.

The antiseptic smell of the Le Mans hospital should have been a comfort. It should have signified safety, recovery, and the slow, grueling journey back to the track. Instead, it became the scent of a trap.

Marc was barely conscious, his body a map of surgical trauma. His right arm was encased in a heavy cast, and his leg was braced, the aftermath of a high-speed tumble that had left his internal equilibrium shattered. Being an Omega in the premier class was a secret he guarded with the ferocity of a lion, but here, stripped down in a hospital gown and pumped full of high-grade suppressants and painkillers, he felt like nothing more than a broken doll.

Alex had been there, as he always was. He had been sitting in the guest chair, his hand resting protectively on Marc’s shin, when the air in the room changed. It wasn't a nurse entering with a tray of meds. It was the hiss of a canister, a sweet, cloying mist that filled the small space before Alex could even register the threat.

"Marc?" Alex had gasped, his own Omega instincts screaming a warning. He had lunged toward the door, his vision blurring, his limbs turning to lead. "Marc, get up—"

He hadn't even reached the handle. Alex collapsed onto the linoleum floor, his fingers twitching toward his brother’s bed before the darkness swallowed him whole.

When Alex finally drifted back to consciousness, it wasn't to the steady beep of a heart monitor. It was to the sound of humming electricity and the heavy, oppressive silence of an underground vault.

He tried to move, but his wrists were bound tightly behind his back with reinforced zip-ties that bit into his skin. He was lying on a cold, hard floor. Panic surged through him, a cold wave of adrenaline that cleared the fog of the gas. He rolled onto his side, wiggling like a worm, his breath coming in ragged hitches.

"Marc," he croaked, his voice raw. "Marc!"

He saw him a few feet away. Marc was lying on a velvet-lined platform, looking painfully small. He was still in his medical dressings, the white bandages stark against his tanned skin. They were inside a glass cage, a transparent prison that allowed a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the occupants. Above them, he could hear the muffled roar of a crowd—the low, predatory rumble of Alphas in a feeding frenzy.

Alex scrambled toward his brother, using his knees and shoulders to shove himself across the floor until his head rested against Marc’s shoulder. He nudged him, desperate for a sign of life.

"Marc, wake up. Please, Marc."

Marc’s eyelids fluttered. He groaned, a deep, pained sound that tore at Alex’s heart. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused, the pupils blown wide from the lingering effects of the anesthesia and whatever cocktail they had injected into him to keep him docile.

"Alex?" Marc whispered, his voice slurred. He tried to lift his head, but it lolled back down. He looked around the glass walls, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Alex... are we on trial? Is this... the hearing?"

"No, Marc. No," Alex whispered, blinking back tears of rage. "Just stay close to me."

Suddenly, the floor beneath them began to vibrate. The platform was a lift. Slowly, the glass cage ascended, rising through the ceiling of the vault and into the blinding glare of a thousand spotlights.

The transition from the dim basement to the auction stage was violent. The light burned Alex’s eyes, and the sheer wall of scent that hit them was suffocating. Hundreds of Alphas, the elite of the underworld, sat in tiered rows, their pheromones thick with greed, lust, and the scent of old money.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a booming voice echoed through the auditorium. "The centerpiece of our evening. A rare, dual-offering. The pride of Catalonia. Two Omegas of the highest pedigree, world champions, brothers in blood and designation. They are not to be sold separately. We present: The Marquez Brothers."

The crowd erupted. Marc winced at the noise, his head spinning. He looked up at the lights, his expression dazed and vulnerable. He looked like a fallen angel, broken and beautiful, his casted arm held awkwardly against his chest.

"Alex," Marc murmured, leaning his weight into his brother. "Why are they looking at us like that? I don't... I don't like the smell."

Alex shifted his body, trying to position himself in front of Marc despite his bound hands. He bared his teeth at the front row, a low growl vibrating in his chest. It was a futile gesture for an Omega in this den of wolves, but he would die before he let them touch Marc.

"Don't look at them," Alex hissed. "Look at me, Marc. Just look at me."

"The starting bid is ten million," the auctioneer announced.

The numbers on the digital display above the stage began to climb with sickening speed. Fifteen million. Twenty-five. Forty.

Alex watched the faces in the crowd. They weren't fans. They weren't rivals. They were monsters who saw them as trophies to be mounted. He felt a wave of despair so heavy it threatened to drown him. He held Marc as tightly as he could, his bound arms hooked around his brother’s waist, pulling him into the small protection of his shadow.

Marc was nodding off again, his chin dropping to his chest. He was high, hurt, and terrified, his mind retreating into a drug-induced haze to escape the reality of the auction block.

"Fifty million!" the auctioneer shouted. "Do I hear sixty? Look at the fire in the younger one. Look at the resilience of the elder. A matched set for the most discerning collector."

In the third row, tucked into the shadows of a private booth, two figures sat in silence.

Valentino Rossi leaned forward, his blue eyes sharp and freezing. Beside him, Luca Marini sat with his hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. The air around them was thick with a different kind of tension—not the hungry greed of the other bidders, but a cold, calculated fury.

"They look like they're being led to the slaughter," Luca whispered, his voice trembling with a suppressed Alpha growl. His eyes were locked on Alex, who was currently snarling at a bidder in the front row who had dared to stand up for a better look. "Look at what they've done to them, Vale. Marc can barely hold his head up."

Valentino didn't speak. He watched Marc—the man who had been his greatest rival, his most bitter enemy, and the only person who had ever truly pushed him to his limits. Seeing Marc like this, broken and displayed like a piece of jewelry, ignited a protective instinct in Valentino that overrode years of animosity.

"They are not trophies," Valentino said, his voice a low, dangerous silk. "They are riders."

"The bid is at seventy-five million!" the auctioneer cried out. "Going once... going twice..."

Valentino reached for the electronic paddle on the table. He didn't just press the button; he held it.

The display above the stage flickered, the numbers spinning wildly before stopping on a figure that caused a collective gasp to ripple through the room.

One hundred million.

The auctioneer paused, his mouth hanging open. "Bidder forty-six... one hundred million euros."

The room went silent. No one dared to challenge that number. It wasn't just the money; it was the weight of the Alpha pheromones now flooding the room from the shadows of booth forty-six. It was a claim. A dominant, suffocating declaration of ownership that made the other Alphas in the room shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Sold!" the auctioneer yelled, the gavel slamming down like a gunshot. "To the gentleman in the black."

Alex flinched at the sound, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked toward the booth, trying to see who had bought them, who their new master was going to be. He expected a monster. He expected a nightmare.

As the glass cage began to descend back into the floor, the two figures stepped out of the shadows and approached the edge of the stage.

Alex froze. He knew those silhouettes. He knew that gait.

"No," Alex whispered, his eyes widening.

Marc blinked, the movement of the lift jarring him back to a semi-conscious state. He squinted through the glass as Valentino Rossi stepped into the light.

Valentino looked different than he did in the paddock. He looked like an apex predator who had just finished a hunt. His eyes met Marc’s, and for a second, the mask of the 'Doctor' slipped, revealing a raw, aching possessiveness. Behind him, Luca Marini was staring at Alex, his expression a mix of horror and relief.

"Valentino?" Marc breathed, his voice barely audible. He looked at Alex, his eyes swimming with confusion. "Alex... is he the judge? Did we lose?"

"We're going home, Marc," Valentino said, his voice carrying through the glass as the lift hit the basement floor.

The doors to the cage hissed open. Luca was the first one inside, dropping to his knees beside Alex. He didn't reach for him with violence; he reached for the zip-ties. With a flick of a pocket knife, the restraints snapped.

Alex collapsed forward, his numbed arms falling uselessly to his sides. Luca caught him, pulling the younger Marquez into a crushing embrace, burying his face in Alex’s neck.

"I've got you," Luca hissed, his Alpha scent—cedar and rain—washing over Alex, drowning out the filth of the auction room. "I've got you, you're safe. I'm so sorry."

Alex sobbed, the sound muffled against Luca’s expensive suit jacket. He didn't fight. He couldn't. The terror of the last few hours broke, leaving him shaking and weak in the arms of the man he had spent years trying to beat on the track.

Valentino walked toward Marc. He moved slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. Marc was staring at him, his pupils still dilated, his body trembling with a feverish chill.

"Hey, Piccolo," Valentino murmured, sitting on the edge of the platform. He reached out, his hand hovering before gently cupping Marc’s cheek.

Marc leaned into the touch instinctively, his eyes closing. "Vale... everything hurts."

"I know," Valentino whispered. He looked at the cast, the bandages, and the sheer exhaustion etched into Marc’s face. He felt a surge of hatred for the people upstairs so strong it made his vision go dark at the edges. "I'm going to take care of it. I'm going to take care of you."

Valentino slid one arm under Marc’s knees—careful of the brace—and the other behind his back. He lifted the Omega with an ease that spoke of his hidden strength. Marc let out a small, huffed breath, his head falling onto Valentino’s shoulder, his uninjured hand clutching weakly at the lapel of Valentino’s coat.

"You bought us," Marc muttered, his voice trailing off as the adrenaline finally left his system, leaving only the drugs and the pain.

"I saved you," Valentino corrected him, his grip tightening. "There is a difference."

Luca stood up, half-carrying Alex, who was still too unsteady to walk. The four of them stood in the dim light of the underground vault, the sounds of the auction above fading into the background.

"The car is waiting at the back entrance," Luca said, his eyes never leaving Alex’s pale face. "The medical team is on standby at the villa."

Valentino nodded. He looked down at Marc, who had finally surrendered to unconsciousness, his breathing shallow but steady against Valentino’s neck.

"Let's go," Valentino said. "Before I decide to go back upstairs and burn this place to the ground."

They moved through the corridors like ghosts, two Alphas shielding their prizes from the world. As they stepped out into the cool night air of the French countryside, Alex looked up at the stars, feeling the steady heartbeat of Luca Marini against his side.

He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know what it meant to be 'owned' by the VR46 camp. But as Valentino settled Marc into the back of a darkened SUV with a tenderness that bordered on reverence, Alex knew one thing for certain.

The war was over. And for the first time in his life, he didn't mind losing.