The scent hit Nicholas first—cloying, sweet, a ripe omega in full-blown heat. Count Alexander Benckendorff, his Third Section chief, stood rigid in the study, sweat beading on his neck. The Tsar’s nostrils flared. “Alexander,” he purred, circling. “Your cycle is upon you. And so is my purpose.”

This wasn’t about mere sex. It was a perverse reproductive compulsion. Nicholas, an Alpha of intense focus, needed heirs from this specific, powerful omega. He began his grotesque courtship. He sent lavish gifts: not jewels, but tinctures of ergot and evening primrose oil, accompanied by notes on fertility. He commanded private suppers, feeding Benckendorff oysters and figs with his own fingers, whispering about the strength of the royal seed. “You will carry my dynasty,” Nicholas growled, his hand sliding to cup the omega’s flat belly through his uniform.

The court noticed. At a ball, Nicholas waltzed only with Benckendorff, his large palm splayed possessively low on the Count’s spine. Whispers slithered through the glittering halls. *“The Tsar treats his spymaster like a bride…” “They say he consults midwives for male conception…”* Benckendorff, flushed with heat and shame, felt their stares.

The medical intrusions were relentless. Nicholas personally supervised the application of leeches to the omega’s lower abdomen, believing it would “direct the humors to the womb.” He insisted on herbal steam baths, forcing Benckendorff to straddle a basin of boiling mugwort while the Ts