They say a pet in the house is a lot of work.
Yet, here was the Prime Minister's so, proving everyone wrong. It might be, because he is already potty trained.
Or because I've starved him enough to know not to bite the hand that feeds him… at least not that hard.
I would lie if I say I wasn't that excited about this part of the plan. I'm used to having totally silent mornings.
It was the only way I wouldn't have a killer headache for the rest of the day. And when I say killer- I mean it. It would end with disposing of some poor bastard with the eyes of a too-bright color.
So yeah- I was not enthusiastic about having the walking migraine Luther Wilkers yapping my mornings away.
Yet, I haven't slept as well as this - cuddled up this man - in years. Maybe it was the feeling of being possibly murdered in my sleep at any moment that reminded me of my childhood. Or the corporal heat.
Cold-blood beings always hate feeling cold.
So, ever since I dragged Luther into my living space, my mornings smell like overly used septic and burnt pancakes.
I'm fairly certain he burned them out of spite at first. But at this point, I'm convinced he's genuinely incapable of making anything edible. Unless he enjoys eating his own mistakes—which I doubt, judging by the dramatic gags he performs every bite.
I'm also pretty sure he spits in mine. Which, honestly, works in my favor.
Gives me the perfect opportunity to test if omega saliva has any measurable effects on alphas.
So I smile. I savor that soggy, blackened, spit-laced breakfast like it's a five-star delicacy.
He hates it.
"Takeout again for lunch and dinner?" he mocks, already knowing the answer.
"How can I say no to my wife?"
He frowns. Every single time I use that title.
It's been half a week of this warped domesticity, and I've gathered a few interesting notes on Luther Wilkers:
He shifts in his sleep. Less than before. The night terrors have dulled. He starts the night stiff as a corpse, but by dawn, he's wrapped around me like ivy. Tight. He cries, too—quiet, broken sobs against my chest.
Naturally, he denies it. Despite the obvious snot on my shirts.
He uses my shampoo, my body wash, my sheets, and my detergent—and still smells like himself. Woody. Raw. Honey-laced with a twist of lime. If you inhale too deeply, it burns. Coats your throat. Swells it.
He's funny. And a moron.
Living under the same roof as his enemy, he still hogs the TV remote, drains the hot water, and dictates dinner like some picky prince.
I planned to make him feel at home. But I worry it's working too well.
He acts like he owns the place—and I'm the unwelcome husband sleeping on the couch.
How endearing.
Now, as for the scientific value of these observations?
Absolutely none.
The Prime Minister is growing impatient. And I'll have to drag Killian into this circus soon enough.
Thankfully, Claus is still in a coma. At least one moron not sitting on my balls.
As for the actual research—I've found a few things worth noting.
The chemical composition of his blood shifts when his body is wrapped around mine at night.
I'd love to credit my own presence, but in fairness, it might be due to the night terrors. Which gave me the seed of a little experiment.
Of course, knowing this human headache, he wouldn't agree just because I asked nicely.
After all, it's not like I'm feeding him, housing him, keeping him safe.
But for my plan to move forward, I'll have to wear the mask I detest most: flirting.
Strangely enough, I've never been good at it.
In my defense, I never had to be. My collection is composed of weaklings who deserved extinction and desperate specimens begging to have their omega shells ripped apart.
And when it came to my needs—well, I've always been self-sufficient.
Not out of pride. Simply because no one's ever managed to catch my interest.
Except perhaps, if we don't count the dry orgasm I had the other night while listening to Luther cry.
Of course, it wasn't lust. Not exactly.
It was… anticipation. A visceral kind. For the next step of the project.
But yes—also physical.
So, I tried to set the mood. After all, what is flirting, but a psychological manipulation to lead to carnal pleasure?
Or something like that. I am uninformed on this matter.
So when Luther sat on my couch to watch a movie, I sat too. Far away at first. So I don't scare him. He looked at me like a hissing kitten but said nothing.
So far so good.
I don't really think I'm conventionally attractive. I have scars on the sides of my eyes and abdomen. My build is muscley, but not enough to be one of them Instagram models. My hair is usually tight -even though tonight I let it loose. I hate getting it to touch my face, my neck, my back, but if it's in the name of science-
Despite my looks, I have something more sexy and dangerous than anything -my mind.
So, as the tension grew in the movie, I used the distraction to get closer and closer to Luther.
Without scaring the kitty away.
And then, when the plot reached its emotional peak, I started to snore.
Seems crazy, I am aware. I had two options to be honest: cry or snore. And me crying is… unnatural.
So I went with the version I could actually sell.
I can feel his gaze on me. He is shooting daggers. My dear wife.
I sense the shifting of the cushions of the sofa.
I am aware he could go grab a knife and stab me in the heart right now. But he won't. He's too trapped in the illusion that we are living alone like some roommates who don't really like each other.
I feel him hovering over me. I can feel his palm under my nose, checking my breathing.
Then his fingertips traced my eye scars. My lips. Rustling my hair.
Well, isn't he cute?
This little jerk actually is into my looks. I might actually be hot and I don't know.
All I need is a hug. I already stung him with a needle without him noticing. I did it on an old, itchy wound from a blood test so he brushed it off as nothing.
If I get him to hug me and drip a bit of blood on my shirt, I'll figure out if his toxic blood is triggered by fear or desire.
Imagine the shock, the struggle to still pretend to be asleep when my wife kissed me.