I didn't risk everything—my job, my safety, my very name—just for this spoiled bastard to die on me.
If he flatlines, I'm screwed. Not metaphorically. Actually, truly, royally fucked.
I press harder. One squeeze. Two. The monitor's flatline is laughing at me.
Another squeeze. Again. My chest feels tight. I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, like I'm the one on the damn table.
Then—finally—a twitch on the screen. A ripple. One. Then another.
"He's alive," Claus whispers, his voice cracking like he didn't just make me drag this omega back from the verge of death.
I glare at him.
"Of course he is. I'm not a butcher, Claus. I'm a miracle worker."
Five years I've known this mess of a man. Back when we were both stashed away in that glorified graveyard of an institution. Where embarrassments of elite families with inconvenient genes went to rot behind steel walls. He was one of the tragic cases. I was… not about to be the same as him.
Claus was barely alive when he arrived—still caught in the chaos of his transformation.
His body couldn't handle it. Every night, he convulsed like he was fighting off death itself. They tied him down. No meds. No care. Just straps and a clipboard for the sadistic staff to scribble "results" on.
His parents stopped paying. And just like that, he was a lab rat. Disposable.
He cried in his sleep sometimes. Whispered a name. "Luther." I figured he was just another lovesick idiot. But the more I listened, the more I realized that name meant something. That name was his anchor.
What a waste.
He was always weak. Too soft. Too attached.
And then there was me.
They dumped me in his room after one of my "treatments ." Blindfolded, patched up, bleeding—I didn't need eyes to see him. I felt him. Like a wet sponge of guilt and longing.
"Hi there."
He didn't answer. Just turned his back. Rude little jerk.
I grinned.
"Not much of a talker, huh? Fine by me. You seem like the kind of guy who knows how to keep a secret. So here's one: one day, I'm gonna burn this place down. And I'm gonna roast marshmallows over their sizzling corpses."
That got his attention. I heard the mattress shift.
I kept laughing. God, that sound—I missed it. The thrill of making someone squirm.
Even then, I knew. I knew this soft-hearted alpha was going to be a challenge. A threat. A toy.
And now, years later, here we are again. Same setup. Same roles.
Only difference? He dragged the love of his life straight to my operating table. Barely breathing. Cut open like a lab frog.
And I'm the one with the scalpel.
"Did you find out what's wrong? Can you turn him?"
Same goddamn question, same anxious tone. The idiot never learns.
Claus hovered at the edge of the table like some anxious pet, eyes flicking between Luther's stitched-up chest and the monitor. I rolled mine.
"I was hoping for answers," I said, wiping blood off my gloves, "but your precious little prince is biologically identical to any other omega. Same glands, same organ density, nothing in his anatomy explains why his blood liquefies alphas and corrupts omegas. Nothing but mystery and wasted potential."
Claus clenched his fists. I could see the panic in his posture.
"I need more time," I added, voice sharp as a scalpel.
He snapped. "Time?! You've had his guts spilling all over this table! What more tests could you possibly run?"
I turned, smiled, slow and venomous. "We had a deal, remember? I make him an alpha, and in return, I get his blood. You don't get to rush me just because you've developed a conscience. Don't test me, Claus. You're very disposable."
He flinched. Good.
Claus started pacing, hands tugging at his hair. "We don't have time! The Prime Minister is probably deploying black ops. Killian—Killian knows I've been asking about Luther. If he finds out—if he connects the dots—we're dead. We are so dead."
I couldn't help but laugh. "You're not afraid of your lover bleeding out, but the moment someone whispers 'Killian,' you piss your pants. Typical."
"I'm not scared of him," Claus muttered, voice shaky. Liar.
"You're terrified," I sneered, "and you should be. That psycho won't just kill us. He'll make a necklace out of our teeth."
I took a breath.
"Three months. That's what you gave me. You don't get to flake now."
"You think we can hide him that long? Are you insane?"
I leaned over Luther's unconscious body, stitching his skin with mechanical precision. "And I'm elbow-deep in your little childhood fantasy, so maybe shut the hell up unless you want me to sew something shut permanently."
Claus's phone buzzed. I froze.
He fumbled for it.
"I told you to leave it at home," I hissed. "What if they're tracking—?"
"Shut up," he whispered, pale as a corpse. "It's from an unknown number."
I stared at the screen. "Put it on speaker. And sound normal."
Claus nodded, thumb trembling as he answered.
A voice crackled through the line. Calm. Cold. Unmistakable.
"I know you have Luther."
Claus's face turned white.
But what made my blood chill wasn't the words. It was the sound that followed:
A second voice—Luther's. Weak. Slurred.
"Claus… don't…"
Then the line went dead.