Chapter Text
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San reclined against the cushioned leather booth in the darkened club, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. He hadn't asked to be a part of this sting, and and in fact resented the criteria by which he was chosen for the job. Sure, he thought he was moderately attractive, enough to get some attention when he visited the sort of clubs he did like. Velvet Chain didn't even come close, and he was here to attract precisely the sort of attention he didn't want.
On the surface, it was a mixed designation establishment, the sort of club his friends might suggest to blow off some steam at the weekend. Neon and glitz, bartenders with impressive tricks, guest DJs known in the scene. It was what lay below that carefully maintained facade that brought San here tonight, ready to bring it all down.
When he had arrived earlier in the evening, San flashed a matte black card with an intricate silver design and was led toward what looked like an emergency exit into a side alley. It did serve that purpose, most likely to stay up to code, but also contained a set of stairs leading down. Rusted rails embedded in cracked and stained concrete looked for all the world like access to a neglected basement, but San knew differently. Beneath the trendy glamor of the club upstairs lived an entirely different world.
“Masks are at the door,” the bouncer said, his voice a gruff alpha snarl. “No exceptions.”
Thrown for a moment, San tried to act as though he understood, even expected the comment. “Of course,” he replied with a nod. The bouncer seemed satisfied and let him through.
Once down the stairs, San’s card provided access to a grungy door simply labeled Storage. Opening with a soft click, the door admitted him into a short, wood paneled hallway, the lighting purposefully dim. A box carved like a treasure chest contained black lace domino masks in various designs, the tatting dense while still delicate at the edges. San could understand the design choice; the masks would obscure a patron’s features while still providing a refined and mysterious appearance. San just hoped it didn't itch.
After a few feet, the hallway opened up onto a wide, curving set of stairs softened by plush red carpeting. The sunken room below contained circular black-stained tables and secluded booths, the better for the club's alpha patrons to be entertained by a rotating cast of omega hosts. Sconces along the walls shed a dim, amber glow that gleamed off the gold accents and deep red leather. A polished wooden bar took up fully half of one wall staffed by a single bartender, dressed to impress in a grey suit vest, pristine arm bands over the sleeves of his crisp white oxford. Beta wait staff circulated with trays of champagne, their pheromones carefully controlled to produce relaxed, even euphoric feelings across the space. It kept the alphas relatively sedate and the omega hosts easy, even playful with their customers. It was the perfect set-up for a luxe, members-only sex club, with just one problem.
The omegas weren't there willingly, most of them having been trafficked from all over the world. Even if they were to somehow to escape their predicament, they wouldn't know the city outside these walls, wouldn't have any contacts or money to their names. The local PD had agreed to work with the FBI for an undercover operation, and San had been volunteered over his objections as their guy on the inside. They needed the layout, ingress and egress points, but most importantly, information on the club owner himself.
San loved his job, loved detective work, but this? This assignment was so far outside his wheelhouse it was laughable. Sure, he knew how to turn on the charm, how to use charisma to his advantage. It came in handy on the job, putting suspects off balance, or gaining a witness’ confidence. But pretending to enjoy the company of what were essentially captive omegas was a stretch at best, and one San didn't want to make. No matter how good his intentions in the end, it still felt deeply, instinctually wrong.
Still lost in his thoughts, San flinched when when a server appeared at his elbow out of nowhere. “First time?” she asked, not without sympathy. Her pheromones grew more intense, wafting out in a cloud to soothe his nerves as she placed a flute of pale yellow champagne on the table.
“How'd you guess?” San asked, ducking his head as though embarrassed.
“Don't worry, one of our hosts will have you up to speed in no time,” she said with a conspiratorial smile. “What's your type?”
San blanked. Somehow, out of all the possibilities he had prepared for with his false identity, he hadn't imagined being asked so directly what he would like. It made sense, he supposed, to be able to order off a list in a place like this.
“I, ah,” he stumbled. “I don't really have any.”
“Oh, surely you do,” the beta said, leaning in. Her voice was sultry, nearly a purr, and San considered asking if she was on the menu. He wouldn't feel nearly so complicit being entertained by a genuine employee, especially one he wouldn't be attracted to in the slightest.
“Good conversationalist,” San said after an uncomfortable moment. “Nice smile.”
The first part was essential, really, as it was all San planned on doing with any omega sent to entertain him. The second was a mistake, as it was the eyes and the smile that always got him in trouble.
The server nodded, tapping her nails on the tray balanced in her hand. “I'll see what I can do,” she said with a wink before turning to saunter away.
San downed half the flute while he waited, his nerves set on edge. He sent a message to his partner back at the station, reporting on absolutely nothing so far. Dami should have been with him in the middle of this mess, but her wife vetoed her involvement from the start. They had a pup on the way, and Handong had every right to prefer her wife not come home smelling like other omegas. Still, he certainly would have appreciated the backup.
San tensed, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. Burly looking alphas monitored all activity from their stations along the walls, and San was briefly terrified that he had been made despite the mask. Instead, a man probably five or six years his junior approached the table, dark hair falling just above his chin. Dressed in a white blouse unbuttoned to his chest, it was tucked into perfectly tailored black slacks, a hint of gold flashing at his neck. Snakeskin oxfords along with grey and black suspenders completed the look.
He drew closer, leaning one elbow on the table. Lamplight from above the booth brought out hints of red in his dark hair, and danced across two sets of earrings in each lobe. He smiled, tilting his head just so, and the breath caught in San's chest.
Of course they would send out someone absolutely gorgeous. Of course they would.
“I'm Wren,” the omega said, his voice pleasantly soft.
“You can call me San,” he said hastily. Might as well stick with the familiar.
“Am I what you're looking for tonight?” Wren asked, tracing a circle on the wood grain with one finger and somehow managing to make the gesture look sultry.
“Tonight I'm…just looking for someone to talk to,” San said truthfully. “So if that sounds all right with you —”
Wren slid eagerly into the booth beside him. “Sounds more than all right, baby,” he said, smile widening. “Talking is my second best skill.”
He gave a sly wink, and San could feel himself blushing as if he was an awkward teenager. True to his word, Wren proved an excellent conversationalist, and two hours flew by while San tried his best to stick to his cover story. He was a businessman, not too high up in his company, but not too low either, or else he never would have been able to afford the membership fee. Single and lonely, but with no time for a real relationship due to the hours he kept on the job.
Wren’s eyes sparkled as he nodded, laughing at all the right places. San found himself relating very real anecdotes from his life, changing the details of his work but retaining the truth of them. The champagne they shared helped, San careful not too drink too much, but enough to put himself more at ease. He told Wren about some of his friends, and the difficulties of finding time to spend together now that they all had such separate lives.
It wasn’t easy to admit to being a packless alpha, but he was banking on the admission drawing out more sympathy, or even interest from Wren. Halfway through the evening, his hand found its way to San's knee and he let it stay, secretly enjoying the contact. Knowing better than to ask Wren too much about himself, San kept his questions vague and acted as though he believed the lies the omega spun in return. Far too soon he realized the lateness of the hour and made excuses about an early morning to get started on a project. Wren conjured up faux disappointment at his leaving but slid out of the booth to let him go, giving his knee a squeeze.
“Come back and see me soon,” he said as San stood from his seat, actually looking as though he meant it.
“Sure I didn't bore you too much?” San asked with a small laugh, a hint of nervousness bleeding through as his hand found the back of his neck.
“Not at all,” Wren answered as though he meant it, something earnest in his smile.
San felt his face heat and he stammered out his goodbye, turning back halfway up the stairs to see Wren still watching him as he left. Someone in a suit appeared at his elbow, gesturing to a table where two men and a woman sat, another omega already squeezed between them. His expression briefly soured, but he did as he was told and sauntered over to the group, the smile on his face far less genuine than the warmth he’d shown San.
Something in San's chest ached, knowing the table would probably ask for more than just conversation and Wren would be obliged to follow through on their requests. Turning away, he made his way out through the club, the lights and sound overwhelming after the relative quiet of the room below. He dreaded returning to the station for his debrief in the morning, but told himself it was all for the good if their operation eventually shut down the club. He knew they would provide assistance for the omegas as best they could, but Social Services was notoriously understaffed and overworked, and San was afraid many would fall through the cracks.
Not Wren, he decided, if he had to take up the omega’s case personally. Not Wren.
The morning was every bit as unpleasant as San expected, his coworkers making lewd comments and suggestions regarding his next visit to the club. He endured it as best he could, the FBI agents assigned to the case at least behaving more professionally. They knew the details of the case, knew what the the omegas had been through, and behaved a good deal more respectfully. Agent Maddox even asked him if he was all right after the visit and good to continue, seemingly identifying San as a bleeding heart early on.
San assured him and the team that he was fine, that it had been surprisingly easy to keep the evening to a PG rating. They had agreed on the limits of San's behavior while at the club before even getting into the case. He had been insistent upon them in fact, refusing to engage in any sexual activity no matter if he was mic’d up or not. While they had eventually decided on no wire for San's comfort, he wasn't about to take advantage of someone who was obligated to please the guests no matter the request. It seemed to earn him some respect among the team instead of ridicule, for which San was grateful. He knew the case had been their entire lives for the past year, knew that they actually cared about more than just the takedown.
He focused on his other open cases for the next week, trying to forget the sparkle in Wren's eyes, the mirth in his smile at San's stories. Genuine or not, the attention of someone so beautiful had been flattering. If he thought about Wren a little more than he should, entertaining the occasional daydream in the squad room, well, that was between San and the virtual stack of paperwork he was meant to be completing. It didn't mean anything at all.
When Friday evening finally rolled around, he found himself back at Velvet Chain, flashing his card at the bouncer as if he belonged there. He had foregone the suit jacket, the top two buttons of his shirt open in an attempt at being a bit more casual, more relaxed than last time. He ordered a whiskey on the rocks, knowing the membership fee the Bureau had so kindly provided would pay for top shelf. It beat having a beer at home by a mile.
He nervously requested Wren as a companion for the evening, and was gratified when the omega appeared at his side as if out of thin air. Their evening went much as it had the first time, San's stories growing a bit more personal as the night went on and the whiskey settled into his bloodstream. He told Wren about his school days, about his family, but lied about how they had been supportive of his career choice as a company man. His father had in fact supported him all the way through his days at the police academy and his time as a beat cop, his mother worrying about his safety but proud of what he did. His sister ragged on him for being thoroughly uncool, but as San had endured her teasing for his entire life, he was used to it by now. He knew his family would have been disappointed if he had chosen an easier path, driving a desk and making money for an uncaring corporation.
Wren's hand moved from his knee to wrapping around his arm, eventually resting his head on San's shoulder. It felt wonderful, and before San could stop himself he was nuzzling at Wren's soft brown hair. Wren made a contented sound, snuggling closer, and San echoed it. He hadn't felt quite so relaxed, so comfortable in ages. It set off warning bells in his mind, but he ignored them until he couldn't, until he remembered himself.
“I have to go,” San said, letting his very real reluctance color his words.
“Just a little longer?” Wren asked, then made a noise of surprise. “I'm sorry, that was —”
“Very sweet,” San filled in. “I don't want to leave either, but I have a presentation first thing in the morning.”
It wasn't a lie, not exactly. He did have to report to the task force, all the worse for being on a Saturday, and he wasn't sure what in the hell he was going to say. That he spent the evening cuddling with his – with an omega, spilling his life story and not gleaning a single detail about their target? That would go over well. Shifting to sit up straight from where he had unconsciously slid down to make Wren more comfortable, San knew he should move back before looking up. He didn't.
“You can kiss me,” Wren said, a little too close in the low light.
San's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to. Wren moved closer still until their foreheads were pressed together and San balled his hand into a tight fist beneath the table. He wouldn't do this, not to Wren. Not when he knew it wasn't right.
Instead San turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to the omega's cheek. Wren gave a pleased sigh as San pulled back, eyelashes fluttering before he opened them. San's chest ached at the sight, for the first time grateful to have a mask obscuring his face. Anyone could read him like a book without it.
“My perfect gentleman,” Wren whispered.
“I will be,” San said taking Wren's hand and giving it a light squeeze. “I promise.”
Wren's eyes shone as he leaned in to give San's cheek a quick kiss in return before pulling back. “Come back and see me?” he asked softly.
“Of course I will,” San said, hoping he got the chance.
He still hadn't seen anyone that looked important, or teased much relevant information out of Wren, reluctant to push and give himself away. Wren slid out of the booth, seeming reluctant to let San go. San was only halfway across the room when he looked back this time, watching a waitress say something to Wren with a joking elbow to his arm. Wren waved her off with a look of foul temper, pointing to his watch before stalking toward a door in the back of the room.
San frowned, wiping the expression from his face when the server turned to glance in his direction. He moved toward the stairs and made his exit, still feeling the warmth of Wren's lips against his skin. It stayed with him all through the night, only vanishing when he returned to the squad room to another chorus of jeers. He waved them off and got down to work, thinking only about seeing Wren again.
It didn't take long for San to break down and dig through the FBI's files on possible victims of the trafficking ring. Discouraged after file after file gave him nothing, San had almost given up when he came to one labeled Jung, Wooyoung. The picture was of a teenaged boy, but San could see certain similarities. A different tab showed a digital rendering of what he might look like now at twenty-six, and San recognized the man staring up at him from the screen all too well. It was Wren.
Meanwhile, the FBI pushed for more progress, as San had known they would. He returned to the club several times over the next few weeks, only once not able to see Wren. The server explained that Wren was “not taking patrons” that evening, which of course made San worry. His replacement was a beautiful omega named Lark, blonde hair touching his shoulders and a generous sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks. San clocked his immediate relief upon being told he only wanted conversation, and offered up his glass of champagne. Taking generous sips, Lark listened to San's stories, laughing and asking polite questions in all the right places, his voice surprisingly deep, his demeanor pleasant and polished.
San ordered more champagne for Lark, prying out a bit more information with each small flute. What the club was really like, the drama, the tea. Did he know the owner personally? What were they like? San pretended to be deeply impressed by the club, only wanting to know about someone he admired.
“You're nosy,” Lark said with a laugh.
“And your nose is pink,” San said, tapping the end of it.
Lark giggled. San stayed for a bit longer, making up ridiculous stories to cover the questions in Lark's mind when he thought back on the night, hoping no one would connect him to any suspicious behavior. Or Wren, since the two were plastered to each other's sides on every other visit. The task force appreciated the info he teased out of Lark, slim though it might have been. Any information on their target, one Tristan Jaeger, was better than nothing.
San’s next visit came on a Wednesday, having worked late into the night both Monday and Tuesday on a high end theft case leading back to a known drug ring. He was afraid they would take him off the sting operation to follow up, but thankfully the Bureau's agents argued in his favor. Apparently, he had established a rapport with one of the omegas. San supposed that was one way of describing his unfortunate crush.
The club was just as busy on weeknights, initially surprising San with the amount of patrons present. That night, he asked again for what had become his usual – whiskey on the rocks and Wren's company. A waiter he hadn’t seen before paused at his request, giving San a tight smile.
“It might be a few minutes on that order,” he replied, to San's confusion. “Would you like something else?”
Then it sunk in. Wren was with someone else, and San was going to have to wait until he was…finished.
“I believe Oriole or Starling might be to your taste —”
“I don't mind waiting,” San said, cutting him off. He didn’t need another visit like before, entertaining yet another omega when he knew exactly what – and who – he wanted. “Tell Wren to take all the time he needs,” he added firmly.
The waiter shot him a sly, knowing look before nodding and offering a short bow. San did indeed have to wait on Wren, his whiskey half gone before he caught sight of a familiar silhouette heading his way, shoulders slumped. San's heart stuck in his throat until Wren stepped out of the shadows and looked up. His usual slacks were missing, replaced by a mid-length black skirt with slits up the sides. It looked gorgeous paired with a loose red blouse open halfway to his waist, a delicate gold chain with a tiny lock around his neck. His face lit up upon seeing San, steps quickening until he slid into the booth and enveloped him in a hug.
“I'm so glad it's you,” he whispered.
San's arms tightened around him, just enough to let Wren know how much he agreed. The omega smelled fresh and clean with none of the general muskiness of the club about him, a hint of lemon in his hair that was probably shampoo. San breathed it in, something in him calmed by the scent despite knowing what it meant that Wren had felt the need to shower between patrons.
“Can I sit on your lap?” Wren asked, so sweetly that San couldn't deny him. “I'll be good.”
“All right,” San agreed, pulling Wren sideways across his lap, legs wrapped in black stockings stretched out across the booth. San could feel a shake in his limbs, though Wren was hiding it well. Taking the fabric of Wren's skirt between his thumb and forefinger, he toyed with it along the slit in the side.
“You look really nice tonight,” he said, wishing his face didn't feel hot from the compliment. The mask itched against his flushed skin, and San wished he could just be rid of it.
“Not everyone likes a skirt,” Wren said absently. “But they like the – convenience,” he finished in a defeated tone, looking down.
“There's nothing to be ashamed of,” San risked.
“I know that,” Wren snapped, looking up with fire in his eyes before his face softened. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I was so happy to see you, and now I'm ruining it.”
“You haven't ruined anything,” San said, holding him a bit closer. Following his instincts, he guided Wren's head to his shoulder, stroking his hair. Wren nosed at his neck and San shivered, letting out a sigh.
“Thank you,” Wren whispered. “For letting me do this. I just needed to be —”
“Held?” San guessed when Wren fell silent.
“Safe,” Wren corrected, barely audible as his lips traced the word across San's skin.
San didn't even recognize the sound that left his throat before a soft rumble started up in his chest. Safe, his base brain crowed. Our omega feels safe. Wren's answering purr woke something behind San's ribs, something that had been asleep for so long he had forgotten it was even there.
“You are safe with me,” San promised, hoping he wouldn't have to break it.
“I know,” Wren said wonderingly. “I know.”
San held him there, one hand at his hip, the other wrapped around to squeeze his shoulder. It slipped down to his side when Wren raised his arms up to encircle San's neck, and he gently stroked across the silken fabric of his blouse. It was Wren's turn to shiver, and he pressed his face into San's neck as though embarrassed. San quickly realized Wren was searching for his scent when he murmured from just below San's ear.
“You smell so good,” he whispered. “Like amber. Something deeper, moss or vetiver, I can't —”
Tugging San's scent patch halfway off, Wren took a deep breath. His muscles relaxed, entire body going limp in San's arms as the tension drained away. San held him close, whispering that Wren would be all right, he was here now. Everything would be fine.
It was a blatant lie, but it seemed to be what Wren needed in the moment. They stayed that way for what felt like hours and truly might have been, as Wren's purrs faded into the soft sounds of sleep. San nuzzled at his hair, breathing him in, more relaxed and content with the omega in his arms than he could ever remember being. Ever watchful, as was his habit, San kept an eye on the comings and goings in the lounge, narrowly avoiding eye contact with a woman he recognized a little too well. She too wore a mask, but it was more of a suggestion than a disguise, an accessory to complement her little black dress.
Kestrel, San thought. Second in command to Jaeger, owner of Velvet Chain, and responsible for most of the day to day operations inside. She was also an omega, which San viewed as a complete betrayal of her designation. The Bureau’s files indicated that she had been a victim of trafficking herself at a young age, cozying up to her captors in a successful bid for power. San knew he should have some sympathy for the life she had been forced to lead, but couldn’t find an ounce of it within himself, not with Wren cradled in his arms.
At least now he had something more to report. San tried to memorize details about the group she was meeting with through covert glances, never drawing attention to himself. Eventually a look at his watch told him they were perilously close to last call, and he doubted Wren would want to be woken up by a server delivering that message. Stroking his side, San nuzzled at his hair.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he said softly.
Wren stirred, then stiffened up in San's arms. Sitting up quickly, he wore a horrified look on his face when his eyes met San's.
“I'm so sorry,” he blurted out. “I can't believe I fell asleep on you, what time is it —”
“Shh,” San attempted to soothe him. “I didn't mind. You seemed like you needed the rest. I don't think anyone noticed,” he added hastily as Wren looked around the room.
“But you came here to have someone to talk to and I just – I just —”
“Wren,” San said firmly. “I came here to spend time with you. The fact that you felt comfortable enough with me to sleep makes me feel, well, it – it makes me happy.”
Someday, San thought, he would stop blushing like a schoolgirl around the other man. That day was unfortunately not today.
Wren looked at him with an expression so honest it felt dangerous. “Thank you,” he said. “For letting me.”
Leaning in, he pressed a quick, soft kiss to San's lips, leaving them tingling. San felt something in his chest crack, a dam beginning to break. Cupping Wren's cheek in his hand, San stroked his cheekbone as they lingered in each other's space, foreheads touching. It felt like an admission, like standing at the edge of a precipice, desperate to fall.
“Last round,” a voice sounded from beside the table, and San didn't know whether to be furious or relieved.
The moment broken, Wren pulled away, wiping at his eyes. “I don't want you to leave,” he whispered.
“I don't want to go,” San replied. “But I can't stay.”
“I know,” Wren said, sliding off his lap. “I know.”
San stood from the booth and took Wren's hand, pressing a kiss to the back. Wren gave a soft laugh that stuck in his throat. “That's my gentleman,” he said, a flush spreading across his nose and cheeks.
“Always,” San replied, only thinking better of it once it was out of his mouth. Lowering Wren's hand, he gave it a gentle squeeze before letting it go and turning to leave.
“Come back and see me?” Wren said, as he did every time, the slightest waver in his voice.
“Of course I will,” San said, glancing back over his shoulder.
Wren smiled, and it was all San could do to put one foot in front of the other and force himself to leave. Unable to help one last look back, his heart dropped to see Wren perched at the edge of the booth, head in his hands. A waiter approached him and Wren lifted his head, a defeated expression on his face.
“Find someone else,” he said, audible over the quiet murmurs from the tables nearest to San.
Something stilled in the air, the murmuring abruptly ceasing as heads turned in Wren's direction. The waiter paused for a moment before nodding and heading back in the direction he'd come. Wren shook his head as if to clear it, rising from the booth and heading toward the back of the room.
San forced himself to turn away, his feet dragging as he headed for the stairs. He wasn't sure he had ever been so fucked in all his life. San couldn't deny it any longer; he was falling, hard, and it just might be his ruin.
Excitement rippled through the conference room the next morning as San described his sighting of Kestrel and the others she was with. His regret was instantaneous when the agents began making plans to move in, deciding it would be better to bring her in now than wait for the kingpin to show. For all they knew, he wasn't even in the country, having been unable to track his recent movements.
San's chest ached, knowing he might never see Wren again after Friday night. Assuming they caught him in their safety net, he might be relocated and given a new identity, with San forbidden from contacting him. It would be for the best, San told himself. Wren would be safe and secure.
His alpha argued that Wren would be safe with them, but San pushed it down. He couldn't afford to think that way, not if he wanted to stay even remotely sane. He didn't even know if Wren would want to see him after this, no matter how much better his life was going to be. He wouldn't need San, in fact Wren would probably be better off without him.
None of that helped as San got ready for the evening, fussing with his hair and clothes, selfishly wanting to leave a good impression in Wren's mind. He showed up earlier than usual, coordinating with the agents in a van parked nearby and the team they had ready to send in once San gave the signal. He begged not to be wired up, arranging to send a casual looking text instead, and Maddox looked at him with obvious sympathy. He could see right through him, and San knew it.
He had never been so grateful for that understanding when Wren sauntered over to his table, San’s breath catching as he emerged into the dim lamplight. Radiant in a red slip dress, black straps visible at his shoulders from the lingerie beneath, Wren leaned against the table for San to take it all in. Black lace peeked out above the low neckline, accented by his simple gold necklace, and San's heart stuttered in his chest. The omega's makeup was light except for lipstick matching his dress, and San wanted it all over him.
He was so distracted, San almost missed Jaeger sitting a table near the back with Kestrel and a few others he recognized from briefings. He couldn't believe their luck.
“You look so beautiful,” he said, turning back to Wren and reaching out a hand.
Wren took it, beaming at the compliment. “Thanks, handsome,” he replied, sliding into the booth. Leaning in close, he whispered something that made San's pulse race. “I wanted to wear something special for you.”
“Believe me, I appreciate it,” San said, wrapping his arms around Wren's waist as the omega crawled onto his lap.
Not content to sit sideways this time, Wren straddled his hips, causing his dress to ride up. His legs were shaved, a detail San hadn't been able to see through his stockings last time. San felt a fever building inside him, one he struggled to contain even as his hands slid down over the satin fabric to stroke Wren's thighs. He had never been more lost as Wren leaned in close.
“Kiss me,” he whispered against San's ear. “Please, San, just fucking kiss me tonight.”
San did, cupping Wren's cheek in his hand and leaning back just far enough to see his eyes flutter shut. Pressing his lips to Wren's, the kiss was soft at first, almost gentle as San tilted his head for a better angle. It grew hotter, more intense as Wren licked at his lips, opening his mouth to invite him in. San tasted him, a tingle of mint giving way to something else, something indefinably Wren that he memorized to carry him through.
Wren’s eyes looked glazed when he pulled back to catch his breath. Before San could stop him, Wren’s fingers grazed lightly along his cheeks, lifting the mask and casting it aside. San froze, a prey animal caught and held by Wren’s gaze, afraid he would only disappoint.
“Oh,” Wren breathed out, his eyes scouring San’s face. “You're perfect. I knew you would be.”
“Been thinking about me?” San asked, still dazed from the kiss.
“Every day since we met,” Wren confessed.
He leaned back in for another kiss that San eagerly returned, having nearly forgotten the entire reason he was here. It was hot and wet and amazing as Wren rocked his hips forward against the hardness in San's slacks. He did it again, making San's cock twitch, and he knew he had to stop it before things went too far.
“Wren,” he gasped out, pulling back from the kiss. “I can't.”
Wren's hand moved from his shoulder to stroke between his legs, the other still wrapped firmly around the back of San's neck. San's hips hitched forward against the touch and he swallowed hard. He could do this. He could still stop it, no matter how much he wanted to let Wren's hand continue its firm slide along his cock.
“I mean it,” San said, taking Wren gently by the wrist and placing his hand at his waist.
“Why?” Wren asked, his voice breathy but intense. “We both want it.”
“Because I do, but not like this, not here,” San said.
A pained look flickered across Wren’s face, and San realized what he had said. There was no other place for the omega, no other way, and San had just told Wren he didn’t want what he had to give. Brow wrinkling, San searched for the right words to fix what he might have just broken. There was really only one thing he could say, and it terrified him.
“You’re worth so much more than this to me, Wren. You have to know how I feel —”
Wren pressed three fingers to his lips. “Don't say it,” he said, the words sounding brittle. “Just give me this, San, please.”
“I can't,” San said. “Not when I know you aren't here willingly.”
Wren froze. “I don't know what you mean,” he said, his voice stilted.
“Wooyoung,” San admonished, the name feeling strangely perfect on his tongue. “You do.”
Wooyoung pulled back, a look of terror on his face. “Who are you?” he whispered.
“Detective Choi San,” he said as quietly as possible, leaning in to whisper the words against Wooyoung's ear. He didn't miss the slight shiver that wracked the omega's frame in response. "I wanted to tell you, but —”
“You lied to me,” Wooyoung said, disbelief warring with a fierce anger in his tone as he tried to pull away.
“I had good reason,” San said, his hands finding Wooyoung’s waist to hold him close and hating the omega's flinch in response. “I’ve been working with the FBI. When the lights go out tonight, I need you to get under this table and stay there until I come back for you.”
“Or what?” Wooyoung spat out.
“Or you could get hurt,” San said intently. “And that would kill me.”
Wooyoung pulled back, his expression softening briefly as his eyes searched San’s face, before hardening again. “What's going to happen?” he asked, his voice quiet but sharp.
“I can't tell you that,” San said. “You might think you know who you can trust —”
Wooyoung shook his head. “No one. There's no one.”
“Promise me you'll hide,” San said, leaning back in.
“Kiss me again and I will,” Wooyoung replied.
Drawing back, San took Wooyoung’s face in his hands and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth, then another, and another. Wooyoung’s hand tangled in his hair, holding him close as he captured San's lips, deepening the kiss. It felt oddly like goodbye as he tried to tell Wooyoung everything he felt without words. He seemed to understand, responding in kind.
San's eyes were wet as he at last pulled back, stroking Wooyoung’s cheeks. The omega silently unclasped the tiny gold necklace he always wore and fastened it around San's neck before tucking it away beneath the open collar.
“Don't forget me,” he said, his voice dull.
“I'm coming back for you,” San promised. “I will find you.”
“Don't,” Wooyoung said, something in his face shutting down. “Just don't.”
San's heart gave a lurch, and he was sure it stopped beating for a moment before he was able to breathe. He knew he should have expected Wooyoung’s anger, but it still cut like a knife. “Why?”
“Because you made me love you,” Wooyoung snapped, his voice cracking around the words. “And then you made me hate it.”
San’s eyes shut against the pain his words provoked. “Please, just let me —”
“I think you've done enough damage,” Wooyoung said, sliding off his lap. “Do what you have to do, but leave me out of it.”
San swallowed hard, pulling his phone from his pocket. Risking a furtive glance across the room, San saw Jaeger frowning down at his phone as the others picked theirs up in sync. Sending the urgent text, he put his phone away, desperate to take Wooyoung’s hand where it rested on the seat beside him. Wooyoung simply pulled away when he tried, and San's heart dropped. It was for the best, San tried to tell himself, but he knew a lie when he heard one.
When the lights cut out, he felt Wooyoung disappear from his side. Drawing his gun from the small of his back beneath his suit jacket, San waited as confusion spread around him in hushed tones, the sound of chairs scraping across hardwood loud inside the darkness. Then the door slammed back, the acrid smell of sulfur filling the room as smoke grenades bounced down the stairs. One half of the infiltration team followed, lights on the ends of their weapons striking the walls and tables as patrons screamed and scrambled to hide. A few warning shots rang out, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. Several other armed officers entered from the back, cutting off all hope of escape.
San knew any omegas in the private back rooms and lounges would be safe, their customers cuffed in a way they wouldn't appreciate before being led out to a police van. From there, they would be taken to the nearest precinct to be processed and interrogated for anything useful they might know.
San had just pulled his badge to identify himself when he saw Kestrel dart from below a table to make a break for the bar. San was close enough to attempt an intercept, vaulting the wooden countertop to cut her off. Kestrel spun in the opposite direction, but wasn’t quite fast enough as San grabbed her arm, the claws he hadn’t meant to sprout digging into her skin. Kestrel shrieked from pain, or perhaps just indignation as San spun her around, pressing her roughly against the sink. Pulling out his cuffs, he secured her to the bar before leaning in to whisper in her ear.
“You're a disgrace to your designation,” he growled.
Glancing over her shoulder, Kestrel held her head high despite her predicament. “You have no idea what it's like,” she said, her voice eerily calm. “Or what it turns you into. None at all.”
Clenching his jaw, San didn't respond. The lights came back up, not the gentle lamps above the tables, but harsh spots set into the ceiling, and San saw Jaeger placidly holding out his hands to be cuffed by Maddox. He wore the smirk of a man who knew the charges would never stick, who had friends in high enough places to beat the rap. Kestrel wouldn't be so lucky, and San knew the team was counting on her allegiance to once again prove fluid enough to turn against her boss.
Handing her off to an agent on the team named Eden, San watched the chaos around him gradually beginning to calm. Officers escorted out cuffed patrons, while two omegan agents took charge of rounding up the skittish and angry hosts. A quick glance around showed San that Wooyoung was not among them.
Heading back to the corner booth, San saw the table flipped on its side, his stomach lurching as he quickened his steps. Shattered glass lay scattered around it, and his heart stopped for the second time that night to see Wooyoung’s unmoving form behind the makeshift barrier. He was curled onto his side, bleeding from a gash on the side of his head, several others marring his arms.
San fell to his knees, heedless of the shards from the fallen lamp scattered across the ground. Shaking Wooyoung by the shoulder, San felt a panic rising in his chest at the lack of response. Securing his pistol, San scooped Wooyoung up into his arms and made for the stairs, knowing ambulances would be waiting above. He briefly stirred, wrapping his arms around San's neck before going limp. Backing through the emergency exit, San saw the wires cut to the alarm and had to laugh at how simple the team's ingress must have been. Men like Jaeger never thought they would be caught.
Red and blue lights refracted through the constant drizzle of rain, making the scene seem unreal. One of Wooyoung’s crimson heels dropped from his dangling foot and San retrieved it, making a beeline for the first ambulance he saw. Reluctantly handing Wooyoung over to the waiting EMTs, he allowed himself to be gently pushed out of the way. They went to work immediately, cleaning the blood from his temple and bandaging the wound, far smaller than San had feared. The cuts on his arm were similarly treated before they gestured for San to sit beside him, bracing Wooyoung while they held smelling salts beneath his nose.
Wooyoung woke with a start, pushing San aside once he realized where he was. “What did I tell you?” he asked, and god help him, San whined. The EMTs exchanged weighted glances, and beside him Wooyoung let out a heavy sigh.
“There's just no getting rid of you, is there?” he asked, his tone haughty.
“I have to take you down to the station to be debriefed,” San said reluctantly, knowing what the response would be.
“The hell you will,” Wooyoung snapped, his small fangs on display.
“I don't have a choice,” San protested. “But after that, you’ll never have to see me again.”
“Promise?” Wooyoung ground out, one fang drawing a tiny drop of blood from his lip.
San closed his eyes, hands clenched into fists on his lap. “I promise.”
“Fine,” Wooyoung said, the word pointed like a barb.
Once the EMS hastily cleared him, San held out his suit jacket, which Wooyoung snatched from his hand and put on. It swallowed him whole, but the sight of the omega wearing it pleased something deep in his alpha brain. Kneeling before him, San slid the heel he had been holding back onto Wooyoung’s foot, wondering how in the hell he ever walked in them.
“Which of these lovely chariots is to be my escort?” Wooyoung asked, gesturing to the assembled police cars.
“None of them,” San said quietly. “I'll drive you myself. I – I got permission,” he lied.
Wooyoung shot him a suspicious glance before following him around the building to where his aging Civic was parked in the lot. San helped him inside, having noticed the wobble in his step. San figured he had to have at least a mild concussion, but he wasn't about to bring up a trip to the hospital.
“I think I would have preferred the cruiser,” Wooyoung said wryly, taking in the state of San's car. He kept meaning to clean it out, he really did, but somehow it just never happened.
“I'm not taking you to the station,” San admitted. “But I need you to do me a favor.”
Wooyoung sniffed. “Oh yeah? What's that?”
“Let me take you somewhere safer,” San begged.
“What, like your flat?” Wooyoung said with a harsh laugh. “I'm sure that's incredibly secure, definitely safe enough to keep out the people who are going to be looking for me, thanks to you.”
“You’re right, it isn't safe. And anyway, I wouldn't —” He shook his head. “The friends I told you about? They're in a pack now, and they live in what just might be the safest place in the city outside of MCC.”
Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, covering for the confusion that had briefly flickered across his face. “Oh really? Do tell.”
“It's a penthouse suite,” San replied. “The security is no joke. No one's getting up there, I promise you.”
“You want me to stay with a strange pack, just like that?” Wooyoung's eyebrows could have touched the ceiling. “What if the alpha turns on me, what if I just don't fit or smell wrong and they —”
“Hongjoong is a lawyer, he advocates for omega rights. Seonghwa’s a psychologist, but now he works with Social Services to help victims of abuse get new starts. The others are a mixed bag, but I think you'll like them.”
“If they're your friends, why aren't you in their pack?”
San was quiet for a moment before answering. His reasons were a little embarrassing, he supposed, but he might as well tell Wooyoung the truth of it. The omega might be living with them, after all. He should know that the pack’s arrangement was somewhat unorthodox.
“Seonghwa and Hongjoong have been together since university. They sort of inadvertently became a pack when they met Mingi and Yunho, who were joined at the hip. There just…wasn't ever a place for me.” He paused. “I'm not really sure about Yeosang and Jongho, they seem to float between everyone else. The fact is that they're not interested in me that way, and I didn't want to be the odd man out.”
“And you want to send me into the same situation,” Wooyoung said flatly.
“I'm not asking you to join their pack,” San explained patiently. “Just to stay with them for a little while. It's a penthouse for godssakes, it's not like I'm sending you to some rundown safehouse.”
Wooyoung crossed his arms over his chest. “All right, fine,” he said after a tense moment.
San picked up his phone and made the call.