to wide, shining eyes that stare at him like he's something rare and beautiful. There's entirely too much undeserved emotion in those twin heights of sky blue. But he can't duck away with Ilya's hand cupping his chin, so he's forced to bask in that misplaced devotion.

        "Does it bother you? That I'm an agent?" Shanes asks, wondering if Ilya needs the reminder that usually they're on opposite sides.

        "Nyet. Why would it? I do not believe all laws are misplaced. For example, I do not believe in violating others. Is why I report the human-trafficking my brother starts. I do not like when people are tricked into lives and situations, when they are used by others, exploited. You and your job are necessary. But I also believe people have the right to self-destruct. In a better world, my father would be in jail and my mother would be alive. But I am not angry that she escapes the life she was tricked into. It was her right. And no law should be able to say she cannot. No government should be able to force her into hospital and drug her into catatonic living."

        Shane's stunned to hear it. To know that, despite the pain the loss of his mother caused him, Ilya doesn't begrudge her for doing it. That, apparently, he wouldn't ask the state to intervene to keep her from doing it. He wonders, but doesn't ask, whether the opinion is cultural. He's aware of the stereotypes. 

        About Russians being built differently. About the propensity for fatalism, the acceptance of death as the inevitable and natural conclusion to life, the pessimism that contrasts with their strength of spirit.

        The pessimism to believe your brother wants to kill you and will look for more ways to do it.

        And the strength of spirit to build unconventional solutions to prevent it from happening.

        Tragically, Shane doesn't consider lying to himself all that helpful, which is why he's forced to confront the fact that a hope lives in him that there's a way for their own contrasts to fit together in a neat package. A hope that a future between them is possible. That the closeness and peace of this moment is something he can hold onto and count on.

        Which is a terrible hope to have, when he DOES. NOT. KNOW. THIS. MAN.

        It's just so fucking hard to remember.

        The stupid, ridiculous phrase he's never believed could be true - "I feel like I've known him all my life" - that he'd dismissed as naive and deeply problematic, suddenly feels so irritatingly relatable.

        As Ilya pets his hair and leaves lingering kisses anywhere he can reach, Shane leans into them like a flower towards sunlight. None of the hesitation he should feel in being touched so intimately by a man he barely knows.

        "We need to start getting dressed," Shane murmurs, even though it’s technically not true. They have time. But the intimacy feels dangerous. He knows he’s past being able to look at this objectively, but moments like these, where he’s getting real information about Ilya, being paired with amity, physical closeness, and care…it just muddies the waters to the point where Shane can’t tell if he’s seeing the alpha clearly. 

        Ilya makes a face of denial. "Nyet, eating breakfast in work clothes is cursed. Food first. Clothes after."

        Shane finds the statement odd, but foolishly dismisses it. He’s too busy being startled, clinging to wide shoulders as Ilya stands up, arms still cradled around Shane, and takes him into the kitchen. After placing him carefully on a bar stool, Ilya doubles back for Shane's slippers and drops them off at his feet on his way around the island to get started with breakfast.

        Again, with the fucking slippers. It’s such a little detail, but it says so much. That he doesn’t want Shane having to cross cold floors in his bare feet. That he doesn’t want to strand him at the island, stuck between the choice of asking Ilya to bring him the slippers or facing the discomfort of going without. 

        It's so fucking thoughtful, that Shane's throat burns over it. "Thank you," he tries to croak out, but Ilya tsks at him, leaning over the counter to press a kiss to his cheek.

        "You have preferences for breakfast?"

        "Something Russian?" Shane asks, curious if Ilya has something on hand. If there are Russian staples in his cupboards. If his culture is in this kitchen; something he reaches for on the regular.

        "Mannaya krupa?" Ilya offers. Seeing the confused expression on Shane's face, he pulls out a large packet of...what looks like grainy flour. "Is name of food. I do not know English word."

        "Is it good for you?"

        "It has iron, magnesium, and protein. I make it with milk." Ilya shrugs. "Is very plain. Which is why I blend strawberries to pour over top."

        Figuring it can't hurt to try it once, Shane accepts, and then watches Ilya work. He's quick in the kitchen, movements smooth as he pours out milk into a saucepan, sets it on one of the burners, then immediately switches to scalping strawberries of their stems and cleaning them in water. He barely finishes in time to keep the milk from boiling over. The strawberries go into a blender that he sets to a medium chop, while he starts pouring and mixing the floury grain into the milk, carefully stirring the mixture so that it doesn’t clump. Once it thickens into something denser than porridge, he turns off the heat and pours the strawberries over the end result.

        Putting down an electric, heated coaster, he sets the whole pan in front of Shane.

        "I can't eat all of this," Shane says, even as he takes the spoon he's handed.

        "Ok. Then you will eat what you want, and I will eat the rest."

        "Are you going somewhere?" Shane asks, staring into the pan as he mixes the liquidated strawberries with the...mannaya krupa? As he takes his first tentative spoonful, Shane realizes whatever's in the bowl is very similar to cream of wheat. It'd be very plain and monotonous to eat on its own, but the cool, wet slide of strawberry juice creates a lovely contrast. Ilya puts a shaker full of cinnamon in front of Shane and suddenly it’s like a fancy, clean-living dessert. "This is really good," he says. "Thanks for making it."

        It's not quite nice enough, however, to distract from the pang of loneliness Shane feels at the thought of sitting here alone for however long it takes to reach satiety and then abandoning the breakfast for Ilya to eat later, when the alpha comes back from doing whatever he plans to do.

        "Good that you like it. I know is not very exciting, but was common breakfast when we live in block housing. Also, I am not leaving. If you want, I can grab separate spoon and separate seat and we can eat breakfast like normal, boring people."

        The way he says it has Shane looking up. He's almost taken aback by the way Ilya's staring at him. Blue eyes practically glowing, tracing over the lines of Shane's face, tracking the path of the spoon as it finds its way to Shane's mouth.  

        A lip caught between his teeth, the man's practically vibrating, desire rolling off him in a heady musk beneath the crisp, sharp tundra.

        "Or we could share spoon. Share seat."

        "Sh-share a - We can't; I'm too heavy," Shane says, thoughts stuttering out on the practical concerns.

        Ilya huffs, amused. "These stools have 18-gauge steel frames with welded joints and reinforced support bars. They have capacity of 500 lbs. Is no problem to hold us both."

        "Good to know. That would have been my second concern, but my point was more that you won't feel comfortable with me sitting in your lap."

        Laughing outright at the assertion, Ilya says, "If you do not like this idea, just say. Do not invent false reasons to reject it."

        "It's not a false reason," Shane says, scowling, even though the effect is probably spoiled as he aims a dribbling spoonful of thick, creamy not-porridge into his mouth without looking. When it spills down his chin, Ilya immediately licks it off, following the stripe to Shane's lips and licking across the plush, sensitive flesh. Voice shrinking down to a startled whisper, Shane says, "I j-just don't want to be the reason you lose feeling in your legs."

        "If this is your only concern, then leave it with me. I will decide when weight is too much, da?"

        "O-ok," Shane agrees, squirming in his seat, but too hesitant to ask -

        "Just say it. Whatever is on your mind, I want to hear it," Ilya says, catching some tell Shane's not aware of.

        "I just...when you say 'share a seat', do you mean just sitting or..." Cursing his own inability to speak plainly, Shane lets the sentence trail off, eyes falling to his lap in a pointless attempt to hide the blush that stains his cheeks.

        "My little arbuz, always so shy," Ilya says, sounding intrigued. Then, a second later, he seems to realize what Shane’s left unsaid as he sucks in a harsh breath of surprise. "Is that an option? Would you let me pull your sleep shorts down? Work you open while you eat? Feed my cock into you with one hand, while the other feeds you breakfast?"

        Shane's face is about the shade of hot sauce, red and prickling with something between desire and embarrassment. "It'd be more practical, not to mention hygienic, to have sex later," he feels beholden to point out. He raises his eyes high enough to find Ilya still staring, the focus in those blue eyes almost scary.

        "Sex later is always an option. I am asking about now," Ilya says, voice deeper than usual, like rolling gravel. "Is good time to use safe word. You know this, da? That I will not cajole or convince or ask whiny questions like 'why not'? Matter will be put to rest. And if you say you do not like mixing sex and meal times, I will respect this."

        "I've gotten that impression, yeah. I trust you to not be coercive, and to stop if I ask," Shane says, and then realizes retroactively just how true that is. And how long it's been true. "I just don't have any reason to use a safe word right now." Swallowing hard, Shane licks over the curved bottom of the spoon as he pulls it away from his mouth, feeling awkward about it, but still hoping it looks sexy and enticing. Like an invitation that doesn’t require asking in words for Ilya to do everything he said he would.

        Apparently, it works.

        Stalking around the island, Ilya asks, "You want pants off, or should I slip my cock into one of these wide leg holes?"

        The spoon slips from Shane's nerveless fingers, dropping into the saucepan with a rattle.

        Noting the reaction with interest, Ilya asks, "Does this excite you? Would my shy, pretty arbuz like to be fucked with his clothes on? Should I ask my tailor to create specialized pants for you with discreet flaps in the back?"

        Shane splutters at the suggestion; horrified at the thought. Or maybe horrified at how alluring the thought is. 

        With a hum and a smirk, Ilya seems to make a mental note, before lifting Shane up just enough so that he can slip into the space between Shane and the seat.

        "I could have stood up," Shane mutters, only getting redder at the casual manhandling.

        "But then, you would not look like a beet. Is very pretty color, but dark enough that I am starting to worry," Ilya teases, mouth brushing against Shane's ear. "Also, your lovely freckles disappear, so this level of blush is less good."

        "I hate you," Shane mutters, mulishly swallowing another spoonful of the thick concoction with a carefully rationed chunk of strawberry, so that there will be enough for the whole meal.

        “Is very hard to believe that, when you are being so accommodating,” he says, repositioning Shane so that he's angled in his lap. "Someday, when we have more time, maybe we see if I can get you wet with words alone. But since we have schedule to keep..." His fingers cup Shane's balls, kneading with the lightest pressure, his knuckles gently digging into the space directly behind them, massaging over the perineum with a rolling motion.

        Shane groans around the spoon in his mouth, eyes squeezed shut. "H-ho-how does that feel s-so good?"

        Licking the back of his neck, Ilya nips around the top edge of the trapezius, murmuring against his skin, "What a good boy. Keep telling me when I make you feel good, solnyshko. I want to make you fall apart in my arms and then put you back together."

        With another groan, Shane can feel his face reheating again. He wonders if there will ever come a time when Ilya's words, like the ones being brushed against his shoulder blades, will slide right off of him instead of absorbing into his pulse and kicking it up a notch. But that day is not today.

        To shut the man up and give himself some breathing room, Shane says, "Come here. You're supposed to be eating breakfast, too."

        He fills the spoon up carefully, with a good balance of krupa, strawberry, and cinnamon, sliding the edges of the spoon against the pan to get rid of any excess, and then he twists slowly to feed Ilya a spoonful.

        And, wow...Ilya's pale complexion turns a lovely shade of pink at being fed.

        Thumbing over the soft spot of color, like the lightest of peonies, Shane asks, "What's this for?"

        "Is strange," Ilya says, after he's swallowed. "To be fed. For someone to care that I am hungry. This is something I know only in childhood. So, to be fed in this situation feels illicit."

        "Huh." Shane dips the spoon back into the sauce pan and feeds Ilya a second spoonful, relishing the frustrated groan the alpha makes, even as his cheeks get pinker. Thinking back to the last time he'd seen the man blush, it had been over a compliment.

        Something sweet and wholesome and appreciative.

        Because the man who can walk around naked, knowing he's on camera, being watched by underlings; who can talk filth and then perform it; who won't flinch at bodily fluids and isn't scandalized by anything sexual...gets shy and pink with embarrassment over compliments and expressions of care.

        "You're so cute," Shane says, grinning.

        With the hand that isn't holding Shane's nuts, Ilya takes the spoon away from him and puts it in the saucepan. "You are supposed to be eating," Ilya mutters, still rosy-cheeked, looking like a fucking cupid out of some Renaissance painting, with the golden curls and sky blue eyes. Nuzzling along the bend of Shane's ribs, he blows cool air over Shane's nipple asking, "How is your chest feeling now?"

        "B-better."

        As if to check, Ilya tongues over the tightening peak, laving at the scored nail-marks. Coupled with the drag of knobby knuckles and the gentle squeeze and pull at Shane's sack, there's suddenly a strange sort of humidity in Shane's sleep shorts that becomes obvious when the wrist Ilya has threaded between his legs starts to feel wet.

        "There we go," Ilya murmurs, suckling harder at the nipple, creating a cascade of electric sparks inside Shade, concentrated near his dick and...abdomen. His spine curves inward, towards those sparks, as his seat gets slippery from the gush of slick Ilya works out of him.

        "You are so responsive. With so little effort, you are dripping. You want me inside you, Shane? Or should I get you off like this? With just some gentle fondling, like playing with the knobs on a vintage car?"

        "D-don't you fucking dare," Shane growls, panting against the island slab over which he's collapsed. But almost instinctively, the omega in Shane knows it's the wrong approach to take with an alpha. Without pause, he tries again, voice softening naturally with the plea. "P-please Ilya? Don't leave me empty."

        "Ssh," Ilya hushes him, immediately trying to soothe. "Whatever you want." Tracing a finger around Shane's hole, he coats it with slick and slowly works it in, then another, then another, whispering unhelpful little complements against Shane's skin, whisps of breath making him shiver as Ilya continues a running commentary about how soft he is on the inside, delicate like silk, a warm, welcoming cavern. He'd love to fill the alpha's mouth with porridge so he wouldn't have to listen to anymore, but he can't lift up; overwhelmed as three fingers become four, then five, then six. Always fucking six.

        As if Shane hasn't loosened at all since he was a dry-channeled alpha.

        But finally, Ilya lifts him up, one hand on each thigh, and easily slides into his stretched, fluttering hole.

        His lower abdomen aches at the stretch, the satisfaction of being filled, paired with an odd gnawing, but he doesn't have time to mention it. Having seated himself to the root, Ilya shifts Shane's weight more evenly across his thighs and picks up the abandoned spoon, scooping a generous helping of strawberry-sweetened krupa and lifting it to Shane's mouth. "Eat, solnysho. I have snacks in office, but you will feel better if you start the day with full meal."

        What follows is the strangest breakfast Shane's ever had. They keep wrestling the spoon away from each other, Shane particularly trying to hang onto it since he had a head start on breakfast and has a smaller frame to power. He's quick and tidy with the scoops, readying them before Ilya can swallow so that the alpha will let him keep the spoon; but after a few rounds, Ilya clamps down on the metal with his teeth and doesn't release.

        "I don't want you hungry either," Shane says.

        "With you to look at all day, hunger is inevitable," Ilya says, rolling his hips, creating a wave of changing pressure inside Shane. It's not sex as Shane ever would have pictured it. He's not sure if this counts as fucking or grinding or a prostate massage. And it proves to be a destabilizing way to achieve orgasm, because the whole time, he's plastered against Ilya's front, pleasure making him lean back, body splayed out, tears gathering in his eyes as the pleasure builds and builds without the usual relief of lost tension in between. He feels the Russian Orthodox Christian cross indenting its shape into his back as Ilya licks a stripe over the bond bite as he follows Shane over the edge, knot expanding to tie them together.

        "Fuck...we're supposed to be getting dressed," Shane whines, mostly over the cool touch of the wetted napkin Ilya's using to clean up Shane's admittedly more watery spend.

        "I am normally asleep at this time," Ilya says, gently rubbing damp fingertips over Shane's nipples. "How do these feel? Still hurts?"

        There's no room to push away from the probing touch. "I...don't know. Are they still supposed to be so...pointy? They feel all warm and shit."

        Thumbing just under the raised peak, Ilya says slowly, "This area is wider. Further away from nipple."

        "...What?!" Shane looks down at himself, studying the areola, but if it's different, he can't tell. It's not a part of him he's ever taken much notice of before. "How do you know?"

        "My thumb did not fit in space under nipple. Now it does," Ilya says, like it's a fact. As if he's measured the shape of Shane's body and all its parts, and has noticed one that's changed. He caresses the skin there. "When I do this, is it pain, pleasure, or neutral?" Ilya asks, rubbing more firmly.

        Shane squirms, trying to escape the pressure, feeling overwhelmed. "It's too much," he pants.

        Ilya stops immediately. "If is pain, we will stop by omega clinic, da?"

        "Fuck no. I can find this shit on google. And it doesn't actually hurt. I just...Your dick is laying on my prostate. I can't take more stimulation."

        "If you are sure..."

        Ilya's knot lasts 20 fucking minutes. His favorite length of time.

        The dishes get left in the sink, much to Shane's displeasure, and they shower together, with Ilya teasing that he finally gets to 'indulge his domesticity fetish and clean something’. Which is true. But standing naked, under a hot waterfall, their hands wander, electing to clean each other more than they do themselves.

        Once they've dried off, they leave the bathroom smelling like expensive bath lotion; Shane wrapped in a soft, thick bathrobe and Ilya in his birthday suit, not a lick of self-consciousness as he weaves through his maze of rooms to the closet. Bastard doesn't even have goosebumps from crossing the chilly, unheated space.

        "I...still don't have any of my work clothes," Shane says, awkwardly, watching as Ilya picks a sleek black suit off the rack.

        "Good. And you won't. Sad suits can stay and wait for you in your alpha agent closet. Try this on," he says, handing the suit to Shane.

        "We're not the same...size," Shane finishes, noticing up close that there's no way the suit would fit Ilya. It's too short and too narrow in every way. "Did you...buy me suits?"

        Ilya hums noncommittally. "I buy you uniform for new undercover job. You need to look pretty, put together, and expensive."

        "I could have probably bought these myself, if you'd told me what to get," Shane mutters, feeling conflicted. The material under his hands feels like it costs a lot. The surface is textured but very light-weight.

        "Is not your style," Ilya tells him. "None of your new 'work clothes' are. You will probably feel uncomfortable at first, but I ask you to trust me."

        Since Ilya turns to grab two sets of underwear, Shane expects that the alpha will dress at the same time. Instead, he slides into a pair of briefs and sits down on the ottoman to watch Shane put on the suit.

        "What shirt am I supposed to wear with this?" Shane asks.

        Ilya makes an apologetic noise and says, "No shirt."

        "You're kidding. You've got to be fucking kidding." He stares at the alpha, hoping he'll change his mind, because there's entirely too much seriousness in that gaze for it to be a prank. "You said 'put together'. How the fuck is this 'put together'?"

        "If you get into it, maybe will be more obvious why it works?" Ilya offers, without mercy.

        Grumbling, Shane puts the pants on the same way he did the underwear - without taking off the robe. When he gets to the suit top, he feels so exposed without the robe hiding his marked up nipples, and worse…he doesn’t know what to do with the material he’s holding. He gets as far as threading his arms through the sleeves before giving up. "Where are the buttons?"

        Ilya gets up to help. Probably.

        Although, starting with "Unbutton pants" is not the most promising first instruction. When Shane does as asked, Ilya tucks in the light suit-top into the pants. He threads the hole of the shirt to a button on the inside of the suit, at Shane's side, where he wouldn't have noticed it. "Button pants," he says, and then tugs the wide belt that's attached to the side of the suite to the other side, fitting the holes over  two buttons on Shane's other side.

        When he steps away so that Shane can see his reflection in the mirror, it looks like he's wearing a jumper, with the belt highlighting his trim waist and emphasizing the width of his chest. For all that it's unmistakably a suit, the effect of the ensemble makes it look like Shane's wearing a very plain bodice, and then the wide 'V' of his hairlessly-Asian chest, peaking between the lapels, reminds him very much of cleavage. Masculine cleavage, maybe; but cleavage all the same.

        "I look like a...no offense, Ilya, but I look like a slut."

        Ilya snorts. "You look like eye candy. A trophy husband that's been told what he can and cannot wear." He presses a kiss to Shane's forehead and says, "You look beautiful, solnyshko. Outside my organization, people will just look at you and think you are hot."

        "Hot...actually, this looks like it was meant for hot weather. Is it even warm enough to wear this where we're going?"

        "Nyet. Only in my office. Which is why it is perfect. Will give you excuse to wear coat and scarf in rest of club, and if anyone asks, you can say I tell you to wear something that is not warm enough. I will look like selfish, uncaring alpha that only thinks with dick, and you will only have to wear strange, uncomfortable clothes inside my office, which is always too warm because Sveta won't let me near thermostat."

        It's clever and Shane can't help but wonder how much thought Ilya put into this for it to work out so perfectly. A deeply thoughtful solution to a problem he'd foreseen on Shane’s behalf a few days ago, that would look like the height of selfishness to everyone else. It deserves praise and acknowledgement, but Shane's mind gets stuck on Sveta.

        Controlling the thermostat.

        Because she works out of Ilya's office?

        "Svetlana works with you?" Shane asks, surprised to learn that she's part of Ilya's club operations. He's fairly certain no one in the Bureau knows that. Hayden and Shane had noticed her presence, and the way Ilya treated her with more deference than the other women he'd dated, but she'd never been seen entering any of the Rosanov's properties for reasons that weren't clubbing. But maybe he should have guessed, since she'd brought Ilya the flashdrive with the recordings from the warehouse. And she'd been the one to find the origins of the database.

        "Not always. Between family name and connections, she is rich enough that she only works when she wants to. Mostly, she does freelance. She finds managing clubs boring, but enjoys being a patron, so I put her on payroll as quality assurance inspector. She finds problems on the ground, in day-to-day operations, and manages digital footprint. Sometimes, she makes social media posts that go viral, so I pay her for marketing campaign. Things like this. But, whether she is in office or not, thermostat is hacked. She says people will think I am robot if I do not heat office to human standards."

        Shane hums thoughtfully, as he puts on the brand new leather Oxfords and silky knee-high socks Ilya hands him. "Anything else?" he asks, distracted.

        "Pick coat and colorful scarf. Color, Shane, da? If you pick black scarf, I will tie it into a bow around your head like goth Mini-Mouse."

        Shane snorts, amused. But surprisingly, it's not as easy to pick something colorful as he thought it would be. In the scarf section, there's plenty of thick, soft, cozy, extra long scarfs to wrap himself up in, but...Shane honestly doesn't understand how any of it can go with the black suit. It doesn't match, right?

        And besides that, his thoughts snag once more on Svetlana.

        The woman who always comes up in Ilya's stories. She helped him learn how to apply makeup and prosthetics when putting on disguises. Apparently, she's seen him at his worst, when he acted like a stereotypical alpha, and it sounded like she motivated him to seek therapy. Hayden and SHane had noticed her at clubs, hanging off his arm, swatting away his hand when it tried to move past the platonic. She apparently didn't mind getting drunk with him, since Shane recalls the story of how Ilya got locked in the giant garage fridge when they got into an argument. She'd also come up during discussions about designation cycles; so she seemingly didn't mind talking about menstruation with the alpha. 

        Over and over again, the one friend, the one confidant, the one constant in Ilya's stories is Svetlana Vetrova. And now here she is again - a freelancer on payroll.

        Her words from last week echo in Shane's mind - I should have just said yes.

        But yes to what?

        A proposal?

        And Ilya had been the one to mention romantic feelings when he talked to her. Asking her to give them up. To let him go. 

        So, had they been in love? A mutual love that Shane co-opted? 

        A tsk of disbelief from behind him makes Shane jump. "There is no wrong answer, solnyshko. Yellow or orange might be a little strange with your complexion, but I do not have these colors for scarf regardless. What is hesitation?"

        "But aren't you supposed to match stuff together?" Shane asks, turning to look over his shoulder at the alpha.

        His body freezes in place, fingers seizing on the scarf under his fingers. Heart beating doubletime, Shane's not sure whether he's turned on or legitimately scared.

        No prosthetics. No makeup. And yet, Ilya almost looks unrecognizable…Was this what he looked like last week, when he showed up to the warehouse to save him? He couldn't have, right?

        Gone is the warm, charming, angelic alpha that feels safe to poke, prod, and make fun of. Ilya legitimately looks like someone to clear a path for. 

       His well-fitted suit is extravagant from up close, but subtle enough to pass through the daylit world without attracting too much attention. All the fine-detailed embroidery is black-on-black, some of the threads seemingly reflecting the light depending on his posture. His pants are long enough to hide the heel on his croc-embossed leather boots, which exaggerate the already significant height difference between them, while the engraved metal toe-caps give him a way to attract attention with just the tap of his foot.

        His clothes look masculine and sharp, but with the flare of boldness that characterizes Ilya. Especially with the contrast of his golden cross glinting over a black button-down. 

       But though he looks expensive, and the tailoring emphasizes his size, the intimidating effect doesn't stop there. The winter-sharpness in his scent is highlighted and enhanced by lush, intoxicating perfume; and the way his hair is pushed back, curls tamed flat and slick really feels reminiscent of dangerous mob bosses of old, who walked around with grease and a comb in their back pocket.

        Altogether, Ilya looks like the definition of control. 

        Fuck, even his eyes look darker. Flintier, somehow. Like glaciers in ocean water, instead of free and endless sky.

        "Shane?" Ilya asks, the warm concern in his voice a jarring contrast to the visual presentation. A careful hand cups Shane's cheek, finally pulling him out of his reverie.

        "Sorry, I know it's silly. I should be able to pick a scarf," he says, wrenching his attention back to the available selections.

        As Ilya steps in to fill the space behind him, Shane shivers, nervous.

        "Matching takes practice. Is not always about same color. You can have fabrics that say they are black, but will clash because they are different shades of black, or materials will clash. Clothes are a visual language. You tell someone what you want them to notice. Where to focus their eyes. Here," he picks out a burgundy scarf in a paisley print. "Is silk, so you can wear it with one end thrown over shoulder, like this. It will seem cheeky, but also hide small patch of skin that you consider to be slutty."

        Since he's not looking at the alpha, it's easier to elbow him without it feeling like he's antagonizing a dangerous predator. "Shut up."

        "Coat," Ilya says, handing Shane another expensive thing he'd never have picked out.

        "Are you sure this is for men? In this century?" he amends, feeling odd and out-of-place as he dons a black, wool-blend overcoat that comes with a built-in cape, draping across his shoulders and down to his elbows. Looking in the mirror, Shane can admit it's definitely a men's coat, but he looks...kind of feminine in it. Or like he should be wearing a deerstalker cap and chewing on the end of a pipe as he helps Sherlock Holmes solve mysteries.

        Ilya glances in the mirror and makes a pained face. "Today is going to be a very long day," he mutters.

        Shifting on his feet, awkwardly, Shane doesn't know what to make of that. "Do I still look like an agent?" he asks, looking down at himself.

        Ilya's chuckle sounds just as pained as his expression. "You look good enough to eat. Sveta is in office today. I try to talk her out of it, but she insists. If she catches me staring at my mate like love-sick puppy, I will never hear end of it."

        It's the perfect opening.

        Hey, so, who is Svetlana to you? Because, from your stories, she sounds like...everything. 

        But, Ilya doesn't look approachable anymore. Doesn't smell approachable anymore. All of sudden, asking the question feels impossible. Like asking a celebrity what happened to their ex. Like it'd be inexcusably rude to pry into what isn't his business.

        So, he keeps his mouth shut while Ilya describes his schedule, giving Shane enough detail so he can picture the day they're about to have, much like he'd done in the warehouse, all the while guiding him, with a formal hand on his lower back, to one of his expensive cars.

        And when Shane takes a seat, not even officially 'out of the house', he already feels like he's in another world.

Chapter 22

Chapter Summary

Head to head with Svetlana

Chapter Notes

Sadly, this is long because I was being indulgent rather than 'to the point'.
Thanks as always for leaving comments letting me know what stuck out to you, what you liked or how you felt. It helps a lot as a temperature gauge. Feel free to tell me if we're dragging this out too long. I finally have a complete outline to work from, with the end pieced together. The bad news is that there's still quite a bit to get through.. X-X

OUTFIT INSPO : (No idea how long these links will work so...fingers crossed you can see them)

Ilya : suit (except all black ) : https://tinyurl.com/yev77yjy
shoes : https://www.phixclothing.com/cdn/shop/files/QOA05194121234.jpg?crop=center&height=1048&v=1747557791&width=768

 

Shane : suite: https://share.google/QlniaB6CrK7JsRrPW
scarf : https://tinyurl.com/4nknxkyw
coat : https://i.etsystatic.com/62399482/r/il/4af844/7260836168/il_1588xN.7260836168_89cd.jpg

Svtelana's clothes, for the curious : (not sure how long the links will work for, btw)
Suit jacket : https://tinyurl.com/bdmutkkf
Underbust vest : https://tinyurl.com/cn4dytyb
grey wool shirt and black fitted pants should be easy enough to picture. Ran out of short URLs so, yes, it's an annoying long one.

Shoes : https://www.bergdorfgoodman.com/p/christian-louboutin-macademia-croco-leather-red-sole-boots-prod188530082?utm_source=google_shopping&site_refer=CSE_GGLPLA:Womens_Shoes:Christian+Louboutin:&country=US¤cy=USD&CSE_CID=BGO_G_PLA_Women%27s+Shoes_Baseline:BGO_G_PLA_Women%27s+Shoes_Baseline_Women%27s+Shoes&gclsrc=aw.ds&gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=23029598338&gclid=CjwKCAjw5NvPBhAoEiwA_2egfl98-wdBUWKjZcLqaODaFagJdgzs1uNxj3sVMJkrFStP2M3yNwKgGBoCcvwQAvD_BwE

         The club isn't what Shane’s expecting. When he first visited, mostly to do preliminary research and scope out territory being purchased by shell companies loosely tied to the Rozanovs, it was early days. And since that time, another team's taken over location-monitoring.

        Stepping through the doors being held open for him by men in bright, crisp uniforms, Shane realizes the lobby's throwing him off. Years ago, there had been no hotel, thus no lobby. He has to bite his tongue to keep from asking questions, aware of all the eyes tracking his entry. 

        Trophy husbands that have been bitched into submission don't ask probing questions.

        He's determined to play his part well, given how stellar Ilya's performance is. The hotel staff is staring as Ilya strides ahead at a faster clip, then doubles back to grab Shane's hand to pull him along, like he's an afterthought or a wayward child that can't be trusted to keep up. And yet, much like he did in the warehouse, he negates these petty cruelties with a gentle thumb caressing Shane's captured palm. "You will tell me if something in club seems not Orthodox, da? If I want to attract boring Canadian clients. Club cannot be too exciting," he says, eyebrow cocked as he delivers his reminder. 

        To say the magic word that will prompt Ilya to fix things if anything goes wrong, or gets to be too much.

        But since the line fits and Shane's deeply curious how things have changed since Ilya took over, he says, in what he hopes sounds soft and deferential, "Then you'll have to give me a tour. It's been a while since I've had the time to visit. Fair warning, though. I'm probably more boring than most of your clientele. If everyone was like me, you'd be out of business by now."

        Ilya's mask breaks for a second, his eyes crinkling with too much fondness when paired with his sardonic grin. "Yes, my boring mate, who reads books and plays boardgames instead of drinking at clubs. But maybe my club is tame enough for you. Come, I will show." He tugs Shane into his side and throws an arm over his shoulders. 

        No silent question. 

        No waiting for acceptance.

        Just the casual assumption that he has a right to maneuver Shane how he wants.

        Maybe it's been obvious and some subconscious part of Shane has already noticed, but having known Ilya in two contexts for an official week now, he finally consciously recognizes the line between performance and authenticity.

        Ilya asks.

        Rozanov assumes.

        Where Ilya's questions and requests are sometimes unspoken, Rozanov's are hidden. Only visible to the person he's asking.

        Thinking back to the interviews they'd had with women Ilya slept with, Shane recalls the way Hayden and him had tried reminding the women of how Rozanov treated them in public. 

        "He obviously doesn't respect you. Yanking on your hand like a tethered dog, snapping his fingers to get your attention, demanding you fetch drinks like a trained monkey. What the fuck do you see in the asshole? Is his dick that long? Does he lick snatch that well?" Hayden had seethed in frustration.

        And Shane had piled on, in a milder tone, inundating the women with statistics. About how many hook ups they'd observed in the last week, month, year. How the women walked away none-the-richer, prospects unchanged, but with a 'black mark' on their character for having slept with a Rozanov.

        And knowing Ilya now, Shane wonders if this is how he's always operated. If all those women had had their own safe words. If they'd been inducted into Ilya's two-tiered world. One part operating in the light, where other members of the underworld could observe him playing their game, indulging in the same self-serving behavior; and the other part operating in the dark, with thoughtfulness kept at a whisper and kind gestures being relegated to nooks and alcoves and hidden rooms.

        No wonder they'd told Shane and Hayden to go to hell, snubbing their efforts to 'save' them. Because there hadn't been anything to save them from. Ilya's devil-may-care attitude protected them, signaling to anyone watching that they were disposable. The opposite of leverage against Rozanov. 'Used goods' not worth trying to steal away. And thus, they’d gotten to see a wild funhouse world on the arm of an alpha who was thinking ahead, making sure they’d have an exit strategy. Fuck...knowing Ilya, he'd probably told them upfront how many times they'd see him, have sex with him, where and when and for how long.

        Beneath Ilya's long, powerful arm, the wide palm hanging loosely near Shane's chin, with proportional fingers splayed out as if to call attention to the shining signet ring, Shane feels the bleed of Ilya's body heat against his side. Every inhale reminds him he's with someone dangerous, scent coming in perfume-sharpened and chill-inducing. And even when he looks so remote, coiffed hair, expensive fabrics, embossed and engraved shoes, when staring at his angular profile, Shane has to acknowledge that he understands why those women agreed to play the part in Ilya's theater.

        "This is main location. It opens at noon. Because Montreal is known for food and festivals, I invite popular businesses to operate stalls, selling snack foods and offering samples, giving out tiny collectible menus. All my clubs have set of trading cards. One side includes year club opens, club name, location, and locally sourced art. Other side contains business information for local places that pay for prime spot in hotel.

        "In American southwest, cards market adventure companies, health 'shot' makers, clean-food restaurants and two Ayahuasca retreat operators. In Berlin, cards are for perfumeries, tailors, and breweries. Here, is for dessert shops, bakeries, and maple. Lots and lots of maple. There is also limited release editions for festivals and big events.

        "It starts as joke - Sveta and I argue over if Pokemon cards have value; then I say I will make cards because is cheap, easy gimmick that will make people collect - and now there are card collectors. People who write me whiny notes saying two clubs have special edition event with new cards at same time and complain they have to go to bidding auction sites to complete collection. If is one or two crazy collectors, okay. They can be managed. But now, with social media, they infect others and suddenly I must hire special international team trying to make sure collectors don't do anything extreme because of disappointment over card. One genius from that team I unemploy, because he gives away all cards to collector who is influencer and this makes problem bigger. Is card-loving pandemic," Ilya says, sounding genuinely aggrieved.

        Shane scoffs, forgetting to think about his reaction. He should probably sound sympathetic? Or disinterested? But his amusement spills out of him, tone teasing as he says, "You made a card-loving bed, so now you have trade in it." And it doesn't feel so weird to tease the man anymore. Not like it did even an hour ago, when he'd first seen Ilya in these clothes, this hair, this scent.

        Face twisting with false aggression, Ilya drags him into an alcove, tucked away behind a thick curtain, lamps still unlit on the hand-crafted, dark-stained wooden table and window still draped-over with the same lush sound-wicking material. Tucking his nose into Shane's collarbone, Ilya stands there for a long few seconds, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

        "Shane," he murmurs, pressing a kiss right where his mouth is resting. "Has been five minutes and we already need damage control. Why is it so hard?"

        "Because we like each other," Shane says, a bit wonderstruck over it. "Last week, we thought we could like each other, given our text exchanges. Now we know we do."

        Straightening to his full height (plus the heels) Ilya groans. "How do you feel about this fix? I make your hair messy and pull you out by hand, roughly make you stand same way as before. And while I do this, you will make uncomfortable, angry-but-hiding-it face. Good plan, or not so much?"

        "Angry but hiding it?" Shane echoes, skeptically. "What does that face look like?"

        Ilya's head tips to the side in thought. Then he takes on a slight pout and looks sideways at Shane from beneath furrowed brows. He looks like a little boy who's been told there won't be any cookies until after dinner.

        Shaking his head, Shane says, "I'm not making that face. Just fuck up my hair already. The way I'll glare at you over it will certainly be believable."

        Mouth curling in an amused smile, Ilya mutters, "It is not just so hard. Is impossible. Maybe you say less? I will pretend I am talking to wall and try not to look at you and maybe people will not see that we like each other?"

        "You might actually need to do that, because I can't see this working otherwise."

        With a disappointed sigh, Ilya takes both hands and gently shoves and pushes at Shane's hair, trying to create a messy impression. "Your hair will not stay in place,” he says after a minute of trying. "Is too silky. Lift your arm, please," Ilya says, tone failing to give away his nefarious intentions; and like a dunce, Shane lifts his arm, letting Ilya position it so that the wool sleeve of Shane's Sherlock coat is directly over his head.

        He's not sure what he's expecting Ilya to do. Maybe tear a hole in the coat? Or pull off one of the buttons while Shane's keeping the material taut?

        In no world would he ever think to expect Ilya to take that arm and start rubbing it vigorously over his hair.

        "What the fuck are you doing?" Shane hisses, ripping his arm away. And his hair follows.

        "Static electricity. Is good that coat is made of wool, da? Now you look a little messy."

        "I'm supposed to look terrorized-messy, not clown-who-lost-control-of-his-balloon-animals-messy," Shane seethes. The one nice thing is that Ilya absolutely falls apart at that, having to bite his hand to keep from laughing out loud.

        "Sorry," Ilya says, breathing deeply in an attempt at sobriety. "Was bad choice. When I say lift arm, I should say more. Now you look like angry kitten. Is no good. Effect is too cute. Static hair with scared look was plan; would work. Angry kitten after blow dry; will not work."

        It's a tall order to look scared when Ilya's whole facade has crumbled. Once again, he's just a beautiful alpha, with bright eyes, ridiculous stories, and wild coping mechanisms. "If you want me to look scared, you need to get all mean and intimidating. I need your face to say 'I'm better than you'."

        Ilya groans, but he does make an effort. Closing his eyes, he takes a moment to reset. Whatever he's thinking about works really well. His nose wrinkles in an unreleased snarl and when he reopens his eyes, he does it facing a different direction. The emotions on his face shift between rage and annoyance, scent turning razor sharp, choking Shane up when it enters his nostrils, like trying to breathe while running on the coldest day of the year.

        And seeing him like that, so far away and so upset naturally returns Shane to hesitation, the newness of seeing this demeanor prompting him to walk on eggshells.

        With a quick glance to check that Shane's got the right expression to sell their lie, Ilya turns on his heel and walks out of the alcove. A second later, before Shane's able to follow, his hand darts in, finds Shane's elbow and yanks him out, the material of the curtains brushing past Shane's hair, reigniting the static charge.

        As if they were never interrupted, Ilya just continues with the tour. "This place is constantly changing layouts. Very movable. Only bar is fixed," Ilya says, waving his hand at the space with a layout reminiscent of a theater without seats. There's a circular bar on the bottom level, right in the center, followed by a wide space before the high wall where the next tier begins, currently filled with tall pub tables. 

         "Juice shots and day drinks in the morning. At night, the tables are gone and hired dancers fill the space, tasked with getting patrons to join, feel comfortable, maybe start an easy line dance. The stalls fold into seating, while supplies for businesses are locked in display cabinets and lit up like advertisement. Posters and banners at night show hidden drawings in invisible neon glow-in-dark paint that looks like graffiti. 

         “And all these bigger fancy paintings is TVs that will play camera feeds during festivals all across city. Perfect view of concerts and parades. People with children or elderly parents or with disability can experience festival culture from here. Convenient, easy, air-conditioned, close to rooms and supplies," Ilya says, leading Shane the long way around the main club. 

        "The city let you put up private cameras in public spaces?" Shane asks, startled out of his act once again. At least his wince, maybe, implies a fear of retribution, rather than the internal berating he’s giving himself?

        The reply is just a sly, Cheshire cat grin, wide and too full of teeth. He opens a panel in the wall of the top tier landing and pushes Shane through it with a guiding hand at the small of his back, into a mood-lit hallway.

        "Office is at end," Ilya says, back to silently asking as soon as there's no audience, hand lifted in a request to put it around Shane.

        With a blush, Shane scoots sideways, pressing into Ilya's warmth. The arm that wraps around his shoulders is tighter this time, and it doesn't just hang there. Folding at the elbow he's resting at the top of Shane's deltoid, Ilya's arm slips into Shane's coat, under his scarf, through the deep V of the suit, to splay over skin, warming chilled fingers with Shane's body heat.

        The closeness doesn't last long - just to the end of the hallway - but it's enough to make Shane feel more settled. It's not until the tension eases in him that he notices just how knotted his insides feel. A mix of pressure and pain that he just has to sit with.

        "Ready to start the day?" Ilya asks, hand on another panel that looks like a dead end.

        "Is there a normal way into your office?" Shane asks.

        "This one? Nyet. But if you follow hallway in other direction, it leads to main office, where I take clients or meet with employees. It has camera doorbell in front, and indicator light to say when people can bother me," Ilya explains.

        "Huh. I guess I'm less surprised now that we never met. Feels like most of the world doesn't have access to you, unless you let it."

        Ilya snorts. "How many times I try to convince you to meet me? You always say no."

        "Because all your suggestions were creepy and weird. I had no idea you were like this all the time. Knowing what little I did then, there's no way I was going to agree to follow some hidden speakeasy tunnel to an undisclosed location where 'there will be more instructions to follow on paper hidden behind painting'," Shane mutters, finishing in an approximation of Ilya's deep, accented voice.

        "Bah, you are so boring. I give you chance to live life like spy movie and you say no. Is not very agent-like," Ilya complains teasingly, hand raised to the panel in silent question.

        "Ok, yeah. Let's get to work" Shane agrees.

         When the door pops open, the first thing Shane registers is the heat. Compared to the rest of the club, the room is sweltering. And as the door swings further outward and more of the room is revealed, seeing Svetlana already lounging on the other side is a bit of a jump scare. 

         She doesn't immediately look up as they enter, eyes glued to the screen of her laptop as she reclines on the full-length brown-leathered sofa, the wide width of the tufted bench leaving plenty of space between her narrow frame and the square edge. And looking at her, there's no question that she belongs here.

        In luxurious environments.

        On decadent sofas.

        At Ilya's side.

        Part of it is how at-ease she looks. With her fancy wool suit jacket tossed over the top of the sofa; tight, artful curls spread riotously over a square pillow; leather lace-up Louboutin boots crossed over the arm rest; laptop resting over her waistcoat, its underbust neckline leaving plenty of grey-wooled shirt visible to make her look comfortable despite the tight-fitted pants. Somehow, it comes together to stand on the crossroads of professional, homey, club-adjacent, and attractive.

        Which is the other part of it.

        Svetlana Vetrova looks like someone who has had multiple stalkers that may or may not have murdered each other in a misguided effort to be the only unhinged voyeur in her life. She looks like the kind of woman who can't go to a coffee shop without people starting to orbit her, pulled in by gravitational beauty and kept from approaching by the self-esteem hit of self-comparison.

        "You are being rude, Sveta," Ilya mutters in Russian, as he undoes the buttons on Shane's coat, an eyebrow asking for permission.

        The heat of the room is not what Shane would consider normal. Beneath the wool coat, he can already feel himself starting to sweat. He could last a few minutes probably, but the whole day?

        With great regret, Shane lets Ilya take his coat, leaving him in the decorative scarf and the weird slut suit, neither of which feel right on him. 

        The whole idea of a decorative scarf is new to him. The long, thin silk loosely draping down his front and over his shoulder makes him walk stiffly, now that there's no coat keeping the scrap of cloth in place, as he worries over displacing the material.

        "Almost done," Svetlana responds, also in Russian. With a few more keystrokes, she starts to sit up. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stands up on long legs made longer by the four inch block heels she's wearing. Amber eyes find Shane and look him up and down. With an impressed whistle, she summarizes, "Hot. Let me guess, you let this one pick the outfit?" She jerks a thumb at Ilya.

        "Most of his things are still at old apartment. Hard to get alpha scent out of suits, so I make sure he has new ones," Ilya says in a half-truth, implying that Shane might have stylish clothes in his closet, even though they'd both agreed his 'agent suits' don't make the cut.

        In two strides, Svetlana cuts the distance between them to an arm-length, which she halves by offering a handshake.

        With the three of them standing so close together in a little triangle, Shane suddenly becomes aware of the height discrepancy as Ilya towers over him and Sveta stands two inches higher. Both of them dressed to the nines, all statuesque and attention-grabbing...they look like they belong together. Even their coloration is  complementary, like different phases of the sun.

        Svetlana with her mahogany merlot hair and sepia skin, like the sunset.

        And Ilya, pale-skinned and golden like the day at its brightest.

        So lovely together, it's almost hard to look at them.

        Taking Svetlana's hand, Shane's suddenly reminded of her alpha status as she works his arm with a tight grip, pumping firmly like it’s the end of a business deal, a lush forest scent hitting the air, juxtaposed by an airy perfume of juniper and berries.

        "I am glad I finally get to meet you. This one has been telling everyone to stay away."

        With an unhappy growl, Ilya says, "Avoiding stress when times are difficult is important."

        "And rejecting help when times are tough is foolish," she says, whacking him irreverently in the side.

        "First you would need to be helpful," Ilya mutters, crossing his arms.

        "Careful, Ilyusha, or I'll pack my tech and go home," Svetlana says.

        "You discover something new?"

        "No luck yet. I am monitoring their network traffic and comparing it between days, to see if there is a pattern or a match to the traffic your suspected mole is generating."

        "Suspected mole...you mean Gilbert Comeau? You've hacked one of the Bureau's Cyber Crime agents?" Shane asks, tone carefully neutral.

        But something must leak in his tone because both Russians look at him with the same questioning expression.

        "Why? Will you arrest me? Because Ilya's immunity does not stretch far enough to cover my hacking?"

        "Ah...no, of course not. I'm just impressed," Shane says, thankful that at least neither of them seem to guess just how much tighter his stomach knots at the realization that Svetlana's not just beautiful, but also brilliant. Skilled. Perceptive.

        A better match for Ilya, comes the intrusive thought.

        "It's not that impressive," Ilya mutters, eyes flinty. "Study, practice, perform. Better or worse, you can pick up most skills."

        "Then what is your excuse, when it comes to English? You study it, you practice it, and you still drop articles, ignore tenses, and have not expanded your vocabulary in over a year," Svetlana points out, eyes narrowing.

        His nostrils flare, lip curling to show teeth, as gasoline and winter vie for dominance, but he doesn't say anything to dispute it.

        Some message must be getting exchanged in the silence, because Svetlana looks more critical by the second, hip popping out to catch the arm that swings to perch on it, long, shimmering nails tapping a beat against the jut.

        But Shane has no idea what's going on. Deaf to whatever has the two friends glaring at each other.

        "Anyways, glad to meet you, too," Shane says, politely, hoping to break up the awkward atmosphere.

        Ilya's posture seems to sag at that, weight falling to his back heel as if in defeat. With a shrug, he breaks their triangle to go behind his desk. There's a grate that looks like it belongs to a furnace, but with some fiddling, Ilya pulls it open to reveal a safe. Password, biometrics, facial-scan, and only then does the safe unlock.

        "Shane, for you," Ilya says, holding out a laptop. "Later, when club opens, I will show you around, introduce you to people. You will recognize some from information I share with you as CI. But for now, this has database copy. Maybe is helpful to see what information Alexei has?"

        "Fuck yes!" Shane agrees heartily, quickly crossing the room to take the precious source of intel being offered him.

        Having retaken her place on the sofa, Sveta pats the seat beside her. "Come, Hollander. I will show you how to access what I procured."

        There's definitely more gasoline in the air at the offer. Which is odd, because usually you'd want your mate and your best friend to get along. It’d be such a fucking boon if Ilya and Hayden liked each other.

        Trying to think around the problem, Shane puzzles through the reasons you wouldn't want a friend and bondmate getting along.

        Like, if maybe the bondmate was temporary? You wouldn't want your friend getting attached. Judging you in the inevitable breakup. And if Ilya wants to ultimately rekindle what he had with Svetlana, it might make her feel responsible. Like 'the other woman', even if the breakup wouldn't have been caused by cheating...

        The logic fits.

        More critically, he can't think of another plausible reason Ilya wouldn't encourage them to get along.

        Maybe if the alpha in question was a secret narcissist, who wanted to be the center of everyone's world, there'd be more possibilities. But Shane's pretty certain the label doesn't apply to Ilya.

        Feeling very uncertain, out of place, and really glad of the different perfumes and scent mixes in the room obscuring the burnt hair of his hurt and anxiety, Shane does as Svetlana bids, putting all of his complicated feelings aside. 

        He has a job to do. The rest can wait.

        After the laptop's been plugged in and booted up, Svetlana shows him which application to open, how to search and sort the database, and pulls up a digital workspace for Shane to use like scratch paper for notes, pasted data, summaries, statistics, and highlights.

        And, after that, there's silence.

        Or as close to it as Shane can ever be, with his sensitive hearing.

        From across the room, he can still pick up the faint, indistinct buzzing of the music Ilya's listening to through his ear buds.

        The human noises of breaths pulled in and out.

        The tapping of keys, the whirr of microprocessors and computer fans, the squeak of leather.

        It’s almost peaceful. Like working at the office in the desk next to Hayden, quiet signs of life confirming he’s not alone. 

        Which is why it’s so jarring when a two-toned alarm goes off, the sound reminiscent of…a doorbell?

        Ilya groans, music pausing abruptly as he fiddles with his computer. “It is too early. What can these vendors possibly want from me at nine in the morning? They should be minding their stalls,” he mutters to himself in Russia as he collects his keys, phone, laptop, and a badge. “Be good,” he says, pointing a finger at Sveta before leaning in to kiss Shane on the cheek. 

        Startled, Shane almost flinches at the gesture. It doesn’t fit with any of his earlier speculation. Stumped, he watches the alpha go, noting the warning look he again throws at Svetlana. 

        In response, she plucks a decorative handkerchief out of the pocket of her suit jacket draped nearby. Waving it frantically over her head like a loved one left at port as a ship steals away her lover for a long journey, she yells in Russian, “Bonvoyage! Come back alive! Don’t trust the black water! Bring glory home! And if you drown, drown like a man!” 

        He flips her off and disappears down the winding hall.

        As soon as his footsteps are a distant thud, Svetlana turns to Shane, a devious smile on her painted lips. "Have you had the chance to see Ilyusha's baby pictures?"

        “No,” Shane answers honestly, without realizing he’s accepting an offer. As she fishes out her phone to show him her photo gallery, Shane wonders if he should decline.

        After all, who’d want a temporary mate looking at snapshots of your childhood? 

        Then again, if he’s temporary, then so is Ilya. And Ilya’s already seen his baby pictures. So, this would just be evening the score. And Ilya likes fairness. Believes in fairness. So, it should be safe to accept...right?

         Handing him one of the sleek, incredibly expensive phones with a foldable screen, she tells him, "It is a curated album, so you can safely just keep swiping right.”

        "Should I be concerned that the name of the album means 'Blackmail material' in Russian?"

        "In Russia, we send photos in black envelopes to avoid light exposure. I am thinking about printing some of these and sending them to my father. He is very fond of Ilya," she says, deadpan.

        "It doesn't say chornaya pochta. It says kompromat. Which, you might like to know, is a word all of us at the Bureau had to learn in an educational module. We had to listen to an hour of actions to take and procedures to follow if you get approached by a suspicious person who says they have compromising materials on you. And we were told the strategy usually entails both a carrot and a stick to motivate compliance. Though it seems like someone in the office might have skipped the module, if we have a mole. Also, I can't help wondering if this album isn't meant to be the carrot."

        With a grin, Svetlana asks, "Are you afraid I'll hit you with a stick?"

        "I think it'd be fair if you did, after I stole your fiance. Even if it turns out to be temporary, I can't imagine it'd be either easy or pleasant, waiting for this situation to unwind itself from the knot it's become."

        Svetlana blinks at him slowly. "It sounds like you have been hit with a stick too many times already. There is so much wrong in that statement, I am worried I should be warning Ilya you have brain damage and that he might want to take you in for scans."

        "Wrong how?" Shane asks, heart starting to beat doubletime. He doesn't know what to expect. Is the reality better or worse than the ideas running around in his head?

        "First of all...fiance?" Svetlana scoffs. "We never even dated."

        "You don't have to lie to me," Shane says. "I mean, you must know the Bureau was watching sometimes. We have pictures of you guys out at clubs together, dancing, kissing, going home together. It seemed kind of off and on, and he seemed to strike out with you more often than not, but I mean...I was there when we got back from the warehouse. I was standing right next to you guys, when you told him you should have said yes."

        With a noise of denial, Svetlana shifts, pulling a knee onto the couch so she can face Shane. "It will be more obvious after you see the photos, but he is not the same man I knew in Russia. When we were younger and his father was gaining prominence - enough to meet my father, for them to spend time together in bars, and invite each other over for dinners - we had more in common. We both liked to party, to spend nights dancing. We would walk the streets at night with a gang of graffiti artists, watching them paint the streets while we exchanged joints and tried not to laugh. We hid in churches till closing time and then climbed the bell tower or slept on the long wooden benches. Sometimes we shared partners or we compared notes on solo fucks.

        "And then, suddenly, a season came where we started to grow apart. The rift probably started when someone knifed Ilya in the middle of the dancefloor. And because we were both on drugs, it took a while to notice. I thought he was covered in paint. He thought he had a cramp. And we danced for what felt like a decade in that drugged space, until he collapsed.”

        Shane sucks in a startled breath, his mind painting a vivid picture. Swallowing hard, he goes to wring his hands, but instead he’s holding the phone. He clutches tighter.

        "It was retaliation for something, maybe?” Svetlana continues, “But, at that point, we had done so many illegal things and had so many wild nights with different groups of people, that it wasn't clear what it was for."

        “I’m sorry. That sounds traumatic,” Shane says, remembering some of the grief training from work, although he’s aware of just how stiff he sounds.

        Flicking an invisible dust mote off the sole of her shoe, she shrugs. "At first, he pretended it didn't bother him. We continued as usual. But I'd see him flinching, looking over his shoulder, one eye always searching. For more harm. For exits. He stopped doing drugs in public. Then stopped doing them in private. Instead, he started drinking in between long sessions of working out at gyms. The style of music he liked changed. He started going to boxing rings, then MMA rings, then underground rings. I tolerated a lot, thinking it was a phase, but then a threesome ended poorly, with the man we invited starts criticizing Ilyusha. They began fighting, first with words, then physically,  and I left, angry at him for resorting to violence so quickly.

        "The man tried to report Ilya, but the Rozanov name meant something then, and so Ilya was not taken to prison. He decided, even though he threw the first punch, that the man was to blame and got him fired from his job, wielding the same influence his brother and father were wielding. We argued, he drank. We argued more, he drank more often and in greater quantities. Then I refused to speak to him. I told him I do not need more useless, drunk, Russian alphas in my life.”

        Shane remembers Ilya telling him the shortened version of this time in his life. It’s shocking how much he aches for that version of Ilya. He’s not used to being overly sympathetic or moved by other people’s stories. 

        "And my reaction changed him. He cleaned up his act. Stopped drinking. Stopped smoking. Stopped fighting. But, in my opinion, he overcorrected. Suddenly, instead of dancing in clubs, he is designing them. All of a sudden, crowds make him uncomfortable. He works all the time and starts talking to me more about serious topics. He stops being fun. And nothing I do is enough to make him loosen up.”

        This, to Shane, sounds more like the Ilya he knows. There would be text messages coming in at all hours of the night when Ilya was his CI contact, full of details he had gleaned. Lists of shipment numbers and pick-up spots to feed to Interpol. Although there had been moments where Ilya would tease, or tell jokes, or share random observations, Shane’s interactions with the man had always been grounded.

        Before she explains the next part, Svetlana sags into Shane, resting her weight against his side with apparent exhaustion. "When his brother hired someone to shoot him, to add to all the changes I had already noticed, he became paranoid. He started worrying about loyalties. At the time, we were only fucking sporadically, when we could not find another partner, but after the shooting he starts overthinking. He proposes a marriage only because he thinks that, otherwise, we will be leveraged by our parents to bond with strategic partners in the near future. His logic is that we get along, are comfortable with each other, and trust each other. A marriage of convenience. I was almost tempted, but then he ended the proposal with a request for monogamy.”

         She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I joked about it, asking him if he meant monotony, ‘because I am too interesting to provide that’, but his face was so serious. The kind of ‘serious’ that reminds me that he spends most of the day awake now, and most of the night asleep. That he listens to frantic music despite his dysregulated nervous system, nurtures paranoia despite visiting a therapist, no longer likes meaningless but thrilling sex with strangers, and would rather spend his time working or in the gym than exploring cities after dark.”

        She sighs heavily and Shane has to resist not to echo her. Because where she’s feeling exhaustion, admittedly all he feels is relief. As selfish as it might be, he feels like he suddenly has a chance to keep his relationship intact, provided that Ilya feels the same way as Svetlana does. 

        "We are no longer a match,” she says, with conviction. “As for what I said in his apartment the day you came back from the warehouse, I did mean it at that moment. When I heard about what was happening in the warehouse, what he was being told to do, I felt guilty. If we had bonded like he asked, if I had listened to his reasonable paranoia in that instance, no one could force him into bitching others or bonding to strangers. I, a powerful alpha with connections, could have been his excuse to pass the responsibility to someone else. Especially since my life would be easier too; my father and grandmother would no longer ask about my relationships, wondering when I’ll settle down. An alpha female is a bit of an aberration in Russia, but it would be acceptable with a strong alpha partner.  Between the self-serving solution and the guilt,  I felt like I should have said yes. However, I do not feel like that anymore."

        "Why not?" Shane asks, fingers digging into his thighs.

        "You will not like the answer," Svetlana warns him.

        "Whatever it is, I'd like to hear it," Shane says, meaning it in the moment.

        He means it a lot less when he hears her say, "I watched what happened in the warehouse. All the copies have now been deleted, but I had my own copy of the feed from the control room, and in it you could see and sometimes hear what was happening in the room you two were in. I was hoping there would be something useful in the conversations being shared between the men. Something about the database source, or what would happen to the shipment of people now that they knew the Bureau was watching, or new plans to track and report. But as I was paying attention to all this, occasionally I would see what was happening in the cam room. You probably do not know this, unless you have been spying on Ilyusha when he is being intimate with others, but his demeanor with you was different.

        "Has always been different, actually. You have no idea how many brain cells I have lost hearing him complain about his overly serious, consistently grouchy, and unfairly pretty agent penpal. He was fond of you when all he had were words on a screen. And since then, his affection has only grown. He does not consider you temporary. So, if you are hoping to leave him after Alexei is in prison, you need to tell him this once very firmly and then keep reminding him of it periodically, when you notice him being overly accommodating or clingy. And be careful of his charm, because he will try to snare you with it. You already seem quite important to him, and he does not let go of important things easily." 

         “So, you’re saying he likes me enough to not let you hit me with a stick?” Shane jokes, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

Svetlana laughs. “Likes you? He is wrapped around your finger. When he tells stories, you’re in them. And he doesn’t just mention you, he brags. I can show you the text messages, if you want. Many of them are recent, of him whining that he’s not sure if you will reciprocate his feelings. If he had any doubts after the warehouse, they are fully gone. If you intend to break it off with him, you’ll have to invest in some pepper spray to keep him from trying to win you back.”

        Shane’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Seriously? Do you mean that? He seems so good about asking for consent, making sure that I agree with every move he makes. Almost excessively, since Hayden will regularly throw an arm around my shoulders without asking, but Ilya won’t.” 

        Svetlana grins. “Sure, he will ask. He will listen. But you are soft, Shane. I suspect it would take egregious acts for you to tell Ilya to leave and never show his face again. All he needs is for you to accept his friendship. He will respect the boundaries you put up, of course, but he will do everything in his power to charm and attract you. He will make offers, find ways to meet up with you for work that turns into lunch. Do not forget that he is strategic.”

        Not really a fan of being warned like he’s clueless and couldn’t spot attempts to be ‘won back’ (as if he’d need to be), Shane asks, “As strategic as you? Since you named this album Kompromat, I’m guessing that means all the photos in this album are from Ilya's wild youth?"

        Her grin only sharpens, turning unrepentant. "Yes. Mostly photos he would never share with you willingly," Svetlana says, without a hint of shame.

        "Then I don't think I should see these," Shane says, trying to hand her the phone.

        "If who he was can change your view of him now, do you not think it is better to find out, while the stakes are still low? Or at least, manageable?"

        "I don't want to look at personal snapshots of his life that he wouldn't want me to see. It should be his choice. I don't want to betray his trust."

        "Betray his trust?” Sveta scoffs, sitting up as her hands get energetic, flitting out to help make her point more poignant. “How does looking at the evidence of  what shaped him, so that you can see him more clearly, a betrayal of his trust? Did he tell you he did not want you to see these pictures?"

        "No, but you know him better than I do. And you said it would bother him."

        "Yes,” she doesn’t deny, “but only because he thinks you would judge him harshly and no longer want him. He is not ashamed of his past. He knows his faults and has learned to live with his transgressions. But he fears what you will think of him, so these photos that used to be interesting snapshots that showed a fully-lived life are suddenly kompromat that can be used against him. Is he right? Are you also afraid you will feel differently about him if you see too much of what shaped the alpha he is now?"

        “Why do you want me to look through these so badly?” Shane asks, confused by her insistence.

        “Because he is in over his head. Some people do not change, no matter what happens to them. They will get clogged arteries, have a heart attack, then surgery, survive all this, and go back to eating french fries and hamburgers afterwards. Ilya, on the other hand, changes a lot. Every tragedy reshapes him in some way. So, I want you to know everything about my dearest friend, so that you can know personally if you are in or if you are out.” After her impassioned speech, she looks at him searchingly. 

        Conflicted, Shane stares at the phone in his hand. The answer would be simple if Ilya had explicitly asked him not to look at the photos. He would respect the man's privacy in other circumstances.

        But...well, there actually is no but.

        When he interrogates the pull towards looking at the photos, he doesn't like his reasons.

        Pure curiosity, for example.

        Which is selfish and should not involve violating Ilya's privacy.

        Danger identification, for another. The logic being that if he's not temporary, then he has a right to know who he's dealing with. To have more data in case he's being manipulated.

        They'd be good reasons for most people, but to Shane, whose job is to detect things, puzzle through manipulations, discover hidden motives, it feels like a cop out. If he can't determine if he's...growing to like a person who isn't who he seems, then he shouldn't have a badge and will need retraining or reskilling in a different field.

        To get more information for work?

        That could be a reason, but the pictures aren't recent. They're probably based in Russia, featuring things teenagers would care about. Again, not something worth violating privacy for.

        "Thanks for the offer. And, I understand your reasons, but life isn’t as simple as looking at photographs. I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Shane says, honestly.  “But I'd rather wait for Ilya to show me, if he wants to."

        "Show you what?"Ilya asks, striding in looking harried. Nose stuck to his open laptop, crossing off items from the screen with a stylus, he finally looks up when Shane doesn't immediately answer.

        Since he's still holding the phone, Shane lifts it pointedly, and says with forced levity, "Kompromat."

        Either because he recognizes the burner or knows his friend well enough, Ilya turns to Svetlana and asks, "What did you give him?"

        "Nothing he dared to look at without your permission," Svetlana says.

        "Without your express consent," Shane corrects, glaring at her. He’s not a child and he’s not waiting for permission. He’s respecting his partner. 

        She just winks at him.

        "Kompromat," Ilya repeats, eyes narrowing. "What does this mean?"

        "Photos of the life we lived as...children," Svetlana explains. But it's almost as if she disagrees with the naivety and vulnerability involved in admitting they were children at the time the photos were taken.

        Shane wonders if it means the two Russians grew up faster than they should have, doing things not meant for teenagers.

        Ilya's discomfort is palpable. There's gasoline in the air when he nods at the phone. "Show him."

        Given the way the instruction is incongruous with the man's nervousness, Shane pulls his hand away when Svetlana goes to press on the album icon. "But you don't want me to see it," he argues.

        "I am worried what you will think. If reaction is bad, now is better time for it." With a wry grin, he says plainly, "Maybe when the bonding is fresh, you will forgive me more."

        "I'm not a priest, so I can't offer you forgiveness for things you did to others or to yourself," Shane says. "But I'll try to be understanding. The prefrontal cortex in males isn't fully developed until around age 25, so it's not like you were firing on all cylinders a decade ago."

        With an amused snort, Ilya takes the seat to Shane's left on the sofa, effectively penning him in for as long as he’s not willing to jump over the coffee table to get away from the two alphas. 

        Opening his computer in an indication that he intends to continue working, Ilya swallows hard and says, "Go ahead." Unwilling to watch Shane's reactions, but near enough to explain or offer context.

        Apprehensive but feeling like now he needs to look through the photos, Shane opens the album. And immediately feels his pulse skyrocket. 

        The boy in the photo is unmistakably Ilya, despite his thin physique making his elbows and knees look knobby, and his limbs overlong. It's the same high cheekbones, the distinctive mole on his cheek, his mother's cross prominent against a black jacket. His hair is long, braided and snaking down to mid-back. And the absolute idiot isn't wearing a helmet as he sits astride a motorcycle, smirking.

        "You ride motorcycles?!" Shane asks in a hiss, horrified. Knowing the way Ilya drives his stupid fancy muscle cars, Shane's heart races, imagining the man weaving through traffic on some stupid Kawasaki and then getting plowed over by a sleepy truck driver.

        "Ah," Ilya makes a tisking sound. "Not anymore."

        Cackling, Svetlana says, "Swipe to the next picture."

        "I'm going to hate this, aren't I?" Shane asks, but does as requested. It's a picture of the mangled bike at the bottom of a ravine. "Oh fuck...what happened?!"

        "Next photo," Svetlana says gleefully.

        Ilya groans, turning away, back to his computer.

        The photo is, again, of Ilya, but this time he looks wrecked. Not as badly as his bike, but his coat is shredded from road burn. His jeans are ripped, with blood seeping through the material. There's a scuff on his cheek and his blonde hair is covered in bloodied dirt, likely injured under the messy braid, as he stands there, looking down the steep decline at his bike with a sheepishly relieved expression. In his fingers, he's fiddling with the cross.

        "Looks like you had a brush with death," Shane says, staring at the wide blue eyes of a boy, who looks like he knows just how lucky he was, not to end up a broken heap right next to the expensive remains of a death mobile.

        "Da. Was lucky to fall off early. Whole point of going to the countryside was to practice. And instead, is different kind of hazard. I give up on bike idea when the reality is bugs hitting you at high velocity and little control when there is mud or water or ice. Which, in Russia, is frequent. Then I look up statistics and see riding consistently is like playing roulette."

        "That's...surprisingly mature. Just wish you could apply that same logic to the way you drive your muscle cars."

        "Ah, you hate it too?" Svetlana asks, pointing a nail at Ilya. "This one used to drive past granny-houses in the country, revving his engine at three in the morning. The whole neighborhood would wake to chase us away with pitchforks."

        "Was not just random neighborhood. My grandmother is living there for many years. In past, when we are fighting, I do it to make her angry and to embarrass her in front of gossipy neighbors, who will recognize that is her grandson who is culprit."

        "Gah, your English is horrible," Svetlana mutters, clapping her hands over her ears. "How do you put up with this one? Do you use translator? Or do you just speak Russian all the time when you are at home? Because listening to this all the time is intolerable."

        "I'd love it if he spoke Russian more often.” Turning to Ilya, curious, Shane asks, “Why do you speak in English all the time? Are you afraid I won't understand you?" 

        "If I do not practice, I will not get better. Was not problem before, when I expect to return to Russia. Most of our clients and business associates know English, but translator apps are so good now that, if something is not clear, we work it out in native languages using apps. So, was good enough to speak with many mistakes. Now, though, if I am to stay in Canada, will need to try harder."

        "If you are going to practice, you should do it with the translator app open. You are going to memorize all the mistakes and then unlearning them will be very hard," Svetlana says, shaking her head.

        Like the very mature adult he is, Ilya sticks his tongue out at her.

        "Ok...next picture," Shane says, shaking his head at their antics. The longer he sits there, between the two of them, the harder it is for Shane to imagine them ever sleeping together. Their teasing, jokes, antagonistic poking all feels...platonic. Like two siblings annoying each other. As beautiful as they both are, there's no romantic tension between them. At least, at this stage.

       The next one has Ilya leaning back on a railing, cigarette pressed to his lips in what looks like a well practiced move. "You used to smoke?" Shanes asks, breathing in deeply through his nose just to validate there isn’t any hint of cigarettes caught in the fabric Ilya’s wearing.

        "Is still common in Eastern Europe. Now, more young people use e-cigarettes with flavor-liquid, but many also still use original cigarettes. Habit is hard to drop. When I am stressed, I still smoke," Ilya says with a wince.

        Frowning his displeasure, Shane threatens, "I will un-mate you if you develop lung cancer."

        Nosing at Shane's ear, Ilya's voice turns soothing. "Smoking is rare for me now. If such small amount is enough for cancer, then you are better off without me. Means this body is not strong enough for modern world with its air pollution."

        "I am going to make you eat so many fucking vegetables, you will regret being a smoker," Shane mutters. As Svetlana laughs at the threat, congratulating him on a ‘good one’, Shane  goes to the next photo.

         Immediately, he's transported into a world of color. Flashing lights bouncing off Ilya, who's hanging onto someone for support with one hand, and holding a bottle of vodka with the other. He looks blitzed, grin as sloppy as his clothes.

        Again, Shane tenses, attention attracted to the leer on the support-dude's face. The hand he has threaded around Ilya is rather low. "Do you remember this night?" Shane asks, with trepidation.

        "He doesn't, but I do," Svetlana says in a bitter tone. "Next photo."

        The next one has Ilya crouched on a curb, vodka bottle in pieces around him, hair knotted back to keep it out of the puddle of sick at his feet. He's holding one hand cradled in the other, knuckles busted open.

        "We got rid of the creep," Svetlana says, reading the apprehension in Shane's face.

        "Suspected creep," Ilya jokes. "Innocent until proven guilty, da? Maybe somewhere in Russia is former Good Samaritan, who is jaded and does not help others because last time he tries, two people beat him up for no reason."

        "It is a good thing that you followed commands like a good boy when I told you who to punch and how hard. Otherwise, that night would have ended poorly," Svetlana says, arms crossed and dour-faced.

        Ilya shrugs. "I will always listen to friends first over strangers. If this policy leads me astray someday, I will pay price without regret."

        "Hope that means you're choosing your friends wisely," Shane says, glancing over at Ilya, who is still pretending to work.

        When those blue eyes look up, Shane nearly ducks his head feeling caught out, but the impulse disappears when Ilya says, "Is not wisdom. Is luck. A wise criminal would not be friends with Bureau agent. Only lucky one would."

        "Accurate," Svetlana says, shaking her head. "The bastard is always getting lucky. Plans that were in pieces come together at the last second, accidents do not maim him like they should, death knocks politely at his door and wanders away like a failed salesman when he does not hear it over music played too loudly."

        Shane hides his grin and doesn't call them out for being dramatic. After all, it is justified. Knifings, motorcycle accidents, shootings, business deals with other criminals who lean in to say they accept into a translator app...All very dramatic. And so very far away from Shane's lived experience, that it sounds fake, even though he knows it's not. Has seen it’s not, on evidence tapes. Has heard it’s not from witnesses.

        As he swipes through more photos, he sees scenes akin to the ones Svetlana described earlier.

        Ilya lying on the ground, a pyramid of empty bottles arranged over him, an alarm clock set to go off at 6 AM near his head, face and arms covered in lipstick drawings and kiss marks.

        Him, sitting in a private train car, counting a stack of colorful Russian rubles.

        Then standing very close to the edge of a cliff, toes already on the other side of safety, heels dug into precarious looking earth.

        With hair cut shorter, there's a photo of him sitting upside down on a couch in a tiny room. 

        Standing next to half-completed graffiti, a joint between his fingers. 

        Then travel photos in various European cities. 

        Shane recognizes the Parisian catacombs, the Eiffel Tower, the Trevi Fountain, Venice's canals, Spanish churches, even a creepy looking photo in Auschwitz, with the mood apparently as dark as the overcast weather.

        The next one makes Shane groan. "Why can't you be normal about vehicles?" he asks, looking down at a photo of Ilya hanging out of a car window, hair flying in the wind like a banner, looking almost bored as he risks death-by-stupid-recklessness. To think this boy would grow into a man who won't move the car until everyone's wearing seatbelts, and despite the precaution, will still weave in traffic, speeding a minimum of twenty km/h over the limit and taking turns sharp enough to make the wheels shriek. A driving contradiction when it comes to personal transport philosophies.

        "I suppose, at the time, I was asking universe a question. Giving it opportunity to say if there is any reason to wait around. Much of life is spent busy just staying alive. Feeding, watering, sleeping, sheltering. For these things, money is needed. When you do not have it, you are too busy trying to survive to ask what for. When you do have it, and you look around at all you can buy, every problem solved, it makes me wonder what is purpose? Why collect things? Why help people? Why travel or volunteer or stay in place? There is no real purpose - just enjoyment. Given the beast you are, what will decrease anxiety, loneliness, upset and what will increase joy, fulfillment, self-satisfaction. Life is journey of getting to know who you are, and at the time I was not sure I was worth knowing."

        "What changed?" Shane asks, softly, fingers brushing against Ilya's in a silent offer.

        Taking his hand, Ilya shrugs. "Before you? Not much. I survive most reckless period and I take this as my answer. Also, is acceptable if I die in accident or because of health or age. This is fine. But I do not find it acceptable for another to choose this fate for me. When people try to kill me, I cling harder and fight back. Now, is a little different. I did not think I could feel so attached to someone that every extra day feels like gift. Maybe this feeling will fade one day, but for now, I am looking forward to more time."

        Shane winces. It's not a great answer. There's too much ambivalence there. A 'que sera, sera' attitude that seems to hinge on Shane's continued presence in his life. "Do you talk to your therapist about this?" he asks.

        "Sporadically. I do not want to give therapist enough information to notice pattern. I like this therapist, who speaks Russian and understands culture. If therapist starts suggesting chemistry and pills to solve my problems, I will fire them and be stuck searching for new therapist."

        "Ah...well, I hope you know you can talk to me.” Shane says, squeezing the hand still holding his. “I may not know much about psychology, but I think we're both quite good at solving problems and managing difficulties.” He hopes the words convey his meaning well enough. 

        Svetlana chimes in with, "And if you need a darker solution...count on me." She winks, grin looking maniacal.

        "Let us hope I never need your idea of an intervention," Ilya snorts.

        "Famous last words," Svetlana says.

        Ilya shakes his head at her and leans in to kiss Shane on the cheek and in Russian, says, "For as long as you are mine to cherish, I will turn towards you as green things turn towards the sun. I will tell you if I am wilting and we can see what can be done about it. And if your shine ever dims and you feel less bright, you will do the same.”

        Svetlana interrupts to point out, “Your metaphor is broken. How the fuck does a flower help a sun?”

        Ilya hums ponderously, treating the question seriously. “Maybe it would have worked better if I had started with us being two flowers in a field with different needs, transporting resources via mycelium network - "

        "Please, stop," Svetlana groans, whacking Ilya over Shane's head with her handkerchief. "You don't do metaphors well. Maybe if you'd studied harder in school, you wouldn't be spouting illogical nonsense now." She taps on the phone in Shane's hand. "Keep going. There are more in there."

        The next picture is of a table full of polaroids. Sucking in a breath, Shane asks, "Is that your mother?"

        Ilya looks over and takes a breath. "Ah, you took a photo of this, Sveta? We are cleaning apartment, because Grigori thinks is too small. These are all photos I find in our home. She raises me 12 years. Alexei more than that. And before she has first child, she meets Grigori. And all that is left as photographic evidence is one article about her with grainy picture, and 26 polaroids. I will show you some day better version. I make copies and laminate originals. They are in safety deposit box." Reaching over, he swipes to the next photo.

        In the next one, Ilya's surrounded by children, hair in dozens of wonky braids, a flower crown in his hair. There are eggs scattered near their feet, but rather than painting the Easter eggs, the children are too busy leaving messy handprints all over a laughing Ilya. He looks so happy and at ease in the photo that Shane asks carefully, "A-are you sure you don't want children?"

        "Nyet. I make a very good uncle or benefactor. Is easy for me to make a day special and make sure every child is having fun. I can pull apart squabbles and make them sit like little ducklings and listen. But this is not sustainable. What I can manage for hour or day is not same as being parent for whole life."

        Svetlana whistles in surprise. "I did not know this about you. When did you decide you did not want children?"

        Ilya shrugs. "Do I ever want children? They are cute. And very breakable. I observe what parenthood looks like for Alexei and his wife. Their child is perfect. No real problems. Easy as can be. Is still too much work, too much worry and commitment."

        "You, of all people, can hire help," Svetlana argues.

        "No person I hire can make me worry less. Also, then it is hired nanny who has mystery child to raise. Not me. And this, to me, is wrong. Either you want children and they are absorbed into all of your life, or do not have children. Also, Sveta, what future does child born now have? Which country is safe? Money cannot fix climate change, rising dictatorships, or billionaire class villainy."

        "All of history looks like this," Svetlana huffs. "The black plague killed most of Europe. Whole bloodlines disappeared. In Pompeii, the whole city burned beneath lava. World War 2 must have felt like the end of the world. Over and over again, the world is a horrible place. And yet, people live on."

        "Because they are forced to, Sveta," Ilya mutters, nose wrinkling. "In all these periods, omegas are property. Alpha or beta rapes mated female or omega, or attacks one on street, or does it during war; and this lost soul, poor - uneducated, terrified of a nonexistant god - gives birth to next generation and natural empathy means those children have clothes and food, even if it requires stealing, or making potions to sell at market, or begging on street. Let us not pretend that humanity would be so expansive if people have real choice. Would not be governments whining about population decline if omegas always have and want children without any force or coercion. Old populations grow because world allowed more force and less decisions.” 

        Once the ‘conversation’ switches to Russian and speeds up, neither willing to give up their debate, Shane silently swipes to the next photo.

         Shane's breath catches as he stares at Ilya in a hospital bed, bandages lifted to the side to show off the stitched up knife wounds. Beneath the bravado, there's something delicate in his expression that speaks of broken trust.

        In the next photo, his hair is cut short. Expression fierce. He's in a ring, busted hand being held up by a referee. They're standing in a cage, people outside of it wide-mouthed and cheering, lifting bottles in the air, fingers clutching at the fencing in a way that wouldn't be allowed if it wasn't some sketchy underground fight taking place.

        In the series of photos that follow, Ilya's face looks hollowed out. Usually, he's at the center of a raucous crowd, a drink in his hand. Occasionally, he's smiling like it hurts to do so. Sometimes he's injured, face blotted with color as the bruises are starting to come in, blood on his torso. Sometimes he's standing in front of ten empty shot glasses, eyes glazed over. In one of them, he's pouring a shot over his wounded knuckles. The final one in the series shows him leaning against the fenced ring, face brutalized, lip split, both eyes blackened. He's out of focus because in the foreground is Svetlana's hand, flipping him off.

        Finally, on the other end of this set, is an Ilya that looks closer to the one he knows. Looking neat, bulked up, in a fancy suit. On one side is Grigori, on the other is Mr. Vetrova, Svetlana's father. All three of them are holding champagne flutes. The two older men look pleased as punch, and Ilya...is showing teeth, grinning like he's dead inside. Nothing behind his eyes.

        "What is this?" he asks, not intending to say it out loud.

        The Russian argument cuts off as both of them lean in to look.

        "Ah, the celebration. Ilya's first club takeover. My father had leant him money to try out a business venture. Since that deal was for partial ownership of the Moscow clubs , he's still very pleased that he took a chance on Ilya. That deal still puts a lot of money in his pocket every month," Svetlana is first to answer.

        Shane waits to see if Ilya will comment. When he doesn't offer additional context, Shane swallows hard and quietly comments, "You don't look very happy about it."

        Ilya snorts. "Is good. Successful. Grigori is proud. Everyone is happy to have legitimate business added to portfolio. Except, of course, Alexei. This occasion is after I find out Alexei hires someone to run me off road."

        "How did you find out your brother was responsible?" Shane asks.

        "Man chasing me has worse car. Is worse driver. Ends up wrapped around hydrant. He is dead so I cannot ask him questions, but he brings personal identification with him. So, slowly, I work through the options and discover it is my brother who does this. Afraid that success will mean Grepori gives me control after he dies. Was process of elimination."

        "Process of elimination," Shane echoes, the phrase coupled with the betrayal of a brother sparking a thought. "Maybe that's what we should do with the mole?"

        "Da, we investigate. Is priority," Ilya says, confused over why Shane's said it like it's new information.

        Shaking his head, Shane explains. "No, I mean, why not just do it by process of elimination? Someone is feeding Alexei details about the Bureau and what we know about Rozanov business dealings. And yet, the mole doesn't know who the confidential informant is. Otherwise, you'd be in trouble, right?"

        "Da would be see as ultimate betrayal. Multiple people would have reasons to target me then. So, must still be secret," Ilya confirms.

        "And the mole is aligned with Alexei, who wants you out of the way. He tried to have you killed, but do you think he'd settle for you being arrested?"

        "Definitely," Svetlana says. "It was the main concern with the warehouse tapes - that Alexei would use them to put Ilya in prison."

        "If that's the case, do you think he'd take the opportunity, if it presented itself?" Shane asks.

        "Da. He is, after all, opportunist. Will gladly sell me out, if he has way to do so. Is why I am so well-practiced in keeping my business locked down."

        "Then, how about this?" Shane proposes. "We know Scott Hunter and Hayden are trustworthy, since they've always known you were the CI and the intel never made it to Alexei."

        "Why does Play-pen know I am CI?"

        Shane groans. "I thought you were going to stop with the names."

        "Only if you start."

        "Only if we're alone," Shane reminds. "I didn't forget. But mixed company wasn't part of our deal."

        Svetlana looks very confused. "What is happening?"

        "Nothing," Shane says with a sign and a glare. "Hayden was the back-up in case I was out sick or unavailable."

        "In that case, I am glad you are always available."

        "Anyways," Shane decides to move on before he can get sidetracked any further. "I’ll talk to Scott. If he agrees to this plan, then it's up to him to tap every person's shoulder in the office on the sly and tell them they're the new handler for the CI. Then we call them, one by one and, using a voice modulator, we tell them that you're going to be picking up a drug shipment at a warehouse at a given time. But every handler will be given a different warehouse and a different time. Since it's not unheard of for us to request resources from other departments, if you suspect Comeau in Cyber Crimes, we'll make sure that their team is included in this plan. Do you have enough warehouses? If not, we'll need to space out the times or do it across different days to have this plan work."

        Ilya looks understandably confused. "Yes, we can find warehouses, but I do not understand plan. You say to one person 'he will be getting drug shipment at seventeen o'clock at address X' next agent gets message 'he will get drugs at eighteen o'clock at address Y'. And then what? I get arrested with drugs at address X because all agents call in crime-in-progress and I am taken to jail."

        "Agents are supposed to report all gleaned information to the Team Lead, who then decides what to do with it. Every agent, in theory, should follow protocol and give Scott the intel. However, the agent working primarily to advance Alexei's agenda will probably tip off the police, if Scott refuses to do anything. So, depending on where you get arrested and at what time, we should be able to use that as the basis for a warrant to look into their bank accounts, phone records, internet traffic - the works."

        "And I will be in jail, where Alexei will pay someone to hang me from pipe or stab me in prison yard," Ilya says, still confused.

        "You run this weird foodie club, right? So the shipments can be for salt, sugar, flour, xanthan gum, baking soda - "

        "Ok, ok, you know many white powders associated with food," Ilya squeezes his hand, grin wide on his face. "Process of elimination," he mutters, eyes fixed to Shane's face, looking so impressed that it’s hard to keep from ducking his head. It’s not like it’s some grand master plan. It might not even work. 

        With a snort, Svetlana says, "Look at that? The idiot got lucky again. Found himself a pretty face and a clever mind in the same person. It is incredibly unfair.”

Chapter 23

Chapter Notes

Chapter 23 has been the bane of my existence. I've not felt like working on this at all. Part of it was a massive project that got its date moved again because of issues, but this also wasn't very fun to write.

Please let me know if any of it was worth it, because I only have doubts about this chapter. It was a necessary bit of plot, and I'm hoping what follows is more fun to write (and probably read). But for now, here's this thing...

        Scott sighs, sounding so tired. "Ok, I approve. Let's do it," he says in a tone that implies he'd rather be on vacation.

        "Are...you okay? If it helps, I think this plan should work,” Shane says.

        "Yeah, I know. It's just...such a shame. I wish we weren't in this position where the best case scenario is that we find out who in our midst has been complicit in the deaths of our team members. But we are, so the only remaining question is, should we wait for everyone to be in the office or not? A few people are out of office at the moment between the two teams."

        "Is Comeau one of them?"

        "No," Scott says, after a pause probably spent checking the shared calendar. "He's in. Are you guys so sure he's the one responsible?"

        "Not sure. Just suspicious. Ilya's concerned about the guy, because 'interest follows investment'," he quotes, in Ilya's accent, although his voice regrettably does not go deep enough to do the alpha justice. "It's speculation, but it can't hurt to put him to the test. Cyber Crimes is a small team, so if you can swing it..."

        "Yeah, I can," Scott sighs again. "For the record? I hate this. I know every single one of these agents. I have worked cases beside them. Is there any chance it might not be a mole?"

        "I'm not trained in this stuff," Shane admits, hating that he doesn't have a better answer. "According to Vetrova, the information is not something being passively gathered. The database entries are not uniform enough to indicate a computer is responsible for collecting the data. The data is also littered with qualifiers - ‘maybe’, ‘might’, ‘should’; she’s convinced there’s a human element involved in the data gathering.”

        Scott hums in acknowledgment, sounding exhausted. "Have Hayden submit the investigation request and I'll approve it. This needs  to be kept on the down-low, so expect the budget to be next to nonexistant."

        "I think all we should need is the tech gear checked out for a few hours. If you can let me know when the equipment will be available, I can make sure we schedule around it."

        "Will do," Scott sighs for the third time, sounding like he desperately needs a nap. Or maybe a weekend at the spa.

"I don't like this," Shane mutters, eyes tracking the unmarked van as Hayden drives into Ilya's underground parking garage. "If something happens, you'll be all alone. No one there to intervene. What if your brother's got some of the police in his pocket? They could shoot you."

        "I am wearing bullet proof vest," Ilya shrugs, utterly unconcerned. "Also, is risky for cop to do this. You know is risky. Every discharge needs explanation. Cop will not want to shoot when others are around, watching, available to call ambulance. Especially when expectation is I go to jail and maybe die in prison, da?"

        "Right…They'll be arresting you. Why wait for a trial? If Alexei has a cop under his thumb, may as well kill you in jail. Fuck."

        "Da, but you cannot help me with this. Plan did not include both of us in jail."

        "Maybe it should," Shane says, speaking faster, as Hayden parks and gets out of the van, suitcase in one hand, heavy backpack on his shoulders. "They'll hesitate more if I’m there. And it's reasonable to bring your mate with you after a bonding -"

        "To check ingredient quality? Or to drug deal? Because, I think, for both, is strange to see mate. Either is too boring, quick meeting, or is dangerous. In both cases, mate should not be there."

        Ilya shifts, just transferring weight from one foot to the other, but Shane's hand grabs for him in wild panic, catching the startled alpha's sleeve and holding tight.

        Responding to Shane's distress, Ilya reels him into his arms, chest rumbling with an alpha's purr. "Solnyshko, I am familiar with this song and dance. There is nothing to worry about, da? And if anything goes wrong, you will see it and...report it to more authorities," Ilya says, trying to sound comforting and optimistic, but it's clear he's not sure how Shane would be able to help.

        From off to the side, Hayden coughs pointedly, even as his eyes wander, taking in Ilya's cars, the industrial freezers and laundry machines, and the door to the workshop.

        Shifting so that he's between Shane and Hayden, height and bulk blocking both their view, Ilya murmurs into Shane's ear in confident Russian, "Everything will go to plan and we will discover who is spying for Alexei." Catching Shane's chin, he lifts his head and kisses him, soft and languid, as if he doesn't have a warehouse to get to on time.

        Hayden's cough is sharper, edging towards irritation the second time. "You're going to be late," he warns.

        Ilya does pull away, but he's unhurried as he does so, determined to pretend Hayden isn't there. "Good luck," he says, with a final squeeze and then he's gone.

        Leaving Shane's arms empty and his stomach on the floor. 

        Panic claws at his throat and he wants to call out, but he swallows it down, knowing it's already hard enough for Ilya to keep walking when the garage smells like burnt hair and gasoline.

        Then the words register and Shane can't help the whine of irritated fear as he yells, "I'm the one who's supposed to say good luck!"

        Climbing into the eye-wateringly bright yellow muscle car, Ilya scoffs, "Do not need it. I am most lucky already."

        It sounds like a jinx.

        Like a victory counted too soon.

        Stomach in knots, Shane hates it. Wants to demand he take it back.

        But Ilya can't hear him anymore.

        Frozen, Shane watches the car rumble to life, and then peel out, engine growling like a threatened beast.

        Hayden touches his shoulder. Then shakes it when Shane stays stuck in place. "Hey, buddy, you okay?" he asks.

        Trying to pull in a slow, steady breath, Shane reflexively reaches for his keychain, even though he's starting to not need it as much, the words to express different emotions coming more readily to mind. At the same time, though he needs the keychain less for its intended purpose, it's starting to become a touchstone for him. A reminder of Ilya when the alpha isn't nearby. "I'm anxious and apprehensive," Shane mutters, eyes blurring as he stares at the rainbow circle in his hand.

        "Dude, nothing's even happened yet," Hayden points out, throwing an arm around his shoulders and shaking him gently, in a silent demand to snap out of it.

        "Right," Shane says, clearing his throat. "We need to get set up. The camera feeds need to be on screen before he gets to the first warehouse. I want to see what angles we're working with at each one. Did you also bring the blueprints?"

        "I mean, yeah, but we've been over them twice already, Shane. The cameras have all been repositioned to reduce blind spots and a few even got added since yesterday. I guess the one nice thing about working with Rozanov is the follow through. It really spoils a guy," Hayden says begrudgingly.

        "He's certainly the most consistent CI I've worked with. Helps that he has his own resources so there's no approvals and budgets standing in the way. And, you have to give it to him, the man's competent."

        "You mean, he's a good liar," Hayden summarizes, eyes narrowed.

        The comment sparks irritation in Shane. He'd debated on how much free reign he'd give Hayden in Ilya's apartment building, worried about things like the suspicious guns in the bedroom or the fake passports hidden in go-bags on every level, all of them now retrofitted to include fake documents with Shane's picture in them.

        "Is just in case," Ilya had said, when confronted; calmly sliding over a check book and debit card to a new account along with a safety deposit box key.

        "What the fuck is this?" Shane asked, afraid to touch any of it.

        "I put you on accounts and give you access to deposit box. Go-bags have cash in three currencies, but box has more. Depends on how quickly evacuation would be required."

        Then they'd proceeded to argue late into the evening over the statistical likelihoods of all the scenarios Ilya suggested might need an evacuation, with Shane regrettably feeding the man's paranoia by pointing out a few categories he'd missed.

        "So, where are we setting up?" Hayden asks.

        Shane's tempted to say 'the van', but he doesn't trust the garage's wifi connection enough to risk it. Instead, he pulls out a decorative, obsidian neck-kerchief out of his back pocket and tells Hayden to turn around.

        "Wh-what? Why?!"

        "I'm going to lead you to the room we'll be working in. But first, I need to put the blindfold on you," he explains calmly, wondering if it'd be too petty to say, 'you earned this treatment'.

        "Seriously?! Even when he's not here, you follow his orders? What, does he have cameras all over the place?"

        "Well, yeah, in some places. But he didn't tell me to blindfold you. I'm making the executive decision to do it. Because if you're going to be a gremlin about him, I'm not going to let you see his place, since you're forcing me to assume you'd use anything you see, hear, or smell against him."

        "S-smell?!" Hayden looks horrified, mind apparently in the gutter.

        Shane elects not to save him from his own imagination. "Come on, turn around."

        Hayden makes a whiny, hurt noise, eyes going round and slightly wet in a move that Shane's seen him regularly pull on Jackie. It's not even that he's faking it on purpose. More like his body just turns all pathetic when he’s disappointed someone he cares about. Pity, however, is something Shane's in short supply of, when most of the day is going to be stressful. And, in the best case scenario, if everything goes exactly to plan, then he'll have to spend the night alone for the first time since...fuck, it's only been a week and two days.

        He shouldn't be used to sharing a bed with a man he only just officially met; and yet, he feels genuinely distressed over it. And that’s the best case scenario. His stomach is in knots and his extremities feel cold as he motions for Hayden to turn around.

        With a whine, Hayden slowly faces the other direction and begrudgingly accepts the makeshift blindfold being tied over his eyes.

        That plaintive noise of complaint is the last straw. If the camel's back is Shane's patience, it's officially broken now. 

        Because he's not heartless, he loops his arm around Hayden's, opening doors and warning him of stairs. But he leads him the long way round, up the main stairwell from the garage. "Don't speak. Alexei has the top floor bugged," Shane warns, before leading a stiff Hayden into the penthouse, then down the steep staircase built into the kitchen counter, catching Hayden when he stumbles or trips. And because he feels Hayden deserves it, he directs him into the room that smells like Svetlana's perfume, opens the freshly widened tunnel with the fixed vent slider he and Ilya had spent half the previous day putting together, and tells Hayden to crawl through.

        "Wh-what?! You're kidding?!" Hayden screeches, as Shane steals the backpack off him and takes the briefcase.

        "Nope. Keep going till you hit a wall, Shane says, waiting till Hayden crawls through to the other side before closing both ends of the vent and going the comfortable way around through the gym.

        What had formerly been a storage dumping ground now resembles a lounge and office. Luckily, Shane arrives quickly enough to see the moment Hayden, on his journey on all-fours across the long room, finally reaches the wall and bonks straight into it, head first.

        Sniggering at the way Hayden's mouth purses as he swears under his breath, Shane says, "Swear jar."

        "Oh, fuck you! Like I didn't hear you disappear a second ago, Hayden mutters, hands stretching up above his head and waving off to the side as he tries to determine whether it's safe to stand.

        "We're at our final destination," Shane says. "You can remove the blindfold."

        With a growl, he yanks it off without untying the knot, effectively restyling the back of his head into a hedgehog imitation. "Where the fuck did we go? Narnia? Why did we go up three flights and then down one?"

        Impressed by how well he'd retained orientation, Shane claps him on the back. "I don't think this is Narnia, but if you see any Jesus Lions, let me know," Shane says, starting to set up the computers on the coffee table in front of the deep, sleek-materialed, soft-cushioned pull-out couch.

        "Is there a kitchen nearby? A bathroom?" Hayden asks, tugging at the knob on the false-door, a deep frown on his face, likely noting how the door doesn't even rattle in its frame courtesy of Ilya, his YouTube University construction skills, and wild access to resources. It’s cemented in-place. 

        "Not nearby, no. There's apparently a micro-bathroom in the corner of the gym, which I'd originally taken for a changing room. Turns out, it's a shower-toilet combo for 'max convenience'. I actively avoid it, but it's there. Too bad you won’t be able to find the exit to this room. But hey, if you get desperate, you can always try pissing off the end of the fire escape." He jerks a thumb at the windows.

        Heaving a sigh, Hayden takes a seat next to Shane, typing in his password on the open terminal to the city camera feeds while Shane brings up the security control application for over two dozen warehouses that Svetlana taught him how to use.

        "Are you mad at me?" Hayden asks, leaking beta distress like a sieve.

        "Obviously," Shane mutters. "I'm not asking you for support. But what I do need from you is respect. You keep treating me like I'm a dumb, blind idiot."

        "How would you characterize Rozanov? Is he a dumb, blind idiot?"

        "No," Shane growls. "He’s clever. He thinks things through. And he’s perceptive as all hell. Take the clubs he’s designed, for example. He took into account why people are traveling to certain destinations, and then built the experience around the desires they'd have, but going one step further so that they'll feel surprise and delight walking in. He can tell what bothers people, what they want, how they’d like to be treated. Everything that happened in the warehouse just showcased how easily he can manage people, even when he has to wear two personas at the same time. It's, frankly, impressive."

        However, Hayden doesn't look impressed. His eyebrows go high. "If he's so smart, and clever, and perceptive, why do you consider it impossible that this is all part of some scheme? Why won't you even entertain the possibility that this whole thing is by design?"

        Jaw clenching, Shane opens his mouth to argue that he has thought through possible betrayals and that none of them fit, but movement on one of the cameras catches his eye.

        "Ilya's at the warehouse," he announces, immediately turning all his focus on the screens. He watches the alpha park and take an outdoor fire escape up into an office. He appears once again, in the doorway that connects the office to the warehouse. He walks out onto the catwalk and bends his large frame in half to lean against the rail, shoulders shifting to stretch the muscles in his back and neck.

        On the feed, he looks bored, digital notebook open in one hand while the other's busy hiding a yawn. Finally a truck pulls up, backing into a loading bay.

        Ilya comes down to join the men waiting to unpack the truck. He makes small talk with  the driver, saying something that makes the man laugh. Then, after the first pallet’s been removed from the truck with a mini fork-lift, Ilya reaches in between the slats and pulls out a small plastic-wrapped bag of a white powder-like substance. He pulls a cheap switchblade out of his likely-emptied pockets, all his usual gadgets left at home, so they won’t go missing in case of an arrest, and cuts open the package, removing a bit of the powder for ‘quality inspection’. 

        Immediately, a siren goes off and the police demand he “toss the knife to the side, leave the drugs on the pallet, and get on the ground.” Their voices cut in and out as the sirens drown them from the audio capture. There’s no shootout. No twitchy cops or odd behaviors. Still, Shane zooms in on their faces, noting their expressions. Thankfully, none of them look anxious, as if waiting for an opportunity to complete a secret mission for Alexei. But there’s more anger there than there should be. As if the alpha’s already ruined their day and pissed them off despite the luck of ‘catching him in the act’. 

        “Well, that was anti-climactic. Does that mean we’re done?” Hayden asks. 

        “No,” Shane snorts. “We keep going. I made sure Comeau had the first time slot, and it seems like Alexei might have given him the order to turn Ilya in. By the way, have you texted Scott yet? He needs to send the request for the warrant to the judge.” 

        “Yup, sent. So, how exactly is this supposed to proceed without Rosanov? And, what for?”

        “In case it’s not a one-off. According to Scott, Comeau never reported hearing that Ilya would be receiving a drug shipment. Our calls also never got picked up by Agent Garmond and Agent Halder so we were forced to leave voicemails. Vetrova took two of the body guards in charge of club security and disguised them so they could pass for Ilya at a distance. We’re stuck watching the feeds to see if any other arrests are attempted at a different time slot. My theory, that only a mole would ignore the protocols, could be flawed. If we get a lot more calls, it might mean the teams need to undergo training to reinforce good practice or maybe office communications have been tapped and someone called in for multiple time slots. There’s a whole host of possibilities that will need to be explored depending on what happens,” Shane explains calmly, glad to have something to focus on that isn’t Ilya, under arrest. 

         Ilya, in an interrogation room.

         Ilya with his attorney, working on getting released. Which, given his resources and suspected ties to organized crime, likely won’t get granted until the tests come back clean. With such a high flight risk, the judge won’t be in any hurry to let Ilya go free. And if the tests don’t come back clean, they’ll have to track down who got paid to swap the samples or who falsified the results or tainted the shipment…

        “I hate how corruption taints every step in the process,” Shane mutters, still watching as Ilya gets handcuffed, patted down, and shoved into the back of a cop car. “I always had so much faith in the system. But now, I keep wondering if there’s more. If someone in the Bureau is in the pocket of organized crime, and we all have better salaries and cushier jobs than cops and lab techs and local detectives, then what about other parts of the system? They’d be more susceptible to bribes, so it’d make sense to buy people at different levels.”

         “If someone has been bought,” Hayden emphasizes, as he switches over to the feeds near the next warehouse. 

         “What’s your theory?” Shane asks.

         Looking pained, Hayden shakes his head. “Normally, I’d tell you, but…What’s the point? You’ll just tell me I’m the one being biased, because I think a ‘clever’ criminal is doing illegal things cleverly. You’ve literally lost all objectivity, and you won’t let anyone tell you different.” 

        Jaw clenched, Shane says, “Don’t be a coward, Hayden. Just say it. Tell me your dogshit theory, because I’ll bet anything that it’s nonsense and easily disproven.” 

        Hayden snorts. “I haven’t even said anything and you already think I’m wrong.”

        “Yeah, because you made a lot of assumptions about what happened in the warehouse. Your suspicions about the omega clinic were downright conspiratorial. So, I’m expecting a story about aliens next.” 

        “Oh, fuck you,” Hayden mutters, staring harder at his screen. “I’m trying to look out for you at a time when you’re fucking compromised. I’ll admit, I don’t totally get it, but  I get it well enough. You thought you were going to die, and in walks a charming, handsome alpha who ‘saves’ your life. Sure, it costs you your designation, results in a mating bond and a brand, but at least you’re alive to tell about it. 

         “He moves you into his place because of bond pressure and your own place still smells like your old designation. Your anxiety keeps you here, under his thumb. The trauma bonding bolsters your loyalty and closeness. 

        “Then, conveniently, you’re encouraged to go to an omega clinic and one happens to be close by. The omega doctor seems trustworthy, says bonding shouldn’t be one-sided, that you’re at a disadvantage, so you end up asking for a completed bond and he agrees, no problem. Your bond is stronger, your loyalty has increased. 

        “Then, you both need to debrief. Conveniently, he finds a way to go with you, so that you’re not alone at the office. He pokes around and conveniently ‘finds the mole’ by overhearing one conversation. And, look at that, he’s arrested during the time slot which implicates his chosen mole. I’m sure it’s not because he called in the tip himself. And golly, how fucking convenient that Comeau’s best alibi and closest confidant, happens to be on vacation in Europe. Odd how Drapeau rushed off on some weird last-minute trip, saying he needs immediate time off because ‘what if he changes his mind’...That’s a direct quote, by the way. Scott tried asking about the details, saying this week was important and that they couldn’t really afford people being out of the office, but Drapeau insisted he had a once in a lifetime opportunity he needed to cash in because ‘what if he changes his mind’. Who’s ‘he’? Why Europe, of all places? One week and the whole world’s a different shape and all of it since that asshole came into your life. I don’t like it.  It’s all been such a convenient series of events. Suspiciously fucking convenient. And, what I don’t understand is why you don’t see it.” 

        It takes Shane every effort not to wince, realizing just what opportunity Drapeau had been afraid of missing out on. 

        Ilya’s perfume proposal.  

        Immediately, Shane decides not to fill him in, knowing it would only solidify his suspicions. But at the same time, he resents being in this position. Forced to keep a secret because his friend will twist it into the puzzle of his conspiracy theories. And he wonders idly if it’ll always be like this. If he’ll always be forced to only ever say complimentary things about Ilya, never able to turn to his best friend for support or to ask if something’s normal, because anything he says will just be turned into ammo.

        “All this ‘mole in the Bureau’ shit didn’t start until after you two were mated. He never had any suspicions before, right?” Hayden continues, interpreting Shane’s silence as wavering. “He never dropped any intel that would degrade your trust in the Bureau at a time when you’d be free to investigate any claims in-person, observing people around the office, huh? Only now that you’re mated, now that you don’t have the same job or access, Rosanov’s suddenly feeding you narratives about corruption. Making you distrust institutions meant to uphold the laws he’s breaking. And you don’t think any of that is a manipulation by your oh-so-clever alpha?” Hayden continues, a bitterness to his voice, but his eyes are wet, scent distressed. 

        Shane doesn't know what to say to that. As Ilya is driven away to jail and he's forced to switch over to the camera feeds at the next warehouse, he realizes that there's nothing he can say that will make this better for Hayden. More understandable. Because, inescapably, Hayden’s best friend is literally sleeping with the enemy and that might always be a source of distress for the beta. After all, there's no way for Ilya to win the guy's trust.

        Any 'good' actions will be interpreted as manipulation, and any 'bad' ones will be judged twice as harshly.

        It's a hopeless situation.

        The only thing Shane can count on is Hayden's loyalty. 

        For all that he might disapprove of (or even hate) Ilya, he won't abandon Shane over it. It's this realization that has Shane tipping slightly, to lean against Hayden, offering silent support and apology.

        "I do see it, Hayden. But I also see how much your rage over what happened is coloring your perception. If this is some grand plot to trap me, then it's convoluted as fuck. He didn't suggest for someone to try infiltrating his brother’s warehouse in the guise of a client. That was my idea. 

        “He also didn't suggest a date for our operation or that I should be the agent to do it. I never disclosed the plan to be there. He had to rush across town to save my ass, driving recklessly to make it in time, and had to make up a believable reason for his presence on the fly.” Seeing the way Hayden’s jaw tightens, immediately ready to jump in, Shane continues with what the guy probably wants to argue, “Let’s say he’s an opportunist and the first part wasn’t planned. 

        “I never got pressured to go to the omega clinic. I wanted more information. I set the appointment. I chose the location. I could have gone to an alpha clinic instead, to run comparison tests, or to my regular doctor. I also verified via internet searches, and there are research papers describing mutual bonds as the safest, most stable, healthiest kinds to have. So, if he did go to the trouble of setting up a fake omega clinic, it’d be a dumb waste of time and resources since they just told me the same thing the internet would have and I could have ended up at a different doctor’s office entirely.”

        Flicking Hayden in the thigh, Shane adds, “You chose the office for the debrief. Comeau chose to ask about confidential intel with someone from our team. Drapeau chose to panic his way to Europe on a last minute trip. And I decided not to wait for him to get back without conferring with Ilya. I didn’t even ask his opinion. If this whole thing was a plan, then Ilya Rozanov is a lucky idiot who managed to get everything to line up despite most of it being outside his control. And if that's the case, then it's a good thing I'm bonded to him because we're talking about god-level skills to influence reality and I’ll get to reap the benefits."

        "Bullshit," Hayden mutters, sniffling. "If he’s responsible for trapping you or framing Comeau, you'll arrest him, god-level skills or not."

        Shane shrugs. "Yeah, sure. But see...I'm starting to think he'd let me."

        Hayden snorts his disbelief but drops the subject as Ilya’s body-double appears on screen. 

 

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. 

        Warehouse after warehouse, shipments of baking materials are taste tested, signed for, and carted away into warehouses. The decoy Ilya actually looks pretty spot on. He's got the whole package - moles painted into place, heel-bolstered height, padded breadth, blonde curls and blue eyes set in an overexaggerated glare that feels odd and dissonant when compared to Ilya's usual affable demeanor, but he’s passable.

        Time slot after time slot, nothing happens. The police never show.

        "Last one," Hayden comments, arms stretched over his head. His stomach rumbles in complaint, having missed lunch since Shane refused to show him an alternative exit and he refused to leave via fire escape ‘like a thief’.

        They watch patiently as the last handoff goes through and Ilya's body-double signs off on a shipment of semolina. No lights. No sirens. Nothing happens. The men shake hands and part ways.

        Cutting the feed, Shane leans back on the couch and looks at the wall clock. It's not nearly late enough. There's most of an evening and a whole night left to wait through, assuming Ilya can get out in the morning. But what if he can't? 

         Ilya's influence was enough to twist a few arms to ensure his tests got priority, with his Russian lawyer tightening screws, applying pressure on the system, but how much that will affect the time frame is unclear.

        "Hey, are you alright?" Hayden asks, nostrils flaring as he catches the scent of burnt hair.

        "I'm just...contemplating my night. And wondering if I'll have to wait longer than that before they finally release him. Assuming the system isn't so fucked up that they doctor the tests."

        Hayden whines softly, not a comforting alpha purr, but as close as he can get as the instinct to help rises up in him. "Just because he can't be here, doesn't mean you have to be alone. Why not come to my place? You can see Jackie and the kids. Take the guest room and sleep over. It'll be fun. Get your mind off all this."

        "Yeah, I think I'd like that," Shane admits, hating how empty the apartment building feels without Ilya in it. To stay here without him...it's too much. Every part of the building is a reminder. His scent, his things, his design decisions...Alone, he'd probably curl up in bed, Moomins playing on the TV as he tries not to cry like an idiot. It hasn't even been a fucking day.

        "You going to make us take the fire escape and then circle the building? Or can we get back to the garage in a normal way? Preferably without crawling."

        "Actually, the fire escape is probably the most straight-forward way to get to the garage," Shane lies, unwilling to walk Hayden through secret passages a second time around. Until the two men can get along, Shane realizes he doesn't really trust Hayden in Ilya’s space.

        Hayden groans, mutters something insulting about Russian mobsters, but doesn’t argue.

        

Parking the company van on the street, Hayden leads the way to his front walk-up.

        “Why’s your car parked outside the garage? Working on a project?” Shane asks, noting the oddity. 

        Hayden huffs, gesturing angrily at his car. “Some asshole spilled rank, oily shit all over my car and it stinks despite multiple washes. If you breathe in deep enough, you’ll smell it.”

        Too late. With the wind having changed, Shane chokes on the smell of wet, grungy dog by the sea and walks a little faster, shouldering past Haydent to ring the doorbell before hiding his nose under his shirt collar. 

        “It’s not that bad,” Hayden mutters, stealing the bag with Shane’s change of clothes and toiletries off his shoulder just to hit him with it.

        “Smells like a biohazard,” Shane counters, as Jackie pulls the door open.

        “I think that’s putting it nicely,” she comments, having heard him. She tugs Shane into the house, telling him, “Come in, already. Before that stench has a chance to follow you inside.” But once the door is closed and Shane’s dropped his shirt back into place, Jackie gasps audibly. 

        "Oh my god, Shane!" Her eyes go wide and she looks first to Hayden and then to him. "Are congratulations in order, or do I need to go borrow the neighbor's shotgun?"

        "Um, what?"

        "You're a mated omega, dumbass," Hayden mutters out the side of his mouth, as if Jackie won't hear him from two steps away.

        "Swear jar," she says, pointing at him, expression surly. "And I can't believe neither of you told me about such a major life change! When did it happen? I feel like I saw you two weeks ago, but then again, it’s hard to keep track of time between work and taking care of the kids."

        ”No, you’re right. This all happened quite recently.” Shane shrugs. "You can postpone the congratulations for now, since we're still figuring out how permanent our relationship is, but there's also no need for shotguns."

        "Says you," Hayden mutters.

        At the rejoinder, Jackie goes from mild understanding back to confusion. "You don't approve of Shane's...beau?" she asks, ushering them into the foyer.

        "No, I don't." Hayden says, short and clipped.

        "He hasn't had the chance to get to know him," Shane tries to smooth over, throwing a warning look at Hayden.

        "Neither has Shane," like a dick, Hayden says back.

        "Oh..." Jackie's tentative smile drops, replaced by a worried look. "Who is this guy, Shane?" she asks, trying to sound neutral and failing.

        "Someone I've worked with for a while. He helped me out of a jam, but work got so stressful that my designation changed. We ended up bonding after that."

        Thankfully, Hayden doesn't say anything to invalidate Shane's story, maybe finally realizing it's better not to worry his wife and alienate Shane with his conspiracy theories.

        "I'm so sorry, Shane," Jackie says, pulling him in for a hug. "I can't imagine how much stress you had to be put under for that to happen."

        "It...was a lot," Shane admits, "but compared to what could have happened, this really is the best case scenario. I may not know the alpha who saved me as much as I'd like, given that we're bonded already; but he's...kind of awesome." He can't help the way his cheeks heat up in a blush or the way his lips curl into a smile, wide and joy-warmed.

        Pulling him into the kitchen, arm looped through his, she insists, "Tell me everything about him," with a giddiness that's catching.

        It takes real power of will not to gush when faced with her enthusiasm - Jackie being the first person to react with any positivity on finding out that Shane has both a new designation and a new mate - while also under the influence of bond withdrawal, Ilya’s absence fucking with his head and making him sappy and overly sentimental. But he gives away what details he can, describing Ilya’s personality and how the alpha makes him feel while shying away from more factual information about Ilya’s age, job, or country of origin. 

         Hayden, who’s standing right there, like a dark, gloomy cloud taps his fingers in a patterned rhythm on the table, likely hating how he can’t chime in with all the information about Ilya that he considers damning, given that it could compromise Ilya’s status as a confidential informant. 

        Jackie notices, of course. Confused, she links her fingers with his to stop the tapping and offer a bit of comfort, thumbing over Hayden’s pulse in a soothing rhythm. A silent exchange in a bit of eye contact and the two betas seem to come to some understanding. But maybe not the same understanding, since Jackie’s next question has Hayden groaning. 

        “So, when do I get to meet him?” Jackie asks, genuinely upbeat and excited. 

         “Never,” Hayden says, breaking his silence.

         With greater confusion, Jackie turns to her husband, eyebrows high and pinched together in worry. “Why’s that?” she asks, voice surprisingly level. 

        “Sorry, Jax,” Hayden mumbles, sounding miserable. “I can’t tell you. It’s confidential.” 

        "Confidential," she repeats, worry growing. "Shane, w-was this man safe to bond with?"

        "Was Hayden?" Shane asks, in return, catching both betas off guard.

        "Um, what?" the two of them say at the same time.

        With another shrug, Shane says, "Our jobs are dangerous. Our lives are not infrequently at risk. We have enemies and the list grows longer, the better we are at this job. Do you ever regret marrying him?"

        "Th-that's not fair!" Hayden hisses, fist balling up.

        "Isn't it? Ilya knows the risks that come with his...career choices. From comments that he's made, it's clear to me that he never would have started something with a 'civilian'. And for him, kids seem to have always been off the table. I didn't ask when he got the vasectomy, but I suspect it was probably around the same time he decided to avoid pulling people into danger if they weren't already courting it. Yet, neither you nor I thought to do the same, even though we're in...a similar business."

        "Wow, and you still think you don't have wool over your eyes? Ten days in and you're already so deep that you're parroting his opinions when he's not around?" Hayden's tone is biting.

        "Is he wrong, Hayd? We lost three agents in two months and I was about to be next. If you had been less sleep-deprived, had learned enough Russian to do the mission, and had ended up in the warehouse, would you still be here now? The way I got out wouldn't have worked for you. You'd be leaving behind two young kids for your grieving wife to raise and provide for on her own."

        "What are you trying to say, Shane? That I'm selfish for having a life of my own after spending all day trying to protect the lives of strangers?" Hayden growls, but it's far from the threatening rumble of an alpha or the hair-raising roar of an angry omega.

        "You built this life because you wanted to. When you do things for your own benefit, I think the word for that is 'selfish', yeah. And it's not wrong to be selfish sometimes. I'm not really critiquing your choices. I'm just trying to point out that the guy you hate so much isn’t as much of an asshole as we thought he was."

        "You've known him for a week," Hayden hisses.

        More carefully than her husband, Jackie says in a soothing tone, "I obviously don't know who you're talking about, and I'm sure you know him in ways Hayden never will, but...it's strange to see you two so at odds over something."

        Hayden snaps his fingers, pointing at his wife. "She has a point. It's like he's trying to create a rift between us.”

        “He doesn’t have to try. Your antagonism is making this rift without his help.”

        Hayden tugs at his hair in frustration. “You’re so tightly wrapped around his finger, it’s not even funny. Like, what, you’re ditching your friends, making excuses for his behavior, and now you’re giving up your dreams for him too?  The guy’s not willing to have kids? That’s a huge one, Shane.  Please tell me he informed you of his vasectomy, before you agreed to complete the bond.”

        It’s a stupid request that Shane can’t even respond to because Jackie’s right there. He can’t say that the bond was something Alexei forced and Shane pushed to complete for his own mental well-being. But it doesn’t even matter because his new designation already changes the equation completely. He mutters, "Let's not overstate my desire to have kids.”

        "Oh, come on, Shane! For fuck's sake, we talked about getting houses in the same neighborhood, about having kids at the same time, enrolling them at the same school. We'd get together for play dates and have shared family vacations. Are you going to pretend none of those conversations happened?"

        Jackie’s face scrunches up, an offended look bunching up her brows and pursing her lips for a fraction of a second, but Hayden misses it. 

        Now that Shane’s the omega, he understands that look perfectly. He almost can’t believe how dumb they’d been, making plans that required the intimate and life-threatening use of someone else’s body. 

        Shaking his head in disgust at the thought of their old entitlement, Shane says, "They were daydreams, Hayd. An interesting thought experiment when I thought I was going to marry an omega, who'd do all the work of carrying a child for months on end. Who'd risk their life giving birth. Who'd nurse the kids at night while I slept, recharging for a day at work while they stayed at home keeping the kid safe and entertained. Sorry, Hayd, but none of that interests me. If anything, I feel physically ill when I think of developing milk-filled breasts, or losing my abs to turn into a beach ball, or going to exams and discussing with strangers whether I want to be induced, cut open, or birth naturally, despite the risk of tearing. It's bad enough that I'll apparently be bleeding four times a year. Honestly, being an omega sucks. I don't understand why any of them ever feel like giving birth. What convinced you to do it, Jackie? It must have been harder as a beta."

        Her brows are still furrowed, her weight shifting from foot to foot as if debating with herself. In the end, she says, "I guess it's a good thing kids are off the table for you, because I don't think parenting is something you should approach so half-heartedly, with an expectation that someone else will do the work. That's how people end up divorced. As for why we decided to have kids...well, I can't speak for Hayden but I always knew I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to see a child's first steps, hear their first words, teach them how to read and how to be a good person. I wanted to see their personalities develop. To see who they'd grow into. I've enjoyed every step so far and I think I'll enjoy every step to come. If that's not true for you, I think you're making the right choice in avoiding parenthood."

        Hayden sighs, but doesn't argue.

        Swallowing hard, Jackie tentatively asks, "So, what's this about you only knowing him a week?"

        Shane huffs a laugh. "We met in-person for the first time ten days ago. Before that, we communicated through text, sometimes a rare phone call or email. He tried to convince me to meet him a few times, but his requests came off as sketchy and it seemed like an unnecessary risk. In hindsight, it's probably better that we never met in-person. It would have been...weird."

        "Weird? In what way?" Hayden asks, obviously invested in the answer, grasping with enthusiasm at anything negative he can learn about Ilya that could help him 'save' Shane.

        Hating his nervous system, Shane can't help the blush that reddens his whole face. "Well, he’s a little…touchy? Kind of like you, Hayd. Always reaching out first with his hands to correct something, or pull someone closer. He stops short of making contact, always waiting for permission, but I would have given it to him, no questions asked. Coming from a background of being on teams - be it varsity hockey in secondary school, or now with the Bureau - there’s a lot of skinship. More than I’m used to, to be honest. My dad’s the demonstrative one in the family, and he’s learned to tone it down from years of living with my mom.  I would have thought nothing of letting him throw an arm around my shoulders or clapping me on the back. 

        “But the thing is, as much as you seem determined to think of me as some naive idiot all of a sudden, I’m aware he’s clever and obviously manipulative, given how well he manages to thrive in,” glancing at Jackie, Shane says, “his work. In our text exchanges, there was an undercurrent of something. Enough of a something that he was already pushing boundaries, willing to risk getting caught for the chance to meet. If he had legitimately liked me, I think he would have come up with a plan to slowly move us in a romantic direction. And, since I’m not one to break rules, it would have been…weird. Probably.”

         Hayden groans outright. “Are you kidding me?! You can know all that and still think that what happened in the warehouse wasn’t part of a scheme?” 

        The first thought that crosses Shane’s mind is Irina. Her tragic death, Ilya’s rigid inability to forgive his father for changing her into a designation she couldn’t tolerate. He thinks of the cross Ilya wears, despite his lack of faith. The acceptance of his mother’s actions, despite the loss of her and the pain he still feels over it. 

         “No chance,” Shane says, definitively shaking his head. “There’s no way he orchestrated that scenario. Knowing what I do about him, the warehouse was probably harder on him than it was on me.” 

         Hayden splutters and though Jackie looks a bit lost, her own expression is also skeptical. 

         “He’s - How can you - Do you even - What the fuck, Shane?! Is he love-bombing you? Is that it? Showing off some perfect, idealized version of himself so you’ll fall for him? How did he get this much of your loyalty so quickly?”

         With a snort, Shane says, “I mean, of course he’s on his best behavior. That’s how all relationships start out. That's what I keep trying to remember. This might be just the top layer I’m seeing. I know for a fact that he can be scathing, mean, and sarcastic - have seen him use words like a weapon against people who cross him. But that’s in all of us, Hayden. We all have moments like that, especially against our enemies. What matters more is that his staff likes him. That, when he showed me around his club, he knew the names of vendors, of the barkeep, of the guy with the mop. He remembered little facts about them and asked real questions, and none of the staff looked surprised that he was asking. As if it’s a regular occurrence. If you weren’t so determined to hate him, I think you’d like him. And if he didn’t have a jealousy problem, he’d probably like you too.”

         “Never gonna happen, bud,” Hayden says, crossing his arms. “Also, a jealousy problem? That shit is dangerous. Why are you mentioning that so casually?”

         “I don’t know for sure and, if he has one, I don’t know to what extent. But like I said, I’m not a naive idiot. I’m not looking at him like he’s some flawless dream guy. I’m not dismissing warning signs and blindly lapping up everything he says. Why are you suddenly doubting all the skills I have that make me a good agent?” Shane asks.

        “Because there is such a thing as being too close to the problem. I feel like I’m watching you speed away on a train I know is going to crash and you’re asking me to just stand there and watch!” Hayden huffs. 

         Jackie and Shane happen to sigh at the same time. 

         Obviously coming to the same conclusion that this argument is destined to just go in circles, Jackie says, “Let’s have dinner,” and goes to call out for the kids from the bottom of the stairs.

 

Hayden’s kids are loud, messy, and the perfect buffer, ensuring that conversation centers around how school is going, what new friends they’ve made, what play dates they’ve been having, and what shows and games are newly cool. 

        The latest trend cycle seems to be squishy glitter toys and Shane is immediately presented with a weird blob of a toy with a face printed on the front and told to squash it in his hand as hard as he can. Trying not to make a face, Shane lightly closes his fist around the strange material and is left afterwards with a sticky hand that makes using his fork uncomfortable. 

        But those few minutes at dinner are the only good thing about the day. 

        When he’s finally in bed, covers bundled in his arms in a useless attempt to alleviate the phantom emptiness, his eyes stare into the dark until they burn. Then he blinks and starts again, focusing hard on the texture of the ceiling, desperate not to think about Ilya in a jail cell, far away from him, awaiting a release that may or may not come with the morning light. 

        He stares and stares and stares some more. 

        And without knowing when, the picture eventually changes. The ceiling becomes an overexposed field, too bright, overfilled with jarring colors. The scent in the air is flowery to excess. Overstimulating and irritating to his senses. He tries to hide his head in his hands, but his arms don’t bend that way.

        Of course they don’t. Why would his paws ever bend that way? 

        His confusion deepens as he squints at the alien scenery, wondering why it looks so wrong. And why it feels so much like something’s missing. Something so fucking important, and yet he can’t pin down what it is. All he knows is that his chest feels tight. It makes breathing hard as he bursts into motion, long strides eating up too sunny, picturesque landscape with every bound. 

        He realizes a bit abruptly that he’s not alone in this place as his breathing gets ragged and desperate, air pulling in harder through his nose. He smells them first. Four scents that blend into the fields and prairies he’s traversing, closely related. Briefly, he considers running towards them, but they don’t smell right. 

        No, they don’t smell right at all. 

        And suddenly, it occurs to him - he’s looking for a companion. For the sharp bite of winter in this summery flower-strewn place. For a hint of chill in this heat. For the shine of gold beneath tall pines. This place is all wrong. 

        Winter doesn’t fit here. 

         Shane doesn’t either, his obsidian coat like a smudge of dourness and imperfection disrupting the idyllic dance of wheat stalks in the sweetly fragrant breeze. His pace slows, paws faltering as he loses track of all progress, fields and fields as far as the eye can see. There’s no clear direction, no sign of woods on the horizon. And no companion. 

          Sitting back on his haunches, Shane whips his head back and howls, trying to call golden winter to him. Again and again he tries, until his voice feels hoarse and he’s covered in sweat. 

         He’s startled by movement behind him. Another wolf, tawny and about his size. A beta. The tawny wolf yips at him, smelling of a distress that blends into the background, the scent of weeds in a flower field. He tries to get Shane to play, bowing and bumping him and nosing against his cheek, but Shane’s eyes stay fixed on the horizon, searching tirelessly for a hint of shine, gold reflecting sunlight. 

         Their mutual distress climbs as Shane’s hopes are dashed and his aching upset fills the air with the acrid stench of burnt hair. His eyes well up with tears and again he tries to put his face in his hands, but this time he succeeds. 

         The scent of weeds becomes more pervasive as he feels a tangible wind, like fingers, stroke the hair on his head back in a soothing gesture. 

        Except it’s not wind. It’s actually fingers. 

        “Wake up, Shane,” Hayden says, smoothing Shane’s hair back.

         “Is it morning already?” Shane asks, voice rough with sleep as his eyes search blearily for the alarm clock Hayden has set up in the guest room. 

         “Not yet. You were having a nightmare. I heard you whimpering when I woke up to use the bathroom,” Hayden explains. “Are you okay?” 

         “No,” Shane says, thoughtlessly, lifting his nose out of the flowery freshly-laundered duvet. “I miss him. It’s crazy how much it hurts to be without him. And I hate that. Hate that I can’t stand to have him gone for a night. I know you said this feeling is temporary, but fuck…I’d rather be in his jail cell, sharing a stiff back-breaking cot than here. Everything feels wrong without him,” he says, too honestly,

         Hayden continues to stroke his hair, offering the only comfort he can. 

         Shane closes his eyes, thinking Hayden means to lull him to sleep, but then he says, “I’m sorry, Shane. I know I’ve been approaching this all wrong. I already know that my theories about Rozanov aren’t helping, but if even Jackie feels the need to warn me that all I’m doing is pushing you further into that guy’s arms, I must really be fucking this up, so…I’m just…not going to comment anymore. If you need my help with the guy, know you can always count on me. I’ll always be in your corner. But from now on, I’m seriously going to keep my mouth shut when it comes to Rozanov.” 

         With a skeptical hum, Shane points out, “You promised me the same thing on Monday, when we stopped by the office.”

         “I know, sorry, I know. I’m asking for a second chance and a clean slate. I promise this time I’ll stop commenting. I guess, I was just worried that you were falling into the same trap as the omegas we’re used to seeing in the interrogation room - the ride or die crowd that looks past the faults of their partners. And for some reason, I thought that, because you’re an agent, I could use logic to talk you out of it. But I can see now that I can’t save you from this. All I can do is offer you help getting out when the time comes.” 

          He wants to argue that he doesn’t need saving, but the words are wasted on Hayden. He can’t even say for sure if they’re true. It’s all so new. But, still, he feels the need to check…“That time might never come, Hayden,” Shane says, plainly. “Can you deal with that? If Ilya becomes a permanent part of my life, will you be able to stand it?” 

         Hayden’s nose wrinkles, but after a long second, he says, with certainty, “I can handle it. If Rozanov becomes a permanent part of your life, I’ll find a way to cope.” He smooths Shane’s hair away from his forehead. 

         “I’m going to hold you to that,” Shane mutters, eyes falling shut as the gentle pets continue.

         The last thing he hears is, “This time, I’m not going to let you down.” 

Chapter End Notes

On a side note, has anyone else been hit over the head with a stationary obsession revitalized by Traveler's Notebook content? I'm coming up on the end of a journal I was keeping for 3 years and the pages were massively too big. Irritating to fill.

I fell down a rabbit hole into the traveler's notebook/hobonichi/fountain pen world and now I think I just replaced one issue with new ones. I now have entirely too many notebooks and most of them don't fit my style very well.

Chapter 24

Chapter Notes

** (SCENE RELATED::) Let me know if you actually go out and listen to Perestroika by Garbo (or if you already knew it). It's such a strange song but I thought it fit well. If you are confused by the beginning, it's best to skip ahead to around the 2:40 mark of most versions **

Sorry for the long delay. I've been sick for 3 weeks, which certainly hasn't helped. That might also be why this chapter is a bit self-indulgent. It was a planned callback to something from earlier chapters, though fair if you've forgotten. it was probably part of some throwaway line and it's just still in my notes as a to-do.

If you feel like this is a retread, on some level it kind of is. Part of it has to do with the way I'm writing the insecurity. Shane needs visible proof to satisfy his insecurities and Ilya's used to keeping things close to the chest, relying on words to reveal his inner world when and with whom he chooses to share it.

We return to something more plot-like in the next chapters as things start cranking up.

Thank you for commenting - it's the key motivator when I get stuck or don't feel like writing.

        "Do you want pancakes?" Jackie asks, as she pours batter into the pan.

        "No, thanks," Shane says, hand pressed to his abdomen, wondering how long it takes to develop a stress ulcer. The pain only increases when he pictures spending the day alone, haunting Ilya's home without the alpha there.

        Sprinting in from the living room, a child under each arm, Hayden stops beside Jackie and smooches her on the cheek. "Morning, babe," he says, grin unforgivably bright when Shane's mood is in the gutter. He wrangles his kids into high chairs to keep them trapped long enough to pack their daycare bag.

        "You sure are chipper this morning," Jackie comments, looking between Shane and Hayden. "Did you guys manage to reach an understanding?"

        Shane shrugs at the same time as Hayden says definitively, "Yes." Hands on his hips, he scowls at Shane's lack of enthusiasm. "I swear, I'm going to be on my best behavior. You'll see."

        Shane shrugs again, pressing his hand harder against his stomach, feeling like he needs to hold it in place to keep the pain from spreading. "Did you speak to anyone down at the jail this morning? Will they inform you if Ilya is released?"

        "I texted one of my contacts on the force," Hayden says. "Figured you could use the heads up, but I haven't gotten a response back yet. If I had to guess, it'll be at least a week before the labs find time to process the sample. They’re really backed up."

        "You don't have to drive off," Jackie jumps in. "If you want to stay in the area instead of driving down to see your parents, you're welcome to just stay in the guest room. We'd love to have you."

        At 'a week', Shane's stomach drops and no amount of kind offers in gentle tones can make him feel better. He shudders in his chair, frame vibrating at the thought of all that time alone. That's too fucking long. He starts to wonder what kind of crime is small enough to be relatively inconsequential, but still significant enough to put him in a jail cell beside Ilya for the duration; or at least in one close enough to smell him...

        He's so fucked.

        "I think...I need to at least spend some time at the apartment building. Even though his scent makes the..." Shane refuses to say longing. It's not longing. Longing is the kind of thing that deeply committed people do, and they're not that. "His scent both hurts and helps," Shane edits, "and I think I'm going to have to find a sweet spot if I'm going to survive a week or more alone."

        "Well, our door is always open, bud," Hayden says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Even if you just need some company in the evening, feel free to stop by."

        "I'll keep that in mind," Shane says, watching Hayden wolf down three pancakes in as many bites.

        Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Jackie pushes a dangling bit of pancake into Hayden’s mouth before kissing him on the cheek. "Have a good day at work," she tells him.

        "Thanks, babe. You too. Text if you want me to pick up dinner. You ready, Shane?"

        "Yeah." Shane stands carefully, hiding the hand he still keeps pressed to his lower abdomen behind his overnight bag.

The drive to the apartment building isn't uncomfortably silent, but the music being relayed through the car speakers is as slow and tired as Shane feels.

        "How'd you sleep? I mean, you know, after your nightmare?" Hayden asks, glancing over when they're stopped at the light.

        "Not well enough that I won't be yawning by the afternoon. I hope you didn't sit there comforting me for very long."

        "I thought I left before you fell asleep, since you made a noise when I said goodnight, but I guess maybe that was just reflex? Anyways, I'm sugared and caffeinated enough to start the day."

        "Enough to deal with sifting through Comeau's digital footprint?"

        "Fuck no," Hayden says, groaning. Apparently, having forgotten his own schedule. “Especially given the fucking snack ban.”

        “The what?” 

        “Hunter is banning snacks. Apparently, Drapeau’s desk has become ground zero for a rat infestation. Or is it field mice? Anyways, some kinda rodent family is nesting in his chip drawer. We’ll need to clear our desks and work from the annex while an extermination team clears out the building. That asshole fucked the whole office with his stupid last-minute Euro-trip. If he’d been around to pull late nights, maybe his snacks would have dwindled down and my mid-morning Sour Patch Kid power break wouldn’t be at risk.”

        Shane snorts. “Huh, maybe I should thank him for forcing you to cut the snacking habit? Honestly, Hayd,  you know sugar is bad for you. If your intake gets curtailed, that’ll only ever be a good thing.”

        “You’re not my mother,” Hayden says with an exaggerated pout.

        “And I’m so grateful for that. If I had to deal with a kid like you, they’d arrest me for lecturing you to death.” He makes a valiant attempt to do so, regardless, as he realizes just how unprepared Hayden is for the day.

        For the rest of the drive, he spends the time reminding Hayden of things he has to complete, prioritizing his work and organizing it into a time table, adding motion sickness to his own stomach pain in the process.

        By the time he's exiting Hayden's borrowed company van, he’s fighting off waves of nausea while Hayden whines, "What'll I do without you? I’m starting to realize that maybe the only reason I'm organized at work is because you force me to be. I hate that you're off on this weird side project."

        "It's the nature of the beast," Shane says, deciding against mentioning just how apprehensive he is about his future and continued career viability. Is this even a side project, or is he just going to become a permanent liaison? And he wonders just how much Hayden's counting on Shane dissolving the bond between him and Ilya and going back to his old life.

        Except, there's no way to undo a conversion from alpha to omega. He'll always be this designation.

        There is no going back. 

         His life will never be an exact match for the one he had before he crossed paths with Ilya Rozanov, in the flesh.

        With a wave, he gets out of the van two blocks over and raises his hoody over his head, returning to the apartment complex with a sense of foreboding in his gut. He weaves through alleys, taking a long circuitous route, scanning rooftops and inside cars, attentive to his surroundings. He even elects to enter via the strange, washing machine entrance, knocking on the wood-looking metal panels in the right order.

        It feels like a magic trick when the hatch pops open, revealing the wide, short tunnel and the back panel of the washing machine. Climbing in, he closes the hatch behind him and then has to turn on his phone's flashlight option to properly slide open the panel and carefully climb into the false washing machine.

        He sits there for a bit, cozy in the compressed space despite the chill climbing up his back. Fuck...it feels so foreign to miss someone like this. He had assumed feelings this strong were a fairy tale. Something cute to hope for and fantasize about, until the belief disappeared around the same time people found out Santa doesn't actually distribute presents every year in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer.

        But his belief, or lack of it, is irrelevant when he's sitting curled up with a pit in his stomach, dreading the walk up the stairs to the first floor and the empty space waiting for him. Briefly, he considers going to visit his parents, seeking support with them; but not only does he hate the idea of driving so far away from Ilya, but he also wonders what he'd be able to tell them. 

         It'd have to be another story. Another lie.

        And the daunting reality of having to lie to his parents, come up with good reasons for his mood and lack of partner, and remember his lies well enough to keep them consistent, is enough to give Shane the energy to open the washing machine latch and step out.

        He trudges through the garage, into the workshop, up the stairs, and gets all the way to the kitchen before his upset is replaced by confusion. The scent in the air is strange. The first few breaths are a struggle, air going into his lungs with a bite, but a second later he spies the incense holder with a glowing stick still dangling inside the glass container, suspended by a clip.

         A few more steps, and he sees the kitchen. Sitting in the drying rack, there’s a bowl and the cleaned blender cup - supplies he’s only seen used together when semolina’s on the menu. The plain scent hasn’t lingered in the air, but beneath the strong scent of sandalwood, Shane can make out…strawberries. 

        Heart pounding, Shane heads for the bedroom, starting to make out the faint sound of Moomins playing on the TV with the volume set to a whisper. And no wonder.

        Ilya's already showered and fast asleep, buried under the covers.

        Slowly crossing the room, Shane takes a careful seat on the edge of the bed, once again worried over his welcome. Is it strange that Ilya didn't call? Didn't even send a text to say he'd been released?

        Shane checks his phone, just in case, but there aren't any messages. He can't really see Ilya, with most of him nuzzled into the bedding, but his scent seems off, despite the shower. And everything - the incense, the semolina, the Moomins - feels like Ilya making a concentrated effort to soothe himself from the outside, in. They're things that elicit nostalgia in the alpha, reminding him of his childhood, even the unsavory bits spent in churches at his mother's and grandmother's sides.

        Leaning against the headrest, Shane wonders if the last 24 hours were just as unpleasant for the alpha? But if they were, why didn't he call?

        A low whine comes from beside him. Ilya snuffles into the covers, his large frame reorienting in Shane's direction.

        "Can you tell that I'm here?" Shane asks in a whisper, no louder than the TV dialog.

        There's another whine and Ilya's hand stretches out, pawing at the empty space beside him. Between one snuffle and another, Shane swears he can make out the sound of his name; a faint, plaintive request.

        Sliding closer, he clasps his searching hand and squeezes gently. "I'm here, Ilya."

        In no time at all, Ilya closes the space between them, sliding unconsciously closer until he's in Shane's open arms, nose tucked into Shane's neck, nostrils flaring with every deep, in-drawn breath.

        "Seems like you missed me," Shane says, softly, running a hand through thick blonde curls, the roots of which are still damp from an early morning shower.

        "Da, when you are not by my side, I miss you," Ilya murmurs, in a voice that sounds far from awake.

        Startled into stillness, Shane tries to relax again, but he feels like he's been caught taking liberties. Is it weird to get into bed with his unconscious mate and start petting him?

        With a groan, Ilya shifts away and lazily lifts one eyelid to look at Shane. "What are you overthinking so early this morning?"

        "I'm not!" Shane defends. "I'm thinking just the right amount."

        "Nyet. Is wrong amount if it makes you smell so worried."

        "Oh, shut up. Go back to sleep. You sound exhausted. Did you have a rough night?"

        Here, for once, Ilya hesitates in his answer. Snuffling back into position, nose against Shane's neck, he says, "Da, rough like sandpaper. We will sleep to make it smooth, da?"

        "That...was a surprisingly weird answer coming from you. Did something happen?" He tries to shift away, to get enough space to get a good look at Ilya, but large arms pull him close.

        "Stay," comes the needy request.

        "I'm not going anywhere," Shane murmurs, petting at Ilya's hair. "I just want to get a better look at you. You're not injured, right?"

        Ilya scoffs. "Polite Canadian police force you think would injure me?"

        But, having shifted far enough away, Shane studies Ilya's face. Carefully, he brushes along the right cheekbone. "Your skin here looks raised and it's warm to the touch. Did you get hit?"

        Silence.

        "Did you get a badge number? This needs to be reported," Shane says, starting to sit up.

        "Nyet, stop. Is nothing to report. Canadian police did not do anything," Ilya tightens his hold around Shane's waist and pulls him back.

        "Then how did you get injured? Look, Ilya, they're supposed to uphold the law. It's completely unacceptable for them to be letting their personal biases - "

        "Shh, Shane. There is really nothing to report. Polite Canadian police are also clever. One holding cell is being renovated, one holding cell has lock broken, one cell has man with severe allergies. On paper, is good reason that they put me in cell with drunk man who is angry with immigrants. Even my lawyer agrees, which is rare. Lawyers like to fight everything when someone else is paying them."

        "That...is really fucked up. They convinced someone in the drunk tank to attack you?"

        "Nyet, they say nothing. No winks. No jabs. They just make me answer questions in earshot so he hears I have accent. They are lucky, this day, to have such volatile man sitting around waiting to be agitated." Ilya shrugs, unconcerned. "Do not worry, Shane. This is nothing compared to Russian police. Drunk man did not even have strong arms. This will barely bruise and it will give me story to tell at ball. Comparing law enforcement is very popular topic, you might guess."

        "Yeah, I guess it would be," Shane says, slowly relaxing back into Ilya's arms. "How do we rank?"

        Ilya's grin turns wolfish. "Very pretty."

        Shane elbows him. "I'm being serious."

        With a shrug, Ilya tells him, "Is tricky, da? Some places, law is lawless. It is law in name, but does not function like it. To get out, sometimes you need only money. Sometimes, money is not enough. Without connections, they will take money and use some of it to light fire under you. Some places, money is useless and connections only go so far. Canada is in middle. Not paranoid enough. Not easily bought. Connections count, but only sometimes. One plus is old infrastructure. Prison average age is 40. Is greater chance something is broken, something is crumbling. If all else fails, you end up in prison, then is better when escape is possible."

        With a cough, Shane clears his throat, his skin prickling with goosebumps. "I don't want to live life thinking about how old the prisons are in case you need to escape from one," he says, slowly, lip caught between his teeth in worry. "Is all that very relevant to what you do?"

        "Nyet," Ilya syas, returning the breath back into Shane's lungs. "Most of my business is legal. Beyond reproach. And I am insulated against parts that are not."

        Shane's teeth clench. "Insulated...so, you're still at risk."

        "Shane, is bigger chance someone frames me or murders me, da? My crimes are done under umbrella of corporation. They will fine me or revoke licenses. Other businesses get slap on wrist for killing people, and I do less than this."

        The reassurances are a small comfort. A part of him is still horrified at this shift in perspective and he wonders if this is the kind of thing that could get him to flinch at the sound of approaching sirens.

        Seeing his lingering fear, Ilya rubs his hands along Shane's back. "This upset you are feeling...much is because you have too little information. This will come with time. You will see how my investments function, where is exposure, how I am protected, and the risk will feel visible, easier to judge. This will help, da?”

        Will it? Shane thinks, but doesn't ask. "You should sleep. You've had a long night," Shane says, deciding there's really nothing he can gain from worrying about it now. At the very least, he does expect that time will clarify whether he can live life beside Ilya without sacrificing too much.

        But the earlier muzziness in Ilya's eyes is gone and he's staring at Shane with sharp, electric blue eyes. "You are not without same risks, Shane," he says softly. "You are young still and...not so lucky, da? So young and your office puts you in dangerous warehouse? Morals, good deeds - these will not stop someone from shooting you or planting false evidence to put you in prison. Together, we have greater risk, but also more resources on both sides. Where law cannot protect us, I know people and places that will shield us. And if threat comes from criminals, we can trap them in prisons where they have no connections."

        "Right," Shane says, just as softly, but more than the words, his attention snags at the tone, threaded with persuasion. It's not like Ilya's wrong, but Shane is struck by the way it feels like the alpha's desperate for him to see it the same way. Where most of their conversations feel exploratory or like expressions of perspective or support, this one pings in Shane's mind as calculated. Colored with the alpha's need to have him agree.

        Sharp eyes that are entirely too good at reading people wince, Ilya sensing he's misstepped. But instead of walking any of what he said back, or doubling down, his clever fucking alpha asks, gently, "Do you see it differently?"

        Shane grins faintly, amused that he's now put in a position to mentally work through Ilya's argument, and either reinforce the alpha's message in his own mind, or give Ilya his counter arguments on a silver platter for the alpha to work out how to dismantle either now or at a later date. Whether the alpha's doing it consciously or instinctually, Shane can't help but be impressed.

        "I don't disagree. You make a good point. Just being in law enforcement puts me in proximity to people who want to cause harm, be they wearing a badge or not. I just never really thought about the corruption. It felt more abstract, like something that happens to other people, until we unearthed Comeau. Just like being put in a life-threatening situation felt abstract until it was me kneeling in front of people who wanted to kill me," Shane says, with a regretful shrug. "I guess, for all that people call me a worrier, I thought I could plan around it. Insulate myself from risk by covering all my bases. Naive of me, huh?"

        Ilya nuzzles into him. "There is line, da? This building, I feel safer here, but it will not stop rocket launcher. It will collapse if there is bomb. We only control so much. And, we are both clever in different directions. We are good investment, da?"

        Shane snorts, "Is that why you agreed to mate me?"

        Ilya raises his eyebrows. "Investment in safer future, da? Is good reason."

        "Right," Shane says with an awkward cough, feeling his face heat with embarrassment and shame at his presumption. Is that what he is? Another escape hatch, like the construction projects around Ilya's house?

        The scent of gasoline starts to pervade the space as Ilya's eyes narrow with focus and something closer to panic, sensing another misstep. "I feel like we are not understanding each other," Ilya says, giving up on English. "Can you please tell me what you heard me say? I want to hear your interpretation of my words."

        Shane ducks his head, feeling the heat climb into his hairline, blush deepening. It's the literal last thing he wants to do, but regrettably he knows he needs to. This is, after all, what good communication looks like. He huffs a breath and, gaze fixed on the duvet, he's about to speak when Ilya catches his chin and forces his eyes up.

        "I know it is harder like this, but please look at me. Even in our own languages, no one is a perfect communicator. I...cannot afford to miss anything here," Ilya says with gravity, eyes practically boring into Shane. "The body speaks volumes when words fail us. So, please? Look at me."

        With a hard swallow, Shane tries to work the tightness out of his throat, eyes going wet for some ridiculous reason. Fuck, he doesn't want to say it. Doesn't want to speak his humiliation out loud. But he eventually nods acceptance after a few deep breaths. With what feels like a temporary dissociated calmness, Shane says, without any of the emotion behind it, "I heard you say I'm a logical choice for a mate and that our continued partnership will be useful."

        Ilya's eyes flit over Shane, noting the change in his demeanor first, and then seemingly mulling over the words. After a second, confusion still dominant in his expression, he says, "Say more. Because, I feel this is not the crux of the issue. Appreciating that, on paper, the Venn Diagram of our attributes insulates us from harm, I expect, is not what has you looking so...devastated."

        "I'm not devastated," Shane says hotly. "We barely know each other. What's there to be devastated about?"

        Eyes widening, Ilya's gaze flits quickly over Shane, visibly noting the clenched fists, nostrils flaring on the smell of burnt hair. "Sorry, I will not claim to be a perfect interpreter of body language or scents. Let me speak for myself then, yes? This means more to me than perhaps it should, so early in our acquaintanceship. But I feel devastated over this conversation. I feel like I am harming my mate, and I do not know why. There is panic rising in me, a need to fix this; and yet, I seem to be fucking this up. Please, help me understand?" he begs, but in a way that feels assertive.

        Even if he wanted to, Shane couldn't walk away from this conversation with the request made in that tone. It occurs to Shane that Ilya must be used to leadership. Not dictatorial, not with fear or intimidation, but in the true sense of the word, like leading a child by the hand through dangerous territory. Maybe it's the law enforcement background and the influence of its programming, but Shane finds himself calming fractionally at the request, his hands unclenching.

        "I...The way you phrased it, it made me feel like an employee you picked to add to your payroll because of my great resume. And employees, even in your organization, are just hired help. I guess I shouldn't feel hurt over it. I mean, if Hayden had been in the warehouse instead of me, with all my skills and without a spouse, I guess he would have been just as good of a choice."

        He should have picked another name. 

        Any other agent's name.

         He should have said Scott Hunter.

        Because, for some reason, Hayden seems to be a trigger. It's so fucking quick, but Ilya's expression flashes with fury, and because he's been forced to look at the alpha, Shane catches it.

        With a rough inhale, Ilya works through his immediate reaction in silence, but there's a clip to his voice now, when he says,"He is not your clone. If he had your skills, your personality, your humor, your cleverness, your interests and curiosity, he would not be the House of fucking Grasses anymore, yes? He would be Shane Hollander by another name, wearing a different face. And then, yes, I would feel this same vicious want. And the same panic would have fueled me, to get to that warehouse. And the same selfish attraction would have helped me rape him into a different designation." Ilya's voice is strained, leashed to a low, level tone, and to a pace where Shane can still understand the Russian, but it's clear that there's anger beneath it.

        He can tell that, if Shane were Russian, the words would be getting spit out faster.

        That, if Shane weren't his mate, the words would be coming out at a higher decibel.

        He considers whether it’s worth arguing over the use of the word rape, but he lets it go, wary of creating another point of friction in their conversation. 

        Pulling in another lungful, and breathing it out through his nose, Ilya says, "I did not hire you. You are not the help. I do not need more help in my life. If you want, turn the corner. Be a criminal. Fuck your connections. Or better yet, be a house husband. Stay safe and sequestered in places I know you will be better protected than out there. Fuck your skills. I don't need an investigator, or a spy, or an assassin. And if I did, I could hire one trustworthy enough through my own connections. I do not need you, Shane; but I have wanted you. Your time, your attention, your participation. When you would cut conversations short because they were edging too far from professional, do you have any idea how unhinged I felt? I both hated and loved being your confidential informant, because it was not enough. I wanted, so much, to entice you into meeting with me. I wanted you to respond when I asked more personal questions. It did not matter if you were male or female, alpha or omega or beta. I just...wanted more. I cannot remember anymore how strong that feeling was, because it is all colored now by the bottomless pit my want has become."

        He shouldn't say it, but Shane's not perfect. His control has its own limits. And, knowing how passionate Ilya can be in his own language, how poetic, and with no real understanding of how much of that is real, and how much is just a flare for overdramatization, Shane makes the mistake of muttering, "So bottomless that you didn't call me when they released you from prison."

        Ilya growls, nails digging into his palms, arms shaking with the effort to keep his limbs from dragging Shane close, his anger-fueled desire to trap Shane in his arms contained. "I have limits, Shane," he says, ironically, as if they're both not clinging to those limits like lifelines at the moment. "If I had called you, then what? You could not have picked me up, because our reunion in public would have needed to be a play. Indifference from me, reluctance from you. And in private? I was not in a good state, leaving that jail cell. Confronting what a longer separation would feel like, having to taste it for even just a day, was maddening. I did not feel safe to be around. I do not want to be anything like Grigori and my brother. So, coming home to you, feeling raw with need for you...I needed to work that energy off in the gym, to tear through some of the adrenaline coursing through my veins. And by the time I felt more human than animal, it was still early. I was hopeful that you were faring better. When I imagined the morning I would be interrupting with a phone call, it was a peaceful one catching up with your friend and his family. And then I thought of your Hayden watching with judgemental eyes, whispering poison in your ear after my call, telling you that it is a controlling, self-serving thing for me to do. So yes, I sat on this bed for long minutes, phone in my hand, finger over the call button, and it took every ounce of self-control not to press it. Fuck, Shane, you have no idea just how much self-control I am constantly exerting, when I would like nothing more than to be buried in you, in every way possible. My teeth in your neck, my tongue in your mouth, my cock in your ass, fingers in your hair, and it would not be enough, because I want your voice, your thoughts, your opinions, your experiences, your trust. Maybe it is not fair of me to put on this facade of normal, healthy interest in an effort not to frighten you. But, I am too selfish to put that bottomless pit in front of you."

        "I told you before," Shane mutters, "I'm there. I'm in the same place. When you hide all that from me, it makes me feel unwanted."

        Ilya chuckles darkly. "How would you know we are in the same place? I find it hard to believe, because for me, this feeling is not so recent. It has deepened, grown teeth and claws, matured into a ravenous, insatiable thing inside me; but the seed of it was there, behind the unanswered texts, in the requests to meet. Can you say the same?"

        Shane shifts, surprised by that. "We didn't...but that was...work?"

        Ilya snorts. "For you, it was work. For me, it was a departure from the norm. A risk. A series of betrayals, exacted against rivals and hostile compatriots, against men without morals or values or principles, who were responsible for great harm. Maybe for you, it felt more normal to be receiving messages at all hours, because in your mind, it was 'just work'. But for me, you were the person I was texting most frequently. You would ask such clever, and insightful questions, offering ideas and tips and suggestions that I would build traps from. I just...it meant something to me. The warehouse? I could not have done that for another. To do the one thing I swore I would never do, to play the same part in your life as Grigori played in my mother's life - the desperation to save you needed to be greater than any other feeling. It had to be strong enough to push aside any hint of doubt, any ounce of guilt or hesitation. I am aware that I did not really know you when we walked into that room, but I wanted to. And that want just keeps growing. I am sorry if I keep too much of it leashed, if that makes it too opaque to see the depth of my feelings. But Shane, please, just ask. Whatever reassurance you need, I will provide it."

        Shane's breath is caught. He doesn't really know how to feel, too busy trying to absorb what he can't believe he's hearing, the Russian more careful now, pronunciation slow and clear so that he won't miss a word. But he finds himself wondering, "Can't you just let go of the leash?"

        Ilya snorts. "No, there must be leash. I am human, Shane, spurred by the instincts of an alpha. Without a leash, I am just as selfish and needy and feral as worst of them."

        "What does that mean?" Shane asks, curious.

        Ilya shivers, eyes closing. "Trust me, you would not like it. Consider that laws are a leash and just how little you like when people slip their collars and run rabid, like my brother. Though there are many things I would not do, regardless of leashes and collars, also consider that I am quite shameless and, unlike you, I am not body shy. I would happily fuck you anywhere, anytime, regardless of who was watching."

        Flushing bright red, Shane remembers Ilya opening the warehouse room’s door naked. They'd been forced to fuck in front of a digital audience in the warehouse, but how many people could actually manage to do what Ilya did? To create a show worth watching from one end, and a quasi-romantic atmosphere from the other? To do it without flinching or freezing up or giving away the game? Shane couldn’t. Hayden couldn’t. He can’t think of an agent who’d be able to do the same, despite actually being trained in espionage-adjacent skillsets. "O-ok, I believe you."

        Grinning wolfishly, Ilya says, "You should. And you should remember it in the moments when you feel unsure of my attraction to you. But from now on, I will be looking for signs that you need reassurance, so that you do not always need to ask for words. I am sorry for not noticing sooner, but it still surprises me that you do not know how much I want you. Why is it that you continue to doubt?"

        Shane tenses a moment later, delayed by his translating. There's no chance Ilya doesn't see it. Arms wrap around Shane, one hand running through his hair, while the other pets his lower back, thumbing into divots along Shane's spine and the dimples above his ass.

        "Tell me," Ilya murmurs, lips at Shane's ear, hot breath heating his skin. "Why does this keep coming up?"

        Huffing out a breath, Shane shrugs. "I guess...I don't think I'd have as much control as you. I think I would have called. And, if we're both being influenced by bonding hormones and other junk, but you can still keep your feelings locked down so well, I'm wondering if the difference between us will continue to grow? Am I going to become...more attached, and you'll gradually create more and more distance betw - "

        Ilya's tongue in his mouth cuts him off. In a disorientingly quick move, the alpha rolls them so that Shane's under him. Since Ilya's legs had been between Shane's, when he spreads them, Shane's do as well, legs opening up in a way that makes him feel obscenely exposed, despite the pants he's still wearing. Or, was wearing.

        Ilya removes the stretchy material, along with his boxers with easy efficiency. He folds the clothes into a square and tosses them at the bench at the foot of the bed.

        Panting for breath when the hot, thick heat of Ilya's tongue slips out for a moment, Shane asks, "What are you - "

        "I am starting to see that all my effort to keep my hands off you is underappreciated and, perhaps, unnecessary. Here I am, struggling so hard to keep you from feeling burdened by my desire, and you are looking at that as evidence that I do not want you."

        "Wh-why would your desire be a burden?" Shane asks.

        With a dark, bitter chuckle, Ilya says, "Because, I want everyone to see how sweet you are for me. I want them to see me plow into your tight ass and know that they will never have you the same way. I want you across every surface, in every position. The thoughts are intrusive and constant as I white-knuckle my way through normal everyday interactions with you. Fuck, Shane, I need you to be the voice of reason, because if you give me too much rope, I will hang myself with it. I need my actions to be beyond reproach for when you sober up and look back at this time period with a more critical eye. And I cannot do that if you are goading me into letting go."

        "I can be the voice of reason, when there's reason to be...reasonable," Shane mutters, blush rising high in his cheeks. "But we're alone in your apartment building, freshly reunited, and no one’s expecting us."

   Fingers tug Shane's shirt up and over his head, then come back to rest over the buds of his nipples. "Our apartment building," Ilya corrects, rolling the tips between the pads of his fingers, tugging until Shane moans helplessly, chest rising in an effort to relieve the sensation, embarrassed on some level over how plump his chest feels when Ilya's kneading and squeezing the flesh there, making it stand out.

        "What do you think, sweetheart? Should I plug you full of cock, then play with your tits till you come? You think I can make you squirm and clench hard enough to milk me into your hole?" Ilya asks, in English this time.

        Shane jolts in some weird panic, not prepared to hear the words without the delay of translation. Just clear, immediately understood, and so fucking embarrassing. "Fuck, sh-shut up," Shane mutters, hiding his blazing face in his hands.

        Ilya pinches his nipples, voice heavy with command. "Hands down. I want to see those pretty freckles glowing like stars in blood red sky. You want so much to see proof I want you? Then do not look away from proof."

        Reluctantly, Shane slowly lowers his hands, fingers trembling as they come away to reveal his face.

        "Good boy," Ilya praises, leaning down to press a kiss against Shane's hot cheek. "And what is safe word?" he prompts, glowing blue eyes flitting over him, noting the tremble in his frame, the hesitation.

        "O-orthodox," Shane says, bucking with a moan as Ilya flicks the tips of his sensitive nipples gently.

        "You will use this word, if you are hesitant or is too much. And if you cannot speak, you will pinch, da?” 

         “Sure,” Shane says, with a snort, “but I feel like you’ll stop before I get the chance. You read me too well.” 

         “Is my hope that is true, but is no guarantee. I pay attention, but I do not see all things.” 

        “Well, is there a word to say ‘keep going’? Because I feel like I need that one more often.”

         Ilya tsks. “You want I keep going?” He leans in and sucks a nipple into his mouth, doing something unholy to it in the process. 

        Breath catching behind his teeth, Shane’s chest bobs, first toward then away from the overwhelming sensation, wires crossing until he can’t tell if he wants more of the suction creating pressure in his chest, or if he needs it to stop, at risk of cumming in his pants  from just a little nipple play. It’s ridiculous. 

        Before he can decide, Ilya releases the sensitive flesh with an audible pop. “You know, one thing is unfortunate. You have such sweet standing nipples. Is almost regrettable they will never be proper, milky teats.”

        Shane chokes on his spit, convulsing with coughs.

        “Are you alright?” Ilya asks, sounding concerned.

        It takes a second for Shane to recover, but once he does, he shakes his head, wishing his fringe was long enough to cover his eyes. “Oh god…just, shut up. I can’t believe you just…gah!” he mutters, an embarrassed whine in his voice that he hates. 

         Ilya’s hand, rubbing slow circles along the curve of Shane’s pectoral, stops abruptly near the center of his chest, where he can surely feel Shane’s heart beating doubletime. In an oddly concerned tone, Ilya announces, “You know, anxiety and excitement feel same, or very close to same. Fast, sweaty, affects breathing…” 

          Shane doesn’t know why Ilya’s sharing the factoid with him until, after a pause, Ilya asks, fingers drumming a mirrored pace over Shane’s heart. “How do you feel right now, Shane?” 

         Cocking an eyebrow, Shane can’t believe the conversation they’re having. “Seriously?! I think we really do need that anti-safe word. Something to get you to keep going. Honestly, why are you stopping? Is it because I told you to shut up? Does me saying that…make you feel…bad?” 

        Ilya snorts. “Bad? English is your language. Do you want I get wheel of emotions? I do not feel ‘bad’ when you say ‘shut up’ in bed. Now, focus, because this is important. We do not discuss before what you like or dislike in bedroom. I make some assumptions, reading reactions, seeing you get close to climax because of this or that thing. But climax is not full story. You get off, but is it in way you want? How do you feel sex should be? More quiet? Less pushy?” 

         Shane shifts in discomfort, feeling caught out. He hates to admit it, but there’s something to the feeling Ilya stokes in him, heating him to the core one blush at a time. It’s not just the words, but the sincere way Ilya means them, without derision, without judgement or superiority.  “The way you do it is good,” Shane mutters, feeling his cheeks take on color.

        With narrowed eyes, Ilya makes an annoyed sound. “Da? Is it also’ fine’? No, really, where is wheel of emotions? I will bring.”

        Shane pulls Ilya back down as the man moves to get off the bed. “I like it,” he says quickly, hoping he can be brave enough to be honest. “I…like the way you talk to me. It doesn’t make me feel anxious.”

        “You are sure?” Ilya asks, eyes laser focused on Shane’s face, looking for any hint of hesitation; any ounce of doubt.  Although Shane would bet he finds nothing, so fresh on the heels of a communication breakdown, Ilya looks conflicted. “You will take sex quiz and send me partner link,” he says, after a moment, resolute. “It will ask you what you like, what you do not like, what you maybe like. Words you do not know, you will research. And when you are done, you will come find me and we will look at results. It will give you option to hide things we do not have in common or to see all results. Pick whichever you are comfortable with. If you do not want, then results will not show things we do not have in common. There is no risk of judgement or rejection, da? So, be honest. Brutally honest.”

        “We don’t need to do that,” Shane says with a whine, trying to catch Ilya before he can extract himself, but the alpha slips away, putting a laptop in Shane’s grasping hands. 

"I do not want to guess, Shane. Was enough guessing at warehouse. Is miraculous that experience does not traumatize you. But I would like more data to work with. So, send me link, take quiz, and come find me in gym and we will discuss in neutral space."

        Shane huffs in disappointment, watching the alpha disappear through the fireplace. "I like everything we do just fine," he mutters, opening the laptop lid, wondering how he's supposed to know where to find the stupid quiz, but it's already pulled up in the browser. Proof that Ilya's been thinking about this for who knows how long.

        He starts the quiz expecting it to be quick. What questions could a sex quiz even ask? And how long could it possibly take?

        The first thing he does is select the question set for two males and almost makes the mistake of selecting for two alphas before catching himself. It's odd, how much of the messaging he's absorbed over time about what it means to be an omega, what to expect from the designation. Feeling it now, under his skin, it's nothing like what he'd thought it would be like.

        If anything, he feels calmer now, less aggravated and personally antagonized when he sees things slightly out of place or not quite up to his usual standards. Maybe it's some kind of placebo effect but he feels more patient, less strict with others and himself. Shane wonders if it could have worked between him and Ilya if they'd met and dated as two alphas. Would he have been as willing to hear him out? To accept a world a little more grey than black and white? It's hard to tell now, but Shane's pretty sure that not so long ago, having a partner who had a working knowledge of worldwide prison systems and could rank them based on escapability, corruption level, and lethality would have been an instant deal-breaker. Now, instead of breaking up, he's actively trying to get closer, working through problems, starting with this new paranoia Ilya seems to have that they're doing sex wrong.

        Before he sends Ilya the quiz, Shane selects pseudonyms for the site, blushing as he gives Ilya the name Ruslan and then spends too fucking long trying to decide if it's too presumptuous to put down Lyudmila for his own. The names are unique enough that he's sure Ilya will immediately recognize the characters from the famous Russian fairy tale, and he feels both dumb and brazen in casting himself in the role of a fucking princess, of all things, and the love of the brave knight Ruslan's life, but Pushkin had been straight so his choices are limited and he kind of wants to send a message. At least he remembers Lyudmila having clever moments while she was trapped in an evil kidnapping sorcerer's castle waiting for rescue, so at least it’s not as pathetic a choice as it could be.

        Ears practically glowing with heat, he finally presses send and the decision's out of his hands. Unfortunately, that still leaves actually taking the quiz. And as he starts on the questions, it becomes obvious that he's going to hate every second of it.

        Do you prefer being the follower or the leader?

        Do you want to send Ruslan nude photos?

        Do you want Ruslan to send you nude photos?

        Do you want to fuck in a car? In a discreet spot outside? In a plane?

        Teeth gritted together, Shane bangs his skull against the headboard in frustration, hating most of the questions and how often his answer is No. Just, no.

       In the notes, he explains that,  no, he doesn't want potentially hackable digital content being shared between phones after having spent his career looking through photo reels littered with intimate pics looking for evidence.

        No, he doesn't want to be arrested for public exposure or indecency. Or to get kicked off a flight and permanently banned from flying certain airlines.

        And if his answer isn't an outright no, then most of his other answers are 'If my partner wants'.

        Does he want to fuck with the lights off? Shane has no idea. Will it be too much like sensory deprivation? Will it feel like being disembodied? Will he still be able to see Ilya well enough? Will his sense of smell compensate, feeding him lungfuls of wintery air? Does he want that experience? He doesn’t feel any particular way about it. Has never tried it so…maybe. If 'Ruslan' wants.

        The more questions he answers, the tighter his throat feels. The pain he's been ignoring in his abdomen increases till he's curled up over the covers, redressed and sweating into his clothes, about to have a panic attack. He's being honest, and he hates it. When he imagines Ilya looking at the results and seeing a bunch of No's and Maybe's, he has not idea what to expect. Disappointment? A wince at seeing Shane’s inability to definitively say he wants something added to the list. 

        But as he continues through the questions, slow and cautious and overthinking his answers, twisting himself into pretzels over how to respond, struggling to put down his honest feedback each time, he wonders if Ilya, clever alpha that he is, might be expecting these answers. Or is he unaware just how much the lack of experience puts them on unequal footing in this arena? And he wonders if the alpha has the patience and inclination to be his first in so many things, to deal with Shane's uncertainty and nervousness.

         Does that patience have a limit? Once Shane's not a novelty, not a new partner, will Ilya's interest in him still be there? Or is there a point where it gets boring?

        A harsh, self-critical part of him even wonders if it's already boring. Maybe that's why he's being forced to take this quiz.

        The questions only get worse. Asking things like whether he'd like to see 'Ruslan' groomed or hair-free or more natural and hairy. Whether they should get tattoos, or cross dress, wear leather or latex, get nipple piercings - for that one, he leaves long paragraphs, backed up by research, listing facts about healing issues and infection rates as he answers with an emphatic NO.

        Then the quiz moves on to sexual positions. For the first time, he can put down honestly that he'd like to try certain things, like 69 or standing up, but with other stuff, he's once again stuck for long minutes, trying to understand what foot play entails or why putting legs on someone's shoulders during sex is a specific question. Is it because legs get heavy? Does it leave you particularly exposed?

        The intensity section goes into things related to biting, scratching, slapping, pulling.

        Another section goes over the specifics of anal sex.

        Then the control section fucks him up again, some part of him feeling weirdly guilty over not wanting to control his partner and being equally weirdly ok with being controlled. Outside of the choking and maybe the blindfold, he's fine with having Ilya decide things in the bedroom, which bothers him again because he doesn't know the alpha. People talk about switch ups and he's aware of the alpha-manned internet forums dedicated to omegas being drugged by their partners, or the black market of intimate partner photos and videos being shared online.

        How easy would it be for Ilya to tie him up, blindfold him and start recording? With trepidation, he puts down 'Maybe', feeling more noncommittal than usual, but willing to give the alpha the benefit of the doubt.

        The next section is dedicated to fantasy and roleplay. Shane snorts, as the question asks if he wants 'Ruslan' to wear a mask or a costume during sex or if he wants to role-play a scenario. To pretend they're strangers, to be submissive or dominant, consensual nonconsent, uniforms, secret affairs...the questions make him feel so boring for all the things he's never considered. Knows he'd never have thought to try.

        The next section is toys and gear, which he answers with a series of Maybe's feeling despondent over it.

        And then the last section is easy No's all the way through, for once confident in his limits, no part of him interested in going to a sex club, a nudist colony, or to fuck around with other people, whether they're participating or just watching.

        He clicks the button to finish and the site tells him to 'go find Ruslan to see the results'. But Shane doesn't get up immediately. Closing the laptop, he curls up into a ball, feeling like shit, and dreading going up to the gym. He doesn't want to see the results. Doesn't want to see Ilya's reaction to a whole lot of nothing.

        His nose twitches into a snarl as the thought rises up again - that they're incompatible as mates. Too different. Needs misaligned. He doesn't know how much of his negativity is built on logic, on unconscious observations and instincts, and how much of it is his own self-esteem drawing him low, frustration with his own inexperience coloring his perception.

        Worst part is, there's nothing Ilya can say to alleviate the feeling. He can swear he didn't call because he didn't want to disrupt Shane's morning, paint it as a function of consideration, and in Shane's head all he can focus on is that Ilya was able to keep himself from calling. That he had enough will power, enough self-restraint, or maybe enough disinterest to keep from dialing. To delay their reunion.

        Shane's pretty sure his own self-restraint would have failed. He probably would have called as soon as he was out of public sight. Desperate over a man he met not even two weeks ago.

        Fuck.

        With a heavy heart and his stomach in knots, Shane lifts himself from the bed and finds his balance, trudging the winding way up to the gym.

        He can hear and smell the alpha before he can see him. Like a bonfire in winter, his scent is sharp with effort expelled in sweat. There's the sound of feet changing positions on a mat, of uneven pressure and friction, of clothes shifting, and regular, easy breathing. Whatever Ilya's doing, it's not strenuous enough to catch at his lungs.

        By the time Shane can see the alpha, he's already slow with hesitancy; but at the end of the hallway where the gym begins, Shane's progress flatlines and he stutters to a stop. From this distance, he can hear music in the discreet headphones tucked into Ilya's ears, a sign of trust, whether unconscious or purposeful, since Shane's most likely to happen upon him when he's blind to one of his senses.

        But Shane's not trying to keep from startling the alpha when he stops at the entrance, waiting for the man to either scent him or catch sight of him. Instead, it's captivation that holds him in place, still as a statue and practically holding his breath, hoping to see more as Ilya practices what Shane recognizes as Taekwondo forms. The movements are smooth, so balanced and well choreographed, with some of the explosive kicks being aimed intermittently at the heavy boxing bag, that it looks almost like a dance.

        Fuck...the ball. 

        There's probably going to be dancing. Shane runs a hand through his hair, yanking a bit at the strands in agitation. He has no doubt Ilya's familiar with dances. Not just because of all the clubbing, but given the man's background, Shane's pretty sure he's been to formal events at ballroom venues in the past. Except this time it won't be a Russian ballerina on his arm, or a model...it'll be Shane.

        On a turn, Ilya finally catches sight of him and comes to a stop, pulling the headphones out of his ears immediately. It's not great that the first words out of his mouth are, "What is wrong?" as his brows pinch in worry.

        Shane shrugs his shoulders helplessly, because where to start?

        With a half-smile he nods at the bag and says, "Looks like you're pretty far along in Taekwondo."

        "Ah...is a bit messy. When we fight as kids, was less formal. Street fighting I think is phrase. With time, though, becomes clear you should not just punch and kick at random. I need to learn for underground cage fights, and what I learn is more a mix of things than any one specific program. But, I think you are...deflecting is word?" He offers his hand from a distance, as if he's actually calling Shane over for a dance and says in a requesting tone, "Come here."

        Heart pounding and palms sweaty with nerves, Shane closes the distance, feeling awkward when he gets close enough and Ilya's hand is still raised, as if waiting for Shane to take it. He stops dumbly a little outside arm's reach, wondering what he's supposed to do.

        Ilya closes the distance, pulling Shane into his arms. "What makes you upset?"

        Sighing against Ilya's collar bone, Shane shrugs. "The ball...when is it again?"

        "Saturday."

        With a hum, Shane looks down as his feet shuffle in place. "And at balls like this one...what do you usually do?"

        One of the hands that had settled over his hips comes up and catches his chin, gently tipping Shane's face till he's staring up at Ilya again.

        Blue eyes searching, Ilya says, "Normal event things. Eat, chat, dance, steal documents, go home." Having caught the telling wince Shane tried to suppress, he asks, "You do not like to dance? Is not requirement. We can skip."

        Shane huffs. "I think we'll have to, unless having an embarrassing dance partner is somehow helpful to what we're trying to accomplish. You think I might get my dance card filled by mafiosos eager to humiliate a 'former' Bureau agent?"

        Despite the light tone Shane uses, Ilya doesn't look amused. "First, no one can humiliate you without my permission. If you are not mate, then some might assume you are public property with me setting tone. Because you are mate, first expectation will be that I treat you like pet. To bully or praise, but not for others to touch or demean. When I leave to get documents, I will pretend to be drunk and leave you with Sveta while I go to ‘find water closet’. She will keep you safe of anyone stupid enough to try to take advantage.

        "And second," he continues, arm tightening around Shane's waist, bodies pressed tight, "however you dance is not embarrassing, because I cannot be embarrassed when I am with you. If we dance slow to fast music or fast to slow music, is business of no one. You and I set the tempo. Every one else can follow along or get fucked."

        Shane coughs out a startled laugh at the audacity. "Holy shit, you're a menace. But, Ilya, it's not about tempo. I'm saying, I don't know how to dance at all."

        "Nyet," Ilya immediately denies, shaking his head. "You recognize Taekwondo. You know this style?"

        "For work, sure."

        "What, when you are not working, you forget how?"

        "Ok, no, fine. I know Taekwondo. I'm just saying, I practiced it for work, to be better at the job. So, I practiced to get out of dangerous situations, but not, like, to win competitions or something. Why? Do you think a fight is going to break out?"

        "Eh, maybe," Ilya shrugs. "But you will not participate. Sveta and I will make sure. Is too much opportunity to kill someone in chaos and you would be attractive target. Nyet, my point is, if you can fight, you can dance."

        "It's not the same thing, Ilya."

        "You can spar, da? Mirror movements? Predict and reposition? Call and response?"

        "That's still not dancing," Shane mutters.

        "Then let us spar, and at end, you can decide if is dance or not. I will attack. Your job is to defend," Ilya says, gently pushing Shane away by the hips, waiting for him to catch his balance before moving in for a strike on the right side.

        Shane shifts left, putting up a hand to block a fuller swing. Ilya leaves himself open to so many opportunities for retaliation, but Shane waits, his job to defend. It's slow at first, Ilya sizing him up, checking his reaction times, rounding him slowly like a predator looking for an opening, then changing positions in ways you never would in a fight, but eventually the movements quicken and Shane's pace changes to match. Finally, he goes to block a punch and Ilya catches his hand, linking their fingers together.

        "Do not increase distance. Keep this space between us. You cannot use your arms except to keep me at this distance, and you must avoid my feet," Ilya says, changing the rules on a dime.

        He gives Shane room to adjust, letting him watch their feet as he moves to avoid Ilya's movements. And after a while, Ilya says, "Now look up at me, predict where my feet will be, and avoid again."

        Ilya's other hand settles at Shane's hip, at points pulling him closer, pushing him away, shifting him to the side in a weird, elaborate game of footsie.

        Suddenly he calls out, "Hey Google, play Perestroika by Garbo." The gym speakers start playing the weirdest song that sounds like the background music to a Russian sports match set in the 80s, with a lot of athletic grunts and what sounds like a politician saying nonsense in Russian.

        Laughing, Shane almost steps on Ilya's feet, rushing to catch his balance after he sidesteps to compensate. "What is this?"

        With a grin, Ilya shrugs. "Give it a chance. It gets better."

        Shane thinks he knows what he means, laughing harder when the lyrics demand that the listener. "Dance. Dance! Don't give up!" But though Ilya grins, happy to see him amused, it doesn't seem to be the part he's apparently waiting for.

        It takes almost three minutes, but then the song changes abruptly into accented English and suddenly the upbeat, athletic grunting nonsense song switches tones. Something closer to a fairytale ballad, something somber twisted into the notes and the lyrics, even as, on its face, it continues to be cheesy, happy 80s pop.

        "I remember you. Russian nights were blue. In your burning eyes, I saw paradise. We were heart to heart, lovers from the start. I remember you made my dreams come true. Flames of love and flames of lust, raised up like a fire. Here's my heart and here's my trust, here's my deep desire."

        Shane trips, but rights himself as the beat ticks up again for a brief moment, words falling away. He knows better than to read into some nonsense song from the 80s, but it strikes a chord in him. The blue Russian nights and burning eyes remind him of Ilya, and how their first meeting turned them into 'lovers', however absent their choice had been in the equation. It doesn't help that he really does feel like he's given up his trust and desire (hopefully not his heart) so quickly, at the speed of fire eating through kindling.

        "Dance tonight, my little Russian lady. Dance with me into the modern light. Don't give up, pain always comes before pleasure, rainy days and sunshine all your life."

        The next set of lyrics come out garbled. English, but a bit off center, and yet from what Shane catches, there seems to be an element of brutality hidden in such a spirited and superficially happy melody. A promise of a better future, but only if you can get past the pain of today. With the weird politician chiming in to say a word here and there…Shane realizes Russia in the 80s had been in upheaval, pulled between the modernity of the West and the culture of yesteryear that had sustained it during the Cold War thaw. Is that what the song is about? 

        A tone shift in the melody happens again, and for some reason, Shane finds himself tearing up, feet stumbling. He falls into Ilya's chest and means to apologize, to start again, but the next set of lyrics feel like a gut punch.

        "Come here, my love. There will be songs to sing, although the snow covers the hope of spring. Someday, we'll meet again my love. Someday, whenever the spring breaks through..."

        By the time the song changes for the third time - the pace and the melody frantic, desperate, reaching - into the familiar beat of Russia's most famous folk song, Kalinka, Shane's in tears, clutching Ilya close.

        Ilya curses in Russian, petting Shane's hair back. "Shh, what is it? Shane, please, come here." He tries to lift Shane's head, tugging gently at the strands, but Shane holds tight, nose buried in the taller man's collar bone.

        "Fucking stupid song," Shane mutters, "what the fuck." But a fear rises up in him, as if a dumb, weird disco song could be prophetic. He doesn't want winter to end. He doesn't want separation and loss. To be two men finding each other again on the other side of tragic events. "Remember you? Fuck that. I want to know you in the present tense."

        Shane can practically smell how utterly mystified Ilya is, his confusion palpable.

        "Da, good. You can know me. Ask me hatever. I am open book," he offers.

        "Were you even listening to the lyrics?" Shane asks, somewhat miffed to be alone in what is definitely an overreaction, but still. The alpha could have the decency to at least recognize where his reaction is coming from. "You're the one who picked the song!"

        When he finally looks up, Ilya's eyebrows are raised high in bafflement. "Is nonsense song. Lyrics are Da, Coca-cola, glasnost and perestroika randomly."

        "I'm talking about the English part," Shane mutters, feeling dumber at Ilya's lack of understanding. "You know, the words that overlaid all the sad parts?"

        "Sad parts? Is Italo-Disco. My parents listen to this on trips to grandmother's Dacha before I know English. I did not realize it has sad parts." His hand comes up, pausing a second for Shane to give him permission to wipe away the leftover tears from his cheeks. "Well, is good song makes you cry, and not the dancing. I tell you is possible to dance. Now you see, da? You have skills necessary."

        With a sigh, Shane concedes that, "Yeah, I could probably follow your lead in a simple dance."

        "Perfect," Ilya grins winningly, kissing Shane's cheek, his temple, his forehead. "You are very good. Rest of ballroom will be jealous," he says, tone teasing, trying to pull Shane's mood back up. "And now there is backup plan. If we need quick exit, I will sing kalinka, you will cry, and everyone will clear way to door."

        With a snort, Shane finds himself unwittingly mirroring Ilya's grin. "Fuck you. It's not my fault you've apparently never listened to the rest of the song you've been hearing since you were a kid."

        "Is song really so sad?" Ilya asks, curious now.

        "Maybe not to anyone else," Shane says with a sigh. "Were you done in the gym? I'm thinking maybe now would be a good time for lunch?"

        "Nyet. Is neutral territory, da? I was waiting for quiz results and gym is good place. Not too far, but still not quite 'at home'. That is why you come up," Ilya reminds him, one eyebrow cocked in question.

        "I'm actually kind of hungry. Do we need to look at the results now? The gym will still be here tomorrow," Shane says, trying for a cajoling tone, a hand over his stomach as he resists the urge to try and rub away the twisting pain he feels there.

        "Tomorrow?" Ilya scoffs. "If you want to wait, we can wait, but we will not have sex again until we review results together."

        Shane pulls in a sharp breath, stomach twisting tighter. "Wow," he says, numbly. "You have really great control and self-restraint."

        Eyes narrowing as he senses he's made another misstep, Ilya says slowly, "Is only option. I will not risk hurting you or making another mistake. I will sooner cut off my dick than lose control."

        That statement gives Shane pause, the fog of his own insecurities lifting a bit at the serious tone. After a second of shifting from foot to foot, Shane finally sweeps a hand through his hair and sits down on the bench. "Fine, let's look at the results."

        Watching him with...well, burning eyes, Ilya notices out loud, "You look and smell...scared."

        Grimacing, Shane admits, "I hate the results. And I hate that you'll probably be disappointed, but I won't be able to tell. You have a pretty great poker face."

        Ilya scoffs. "Apparently very good, if you think you can disappoint me."

        "This is about honesty, right? So, if you are disappointed, even if you'd rather I not know about it, tell me, yeah? Maybe if we talk through it, there's a way to...find a compromise? Or something..."

        Shaking his head, Ilya mutters something in Russian and nods. "Ok. I will tell you if I am disappointed," he says, giving up on reassurances he can apparently tell aren't reaching Shane.

        Instead of picking a different bench or sitting beside Shane, Ilya nudges Shane's legs further apart and sits on the floor, shoulders between Shane's parted thighs. "Can you see screen?" Ilya asks, looking up.

        Mouth dry, Shane nods silently, trying to think of something nasty to keep his dick from rising.

        Ilya pulls up the results, scrolling through them slowly. At Shane's write-in answers, he pauses to read through Shane's notes, comments, the research on nipple piercings. He chuckles over the short essay Shane had written him, complete with citations, grin wide in the reflective screen of his phone as he immediately finds the menu and hits the button to print to PDF.

        "What are you doing?" Shane asks, fingers tapping against the bench as he wonders if he's being made fun of. "I meant everything I wrote."

        "I know. Makes it more endearing. I love how you are so serious. Any task and you treat it like something to take pride in. Maybe I should be impressed, envious, or shamed for not having your dedication, but I just feel...warm inside. Stupid quiz, but you prove how much you care. Stupid song, but you make it meaningful. You give things value. And if you are choosing me, then I have value too," Ilya says, voice sounding wetter towards the end.

        "Stupid alpha," Shane scoffs, curling forward to hug the man close. "That better just be a poetic line, because there's no way a man like you should be wondering if you have value or not."

        The eyes that find his are a blazing electric blue, narrowed but shimmering with trapped tears. "You would be surprised. Is not every moment, but I am never quite able to forget that I am son of evil man with one foot still standing in darkness. I want to be what you see in me, instead."

        "We're all flawed, Ilya. With our own weaknesses and strengths. Don't put me on a pedestal, because I'm not some paragon of goodness," Shane says, running his fingers through the alpha's curls as he tries to maintain eye contact with the alpha's overly intent gaze.

        "I do not worship at pedestals. I do not believe in gods or perfection. And I do not look up in prayer.  But I cannot help but venerate a man who will write a thesis on the dangers of nipple piercings to make sure he is understood. To put such effort into this so that I can see you clearly, to be so serious in addressing my fear of hurting you, to forgive me when I have sinned against you...I am in adoration of you," Ilya finishes in slow Russian, but Shane's not quite sure that he's understood.

        To adore something in English doesn't mean much. Dogs and plushie toys are adorable. People say they adore a set of shoes or a game. The phrase 'I adore you' sounds more like a joke than anything else.

        And he knows 'bogotworyu' is the verb that translation apps say corresponds to adore.

        But, more literally, he also remembers that bog is the word for god in Russian. And tworyu is the word for create. So, logically, bogotworyu would translate closer to something like 'to make a god of someone', which is altogether more serious and profound than to adore someone or to think them adorable.

        Heart pounding beneath the pressure of Ilya's piercing gaze, he's not sure how to feel about just how much he seems to mean ‘adore’ like the literal translation than to what the apps say.

        Clearing his throat, he asks, "So, what do you think of the results?" Because if he's going to fall in Ilya's estimation of him, it might as well be earlier rather than later.

        "I am glad to see you are not so shy you want to fuck in the dark, because that one I was not sure of. Rest, is about where I expect for such a general form. I ask you to fill it out as starting point to discussion more than anything else."

        Hiding his grimace so Ilya won't see it reflected in the phone, Shane asks in what he hopes is a neutral tone, "How much discussion?"

        Ilya taps his foot pointedly against the inexplicable shoe-mirror embedded in the side of the bench opposite them, eyebrow already raised when Shane looks up and realizes his unenthusiasm has not gone unnoticed.

        "Why does this discussion make you so anxious? Is it...do you think I will pressure you into -"

        "No," Shane cuts him off, seeing how hard Ilya swallows in relief. "I know you won't. It's...my own baggage."

        "Well, you are home now. Time to unpack," Ilya says, easily.

        "It's not that simple."

        "Because you expect I will judge you. Is mistake to think so, but only time will prove it to you, da? So, we start with this list today and address more when it comes up. Small step."

        "Is it a small step?" Shane mutters.

        "Da. We know sex between us works. This is just to be clearer. And, though sex is important, is also just sex. Of all parts that build a relationship, it is dessert. Not foundation."

        "You're mixing metaphors again. Guess Svetlana was right about you struggling with those?" Shane laughs.

        Ilya bites his calf in punishment, before soothing the sting away with his tongue. "Tell me about this baggage," he says plainly, eyes glued to the mirror, ready to catch every nuance to Shane's expression but without the pressure of being in his face and having to get Shane to look up every two seconds.

        Fuck...another clever move by his calculating alpha. Shane feels a hand curl around his ankle, thumb soothing over the protruding bone even as he traps Shane further, keeping him from escaping too easily.

        Feeling outmaneuvered already, though the discussion hasn't even started, Shane swallows hard and decides to take advantage of being able to look down and avoid those electric eyes. "I just...kind of regret my lack of a wild youth on some level. I mean, I don't think I would have enjoyed having one, but I feel so dumb having to look up terms that are basic enough that you know them despite the language barrier. And, I'm...kind of worried that my lack of experience will end up boring you."

        When he looks up again, he has a new regret to face. Ilya's so good at keeping a neutral expression that he can't really tell what the alpha thinks and he's missed any chance to have seen something slip through the cracks while he was talking.

        "This worry of yours...how much of this drives your answers. For many questions, you say 'if Ruslan wants'" he grins at that, pressing a kiss to Shane's knee. "Was cute, by the way. I am surprised you know this story. Is not so famous outside Russia."

        "I've read some of Pushkin," Shane mutters, aware of the alpha writer's cultural impact.

        "All the more reason to have copy of this quiz. Even the fake names you pick show how much you care. But is also concerning that maybe you care so much not to ruin this, that you are willing to tolerate more for me, even if you do not really want to."

        The neutrality breaks as the concern shines through, Ilya's brows pinched together.

        "Fair assumption, I guess," Shane says, "but I did mean it when I told you before - I feel safe experimenting and trying new things with you. I trust your experience and your preparation. Never in my life did I think I'd want to try shoving pieces of metal into my dick, but you made that...pleasurable. Fuck, there was no reason that should have been enjoyable. I feel like, with anyone else, there would have been no escaping the utter paralysis of humiliation in that warehouse, at being watched by strangers when I was at my most vulnerable, and yet you got me out of my head. So, sure, there are some things on that list I thought were strange or not all that enticing, and I'd go to mark the No box, but then I'd picture it with you and, well..." Shane shrugs, tucking his shoulders in to hopefully hide just how red his ears are.

        "Which items on list?" Ilya asks, bringing up a note-taking app.

        With a helpless sigh, Shane say, "I don't know. It's not like I have any real experience with most of the stuff. But things like costumes, or play-acting sounded dumb to me initially; but you have such a great poker face that I think you might actually have the talent to pull that off in a hot way. Or tattoos? I've never wanted any ink and I think it would bother me. Any wrong mark, any wonky like, a change in taste. But then I imagined you doing the ink or picking something to put in a place where you'd mostly be the one to see it, which reminded me that I'll never see myself from all the angles you can see me from, and that realization felt kind of insane and...a little hot. So, suddenly a tattoo didn't feel out of the question. Does that make sense?"

        Ilya's eyes are practically glowing with unshed tears. "Makes sense," he says, roughly. "I hope you know I do not take your trust for granted."

        They continue on through the list, talking so long that, despite the pain in his stomach, Shane really does get hungry. Enough that his stomach rumbles audibly.

        As if the sound were some alarm announcing the start of an important event, Ilya immediately finds his feet and pulls Shane up behind him. "Come, let me feed you."

        "I can make food for us sometimes," Shane reminds the alpha as he lets himself be towed down to the kitchen by the hand.

        "You are still in recovery," Ilya argues, "but since you are good boy, I will let you help."

        It's said jokingly, no enticement behind the phrase. And yet, Shane still finds himself blushing over it, something about the words spoken in Ilya's deep voice, the sincerity behind the humor, getting to him.

        Noticing the reaction, Ilya leans in and sucks Shane's ear lobe into his mouth. "So fucking responsive and you think is possible I get bored? Is your lack of experience that blinds you to just how impossible it is to find you boring. If you would go out on dates with actual boring people, you would know the canyon that separates one experience from other."

        The words whispered against Shane's ear are a comfort, but it's Ilya's struggle to pull away. The focus he has to reach for again and again, pulling stuff out of the fridge and putting it back as he fights to remember what he'd been planning to cook that soothes away the bite of Shane’s insecurities and for the first time, he actually believes that maybe time and enough moments like this one will eventually convince the deepest parts of himself that he's not at risk of losing Ilya's interest.