Chapter 1 A Night of Chaos

# Chapter 1: A Night of Chaos

Under the cold fluorescent lights of the surgical suite, Dr. Austin Armstrong meticulously removed his latex gloves, one finger at a time. The private clinic was silent at this late hour, just as he preferred. Most of his high-profile Omega patients valued discretion above all else, and Austin had built his reputation on providing exactly that.

He pressed the back of his hand against his forehead, feeling the slight warmth there. His suppressants were working, but barely. It had been a grueling sixteen-hour shift, and his body was reminding him of its limitations. The scent of cedar—his own pheromones—hung faintly in the sterile air despite the clinic's advanced ventilation system.

The sound came without warning. A violent crash against the reinforced door of his private surgical suite, followed by a second impact that sent the door flying open, hinges protesting with a metallic screech.

"Doctor," a female voice growled, low and dangerous.

Austin turned slowly, his expression remaining neutral despite the intrusion. In the doorway stood a woman he recognized instantly—Harley Bourn, heiress to the Bourn financial empire. Her normally impeccable appearance was in disarray: dark hair wild, pupils dilated, chest heaving with each labored breath. The unmistakable scent of an Alpha in heat radiated from her like a physical force.

"Ms. Bourn," Austin said calmly, reaching for the emergency button beneath his desk. "The clinic is closed. I'll have to ask you to—"

In three swift strides, she crossed the room. Her hand shot out, gripping his wrist with crushing force before he could trigger the alarm. Up close, her scent was overwhelming—dark spices and something primal that made his suppressants seem suddenly inadequate.

"You know who I am," she said, her voice hoarse. "Good. Then you know I don't ask twice."

Austin maintained his composure, though his pulse quickened. "Whatever you need, there are proper channels. Make an appointment with my—"

"I'm in heat," she interrupted, her eyes burning with intensity. "Early. Unexpected. And your Omega scent is making it worse."

Austin's medical training took over. "I can prescribe emergency suppressants. There's a pharmacy three blocks—"

Her laugh was bitter as she released his wrist only to grab the back of his neck, fingers digging into the slight raised edge of his scent suppression patch. "Too late for that. I've tried everything. Nothing works."

With strength that shouldn't have surprised him but did, she pushed him backward until his lower back hit the surgical table. Metal instruments clattered to the floor, the sterile tray overturning with a crash that seemed to echo through the empty clinic.

"Let me go, Ms. Bourn," Austin said, his voice still steady despite the position. "This is assault."

She leaned in, her face inches from his. For a moment, something like regret flickered across her features. "I know. I'm sorry. But I need this stopped now."

Her fingers tore at his suppression patch, ripping it free. The effect was immediate—his cedar scent bloomed in the room, no longer restrained.

Harley inhaled sharply, her pupils expanding until her eyes were nearly black. "You have two choices, Doctor," she whispered against his ear, sending involuntary shivers down his spine. "Either give me a temporary mark to get me through this heat, or I'll take your glands myself."

Austin's training had prepared him for many scenarios—violent patients, medical emergencies, even hostage situations. But nothing had prepared him for the force of nature that was Harley Bourn in full Alpha heat, triggered by his own pheromones.

"This isn't you," he said quietly. "This is your biology overriding your rationality."

"Don't psychoanalyze me," she growled, pressing him harder against the table. "Choose."

A syringe of sedative lay just within reach. If he could just distract her for a moment...

"You'll regret this tomorrow," he tried again.

"I already regret it now," she admitted, her voice breaking slightly. "But I can't stop. Please."

Something in her plea—the desperation beneath the aggression—made Austin hesitate. That moment of hesitation cost him his chance at the sedative as she noticed his gaze and swept the remaining instruments away with one powerful arm.

The crash of metal against floor was the last coherent sound Austin registered before her mouth descended on his neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where his scent glands pulsed beneath the surface.

What followed was a haze of sensation and instinct that defied Austin's carefully constructed control. His body responded to her dominance even as his mind rebelled against it. The surgical suite, designed for healing, became the setting for something primal and unstoppable.

Hours later, as dawn light began to filter through the blinds, Austin awoke alone on the surgical table, a thin medical blanket draped over his naked body. His neck throbbed where her teeth had broken skin, creating a bond that wasn't supposed to exist. On the counter lay a black credit card and a handwritten note.

With shaking hands, he reached for the paper, already knowing what it would say even before reading the elegant script:

"For your trouble. Consider it payment for services rendered and silence maintained. Don't try to find me."

The black card—unlimited, untraceable—seemed to mock him from the countertop. Austin crumpled the note in his fist, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. The great Harley Bourn, treating a forced marking like a business transaction to be settled with money.

He stood on unsteady legs, making his way to the private bathroom attached to his office. The face that greeted him in the mirror was pale, with dark circles under cold eyes. The marking on his neck was unmistakable—red and raw, the first stages of a bond that would tie him to her biologically for months, if not longer.

A wave of nausea hit suddenly, doubling him over the sink. Morning after effects, he told himself. Stress response. Nothing more.

But as the nausea persisted, a cold suspicion formed in his mind. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink, reaching for the emergency medical kit he kept for his high-risk Omega patients.

two months later, Austin stared at the pregnancy test in his hand, the double line unmistakable against the white background.

Impossible. His genetic profile gave him a 0.01% chance of conception. The medical community considered male Omegas with his specific genetic markers essentially infertile.

Yet the evidence was there in his hand, as undeniable as the mark on his neck.

Austin tore the black card in half, then quarters, his hands moving mechanically as his mind raced through implications and possibilities. Then, with deliberate calm, he taped the pieces back together and drafted a donation form to the Omega Rights Association.

Amount: The entire balance.

Memo: "Termination funding, courtesy of Ms. Bourn."

As he submitted the electronic transfer, his phone buzzed with a news alert:

"BREAKING: Bourn Heiress Implicated in Marking Scandal. Sources report unauthorized clinic visit. Details developing."

Austin glanced at the security camera in the corner of his office, its recording light conspicuously dark. With precise movements, he removed the memory card and dropped it into a sterilization solution.

Some evidence was better left destroyed. Some secrets were better kept. And some revenge would be served not cold, but with the warmth of new life growing inside him—life that would change everything.