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 ruined.
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.
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 the disappointments of the elite 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- mumbling "Luther."
I figured he was just another lovesick idiot.
What a waste.
He was always weak.
Too soft.
Too attached.
And then there was I.
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.
Heard him turning 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 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.
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.
"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
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 already impatient. Killian—Killian knows I've been asking about Luther. If he finds out—if he connects the dots—I'm dead. I'm so dead."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"Afraid of a love rival? While your boyfriend is bleeding out? And they say chivalry is dead"
"I'm not scared of him," Claus muttered, voice shaky.
Liar.
"You're terrified," I sneered, "and you should be. That alpha won't just kill you. He'll make a necklace out of your teeth."
I took a breath.
"Three months. That's what you and he gave me. It's not up to you anyway."
"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 gulped.
A voice crackled through the line.
Calm.
Cold.
Unmistakable.
"I know you have Luther."
Claus's face turned white.
But what made my blood rush 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.