I must confess—my composure slipped.
A rare occurrence.
But witnessing that absurd jester press his mouth against Luther's… it provoked an immediate and visceral response. One I am not proud of.
I have allowed myself to become far too accommodating. Too indulgent. Caught in the sentimental haze of our domestic lifestyle—as if it excuses imprudence.
I had grown accustomed to the rhythm of life with him. The quiet moments. The illusion of marital life.
A mistake.
I seem to have forgotten what he truly is: a resource. A vessel. The source of my beautiful apocalypse.
He is not my equal. He is not to be pacified or entertained.
He is to be managed.
I cannot permit these tantrums—no matter how theatrically endearing they may appear. They are distractions. Dangerous ones.
A readjustment is necessary.
He must be removed from the current environment until I can seize control over both the situation and my own judgment.
The white room will not suffice this time. It is too familiar. Too lenient.
No—he will be transferred to the holding wing. The one where the rest of the omegas are kept.
Yes, I realize the inconvenience. I will need to make adjustments. Partition them appropriately—those with potential versus those who are, by all practical standards, expendable.
Regrettably, Luther will be assigned to the latter group.
At least for now.
It is, after all, a matter of perception. I cannot afford to appear compromised.
Not at this stage.
Another regrettable misstep was my own handling of the incident.
I have always regarded myself as a man of class and precision.
And yet—punching Luther in the face with such force that he lost consciousness…
It was unforgivable. I should have used a tranquilizer.
But the cold shower—their little performance—left me with no patience for subtlety.
So, with two unconscious men spread out across my now-destroyed apartment,
a headache was, of course, inevitable.
I made a short phone call. Two men came to relocate Luther.
I asked them not to clean up anything.
I sat on the couch and drank.
One more moment of weakness. Last one.
One more quick recollection of what my life could have felt like if I was at least half less… me.
It's rather amusing how, while Luther was dragged out of my home with a bleeding wound I caused, I was already missing him.
Fuck.
I was just getting used to a good night's sleep. That is out of the window now Luther is gone.
I close my eyes.
I was just getting used to sleeping through the night.
That's out the window now.
I close my eyes.
I can still feel him against me.
His lips on mine.
His breath on my skin.
His hands around my throat.
There's a lump in my throat.
I know this feeling.
Grief.
Losing someone.
I had him when I lost that bitch of a mother.
Now I've lost him too.
The only difference is—this time, the grief came with a boner.
I can't quite tell when morning arrived.
Everything blurred into a daze.
Not that it mattered.
It was business as usual.
Killian woke with a tantrum.
Put his hands on me.
Reckless.
Stupid.
"Where the fuck is Luther, you sick piece of shit?"
No class.
No restraint.
Pure, unfiltered alpha idiocy.
Exactly what I expected.
After all, since they show signs of their second gender, the world becomes their oysters.
No consequences for them.
Just every wish and demand wrapped in a bow and placed at their royal feet.
I rather not use my pheromones usually.
I typically refrain from using my pheromones.
They lack Luther's immediacy, his elegance—
But give it a few minutes:
Liver failure.
Withering lungs.
Suffocation.
Periorbital veins rupturing like overripe fruit.
And, if I'm feeling merciful—death.
Killian—the six-foot-two giant—crumbled beneath me.
What began as threats and fists in my hair dissolved into trembling hands, blood-slick lips, and tear-wet cheeks.
Pathetic growls.
Raw whimpers.
I stopped after a few seconds.
There was no need to kill Akna Pharmaceuticals' nephew.
Not yet.
Not when I am so thoroughly interested in the mind behind the beast—Lucrezia herself.
I dusted off my shirt.
"Luther has been relocated to a restricted facility. I found your… display both distasteful and disruptive to my work."
His voice cracked through the blood.
"Where?"
I may have overdone it with the pheromone cascade.
But—like him—I was briefly ruled by emotion.
"A secluded building of my research compound. It's where I keep the omega test subjects."
I let that hang.
"Should you both remember your places, he may be reinstated. Treated like a person. If not—well—let's just say the Prime Minister has afforded me complete freedom in this matter. He merely requires an alpha puppet to polish his image."
Killian looked up at me.
Fire, fury—
And obedience.
"Clean the mess. Quickly. We have work to do."
He didn't argue.
He retrieved the mop and began scrubbing the blood and bile off my ruined floor.
With Claus in a coma, I could use a new assistant.
A phone call.
"Boss, he is awake."
Great.
It seems Luther will have to fend for himself while I deal with the honey-flies buzzing around his scent.
Good luck in my prison, my dear wife.
You'll need it.