My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas Chapter 144: Not a Faker ( Killian’s POV )

"Get out!"

"How rude of you."

"Emiliano, I swear to God."

"Luther is missing. I thought he might have co here."

"Luther is missing?"

"Have you gone deaf since I last saw you?"Q

"And you thought he would co to ."

"Well, I kind of cut Tom up and left him for dead so I assu he is in the hospital. Which ans Luther can’t go to him because of the witch hunt against him."

"What about Claus?"

Emiliano’s staring at like I just suggested we train squirrels to do our taxes.

I can practically hear his eyes rolling, even though they’re still locked on mine.

"Be for real."

"Good point, but at the sa ti, why would Luther co to ? Haven’t you two seen the news?"

"What news?"

"Oh."

Luther doesn’t know yet.

About .

About Damian.

About the pregnancy.

I still have the chance to explain.

This is like Christmas.

"Judging by how your face grimaces in such a happy smirk, I can only assu you did sothing stupid!"

"I didn’t do anything."

"Sure."

Emiliano passed my desk to sit down in my chair. Rustling my papers.

I should have thought about stopping him sooner, yet it wasn’t until his annoyed expression turned serious that I realised what I’d done.

"What the h-ll is this?"

It was too late when I jumped from my place to the front of Emiliano. One sniff of his pheromones and it was all done.

I was kneeling yet again, face inches away from his shoes.

The mory of it left a bitter taste on my lips.

"I asked you a question, Killian."

"Why does it matter to you?"

"Wrong answer."

The sharp sll of charred wood and vanilla burned my throat, my nostrils, my lungs. It was unbreathable.

The more you inhale it, the more you felt it boiling inside you, leaving behind nothing, but the ashes of your own flesh.

And he was yet angry.

He was playing rather nicely for the mont.

"It’s just so research we do."

"This is not just so research. This is a chemical to mass-kill ogas. Why would you research that?"

"For fun."

The sll intensified.

I could feel my eyes watering, dropping tear after tear, yet still burning.

I was seconds away from ripping my own throat just for a mouthful of clean air. It wasn’t sothing I could stop. Just a last desperate attempt of my brain to cling to survival.

The true survival would co only when I tell him about the Drought Plan.

Yet, I tried my best not to.

The anger in his eyes turned his irises from golden to red. This was a weakness for him, although I had no idea why.

Nor enough oxygen to think of a proper negotiation.

"Lucrezia."

"Oh? This is Lucrezia’s plan?"

"Yes, the pheromones."

Emilliano’s eyes rolled in a theatrical manner. His eyebrow furrowed as the scent slowly— painfully slowly, dispersed into the air.

I almost could breathe again.

"Start talking."

"I don’t know what she needs it for."

"Liar."

Another shock of pheromones went through my body. My spine straightened so abruptly, I could almost feel it crack.

The scent filled the air in less than a second, forcing an electric shock right through .

"I don’t—"

I should faint.

He will stop if I faint, won’t he?

A limp, theatrical collapse—arms slack, eyes fluttered shut, a little dramatic sigh for flair. I committed. I was selling it. Hell, if there’d been a mirror nearby, I might’ve applauded myself.

Then ca the tapping.

Click.

Toe of his shoe to my cheek.

Click.

Again. asured. Casual.

Like he was snubbing out a cigarette on my face.

Real gentleman.

I didn’t flinch. That was the ga: stay down, don’t breathe too hard, and hope to hell he got bored.

But I knew him. Emiliano didn’t get bored. He got curious. And I was a very convenient subject.

The change hit fast.

Thick. Sharp. Wrong.

Pheromones—his pheromones—coiled through the air and punched straight into my lungs. Not subtle this ti. Not teasing. This was pressure.

My skin flushed hot, then cold. My muscles started twitching. Okay, okay, that part was still part of the act. I could roll with this. Just needed to keep it believable.

But then my back arched. Hard.

My limbs kicked out.

My mouth opened, but I couldn’t speak, couldn’t even yell. My tongue felt huge. My jaw locked.

This wasn’t acting anymore.

This was real.

I was seizing.

The fear hit like a hamr. Everything else vanished—no sarcasm, no pride, no act. Just raw, undiluted panic as my body turned traitor. My vision stuttered in and out. My heart felt like it was exploding and freezing at the sa ti. My fingers twisted into claws. I could hear myself choking—gurgling like sothing already half-dead.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

Every nerve in my body scread at once. My skull felt like it was going to split open. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. Just shake, and spasm, and twitch on the cold floor like a bug under glass.

And above —still, unmoved—was Emiliano.

His silhouette hovered in my flickering vision. Long black hair. Those golden eyes, lit now with that faint red glow they got when he was angry.

Not raging. Not yelling. Controlled. Precise. Worse.

He looked like he was pitting . asuring the dosage. Not concerned. Not horrified. Just... amused.

Then it stopped.

The air cleared—his pheromones evaporating like smoke. My lungs flared open. I gasped, choked, coughed. My body flopped back down like soone had cut the strings.

I could move again. Barely.

Every inch of throbbed. My brain felt scrambled. I was too exhausted to hate him properly, but I rembered.

Oh, I rembered.

I lay there in silence, twitching and drenched in sweat. No more pretending. No more gas. Emiliano had peeled all that off with clinical precision.

And he’d barely even tried.

"Dear Killian, I do not endorse faking it."

"How lucky of ."

"So start talking. And talk fast. My puppy is waiting for sowhere."