I might ruin the Prime Minister.
Not figuratively—no, I’m talking career-ending, legacy-shattering, front-page scandal with enough dirt to bury every attempt at redemption.
All I have to do is open my mouth. Hand everything to my aunt.
She’d love that. Might even smile, if her facial muscles haven’t fossilized yet.
Of course, giving her that win would be like handing a butcher your neck and thanking her for the cut.
But leaving things as they are? That’s not an option either.
"I’m trying to thank you here," Damian whines.
"You’re also failing spectacularly."
He pouts and gets back to it—mouth working, hands desperate, like he thinks effort will compensate for the obvious. It won’t.
I wanted a drained-of-fluids body clarity.
Instead, I got a headache and a lecture.
His kisses trail along my neck, all slow and theatrical, like I haven’t seen that move a thousand times. He nips at my earlobe like he’s discovered seduction. Cute.
But all I can think of is Luther.
Which makes me angrier.
Damian’s beautiful—on paper.
Platinum hair cascading down his back, big blue eyes always ready to roll back on cue.
Small frame, delicate wrists, thighs just soft enough to bruise.
A catalog-perfect omega. Pretty like a painting.
Luther is none of that. And that’s exactly the problem.
"Can you at least look at me?" Damian pleads, voice cracking. "Why did you even save me if this is how you act?"
I look at him.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And smile, just enough to make it hurt.
"To see if you’d be worth the inconvenience," I say. "Spoiler alert: you’re not."
"You’re so mean"
I know he’s craving affection, attention, and an actual connection.
After all, we’ve been like this since I was 16.
But I was clear about the line I drew between us.
And despite being so breakable and replaced, he just keeps trying to go over it.
It’s annoying.
He thinks that I ruined years of research just to get him back. I did, but out of guilt. This is all my fault.
Since that meeting with Emiliano, all I think about is how he has Luther.
I searched the hell and back and nothing. Until yesterday.
A pretty enveloped was on my bed. My bed. In my house. Where I live alone.
"Dear Mister Akna,
I know you are in pursuit of my son. I wish I could give you a chance to win his affection.
I know of your troubled relationship with your aunt, Lucrezia Akna. And I wish to give you a chance for revenge as well.
Luther is currently being treated. I wish to make him an alpha, however fictional the process might appear.
The doctor in charge of the experiment thought you would be a perfect addition that could speed up the process.
I am not a patient man.
So, I’ll give you the chance to give my son emotional support in his time of need. I trust that you are smart enough to use that opportunity to conquer his heart.
Although, I have planned a marriage for Luther already, I can turn a blind eye to an affair with you.
That way you get the man you’re in love with and rob your aunt of the chance of an heir since an alpha can’t reproduce with another alpha.
If the offer interests you, please be present in front of the Parliament house in a week at dawn.
Best regards,
Prime Minister Wiston Wilkers"
"Killian!"
Damian snaps. Voice sharp, cracked at the edges. He’s trembling, furious—good. Let him storm out. Let him cry. I need the silence.
But then it hits me.
A scent. Sharp. Familiar.
Underneath the iron-rich tang of blood, beneath Damian’s cloying sweetness—there it is. Luther.
My breath stills.
My stomach turns.
Why in hell does Damian smell like him?
Damian flinches at the look I shoot him. His eyes glisten, already glassy with tears he doesn’t want me to see.
"So... he was right," Damian whispers. He looks heartbroken, like he’s the victim here.
He lunges for my throat, teeth bared, biting down on my Adam’s apple like he wants to provoke something animal from me.
And it works.
Luther’s scent tears through my restraint like a match to dry parchment.
A shudder rolls through me, primal and obscene.
Luther’s scent presses behind my eyes like a fever dream, and suddenly I can’t tell if I want to breed or kill the body pressed against mine.
Maybe both.
My fingers dig into Damian’s waist. I kiss him like I’m trying to smother the scent out of him. His whine stokes the fire. I shove him against the nearest surface, grinding into the heat I don’t even want. He gasps—moans.
Like he thinks he’s winning. free\NovelBin.c o(m)
He thinks he’s winning.
What a joke.
He’s just the wrapper on a drug I’m addicted to.
Every noise he makes feels wrong—too high, too light, too fake. His fingers scrape at my back like they’re claiming me, like he thinks this is love.
God, I hate it.
I hate him.
No—I hate me.
What kind of monster needs a stand-in to even pretend at arousal? What kind of pathetic, obsessed fool gets aroused only when his enemy’s perfume hits the air?
I want to vomit.
Damian moans into my mouth, thinking I’m moved by him. And maybe I am—but only because he reeks of Luther.
Luther’s not even here, and yet I’m on fire like I’m rutting over his ghost.
I shove him to the ground. Hard. He hits the floor, gasping, legs splayed like an offering.
The scent is stronger now—like Luther’s ghost is crawling beneath his skin and I’m seconds from digging it out with my teeth.
I crouch over him, shadows swallowing the light between us.
My hands are shaking.
My pupils are blown wide.
I know I look feral. Wrong.
His breath catches.
"Killian...?
My voice comes out hoarse. Starved.
"Where did you get that smell?"