Chapter Text
He wore a coat of midnight velvet, its surface catching the candlelight with each subtle shift of his frame, cut to honor the proud breadth of his shoulders and taper, with precise arrogance, at the waist.
Mother-of-pearl buttons fastened his sleeves, each one catching the light like a droplet of morning dew. His cravat gleamed pure and blinding white, knotted with a careless elegance that only served to sharpen the promise of mischief curled at the corner of his mouth.
The Alpha blinked at his reflection in the looking glass, hair slicked back save for one rebellious strand that fell deliberately into his eye.
He looks good. And he knows it.
He’ll be reminded of it, again and again, as he walks the corridors of the palace, past maids and stewards, nobles and high wolves. They will all pause — some subtly, others not — to admire his beauty as he strides towards the dining hall.
There’s something about him, they always say. Features soft, yet cut from marble. Eyes like a hawk’s — sharp, calculating — and a smile sweet enough to inspire poetry. Or whatever flattering nonsense was whispered in hopes of landing in his bed.
His confident stride halts.
At the far end of the corridor, his father, the king, paces, flanked by a tight cluster of nobles and high wolves, each one visibly distressed.
“My prince.”
Jimin turns sharply to Namjoon, his valet. The man’s expression is pale, worried.
“What is it, Namjoon?” Jimin asks, eyes flicking back to the gathering ahead. Royal counsellors, all of them.
“There has been a threat,” Namjoon utters, voice low, gaze steady. “To your name, my prince.”
Jimin’s brows draw low. A growl curls in his throat.
“Son,” comes the king’s voice. “You’re here, come.”
He swallows the growl, his steps measured as he approaches. The counsellors part without a word, bowing their heads in deference. Silence hangs heavy in the corridor, broken only by the rustle of fine robes.
Jimin’s eyes flash crimson. His claws lengthen.
“I heard, Your Highness,” he growls, bowing stiffly at the waist. He watches his father click his tongue, a sneer cast down Namjoon’s way. No doubt his valet is wincing.
“He did right to tell me, Father,” Jimin says coolly. “Or were you planning to keep me in the dark?”
The king’s gaze sharpens, then clears as he straightens. “We have discussed this.”
Jimin lets out a low growl in warning. He knows — they know — this is not a matter to be discussed without him. The king moves to the high-backed chair at the head of the long table, settling in with his chin raised, chest puffed. A clear assertion of rank.
He will have no say in this.
“We have decided to assign you a guard,” the king declares. Jimin’s second growl goes unacknowledged. “The strongest wolf under our command. A warrior trained since boyhood.”
“No one defends me better than I do,” Jimin snaps, body tight, crimson eyes flaring at the implication that he requires protection.
“An Enigma,” the king says at last, fingers tightening around the arms of the chair until his knuckles pale.
Jimin stills.
Every muscle pulls taut as if bracing for impact.
An Enigma.
The most powerful subgender among them. Born warriors.
A golden wolf called to protect the crown’s diamond.
Just how serious is this threat?
“Appa,” he breathes, voice stripped of its usual steel. Vulnerability bleeds through. It would be a disgrace for the crown prince to walk with a guard , but worse still, an Enigma. What message would that send? That he is a coward, unfit to defend himself? That he would selfishly claim one of their most formidable warriors for his own safety?
That his life is worth more than theirs?
But the king is already rising to his feet, shaking his head.
“The decision has been made,” he says, voice final. “There will be no discussion.”
He leaves without another word. The wolves trail after him like shadows, heads bowed, eyes averted as they pass the prince.
No one meets his gaze.
No one offers comfort.
He has no say in this matter.
They’ve made that abundantly clear.
♛
Jimin stops dead in his tracks the moment he enters his chambers.
His once immaculate hair now clings damply to his brow, unruly strands curling from sweat. His chest rises and falls with exertion, bare and glistening, while his trousers cling to his thighs like a second skin. He stands still, scanning the room with a soldier’s alertness.
Training had seemed the only cure for the restlessness clawing beneath his skin. The morning’s exchange with his father left him raw, his pride bruised and his wolf roused. Two hours with sword and sweat had done little to quiet the storm inside him.
Yet now, back in the comfort of his quarters, his instincts spike anew.
The room is exactly as he left it...spotless. Namjoon must have checked it himself, or sent the maids to do so. Normally, Jimin can distinguish each of their scents with ease.
But this—this was different.
A smell lingers, faint but undeniable. Earthy, unfamiliar, like crushed pine and petrichor after rain. Not overwhelming, just the trace of a single footstep, perhaps, before its owner withdrew.
Jimin’s nostrils flare. He tries to catch it again, nose twitching, but it’s gone. Dissipated. Slipping just out of reach like a shadow in fog.
With a growl of frustration, he tosses the soaked training rag onto his desk and begins stripping away the remnants of battle. He'd dismissed his Lady-in-Waiting earlier, craving solitude. Though she never speaks unless spoken to, her presence still stirs his wolf, who enjoys the pampering far more than he cares to admit.
Steam curls in the air as he sinks into the prepared bath. The water welcomes him, warm and perfumed with florals and amber, a combination he prefers despite his Alpha status. Softer fragrances suit him. Fellow Alphas have commented on it before, some daring a second inhale as he passes. Omegas, though, seem most drawn to it. They’ve whispered as much in his ear, purring praise of his scent during courtship galas and velvet seasons. He’s long suspected they do so more to win favor than out of genuine desire.
He is, after all, the crown prince.
The heir to the throne.
What would they whisper now, he wonders, when he walks beside an Enigma like a child escorted to his morning lessons? What would they say of a prince guarded like a helpless thing?
The thought sours his mood. He kicks his foot through the water, careless of the splash that follows.
But then he freezes.
The scent.
It’s stronger here.
How had he not noticed before? It wraps around him now, settling into his skin, stirring something deep and involuntary within.
And slowly, without meaning to, Jimin’s body begins to relax. The tension uncoils from his limbs as he sinks deeper into the water, head tipping back against the tub’s edge. The flicker of wariness remains, silent, coiled.
But for now, he breathes.
And the scent lingers.
♛
A waistcoat of deep emerald, rich as a forest at dusk, clings to his chest. its embroidery catching the light with each measured, assured step. His boots offer a sharp contrast, velvet-dark and decadent, gleaming faintly beneath the chandeliers.
Jimin has never been one to let emotion dictate his attire, though he suspects it would hardly matter even if he tried. His valet—perpetually fretful and fastidious—curates every garment with the same devotion a priest might give to holy ritual.
Behind him stands his dear friend, adjusting the fall of Jimin’s sleeve with a final, approving pat to his shoulder. There’s a smile of quiet pride on Namjoon’s lips as he surveys Jimin’s reflection in the glass.
“Gorgeous,” he dares say, bold in tone despite the divide in their stations.
But Jimin only smiles. Their friendship predates rank. Namjoon had been summoned years ago—not as a servant, but as a tutor, a clever beta meant to tame the temper of a prince who refused to listen to scholars. It was Jimin’s mother who insisted he learn from someone closer to his own age, someone who might speak to him like a peer rather than a subject.
And though his parents saw fit to reassign Namjoon as valet rather than court scholar, Jimin has never treated him as anything less than an equal.
Instead, he gives Namjoon the one thing he knows he values most. Freedom. Unrestricted access to the royal library, leave to wander the Winter Wing as often as his heart desires. It pleases Jimin to see him stride toward the archives, eager and bright-eyed, the scent of old books clinging to his coat when he returns.
“I know you’re upset, my prince,” Namjoon says now, voice gentler, “but I urge you to receive the help with an open heart. His Majesty is aging, and a threat to you is a threat to the kingdom.”
He pauses, eyes steady in the mirror, his tone turning grave. “I, for one, would much rather see you on the throne than any other undeserving wolf.”
Jimin blinks, throat tightening. Gratitude wells behind his eyes, unbidden. Doubt has always followed him like a shadow—this quiet, creeping fear that he will fail his people, that the bloodline he was born to continue might end with him.
But Namjoon never lets him spiral. His eyes, serious and steady, remind Jimin of who he is. Who he could be. Not a reluctant heir, but a rightful ruler.
Jimin swallows.
He stands before the tall, lacquered doors of the Gilded Hall, the place of royal audiences and ceremonial affairs. Today, it serves a different purpose, the formal introduction to the Enigma, the man who will accompany him through every task, every waking hour, until the looming threat is neutralized.
Gods only know how long that will take.
Jimin cannot remember a time when the scent of danger did not linger just behind his shoulder.
A voice echoes through the great hall, the concierge announcing his presence. The towering doors part, carved in the image of two wolves locked in a clash of teeth, allowing light to spill across the marbled floor.
The hall is a portrait of faded glory. Chandeliers blaze from the high ceiling, gilded paintings line the walls in exquisite symmetry, and though the space once pulsed with music and laughter—wolves dancing through velvet seasons—today, it is quiet. Nearly empty.
Only his father’s throne and the royal guards remain.
And one man.
He stands still, his back to Jimin. Broad shoulders fill the storm-grey of his jacket, its tailoring so precise it seems almost carved into him, the fabric stretched in rigid perfection across his form. Not a single wrinkle dares mar the discipline etched into every inch of him.
The King nods in permission.
The man turns.
And Jimin forgets to breathe.
The Enigma’s face is sharp, devastatingly composed. Jaw chiseled, nose high-bridged, eyes a piercing violet that catch the light like lightning held still. There is nothing unintentional about him. Every feature feels deliberate, as if divinity itself had sculpted him with impossible care.
Their gazes lock.
A moment, no more than that. Yet it stretches into something unspoken, something electric and unbearable.
Jimin’s breath stutters. His wolf bristles, not so much in warning, but rather, in stunned awareness.
The man bows. A mere dip of his head, refined and proper. But just before he lowers his gaze, the faintest curl of a smirk graces his lips... gone as swiftly as it came, like a secret only Jimin was meant to witness.
♛
“Holy—he’s a handsome one, isn’t he? So domineering, too. No wonder Enigmas are so sought after. I’d jump him in a heartbe—Jimin?”
A hand waves in front of his face, pulling him sharply from his reverie. Iseul, his stewardess, peers at him with mild concern, her tone light but her gaze unwavering.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
Despite her rank, Iseul has always possessed a kind of quiet, instinctive insight, uncanny in its precision. She’s a beta, yes, but one who reads Jimin’s silences better than most Omegas ever could. She’s the first to notice when his thoughts unravel or his emotions stretch too thin beneath his skin.
He blinks, eyes shifting to her, and something in him tugs with unexpected sadness. He wishes, just for a moment, that things were different. That she were an Omega. She is clever, bright, relentlessly loyal. A perfect consort in every way...except the one that matters. Though he knows even if she was she wouldn’t be welcome on the throne.
Jimin is not to be mated to anyone who isn’t an Omega, and anyone who isn’t a noble. It is tradition. Law. Expectation.
It’s also why his court is composed almost entirely of betas and Alphas. A carefully curated environment, void of temptation or misstep. A safeguard meant to keep him aligned, to remind him always of what is owed from a prince to a kingdom.
And yet—His gaze flicks to the man standing just beyond, a silent sentinel cloaked in storm-grey and menace.
The first exception.
Enigmas, by their very nature, are permitted liberties others are not . Despite the fact the Enigmas are known to be such strong temptations, that their pheromones can enchant even Alphas, his appointment was deemed a necessity. A symbol of strength amidst political unease. A reassurance to the kingdom. A leash for the prince.
Jimin scoffs under his breath.
The man is everything they were trying to shield him from.
“Does his presence unsettle you so much?” Iseul asks gently. And when he does not answer, she continues, “Why not relieve him of his duties?”
He doesn’t respond with words. He doesn’t have to. A low growl hums in his throat instead, subtle but unmistakable, as Jungkook turns slightly, catching the sound.
That bastard.
He doesn’t even try to hide the twitch of amusement that dances over his perfect mouth. One brow lifts in silent mockery, a knowing gleam in his eye.
He heard the growl. And he is enjoying it.
Enjoying that Jimin cannot remove him.
“I can’t,” Jimin mutters, lips curling into a reluctant pout.
“Ah,” Iseul says, bumping her shoulder against his with a grin. “Well. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a rather fine view, no?”
Her eyes twinkle, teasing, and Jimin allows himself a breath of laughter. Perhaps she’ll never sit beside him on the throne, but she’ll remain in his life all the same, a cherished constant in a castle built of expectations and loneliness.
“Little prince.”
The voice cuts through the space like silk drawn over steel—low, lazy, and saturated with smug delight.
Iseul doesn’t even try to contain her groan of exasperation, she's seen this film countless time to not know the ending. “Good heavens,” she mutters, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you two before the tension chokes me.”
Jimin doesn't stop her.
Instead, he rises slowly, turning to face Jungkook fully.
“Didn’t I say not to call me that?” he grits out, Jaw tight.
But the effect is laughable. He has to crane his neck just to meet Jungkook’s eyes, the height difference between them a cruel thing. It’s an effort to stand tall when the man opposite him is carved from war and confidence and unshakable stillness.
Jungkook merely smirks.
“You are a prince,” he replies, each word smooth and mocking, head tilting as if in consideration. “And little.”
He tilts his head again, studying Jimin with that maddening gleam in his eye.
“It is only fitting.”
Something crackles between them. Something hot, tense, electric. Like the hush before lightning splits the sky.
It didn’t start this way. At first, Jungkook was just insubordinate. A nuisance with sharp edges and sharper timing. For two full months, he’s made it his mission to contradict Jimin’s every word—not out of laziness or incompetence, but out of something more deliberate. Rebellious. Calculated.
He prowls through the palace as if rank and rule are optional, his movements fluid with the kind of arrogance that makes blood boil. He brushes off Jimin’s commands like dust from his sleeve, as if they were nothing more than idle suggestions. And yet...he’s everywhere. Always a step behind, a breath too close. Glued to him, shadowing every motion, every pause, every stolen moment.
At first, Jimin was furious.
“Did you hear me, Enigma?” he had snapped the first time, voice taut with irritation. He remembers the way Jungkook approached, slow, smug, eyes glinting with something almost cruel.
“Did you say something, little prince?” he’d asked, unbothered, almost amused.
That insolence hasn’t stopped. But something else has settled in the space between them now, thick and unspoken. Jungkook watches him too closely. Stares too long. The violet in his gaze gleams like moonlight over obsidian, hypnotic and suffocating all at once.
Now, Jimin’s hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles pale with restraint. His jaw ticks in that involuntary way it does whenever Jungkook looks at him like that. With heat, with challenge, with the kind of focus that unravels reason.
He could shout. Demand. Command.
But somewhere along the way, that stopped feeling like enough.
Because this isn’t disobedience anymore. This is a game. A slow, smoldering battle of will and want. And Jimin doesn’t know when exactly he started playing. Only that he can’t seem to stop.
There are moments—brief, maddening moments—when Jungkook’s voice curls around him like smoke, warm and low and too close, and Jimin feels it...that flutter, that ache, that heat pooling low in his belly where it has no business being.
And in the quiet after the teasing, Jimin begins to wonder if that’s Jungkook’s aim all along. To push him to the edge of his own control. To watch him falter.
His fingers clutch at the edge of his cloak, the fabric soft beneath the press of his uncertainty. He hasn’t yet decided whether he wants to strangle Jungkook or—
No. Not that.
Never that.
But when Jungkook steps closer, the air coils tight between them again, and Jimin is struck by the same cruel thought that’s haunted him more and more lately:
He’s not the one in control.
Not here.
Not with him.
Though he steels himself, Jimin’s resolve begins to splinter with each breath, each treacherous inhale that draws in the Enigma’s scent, thick and heady, as if spun from velvet and smoke. It clings to his senses, ensnares his mind, until it feels as though they share not just space but breath.
“Careful, little prince,” Jungkook murmurs, voice dipped in amused warning, his lips grazing the shell of Jimin’s ear. His breath is warm, scandalously so. “Some might say you’re far too susceptible to an Enigma’s spell.”
The caution is wasted. Jungkook’s pheromones saturate the air—intoxicating, overwhelming—until Jimin’s limbs hum with betrayal, knees threatening to bend beneath the weight of his own treacherous longing. Who in their right mind allowed this arrangement? Had no one thought to remind Jungkook of his place? Of his bounds?
With a growl of self-reproach, Jimin presses both palms to the other’s chest and shoves him back. Jungkook scarcely moves, his solid frame yielding no more than a step.
Jimin can't deny that doesn't hurt his Alpha's pride.
The sound that escapes Jungkook is a chuckle, low and indulgent, the smirk curling his lips infuriatingly smug. He dips his head—not a bow, never that—just a measured tilt. A mockery of deference.
Jimin bristles. His fingers twitch at his sides with the childish urge to stomp the polished floors in protest.
“I’m going to bathe in preparation for the ball tonight,” he declares, chin high, words clipped. “Will you be joining me there as well Enigma?”
It is meant as scorn, a jab. But the moment the words leave him, he regrets them.
Jungkook smiles, slow and unhurried. “If you wish me to, little prince.”
A trap, and Jimin had stumbled straight into it.
He rolls his eyes and strides past, swift-footed in a weak attempt to outpace both the man and his own mounting embarrassment. He is acutely aware of the warmth pooling beneath his skin, the blush threatening to betray him. He has thought of it. Too many times.
Tales of Enigmas have always wandered the palace halls. Creatures of preternatural allure, superior to the whims of rank or bloodline. Even the most resolute Alphas, they say, have bent the knee before them. Jimin had always dismissed such gossip as fanciful drivel. Alphas are dominant by nature—unyielding, unbowed. The very notion that another might dominate him bordered on absurdity.
And yet...here he stands, body thrumming from the barest whisper of teasing.
Absurd. Entirely absurd.
He must be lonely. That is the only reasonable explanation. Perhaps tonight’s gathering will ease this unseemly ache festering in his chest.
♛
Despite the earlier jest, Jungkook does indeed accompany him to the bath.
Tonight, Jimin chooses the garderobe, where ornate marble and gilded sconces lend the space a ceremonial air, fitting, he supposes, for the Gathering to come. A tradition of delicate pomp and political consequence. Where noble Omegas present themselves like blossoms, each hoping to be plucked.
His father, ever the ruler, has pressed for the Choosing Season to begin in earnest and intends to announce it this very evening.
Jimin had not objected. He rarely does when duty calls. He may possess the habits of indulgence, but he was raised for the crown. and intends to earn it.
Still, none of that explains why Jungkook remains stationed by the door, arms crossed, expression resolute. As if guarding the realm itself.
Jimin stiffens beneath his attendants’ touch.
“You may go,” he says, not to the maids, but to him. “There is clearly no threat here.”
His voice sharpens, and his scent follows suit, piercing through the perfumed air. The maids flinch, only for a breath, before returning to their work with practiced grace.
Jungkook does not stir.
“I haven’t personally vetted any of the servants present,” he replies, voice low and grave. His gaze falls—not politely, not fleetingly—but with a slow, scorching deliberation.
A maid shifts to cleanse Jimin’s chest, the damp cloth grazing his nipples. It tightens under Jungkook’s stare, and Jimin silently thanks the heavens it is, at the very least, covered.
“You are at your most vulnerable here,” Jungkook continues, after a weighted pause. “And it is my duty to ensure your safety, no matter the setting.”
His voice is different now, thicker, touched with something Jimin cannot name.
A hand moves lower, cloth trailing toward his hips. Jimin catches the maid’s wrist, fingers tight. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t mind. Such attentions are routine. Expected.
But not under that gaze.
“I’ll do it,” he says, his voice rougher than he intends.
The maid bows her head and steps back, silent. Another pours fresh oils into the bath, the scent rising in curls of lavender and warm spice.
Jimin averts his eyes as he reaches for the cloth himself, jaw set, breath shallow. He wills the rising heat within him to settle.
Is this what it has come to? A glance—just a glance—and he’s undone.
He needs the Rose Gathering to fulfill its purpose.
He needs release.
The water does little to soothe him as time stands still.
His skin prickles beneath the surface, his every nerve aware of the gaze that has yet to leave him. Even as the scent of elder rose and crushed amber fills the air—meant to calm, to sedate—Jimin remains on edge. Not out of fear. No, never fear. It’s something far more maddening.
The scrape of a cloth against his collarbone, the gentle clink of a silver ladle against porcelain, every sound seems louder under Jungkook’s scrutiny. He dares a glance and regrets it instantly.
The Enigma hasn’t moved. One shoulder leans against the carved doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But his eyes...they burn.
This is getting ridiculous.
Jimin exhales sharply, fingers curling around the lip of the marble basin. “Will you be standing there the entire time?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t even blink. When he finally speaks, it’s a near-whisper. “Would you prefer I came closer?”
Jimin turns his face quickly, splashing water in a flustered attempt to hide the heat crawling up his neck. He bites the inside of his cheek and swears softly beneath his breath. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Jungkook murmurs. And though his tone is dry, it curls in the air like smoke.
Jimin has had enough. He stands, water cascading down his frame, and he doesn’t miss the way Jungkook’s throat bobs at the sight. Good. Let him suffer a little too.
Towels appear in delicate hands. Jimin accepts one, his movements curt and efficient as he wraps it low around his waist. He doesn’t bother to hide the way he walks with purpose, chin lifted, every step practiced and imperial.
But as he brushes past Jungkook, he pauses.
“Try not to ruin the Rose Gathering with your scent,” he says coolly, not looking at him. “The Omegas might run before I’ve had a chance to choose.”
There’s a beat of silence. “That wouldn’t be a problem,” Jungkook hums behind him. “Especially when none of them will hold your attention tonight.”
Jimin stiffens. Only slightly. Just enough to feel the way his heart gives a reckless flutter against his ribs.
He keeps walking.
♛
Gold threads ripple across his form, catching the light as they dance over his silk waistcoat. His trousers fall in rigid lines, unbending as his reputation, and his boots gleam with a soldier’s precision. mirror-shined and immaculately kept. His hair is once again slicked back, though he doubts that stubborn strand won’t slip free, falling over his warm brown eyes as it always does.
For a fleeting second, he imagines long fingers brushing it aside. A man standing before him, taller, surer, closer than he ought to be.
Jimin exhales sharply and shakes his head. He needs to gather himself.
He casts one last glance at the mirror that spans nearly the entire wall of his chambers. Namjoon had called him perfect before retiring to his study, offering his usual quiet reassurance and a blessing of luck.
And yet, as Jimin wipes his already damp palms against the sides of his coat, his stomach twists with nerves.
What if he finds no suitor tonight? What if no one stirs his heart? He knows the Choosing Season has only just begun, knows that tonight is not the end—but the thought of his father’s disappointed gaze still weighs heavily on him.
“Brother.”
Jimin turns quickly, eyes softening at the sound of Jihyun’s voice. His younger brother, his baby. A fond smile warms his face, one he saves for the Alpha who still clings to the boy he once was.
“As always, you look handsome,” Jihyun says, stepping closer.
Jimin chuckles as the boy approaches, his own grin mirrored in Jihyun’s expression. “Just handsome?”
Jihyun rolls his eyes. “Isn't it like you to fish for compliments.”
Jimin snickers and lifts a hand to pat the shorter’s head, the gold on his sleeve catching the light. Jihyun groans, mumbling about his freshly styled hair, but makes no effort to pull away. His gaze remains soft, turned upward toward his brother.
He’s always looked up to Jimin, ever since they were small and waddling through the palace gardens. He wouldn’t eat unless Jimin did. Wouldn’t ride unless Jimin went first.
And now, the only reason he tolerates these “boring balls,” as he calls them, is because they’re held in Jimin’s honor.
“You don’t have to choose any Omega if they don’t feel right,” Jihyun says suddenly, his tone more serious. “You’re the best heir to the throne. Everyone knows that. Whether you’re mated or not.”
Jimin’s smile softens, heart tugging at the words. Jihyun is only eighteen. And while Jimin, now twenty-two, has accepted the weight of his future, he would never wish such pressure on his brother. He’ll carry it all—for both of them—if it means Jihyun gets to live freely.
“Keep your eyes open for me tonight, hmm?” he teases gently. “Maybe you’ll spot the one for me before I do.”
Jihyun scoffs. “As if anyone here knows your type. You charm everyone out of their boots, but you remain unfazed. No wonder they call you the Ice Prince.”
Jimin laughs, a soft, breathy sound, and turns back to the mirror to avoid meeting his brother’s eyes.
Because it’s true.
No one has ever stirred hi. No Omega, Beta, or Alpha. Not until now.
Not until him .
The punishment of an Enigma who’s been in his life for barely two months—and who somehow managed, just today, to make his heart flutter.
Jimin almost dreads leaving the sanctuary of his chambers. His breath hitches faintly as he lingers by the threshold, knowing full well who waits just beyond it.
The man he fears—and longs—not to see.
He swallows hard, offering a small nod as Jihyun bids him temporary farewell, the younger prince grinning cheekily. “They’re all waiting for the Ice Prince’s grand entrance,” he says, voice light as he disappears down the corridor.
And then, silence—brief and weighted—before the door hisses open once more.
Jimin braces himself.
But the tease he expects never comes.
Instead, when he turns, it is not ridicule or smug amusement that greets him—but awe. Stillness. Something close to reverence.
Jungkook stands there, rooted, violet eyes gleaming under the soft candlelight, his expression unreadable save for the way his gaze lingers, slow and unapologetic as it travels down the length of Jimin’s form. For a moment, Jimin forgets how to breathe.
He watches as Jungkook swallows, jaw flexing faintly, and when their eyes finally meet, his voice emerges low and uneven, almost broken.
“Little prince,” he murmurs. “They’re waiting for you.”
The words are simple, but they land like a thunderclap in Jimin’s chest. He nods, cheeks flushed crimson under the weight of that look, the one Jungkook wears so openly now, bold and blistering.
There’s nothing coy about it.
It’s hunger.
And it makes Jimin’s knees falter as he steps forward, each movement cautious, unsure whether Jungkook will step aside or take the lead.
He does neither.
The Enigma remains still, unwavering, violet fading into black as his pupils swell, his gaze sharpening with a quiet, barely restrained intensity.
“You look ravishing, little prince,” he says.
The words strike like heat across Jimin’s skin. His breath catches, an involuntary stutter slipping through his chest. He has no reply. Only the burning truth of it sitting heavy in the space between them.
Were anyone to overhear such insolence—such daring, spoken so brazenly to the crown prince—Jungkook would be punished without mercy. Disobedience is not taken lightly in the royal court. Everyone addresses Jimin with utmost respect.
And yet, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bow.
Instead, he steps closer, a hand pressing lightly against the small of Jimin’s back, guiding him forward when he fails to move.
His breath, warm and deliberate, ghosts against Jimin’s nape.
“Let’s find you your mate,” Jungkook whispers, voice dark with something dangerous, “My prince.”
Jimin shudders.
His steps falter, breath shallow as heat blooms across his skin. Every inch of him hums, skin taut and senses spiraling. That errant strand of hair—true to its nature—slips free, falling into his eyes.
And Jimin wonders, through the rising chaos in his chest, if Jungkook will dare to brush it away tonight.
♛
The ballroom is drenched in golden light, glittering like the very heart of a star.
Chandeliers hang like constellations from the arched ceilings, their countless candles catching on crystal and silk, on wine-stained laughter and the soft chime of violins. Tables groan beneath silver platters and spiced decadence, the air thick with scent and sound, velvet and laughter, perfume and power. The nobility of the realm—wolves of every standing, from every province—move like silk through the space, cloaked in opulence.
Alphas in brocade and tailored coats, their eyes sharp, teeth sharper. Omegas draped in gauze and jewels, eyes rimmed in kohl, whispers trailing behind them like perfume. Betas in crisp silks and formal polish, sleeves gleaming, postures perfect.
All dressed to be seen.
And yet...all fall still.
As the grand doors open, silence unfurls like a held breath, and every gaze turns toward him.
The Crown Prince.
Jimin steps into the light, flanked by a pair of guards and trailed, closely, by the Enigma cloaked in shadows behind him.
He should be used to this by now.
The hush. The awe. The way every pair of eyes hooks onto him like he is not a man, but a vision.
And still, the sight of it all takes something out of him.
The hall stretches far and wide, ceiling carved with ancient murals, the floor marbled to reflect the world above. A thousand faces turn, courtly expressions faltering just enough to betray the impact of his entrance. Gasps barely disguised. Fans fluttering. Lips parting. The orchestra doesn't stutter though, music flowing around Jimin as he steps forward.
Jimin walks with practiced grace, silk whispering around his legs, gold threading along his sleeves like vines in bloom, it shines brighter under the luxurious lights. His waistcoat gleams like sunlight at dusk, his boots quiet against the polished floor. Every inch of him is the picture of poise.
Admiration clings to him like dew.
And yet he feels nothing of it.
Let them look. Let them whisper. It has never moved him.
Not the way the presence behind him does.
He feels Jungkook’s gaze at his back like a flame licking at skin, steady and dark, more real than the chandeliers, the glinting jewels, the sea of adoring smiles. And as they pass through the crowd, guests bowing, heads lowering, shoulders inclining, Jimin catches it.
A glance. then another.
Two Omegas near the wine table. An Alpha lingering by the orchestra. A low-born noble with more ambition than rank.
All of them letting their eyes drift past Jimin and settle curiously—almost too curiously if you ask Jimin—on the tall figure trailing him in quiet step.
The Enigma.
Something sharp twists in Jimin’s chest.
He does not stop walking. His posture remains untouched. But a heat rises under his skin...slow and unfamiliar, as foreign as it is feral. The urge to turn to them, to bare teeth, to shield something that is not his. It shocks him.
He has never been one to covet.
And yet, he finds himself glaring ahead, jaw tight, not at the admiration he receives—but at the lustful gazes, however brief, given to the man behind him.
Mine, something inside him growls. Mine .
The thought shouldn’t exist. It shouldn’t live at all, and yet it coils around his ribs like ivy.
Jimin lifts his chin, gaze steady as he approaches the dais, passing nobles who nearly stumble in their bows. He does not acknowledge them. He is every inch the prince they named him.
But behind the mask of cold, royal elegance, his pulse races, dragged forward by the rhythm of steps just behind him.
Deliberate. Measured. Always there.
The hall stills once more as the King rises.
His presence demands nothing, yet commands everything. Clad in royal black and deep crimson, the crown gleaming low over his brow, he lifts his hand but once, and the orchestra silences as though cut by wind.
“My lords,” the King begins, voice deep and clear as it echoes off marble and gold. “My ladies. My beloved court.”
A ripple of bows and curtsies follows his words, the nobles reverent beneath his gaze.
“This season marks a chapter long awaited,” he continues. “As tradition dictates, when the heir to the throne reaches his prime, the Choosing shall begin. And this year, that honor falls upon none other than Crown Prince Jimin.”
Murmurs stir like wind in tall grass.
Jimin inclines his head at the mention of his name, expression schooled, regal. His hands remain still at his sides even as his heart beats furiously beneath silk and gold.
“The palace,” the King continues, “has prepared a season worthy of the Crown. Events, festivities, and courtship rituals,where eligible Omega nobles may seek the hand of our prince, should he find his match among them.”
There is an audible collective inhale.
Jimin feels it. The shift. The ripple of sudden interest. Omegas lift their chins just slightly. Alphas bristle. Betas exchange whispers. The air thickens with expectation. Desire. Strategy.
“On the eve of the Festival of Vows,” the King says, voice unwavering, “our Crown Prince shall announce the one he chooses. The Omega who will rise with him. To rule. To vow. To bind.”
Gasps, followed by a flurry of hushed voices.
Jimin smiles gently.
A courtier might call it serene. Some might even call it charming. But beneath the practiced curve of his lips, he can barely breathe.
His mind spins with possibilities. Faces, futures, the weight of duty pressing against the fragile edge of hope. What if he chooses wrong? What if he doesn’t choose at all? What if this entire season is a parade of hollow words, of beautiful masks and brittle smiles?
What if he never finds what he’s meant to?
His chest tightens.
But then—he feels it.
Warmth.
A slow, sure hum curling against his senses.
Jungkook steps just slightly closer, barely brushing the edge of propriety. No one seems to notice, but Jimin does. He always does. The Enigma’s scent, subtle but sure, washes over him like a second skin—cinnamon and heat, shadow and steadiness.
His own pheromones stir instinctively in answer. Relax, they say. You are not alone.
Jimin doesn’t dare look at him, not here, not with so many watching. But the tension in his shoulders softens. His spine straightens without strain. He exhales without realizing he’d been holding his breath.
He lets that scent cradle him. Allows himself, just for a moment, to lean—if not physically, then emotionally—into the presence that grounds him.
And then the music starts again.
Bright, buoyant, the first notes of the opening waltz soaring through the hall. A court official steps forward, bowing low before him.
“Your Highness,” he says. “May I present the first of many who hope to share a dance with you tonight.”
Jimin blinks slowly, smile returning, softer this time. He nods, extending his hand.
As he’s whisked away to the floor, gold and silk swirling around him, he casts one last glance over his shoulder.
Jungkook stands at the edge of the crowd, unmoving.
But Jimin knows. He is watching.
And Jimin...despite everything, despite the noise in his chest and the ache behind his smile, feels the phantom weight of the Enigma’s hand still pressed to his back.
He steps into the dance with practiced ease, but all the while, his body hums with only one truth.
He is not afraid of the season.
He is afraid of how much he already wants someone he cannot choose.
♛
The moon spills silver over the stone courtyard, light catching on the petals of the night-blooming roses that climb the garden walls. Jimin draws his cloak tighter around himself, the chill biting through silk and skin, but it isn’t the cold that keeps him awake.
He hears the soft sound of footsteps behind him before he turns.
Jungkook stands there, dark hair ruffled, coat thrown on hastily, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion—or maybe something else. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low.
His mere presence overwhelms Jimin. The Alpha never knows what to do with the way his mind stutters, the way his body reacts to the Enigma. So easily provoked. So easily undone.
Jimin shakes his head. “Didn’t try.”
A pause. The silence isn’t awkward. It never is. It’s just full...brimming with everything unspoken, everything they don’t dare name.
Jungkook steps closer. Not quite beside him, but close enough that their cloaks brush. “I used to try to protect them,” he says, nodding toward the roses. “My mother used to say they only bloomed at night for the lonely. I thought if I kept them alive, fewer people would have to feel it. That ache.”
Jimin huffs a breath, not quite a laugh. “Then they must bloom every night here.”
Jungkook’s smile is soft, fleeting. For a moment, it peels back the shadow and danger that usually cloaks him. “It’s unfortunate,” he murmurs.
Jimin tilts his head. “What is?”
Jungkook’s eyes stay on the flowers. His voice is barely a whisper when it comes. “That someone as breathtaking as you feels this lonely.”
Jimin’s chest tightens, his breathing shallowing.
“You managed to distract me,” he says with a faint smile, though they both know he means it in more ways than one.
The breeze stirs again. Jimin’s hair flutters over his brow and Jungkook reaches out, hesitates, then tucks a strand behind his ear. Jimin’s breath catches, eyelids fluttering at the gesture. Jungkook’s fingers linger just a beat too long.
“You drive me mad,” Jungkook murmurs. A truth, not a complaint.
before he freezes.
It’s only for a second. But it’s enough. His jaw tightens, eyes flicking away as if he’s realized too late what he’s allowed himself to feel. The air shifts with him.
He steps back, all the warmth fleeing with him.
“Get some sleep, little prince,” he says, voice reined in, cool again. And before Jimin can speak, before he can take the moment back, Jungkook turns and disappears into the dark, steps swallowed by the gravel and silence.
Jimin doesn’t chase.
He just stands there in the moonlight, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard—until the ache in his chest rises too sharp, and he presses his palms to his face and screams into them.
Softly, so no one will hear.
Except maybe the roses.
♛
Faces...blurred, distant, dull.
Jimin wears his smile like armor, lips curved in practiced grace even as his neck prickles under a gaze he cannot ignore. Conversation ebbs and flows like static, eeach suitor more forgettable than the last, their words blending into the background hum of the second Choosing Ball.
The second event. The second night. And still, not a single suitor chosen.
How could there be, when the Enigma shadows his every move?
Jungkook lingers like stormclouds over his shoulder, gaze cutting through silks and pleasantries, every flicker of attention directed at Jimin chased away by the weight of his presence. The few who dare smile—those bold enough to approach—rarely stay long. Not when Jungkook's eyes darken. Not when his scent shifts, warning and sharp.
It had taken begging—genuine, whispered pleas—for Jimin to convince his father to place Jungkook near the throne instead, rather than at his back. He claimed Omegas were too shy to approach with such a brooding sentinel looming behind him.
He’d swallowed the truth instead.
That even when Omegas do speak, he can barely hear them. Not over the burn of Jungkook’s stare. Not over the scent that coils in his lungs, heady and overwhelming, turning the air to syrup.
But this arrangement—this false reprieve—is no better.
Not when Jimin still burns.
The Omega before him speaks softly, stars in her eyes as she asks something delicate, something kind, no doubt. But Jimin misses every word. His attention, again, is elsewhere.
Because he feels it.
The air shifts. The space behind him warms.
Hot breath ghosts against the shell of his ear, deliberate, slow.
“The King,” Jungkook murmurs, voice low and dark with meaning, “wants you to find a better suitor.”
Jimin startles, eyes snapping to the throne where his father lifts a glass of wine in regal acknowledgment, smiling faintly from behind the rim.
Jimin turns back to the Omega, who tilts her head, waiting, confused.
“I—please excuse me,” he says quickly, flustered, bowing his head before slipping away, cheeks aflame.
A better suitor? His father had never been one for sentiment. Any noble Omega with enough standing would do, as long as the match benefited the Crown.
So why now?
Why the sudden scrutiny?
The night drags on, a twisted repetition. Each time conversation begins to settle, each time an Omega seems to hold Jimin’s attention a beat too long...there it is again. A breath at his ear. A whisper in that velvet rasp.
“The King isn’t impressed.”
Another hand at his waist. The slide of fingers that linger too long, too low. Jungkook, pulling him away with the barest touch, only to press closer than before.
By the time Jimin is steered toward yet another Omega, the one before him walking off with a quiet, dejected expression, his nerves are frayed thin.
Frustration coils beneath his skin.
Because it isn’t the disapproval that shakes him. It isn’t even his father’s manipulation.
It’s Jungkook.
It’s the way his breath scorches skin where no lips should touch. The way his voice grows thicker with each whisper. The way his grip tightens around Jimin’s waist with every new suitor, every new step away.
Possessive. Unapologetic.
As if the brief moments Jimin isn’t near him are unbearable.
And Jimin, despite himself, is starting to believe they are.
Aaryan Shah - Renegade (slowed version)
Jimin tips his head back and downs a glass of wine in one long swallow, savoring the brief moment Jungkook has left his side, one of the rare minutes where he’s allowed to speak freely.
However free that truly is.
“I didn’t take you for a drinker.”
The voice is soft, melodic. The woman before him offers a gentle smile, her eyes warm and inviting. Jimin pauses. She’s... stunning. Wide hazel eyes, a gown finely embroidered in silver thread, jewels at her ears that catch the light just like her gaze.
Lee Ji-eun. Countess. Daughter of Duke Lee Min-Jun.
His eyes instinctively flit to his father. For once, the King seems distracted, deep in conversation with a circle of nobles from the Northern provinces.
He won’t object to Ji-eun, surely. She’s a noble. A perfect candidate by all accounts.
Hope flickers in Jimin’s chest, faint but rising. Perhaps this will please him.
“I’m not,” Jimin replies honestly, casting her one of his effortless, charming smiles. It works as color creeps into her cheeks, her eyes softening.
“These events...” he adds, voice dropping bashfully, “tend to become rather burdensome.”
She chuckles softly, clearly pleased by his candor. “I can only imagine,” she murmurs, taking a delicate step closer.
But Jimin’s heart stutters.
Because he feels it before he even hears him, the warmth of familiar hands at his waist, the unmistakable shift in the air. He tells himself to stay composed.
Don’t react. Not again. Not in front of Ji-eun. Not when she could be..
“His Highness wants you to move on,” Jungkook murmurs, voice low and rich against his ear. His pheromones sweep over them like a velvet wave, stronger this time, unrestrained.
Ji-eun stiffens, her breath catching subtly.
But Jimin can hardly focus on her now. Not when his pulse stutters under the press of Jungkook’s touch, not when the scent of him clings so heavily to the space between them.
His brows draw together.
Move on? There’s no way. His father wouldn’t disapprove of Ji-eun...he couldn’t. She’s ideal.
A loud chime rings through the ballroom, cutting the music to a hush. The concierge’s voice echoes across the marble
“The King will now take his leave.”
Jimin whips his gaze to the throne, searching for meaning in the King’s retreat, frustration bubbling in his chest.
It's not enough that he won’t let me marry for love. Now I can’t even choose for duty?
Ji-eun clears her throat softly, drawing his attention back, perhaps sensing his souring scent. “It seems you have business to attend to. I apologize for taking up your time,” she says gently. Her eyes are downcast, voice tight. Her scent shifts to being bitter with disappointment, though she masks it as best she can.
A spark flares in Jimin’s chest.
He doesn’t know whether it’s rebellion aimed at his father or at the shadow behind him.
“May I—” he blurts, catching her mid-bow. Her eyes lift, startled.
“May I see you again?” he asks, quieter this time. His voice trembles as the sound of a low growl rumbles just behind him.
Ji-eun’s breath hitches, but something in her shifts. Her expression blooms into something bright and hopeful.
“Of course, Crown Prince. It would be my honor.”
Jimin nods, lips curving faintly as he watches her walk away. light-footed and smiling. She wants love. She clearly hopes for it, that much is evident.
And here jimin stands, calculating every move, chasing approval.
It’s unfair. For both of them.
But all thoughts slip from him as that too-familiar hand returns to the small of his back, warm and unyielding. Jimin tenses, breath catching as he turns—eyes catching the shimmer of silver in Jungkook’s irises.
His voice is a growl, low, threaded with something dangerous.
“You should retire, too, little prince.”
♛
Jimin throws open the door to his chambers, the sound echoing too loud in the hush of the corridor. His steps are unsteady, but not enough to miss the heavy footsteps right behind him.
“Don’t,” he warns without turning. “Don’t follow me in here.”
But the door shuts anyway. Firmly. Final.
Jimin exhales through his nose and shrugs off his coat, letting it fall without ceremony. “What do you want, Jungkook?” he mutters, his voice tight.
He reaches for the ties of his tunic, but the reply cuts through the silence like steel.
“I told you to move on .” Jungkook all but growls.
Jimin whirls around, half-undone, flushed with heat that has nothing to do with the alcohol anymore.
“And I told you,” he spits, “that it’s none of your god damn business.”
Jungkook stands near the door, broad shoulders stiff, fists clenched like he’s holding something back. His eyes, dark with that silver glint only Jimin ever sees, burn into him.
“I’m guarding you—”
“No, you’re haunting me.”
That lands hard.
Jimin storms forward, arms loose at his sides, chest bared,, expression twisted with the force of words too long swallowed. “I begged my father to have you stationed near the throne, do you remember that? I told him Omegas were too shy to approach me with an Enigma at my back.”
Jungkook doesn't flinch, but his silence says more than words.
Jimin’s voice rises. “Do you know what it’s like to stand in a room full of people, all of them smiling and bowing and staring, while the only gaze I can feel is yours ?”
He paces now, heat building in his chest, choking him. “Do you know what it’s like to try and speak, try to be seen, only to feel you behind me like a noose tightening every time someone so much as looks in my direction?”
Jungkook steps forward then, voice low but lethal, steps heavy. “Do you know what it’s like to stand there while they touch you? While they look at you like a prize to be won, when they have no idea what you are—who you are?”
“And you do?” Jimin fires back. “You know me Jungkook? Or do you lust for me like all those wolves you claim see me as a prize?”
“You think this is about me ?” Jungkook roars.
“Yes!” Jimin shouts, voice shaking. “It’s always about you! Your gaze, your shadows, your—your fucking touch—” His voice splinters, and his hands tremble at his sides. “You touch me like I’m yours. Like I could ever belong to you.”
A silence crashes down between them, violent in its suddenness.
Jimin’s chest rises and falls too quickly, breath catching in his throat. “Tonight,” he breathes, “tonight I thought maybe he’d approve. That if I smiled right, if I danced well enough, if I picked the right Omega, I could finally—finally choose something for myself. Someone. But you… you couldn’t even let me have that.”
Jungkook’s stare sharpens. Jaw tight. Eyes unreadable.
Jimin lets out a bitter, breathless laugh, eyes glassing over. “What did Ji-eun do wrong, hmm? Was she not noble enough? Not beautiful enough? Or was it just that she wasn’t you?”
The silence that follows is heavier than before. It presses down on Jimin’s chest, threatens to crush him.
“You think I want this?” Jungkook snarls. “To stand there and watch wolves trying to claim you as theirs?”
“Then say something!” Jimin cries, the sound ragged. “Stop looking at me like I’m a secret you’re starving to keep. Talk to me like you mean it. Tell me I’m more than a duty. Tell me I’m not just your cursed job—your burden—”
But Jungkook steps in—sharp, sudden—and Jimin stumbles backward, only to be caught. Their bodies nearly brush, their breath colliding. Heat floods the space between them, thick with want and fury and something far more dangerous.
Jimin inhales sharply as Jungkook’s hands find him, familiar, searing, skimming up his back, igniting every nerve in their path. The loss of his coat makes the touch unbearable. The touch igniting his being. Heat against heat.
Jungkook is shaking. From restraint, from rage, from the need he can’t name.
His lips ghost over Jimin’s—not quite a kiss, not yet, just the suggestion of one. Enough to make Jimin sway forward, aching. Their mouths are so close he can feel the tremble of each breath, the words neither of them can say.
But it’s Jimin who falters first.
A single tear slips down, trailing warmth over the heat in his cheeks. His voice catches in a breathless whisper, bruised and breaking.
“What do you want from me, Jungkook?”
And just like that, the heat fractures.
Jungkook flinches as if struck, some quiet, broken thing flickering behind his eyes. His hands drop. His gaze tears away.
He looks at Jimin once, really looks at him. flushed, trembling, eyes wet, chest bare and heaving—and something in him seems to break.
He turns.
The door opens.
And shuts.
Softly, this time.
Jimin remains in the silence that follows, the echo of Jungkook’s touch burning on his skin, the ache of absence louder than anything else.
♛