Chapter 93: He’s In His First Rut... (2)
The heavy door closes behind Dario with a sound like the lid of a coffin sealing shut.
Darkness swallows him whole.
Not the gentle darkness of a room settling into sleep—but something thicker. Heavier. The air is warm. Too warm. Fever-warm, like the body of something sleeping and dangerous.
Oleander pheromones hang in the air—sweet and poisonous, cloying and sharp. They press against him from every direction, settling on his shoulders like an invisible weight.
His face changes. The confidence cracks, just a little.
"Oh, god."
The whisper slips from his lips before he can stop it. Small. Human.
The secretary was right. This scent... now it’s too much.
He runs a hand through his golden hair. Sweat already beads at his temple, trickling down the side of his face.
Dario, you can do this. The price they’re paying for this job is insane. You can bear it. You’ve borne worse.
He steps forward.
Slow. Cautious. His feet sink into the thick carpet, the kind that swallows sound.
Why are the lights so dim?
His eyes adjust.
The room is large—far larger than he expected. Soft light glows from hidden sources, casting shadows across the walls and corners.
Not dark enough to hide anything. Just enough to make everything feel like a dream. A fever dream.
And on every wall—every corner—pictures.
Ellis.
Some are paintings—oil on canvas, brushstrokes capturing the sharp line of a jaw, the curve of a mouth, the cold intensity of blue eyes. Others are photographs—candid shots, stolen moments, images that suggest someone has been watching for a very long time.
Blue eyes stare from every direction.
Dario’s voice is low, almost reverent.
"Is this... Silas?"
No answer.
Only the weight of the pheromones pressing harder.
His gaze moves from one image to another, a gallery devoted entirely to a single man.
Then he looks up.
And freezes.
Crystal light spills across the ceiling. Thousands of pieces of marble and crystal catch the glow, fitted together into a massive portrait.
Ellis.
Smiling. Blue eyes stare down from above.
Dario exhales. Shakes his head as if clearing water from his ears.
"What the fuck..."
He looks down. Steadies himself. Presses a palm against his chest, feeling his own heartbeat—too fast, too loud.
Even on the ceiling.
Then his gaze shifts to the bed.
A figure lies there.
He stares.
Pale skin gleams in the dim light—damp, almost translucent, like porcelain lit from within. Delicate features: a soft jaw, parted lips, dark brown lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Brown hair—wet with sweat, tangled across the pillow, clinging to his temple like dark vines.
Silas Stoneheart.
Nineteen years old.
In his first rut.
Dario stares. His own face is red now—flushed with heat, with pheromones, with something that might be fear.
What a beauty.
Is this really an Enigma?
He steps closer. His gaze runs over the body—taking in the scratches on his neck, deep and red where fingernails have dug into skin. The marks on his hands. His wrists. His chest.
The silk shirt hangs half open, pulled loose during his struggle, revealing pale skin beneath. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths.
He looks like he’s been trying to tear himself apart.
Is this what an Enigma looks like?
So fragile. So breakable.
Dario tilts his head. A slow, thoughtful movement.
Did they get it wrong?
Should I be spreading my legs for him?
Or should he—
A silent smirk spreads across his lips. His confidence returns, settling back into place.
He looks like an Omega.
Dario rubs the back of his neck. Releases his own pheromones into the air—grass and earth and fresh soil, the scent of open fields after a storm. The scent of someone who has never been owned.
Anyway. I need to do what they said.
He steps closer. His voice is low, almost gentle. "Hey... are you awake?"
Silas doesn’t move. Dario reaches out and touches his shoulder. His own body is trembling.
Why is this so heavy?
Why does it feel like I’m the one being crushed?
Silas’s eyes open.
Slowly.
Brown. Golden. Burning.
Shining in a way that is not human, not Alpha, not Omega.
Something else. Something older. Something that has been sleeping for a long time and is only now waking up.
He stares at the ceiling. At the portrait smiling down at him.
Dario’s voice is unsteady now—cracking at the edges. "Hey... are you okay? Can you feel my pheromones?"
Silas blinks. Calmly.
Then shifts his gaze to Dario.
And Dario feels it. The weight pressing harder. The air thickening. His knees threatening to buckle beneath him.
Why is this too much?
I’m an Alpha. The strongest they could find.
Why can’t I—
Silas sits up slowly.
Chains rattle around his ankles—golden and delicate. They catch the light as they move, gleaming like jewelry.
Like a warning.
He just stares at Dario.
Dario steps closer. His mouth is dry.
"Should I take off my clothes?"
No answer.
Dario leans forward. His voice cracks.
"Are you listening?"
Silas’s fingers rise.
Slowly. Delicately. Like petals unfolding.
They touch Dario’s cheek. Softly. Almost tenderly. Long pale fingers against sun-bronzed skin.
Dario blinks. Doesn’t move. Can’t move.
Silas cups his face in one hand.
His grip tightens. Not painfully. Not yet. Just enough to let him know who is holding whom.
His pheromones surge.
Oleander.
Sweet poison.
Spreading through the air, through Dario’s lungs, through his veins like fire racing through dry grass.
Dario trembles.
And Silas speaks.
His voice is soft. Almost a whisper. Almost tender. Almost kind.
"Disgusting."
Dario’s eyes widen.
Silas pushes his hand away from Dario’s face. Just a flick of his wrist. Barely a movement. Barely any effort.
And Dario falls.
His back slams against the floor. Pain explodes through his spine, shooting up his neck and down his legs. Blood spills from his nose—warm, wet, red against the pale carpet.
He can’t breathe. Not for a second. His lungs burn. His chest heaves. His body trembles uncontrollably on the floor.
What the hell is this?
He struggles onto his knees. His arms shake. His vision blurs. He tries to stand. Almost falls again.
Then stumbles toward the door. His fingers fumble against the handle before finally catching it.
He yanks the door open.
Steps out.
The heavy door closes behind him with a dull thud.
Silas remains where he is.
The chains rattle softly as he shifts.
The silk shirt slips further down his shoulder, revealing more scratches. More wounds. More evidence of his struggle against himself.
His gaze drifts to the wall.
To the large painting hanging there.
Ellis.
He stares at it for a long moment.
The blue eyes stare back. Cold. Distant. Untouchable.
Then his hand rises.
His nails dig into his neck.
Scratching. Tearing. Trying to reach something beneath his skin. Something burning. Something he can’t make stop.
The Oleander spreads heavier now, filling every corner of the room, pressing against the walls like something searching for a way out.
Silas closes his eyes.
His lips part.
A whisper escapes.
Soft. Desperate.
"My Alpha..."
