Chapter Text
Marcus lets out a loud sigh.
Then another.
It isn’t every day that Vencor holds a banquet and invites every founding family to attend. It has only happened a handful of times throughout history, and Marcus doesn’t even know when the last one occurred. Then again, that probably has more to do with the fact that until a few years ago, he wasn’t considered an Osborn.
Not officially.
Not until his dear half-brothers died and the family suddenly remembered the unwanted bastard alpha son they had spent years pretending didn’t exist.
Funny how that works.
Marcus sinks deeper into the leather seat of the black luxury SUV as Serena watches him from the corner of her eye. His half-sister has always been too observant for her own good, already studying him like there is some secret hidden beneath his skin.
There is.
Marcus just has no intention of letting her find it.
Instead, he ignores her and looks out the window as the Vencor estate comes into view.
A massive white antebellum mansion sits at the end of the long driveway, glowing beneath the lights decorating the property. Expensive cars line the entrance, waiting for their turn as members of the most powerful families in the country step out dressed in clothes worth more than most people make in months.
This is the kind of world Marcus was never supposed to belong to.
The kind of world he forced his way into anyway.
Because somewhere inside that mansion might be the only person he actually cares about seeing.
Marcus stops the thought before it can fully form.
He doesn’t even know if Preston will be here.
Except he does.
The Armstrong family never misses Vencor events. Marcus checked. More than once. More times than he is willing to admit.
His alpha practically purrs at the thought, and Marcus clenches his jaw, forcing the reaction down before Serena notices. The last thing he needs is his sister realizing he isn’t here for politics, alliances, or the Osborn family name.
The SUV moves another few feet.
Marcus sighs again.
“You know you didn’t have to come,” Serena finally says. “Trust me, no one expected you to.”
Marcus bites his tongue because there are a hundred things he wants to say.
No one expected him to survive either.
No one expected him to come back.
No one expected the bastard son everyone ignored to become the strongest alpha the Osborn family had produced in generations.
But Marcus knows better than to start a fight. Serena is next in line to become head of the family, and as much as he hates admitting it, he needs her on his side.
For now.
“I’m just full of surprises,” Marcus says.
Another car pulls away from the entrance, and Marcus immediately looks over. The windows are tinted too dark to see inside, but he still searches for something familiar.
A face.
A flash of blond hair.
A license plate.
Anything.
Nothing.
His fingers tap impatiently against his thigh, and another sigh slips out before he can stop it.
“Enough with the fucking sighing,” Serena snaps. “Or I’ll send you back to your mother in a body bag.”
Marcus slowly turns toward her as the corner of his mouth lifts. “I want to see you try.”
Serena’s expression darkens, but Marcus doesn’t care. Most people would flinch when Serena Osborn looks at them like that.
Marcus isn’t most people.
“How many more cars?” he asks the driver.
“Five, sir.”
Marcus groans. “Can we just get out here?”
“Nothing stopping you,” Serena says.
That is all the permission Marcus needs.
His hand is already on the door, but before the cool night air can even hit his face, Serena grabs his shoulder and pulls him back into the seat.
“Other than the fact that it’s unbecoming of the next heir of the Osborn family,” she says.
Marcus looks at her hand before looking back at her.
Serena doesn’t move.
Most people are afraid of him now, but Serena never has been.
“Be patient,” she says. “Why are you even so excited to get inside?”
“I’m not the next heir, Serena,” Marcus says, avoiding the question. “And I’m not excited. I’m tired of being trapped inside this fucking car.”
“Right.”
Serena studies him for a moment before her expression shifts.
Suspicion.
Then realization.
She inhales slightly.
Marcus freezes.
Shit.
“Has nothing to do with your scent practically suffocating me, does it?”
Marcus rolls his eyes.
“Why is your alpha excited?” Serena asks. “Are you trying to find an omega tonight?”
Marcus scoffs, but he doesn’t answer.
Of course she would think that.
Everyone always assumes an alpha searching for someone means they’re searching for an omega. A pretty little thing to claim. A designation. A prize.
They don’t understand.
When Marcus met his fairy prince, neither of them had presented yet. Preston wasn’t an omega. He wasn’t an alpha or a beta either.
He was just Preston.
His fairy prince.
His.
The memory alone makes warmth spread through his chest, and Marcus realizes too late that he is smiling.
Serena sees it.
Of course she does.
“Holy shit.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Dad really did send you here to find a suitable omega, didn’t he?”
“I’m not looking for an omega.”
And he means it.
He doesn’t care what Preston presented as.
Alpha. Beta. Omega.
It never mattered.
Preston belonged to him long before either of them knew what they would become.
“I’m just here to be a good little Osborn,” Marcus says.
Serena stares at him for a moment before scoffing. “You actually expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The car moves closer to the entrance, and Marcus looks away.
“What about you?” he asks. “Looking for an omega?”
“I don’t see how that matters to you.”
“Exactly.”
Serena’s eyes narrow.
Marcus smiles. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck about your love life, Serena. Or your lack of one. I’m just pointing out the hypocrisy of asking me a question you wouldn’t answer yourself.”
Neither of them speaks for a moment.
Then Marcus notices they are finally next in line.
He doesn’t wait.
He opens the door and steps out.
“Really, you fucker—”
Marcus shuts the door before Serena can even finish her sentence because, suddenly, nothing else matters.
Not Serena.
Not Vencor.
Not the Osborn family.
Only finding Preston.
He cuts through the line of cars without a second thought and makes his way up the stairs toward the entrance. Guards stand around the estate dressed in perfectly tailored black suits. They look expensive, professional, and intimidating.
Nice.
Still not nicer than the one Marcus picked out for himself.
The all black suit fits him perfectly, paired with a black velvet jacket that costs more than the apartment he grew up in. A small, petty part of him enjoys that. Enjoys walking into a room full of people who used to look through him and knowing they have no choice but to see him now.
The doorman opens the entrance without hesitation.
The second Marcus steps inside, the sound of the banquet surrounds him. Conversations overlap, laughter echoes through the room, and expensive champagne glasses clink together as men and women dressed in designer clothing walk around dripping in diamonds and family names that have existed for generations.
Marcus doesn’t care about a single one of them.
His eyes are already searching for blond hair and green eyes.
His fairy prince.
For the first time in years, Marcus hates that they met before presenting. If he knew Preston’s scent, this would already be over. He wouldn’t have to search through a sea of strangers. His alpha would know exactly where to go, and Preston would already be in his arms.
It has been twelve years since Marcus met Preston Armstrong, and somehow the blond haired, green eyed supernatural being has only become more impossible to forget.
His entire world changed because of one afternoon.
Because of one boy.
Because after his dear half-brother beat him bloody—
May he rest in peace.
What a fucking lie.
Marcus hopes he’s burning in hell.
The bastard spent every Osborn event reminding Marcus exactly where he stood. Every time his mother, June, brought him around the family, his brothers made sure Marcus remembered he was nothing more than the mistake Andrew Osborn wanted hidden.
The worst time was Lawrence Armstrong’s second wedding.
Marcus only went because his father asked him to. Back then, he still believed that meant something. He still believed his father wanting him there meant maybe things would change, but just like every other time, once the family photos were finished and Andrew successfully pretended he was a decent father, he forgot Marcus existed.
So Marcus wandered.
A lonely kid walking through a giant New England castle that belonged to people who had everything he didn’t.
Family. Power. A place.
His eldest brother found him alone and decided it was the perfect opportunity to remind Marcus that none of those things belonged to him.
Back then, Marcus wasn’t strong enough to fight back.
Not like he is now.
A small smirk pulls at his lips because if his brother tried that shit today, Marcus would destroy him.
Unfortunately, he never got the chance.
In the end, though, Marcus still won. He lived. He wasn’t the one who inherited whatever fucked up disease his father passed down to his legitimate sons. He wasn’t the one who wasted away while the bastard child everyone hated survived.
Maybe that makes him a terrible person.
Marcus doesn’t care.
After his brother finished with him that day, Marcus stumbled through the castle searching for a phone to call his mom. Instead, he found something else.
Someone else.
A boy with golden blond hair and the clearest green eyes Marcus had ever seen.
His fairy prince.
The boy’s eyes widened the second Marcus stumbled into his room because, of course, this wasn’t just any boy.
It was Preston Armstrong.
Lawrence Armstrong’s son.
The son of the man everyone was there celebrating.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus whispered.
The boy blinked. “What?”
“Did I die?”
The blond boy frowned.
Marcus looked around the room before looking back at him. “Did my brother kill me? He must have, because there is no way you’re real.”
For a second, the boy just stared at him.
Then his expression changed.
Not disgust.
Not annoyance.
Concern.
Actual concern.
“Are you okay?”
Only then did Marcus notice the boy had been crying. His eyes were red and his cheeks were still damp, but the second he saw Marcus bleeding, he dropped the book in his hands and rushed toward him.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” Marcus admitted.
Preston immediately started checking him, careful fingers brushing against his bruised skin.
Marcus froze because no one touched him like that. Like he was something worth being careful with.
“I mean…” Marcus cleared his throat as warmth rushed to his face. “Just…”
“Just what?”
Preston looked up at him through golden lashes.
Marcus forgot how words worked.
“You’re bleeding,” Preston said. He stood on his tiptoes and carefully wiped blood away from Marcus’s forehead. “You need a Band-Aid.”
Before Marcus could answer, Preston grabbed his hand and pulled him into the adjoining bathroom. He pushed Marcus down onto the closed toilet seat before dropping to his knees and digging through the cabinets.
Marcus watched him, completely fascinated.
“What is a fairy prince looking for Band-Aids for?” Marcus asked. “Can’t you just heal me?”
Preston looked back at him. “I don’t have magic. I haven’t even presented yet.”
Marcus frowned. “Do fairy princes present?”
Preston laughed softly and shook his head as he kept looking. “I’m not a fairy prince. I’m Preston.”
“Preston,” Marcus repeated.
The name felt different in his mouth. Special somehow. Like something he was supposed to remember.
“Well, Preston,” Marcus said. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Preston stood with a spray bottle and cotton pads. “This is going to hurt.”
Marcus braced himself as Preston cleaned every cut with careful hands. The antiseptic burned, but Marcus barely noticed.
Not when Preston was so close.
Not when someone was finally choosing to help him.
When he finished, Preston placed cartoon Band-Aids over the worst cuts and smiled. “All better.” Then his eyes widened. “Wait here.”
Marcus did not wait.
Of course he didn’t. Even one second away from his fairy prince felt like one second too many.
He followed Preston right back into the bedroom, and when Preston turned around, Marcus was standing directly behind him.
Preston didn’t look annoyed.
He just smiled. “Here.” He held out an orange-wrapped candy. “When I go to the doctor for shots, they always give me candy afterward,” Preston explained. “It helps with the pain.”
The smile Preston gave him did more to stop the pain than any candy ever could.
“Come on,” Preston encouraged, pouting slightly. “Try it. It’s good. It’s mango.”
Marcus smiled as he unwrapped the candy and placed it into his mouth. Artificial mango coated his tongue.
Sweet. Juicy. Perfect.
“Do you like it…” Preston stopped, eyebrows pulling together. “Uh…”
“Marcus,” Marcus quickly held out his hand. “I’m Marcus Osborn.”
“Preston Armstrong.”
Preston took it, and Marcus immediately wished he never had to let go.
“Is this your dad’s wedding or your brother’s?” Marcus asked, desperately trying to focus on anything except Preston’s hand.
“Dad’s,” Preston whispered, and his smile disappeared. “I didn’t want him to get remarried.”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I know that sucks.”
Preston looked surprised. “Did your dad remarry too?”
Marcus shook his head. “Worse—”
“Preston, there you are.”
Both boys turned as a man dressed like a servant appeared in the doorway.
“Your father is looking for you. You’re needed for more family photos.”
“I don’t want to,” Preston whispered.
The slight quiver of his bottom lip made something inside Marcus twist. For one insane second, he wanted to call his mom and tell her they needed to take Preston with them.
Because fairy princes weren’t supposed to look sad.
“That is not your choice, young man,” the servant said as he walked over and grabbed Preston’s arm.
Marcus hated that.
“After you take the pictures, you can return to your little friend.”
“Friend?” Marcus repeated.
Preston looked back at him and smiled like it was obvious. “Of course. We’re friends, silly. Wait for me here. I’ll be back soon.”
Marcus nodded.
And he waited.
He tried harder than he had ever tried at anything.
But eventually, his father remembered he had a third son.
Andrew Osborn found him sitting in Preston Armstrong’s bedroom and didn’t ask why Marcus was hurt. He didn’t ask why he was covered in Band-Aids or who made him bleed.
He only cared that Marcus was somewhere he didn’t belong.
No matter how many times Marcus tried to explain that Preston said he did belong there, his father didn’t listen. He just shoved Marcus into the driver’s car and sent him back home to his mother for embarrassing him.
And Marcus never saw his fairy prince again.
After that day, his father stopped inviting him to family events no matter how many times Marcus asked.
Eventually, Andrew Osborn stopped visiting altogether.
At least until a few years ago, when he showed up at their front door asking if Marcus would get tested to see if he was a match for his sons.
He wasn’t.
And Marcus and his mother made sure Andrew knew exactly what they thought about him having the audacity to walk back into their lives after years of pretending Marcus didn’t exist, only because the children he actually cared about needed something from him.
By the time Marcus reached his freshman year of college, both of his brothers were dead.
Then Andrew came back again, this time with apologies, promises, and money. He offered to pay for Marcus’s college, his expenses, and anything his mother needed.
Marcus wanted to tell him to go fuck himself.
He almost did.
But then he thought about his mother. He thought about all the years June spent working herself into exhaustion just to give Marcus everything he wanted. Every school trip, every ridiculous hobby he picked up, every opportunity she could barely afford but somehow made happen anyway.
So Marcus agreed.
He joined the Osborn family.
Not because he forgave his father.
Not because he wanted the name.
But because his mother deserved to finally breathe.
And maybe there was one more reason.
A selfish reason.
Because Marcus knew that if he became an Osborn, truly became an Osborn, then eventually he would find his way back into Preston Armstrong’s world.
Alpha, beta, omega.
It didn’t matter.
Marcus wanted Preston before he knew what a second gender even was. He wanted the boy who cleaned his wounds and gave him mango candy because he thought sweetness could chase away pain.
He wanted his fairy prince.
Nothing would have changed that.
Though if Marcus ever said some possessive, selfish part of his alpha didn’t hope Preston was an omega, he would be lying.
But it didn’t matter.
It never mattered.
The good thing about Vencor is that most of the founding families are brunettes, and only one family is known for their blond hair.
The Armstrongs.
Marcus scans the ballroom, searching every flash of gold in the crowd and hoping to catch a glimpse of either Lawrence Armstrong or the person he actually came here for.
He moves through the room, surrounded by hundreds of different scents. Alphas, betas, omegas, and expensive perfumes mix together until everything blends into something overwhelming.
Until suddenly Marcus stops.
Mango.
Sweet, ripe mango.
His alpha reacts before Marcus can even process it.
Mine.
Every instinct in his body pulls toward the scent, and Marcus follows without hesitation, weaving through the crowd until he finds himself standing in front of three men.
Two brunettes and one blond.
Marcus forgets how to breathe the second those green eyes land on him.
His fairy prince.
Older and different, but still him.
There is no doubt in Marcus’s mind.
Preston Armstrong.
Marcus adjusts his jacket and takes a step forward, trying not to look as affected as he feels.
Preston is somehow even more beautiful than he remembers. He is tall, though still shorter than Marcus. His blond hair catches the light, his long lashes frame those impossible green eyes, and his lips—
Marcus forces himself to stop staring.
Then there is the scent.
That perfect, sweet mango scent.
An omega scent.
Marcus can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face because he always knew Preston was his.
But now his alpha knows too.
His fairy prince.
His omega.
“Hello,” Marcus says as he approaches, his eyes staying on Preston. “Well, aren’t you stunning?”
The reaction is immediate.
One of the alphas beside Preston steps forward.
“Back the fuck up,” he growls. “Who the fuck are you?”
Marcus finally looks at him.
Black hair, brown eyes, protective attitude.
A Callahan.
Marcus knows one when he sees one.
“This sweet thing’s alpha,” Marcus says with a smirk, reaching toward Preston. “Do you remem—”
“Don’t touch me.” Preston swats his hand away hard enough that Marcus freezes. “No one gave you permission to touch me,” Preston snaps.
For a second, Marcus just stares.
Then he smiles softly because this is Preston.
His Preston.
Still stubborn.
Still fiery.
“Look, my dear omega—”
“I’m not an omega.” The words come out sharp enough to cut. Preston’s green eyes burn. “So get the fuck out of my face.”
Marcus blinks.
For the first time all night, he doesn’t know what to say.
He scents the air again almost instinctively, searching for some kind of explanation, but all he finds is the same sweet, juicy mango scent that pulled him across the room.
And underneath it is something unmistakable.
Omega.
It is Preston.
There is no mistake.
But the anger on Preston’s face is real, and so is the hatred woven into every word he says.
Marcus’s eyes flicker toward the other alpha standing beside Preston. The man presses his lips together, blue eyes moving between them with an expression Marcus doesn’t understand at first.
He isn’t shocked.
He isn’t confused.
He looks tired.
Like he has watched this exact conversation happen a hundred times before. Like Preston rejecting what he is isn’t some sudden reaction to Marcus, but something much deeper.
Something that has existed long before tonight.
And Marcus hates that realization.
Because maybe Preston doesn’t just hate Marcus calling him omega.
Maybe Preston hates being one.
The thought makes no sense to Marcus.
How could Preston hate any part of himself?
“I just wanted to ask you for a dance,” Marcus says, forcing his voice softer. “I’m Mar—”
“I don’t dance with alphas.”
Marcus stops.
Preston’s expression hardens. “I don’t date alphas. I don’t fuck alphas. I don’t need an alpha.”
Each sentence lands harder than the last, and Marcus actually flinches because out of every possibility he imagined over the last twelve years, this was never one of them.
Preston not remembering him?
Maybe.
Preston rejecting him?
Possibly.
But Preston looking at him like every other alpha in the room?
Like a threat?
That hurts.
“I’m not an omega,” Preston repeats, voice cold. “So get the fuck out of my face.”