My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas Chapter 20: From ICU to WTF ( Claus’s POV )

Who would’ve thought the evening news report would be the thing to drag out of a coma?

I’ve been unconscious for half a week.

Far too long.

Everything hurts. My skull pulses like it’s been split open and stitched shut with fire. My lips are cracked, my throat dry like I’ve been breathing sand.

I can barely crack my eyes open—just slits of light stabbing through swollen lids. My chest won’t rise all the way when I try to breathe.

The last thing I rember is stabbing Emiliano.

At his order.

Then the screaming, the fists, the silence.

I know him. That psychopath wouldn’t waste the opportunity. He probably turned my body into a stage prop—just another chess piece in his mind gas.

I try to move. Can’t.

There’s soone in the room with . A man. He’s got his phone out, watching sothing.

I hear it in the distance. The news anchor’s voice, sterile and too cheerful.

"It’s been nearly three weeks since Luther Wilkers, the son of Pri Minister Cassian Wilkers, has gone missing. We’re joined live by Mister Wilkers. Mister Wilkers, what can you tell us?"

Three weeks?

No.

No, I only just—

Duck. What happened to him?

A familiar voice answers, rougher than I rember it. Practiced. But full of ache.

"Hello, madam. Sadly, I have no new information. The last I heard, my son was scheduled to et with key figures to discuss the national distribution of pheromone and heat-regulating dication."

He stops, just for a second.

"He fought so rigorously for that law in Parliant—to help those who can’t afford proper care. That is the kind of man my son is."

Not was.

Is.

His voice wavers.

"I swore my life to public service decades ago. I know that sharing private pain with the nation might seem undignified... but—"

Another long pause.

Then a breath that sounds like it’s torn from sowhere deep in the gut.

"As a desperate father, I beg you... if anyone has any information about Luther, please, contact the authorities."

The man watching the video snorts.

I don’t have the strength to turn my head, but I know the expression: amusent, maybe disgust.

The reporter clears her throat.

"Your son is an oga, correct? A toxic one."

He nods, quiet. The cara lingers.

"We don’t talk much about his second gender publicly," Cassian answers. "Humanity’s only known about second genders for a few centuries. And the prejudice... especially against male ogas... it’s still brutal."

He lets out a theatrical sigh. But his eyes are glassy.

"My son is proud. Fiercely so. He didn’t want to be reduced to biology. He wanted to serve this country, not be caged by it. As a dominant alpha, I feel sha that we—I—still failed to protect the very people who bring life into the world."

He swallows. Wipes his cheek like there’s sothing there.

"Luther... if you’re watching this, please—please know that I love you. I am sorry. I failed you."

The screen clicks off.

Silence.

Then, laughter.

The man in the room lets it spill out, low and bitter.

Because we both know the truth.

That sa man crying on national television?

He’s the one who signed the order.

The sa one who handed Luther to monsters like Emiliano.

Now he’s parading his pain for oga voters. Selling the image of a grieving father for sympathy, for power.

Family values, right? All for the upcoming presidential race.

God, I’d laugh too.

If my ribs weren’t broken.

The man turns to .

He waves his hand in front of my face, and my eyes—barely open—manage to track it. I can’t speak.

My throat is swollen.

My jaw might be broken.

Emiliano didn’t even bother giving anything for the pain.

No sedative. No numbing agent.

Just the full experience.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

Excruciating.

He wanted to feel it all.

The thug dials. Puts the phone on speaker.

The voice that answers is syrup-sweet and venom-laced.

"Good morning, ray of sunshine! How are you doing?"

I don’t answer. Can’t. Won’t.

"No voice yet? Mm. Yes, your jaw looked like it needed a few weeks off. But no worries—Luther’s in very good hands."

My chest jerks. A growl. Or what’s left of one.

It hurts like hell.

"He’s growling, boss," the thug says.

Emiliano laughs, slow and pleased.

"He always had that bite. Look where it got him."

His tone softens—mocking concern, like wrapping barbed wire in silk.

"Want an update? You always liked updates. I’ve been very productive."

I close my eyes.

The room spins.

"Luther makes a lovely little wife. Can’t cook. Won’t clean. But oh— you were right. He is just so endearing."

He’s taunting .

I know it.

Still—my pulse spikes. Pain ricochets through my skull.

I have to stay calm. I have to.

"He’s back in the white room now. Been acting up. Probably unsettled by our new house guest."

House guest?

"Want to say hi to Killian? Oh—wait. He’s busy cleaning the blood off the floor. You know , Claus. I train my dogs with a little iron in the wrist, haha."

Killian?

What the h—l is Killian doing there?

Why is he wiping Emiliano’s floor?

"I can hear your little thoughts ticking. You’ve always been such a simple creature, Claus. Killian is here to ensure no one interrupts Luther’s... progress. No heroes this ti."

Why would Killian put up with this?

"Well, Daddy Cassian promised Killian a chance to conquer Luther’s heart. A little pollination in exchange for loyalty. n and their urges, am I right?"

He laughs. Bright and delighted. Like this is all so private joke.

"Oh! Speaking of biology—I made so changes. Soon, Luther will be an alpha as it was required."

My breath catches.

What?

Under my breath, barely audible, I rasp:

"How?"

Emiliano hears it.

His laughter sharpens.

"How? Oh, Claus. It’s simple. Fear. Need. Submission. I was made for him."

He sighs, dreamlike.

"Everything will be settled soon. If—"

He pauses.

Long.

"If I don’t get him to fall for first."