Bred by My Ex's Boss

A dull, rhythmic throb hammered behind Easton Marks's eyes.

He sat at the head of the massive mahogany table in the Marks Tech boardroom. The air conditioning was set to a freezing sixty-five degrees, yet a thin layer of cold sweat coated his spine.

His Enigma biology was tearing him apart from the inside out.

The pheromonal dysregulation had been worsening for months. Right now, it felt like someone was dragging a serrated blade down his spinal cord. His lungs tightened with every breath he took. He needed an anchor. He needed a scent that did not make his stomach churn with violent rejection.

Instead, he was trapped in a room with twelve terrified executives.

The Chief Financial Officer stood at the projector. The man was trembling. Drops of sweat gathered at his hairline as he stammered through the quarterly revenue margins. The CFO's nervous Alpha scent-a sour mix of stale sweat and cheap cologne-flooded the room.

It made the bile rise in Easton's throat.

Easton pinched the bridge of his nose. The pain behind his eyes flared into a blinding white light. He reached for the heavy titanium fountain pen resting on the table.

He gripped the pen. His knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

The CFO stuttered over a decimal point.

A sharp crack echoed through the dead silence of the boardroom.

Easton had snapped the solid titanium pen cleanly in half. Black ink spilled across his fingers, dripping onto the pristine wood.

The CFO stopped talking instantly. The color drained from his face. Every executive at the table froze, their eyes fixed on the broken metal in their CEO's hand.

"There are three fatal errors in your projections," Easton said. His voice was dangerously low. It scraped against the quiet room like sandpaper. "You failed to account for the European tax tariffs, you miscalculated the supply chain deficit, and you are lying about the offshore retention rates."

The CFO opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked like he was going to vomit.

Before Easton could fire the man on the spot, the heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open.

The sudden movement drew every terrified pair of eyes to the entrance.

Braydon Hayden walked into the room.

Braydon was an S-class Alpha, the head of the acquisitions department. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than most people made in a year. He rolled his broad shoulders back and tipped his chin up in that arrogant, entitled way he always did.

"Apologies for the delay," Braydon said. His voice carried no actual remorse. "The merger documents required a final signature from legal."

Braydon walked straight toward the head of the table. He stopped right beside Easton's chair and held out the thick manila folder.

Easton did not look up at him. He was too busy trying to force air into his burning lungs. He reached out with his clean hand to take the file.

His fingertips brushed against the rough edge of the paper.

At that exact second, the central air conditioning kicked on. A rush of cold air blew down from the ceiling vent directly above them. It caught the fabric of Braydon's suit jacket and swept across the manila folder.

The air washed over Easton's face.

Easton stopped breathing.

A scent hit the back of his throat. It was faint. Barely there. But it was the most devastatingly pure thing he had ever encountered in his thirty-two years of life.

Chamomile.

It was not the artificial, cloying scent of a perfume. It was raw, sweet, and laced with a desperate, quiet sorrow. It smelled like rain on crushed flowers.

The second that scent entered his bloodstream, the agonizing pain in Easton's spine vanished.

The violent storm of his Enigma pheromones flatlined into perfect, terrifying stillness. His heart slammed against his ribs, beating so hard it bruised his chest. A heavy, dark heat coiled in the pit of his stomach.

It was the cure. It was the anchor his biology had been screaming for.

Easton's fingers clamped down on the manila folder. He gripped it so hard the thick paper crushed in his hand. The loud crinkling sound made the executives flinch.

Easton slowly lifted his head.

His eyes locked onto Braydon. He inhaled deeply through his nose, dragging the air into his lungs. He was trying to dissect the scent, to find the exact source.

The chamomile was clinging to Braydon's collar and the cuffs of his shirt.

Easton's vision narrowed until the rest of the boardroom ceased to exist. He stared at the pulse beating in the side of Braydon's neck, right above the knot of his silk tie.

A primal, horrific urge ripped through Easton's brain.

He wanted to drag this Alpha across the mahogany table. He wanted to sink his Enigma fangs into that neck and claim the scent until it belonged to him and only him. The thought was biologically insane. Enigmas did not mate with Alphas. It went against every law of nature.

But Easton's body did not care. His biology was starving, and the food was standing right in front of him.

Braydon shifted his weight. He noticed the way his boss was staring at him. The arrogant tilt of his chin faltered. He took a half-step back, his Alpha instincts screaming at him to retreat from the apex predator in the room.

Easton realized what he was doing.

He reached for his left wrist with his ink-stained hand. He twisted the cold platinum band of his watch, digging the metal into his skin. The sharp physical pain grounded him just enough to stop him from lunging out of his chair.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he forced the saliva down his dry throat.

"Report the core data," Easton ordered. His voice was entirely unrecognizable. It was a hoarse, guttural growl that belonged to an animal, not a CEO.

He threw the crushed folder onto the table and opened it, staring blindly at the numbers to hide the dark flush creeping up his neck.

Braydon cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. He stepped up to the projector and began to speak.

Easton did not hear a single word.

Every time Braydon paced across the front of the room, the scent of chamomile drifted over the table. It was agonizing. It was a physical torture. The scent would wrap around Easton's senses, soothe his burning nerves, and then fade away, leaving him starving for more.

Easton's hands shook where they rested on his thighs. The muscles in his jaw locked so tight his teeth ground together.

He could not take it anymore.

Easton shoved his chair back. The heavy chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor. The screeching sound cut Braydon off mid-sentence.

Easton stood up. He towered over everyone in the room.

"We are done here," Easton said.

He did not wait for a response. He turned and walked toward the double doors.

As he passed Braydon, Easton intentionally stepped too close. His shoulder brushed against Braydon's arm. In that fraction of a second, Easton inhaled a massive, greedy lungful of the chamomile scent.

The pure sweetness of it punched him right in the chest.

Easton pushed through the doors and walked out.

Braydon stood frozen by the projector. He stared at the empty doorway, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He had no idea what he had just done to provoke that kind of suffocating pressure.

Easton did not stop walking until he reached the top floor.

He shoved his way into his private office and slammed the heavy door shut behind him. He reached out and threw the deadbolt.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan and pressed both of his palms flat against the cold glass. He leaned his forehead against the window, dragging in huge, ragged breaths.

His chest heaved. He reached up and ripped his tie loose, popping the top two buttons of his shirt.

The Enigma possessiveness inside him was clawing at his ribs, demanding he go back down there and take what was his.

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

"Mr. Marks," his assistant's voice came through the speaker. "Do you need me to page the medical team?"

Easton walked over to the desk and slammed his fist down on the disconnect button, cutting her off.

He walked to the private bar in the corner of the office. He grabbed a crystal glass and a bottle of scotch. He poured the amber liquid until it reached the brim and downed it in one swallow.

The alcohol burned a fiery path down his throat, but it did absolutely nothing to numb his nerves.

The scent of chamomile was permanently burned into his brain.

Easton slammed the empty glass down on the marble counter. He pressed the intercom button again.

"Get me the complete personnel file on Braydon Hayden," Easton demanded. "Everything. I want it on my screen in sixty seconds."

He did not wait for an answer. He walked back to his desk and stared at the blank monitor.

A minute later, the screen lit up. Braydon's detailed background check appeared.

Easton scrolled past the education history and the financial portfolios. His eyes scanned the personal details section.

His gaze stopped dead.

Under the marital status, there was a single word.

Married.

The partner's name and details were redacted, locked behind a high-level privacy block.

Easton stared at the word. A dark, twisted sense of relief washed over him, followed immediately by a violent surge of jealousy.

If Braydon was married, the scent did not belong to him. It belonged to his mate.

Easton picked up the crystal glass from the desk. He squeezed it.

The glass shattered in his hand. Shards bit into his palm, mixing blood with the black ink still staining his skin.

Easton did not feel the pain. He just stared at the screen, a cold, predatory smile forming on his lips.